The Stewards of Reed, Volume 1: The Rise of Fallon (11 page)

The next day he hiked a few more hours. He came around another bend in the trail and stopped dead in his tracks; the trail split into three paths again. This split looked remarkably similar to the first one, but Gentry was not certain if he had come full circle, or if he had found yet another three-way split. He retraced his steps a little in hopes of recollecting whether he had been there before or not, but it was of no use - the mountain all looked the same to him now. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to leave some sort of mark when he came across the first split, but he knew that was not quite fair.
How could I have known that I would come across another three-way split that looked the same?

Gentry pulled out Dennison’s knife and carved notches into a small but sturdy rock near the edge of the trail before heading up the path to the left. He figured there was no reason to change course just yet, and whether it was the first split or the second, it would be easier to remember that he had always gone to the left if he was forced to retrace his steps.

He had been hiking again for a few hours when he realized it was growing dark already, only this time it was not because the sun was setting. Dark clouds were quickly snaking around the mountaintops and obscuring the rays of the sun. The winds picked up and the temperatures started to drop quickly. After a short while, little white snowflakes started falling from the sky.

“A snowstorm in Pentay?” Gentry could not believe it. He knew he must stop his hike and take shelter fast. There was a little rocky overhang nearby that provided some shelter. Unfortunately he had no means to start a fire, so he bundled up in some blankets and watched as the snow covered the ground around him. His stomach started to rumble, but Gentry was so cold he did not dare expose his poor hands to the elements in order to search his bag for food. So his hands remained under the blankets, and his hunger went unsatisfied. The snowstorm was showing no sign of letting up any time soon. Hungry and cold, Gentry eventually fell asleep under the overhang.

By the time he awoke the next morning, the storm had blown through but the path was covered by nearly a foot of snow. What had already been slow going was about to become much worse. Gentry was disheartened, but after filling his stomach with some stale bread he had a bit more energy and was ready to tackle the trail again. The snow definitely made it a challenge to follow the path, but eventually Gentry grew more comfortable with his footing and he started to make decent time, all things considered.

He came around a bend in the trail and his heart fell at the sight of yet another three-way split. He had no way of telling if it was the same split or a different one as the small rock he had carved into the day before was now buried under snow somewhere, assuming it was there at all.

Gentry was concerned on many levels. Otto had mentioned the journey should be about four days, and Gentry was already into his fifth day of hiking. There was no sign of the castle, he had no idea if he was going in circles or not, and his food supply was quickly becoming scarce. “Well, the path to the left has not been kind to me, so this time I shall take the center path instead,” he said aloud before heading up the trail.

Things looked different and yet they looked the same, and still there was no sign of Lady Dinah or her castle. Gentry hiked for hours, only stopping for a few minutes at a time to rest his aching legs and nibble on some bread. When he reached the top of a steep hill he nearly cried out in agony, but not because of his pain. Up ahead, the trail split into three again.

He looked in vain for evidence of his footsteps in the snow-covered trail, but none were to be found. Either he had never been there before or the wind, which had been rather gusty all day, had long since covered up his tracks. Gentry knew he did not have much daylight left so he decided to camp out at the split. It was another cold night as he did not have any wood for a fire, but he was grateful that the snow was no longer falling. He had a single piece of bread left. He fell asleep with a hungry stomach, preferring to save the final morsel for the following day when he would require more strength.

The next morning the sun remained veiled behind a thick fog as Gentry traveled along the path to the right. His feet ached with each step but somehow he forced himself to go on. He hiked for hours in the fog, only able to see about twenty feet ahead of him at any given time. He was growing weaker and weaker with all the hiking and insufficient food, and his rest periods were gradually growing longer and longer. “Just a few more steps, Gentry,” he urged himself on, “and you shall have the last of the bread.”

He made it another hundred yards or so before collapsing to his knees. For the first time on this trip, Gentry’s eyes filled with tears and he started to sob. Before him, in the haze of the fog, Gentry could see that the trail split into three separate paths again. Exhausted and defeated, Gentry’s body sank into the snow with the quiver and arrows falling about him.

“I am sorry I failed you, Father. I am sorry I failed the Elders. I am sorry I failed Steward Isaiah,” he cried softly. “And I am sorry, Luca. I did not mean to break my promise. May we meet again in the next life.” With that, Gentry closed his eyes and spoke no other words before falling into darkness.

Several weeks had passed since the green and white barn was set afire, and to the relief of many Reedites, there had been no additional signs of the Komanites. In the meantime, Fallon and Steward Isaiah were busy moving forward with the training. Although they had been dabbling in several topics ranging from geography to botany, the primary focus of Fallon’s studies these past few weeks was metalworking, or sword-making to be more specific, and weaponry skills.

In truth, Steward Isaiah had not been particularly impressed with Fallon’s talents (or lack thereof) in the matters of metalworking. Perhaps as the son of a blacksmith his expectations were too high, but Isaiah was somewhat frustrated by Fallon’s slow progress. Smelting iron into steel is not an easy task by any means, but Isaiah had already gone through twice the amount of coal he had expected a beginner to require, and coal was not exactly an inexpensive item.

Eventually Fallon was able to handle the furnace and the bellows well enough to produce a decent mild steel from which he could forge a blade. His muscles grew sore as he hammered and reheated and hammered the blade until it reached the length and thickness he desired. He immersed the blade in a vat of water to quench it, and then slowly began to reheat the metal. This process was repeated until Isaiah was satisfied with the final product. After the sword cooled, his last step was to file down the edges using a grindstone. It was not a handsome blade by any means, but the task was finally done.

Fallon was relieved when Isaiah mentioned another craftsman would take care of adding a hilt to the blade; this lesson had already been painful enough (literally and figuratively) for both of them. Eventually Fallon’s sword came back, complete with a beautiful handcrafted hilt and sheath. The fancy woodwork with bronze inlays had the undesired effect of making Fallon’s blade look even worse, and he was somewhat embarrassed that he had not been able to produce a more worthy specimen.

Sensing the boy’s disappointment, Steward Isaiah softened in his criticism and said, “It is not about how it looks but rather how well it works, and this blade of yours is just as strong as any other that I have seen.”

Fallon did not know if Steward Isaiah was being truthful or just trying to be kind, but he appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

In the coming weeks Steward Isaiah taught Fallon a few basic sword-fighting moves, mostly defensive postures, to evaluate Fallon’s swordsmanship skills. It was painfully obvious that Fallon had never used a sword before. Steward Isaiah grimaced at the boy’s awkward stance and movements and lamented that hours upon hours of instruction were seemingly for naught. Fallon was equally unimpressive with the bow and arrow. The arrows managed to hit everything
except
the target, which was placed but a few feet in front of him. It was not that the boy lacked athletic talent so much as it was that he seemed to be over-thinking everything. This was clearly an area that would need more focus in the years to come, assuming the training continued.

*************

While his weaponry skills were lacking, Fallon did impress Steward Isaiah in other areas. The Steward had been particularly pleased with Fallon’s performance during the poison challenge.

Late one afternoon just before the sun started to set, Isaiah called Fallon outside to a little wooden table. Fallon could see there were two copper cups with water on the table. Almost instinctively he grabbed one to quench his thirst, but Isaiah quickly shouted out for him to stop and put it down.

“My dear boy, you might have poisoned yourself just now had you drunk from that cup. Let this be a lesson to you, to always be cautious of what you consume if you do not know exactly what it is or where it came from.”

Fallon frowned. “Aye, sir,” he said.

“I know this may look like water, and in fact one of these cups
is
filled with pure water. But one of these cups also has a poison mixed in. Your task is to figure out which is safe to drink and which is not.”

Isaiah watched as Fallon’s eyes lit up at the challenge – something that had not happened much of late with all the sword-making and weaponry lessons. He had expected Fallon to require the better part of a week or more before reaching a solution, but the Steward was in for a pleasant surprise.

As soon as Isaiah left the table, Fallon started working on this all-consuming puzzle. First, he looked closely at the contents of each cup for signs of discoloration or any other evidence of poisoning, but Fallon saw nothing – the poison must be colorless. Then he tried to smell the cups to see if there was an odor that might reveal the poison, but Fallon could not smell anything – the poison must be odorless. Fallon supposed that it was possible that the poison might be given away by some sort of aftertaste, but ingesting the contents was not something that he – or any sane person for that matter – would do on purpose.

He was also afraid to touch the contents as he knew things had a way of getting through your skin, but he had an idea to use something else as a proxy. Looking around, he spotted a tree.
That shall do
. He pulled two large leaves off the tree and submerged them in the cups. Fallon frowned. There was no immediate reaction in either cup – nothing bubbled or fizzed. Fallon decided to keep the leaves submerged overnight in case the poison needed more time to react. He carefully covered the cups with small copper plates and left them on the table.

The sun had barely started to shed light across the village when Fallon rushed back down to the cups the next morning. His heart sank with disappointment when he found that both leaves seemed to be intact, with no obvious sign of distress from absorbing a poisonous substance. He figured it might be possible that the poison just needed more time to inflict its damage, but he was not content to just sit and wait. Unfortunately, he did not know what to do with the submerged leaves now that one was contaminated with poison. As he could not figure out a safe way to remove the leaves and dispose of them, he just left them in the cups.

By this point, Beatrice had come downstairs and Fallon knew she would start to make breakfast soon. It was when she put a kettle on the fire for some tea that a new idea occurred to him –
perhaps he should heat the cups
. Fallon did not quite know what heating the cups might do, but he was hopeful that the change in temperature might reveal something about the poison. He ever so carefully brought the cups over to Steward Isaiah’s metalworking shop.

The experiment would have been all for naught if it had not occurred to him that he would need a third cup filled with plain water to compare against the other two. Fortunately, there were plenty of the same type of copper cups sitting in Steward Isaiah’s kitchen. Fallon barely had time to acknowledge a surprised Beatrice as he grabbed a cup. “Good morning, Beatrice; I might be late for breakfast,” he exclaimed as he ran back out of the kitchen.

He filled the cup with some water from the well, and then grabbed another leaf from the tree. He was concerned that the leaves might do something to the water once heated – the way tea leaves change the color of the hot water. Fallon figured that if all three cups contained leaves, then any differences in the reactions observed could be attributed to the poison.

Back in the metalworking shop, Fallon placed all three cups (with their submerged leaves) on a large anvil that was resting on the grate of a small fire pit. He started a fire and began stoking the flames. The water was becoming hotter with each passing minute but Fallon did not see any discoloration, not even from the leaves, or anything else that would indicate which cup held poison. He was about to admit defeat when something curious happened. The water in the cup he knew for certain did not have poison in it started to boil, as did the water in the centermost cup; but the water in the third cup was not boiling yet. Fallon smiled in satisfaction – the third cup must have the poison – why else would it not boil at the same time as the others? He put out the fire and ran off to the kitchen for breakfast.

After breakfast Steward Isaiah beckoned Fallon into the study, but the boy held back. “Would you mind joining me in the metal working shop first?” Fallon was giddy with delight and amazed that he had somehow managed to make it through breakfast without letting Steward Isaiah know what he had done.

Curious about the boy’s excitement, Steward Isaiah shrugged and followed Fallon outside.

“That is it, the one on the left.” Fallon excitedly pointed out the cup that did not boil at the same time as the others. “It is still probably hot, so I would not touch it,” Fallon advised, then went on to explain exactly how he figured out which one held the poison.

“Good job, son,” Steward Isaiah said, patting Fallon on the back. “Though you are lucky you did not inhale any of the vapors coming from the cup, they may have been poisonous as well.”