Vergence (4 page)

B
RIGHT RED SPARKS
leapt and skipped along the surface of the anvil with each blow, fading to nothing as they tumbled to the dark floor. Sarl's work had achieved a rhythm now as he hammered the end section of a lengthy iron stanchion into a curve around the horn of the anvil.

In the dimly reflected light of the furnace Ebryn could see his face and arms shining with sweat, breath coming in grunts to match the high ringing strikes from his hammer.

Ebryn sat on the edge of his stool, in a dark corner of the forge, leaning forward slightly to watch. It was not yet clear what design Sarl was working to, and he would not ask.

There was a saying amongst artisans and craftsmen of Goresyn: “Virtue is not divided”. It expressed the commonly held belief that each thing should be fashioned once, to make it true, and a thing fashioned with words should therefore not be made in another form.

Sarl had a heavy build with a deep chest and powerful arms. Thick dark curling hair and beard, along with heavy inwardly angled eyebrows, conspired to give him a permanently severe expression. Although of average height his imposing physicality seemed to diminish those around him. In the dim light of the forge the flickering shadows lent him the appearance of some long forgotten mythical creature of stone, and darkness.

Ebryn had once offered to light the interior but Sarl, after a long pause, refused, saying there was space for only one mastery in his forge. In some peculiar way he had found the rejection obscurely pleasing. For the first time. his burgeoning skills had been acknowledged, and he'd been recognised as possessing a distinct position in the world. Sarl had not sought to spare his feelings but instead responded to him as to an equal.

Watching showers of bright red embers from the stoking furnace dancing in the hot air, Ebryn was reminded of their first meeting. Between the departure of his first tutor and the arrival of his second, in his tenth year, Ebryn had accompanied Dollard, the old horse master, to Conant village half a furlong inland from the boundary of Lord Conants' estate.

Sarl's forge was the second but last building at the northern end of the village, where the muddy lane from the estate met the deeply rutted forest road. Even at that age it was obvious to Ebryn that the location had been well chosen to service the passing woodsmen, miners and traders journeying through the village.

Two shaggy-coated wood-hounds had greeted them as they arrived, heads low and growling, but with a soothing word and a touch he'd had them licking his hand. He arrived in Conant village for the first time in a strange procession with Dollard in the lead, and two pony-sized dogs following placidly behind.

On their return journey Ebryn and Dollard had passed the farmer, cursing and beating his dogs. He'd broken off, red-faced, to glare at Ebryn as they passed. The wood-hounds were fighting dogs, Dollard told him, so the farmer punished them for weakness and disloyalty.

Ebryn waited until Sarl finished the piece he'd been hammering, and slid it into the water-filled quenching trough. When the steam cleared, Sarl examined the surface of the metal carefully, brushing away stray bits of dirt, before returning it to the flame on the far side of the anvil.

“A man came to see me,” Ebryn said.

Sarl nodded without looking up.

“He came from Vergence to test me, to see if I should become a caster, and travel to Vergence to be trained.”

“Did he now,” Sarl said.

Ebryn searched Sarl's expression for a sign, some clue to help him decide.

“Lord Conant seemed to expect I would be going — that I would want to go—”

“There are certain kinds of work,” Sarl said, “a man must choose to do for himself, or he cannot do at all.”

“So you think I should go?”

Sarl manoeuvred the section of metal in the flame, releasing a cascade of small embers.

“I do not think you should go, and I do not think you should stay. You are at a fork in your life's path and as it is your journey, the direction you choose is yours. What I think, and what Lord Conant thinks, should not be weighed in your decision.”

Ebryn looked around. He didn't want to leave this place behind, but he had nothing more than a vague idea what he might do if he stayed.

“You're not surprised I've been invited to Vergence?” Ebryn asked.

“Think on this — the kingdoms of men in Fyrenar number two score. Amongst the many people of Fyrenar this small kingdom is held to be a northern frontier land, the people few in number and of little account. Here we are in the furthest unknown corner of Goresyn. Beyond Fyrenar a hundred worlds, or a thousand, with countless kingdoms greater than ours.

“Yet amongst all these a tutor came from Vergence for you alone, to teach you your letters, another to teach you casting. Five years spent between them for a lone pupil?”

“But Lord Conant never said anything to me about leaving, until today …”

Sarl shrugged. “Wait here.”

Sarl left the forge and returned a short time later, holding a package.

“In all my years,” Sarl said, handing Ebryn a small piece of folded cloth with something inside it, “the only advice I have heard worth more than a rusty nail is to judge the heart of a man by his actions, not by his words.”

“What's this?” Ebryn said.

“It's a gift, made from star metal. Unless I am mistaken, it is found only in these parts of Fyrenar, and nowhere else. Whatever you decide, you can keep this part with you. A connection to Conant. Now you'd best be getting back — it's getting dark.”

Outside, Ebryn unwrapped the cloth. A small clasp slipped into his hand. The clasp was almost identical to Spetimane's — but made of a dark steel with hundreds of tiny silvery flecks embedded in it. Ebryn turned to ask Sarl how he knew about the clasps worn by casters in Vergence, but the blacksmith had already shut the door.

He stood next to Soren, turning the clasp over in his hand. Master Spetimane, his first tutor, had arrived towards the end of his seventh year. Without any warning, Fidela introduced an elderly man after breakfast one day, and informed him Lord Conant wished him to be educated in letters.

Short and thin with a sallow complexion and thinning white hair, master Spetimane had dressed in finely made dark clothes, nearly always wearing a long cloak of midnight blue, fastened at the front with an ornate silver clasp in the same style as the one he held.

Spetimane had turned out to be a kindly but persistent teacher - first concentrating on Fyralan script, which he said was common to most of the kingdoms of Fyrenar. Spetimane introduced him to the library, where Ebryn spent many hours poring over books, learning to read and write, while the old man wandered around the room reciting snippets of poetry to himself in a strange language and plucking books from the shelves with a long dexterous finger. He'd reminded Ebryn of the seasonal wading birds that frequented the mud flats and rock pools along the nearby coastline.

When he'd deemed Ebryn sufficiently confident in the script, Spetimane switched to a new language called Volanian, later adding Old Volanian — the more archaic version of that language. With each language, more of the library opened up to him, with its endless treasure of histories, fanciful tales, bestiaries, catalogues, and journals.

His second teacher, master Yale, could hardly have been more different. A tall man, with a pleasant face and careful manner, he'd taught Ebryn the basic principles of casting. They'd skirted over a few simple castings — were-light and setting fire, before concentrating on far-sensing, wards and shields.

Long hours of practising followed, until casting wards and far-sensing became as familiar, and automatic as opening a door. Folding had been the last casting Yale taught — deceptively simple, yet difficult to master — allowing him to fold things into what Yale called his shadow space, and carry them hidden there until needed.

Ebryn rode back in the dark, mulling over his choices. By the time he was back at Conant Manor he knew what he would say to master Quentyn.

To Wassenard

E
BRYN DEPARTED FROM
Conant Manor a couple of days later. On the final morning he took Soren for a ride, then turned him loose. The horse was too wild to train, dangerous even. He knew Soren would suffer too much being broken in, or as likely, either Arnall or Doren, the two stable keepers, would be hurt trying. And he knew they would try, from pride, if for no better reason.

With nobody else he wanted to say goodbye to, he waited in the kitchen with Fidela while Arnall prepared a cart to drive him and Quentyn to Conant village. Fidela looked older, with dark hollows under her eyes, moving slowly around her kitchen, her face a desolate wintry mask.

“I'll come back and visit when I can,” Ebryn said.

“Nobody ever comes back to places like this from Vergence.”

She spoke with such finality that he didn't know how to answer. Eventually, Arnall appeared outside the door and poked his head through; he knew better than to walk mud into the building.

He winked at Ebryn. “The cart's ready. I'll just load up the fusty. Come out when you're good and ready.”

“Here,” Fidela said, handing him an oilskin bag. “I've prepared you something to eat, for later.”

It seemed such a simple thing to step out the door, climb on a cart, and leave. An inadequate way to depart from the one place he'd known for as long as he could remember.

“I'd better be going,” Ebryn said.

“Wait.”

She put her arms around him, with her head on his chest, and held him tight for ten long heartbeats. He was so surprised all he could do was pat her awkwardly on the back.

“Don't forget where you come from. Stay true to who you are and what you believe.”

“I will. I promise,” Ebryn said.

She pushed him towards the door. “Go now … go. It's not polite to keep people waiting.”

“And I promise, I will come back when I can.”

She gave him a watery smile.

“Stay away from waterfalls,” she called after him as he walked up the path.

At the top Arnall and Quentyn sat at the front of the cart, Quentyn wrinkling his nose, and eyeing the horses with obvious distaste.

“Where's your bags?” Arnall asked.

“I've got everything I need stowed away.”

“Ah, right you are.”

Arnall had been much friendlier since discovering Ebryn would be leaving. Watching him with the cart now he realised Arnall had expected to be passed over for the coveted job of horse master. With old Dollard recently dead, and Ebryn gone, Arnall would be the obvious choice for the post.

He sat down in the rear of the cart, facing backwards, watching the woods pass by as they bumped along. He'd visited Conant village hundreds of times, but the main track was as unfamiliar to him as any untravelled road.

Low cloud and drizzle settled in as they climbed the second hill, hiding his view of the sea, washing the purples and greens of the forest into the featureless grey of the sky.

They left Conant village in a large covered wagon owned by a travelling trader, and pulled by six solid horses. Ebryn would have preferred to ride to Wassenard on horseback, but Quentyn refused. He in turn sought a fine carriage such as that used by Lord Conant, but settled for the wagon which Sarl had managed to organise. Ebryn suspected the arrangement had cost Sarl more than he cared to admit — but he waved away payment, and Quentyn didn't press him to take anything.

Sarl introduced the traders as Ansel and his wife Matille, from the principality of Alno, south of Wassenard. Both were plump, taller than the Goresyn locals, with dark brown eyes, and ruddy cheeks.

Ansel's hair was tightly curled, and a huge unkempt beard covered the lower half of his face. Matille wore her hair back in a long tress that ran down her back to just above her waist. They both wore clothes of heavy layered linen, and fleece-skin outer garments.

Ebryn and Quentyn sat on large piles of soft furs and skins towards the back of the wagon, often accompanied by the trader's plump wife. She seemed pleased to have company, and chatted happily about nothing of much consequence for most of the journey. The trader rode at the front, dividing his time between his horses, and an old curved pipe that hung from the corner of his mouth.