A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

false. Ada Cole was a sword singer, perhaps the last one. I couldn’t claim to be of his blood any more than I could claim to be of Kerry’s, but I knew he thought of me as family. That might have been enough on its own, but he also shared his secret ways with me. He showed me how to sing to metal, how to shape and bend it to my will. Ada made me a part of his legacy, the legacy of his people. That felt as much a birthright as anything.

“Quin is all around you,” Ada told me as his father told him. “Be respectful. Be polite. You must seek permission, you must earn its trust, or the blade will sour and never ring true.”

I knew of quin, all Ruks did. It permeated every tradition and custom of my people for thousands of years. Outside of an occasional sense of deja vu, I thought quin was superstitious nonsense, just another example of a tradition that had outlived its relevance. This was a time of progress, a time of stone and iron, an age ushered in with the alchemical marvels from the South. It was not one of weavers and soothsayers. But Ada was a believer, not the weak-minded finger pressers that spit at foul omens; he was a true believer. He said he could see quin around him. I never saw what he saw, but Ada Cole was a man that never lied.

“You must be patient. The sword can hear you even if it chooses silence,” Ada’s words echoed in my mind.

“I am skilled in my craft,” I said, placing the silver ingot into the bed of hot coals. “I will not fail you.”

The sword remained silent.

I worked the bellows again, watching the color of the embers for the desired temperature carefully. After several minutes the ingot of silver was red hot and malleable. I pulled it free from the forge and placed it next to the blade on the anvil. I took my heavy stone hammer in hand and began to strike.

“Your secrets are your own. They shall remain your own,” I said as I worked the silver ingot into a long flat piece. “But with your permission, you shall be born unto a new name. No longer shall you be lost and broken and nameless.”

The sword remained silent.

I laid the silver stock upon the truesilver handle. “I respect your silence.”

I struck down with all my might. The metal rang against the sound of thunder.

I worked the forge long into the evening—my hammer ringing against the metal long into the night. My arms ached, and my face was blackened with ash, but I pressed on. As dawn approached and the storm wanned, I finally laid my hammer to rest.

The two metals were now one, but there was much to be done. I placed stone molds upon the tang’s length to give it form; the proper fit would be essential to maximize my grip. I used similar molds to help craft the housing for the pommel stone. I had no gem that would serve, so I shaped a piece of elderwood into a sphere and threaded it into place.

When all was assembled, I cooled the handle slowly with oil and water and, in keeping with tradition, a single glass of ale. Cool a blade too quickly, and it will become brittle and frail; it must be cooled slowly and with care to allow the metal to become strong and flexible. Once finished, I ran my finger upon the handle and smiled with satisfaction.

“You are unbroken, sword of legend,” I soothed. “Now, we must restore your blade to glory.”

The sword remained silent.

I closed down the forge and took a respite upstairs for refreshment and air. The forge room was small and cramped. When the heat of the forge increased, it quickly became miserable below. Modifications had been made, ventilation shafts were dug deep into the walls to allow air in and out, but the basement was designed as a root cellar, not a forge. Any comforts lent were akin to a hot breeze on a sweltering day.

I tried to keep my activities down there limited to a few hours at a time. It would be easy to become lost in my work and dehydrate, or worse yet, become sick from the fumes and fall unconscious. This had been only my second break in nearly ten hours. I took bread and hard cheese and several cups of cold water. I had made progress, and the sword was whole once again; now, I would make it sing.

All metals were precious, and a practiced hand could ring many years out of a blade so long as it was cared for properly. Ada had many ways of restoring weapons, depending on the degree of corrosion and the type of metal. His methods often called for a hot bath with salt, alcohol, and ash from an oaken fire. He reserved a secret way for projects of significance. It was a recipe earned from defeating a Meren sword smith in a duel of honor. It was rare to find Ada in his cups, but that was his favorite story to tell when he was.

Since the Fall of Illyria, there have been no finer swordsmiths than the Sunemere. Even this the Cyllians do not deny. Yet it was that the most common of ingredients was a secret to their weave—sand. Fine Meren sand collected from the Great Sand Sea to the west to be precise, but still, just sand.

The glassworks in Forhd imported the sand regularly. Apparently, the sand had more than one practical application. A sack cost me five nobles as the shop owner was reluctant to part with it. He kept asking me what I needed it for, of which I remained coy. His suspicion grew all the more when I asked if he had any solvent. I must have looked quite the sight walking down Heart Street carrying a heavy bag of sand