Sword of Destiny

When the King turned up the following day – an entire entourage in attendance – he was expecting the order to retreat to the bowels of the smithy. But despite the tension that separated him from his father, he was out front. His father wanted him by his side. Maybe that was partial payment for the debt. Maybe. Was that enough? They could discuss that later. This was an opportunity, and anger would not ruin his path to purpose. His life was on track because of this blade, and he needed that path to continue. This was a turning point, and his past would not prevent it.

He kneeled as etiquette dictated.

The King stood before them, looking remarkably plain if truth be told. He was ageing, snow spreading through his thick beard and cascading about the golden crown. His cloak was silver-blue, Delfinia’s colours, but beneath that fine garment he wore rather plain clothing. Fine, but plain. Only the high leather boots suggested obvious wealth.

“I hear it’s a fine weapon.” News travelled, apparently. Either that or the King had eyes everywhere.

“Aye, she’s a beauty.”

Everyone in the smithy was on their knees, excepting his father. But even though he was on his knees, he was forward and prominent. That was a rarity in his short life. He only managed infrequent glances from his low vantage, peeking at the King’s Guard in their brightly polished armour. But eyes were all over him and that was unsettling, so he quickly looked back at the dusty floor.

Then a heavy hand squeezed his shoulder, and he was ushered up. He stood, and there he was, standing before the King. Remarkably, this was the second time in his life he’d looked in the eyes of the King, and he smiled broadly. The last time he’d looked upon the King he’d been beaten to the brink. The King would not see that same soft child here, which was good. Here he could stand with the straight back of the proud. Pride. It was such a foreign sensation.

“This is my son...” And there it was. His father refrained from using his embarrassing girl’s name. That was warming. He may even entirely forgive the man for that gesture alone. His father continued, “he helped with the work.”

And then a young man stepped forward. The youth – who was wearing similar robes and arguably more elaborate underclothes than the King – was a mimic of the older man facially. The young man’s chin tapered, and he had the high cheekbones that singled him out as high-nobility. The hair was still rich-gold and thick, and the fairness of his skin suggested the young man was little older than himself. And with a flash of the other’s smile, he recognised the younger royal.

He had been at the library too. He was the son and the heir. The Prince of Delfinia.

The prince tipped his head and smiled. “Then I thank you.” There was the faintest whiff of recognition in the eyes of the prince, which was surprising. Did he really remember that chance meeting? Would he say anything? His heart skipped and his anger warmed his gut, but the heir turned away. Nothing said and nothing truly recognised. Perhaps.

“I offer this fine decorative dagger as a gift for the work. It would not stand up to your fine craftsmanship, but it has its own subtle worth, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

Hardly subtle. It was glittering with jewels. The blade was quickly in his father’s hands, and he almost reached out for his portion.

But he stopped himself. He was still bottom, and he did not need that symbol of recognition. He had the firm hand of his father, and the knowing smile of the heir of Delfinia. It was a high point for certain, and perhaps more than that, he had his purpose. He had a genuine purpose. His life had turned for the good, and he wanted to live his name. The remainder of the exchange passed him by.

He may never beat a mandahoi, and for that he was sorry. But he could damn well make weapons as good as they could, and in the end, that was enough. He was the Smith.

He followed his father to the rear of the smithy for a drink – a celebratory drink! – and his eldest brother smiled threateningly. But he would ignore it, or at least he would ignore it for now. In that moment, he was prince of the smithy world.

He woke to chaos. He often woke to chaos, but this was different.

“Where is it?”

Usually it was the dull clang of steel on near molten steel that stirred him in the morning. That was the sound of his brothers starting their day. To be fair to the idiots, they did have a remarkable capacity for early schedules even despite late festivities, though it could hardly be called a virtue. But today was different. His father was shouting.

“Where!”

He did not have a big room out back in the smithy, and the one source of light was through the chimney of the small hearth. There was a blood red glow in the room, the hue of the Stranger, and that seemed foreboding. He stretched his shoulders, creasing the sleep ache out of his neck, and then threw his legs over the side of the bed. Damn he had slept well. It must have been the fire-liquor he’d shared with his father.

“Come on you bastard, where is it?”

His eyes would barely open, such was his grog. He was never like this. He was hardly the sprightliest morning creature, but he was no slug either. The constant threat of bullies drilled that into you. He shook himself, searching for his senses, but he really was groggy. The sound of his brother’s whimpering response only just registered. What had they done? He wanted to laugh at their pathetic display, but he yawned instead. No, the sleep-gremlin had him by the delicates for sure. He could barely function.

And then his door crashed open and his father marched in. The fury was rampant on the man’s face.

“Still here, then?”

The question was aimed at him, but he couldn’t work out for the Uncle what it meant. He shook himself, stretching his arms and shoulders, extending his legs. His father was glaring at him, all fury, but from the shadows beyond his father he caught a whiff of something putrid. Jeb was smiling, and it was the same ugly smile he’d worn last night. Now he was alert. He stood despite his giddiness.

“Of course I’m still here. Why would I be anywhere else?”

His father flicked his eyes, and he was drawn to a packed rucksack. It was his packed rucksack. The sour smile stretched in the shadows, and the cruel menace of the bullies jumped out of his past. His arse puckered. He had not been subject to that cruelty for three years, but that sense was returning. It was returning fast.

“I don’t know what that’s doing there.”

“Well then, let’s just have a look inside.”

“No!” That was the worst thing that could happen, though he did not know why. His legs moved, but they were not in agreement with each other. He fell to his knees. There was a snigger from the bastards, and it was starting to make sense. They had drugged him. His father was ripping the items from the bag, feeling about for something in particular. Looking for whatever he had lost.

Then it was obvious, and his father found what he was looking for. Of course it was there. He could not survive this. His father would not allow it. So he ran.

He pushed between his sneering brothers and turned back to his father – the same man who may have actually loved him yesterday – with fury rampant on his face. His father was slumped on his knees and he held the jewelled dagger above his head.

“After everything I did for you, Jossie. Why would you repay me like this?”

He could not answer because his brothers had it planned. He would never be allowed in this place again.

He raced through the living space and stopped. Panicked. He almost went back for his book, but it was under his bed. His father would never let him past. He ran instead, exiting the smithy, leaving his only possession behind. He would miss those words, but he couldn’t go back. Not now. And besides, he still had Delfin’s philosophy etched in his memory. He would not forget that precious gift. It was all he had left of his childhood, and he had nothing else to his name. Not even a place to sleep.