Summerblood: A Tale of Eron

Tests and Tempering (Eron: Tir-Eron -- High Summer: Day XL -- midday) It was the most beautiful weapon in Eron -- and the most deadly. It was one of the three most beautiful objects in Eron, and had been made, in large part, by Eron's most beautiful woman. Who also happened to be its best bladesmith -- and its third best smith of any kind. Never mind that she was Avall syn Argen-a's wife, and thereby consort to the High King of all Eron. None of which explained Avall's reluctance to touch that weapon now. The Lightning Sword, some had begun to style it, though it wasn't lightning that blade brought from the Overworld, but something less easily defined -- and more potent. Avall's slim, callused hand hovered a finger's length above the gold-leafed ropework casting that comprised the hilt. A ruddy gem gleamed balefully midway along its length -- a gem there was good reason to assume was what most of his countrymen would have called magic. That was why he hesitated, swallowing apprehensively, as he let his gaze slide around the room. It was the topmost chamber of the least-used tower in the lofty, rough-rock pile called the Citadel, which was the seat of Eron's High King -- which title, for a quarter year, and much against his will, was now Avall's. The walls slanted slightly inward and were made of beige sandstone, smoothed to an even grainy finish, but with no ornamentation save a band of interlace relief at waist level. The floor was stone as well, beneath vaults of a different stone, and the sturdy oak table-safe against the wall opposite the single door was likewise hewn from stone. Narrow windows marking three cardinal directions matched the door for height; and the warm light of summer afternoon lanced in through the western one, flooding the chamber with a cheery radiance at odds with Avall's anxious scowl. His shadow brushed a pair of stone benches flanking the oak-barred entrance, the nearer of which was occupied by his two closest friends -- who appeared by turns frustrated, nervous, and impatient, clutching, as they did, the rest of the royal regalia. The younger, his cousin, Lykkon syn Argen-a, would be twenty the upcoming autumn; the elder, Avall's bond-brother, Rann syn Eemon-arr, would be twenty-one at summer's end. Like Avall himself, they were middle-sized young men, tending toward slim, as did most of their countrymen, and with the near-ubiquitous dark blue eyes and handsome, angular faces of High Clan Eronese. At the moment, all three sported short-cropped black hair growing out from the close-clip they'd affected during the recent war with their southern neighbor, but shoulder length was far more typical. They were even dressed alike, in soft indoor slippers, house-hose, and short-tunics that favored their slender bodies. Avall and Lykkon were in Argen's maroon; Rann, in Eemon's midnight-blue, quartered with Stone's black and silver. An incredibly beautiful shield spanned the space between the floor and Lykkon's knees. Kite-shaped, it was, though curved; made of alloys the working of which was denied to Avall's sept of Smithcraft; and ornamented with patterns that, while not quite traditional interlace, nevertheless evoked it. Rann held the helm in his lap. A gem identical to that in the sword gleamed between the gilded-bronze browridges -- a gem Avall had found himself, when the helm had merely been part of a commission for a now-incapacitated King, and he but an ordinary smith, newly raised to manhood. Were it not for the gleaming nasal between the gaping eye sockets, it would strongly resemble a skull; what with its gently domed crown, and the angular cheek guards to either side that mimicked jawbones. Lykkon exhaled pointedly, drumming his fingers on the shield's upper rim. "It won't bite," he chided, when Avall's hand showed no sign of moving. A deep breath, and Avall picked up the swoDeitz, Tom is the author of 'Summerblood: A Tale of Eron' with ISBN 9780553380705 and ISBN 0553380702.