The Craftsman's Trial

Peturabo's forging continued.

He melted two blocks of iron into a single golden-white mass, then wrapped it in two pieces of mild steel, threaded them together with a long spiral iron rod, and set it on the anvil. His work was neither hurried nor slow, rich with rhythm and skill. Rather than mere physical labor, the motion of his hammer itself seemed like part of an art.

Hard iron became soft and malleable beneath the heat and hammer, merging from its original form into a unified whole and gradually lengthening. Dameks saw a rectangular outline, a little over ten inches long, its end sharpening to a point while its base remained thick and steady.

A knife, he told himself, joy rising in his heart at the sight. Before them all, the rough shape of a blade emerged through the forge.

Mors studied Peturabo's every movement with rapt attention. Dameks believed that the craftsman was likely observing the boy's precise expression through some inhuman means. Mors was reading Peturabo.

Peturabo's movements were more precise and swifter than those of any boy his age Dameks had ever known, even surpassing most craftsmen in the kingdom. Those few who exceeded him did so only through the natural advantages of age and strength.

Before one hammer blow landed, Peturabo had already decided the force, center of gravity, and point of impact for the next. His hammer was as precise as the machines in a factory, with no sluggishness or uncertainty in it.

The blade emerged from the white heat with vivid red edges. The cooling of its temperature and the shaping of the blade formed a single rhythm. For the second time, Peturabo fed the iron into the furnace, raising the heat once more and allowing greater temperatures to alter its structure.

Then he looked around, confident and bold.

"Give me a wooden club," he said.

The courtiers, craftsmen, and priests all looked at one another. No one had prepared such a thing.

Dameks immediately raised his voice, full and commanding. "Putrocles, give him your weapon!"

The soldier named Putrocles jolted, glanced at the enormous wooden club in his hand—the one used for smashing people's skulls—and dazedly handed it to the messenger who jogged over. The messenger passed it to a priest, who ran to Peturabo's side. Peturabo lowered his head, disappointment showing between his brows.

Mors shook his head. A gust of wind swept toward the platform, refining the club's shape until it became smooth and easier to wield. Peturabo looked up at him, then took the tool.

"An iron hammer can easily ruin the shape of the blade," Mors murmured.

The steel beneath Peturabo's hands was more obedient than anyone had expected. Those seemingly indestructible metals meekly became the new forms Peturabo required. Silent, blazing, honest, they gave the best response to every strike, and Peturabo made no effort to conceal his love for steel.

The boy's heart beat in time with the steel's submission. For the first time, he openly revealed the joy on his face. The firelight burned in his eyes, not with anger, but with simple contentment and delight.

Dameks could not see clearly, yet even from so far away, he could feel Peturabo's mood.

Pleased, he gripped the handle of his golden scepter and began to imagine how his army would be transformed by the addition of one—no, two—extraordinary blacksmiths.

Across all of Olympia, wars between the twelve tyrants and the other small nations had never ceased.

They merely called occasional truces, passing through precious periods of peace and preparation before resuming their struggle for land and power. Tyrants had to do so; otherwise, their lands would be ravaged and their subjects plundered.

He still remembered records from a century ago of Axos seizing the women of Lokos as wives. In fact, that was the origin of a nursery rhyme known throughout the nation. Any child could sing a verse or two of the shepherdess's song of wandering onto a battlefield.

A blacksmith who served war could always give his Lokos a few more chances of victory.

As for the Olympic Games, which compelled the whole world to uphold a brief peace and unite against any who started a war, they had existed for so long that they seemed more like legend.

"Your child will forge the most perfect weapons," Dameks said to Mors. Though Mors had never acknowledged any relationship with Peturabo, the king felt that this form of address could not be wrong.

Beside him, Mors wore an inscrutable expression as he watched Peturabo work. Upon hearing Dameks's remark, he smiled and continued the unfinished tale: "Be careful, my son. If your wings are heavy, the seawater has soaked them; if your wings are light, the sun has burned them away. But do not be afraid, my son. If the tides carry you off, I will find you again."

Dameks considered Mors's riddle. Having dealt for years with priests who found speaking plainly harder than death, he had long learned never to overlook a puzzle placed before him.

Then he frowned, and not because of the excessively ancient term "seawater."

Dameks was certain Mors had given him a warning.

So he reflected: What had he said wrong?

On the round platform, the blade underwent its fifth quenching, then its sixth. Hammering, cooling—the golden-red blaze clinging to the knife burned upon the water's surface, then gave way to thin white mist. Peturabo wore invisible gloves; the flames seemed to rise from his hands and leap into the air.

Dameks was captivated, just like everyone below the platform. Whether craftsmen or courtiers who had originally held no interest in forging and had come only by royal command, all of them had unknowingly devoted their full attention to watching.

At last, the blade entered the icy water one final time. The boy moved alongside the flames. If the god of fire from Olympian myth had descended into the world, perhaps he would have looked like this.

Then he raised the completed dagger. Cold light glittered along its edge. Though it had not yet been sharpened, it already radiated a piercing keenness.

Bright lamplight washed over Peturabo's entire body. The boy wiped the black scorched layer from the blade with his fingers, revealing a smooth, even surface that reflected the faces of everyone present.

The priest immediately fell to his knees in reverence, forgetting even the tyrant Dameks, whom he should have been worshipping. "Child of God!" His excitement brought tears to his eyes. "Your skill is perfect!"

Dameks too stood joyfully beside the wooden railing, spreading his arms wide and showing his welcome without reserve as the ruler of a nation.

"Peturabo, Lokos will be honored by your forging. Your craft will bring new life to the entire nation."

Dameks had left himself a little room to maneuver, choosing words that were both exaggerated and cautious. He remembered that when he had said the word "weapons," Mors had not encouraged it.

Peturabo's composure was astonishing. He felt neither joy at the king's praise nor anger at the priest's words. He merely looked up toward the second floor, the direction of his gaze unmistakably clear.

Then he threw his entire creation into the flames. To everyone's astonishment, he mercilessly let the newly finished blade melt beneath the furnace's blazing heat.

"Your praise comes too early," Peturabo declared bluntly.

Dameks heard a soft exhalation. He looked beside him and, from the smile finally appearing on Mors's face, knew it had been a quiet laugh.