Raven's Hand Read Free Page B

times
like these when a war among the great houses was all but
inevitable.
    The other houses saw the king’s failing
health as an opportunity. If they were careful and seized the
appropriate time to act, they might be able to take the throne from
House Rainier. As of that day, House Rainier had held onto the
throne for eighty three years. They had fought to keep it so on
three separate occasions: once when House Auturn sought to
destabilize House Rainier fifty years before, and twice when Houses
Japheh and Rollace battled Rainier in consecutive conflicts
twenty-two years before.
    The bladesmith wiped the debris from the
sword and then began to apply polish to the blade with a rag. He
had left the work on the scabbard to his only son and apprentice in
the trade. He buffed the polish away with a dry cloth and held it
up in the firelight of his forge. Red-orange flames reflected in
the forged steel.
    He smiled and then called to his son, working
in another part of his shop. “Killian!”
    A moment later, a handsome young man of
nineteen years, with dark hair and broad shoulders, peeked around
the corner where his father was working. “Yes, Father?” he said.
Then, seeing his father holding the blade in the light, he
exclaimed, “Oh, you’ve finished the last of the runes already?”
    “Aye, and a better weapon I’ve never forged,”
he replied proudly. He handed the weapon to Killian. “What do you
think, lad?”
    Killian took the sword in hand, hefting it
for weight and then balancing the weapon midway on the back of his
thumb. “It’s perfect, Father.”
    Turning, Killian stepped away from his
father’s work table, giving himself room. He swung the blade in
fluid motions, his maneuvers becoming more and more complicated.
The hilt was slightly curved so that the pommel came down around
the fourth finger and was fashioned of polished ebony. The steel
was made with a single razor sharp edge, curving slightly up to a
point. Black leather cord, tightly wrapped, gave the hilt a supple
feel that gripped the hand as he moved and would keep it from
slipping when the new king’s hand became sweaty or stained with
blood.
    The polished steel whirled around Killian,
the air whistling with its passing. “It feels so light,” he
remarked, halting his exercise to return the weapon to his
Father.
    His father held up a hand. “Have you finished
the scabbard?”
    Killian smiled, his dark eyes twinkling in
the firelight. “I was up last night finishing it.”
    “Good lad,” his father replied. “Then you
might as well hold on to the sword. I need you to take it to
Shalindra to be blessed.”
    “Really?” Killian asked, “But you usually
don’t let me go to the priestess.”
    “Ask him, why now?” said a fair woman with
auburn locks falling around her shoulders, entering the workshop
behind Killian.
    “It doesn’t matter why,” his father retorted.
“Your mother’s just having a go at me, that’s all.”
    Killian’s mother came to stand beside her
husband with a smirk on her face. “Don’t you believe him,” she said
playfully. “Last time he had to go to the temple—”
    “With the shield for the High Prince?”
    “That’s the one,” she said. “Well, he stayed
up all evening prior to leaving, eating my Dragon Fire Stew.”
    “Hold your tongue, woman,” his father
bellowed. “You’re holding the lad up when he has important work to
do.”
    His mother ignored this, trying to keep from
laughing. Killian couldn’t help but smile at her mirth, even though
he hadn’t guessed the end of her story just yet.
    “Well, you know how your father’s belly gets
to rumbling after Dragon Fire Stew,” she continued. “He couldn’t
hold it in and broke wind during Shalindra’s liturgy.”
    Her laughter broke loose with Killian’s. His
father grumbled in his chair, shaking his head, waiting for them to
stop. It took a few moments before they got themselves
composed.
    “All right,” he said, as they calmed