A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (the reading list .txt) 📕

Forhd? You take me for a fool, Rick. What the hell am I supposed to do with shock, clean my fucking buttons?”

Fedorick waved, continuing up the path to the manor house. Kerry’s wooden stool sat empty as we neared the inner gate. She had lived on this land longer than anyone. It wasn’t unusual for her to take long walks outside the grounds. A pity, I wanted to thank her for her advice; no doubt she would be eager to hear her ring was well received.

I helped Fedorick unhitch his horses and led old Cara back into the stables. I gave her a couple of gentle pats while Fedorick tended to Dustin, who had lost a copper shoe during the trip.

“Boiling hells,” he spat. “Old Monroe won’t look kindly on this.”

“Some shortcut. Saved us ten minutes and lost a shoe.”

Fedorick glared under his coachman’s hat.

“Want me to double back with Cara?” I offered.

He shook his head. “Nah, you have more important things to do, lad,” he said. “I’ll head meself once I get his hoof cleaned up.”

Cara snorted.

“Oh come now, you old flirt,” he soothed. “The man’s got business to attend to.”

I gave her a few strokes with the groomer’s brush I was holding and then scratched behind her ears. I grabbed up my satchel and sword with a wave and climbed the hill to the manor house.

The village of Windshear was once three large hills surrounding a courtyard valley, but that was before the Monroes and the estate’s construction. Old Monroe had the manor house built on top of the largest hill. The second largest was still home to the old Venticle Church, but Crylwin had that converted into his private alehouse a few years back. The third hill was cut away when they extended the outer wall. They said it was for defense, to make use of the rock, but I think it was to make room for the bathhouse that now sat in its place.

The day was calm and warm, with a slight breeze that warned me of the coming fall.

As I neared the door, a man dressed hat to heels in Monroe blue greeted me. “Good morning, sir,” the man said. “We have been expecting you.”

“Yes, Richard, apparently I’m late. Rick only just found me this morning. Where is Lord Monroe? I understand he wishes to see me?”

“Yes, though we expected you last night. I’m afraid the Lord Master is away currently.”

Of course, he was, I thought.

“Don’t fret; it’s not all a loss,” he said warmly. “I have refreshments prepared in the study.” He gestured to the open door behind him. “Master Crylwin is there now.”

I followed him up the steps to the manor entrance, then down the hall to the study.

When Ada had business to attend in Gent or beyond, I would often stay at the estate, under Ama’s care. When I did, I spent most of my time in the study. Over the years, I lost hours in there, captured by a thousand stories of kings and heroes.

My ability to read old Illyrian also gave me access to some of Monroe’s scrolls from before the Fall. They were not originals, of course, those were stowed away safely in the South. But his transcribed replicas were just as fascinating, and to a boy of twelve, their authenticity didn’t matter.

Ama Kerry thought it her duty to augment my Cyllian education with at least a glancing foundation in the more practical disciplines as well. She would drill me through San Fiddle’s Guide to Contemporary Astronomy, Osworld’s Treatises on the Physical and Theoretical Sciences, Reymon’s Guide to Northland Herbology, and of course, the Cyllian Imperial Codex.

Despite my time spent in study, the name was perhaps a bit misleading. It had its books; they lined the walls in deep shelves clear to the glass panels that formed a roof above. But the room wasn’t a quiet place with a warm fire to consider your thoughts; it was a massive hall, larger even than the grand atrium. The room earned its name once Crylwin occupied it to hone his craft. I lost hours there in books; I lost days in real study.

Richard stopped at the twin oak doors, gave a quick knock, then pushed them inward. He gestured inside with an open palm. “Master Crylwin awaits.”

I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

Chapter One and Seven

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

“Faerin!” Crylwin called from the center of the room. He was seated cross-legged with his hands resting comfortably on his knees held open-palmed to the ceiling. He wore the thick white sparring tunic he typically wore when studying, though seeing him meditating was undoubtedly a first.

“Is that it?” he shouted as he climbed onto his feet and crossed the padded floor to meet me.

“How was the party?” I said, sidestepping his question.

“Fuck the party,” he said. “Show me!”

“Word travels fast,” I said, placing Nahdril down on the side table. Slowly, I unwrapped the cloth from around the sword, taking care to fold the fabric upon itself like I was preserving a bridal shroud.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, man!” Crylwin shouted. “Get on with it!”

“Patience, patience, my friend,” I toyed. “This is a drink that needs to be savored, not something you gulp down because you’re thirsty.”

He crossed his arms and huffed. I saw no point in prolonging his agony, so I pulled the remaining fabric away in one quick motion, revealing Nahdril in all its glory.

Crylwin’s mouth hung open. “I don’t believe it.”

“You should have seen it when I got it. It was covered in this—”

“Let’s give it a go!” he said, pacing back to the side of the room where a stand of similar white coats waited. Racks of weapons were displayed next to them, spears, pikes, and several blades of varying design.

“Planning a raid into Merelands?” I asked.

He ignored me as he sifted through the racks in search of something. I assumed a sparring match was inevitable, and I didn’t mind trying it out, but it looked like