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

The boy took the blade in both hands, spun once, then made a ferocious chop like he was splitting wood. He turned to us, grinning. Crylwin stepped forward, patted him on the head, then took the sword before the boy could cut his leg off.

“Nice name,” Crylwin said, running his thumb across the etching on the base of the blade. “Ever the clever.”

“It’s a gift,” I said with a shrug.

Richard put his hand on Jaeron’s shoulders and ushered him back to the door. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

“Ale,” Crylwin said, “and privacy, we will be working.”

“Yes, my lord,” Richard replied.

“I fucking hate that guy,” Crylwin admitted after Richard closed the door. “Father thought it would be great to get a blue-blooded Cyllian, but he’s always just lingering around.”

“Richard is pleasant and professional, exactly what your father wanted in a steward,” I said.

“Well, he stares.” Crylwin added, “It’s unsettling.”

“He lingers because he is attentive to the needs of his demanding lordson. He stares because he probably hates you as much as you hate him.”

“Demanding?” Crylwin scoffed. “Well, sir, see if I share any of my ale with you.” He headed to the table on the opposite wall, where a large assortment of food awaited. I followed though my stomach still felt unsettled from the ride. I made a small plate with strawberries and a thick slice of warm cornbread. There was butter with honey and, to my delight, pitchers full of dark coffee imported from the colonies south of Cyllia. I poured into a clay mug and held it to my nose. The aroma was just as rewarding as the taste.

“Try the ham,” Crylwin said between bites. “Penir smoked it yesterday.”

“I’m not that hungry,” I replied, “you know how Rick likes his secret ways. Good thing I was empty, or I might have lost my breakfast.”

Crylwin grinned and stuffed another chunk of ham into his mouth.

We chatted as we ate. I told him of my previous ride to Windshear, praising Steven and his speed in one hand, then damning him and the Rukish stableboy with the other. I saw him take a mental note. Crylwin collected horses like he did hangovers. I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw Steven in the stables next time I was here.

I shared the story of Lira’s ring and how Kerry might be the most storied matchmaker in Belen. Then I told him of Lira’s plot to get Nahdril out of the House, and my flight to get the iron to afford it. I shared with him only what I had to, offering a last-minute customer with a heavy purse as my path to salvation. I assumed they knew I was making black market items, of which they got their cut, but the Monroes didn’t need to know that I was running rebel iron; it was enough that I had an illegal forge in the basement. If they got wind that I was working with the Circle, my temporary tennentship could come to a fiery end.

Richard came halfway through the meal, wheeling in a whole barrel of ale and several silver tankards. He placed the barrel on the table and then set the empty cups next to it.

“Will there be anything else, my lord?” he asked.

“Privacy, you old pervert!” Crylwin shouted, pursing his lips at him mockingly.

I caught Richard rolling his eyes as he exited the room.

Crylwin tapped the ale, poured a few tankards to settle, and then went across the room to retrieve Adamant. He went through a few practice moves to warm up. Adamant sliced through the air, his forms flawless, his stance perfect in every way.

I finished my coffee then stood to retrieve my sword. The guard Crylwin selected for Nahdril was an older design that I hadn’t seen before. It had a thin strip of metal to protect the edge, but unlike cord, it was secured to the blade with several crowns worth of silver chain. The chain interlocked between eight keyholes punched into either side of the guard. I slid it around the sword and attached the chains. It fit Nahdril perfectly—as if designed just for her.

I took a few swings, adjusting to the weight of the guard. Despite the added weight, Nahdril was still impressively light. I shuffled between a few stances then signaled I was ready.

Sparring was simple enough to score that we needed no judge, not that Crylwin would appreciate Richard hanging about even if we required one. Landing a significant strike to the arms, legs or chest, was one point. You only needed to reach three hits to win, but you needed to win by two strikes.

The first round ended two to four in his favor. I had held him for a long time using a variant of Stone, known as Fortress, playing a primarily defensive game. He congratulated me even in defeat and went to the tankards of ale to quench his thirst. The second round ended one to three in his favor. The next round, I didn’t even land a hit before he got three strikes in.

“I don’t think Stone is a fit, mate,” Crylwin said with an instructional tone. It wasn’t condescending; he was in earnest, trying to help me solve the riddle of the weapon.

“Yeah,” I admitted, “but Fire isn’t the way either; I feel like I’m going to fall back on it; the footwork relies on something heavy.”

He nodded. “Fire was built around the weight of iron, not even steel. But a duel isn’t just about forms; it’s about anticipation. You’re playing defense when you have a faster blade and a longer reach. You should be on the attack.”

He stopped to consider, twirling his sword in his hand. “Let’s give Tower a go.”

I nodded; it was a good idea. Tower was the offensive variant of stone and combined a close bodied attack with strikes from above. The problem with Tower was it was one of my least practiced stances. I was terrible at it. I suppose in all my years