“The Blacksmith and the Artist, each must know his part, to forge a new reality, closer to the heart.”iii
The Smith’s Hymn
A day and a half after his Caretakers left, Connor was cinching the saddle onto Shaker’s horse, musing to himself, “If they’d forgotten anything and needed to come back, they would have done it by now.” He buckled the strap and led the horse out of the barn.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” he said to the animal, “Times up.”
He closed the oversized door, took his mount and urged the mustang into a canter.
Passing in front of the house, he felt something poking his thigh. He stood up in the stirrups and rummaged around in his pocket until he had Ross’ Lost Wax parchment in his hand.
“What a waste of time,” he said aloud, “I’ve got a sword to make, not a tiny team of golden horses!”
Crumpling the paper into a ball, he sat back down and drove his heels into the soft sides of his mount. With a cloud of dust in his wake, Connor raced toward the city and indifferently tossed the crinkled wad of paper into a tangle of blackberry vines.
When the toppled guardhouse finally came into view, he reined the horse in and slowed to a walk. Off to the side of the road, under the shade of an old, twisted cork tree, Johnny and Shaker sat atop their barrels.
He coaxed the winded stallion toward the men. Looking up, Johnny’s helmet rocked back on his head, and his gap-tooth mouth remained connected to his grizzled turkey leg by a long strand of greasy drool. It glistened yellow, fluttering back and forth with his breathing.
Shaker smiled around a bite of apple too large to fit in his mouth. With juice dribbling off his hand and chin, he asked, “Da oo ge i?”
Connor pulled his eyes away from the strand of spit connecting Johnny to his lunch and looked at Shaker.
“What did you say?”
Shaker pulled out the enormous wad of apple, and now he too had a line of drool swinging from his mouth to his food.
Turning to Johnny, Shaker noticed the repulsive yellow strand, and his face transformed into a mask of disgust. He hit Johnny’s arm, and yelled, “Johnny, that’s a bit a nasty right there it is!”
As he yelled, the tendril of spit coming from his own mouth actually transferred from his lower lip to his upper lip and back again.
“Me?” Johnny demanded. “Ya should see yerself! Now that’s a bit a nasty! At least I got’s an excuse on account a me teeth an all.”
Johnny self-consciously wiped his mouth, while Shaker lifted up his apple and looked at it.
“What’s all nasty ‘bout this then?” he demanded, making the quivering strand jump from lip to lip. Shaker held up his apple to Connor and Johnny started belly laughing.
“What?! What are ya goin’ on about, ya stupid git!” Shaker yelled, waving the apple in Johnny’s direction.
Johnny laughed even harder, and Connor smiled at their shenanigans.
Shaker got redder and smashed the piece of apple in his hand until the juice ran out of it. He drew his fist back against his chest, and yelled, “Shut it, Johnny!” Then he unleashed his backhand.
The blow to Johnny’s arm snapped the long wet string attached to Shaker’s hand, and it floated in the breeze just long enough to be enjoyed for the wonder it was. Johnny’s eyes twinkled with delight as it whiplashed back toward Shaker’s face.
Shaker saw it coming, but his attack against Johnny had sent him past his balance point. He tried to dodge the spit, but his barrel rocked backward, and his thick legs shot out to counterbalance his load.
Johnny let out a “whoop” of ecstasy.
“Ooofff!” came the sound of Shaker getting the wind knocked out of him.
His barrel rolled off to one side, leaving Shaker on his back with all four limbs flailing around. Shaker was beet red, and Johnny staggered away, bent over with laughter.
With a great deal of effort, Shaker finally made his way to his side and started laughing. Looking on, Connor could only shake his head and laugh along with them.
When Shaker had finally composed himself, and Johnny stopped laughing, the two men looked up at Connor.
With mud on his ear and dust clinging to the loop of spit on his face, Shaker pulled at his uniform, and said, “Did ya get it?”
“I did.”
“Ya best get goin’ then. Ya got’s a sword to make, hadn’t ya?” Johnny asked, wiping away the last of his joyful tears.
“I do,” Connor said, feeling distracted. “I just stopped to tell you both. And Shaker?”
“Yeah?”
“You’ve got a little something on your face.”
Without waiting for a response, Connor urged the horse into a canter. As the two men faded away, Connor heard Johnny laughing and Shaker yelling at him to shut up.
Minutes later, Connor was riding through the marketplace. His eyes watered, and he coughed as the stench of the place filled his nose and burned his throat.
He tried to look past the dirty faces and the hopeless stares, but every child looked like an orphan.
He felt himself growing angry, not with the people, but at their King.
“It won’t always be like this,” he told himself. “Someday, I’ll make it better.”
Keeping to the center of the lane, he quickly passed the bakery, the cobbler shop, and the Cooperage. In short order, he was climbing the soft dirt road toward the Chandlery. With his eyes on the castle, Connor pulled the reigns to the right and made his way toward the row of Smiths.
As he came up on Jeb’s Smithy, he quickened his pace until he got to the far end of the row.
The little bell hooked to the door rang as he walked into the Goldsmith’s shop. It was small inside, at least the area for those looking to buy or sell.
The face of an old man popped through a curtained doorway behind the counter and Connor did his best to contain his excitement.
He heard whispering behind the curtain, then it was drawn to the side, and the Goldsmith stepped out. His back was hunched with age, his fingers blackened by his trade and his face was sunken but wise. His pensive expression did little to hide his excitement, and Connor smiled as the Smith’s young apprentice brought in something draped in red velvet.
The boy set the object on the counter and stepped away.
“Did you have any trouble?” Connor asked.
“It is exactly as you requested,” the Smith said with pride. “I don’t think I’ve ever made a finer piece, and I’ve never seen anything as exquisite.”
The old man moved his fingers toward the velvet cover and just as he snatched it away, he said, “Behold!”
Connor’s breath caught in his chest. He reached out to touch it and pulled his hand back. It was better than he had drawn it. It was exactly as he had described. It was as close to the real thing as anyone would ever get, but he had to be sure it would work.
“The blade of the sword, I need the broken blade.”
The Smith nodded to his apprentice who quickly retrieved the broken sword. The boy removed the pommel and slid the handle off, handing Connor the broken blade.
With the half-blade in one hand, he picked up the solid gold, intricately woven basket handle from the counter. With delicate precision, he slid the handle onto the tapered tang of the sword. The fit was perfect.
“And the pommel?” Connor asked.
The Smith reached into his pocket and pulled out a golden rose bud.
“It is beyond compare,” he said, gently placing the flawless work of art into Connor’s hand.
Connor examined the piece and smiled. It was far more than he had expected. It was exquisitely crafted. It looked like an actual rosebud, cast in gold and frozen in time.
With great care, he twisted the rose bud pommel onto the base of the tang until it was secured against the handle. Everything was in order, and even better than he had requested.
The Smith motioned to his apprentice, and the boy disappeared into the back. He quickly came back carrying a large scale with its weighing pans noisily clanged back and forth on either side of the tall stem.
The Smith stepped forward and quieted the delicate device. When all was calm, he motioned to Connor, who quickly disassembled the sword.
The Smith held one pan as low as it would go, and Connor set the golden handle and pommel onto it.
“Now for your part,” the Smith said, through thin, dry lips.
Connor removed a leather pouch from his satchel and set it on the opposite pan. The golden basket and pommel offered no resistance, and the Smith reached out, steadying the swinging scale.
“Are we done here?” Connor asked indifferently.
“We are, my lord,” the Smith replied, licking his bottom lip.
Connor gently removed the pommel and basket, wrapping them in cloth from his bag. While he put the wrapped pieces in his satchel, he complimented the Smith on the quality and speed of his work.
Gathering up the old handle and pommel from the broken sword, he also placed them gently in his bag. He thanked the Smith one last time and left as quickly as he had arrived.
He walked Shaker’s horse down the row until he was standing in front of the Hot Shop. He started getting nervous when he noticed there was no fire lit, and Farmer was nowhere to be seen.
Connor stepped into the shadows of the Hot Shop and was about to call out when he noticed a note on the table in the center of the room. The note read, “Connor, ring the bell, LOUDLY!”
Next to the note was a small metal bell with a wooden handle. He picked it up and shook it as hard as he could for five seconds, then he pulled back a chair and waited.
A few minutes went by and just as he reached for the bell, a door opened in the back of the shop.
“Don’t ring it again,” Farmer said, from behind the door. His voice was gravelly and tired. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”
Connor watched Farmer slowly meander from the back of the shop to the table. With great effort, he pulled back a chair and collapsed on it with a giant sigh.
Connor’s stomach twisted, and his palms started to sweat. “Is everything all right?”
“I have not slept in three days,” Farmer said, resting his head on the wooden table. “I did not know the difficulty of your request.”
“Is it done?” Connor asked desperately.
“It is the hardest thing I have ever done.”
“Where are they? I must see them!”
Farmer wearily pointed to a long, narrow wooden box against the wall.
Connor knocked his chair over in his rush to retrieve it.
With his face against the table, Farmer whispered, “If you break either one of them, I will kill you.”
Connor lifted the box with great care and carried it to the table.
Holding his breath, he gently removed the top and there, nestled within a bed of very fine pine shavings was the work of a master craftsman.
“Gently,” Farmer whispered.
Connor dug his fingers into the tiny curls of wood until they were just below the glass. With the greatest care possible, he removed the three-foot long, pale blue blade.
“It’s flawless,” Farmer mumbled.
Connor carried it into the light and held it up. The perfectly straight, translucent blade tapered into a deadly point, and there was not a single bubble trapped within it.
“It’s incredible! Farmer, you are truly a master at your craft.”
He lifted his head off the table, looked at Connor with bloodshot eyes, and said, “Its twin is deeper in the shavings. There are three tiny bubbles toward the tip. If you must break one, make it that one.”
Connor gently set the blade back into the pine shavings and sat down. He reached into his satchel and pulled out the golden handle with its intricately crafted basket. He unwrapped it and set it on the table in front of Farmer.
The tired eyes of the Smith opened with excitement, and he sat up in his chair. His fingers delicately caressed the soft loops and curls of gold, and he unconsciously let out a small soft whistle.
“It’s solid gold,” he said, lifting it into his hands. “How did you ever…?”
“The Goldsmith is an expert at the art of Lost Wax, and I had a little extra gold lying around.”
Farmer stood up, took the blade from the box and married it to the handle. Connor reached back into his bag and handed him the rose bud pommel.
“The old man has truly outdone himself,” Farmer said, admiring the rose. With careful precision, he screwed the pommel onto the tang until it was snug.
For the longest time, neither of them said a word. They just stared at the unbelievably beautiful work of art.
“It’s the finest thing I have ever held,” Farmer said, sounding both proud and sad at the same time. “You wanted a sword fit for a king,” he said, looking Connor in the eyes and handing him the sword, “and now you have it.”
Connor took the sword, saying, “Thank you, Farmer. Thank you for all your effort. Thank you for your unbelievable skill and thank you for being brave enough to accept my challenge.”
Farmer nodded in appreciation, then they disassembled the sword and packed its parts away.
“Will I see you there tomorrow?” Connor asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Farmer said, collapsing into his chair. “But right now, I must sleep.”
Connor placed three gold pieces on the table.
“But you haven’t won yet,” Farmer said, pushing the gold back.
“It doesn’t matter Farmer. Win or lose, you’ve earned this. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Connor didn’t sleep much that night. All he could think about was the presentation. By the time the sun was up, he had already washed, dressed, and eaten his fill.
Having returned Shaker’s horse the prior day, all that was left to do was set out for the castle and hope everything went according to plan.
With the leather satchel draped across his chest and the wooden box under his arm, he headed out.
“With any luck,” he thought, turning to lock the door, “by tonight, I’ll be somebody who matters.”
When he came over the dirt hill, he was surprised to see a mass of people, horses, wagons and pack animals, moving away from the city.
The people smiled at him and invited him on their journey to the City of Light; where, according to them, he could expect all manner of ridiculous things to happen. At first, he politely refused, but with each passing smile and each hopeful invitation, he found himself growing angrier.
By the time he reached the back gate he felt like a fish swimming up steam, and he had grown so disgusted by their naiveté, he was yelling to the people, “There’s nothing there but broken dreams and disappointment!!”
When he saw the guard through the throngs of people, he made his way over to the man and asked about Shaker and Johnny.
“Theys been called up ta the castle on account a the ceremony. Like most everybody else,” the thin man said, in an official sounding tone. “Theys won’t be back ‘til tomorrow.”
“Why aren’t you doing something?!” Connor demanded.
Without making eye contact, the guard shouted over the sound of the passing wagons, “I only guards against what’s comin’ in, not what’s goin’ out!”
“Well, you better open your eyes!” Connor shouted insultingly. “The King won’t be happy about this!”
The guard didn’t acknowledge the comment and Connor moved on.
The road narrowed as he entered the city, and he had to step aside several times to protect his fragile package.
He wasn’t too surprised to hear about Shaker and Johnny being called to the castle, only that they hadn’t mentioned it. He also wasn’t surprised to see every coward in the city had carefully timed their exit to coincide with the event at the castle. They all knew the regular guards would be pulled away from their posts, and only the poorest excuses would be manning the gates.
Inside the city, the push and pull to escape felt like it was everywhere. Only when he left the stench of the poorest quarters did the commotion die down.
“What fools,” he scoffed. “Wait until they get shot back to the beginning of their journey. Then they’ll understand rejection. Then they’ll know there’s no place better than where they left.”
Walking directly toward the castle on official business, he kept his shoulders back, his chest out and tried to look like anything other than what he was.
Eventually, beautiful carriages and well-dressed men on horseback began passing him on their way to the castle.
“They don’t even recognize me,” he thought. “Not yet anyway, but they will. Soon enough, they all will.”
By the time he set foot on the drawbridge, Connor was completely enthralled with the spectacular and powerful world around him. From the gravity-defying spires to the fortified and deadly parapets. He knew he was at the heart of the Empire. This was where decisions were made, this was the seat of power, this was where men were made and broken.
Just inside the portcullis, a smartly dressed gentleman approached Connor and asked his name, his trade, and his business.
“Connor Duncan, Blacksmith, I have come to offer a sword for his majesty’s consideration.”
The man nodded, and said, “You are to proceed through the gates ahead, into the inner courtyard.” He handed Connor a piece of parchment with a number on it. “You are at table number seventeen, it’s at the very end to the right. You must have your sword ready for display by ten bells. You have little time, I suggest you hurry.”
“Thank you,” Connor replied, looking ahead. Nearly a hundred yards across the killing field, a large iron gate stood open, and Connor quickened his pace.
Entering the inner courtyard, he paused to stare. Before him was a vast semicircle of short wooden tables. Behind each table, with their back to him, stood a craftsman. In front of the tables, a crowd of lavishly dressed guests sauntered about, scrutinizing the swords on display.
“Showtime!” he said to himself, casually walking behind the tables.
When he was behind Jeb, he stopped and gazed upon the masterpiece of flawlessly polished steel and meticulously inlaid gold. The spectacular handle was inset with precious gems, and the pommel accentuated a ruby the size of a walnut! Creating the sword had taken all his skill and a great deal of his wealth.
With his impeccable offering and all his blustering, Jeb was easily garnering the most attention.
As one of the admirers held the magnificent creation, Connor called out from over Jeb’s shoulder, “I’m sure your steel is as brittle as a dried up chicken bone!” The crowd at Jeb’s table quieted right on cue, and he added, “Just like the one I bought from your Smithy the other day. It’s a shame too, I paid good money for that worthless blade.”
Leaving his scandalous insults to corrupt Jeb’s mind, Connor casually resumed his stride.
“Outrageous!” declared one of the gentlemen, creating a murmur of indignation throughout Jeb’s admirers.
When Connor reached his table, he took out the red velvet tablecloth Shaker had suggested he bring. With a dramatic flair, he popped it out into the air and laid it on the table. He set his box on the table and removed one of his pre-assembled swords.
Playing to the crowd, he held the blade straight up in the air. The long rays of early morning sunlight played within its prism-like structure, scattering brilliant shafts of blue-white light across the courtyard. It's beautifully silver inlaid handle, and matching pommel had been salvaged from the broken blade.
When he slowly rotated the sword, heads turned, and a crowd of admirers immediately flocked to his table.
He gently set the sword onto the velvet and placed the wooden box under his table. By the time he stood up, he was already warning the courtiers not to touch his one of a kind creation.
The public humiliation outraged Jeb, and watching his admirers flock to Connor’s table was more than he could take.
If he hadn’t been absolutely furious, Jeb would have looked comical waddling toward Connor with his clenched fists and his arms locked against his overly round sides. His face was purple, and he had twisted his eyebrows and forehead into something so wrinkled, he almost looked like a different man.
“Too brittle is it?!” he muttered and grumbled under his breath. “I’ll show you, you insolent little pup!”
Jeb was just a few tables away and closing fast when the trumpets sounded, announcing the arrival of the King.
Protocol demanded that everyone kneel when the King entered, and that’s what everyone did; everyone except Jeb. There was also a reverent pause to every conversation while the King majestically strolled in with his guards.
On bent knee, Connor watched the King ascending the small, raised platform in silence.
Oblivious to the honorary moment of repose, Jeb shoved Connor to the ground, yelling, “I’ll show you what a brittle blade looks like! You insolent little pup! I’ve made a sword for a King, not a princess!!”
Everyone, including the King, turned and looked at table seventeen. Stepping past Connor, Jeb put his hand at the base of the glass sword, right where the hilt met the blade.
“Noooo!!” Connor yelled, but Jeb had already transferred his weight to the blade.
The snap resonated throughout the assembled masses, jolting Jeb back to reality.
Looking up from table seventeen, he seemed quite surprised to have everyone’s complete attention. His legs visibly trembled as he stepped back from the table, and his hands shook like leaves in the wind until he clenched them back into fists.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he mumbled to himself. Pointing his trembling finger toward Connor, he announced with a trembling voice, “But he drove me to it. He had it coming!”
Jeb looked at the broken sword, then back at Connor, and growled, “This is your fault. You started this, and I finished it!”
Jeb stepped back a few more paces and walked back to his table. The entire time, no one said a word, and everyone remained on bent knee, in honor of their King.
As the bell tower sounded its first of ten chimes, the King motioned for everyone to rise and held his hands up, commanding silence. He turned, motioning for his guards to accompany him as he stepped down from the raised platform.
With the bell tolling in the distance, the King slowly walked over to Jeb’s table. As he approached, Jeb wisely decided to kneel.
It was uncomfortable to watch, but no one moved and not a mumble or whisper came from the crowd. Connor silently congratulated himself a hundred times over and had to touch his face to make sure he wasn’t smiling.
With the King on one side of the table and Jeb kneeling behind it, the King began his inquisition.
“How is it, Master Blacksmith,” he asked, without urgency or anger, “you failed to notice my entry?”
“I am sorry your majesty. I was upset. It won’t happen again.”
“Did my trumpeters not blow loudly enough?”
“They played beautifully, your majesty. It was not their fault but mine.”
“You heard them?”
“Yes, majesty.”
“Then you chose to ignore them and hence to ignore me.”
Jeb started to speak, but he was sharply corrected.
“I have asked you nothing, and you will not speak out of turn!”
Jeb bowed his head lower.
“Stand Blacksmith,” the King ordered.
Jeb did as he was told.
Turning his back on Jeb, the King walked over to Connor’s table as the crowd of courtiers parted before him.
“May I have the honor of your name sir?” the King asked Connor.
“Your majesty,” Connor said, presenting the King with a deep bow. “I am Connor Duncan, born of your kingdom and only recently come home.”
“Excellent Mr. Duncan,” there was genuine kindness in his voice. “And what of your trade?”
“A Blacksmith and Cooper by training your highness. I also dabble in other crafts,” he said, looking down at his broken sword.
The King picked up the broken blade and examined it.
“Remarkable,” he said, watching the light bounce back in brilliantly faceted shapes.
“It reminds me of a dream I’ve had,” he said, looking past Connor and sounding far away. “The hilt is all wrong,” he said, without paying it any attention, “and there are flaws in the glass near the tip, but your attempt is well made Mr. Duncan.”
“Thank you, your majesty. It breaks my heart you could not at least swish it in the air for good measure.”
With a piercing stare and a tone that required a single truthful answer, he asked, “Why did Jeb break it?”
“He was angry about something he badly misconstrued, your majesty. I have slighted him in no way, told no untruths about the man nor his work, and I have not taken any unfair advantage. At least none that I see. In short your majesty, Jeb is an angry, vindictive man with great skill. But the latter does not make up for the former.”
The King nodded, but Connor had no idea what the action implied.
“What debt is owed you for his action?” the King probed.
“Your majesty, that is beyond my wisdom.”
Again, the King nodded. He looked to be deep in thought, then said rather playfully, “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Yes, your majesty.”
With the translucent blue blade in his gloved hand, the King, and his guards walked back to Jeb’s table.
Jeb did not meet the King’s eyes when he returned.
“Are you a constable, Master Blacksmith?”
“No, your majesty.”
“Under whose authority do you pass judgment on those within my kingdom?”
Jeb couldn’t find the words to save himself, and he only shook his head.
The King raised the glass blade and slammed in onto the edge of the table, shattering it into a million pieces.
“UNDER WHOSE AUTHORITY DO YOU JUDGE MY PEOPLE?!” he demanded.
A tiny shard of glass had found its way into the Kings’ cheek, and as Jeb looked up, he saw the small trickle of blood begin to flow.
Jeb’s lip trembled along with his entire body. He clasped his hands in front of his face, fell to his knees and threw himself on the mercy of the King.
“If he moves from his current position,” he instructed one of his guards, “kill him.
Did you hear that Jeb? Were you paying attention?”
“Yes, your majesty,” Jeb whimpered.
“Good,” the King said threateningly as he picked up Jeb’s sword and walked away.
Once he was back on his platform, his cheek was quickly attended to, and he formally welcomed everyone to the event. He thanked the participants for their brilliant work, their dedication to their trades and for their loyalty to the crown. Almost immediately, the mood changed back to what it had been before Jeb’s breach of etiquette.
The King gave a speech eulogizing the type of man his father was and his incredible accomplishments. Many of his words spoke to the sword that would most honor his father.
When the time for speeches and flowery words had ended, the King made one final announcement.
“After I inspect your sword, you will retire to the north end of the lawn where there are food and drink. Please help yourselves until I have completed my review. When I am done, you will be called back to hear the results.”
The King summoned his scribe to accompany him and asked his guards to stay behind.
All of the finely dressed courtiers pulled away from the tables, giving the King a wide berth.
The King was very gracious to each of the craftsmen. He asked why they had designed their sword the way they did and how they felt it represented his father, the late King.
He would hone in on one or two design details and ask about the artist’s technique. This allowed each man to express himself and to know his efforts were thoroughly and fairly reviewed. Then he would ask if the man had anything else he would like considered as his offering was judged.
After the review was completed, the King warmly and sincerely thanked the man for his efforts and dismissed him to the north end of the lawn. Then he would turn to his scribe, who had already written down the Smith’s name and a brief description of the sword, and the King rated the sword on a scale of one to ten, ten being the best.
By the time he arrived at Jeb’s table, Jeb was calm and somewhat relaxed.
“Jeb, you may now stand and face your King.”
Jeb stood and reluctantly met the Kings’ eyes.
“Jeb?” the King asked.
“Yes, your majesty.”
He took Jeb’s sword from under his arm, where he had kept it the entire time and set it on the table in front of him.
“What would you