Then his little magic spawn decided she didn’t like my work. I didn’t understand, I was the court blacksmith, I made the ceremonial swords for her father and grandfather. I made the twin curved swords her sister wields! But no, Queen Haedria didn’t like the sight of me. Burned my arm clean off with her magic, etched out my mark from all the swords I hadn’t sold, and kicked me out of the kingdom.” The old man moved aside his sheet to show the charred stump of his arm, blacked badly at the end of his elbow and bound tight with strips of cloth.
He continued in a voice just louder than a whisper, without giving Loren a second to comment. “I love Sagna, girl. It’s my home, my father’s home, and his father before him, working the forge and anvil ever since my family existed. And the new queen, ohh, the new queen. Girl, if you know what’s good for you, you stay away from her. She might burn off your pretty young face just for looking at her sideways. Rumors are she’d burn you to ash for even thinking of looking at her sister. Mark my words girl, the only business you should have with Sagna is…” he trailed off.
“Is what, sir? Is what?” Loren pressed, eager and curious.
“Is to buy my weapons.” The old man said, leaning back with a chuckle. “Sagnian steel! Best of the best, girl!”
Loren stared blankly at the old blacksmith for a couple of seconds, before sighing and turning away. She felt her time was wasted with this man’s tall tale, and opted to walk away without a word. But the old man began to cough loudly from chuckling so hard.
“Don’t walk away now, girl!” The old man said, waving Loren back to his rug with his good hand. “Everything I said is true. Ask the blacksmiths up at Steel to check over my swords, they’ll recognize the handiwork, since the mark is useless. And do buy something, an old man needs to eat!” he coughed again, and Loren couldn’t help but turn back.
She crouched by the rug again, worry in her eyes. “Are you alright, sir? You’re coughing so hard. Are you sick?”
The old man sighed. “Afraid so, girl. Aldoran is cold, much colder than Sagna. I’m not used to this sea breeze and salt smell. Cold’s seeped into my bones, salt and sand in my lungs.” He coughed. “I was better off with the smoke and soot of the forge, I tell you.”
Loren’s brows knitted in concern, but she had an idea. “Alright, sir. I’ll buy all your weapons, and bring you up to the castle.”
“To the castle? What for? Am I to be arrested?” he squinted up at her. “Are you a noblewoman?”
“No, not at all sir.” Loren smiled, a bit of mischievousness in her voice. “I’m not a noblewoman sir, but I am the princess. And you’ll be escorted up to the castle, cleaned up and given to the Spymaster. He’s been tinkering with things recently, scraps of metal and wire, and has made something resembling a metal hand. I imagine you would be able to make good use of it.”
For once, the man was speechless. His mouth opened and closed, and only making short splutters. Loren giggled and stood to help the old man to his feet. She waved over a guard that was stationed by the gates of the city, and told him of her plans with the old man. As the guard took the old blacksmith by the remains of his arm to lead him up the beaten path through the market and up to the Stone District, Loren handed him her coin pouch, full of gold coins and more than enough to pay for all his wares.
The old man skipped up the path with the guard, while Loren waved over another one to help gather the blacksmith’s weapons. The princess asked that the weapons be brought up to her chambers. They truly were made with wonderful care and craftsmanship. Loren thought she’d take a closer look at them later and decide which ones she would practice with in the future.
Loren twitched Wind’s reins again and continued to lead him around the market. Resting between a stall that sold hunting arrows and fletching and a Kespian silk tent selling jars of preserved desert fruit, was a small tent that sold books. Rows and rows of books crammed onto narrow bookshelves that bent the wood in the middle to the point of sagging were side by side racks of tightly rolled parchment.
A low dark wood desk held ink pots of various colors, some clean and stoppered, others used and with ink staining the glass. An assortment of different brightly colored feathers for use as quill pens were laid side by side, each sharpened at the tip and ready for use. There were heavy tomes that looked like spell books, held closed with clasps and locks that had rusted shut over the years. Sitting behind the desk and scribbling away at a piece of parchment was the merchant of the stall: a young Kespian scholar, wearing several layers of desert silks and an Aldoran fur cloak.
He didn’t look thin or wiry, as Loren had come to associate with scholars. This man’s frame boasted lean muscle, especially at the arms, possibly from training with the sword instead of the pen. As he wrote and the pen slid and scratched across the paper, his silks shifted and Loren saw the curl of dark mage markings flowing from his wrist to his upper arm. It marked the scholar as one of the mages from the Kespian Academy of Magic. But they rarely ever left the Academy, let alone the desert.
Loren’s curiosity got the better of her. She approached the desk, feigned interest in
