It was market day in Irienn Square up ahead so the guard nudged Amanas right, down Hunter's Ride, and the noise and bustle of the docks fell away behind them. Folk kept a respectful distance, standing aside to let them past, and one woman with a basketful of eels afforded Amanas a sympathetic look, assuming the worst.
Everyone was out today, going about the ten thousand different tasks that keep any city running smoothly. A portly man stamped heavily down the other side of the street from them; the thick gold chain around the man's neck and clerks scuttling in his wake marked him as a successful merchant.
Then Amanas caught sight of a gutter-runner moving along the edge of the tiled roof high above the merchant's head. Like all those who lived above ground, he was dressed only in rags and had little meat on his bones. They were scavengers who used the network of
rooftops to travel quickly across the city. People often used them as the quickest way to get important information to its destination. The gutter-runners had a fierce code of honesty that ensured they were tolerated – even somewhat fondly – by Tirah's citizens. It was perfectly possible that the merchant was the child's employer that
morning.
Amanas and his escort were waved through the barbican gate by the pikemen flanking it. When they emerged back into the daylight, Amanas hissed in irritation at the mud caking his boots. He insisted on stopping to scrape off the worst of it before he was ready to labour his way up the open stairs to the Great Hall.
Finally he stepped over the threshold, squinting, and for a brief moment he felt like a fish out of water; foolish and delicate in a world that was not his own. He could hear the laughter of men ringing in his ears. He had dreamed of this scene several weeks past, and though dreams themselves usually meant nothing, dreams of the Chosen before they come to power were different: they spoke of the Gods. He remembered her emerald gaze – eyes that could pierce the darkest recesses of the soul. He knew of only one Goddess whose eyes were green, and Fate was not a patient mistress.
The Keymaster tightened his grip and entered the hall. It was years since Amanas had last come here, and in the intervening period it had hardly changed: it was still a dark and smelly army mess, lacking even the meagre dignity one might hope for in an elite legion. Groups of men were clumped around the two rows of tables that led up to the high table at the far end. Even that was hardly grander than the others, just a little longer and set on a raised platform.
Amanas moved into the centre of the room and paused briefly to look around at the fading heraldry and flags that hung from the root beams. Then he advanced a little further until Lord Bahl looked up-He stopped and waited to be addressed, but the old white-eye did nothing more than tap the young man beside him and return to his conversation with Chief Steward Lesarl.
The youth was clearly the new suzerain, a white-eye who towered over Amanas when he stood, but still conceded both height and weight to the Duke of Tirah. The Krann stared at the Keymaster tor a few moments, then stabbed his eating dagger into the table top and walked around the table to reach the man, licking his fingers as he did. Amanas gave a short bow, cut short as his eyes reached the sword
at Isak's hip. Wnen he saiw that he gave a slight sqawk, prompting a smile to-appear on the Krrann's face.
'Something wrong?'
'Certainly, my Lord Suzerain; that sword that you are wearing is not your sword.'
'So?'
'So it belong to the Klnight-Defender of Tirah and should only be worn by him.'
The Krann looked back towards the high table in confusion. 'I thought it beloiged to Kerin? He's the one who lent it to me'
Amanas winced at the informality. 'Swordmaster Kerin is the Knight-Defender of Tirahi – that is the full title of the man who commands the Swordmasters…'
'I still don't understand.'
The question in Lord Isak's voice attracted Lesarl’s attention.The Chief Steward spoke up before Amanas could reply. ‘He means, my Lord, that it's a gross breach of protocol to wear a ceremonial weapon belonging to arother man.'
'Kerin didn't seem to mind,' Isak countered sharply.
'Unlike some present,' replied the Chief Steward, gesturing to the newcomer.
'Enough. Argue when you're elsewhere.' Bahl didn’t look up, but gestured for Lesarl to continue their conversation.
'Well,' continued Isak after a careful pause, 'if you have nothing more to criticise about my attire, Lord Bahl said you needed to speak to me about my crest.'
'Normally, yes my Lord Suzerain. In this case, however, it will not be necessary.' With a flourish, Amanas slipped the covering from the shield and held it up to the light.
A gasp ran sound the; room as the Keymaster held up a polished silver teardrop shield and turned almost a full circle to show everyone present Isak's crest embossed in gold.
Isak gaped at the shield. It was the work of a jeweler rather than a blacksrnith. Even in the faint light, the glitter of the gold momentarily dazzled him. It took him a while to properly take in the image on the shield itself, the crest that he would wear on his clothes for the rest of his life and would fly from his banners when he rode to war.
Rearing high on its hind legs, claws ready to tear and rend, was a dragon of purest gold. Isak could see the fangs curving down from its mouth and a set of horns curling back past its head. He could feel the anger in the set of its shoulders, the sweep of its wings, something he recognised only too well. This was the taste of his own familiar rage
given form.
Then his hand started to tremble as something else drew his eye. He reached out to take the shield from Amanas. A crown hovered above the dragon's head and as he saw that, foreboding sank into Isak's stomach, as heavy as gold.
'Careful, my Lord, the silver is still quite delicate,' Amanas
warned.
That's solid silver? Then why-?'
The Keymaster held up a hand to suppress the question, then bent down and placed the green velvet in which the shield had been wrapped on the floor. He placed the shield face-up on the material, then stepped back.
Isak opened his mouth to speak, but before he could think of anything to say he felt a pulse of warmth come from the pile: magic… He turned to Bahl. The old Lord had also noticed; he fixed his stern
gaze on the shield.
Without warning, the cloth underneath burst into flames. Isak flinched back in surprise, then stepped forward again as he felt no heat coming from the fire. The orange flames turned to green, all the while lasciviously caressing the lines of the shield. A furious cloud of magic grew up around the shield, swirling tighter and tighter as the green flames burned the velvet away to nothing. Isak suddenly realised that the magic was being drawn into the silver of the shield while a finger of energy wormed through the cracks in the flagstones and disappeared into the floor. And then it was over. Amanas was gone, the fire spent; only the shield, astonished faces and confusion
remained.
Tick it up,' Bahl commanded in a distant voice.
'What? But-'
'Do it.'
The Krann shrugged and touched his finger to the silver. An expres' sion of wonder ran over his face as he stroked the mirror surface wit" the palm of his hand, then picked up the shield to show the room-
'It's cool, perfectly cool,' he marvelled. Turning the shield over in his hands, Isak suddenly stopped and rapped his knuckles against the
surface. 'This can't be silver, it's too strong.' He took each side of the shield in his hands and pushed together, gently at first, but then with all the enormous strength he could muster.