Chapter 20: Interlude 3, Ch 1: The Greatforge

“That’s fantastic!” I shout, and can’t help but jump out of my seat. “Flight, space, meeting people from other worlds using flying boats, I can’t… wow!” I let out my excitement and walk around the room energetically, thinking of all the technology Home had. “It’s true, right, please tell me it’s true.”

Eelian pulls out the two balls again. Gently, he tosses them in the air. To my amazement, they freeze and slowly begin to circle each other in midair. As they spin, they begin to emit a faint yellow light. It grows brighter and soon lights the whole room brighter than all the candles I could ever use.

“You tell me,” Eelian says, and snatches the balls out of the air.

I jump back in shock as the lights return to the dim candle level. “Technology, that’s what you called it, right?” I ask.

“Yes,” Eelian replies, and pours the last bit of water from the pitcher and takes a drink.

“That technology is amazing. So much power.” I can’t help but smile. Looking around at my room, I see none of those wondrous items Chance could have used on Bound. It’s somewhat embarrassing, and I hope Eelian doesn’t think Grundar is stupid for not being able to make such things. “It’s a good thing that Corrin didn’t let them use it to start fighting each other.”

“Really?” Eelian asks, and wipes his beard dry.

“Well, yeah,” I say. “Their goal is to unite the planets. So they need to keep the people they take over happy. If they’re fighting each other, then they’ll never unite the worlds. It’d be like Shalem fighting Grundle. You can’t let that happen in your kingdom.”

Eelian crosses his arms. “You seem to be misreading what the Prophets do.”

“They unite people, right?”

Eelian nods.

“Just like Grundar’s doing,” I say. “They just do it in a different way. Of course, they did it in a kind of unnatural way but it’s a good thing that Chance learned his lesson and finally let Corrin take over.”

“Unnatural?” Eelian asks.

“Yeah, uniting through peace.” I fail to notice that I’m pacing uncontrollably, over-excited by the tale. “War is natural. In nature, the strongest and best wins out. Grundar is the strongest and the best so we’re fighting the other nations to keep the strongest thriving. That’s not what the Prophets do but I’m sure they have enough battles to keep the natural order of things in check.”

I wonder how hard it would be to make one of those, what were they called… blasters.

Eelian opens then closes his mouth and bites down on his lip. Then he sighs and shakes his head. “It seems you require another tale. I shall come again tomorrow night. Bring me more food,” Eelian says, and walks toward the door.

“Same time?” I ask.

“Yes,” Eelian says, and shuts the door a little hard. It slams, startling me a bit.

Why is he angry? Did he want Chance to destroy the other ship? I wish he would come back so I can ask why Corrin didn’t just do what she did from the start.

Late the next morning, I hold a piece of glass in my hand, staring at it in wonder. There is a knock at my door.

“Millar,” Len says. “Millar, don’t tell me you stayed up late again with that storyteller.”

“It’s open, Len, come on in,” I say, not taking my concentration away from the clear, cool glass.

Len comes in and looks around, wondering if Eelian is still here. Seeing me standing unmoving, he swiftly walks over to me. “What are you doing?” he asks.

I turn the square frame over again. “Trying to figure out how it works,” I say.

Len takes a concerned pause. “Millar, it’s glass.”

“I know.”

“It’s made from the sands near Nestte, shipped to Grundlin, then taken upriver here and put together by a glass crafter. That’s how it works.”

“I know how glass works, Len,” I say, putting the glass down on my cabinet. “I’m trying to figure out how a monitor works.”

Len doesn’t say anything. He waits for me to put on my shoes and explain.

“Monitors are glass-like things that show pictures and allow you to control things without touching them,” I say. “Eelian told me the monitors in the tale were made out of something like glass. He told me what they were and what they did, but he didn’t say how they worked.”

Len picks up the glass. He taps it on the cabinet a couple times then holds it up to show me. “This can show pictures?” he asks.

“Obviously not.” I take the glass away and slide it back into my balcony door. The little glass frames are easy to pop out, but the cleaners get upset if I fiddle with them too much. “I’m trying to figure out how it could.”

“I see. The storyteller told you about this, right?” Len asks, putting on his jacket.

“Yes.”

He flops the collar in place. “Then let’s go find what you’re looking for.”

“Do what now?”

“You’re looking for something that doesn’t exist. And, like the story from the other day, am I right that this story is thousands of years old as well?”

I nod.

“This is going to bug you till you understand it, so let’s go find out why Grundar doesn’t have any, um, what were they called again?” Len asks.

“Monitors,” I say.

“Yes.” Len tosses me my coat. “Let’s go find that technology.”

Len and I walk amongst the water wheels and chimneys of the smoke sector. It’s called this because for years it’s been the concentrated area of mills and smiths. The mills harness the current of the river and the constant churning of the massive water wheel, while the smiths burn fires to shape and cut metal for buildings, weapons, and jewelry.

We wait until after my tactics lesson with General Hancock before leaving. I had argued with Len that we had no technology that came close to resembling what the people of Home or Prosper had. “I know,” he’d said. “But we should figure out why. And to do that, we should examine what we do have.”

The splish-splash of the clacking water wheel makes Len and I have to talk loudly.

“I went here once to repair your armor after it was battered in Severdom,” Len shouts. “I didn’t trust the Severine smiths so I lent you that other set till we could come home.”

“I always wondered what you did with it,” I say as we come out of the roar of the wheel.

“Anyway, he’s the best in the Greatforge. And the Greatforge has the best in the world. So I figure if there’s any advancement in Grundar worth looking at, he knows about it,” Len says, returning to his normal voice.

“Sounds good,” I say.

My guards walk around me. This is a working sector of the city, and since it’s in the middle of the day only scattered people on their lunch break see me. They all look happy and I wave at them. Some wear the grease-stained cooker’s wear. Some have the heavy aprons of smiths. And a few have the stained clothes of a mill dyer. It’s the simple fact of royalty that I shake a few hands and ask as to the welfare of the people I see.

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“How many arrows have you made today?” I ask a fletcher with gray hair, shaking his hand and sharing a polite smile. He sits next to a few of his fellow workers. They’re eating sandwiches and relaxing, waiting for the clang of the citadel clock to end lunch hour. My guardsmen fan out around, looking for other people.

“Only make the shafts, sir. I cuts ‘em and I makes ‘em straight. Then I hands ‘em off to the guy what puts the heads on,” the fletcher, Grundlin by his accent, says with pride.

“That’s wonderful,” I say. “What you do is pivotal to the success of this nation, my good man.”

“Thank ya, sir,” the fletcher says, and gives me a toothy grin. “I much appreciate it. And thanks for helping my sister what with her husband dying.”

“It’s just a policy, my friend, nothing to thank me for. Grundar takes care of its people,” I say.

“Preciate it still,” the fletcher says.

I turn to walk away when an idea comes to me. I turn back and interrupt the fletcher as he takes a bite out of his meal. “Just one thing.”

The fletcher catches some falling meat from his bread and wipes his mouth clean so he can respond.

“How long have you been doing your job the way you have?” I ask.

“Sorry?” he replies.

“I mean, in all the years you’ve been a fletcher, have the methods ever changed? Or the tools?”

“We changes the tools out every year what to reshape ‘em and the like. Not sure I follow you on methods,” the fletcher responds, wiping his mouth again.

“You’ve never had to change your job, or your way of life?”

Len comes close and puts his hand on my arm, pulling at me slightly.

“Should I?” the fletcher asks, concerned.

I lick my lips. “No, that’s alright. Keep up the good work,” I say, and quickly turn away and walk.

“You confused him,” Len says, catching up.

“I did what?” I ask, turning back slightly to see the fletcher cautiously sit down.

“He’s confused. His future king just told him he didn’t like the way he did his job,” Len whispers.

“I didn’t say that. I don’t even know that. For all I know he’s the best fletcher in the city,” I whisper back.

“Prince Millar!” the fletcher shouts, standing up and raising his sandwich in the air as if it were a cup of congratulations. “Happy to hear the war’s on. One week and I’ll a be in the field again. Victory to us in Nardor, good prince!”

The workers around him make one solid cheer in agreement and salute me. It’s a sloppy salute, too rough and at a wrong angle, but it’s stiff and strong and the flash of obedience and willingness in their eyes is more potent than the hands on their heads. They go back to their lunches after I return the salute with a smile.

“The war?” I ask to Len with annoyance. “How does he know about that?”

Len shrugs.

“I only told my mother that last night, how does he know about that?” I ask. I take one last look at the fletcher as we walk on again. He’s staring out at the river. His half-eaten sandwich is in one hand and he’s chewing at the fingers of his other hand.

“Your mother told me,” Len says.

I cringe and kick a rock on the path. It bounces along the pathway and ricochets off of Beln’s foot and falls into the river with a small plunk. Beln looks around concerned for a bit, then turns to me and lowers one eyebrow and raises the other.

“Sorry,” I say.

Beln turns back to watching the city.

“Why does she have to tell the whole kingdom whenever I make a decision?” I ask.

“Because you take so long to do so?” Len offers.

“Cut it or I’ll cut it off, Len.”

“What?” Len stops. He looks hurt by my comment.

“Sorry, it’s some expression that Eelian used. It means be quiet.”

“Oh.” Len stands there and licks his lips for a few seconds.

“Come on, Len you can keep talking. I’m just mad at my mom for blabbing,” I say, and pull Len along.

After having a few more light conversations with workers, we finally make it to the biggest blacksmith shop in Grundar, the Greatsmith. I can’t believe how many of the workers and crafters I pass know about the war. They all either wish me good fortune or make promises that they or their sons and daughters will do their part well. It’s if all they care about is proving that they can contribute to Grundar’s success.

“Is that a bad thing?” Len asks as he pulls open the thick wooden door to the smith.

“I’ll get back to you on that,” I say through my teeth.

The smith shop is a three-story building made of gray brick, like many other similar shops but much bigger. Outside it’s very plain and square with one large chimney and half a dozen other small ones that drift black and grey smoke high into the wind. The chimneys house sporadic clumps of greased horsehair in iron panels. These act as a sort of filter that keeps the smoke from being too black when it comes out. With this and the structural design of such a well-run shop, Len’s probably very right that any technology in Grundar will be here.

“This way,” Len says as we enter the shop floor.

Workers and experts showing the unskilled the trade stand and lean over their labors throughout the shop floor. One man pounds a cooling sheet of metal on a shaped anvil, bending the metal into place to form a breastplate. Another carries a cart full of spearheads, heading toward the door and the carpenter’s shop a few buildings away. The sections of assembly and parts are separated with a painted white line on the floor. All along the back wall are huge furnaces where the most skilled pound away at swords and pour molds for spearheads and arrowheads.

All the men move with a sense of purpose, hammering and pinning the metal with the unquestioned knowledge that they’re contributing to something important. One man smiles and hums while he hammers while the apprentices at the billows sing a song about the breaking of Meric’s Wall.

“Here he is,” Len says as he leads me toward the furnaces.

In the corner of the shop is a large room. Len walks in, followed by my guards, and motions for me to follow. Inside is an amazing sight. Gilded armor and weapons, inlaid with silver, gold, and platinum, line the shelves next to hammers and tongs of simple iron. Over a dozen anvils of varying size, some set up and most leaning against the far wall, lie around, and a pile of iron waist high sits next to a small white furnace that glows with intense heat.

“This is Master Cromlin,” Len says, indicating the clean-shaven, bald man with a tattered and patched blacksmith apron. Tap-tap-tap-tap goes his little hammer on the face of a halberd as he puts a platinum inlay on it. It must be a special order for one of the Grundlin captains.

The man stops his work for a moment to shake hands with me. I smile and hope that his enormous hand doesn’t crush mine because this is the largest, strongest looking person I’ve ever seen.

“What can I do for you, greatness?” Cromlin asks, returning to delicately tracing out a pattern of lightning bolts.

“I’m here to find out what technological advancements Grundar has made,” I say.

Tap-tap. Cromlin works as he thinks. “I don’t have any of… that sort of item here.”

I’m not quite sure if he understands me. “What I mean is, what have you or others done to make advancements on the way we live?”

Tap-tap, he blows on his work, then licks his finger and rubs it into the inlay. “I’ve made weapons that conquered most of the lands north of Sever. And when you go to Nardor you’ll be carrying that sword I made for you three years ago.” Cromlin holds up the head of the weapon to examine his work. Satisfied, he sets it down into a barrel of alcohol to soak. Every master has their unique ideas on what brings out the strength and shine of metal. Cromlin wipes his hands on his apron. “Is that what you meant?”

“Not exactly,” I say, and tap my fingers on one of the large wooden tables full of tools and pieces of inlaying metal.

Someone comes up and whispers something into Len’s ear. He nods.

“Haven’t you ever wanted to make your job easier? You know, make some sort of way to do things better?” I ask.

Cromlin fiddles with his fire, shifting around the embers with a thick prod. “No,” he says.

“But there’s so much more out there than, than this.” I look around at the shop. I walk over and pick up a very thin and light cavalry saber, examining it. “Haven’t you wanted to make a ship?”

“I do metal.” Cromlin shoves half the length of an iron bar into his fire.

“How about a ship made of metal?”

“A ship made out of metal would sink,” Cromlin says, patiently turning the rod over as it glows red.

“Not if it was in space, flying across the sky,” I say, and run my finger along the flat edge of the blade. It’s sturdy and deadly. Could he make something like Bound if he tried? I put up the saber and see that Cromlin is looking at me with his arms crossed. “Or make a glass frame that shows lights and images, or a furnace that burns so hot it can push something through the sky? Haven’t you ever wanted to make something new?”

Cromlin keeps his arms crossed. Then, slowly, he pulls the red-hot rod of metal out of his furnace and begins pounding on it. Clang-clang. “The way I see it,” Cromlin says as he works, “people are happy the way they are. I do what I do the way I do it and it makes me happy. It makes other people happy and dedicated to what they do too. So why change things?” He shrugs, and continues shaping the thick rod, hammering the iron into steel.

“You’re happy?” I ask.

“Very,” Cromlin replies without looking up.

I nod. Then without thinking, I pick up the saber and slam a vicious stroke into the worktable. The hardy saber cuts six inches into the wood and sticks, making a satisfying crunch of metal on wood. Cromlin looks up with curiosity.

“You do good work,” I say, and pull the saber back out and set it on the wall next to the others just like it. “You should be very happy.”

Cromlin nods.

The trip accomplished nothing but to confuse me. I thought people wanted to better themselves. All I saw was people going about their daily routines without a thought to the bigger picture of what their lives were. When I said this out loud, Len offered that maybe it was a way to find happiness in their way of living. I could only think of Chance, and his tireless pursuit of change.

The worst was when they asked me to give a silver hammer, a royal symbol of a master’s retirement, to one of the retiring armor craftsmen. That experience, and seeing all those people who were satisfied with what they had and wanted nothing more, made me sick.

“Maybe you should get some exercise. Sword training always calmed your nerves,” Len offers as we return to the citadel.

“No, Len. I don’t want to see a weapon for a while. That place left me feeling a little, I don’t know…” I say as my extra guards are replaced at the front door to the Iron Palace. I open the little door on the side of the giant gate and stop at what I see.

“Millar! Ha-ha!” the large man, thirty years older and three inches shorter than I, says. His full-armed embrace of me lifts me off the ground and reminds me of how amazingly strong my father is.

“Hello father,” I say, gasping for breath as he lets me down.