Israel sat beside Geneve on a low bench. It was new wood supported by weathered stone. The wood must have been replaced often, but the stone lingered perhaps since the ancients walked the world.
The bench was in a market. He’d brought her here by cart. The sights and sounds were familiar, like she’d been here before, or someplace like it. Geneve half expected to see a raised platform with people on display, but there was nothing like that. Just fruit stalls, fish sellers, clothiers, and an enterprising blacksmith.
Israel wore no armor today. He held his hand out, palm up, to the blacksmith. They had a clear view of the man, all sweat and brawn, dark skin below darker hair, and wearing a permanent frown above a tough leather apron. “What do you see?”
Geneve watched the blacksmith a little longer. “Sloppy work. He’s not a Tresward Smith. Not like Kytto.”
Israel snorted. “Look deeper.”
Geneve frowned. The blacksmith swung a hammer with intent, but not precision. He shoed horses, sharpened farm implements, and made small weld repairs to buckets. “He does little things. The workaday tasks that need doing, but not by an expert.”
No snort this time. “Deeper.”
She scratched red locks, ruffling them to fall about her face. “He works as well as he can.”
Israel nodded, face impassive, but his voice held a little pride. “That’s right. As do we all. The difference between him and Kytto is what?”
“He’s not Tresward.”
“Why is that?”
“Not good enough?” Geneve knew it wasn’t the right answer, but she didn’t have a better one.
“Not quite.” Israel placed his hands in his lap. “The line separating good from bad is whisker-thin. It can be a moment of childhood opportunity, or a delicate comment made to the wrong person.”
“He talked to the wrong person?”
“He didn’t have the right person to talk to,” Israel corrected. “Kytto is an excellent Smith.” This came with a hint of grudging respect. “Perhaps the best. He has a great deal of talent, but he’s made it to the top of our Smiths because we trained him how to get there. I’m a Knight. I could be good at fighting, but with the Three at my back, I’m a—”
“You can beat anyone.”
He looked down at her. The sun was in her eyes, making his expression unreadable. “No one’s unbeatable. All of us will meet our match. I’m a Chevalier. There are Valiants and Champions better than me.”
“Better?”
He chewed on that. “In all ways. There are even Clerics whose skill with the Storm could break me open like overripe fruit.”
“But…” Geneve trailed off. “Why try, then?”
“That’s not the right question.”
“Why do you try?”
“Because the Three need me.” He pointed to the blacksmith. “This village needs this man. He’ll never have the sacred knowledge of our Smiths. Higher arts are locked away in our vaults. He can’t make Smithsteel armor that will never scratch. Glass blades are beyond his skill. But you don’t need to make glass blades to help people.” He stood, offering her his hand.
She kicked her legs beneath her, not taking his hand. “Are you saying I can be a guard for a lord? That without the Storm, I can still be useful?”
“Do you think Kytto needs the Storm to be useful to the Tresward?”
Geneve looked at her feet. “No, but he’s not a Knight.”
“Knights come in all sizes. Even little ones.”
“How can I best Wincuf without the Storm?”
“By using something better. Your mind.” His hand was still out, rock steady, so she took it. It was strong, and warm. She felt like the Three helped her.
“I don’t know if that’s enough,” Geneve admitted.
“Doubt is the first step to mastery.”
“It’s not doubt, it’s—”
“How do you know?” He walked her back to their cart. “Are you a master?”
“No, but—”
“Then become one.” He winked. “One day, the Storm will answer your call.” Israel’s other hand found the crystal about his neck. “We just need to find your way.”
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