Common Clay

“Syr Katherine, have you ever heard of a [Chant] called the Eternal Seal?”

His instructor paused, her eyes narrowing slightly at the question. She looked up at him in surprise. “The Eternal Seal? Where did you hear that name?”

Clay paused for a moment. “It’s something I think I ran across in the library. Not the [Chant] itself, just the mention of it.”

It was a lie, and a fairly risky one. None of the books in the library had so much as a trace of the thing; in fact, he still hadn’t managed to find a [Chant] that hadn’t been written down in some ancient script.

Olivia had been the one who had mentioned it, along with including a full copy of the [Chants] that she’d found. She’d said that she didn’t know if he’d managed to lose the copy she’d already given him, or if he’d given it away. The faint accusation that had accompanied her letter had made Clay wince; Master Taylor had still not returned her notes to him, despite repeated promises. It was clear Olivia had anticipated the problem, though it seemed like she had expected him to lend it haphazardly to other newcomers at the Academy.

He’d already asked Taylor about the Seal, but had been careful not to mention the new notes from Olivia. The scholar already had far too much interest in Olivia as it was. He didn’t want to give her any other reason to go out and kidnap Olivia to drag her back to the Academy. As it was, he didn’t know if he was going to be able to escape any time soon; it would only be that much worse for Olivia.

Unfortunately, Syr Taylor had not known anything about the [Chant], which meant that unless he got extremely lucky in the library, he had just one place where he could find out more.

Syr Katherine was watching him closely, as if she didn’t entirely believe his story. It was a fragile excuse, but he didn’t want Katherine to know anything more about Olivia, either. Somehow, he suspected that her finding out about what Olivia knew would be worse than Taylor whisking her off to the Academy.

When the [Calculator] finally responded, her voice still carried a hint of skepticism. “The Eternal Seal has been a piece of lost knowledge that the Guild has been trying to obtain for quite some time. What have you learned about Dungeons at the Academy?”

Clay blinked in surprise at the change in subject. “Master Taylor has spoken a little about them, but they haven’t been a focus for us.”

“Her decision makes sense. Dungeons are no place for cadets or initiates.” Syr Katherine raised an eyebrow at him. “Outside of the Academy, what have you learned?”

He frowned and tried to phrase things in a way that wouldn’t incriminate Olivia, still working away in the tiny library in Pellsglade’s only Shrine. “Dungeons are formed when Lairs are allowed to fester for too long. The Curse inside grows too powerful to banish in one attempt.”

Katherine inclined her head. “And what does that mean to you, knowing what you know?”

The question caught him off guard. He thought for a moment, and his eyes widened. “Garden’s Peace won’t work on a Dungeon, will it?”

“It won’t, no.” She shook her head. “At best, it might weaken the Curse within the place, but it won’t destroy it. It won’t even force it into hiding; within a week, the monsters and Guardians will start to reappear.”

Clay grimaced. “Why not stay there and keep blasting it?”

“Dungeons are particularly hostile to humanity. Every portion of the place is alien and strange; sometimes even the air seems to poison and corrupt. Remaining there for any length of time is dangerous, and when the Curse reawakens after it is wounded…” Katherine paused, and a hint of some emotion crossed her features. It was gone when she reopened her eyes. “More than one adventurer has tried, and more than one adventurer has failed to survive the attempt. Besides, we cannot spare every [Paragon] we have to watch over a handful of Dungeons. We must move to where things are worst to push back the tide.”

He nodded slowly. He’d assumed that the Guild simply hadn’t been active enough to contain the dangers coming from the various Lairs and Dungeons, but if they couldn’t even seal a Dungeon permanently…

There had to be a near-constant stream of enemies pouring from places like Sarlsboro, places lost to humanity. He pictured more and more adventurers being lost year to year, more and more Lairs that were left to worsen and grow into something uncontainable. All it would take was a handful of years neglected or hidden, and a new Dungeon would corrupt a portion of the world.

Then he looked up. “So what does that have to do with the [Chant] of the Eternal Seal?”

“It was a [Chant] known to the greatest of adventurers from a time past. A [Chant] so powerful that it could banish a Lair even if the user didn’t have the mastery provided by the [Paragon] [Achievement].” Her eyes grew distant, as if searching the air for that ancient spell. “It was said to be complex, beyond anything we currently use. The magic would fill the air, then gather around the wound in the world caused by the Curse. Slowly, carefully, the breach would be sealed, and the evil contained.”

She shook herself slightly and then met his eyes again. “It was even said to be able to destroy Dungeons, purging their Curses and returning the land around them to normalcy.”

Clay nodded slowly. No wonder Olivia wanted him to find it. He had no chance of destroying the Dungeon in Sarlsboro without it—and he wanted that place gone almost more than he had the Lair in the Tanglewood. Another thought occurred to him, and he grimaced. “If it was that powerful, I imagine they kept it so secret because the reversal of it was incredibly dangerous. Could it create a Dungeon immediately or something?”

Katherine smiled. “No. In fact, it was said to be irreversible. That it had no dark mirror, the way Garden’s Peace does.”

“What?” Clay felt his hands tighten on the arms of the chair. “Then what happened to it? Why was it hidden, and how did it get lost?”

“Treachery, Sir Clay. The ancient heroes were betrayed.” Katherine’s expression grew harder. “A faction of warriors arose that wished to use their power to rule over the rest. They started a civil war, and their first strikes were against those most familiar with the [Chant], along with anyone who could create anything like it. Such powerful spells became tools that the different groups sought to use against each other, with all of them either struggling to capture knowledge that belonged to the others, or trying to burn the books and kill the teachers that knew it.”

She glanced in the direction of the Academy’s library. “Some places were created to hide that knowledge, but more often than not, they were discovered and pillaged or destroyed. By the end of the War of Heroes, there were only fragments of the knowledge left, and everyone who knew the oldest [Chants] were all dead. Only the inferior, butchered copies remained.”

Katherine fell silent, and Clay was left struggling with the implications of the new knowledge that he had just gained. If the Guild had access to the [Chant], they would already be using it. Without it, all they could do was hold the line against increasing amounts of danger, and perhaps stop enough of the smaller threats before they could become too powerful to kill. It was a war they would be fortunate to fight to a standstill.

Otherwise, all they could hope to do was lose slowly.

He looked down for a few more moments until something she’d said abruptly stood out to him. Clay opened his mouth to speak, and then paused, thinking over some of the other things she’d said. How she’d emphasized the importance of rhythm and intonation when he was using the [Chants], encouraging him to sense the meaning behind each syllable and phrase of the arcane language.

Then he looked up to see her patiently waiting for his next question. She seemed partially amused, and partially resigned, as if she knew what his question would be and didn’t look forward to answering it. “Syr Katherine, you said that the [Chants] were created. Does that mean we could create them on our own, without knowing the spell beforehand?”

She stared at him another moment, and then slowly sighed. “Yes.”

The implications of that fact roared through Clay’s mind. He’d always believed that the spells of the [Chants] were rigid, unchanging. If they could be improvised, created at a whim rather than memorized and recited by rote, then the possibilities for the magic expanded in near-infinite combinations. He slowly sat back, his eyes wide as he pictured himself calling out a brand new [Chant] for each situation in battle, of inventing new spells to use against every monster he found. Clay pictured himself calling magic into being that mocked the abilities of any of the adventurers around him, imagined himself rediscovering the lost magic that could destroy the Dungeons…

Then reality reasserted itself, and Clay sighed. “It’s not easy to do, is it?”

Syr Katherine smiled, as close to a humorous expression as he’d ever seen from her. Her green eyes sparkled with a hint of long-buried mischief. “So you can be taught! How comforting.” She gestured with one hand, indicating the window. “The language of the [Chants] is something that was ancient when the earliest known empires were buried. Even those ancient heroes did not truly understand parts of it, and the most powerful [Chants] were complicated creations of such length and subtlety that even the slightest flaw in it would create a nonfunctional spell—or worse, yield a terrible result.”

“Such as creating a Lair by accident.”

She nodded. “Exactly. I sometimes wonder which came first, the Poisoned Wish, or Garden’s Peace? The debate about the matter has continued for ages, and I suspect we will never truly know. All we do know is that creating a new [Chant] is by no means easy or risk-free. Especially when the strength of the spell often depends on one’s [Stats].”

Clay nodded as another piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Because you could have a valid [Chant], but without the [Stats] for it…”

“You’d never know.” Syr Katherine leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk and lacing her fingers together under her chin. “So, are you planning on rushing off to try to experiment with this new knowledge by yourself, Sir Clay? I know how much you hunger for the abilities those spells would offer you.”

The [Calculator]’s gaze still seemed more amused than anything, but he sensed a hint of warning in her words. He knew Katherine had been watching him for signs that he’d be a danger to the Guild. Did she really think he was that reckless?

Then he thought over what he’d done since his Choosing, less than six months ago. He thought over all the mischief and nonsense he’d done in the years before that. Slowly, he was forced to concede that she had a point.

All the same, he had better sense than to just stick his hand into an open flame. As long as someone hadn’t told him he shouldn’t, and as long as someone else wasn’t at risk if he didn’t…

Clay sighed and gave her a resigned smile. “I don’t think I’m ready for it yet, Syr Katherine. Do you have any advice on how I could become prepared?”

For a moment, he half expected the [Calculator] to tell him to forget the whole thing. It was clearly something that the members of the Council would have probably preferred he didn’t even know about. He could almost imagine Sir Evan reciting a list of charges after the first disaster he’d manage to cause.

Yet, to his surprise, Syr Katherine simply nodded. She stood up and walked over to the bookcase behind her desk, walking along the gathered, leather-bound tomes.

“Your question shows that at the very least I have managed to teach you some caution, Sir Clay. I am glad; when you first arrived here, there was some doubt over whether you could ever be trusted with this kind of knowledge.” She paused and pulled a book off the shelf. Clay half-shuddered as he recognized the title; it was yet another volume of the Annals, a book that he didn’t know if he’d ever reach the end of.

Then she opened it and drew out a second smaller volume. Clay blinked and leaned forward. Syr Katherine gave him a small, satisfied smile. “Master Taylor has quite a fondness for the Annals, but I always found them a bit dry. Still, they serve to conceal what I would consider a more vital truth.”

She replaced the Annals on the shelf and brought the smaller book over to him. Its leather binding was old, so fragile and cracked that Clay wondered if it was about to fall apart in her hands. Katherine certainly handled it as if it was about to scatter to the four winds. When she set it on the desk before him, she moved carefully and gently, as if she was trying not to startle it.

The title on the cover read A Collection of Lesser Chants by Syr Katherine Demills. His breath caught.

“I was never all that good at preserving things, unfortunately. This book has been through quite a lot. I’ve taken it on dozens of missions, through fire and storm. I’ve had to piece it back together half a hundred times. In fact, I’m not sure that it will survive many more years.” Katherine slowly sat back down behind the desk. “I’m also quite sure that it is the only book containing clear descriptions of [Chants] outside the library’s restricted section. Do you understand?”

Clay nodded. He couldn’t convince himself to look away from the book. He was afraid if he breathed, it would vanish. “Yes, Syr Katherine. I do.”

“You will be permitted to study these [Chants], but only while you are here with me. You will practice them, but not use them in the open while you are at the Academy. If you are observed using them elsewhere, you will claim you discovered them in some obscure library, the way you did your first collection.” She raised her chin a fraction, and her emerald eyes seemed to glow with a cold verdant fire. “And if I warn you to avoid something, you will do so. I will steer you away from danger, and caution you against misuse, and you will listen to me. Otherwise you will not answer to the Council. You will answer to me—and you know what I can do. Do you accept?”

He felt a chill. The members of the Council had threatened and blustered, but deep down, he hadn’t really believed that any of them would have actually tried to harm him. Right then, in that moment, he was very, very certain that Syr Katherine had just threatened to kill him—and that she would make good on that promise.

Yet it was more than worth the risk. Anything would be worth it if he could find a way to bring back some of that old magic. “I do, Syr Katherine.”

She watched him for several moments more, for long enough that he started to wonder if she would take the book back already.

Then she reached out and very carefully turned the first page. “Then let us begin.”

When he met the Gallery for dinner that night, Clay felt like his world had shifted once again.

He’d already been able to memorize another three new [Chants], something that had even impressed Syr Kathering. True, they didn’t seem to be very useful—the Gnat’s Bite, for example, could be used to mimic the noise of a buzzing insect, or to drive them away when reversed. One was called Autumn’s Grasp, and could chill food or drink for an extended time, while its opposite could thaw the same material out immediately. The last, called True Ink, created writing that could never be erased or covered, while its reversed form obliterated any writing immediately.

Clay had been very careful not to practice that last one around the book. Katherine had chuckled a little over his paranoia, but he thought it was more than justified.

When he caught sight of the others gathered around the table, he felt a sudden burst of regret. He was going to have to bring them bad news. Their original plan had involved him teaching them [Chants] once they had all their [Stats] at the highest possible level, and then helping them reach cadet that way. Yet given what he’d learned from Katherine, and what he could learn…

He shook his head and diverted to the kitchens first, making sure to pile a little extra food on his plate. It was probably going to be a long night of explanations.

“So we can’t learn [Chants]?”

Clay winced at the disappointment in Natalie’s voice. She was the one who had been hoping the hardest for the chance to learn more magic; he suspected that she’d only gone along with the physical training because she never really believed that she’d ever have to use it. “I’m sorry. What I’m learning now…it’s too important to risk. We’ll have to try it another way.”

“Easy for you to say.” Jack folded his arms and glared. The others mostly just looked disappointed or betrayed, but the [Knave] had seemed particularly unhappy the past day or so. “Are you sure it’s this mystery knowledge you can’t share? Or did your heroic little friends from back home convince you to stop hanging around a bunch of bad influences?”

He jerked as if Jack had slapped him. “What? No. That’s not what this is about.”

“Then maybe you could explain it a little better, Sir Clay, because it sounds like you’re choosing to abandon us right when we are getting close.”

“Stop it, Jack.” The [Knave] looked at Lawrence in surprise, but the [Occultist] didn’t flinch or back down. He just stared back at his friend with a calm confidence that he’d never had before. “Clay didn’t really owe us anything, and it sounds like you are asking him to risk a lot more than just his standing in the Guild. Syr Katherine isn’t someone who trusts easily. Would you want her coming after you once she was finished with him?”

Jack shifted in his seat, and some of his glower slipped away. Pain, real pain, revealed itself underneath. “No. No, you’re right. It’s just…”

A silence descended over the table, thick with disappointment and frustration. Clay could almost feel it raging around him, ready to either drive them back to hopelessness or to lash out in pain.

He shook his head. [Chants] or no [Chants], he wasn’t going to let either of those two things happen.

“We always knew that the [Chants] might not happen. Master Taylor still has my notes, after all, and I don’t want to risk teaching you without them, anyway.” Once again, he didn’t mention the notes now hidden in his room. Clay figured that it would be better not to even have the temptation sitting there, especially with an increasingly skilled [Burglar] listening in, just waiting to be tempted. “That doesn’t mean that all your work has been for nothing. How many of you still haven’t reached your maximum [Stats]?”

They all looked around at one another, some making motions as if consulting their [Gift]. Anne spoke up first. “I still have a point in [Insight] and [Will] to go.”

Lawrence half-raised his hand. “Two points in [Fortitude] and one in [Valor].”

Xavien laughed. “I only have one in [Might], but that won’t be for long, with what Orn has us doing.”

Natalie lost some of her burdened expression as she looked around. “I only have a point in [Fortitude] and another in [Will] before I am done.”

They all looked at Jack, but he sat back and crossed his arms. “Don’t look at me. I’m done.” Anne made a disbelieving noise, and he glared at her. “I’ve been putting in plenty of extra practice. Don’t blame me if you haven’t kept up. I wanted—”

He glanced at Clay and then looked away. “I wanted to be ready to start learning.”

“And it’s going to be worth it.” They all looked back at Clay, even Jack. He smiled. “When my friends came to visit me in Pellsglade, do you know what I learned? Their primary [Stats] were all high, higher than mine, in fact. Their secondary [Stats] were all still low. Really low. Low enough that a hardworking [Commoner] without any levels could have outmatched them.”

Xavien was watching him with narrowed eyes. “All our best combat techniques usually depend on those primary [Stats], though. Anyone will be able to lean on their advantages to blow through us.”

“Unless we find a way to even the odds.” Clay leaned forward and smiled. “What can you tell me about the Crown festival?”

Another brief silence reigned, and then Anne coughed into her fist. “Clay, that’s not going to work.”

“What do you mean?” He let his smile grow a little larger. “I was told that every year on the King’s coronation day, there’s a festival in Crownsguard. Everyone celebrates for nearly an entire day; there’re all kinds of parties and feasts and contests.”

Jack nodded along. “Yeah, yeah, along with a tournament where everyone can compete. So? We aren’t going to prove anything by jousting.”

Xavien had frowned. “You don’t mean for us to enter into the Melee, do you? Clay, we’d be destroyed. Even with you helping us.”

Clay looked at the [Oracle] and raised his eyebrows. “Why do you think that?”

“Because we are all still at level one!” Xavien rolled his eyes. “Even if we are matched against other initiates, most of them are at level three or higher, at least. If we’re facing cadets, we’d probably be facing level fours or fives. We’d be completely outmatched. I, for one, am not looking forward to getting beaten around the ring by a half-dozen—”

“What are you planning, Clay?” Lawrence’s question cut the tirade short. The others all suddenly peered at him, and Clay sighed. He’d wanted to keep things a bit closer to the chest, but he supposed it was better to have it all out in the open.

“Our main goal is to make it so that the Council lets us go on a mission, right? So that we can level?” The others nodded. “My plan is to pit us against a group of cadets, led by someone at my level or higher. If we beat them, that should give the Council enough evidence to give us permission.”

“We can’t do it, though.” Xavien remained determined. “I know that you probably have some tricks, but—”

“Why the Melee?” The [Oracle] frowned at being interrupted a second time, but Natalie didn’t pay him any attention. “Why wouldn’t it work if we fight things individually?”

“You’ll see.” She gave Clay a look that promised immediate retribution, and he sighed. “Look, the next time we fight against Orn as a group, I want you to put me in charge. All of you—and then pay attention to what happens.”

They all exchanged looks, but Clay turned his attention back to the food in front of him. The next day, things were going to be fairly busy.

Orn smiled when he saw Clay walk into the Forge. The Armsman had been increasingly happy with him over the past few days, though Clay couldn’t precisely understand why. Perhaps it was simply the opportunity that he’d given Orn to challenge and teach even more students; the [Fighter] appeared to truly enjoy the work of creating new combatants in the war against the monsters, even if he probably believed that none of the Gallery would ever leave the Academy.

“Sir Clay! I have good news for you.” The Armsman waved him over. “Your equipment is almost prepared. Come and see.”

Despite himself, Clay felt a sudden burst of enthusiasm. It had been weeks since he’d been able to feel like he had his own weaponry; the dull practice weaponry that he had to return to the racks after each session simply didn’t compare to the feel of an actual knife and spear in his hands. He grinned before another thought occurred to him. “Does equipment always take this long to make? It seems like you’d have finished it a while ago.”

The smile faded a little from Orn’s face. If he had to guess, the Armsman was feeling a little uncomfortable. “I was asked to take extra time with your equipment. To make sure it was… ready for use in the field. It required a bit of additional work and attention, Sir Clay.”

Clearly, someone had leaned on Orn to delay the work a little. Probably someone from the Council, now that Clay thought about it. Would it have been Syr Marissa or Sir Mark? It made him wonder if Master Taylor had been instructed to withhold most of his notes for the same reason. If true, it would mean that the Master Archivist was involved in the process of keeping Clay here as well.

Still, it wouldn’t gain him anything to make Orn feel uncomfortable about it. The man had worked hard to train Clay and the rest of the abandoned initiates; he’d probably actually done well on his weapons as well. It wasn’t as if Clay had actually been able to leave, anyway. He did wonder why they were finally giving him his equipment back now, though. Was it because they had some plan for him? Maybe they were planning on sending him out on a mission as a cadet?

If that was the case, he had to hope that it wouldn’t happen before the Crown festival. The Council might have trapped him here, but when he got free, he wasn’t going to leave alone. Not by a long shot.

Clay was still thinking vengeful thoughts when Orn came to a part of the Forge where the finished pieces were waiting. He blinked as Orn gestured to the rack. “Here is your new equipment, Sir Clay. What do you think?”

He looked at the rack, and all thoughts of the Council’s plans abandoned him for a moment. Instead, he was instantly enraptured by the sight of what Orn and his workers had created for him.

The first thing that struck him about the spear was how… solid it looked. His old boar spear had been sturdy enough; David had crafted it from the best available steel and oak, and it had withstood everything that Clay had put it through. This new weapon was slightly shorter, and the haft was capped by a metal counterweight at the end, something that Clay could see himself using as a bludgeon if he needed to. He couldn’t identify the kind of wood; it was dark, almost black, and was smooth to the touch as he ran his hands along it. There were leather wrappings along part of the upper haft; the dark metal of the spearsocket extended much further back from the crossguards, which would help guard against the haft being cut through.

His eyes fixed on the spearblade, and he took an involuntary step forward. The boar spear had been given a long, broad blade that he’d put to great use. This spear had that same style of blade, but the metal seemed to almost glow from how it had been refined and forged. He thought he could make out small runes that had been etched into the wave-patterned steel, and he ran a careful finger along them, unable to recognize what they said.

“Honor, dedication, loyalty.” Orn’s low rumble showed his satisfaction, and Clay glanced back at him. “Just a motto that I thought fitting. There’s a few on the other side as well.”

Clay turned the beautiful spear over and saw other runes, again unreadable. “And these?”

“Sacrifice, trust, unity.” Orn shrugged. “Another motto. If you do not approve, we can always switch the spearhead in a few weeks.”

“Don’t. I like it well enough.” Clay picked the spear up off the rack. It was heavy, far heavier than his other spear. It would take a bit of time to get used to it, but the extra weight promised to put more power behind his attacks. Time would tell if the change would be worth it. “Where did the other one go?”

Orn rubbed at the back of his neck. “I’ve added it to my personal collection, actually. A model of craftsmanship for my apprentices to aspire to. Same with the knives, if you don’t mind.”

Clay nodded. He was a farmer’s son; he hadn’t expected the boar spear—or any of his tools and weapons—to last forever, and to have it used as an example of fine craftsmanship was not the worst fate for it to have.

Still, he would have been lying if he had pretended that he wouldn’t miss that plain old spear.

Shaking his head over his apparent sentimentalism, Clay hefted the spear and swung it a few times, testing the weight and the balance. Then he nodded. “Thank you, Sir Orn. I’ll use it well.”

“So I hope, Sir Clay, so I hope! But do not thank me yet. Not until you have tested the rest of my gifts.” The Armsman gestured to the side, where more equipment waited for him.

Clay went to the next piece, a sheathed knife that looked to have a very familiar shape. He grinned as he drew it, feeling the extra heft of that well-forged steel. “Another of Adam’s knives?”

Orn laughed. “I’ve taken the liberty of calling them ‘Pell knives’ after your dear home.” The Armsman grinned. “It will be heavier, yes, but the weight and quality will suit such a brutal weapon. Your friend Jack has expressed interest in using a pair as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if they became quite popular over the next few years.”

Clay swished the long, thick blade through the air. Again, it was going to take a bit of getting used to the new weight, but his increased [Might] would more than make up for it. He sheathed the blade and then reached for the next knife.

This one was less exciting, just a higher quality version of the utility knife that Adam had commissioned for him. The serrated edge would probably cut through wood as well as any saw might have done; once he finally escaped this place, he would make sure to put it to good use.

His eyes went to the next piece of equipment, and he smiled. It was another shortbow, complete with a quiver and sheath. When he drew it out, it was clearly several steps above the plain [Guard] shortbow that Herb had leant him back in Pellsglade. To his eye, it was made out of some kind of grey polished wood that seemed far, far stronger than he expected. The tension on the bowstring was far higher than before; he could easily picture an arrow being driven into a target as if he had shot with a longbow. The arrows seemed plain, but that made a certain sort of sense; he wasn’t exactly going to be able to get them only from the Forge, after all, and reliability was important.

Clay had been just about to turn away from the rack when Orn cleared his throat. He glanced at the Armsman, and the [Fighter] gestured to the next rack. “I believe I mentioned some armor for you, young hero.”

He felt his eyebrows climb his forehead, and he turned to the second rack in surprise. There weren’t any weapons there. Instead, he saw a suit of armor and a cloak that had been hung on a figure. “These are for me?”

“Of course, young hero! I know you were used to just throwing yourself into danger, but armor can be the difference between a mortal wound and a scratch. Even against the worst monsters.” Orn tapped his metal leg for emphasis and Clay winced. The Armsman stepped over to the armor rack and started to gesture to the various pieces.

“I’ve kept things light; you’ll want to prize your mobility, and full plate might slow you too much. For that reason, I’ve created a simple jack of plate for you. It will allow for flexibility and still keep you fairly safe.”

Clay stepped forward and poked at the shirt-like armor. The fabric was still and strong, and he could feel plates sewn into it. He winced as he pictured how heavy it was going to be, and forced himself to remember that he’d have the additional [Fortitude], [Might], and [Valor] to handle it. He hoped.

“For the legs and arms, I made simple brigandine vambraces, greaves, gauntlets, and the rest. The plates will protect your limbs, while giving you a bit more flexibility and speed than heavy mail. It might be hotter and heavier than you are used to, but much, much safer.” Clay winced again, and opened his mouth to protest, but Orn tapped his metal leg again meaningfully.

“Finally, the helmet.” Orn smacked the curved headpiece with a ringing blow. It held firm. “I decided on a sallet without a visor; your visibility will be important. The tail in the back will be important to guard against strikes from behind, and the mail on the sides should keep your ears attached. Most importantly, you’ll be able to survive much, much longer. Wouldn’t want to waste all that training we’ve done, eh?”

Clay nodded slowly. The helmet, in particular, seemed heavy; the metal it was forged from was thick, which he supposed was the point. “It’s going to be harder to move and dodge when I get back into the field. Might take some getting used to.”

“Which is why we’ll be practicing in armor from here forward, young hero.” Orn’s expression grew almost malicious from glee. “We have some time before the Council will allow a journeyman to sponsor you for a mission. I aim to make sure that you have plenty of experience wearing and moving in with this equipment—and when we send you to battle, I aim to make sure you return safely.”

He felt a small quirk of amusement work its way across his lips, but Clay nodded. “Thank you, Orn. I appreciate your help, and it all looks incredible.” Perhaps he wasn’t entirely convinced about the armor, but it was something he might adjust to in time.

Then he smiled. He’d come to the Forge a little early, and he could see the others starting to wander in from outside. “Before we do, however, can we try something? I want to face you alongside the others for a match. It’s practice for something coming up soon.”

Orn blinked. Then he laughed again. “I see! Did they bribe you somehow, Sir Clay? I’m afraid that if you’re hoping to lend them a victory, I think I can match myself against the lot of you and win.”

“If you’re that confident, then you wouldn’t mind us trying, then, would you?” Clay gave him a challenging smile, and Orn raised both his eyebrows.

“I suppose not! We’ll leave the armor for after. You might need it to cover the bruises, after all!” Orn laughed, and clapped Clay on the back. Then he paused. “Might I ask what you are planning on practicing for?”

“The Crown festival, actually.” Clay watched the surprise flash across the [Fighter]’s face and forced himself to ignore it. “We are hoping to participate in the Lesser Melee as a team.”

“Interesting.” Orn sounded far more uncertain now, as if unsure about how to dissuade him. “You… are aware that most of the members participating are at least cadets or journeymen, right? A team of initiates…”

“May surprise you, Sir Orn.” Clay started for the practice yard. “Let’s see.”