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several times. “Very fine.”
    Artos found himself nodding back, the silence between them stretching their agreement.
    At last Magnus Pieter could stand no more silence. “And why’d you be showing this special jewel to Old Magpie, eh?” It was the boys’ name for him, and Artos was surprised he knew it. “Because you know I’d appreciate fine craft?” He spoke with the heavy-handed jocularity he always confused with cunning.
    Guessing the smith would give him a better bargain if he played the innocent, Artos replied simply, “Why, I thought I might buy a sword, Magnus Pieter.”
    â€œOf course,” the smith said, throwing his head back and bellowing a laugh. “A sword!” Then he stopped and cocked his head to one side, eyeing Artos and, Artos thought, looking very much like a large magpie indeed. “Well?”
    â€œWell, I am old enough now to have a sword of my own,” Artos said. “And if the jewel from my…mother…”—his voice dropped suddenly at the lie—“is as fine as you say, perhaps I can buy a good sword, too.”
    â€œAs fine as I say—you say—but I be no great judge of jewels.”
    â€œBut a judge of swords,” said Artos, adding in a whisper, “and words.” The last felt like the worst lie of all, which is why he whispered it, but it appealed greatly to Magnus Pieter, whose chest positively swelled.
    â€œA swordsmith and a wordsmith, true,” said the smith. Grinning, he added, “How good a sword might you like, boy?”
    Artos knelt down beside the anvil and the red jewel was then at the level of his eyes. As if he were addressing the stone and not the smith, he chanted a bit from a song that Old Linn used to sing:
    â€œAnd aye their swords soe sore can byte,
    Through help of gramarye…”
    Magnus Pieter looked around quickly. “Best you not let Father Bertram hear you sing that, young Art.” He sighed. “But I know when I must do what must be done. I been warned, I have. I’ve got the signs. So I’ll make you a fine sword, a steel of power. And while I make it, you must think of a name for your sword. A sword bought with a fine stone. A sword from a stone, boy. So it goes. So it goes. There will be history in it.” He reached across the anvil and plucked up the jewel, holding it high over both their heads.
    Artos stood slowly, never once taking his eyes from the jewel, but wondering all the while what the smith had been jabbering about. Old men, he thought, and their strange sentiments, signs, and portents. For a moment he thought he saw dragon fire leaping and crackling across the jewel’s surface, reflecting from the jewel’s core. Then he realized it was merely mirroring the glowing coals of the forge.
    â€œPerhaps,” he said, thinking out loud, “perhaps I will call my sword Inter Linea. ”
    The smith smiled. “A fine name, that. Makes me think of foreign climes.” He pocketed the jewel and began to work, his hammer banging out another chain of jokes around the word clime .
    Artos ran out, heading toward the mews where he knew he’d at least several hours of work helping out the Master of Hawks. It was a job he hated with a passion, as the birds all seemed so desolate to him, standing about on their perches and jangling their jesses when they’d rather be out cresting the currents of air.

7
Days of Wisdom
    I F HE WANTED A pot of stew, it would mean another slobbery kiss from Mag. Artos knew this and, at last, accepted it. He’d come to understand that wisdom was not to be gotten easily.
    Fortunately, Mag was content with kisses on the cheek, gathering them in with such blushes and sighs that Artos found himself embarrassed for her, not appalled by her. It was rather sad, really, how little she was willing to settle for. He thought: When I have my wisdom, perhaps I can give Mag some.
    The walk to the