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last and darted into the shop under the strings of red clay beads
     that ornamented its doorway. When he was buying ink and paper he had noticed, on a tray
     of clasps and brooches, a silver brooch in the shape of a wild rose; and his mother was
     called Rose. “I’ll buy that,” he said, in his hasty, princely way.
    “Ancient silverwork of the Isle of O. I can see you are a judge of
     the old crafts,” said the shopkeeper, looking at the hilt—not the handsome
     sheath—of Arren’s sword. “That will be four in ivory.”
    Arren paid the rather high price unquestioning; he had in his purse plenty
     of the ivory counters that serve as money in the Inner Lands. The idea of a gift for his
     mother pleased him; the act of buying pleased him; as he left the shop he set his hand
     on the pommel of his sword, with a touch of swagger.
    His father had given him that sword on the eve of his departure from
     Enlad. He had received it solemnly and had worn it, as if it were a duty to wear it,
     even aboard ship. He was proud of the weight of it at his hip, the weight of its great
     age on his spirit. For it was the sword of Serriadh who was the son of Morred and
     Elfarran; there was none older in the world except the sword of Erreth-Akbe, which was
     set atop the Tower of the Kings in Havnor. The swordof Serriadh had
     never been laid away or hoarded up, but worn; yet was unworn by the centuries,
     unweakened, because it had been forged with a great power of enchantment. Its history
     said that it never had been drawn, nor ever could be drawn, except in the service of
     life. For no purpose of blood-lust or revenge or greed, in no war for gain, would it let
     itself be wielded. From it, the great treasure of his family, Arren had received his
     use-name: Arrendek he had been called as a child, “the little Sword.”
    He had not used the sword, nor had his father, nor his grandfather. There
     had been peace in Enlad for a long time.
    And now, in the street of the strange town of the Wizards’ Isle, the
     sword’s handle felt strange to him when he touched it. It was awkward to his hand
     and cold. Heavy, the sword hindered his walk, dragged at him. And the wonder he had felt
     was still in him, but had gone cold. He went back down to the quay, and gave the brooch
     to the ship’s master for his mother, and bade him farewell and a safe voyage home.
     Turning away he pulled his cloak over the sheath that held the old, unyielding weapon,
     the deadly thing he had inherited. He did not feel like swaggering anymore. “What
     am I doing?” he said to himself as he climbed the narrow ways, not hurrying now,
     to the fortress-bulk of the Great House above the town. “How is it that I’m
     not going home? Why am I seeking something I don’t understand, with a man I
     don’t know?”
    And he had no answer to his questions.

CHAPTER 3
HORT TOWN
    I N THE DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN Arren dressed in clothing that had been given him, seaman’s garb, well-worn but clean, and hurried down through the silent halls of the Great House to the eastern door, carven of horn and dragon’s tooth. There the Doorkeeper let him out and pointed the way that he should take, smiling a little. He followed the topmost street of the town and then a path that led down to the boathouses of the school, south along the bay shore from the docks of Thwil. He could just make out his way. Trees, roofs, hills bulked as dim masses within dimness; the dark air was utterly still and very cold; everything held still, held itself withdrawn and obscure. Only over the dark sea eastward was there one faint, clear line: the horizon, tipping momently toward the unseen sun.
    He came to the boathouse steps. No one was there; nothing moved. In his bulky sailor’s coat and wool cap he was warm enough, but he shivered, standing on the stone steps in the darkness, waiting.
    The boathouses loomed black above black water, and suddenlyfrom them came a dull, hollow sound, a booming