“The well never ran dry, and the storms that passed were always a gentle, gloomy respite to the sun-dappled afternoons of the countryside.”

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≈ VII ≈

iii. The Saga of Frostwood

Mithrilon had grown to manhood on a small homestead on the edge of wood and meadow in Midgard where he lived with his father Habadon, the finest cobbler within a day’s ride of their land. As a child he ran free through the fields and climbed the smaller, then taller trees along the edge of the forest, and fished in the cool dark ponds, shaded by willow branches.

He had never known his mother. When he asked, his father would only say that she arrived in the spring and left in the winter. And that he had mended her boot. And that she had silver hair. Although sometimes he said it had been the color of honey. Sometimes moonless night. Sometimes the color of the sunrise.

Fleet of fingers and of train of thought, the shoemaker at the edge of the woods had few cares or worries. The animals they raised were fat and happy, and the gardens bore bountiful harvests, unhampered by hungry pests. The well never ran dry, and the storms that passed were always a gentle, gloomy respite to the sun-dappled afternoons of the countryside.

And every time they seeded the gardens for a new spring, Habadon would pluck from his pocket his lucky stone, which also happened to be his father’s lucky stone and his father before him. Then together father and son would give the stone a rub for good luck, and within weeks they would have shoots and tendrils of vines overtaking the garden, fat, tender peas exploding from their shells.

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