A Facet for the Gem by C. L. Murray Page A

unscathed, beaming at him while kneeling down to offer his hand.
    “We can walk on water,” said Matufinn, “if we just forget how to walk.”
    Morlen sputtered, clasping his forearm, which pulled him up over the side of the vessel. “You tricked me! You made the birds attack you? And what is that supposed to mean, ‘forget how to walk’?”
    “I called the ravens, yes,” Matufinn replied. “But they did not actually harm me, as you can see.” He lifted a large brown blanket from behind his legs and wrapped it around Morlen’s shivering back. “When you thought about the step, you fell; when you thought about the water, you sank. But when you forgot about them both, and walked, what else did you forget?”
    It had all happened so quickly, he hadn’t had time to think like in the previous attempts. Each of those had taken fierce concentration, and resulted in disappointment. “I forgot that I couldn’t,” he answered finally.
    They shared a comfortable silence after this, one that held understanding, and needed no distraction. Then Matufinn rowed back the way they had come. And though Morlen was soaked, he drank in the evening breeze, open to whatever lessons the day still held.
     
    After making their way back to shore, they pushed the boat to rest upon the lake’s gravelly bank. Seeing Morlen’s bow on the ground nearby, Matufinn picked it up and gave it a long look of appraisal. “A fine weapon,” he said, drawing back hard on its string while the pliant arc bent without a creak. “So light and lean that you could fire off two shots before your targets knew what was coming. I’m sure it’s served you well,” he added, handing it over.
    Morlen nodded as he took it, gripping the blurred outline of a hand imprinted upon it years before. “It’s all I’ve ever had,” he said, restrapping the quiver as well. “All that’s ever been mine.”
    “What about a sword?” asked Matufinn, glad to see the spark in Morlen’s eyes at the question. “You’ve never had one?”
    “Just this,” Morlen answered as he drew his small hunting knife, its rusty blade too dull and dented to pose even a modest threat to an apple.
    Matufinn laughed, taking it in his palm to examine its decay, and then tossed it far into the lake without a second glance. “Come,” he said. “We’ll find something more suitable for you.” He turned to walk back toward the woods, and Morlen ran lightly to keep up.
    The sun was sinking low when they entered a small clearing, and Matufinn went to a large round stone sitting at its edge. Prying it up, he flipped it to the side and brushed away the undergrowth, revealing an old, worn cover that he pulled away to expose a rectangular hole.
    Morlen crouched to look within, seeing many shapes of various sizes, overall similarly long and narrow, wrapped in cloth. Swords. Dozens of them. Some were old, rusted, from long before his time; others were in fair condition; and all had surely seen battle. Matufinn extracted the freshest one of the batch, took its grip firmly in hand, and then held it out for Morlen.
    “My first sword,” he said. “The one I wielded against the shriekers. I set it aside after my brief travels led me to befriend one of the Freelands’ finest sword smiths, a fellow by the name of Edrik, who forged one that has maintained a cleaner history.” He tapped the hilt of the weapon at his hip.
    Its blade still had a subtle luster, though chipped in some places, and Morlen’s expression was bright as he studied it. “This is to be mine?” he asked, taking it from Matufinn’s hand.
    Matufinn nodded. “For now, at least. Until you obtain your true sword.” Then, with his chin raised boldly, he added, “But first, you must get acquainted with it.”
    Unsure what to anticipate, Morlen rose and followed Matufinn to the clearing’s center, setting his bow and quiver aside again. The air rang as Matufinn smoothly drew his own weapon and faced him a few paces