Six days. It took six days before Harato was finished with the swords. Yipachai spent the time working and practicing. And worrying.

  What were those men planning on doing once they got to Amigawa? Had Harato’s bird gotten there in time? Had the city watch taken the threat seriously? Would one of them kill the bandit Mangsut before Yipachai got the chance?

  Of course, he didn’t want Mangsut and his crew to hurt anyone in Amigawa. But if justice was done by someone other than Yipachai himself, would he ever feel relief? Would he ever be sure that the deed had been done?

  Yipachai’s anxiety faded on the morning of the sixth day. He was splitting pine logs in the now-familiar copse of trees when he heard that same creaking sound of cart wheels rolling up the path to Harato’s house. Instead of worry, a foreboding sense of calm came over him. Like a great, inevitable wave was coming to sweep him away. Fighting such a thing would be suicidal.

  And still, beneath all that, was sorrow. He would miss Harato. The smithy. The work that he had been able to do, even if it had only been a few weeks. He’d even miss Pingou and his polite indifference.

  So when the sound of Takamoto’s cart drifted to Yipachai’s ears through the foggy woods, a lump grew in his throat. The smithy had quickly become a home to him, in a time when he had truly needed a refuge from the world.

  But today he would take his first steps toward reentering that world.

  Laying aside his axe, Yipachai strode purposefully back to the house, where Harato was already meeting with Takamoto. The old smith stood with a few canvas-wrapped bundles in his arms, while Takamoto’s buffalo was hitched to his cart a short distance down the path. Harato gave Yipachai a sad smile as he rounded the corner of the house.

  “Hello there, Yipachai,” Takamoto said, his voice a cheerful counterpoint to Harato’s sorrowful demeanor.

  Yipachai bowed. “Hello, Takamoto. Has Harato informed you yet?”

  Takamoto cocked his head to the side, his mossy green topknot swaying as a result. “Informed me of what?”

  “Young master Yipachai,” Harato said, “will be traveling with you to the city. He has business of his own there that I cannot help him with. I would ask you to take good care to ensure he arrives safely, but I am quite confident I needn’t make such a request.”

  Takamoto’s eyes widened as he looked first to Harato, then to Yipachai. Then he nodded, and that same cheerful grin returned to his face. “Ah, of course. We can be off as soon as the cart is loaded.”

  “I’m ready,” Yipachai said. And it was true. He didn’t have any possessions other than the Banqilun clothing he was wearing—he hoped Harato didn’t want it back—and his practice sword, which was already tucked into his belt. Yipachai had already decided to leave The Art of Fencing behind, seeing as how it meant so much to Harato. And besides, he didn’t have a good way to carry a book and keep it protected from the coming rains.

  “Not so fast,” Harato said, stopping Yipachai from meandering over to Takamoto’s cart. “You can leave that practice sword on the bench in the smithy.”

  Yipachai whipped his head around. Surely Harato wasn’t serious. It was just a piece of wood. The old smith wouldn’t be able to use it for anything else now. But the look beneath those mossy eyebrows was serious, so Yipachai could only try to disguise his sigh as he obeyed. He drew his practice sword and left Harato and Takamoto to load up the cart.

  As he entered the smithy for what was likely the last time, something caught in Yipachai’s throat. His eyes stung. He laid his practice sword on Harato’s workbench like it was the grave of a fallen comrade.

  “I will always remember you,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if he said it for the sword, for the smithy, or for Harato himself.

  Yipachai returned to find Takamoto and Harato already finished. Takamoto had moved on to check the straps of the buffalo’s harness while Harato stood a little to the side, clutching a long cloth-wrapped bundle with one hand. He held a folded piece of paper in the other.

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  “What’s that?” Yipachai asked as approached.

  “A parting gift,” Harato said, and held out the bundle.

  Yipachai took it and held it, unsure of what to do with himself. He hadn’t prepared anything for Harato, hadn’t expected anything like—

  “Go on, lad, unwrap it.”

  Gingerly, Yipachai unwound the cloth. Then dropped it to the ground as he beheld its contents: a sword, slightly curved and gleaming in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees. Yipachai’s breath caught. It was shorter than the other blades Harato kept in his home. Shorter than the ones he had been working on to fulfil his orders.

  It was sized for a Hetanzou. All together, it was about the length of one of Yipachai’s outstretched arms, with a wooden hilt wrapped in cloth. A small steel disc marked where the hilt met the blade, which had a sinuous line of something along the center. It shimmered, alternating between light and dark as Yipachai turned the blade in the light. The word Tsukama had been engraved in tiny letters near the hand guard. Harato’s family name.

  “I…don’t know what to say.”

  Harato grinned, but his eyes glistened with moisture as he choked out a laugh. “That would be a first for you, I think.”

  Yipachai laughed in turn, but his breath and his hands felt shaky. “Thank you, Harato,” he said. “I will put this to good use. I swear it.”

  The old smith rested a massive hand on Yipachai’s shoulder. Even through his tunic, Yipachai could feel the roughness of the Banqilun’s skin, the knobbiness of his knuckles. “I’m sure you will, lad. But I also want you to take this.” He proffered the paper he had been holding in his other hand.

  “What’s this?”

  Harato gave a sidelong glance at Takamoto, who had completed his inspection and had returned to listen. “Well, I suppose it’s no secret. You can read it if you wish, but it’s to mitigate any trouble a young Hetanzou stranger might get for carrying a blade from Harato Tsukama’s forge.”

  Yipachai frowned. Why would this blade cause him trouble? “Do people in the city not like you? Is that why you live all the way out here?”

  Harato chuckled, but it was Takamoto who answered. “Quite the opposite, my young friend. Old Harato here is the most sought after bladesmith in Amigawa—maybe even in all the Banqilun nations. If someone reads that name on your sword there, they’ll likely think you stole it. It’s too flaming fine a blade for a Het boy to be carrying around.” The younger Banqilun grinned. “Too flaming fine a blade for most dueling students to be swinging around, to be completely truthful. Most of Harato’s clientele are new masters at the schools, or their disciples who come from rich enough families to afford one.”

  “You really charge that much?”

  “Two swords,” Takamoto said, “earn enough to feed our entire village plus Harato for an entire month.”

  Yipachai’s jaw dropped. He stared at Harato, who looked suddenly uncomfortable.

  “Speaking of your village,” Harato said, “shouldn’t you two be off already? I’ve already delayed you enough, haven’t I?”

  The tightness returned to Yipachai’s chest. He didn’t know the next time he’d see Harato. He had to make himself believe that he would return to repay the smith for all the kindness he’d shown him. He swallowed. Then bowed, palms together, as deep as he could. “Thank you, Harato. Without you, I’d probably be dead on that beach, or starved in these woods. And now, with this,” Yipachai held up the sword. “I’m forever in your debt.”

  Harato smiled. A single tear rolled down his cheek before disappearing into his grand beard. He bowed in return, hands at his sides—the Banqilun way. “I’ll miss you, lad. You’ve been a bright spot in an old man’s life, and I won’t soon forget it. Be sure to use that well. Prove me right in giving it to you.”

  “I will,” Yipachai said, feeling tears of his own cloud his vision. For once, he felt no shame at crying. If Harato could do it, then so could he.

  Suddenly, a loud squawk sounded from behind Yipachai. He turned with a jerk, just as Pingou came stalking out of the woods to stand along the path. Yipachai was so surprised it took him a moment before he could reach out with his mind.

  Pingou? What are you doing here?

  I have decided to accompany you on your journey, the heron said, standing completely still.

  Really? Yipachai asked. I thought you had no interest in things beyond this area. This is your home, isn’t it?

  It is, but I have grown…curious. Pingou’s voice had just the slightest twinge of annoyance to it. Yipachai couldn’t feel the bird’s feelings, since he hadn’t initiated a full bond, but this much he could read from Pingou’s tone. I do not wish for harm to befall you.

  I…thank you, Pingou. I would be happy to have a friend on this journey.

  I did not say we were friends, Pingou said, but his voice was warmer.

  Yipachai smiled, then looked back to Harato and Takamoto. “He’s coming with us,” he said, pointing at Pingou.

  Harato grinned. “I wondered if you’d get old Pingou to venture off out of his roost. Tides are changing, indeed.”

  Takamoto just shrugged, then shook his head. “Bird or no bird, we should probably be off if we’re to make it to the village before dark.”

  After one final round of goodbyes, and with his new sword securely tied at his hip, Yipachai turned to follow Takamoto down the path as Pingou took off and flew overhead. After initiating a full bond, Yipachai would be able to determine the heron’s location.

  Once they had gone a short ways, Yipachai looked back over his shoulder to see Harato, still standing there in front of his house, knobby hands on his hips. The smith waved at him one last time before Yipachai and Takamoto rounded a bend along the trail and Harato vanished from sight.