By Scott Baker
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The sword would be safe there. " "My hammer would not be happy away from my forge, " Tas Et said, and Moth realized that he was being allowed to hear things usually not spoken of before anyone not a smith. It made him feel warm and trusted. Neither Moth nor Tramu slept well the night before the Fair, though Tramu had spent the day in his father's forge and Moth had worked hard in the barley field. The night was endless; Moth lay on his pallet waiting for a dawn that he knew was only moments away but that never came, until suddenly Tramu was shaking him awake.
A hand grasped his left shoulder. He could smell hot breath on the back of his neck. Something sharp was pressed against his throat. He gasped. "Do not move. " Moth struggled vainly to still his trembling. " the voice not his father's demanded. "Yes, " he whispered. "Know that this is a krisse, a knife-of-the-earth, and that it will drink your blood whether you be reborn or not. If you are truly dead to childhood, the knife will cut the dead child from your throat and free you of it; but if you are in truth still a child, the knife will cut you into little pieces, for it is a knife that hates childhood.
In late midmorning they came to a place where the valley walls closed in on them, forming a narrow gorge through which the Nacre rushed and foamed. Moth had never seen anything like it. There was a guardhouse there, manned by the first human beings Moth had seen since leaving Kyborash. He recognized none of the warriors. Ri Tal spoke to a black-bearded man wearing a copper breastplate and a conical helmet. A coin changed hands and they were allowed to pass. Moth followed his father up the narrow, cliff-hugging trail.