You can find the earlier parts of thie story here:
Part 1
Part 2

* * *

After dinner, we prudently withdrew to a part of the palace where the sound of fireworks was muffled by the walls. I could tell many of the younger cousins were bored or antsy. The chaperones and governesses had been summoned back to help keep them in line. The grand hall we’d retired to was a bit drafty, but was large enough for the mob of family and attendants for this private gathering. A bevy of lanterns cast a warm light on the inlaid and polished limestone. With all of dinner and some mild chatter to regain his composure, my father was doing a good job at pretending he hadn’t forgotten my birthday. He stood next to my grandfather’s overstuffed chair, holding a freshly refilled glass of brandy and trying to get the attention of the rest. My seat was of the same style, and I was uncomfortably close to the center of attention.

“Almost ten years ago now,” my father began. This got a groan from those familiar with his tendency to tell tales. “Let me finish. Almost ten years ago now, I was back at the manor in Sudtor, enjoying a rather peaceable stay with my family. There had been a bit of a commotion that morning, and talk of a fallen star, but I hadn’t paid it much heed. I’m sitting there in my library when one of the maids tells me that young Kord is tracking dirt into the house. I figure this is some overreaction to some muddy boots, but go and see what’s up. I find a whole line of footprints and a trail of clods leading to where he is standing. There he was, absolutely covered from head to toe in soil, shedding it as he went, and hugging this big lump of rock. Now he didn’t want to tell me what he had, but there was no way to get away from me without answering.”

I kept my face as still and expressionless as I could muster, despite the upwelling of anger and irritation. He was conveying the whole incident as if it were some cute anecdote. But exploding at him would be unjustly rude to my grandfather and uncles. So I sat and seethed as he continued.

“Well, I finally got young Kord to tell me what on earth he was up to. It turns out he had seen the star fall, and chased it to the spot where it had landed. He had then gone and dug it out of the hole with his bare hands and carried it home. He was hugging a lump of fallen star as big as his chest. I should never have been surprised that my son would not only go chasing after falling stars, but succeed at finding it. So what do you do when your eleven year old son brings home a massive amount of starmetal?”

“You steal it from me,” I hissed. I’d tried to keep the words in, but they escaped me. My voice had been low, but from the look Prince Kord shot, he’d heard me. My father was closer, and clearly heard me too, as he stumbled on the next sentence, pausing long enough to rephrase it.

“We had to get it forged, of course. To let that much starmetal sit on a shelf would have been criminal. Naturally such a task could only be entrusted to the best smiths. Fortunately, this family has the reach to gain their services. Well, there wasn’t quite enough to make a full panoply for young Kord, and we didn’t know how big he was going to get. Though we did agree that his coming of age sword should be made from it.”

I clenched my jaw and bit back the snide rejoinders welling up within me.

“On its way here, the blade and its companions have made a tour of this family’s holdings. We’ve all made some contribution to the final product.” My father paused, then looked around. “Who has it?” My grip tightened on the arm of the chair as the silence dragged on and people began looking at each other. As my annoyance threatened to boil over, Peter’s laugh broke through his stoic facade.

“All right, I have it,” he said. The blindfolded man rose to his feet, producing a red box as if from nowhere. The box was too big to have been hidden conventionally near the wizard. He walked to the front of the room and presented the box to me. I’d seen sword boxes before. They were typically only made for the fanciest blades. This box was out of the ordinary. It was of the expected length and height, but wider. The wood of the main box was a striking red, with whorls and knots naturally weaving an intricate pattern. Inlaid into the top was a rectangle framed in iridescent opalwood. In tortoiseshell, gold, turquoise, and malachite, it depicted the same griffins and globe I’d carried in the procession – mark of cadence and all. Though in this case, I could justify the use.

Unhooking the clasps, I lifted the lid.

Starmetal was most easily identified by the coloration. Even in the most dim illumination, it shone a silver-white not unlike starlight. Resting in red velvet, the contrast was brilliant. There was not one blade in the box, but three. The longest was a Stirnberg rapier, and the box was built to accommodate that blade. Its hilt was crafted in the form of a raptor with its wings swept down to the pommel. It was gilded and studded with black sapphires in the gaps between the tips of the feathers. The eyes were small star rubies. I suppose the bird could have been the front half of a griffin.

The second blade in the box was formed in the same shape as my father’s sword, Jotunrender. It was a straight, narrow blade slightly shorter than the Stirnberg rapier. The front quillion was bent down and reached to the level of the pommel. The back quillion was bent up to catch blades sliding down the back of the blade. A ring guard protected the hand on either flat of the blade. Its pommel was a sphere of malachite held in a gilt taloned claw. The grip was wrapped in dark red leather. The third blade was a dagger, with a simple s-guard and a pommel of lapis gripped in a talon that mirrored the second.

I gingerly lifted the rapier from the box so that my younger cousins could see it. A distinct note of awe escaped many of them. Up the fuller of the blade, I spotted a line of tiny runes etched into the surface. They twinkled with the shine the gleamed along the sword. No, they twinkled with an innate light of their own. Of course, what else would Peter contribute that would leave it in his hands for the presentation? Carefully setting the box aside, I rose and gave the sword a few test swings. Unsurprisingly, the balance was perfect.

* * *

There were distinct dividing lines between the various classes of society that played out most strikingly in their traditions and celebrations. The petty Burghers who’d shared the Explorer House with me would have a more boisterous and boozy celebration of the end of their boyhood. As the spawn of a noble house, I had no such fun. The vigil had become entwined with the overall tradition, because so often noble sons were knighted as they came of age. I could have opted to be knighted, but being beholden to the myriad obligations and service did not appeal to me. But, that did not mean I could avoid the vigil. With the multitude of temples and chapels in the city, I got to pick where I carried it out. I forsook the palace chapel in favor of the Grand Pantheon. The structure was one built by citizens of Karststadt, rather than Prince Kord.

The temple was a soaring, rectangular building whose roof was held aloft by pillars thick enough to hide a horse behind. Each pillar was ringed with painted friezes and reliefs all the way up to the molded capitals. The floor was patterned in polished marble, and highly wrought altars sat in alcoves along the outer walls. There was no furniture within, and anyone seeking to give extended piety would need to bring their own knee cushion or prayer stool. I had both, though the platform of the prayer stool held the sword box rather than my rear end. The box sat open, letting the light from lamps and candles skitter across the starmetal. Discreetly, almost shyly, I held a tiny book filled with the prayers I was expected to recite through the hours of the vigil.

Few people wandered the Grand Pantheon at this hour. Those that did had their footfalls deadened by the temple slippers they wore. The slippers had no special significance beyond protecting the flooring from being soiled. My boots rested in a niche in the antechamber at the front entrance. A handful of clerics moved about the perimeter, making sure the lanterns were fueled, and the candles stayed lit. I knelt in the middle of the massive space, well away from their quiet prayers. I had almost reached calm when the quiet sussurrance of temple slippers on polished marble approached. I doubted it was a priest, they were unlikely to disturb a vigil. My supposition was proven correct when my father knelt down beside me. He whispered to avoid disturbing the priests.

“I spoke to Wendel.”

“You don’t speak growltongue,” I whispered back.

“I had some help. Anyway, I heard from him what you had said regarding your… discontent.”

“Is this really the time?”

“I think you’ve misinterpreted my actions over the years.”

“Oh? So you didn’t just take my star away without asking what I wanted to do with it?”

“What would you have done with it?” my father asked, his voice still a whisper.

“That’s not the point. It wasn’t your decision to make.”

“You were eleven.”

“And you didn’t even ask my opinion. You just assumed I couldn’t make the choice.”

“Everything I have done has been in your best interests. You mentioned the ruined bath house. Have you ever thought about the state it was in before we rebuilt it? It was cold, damp, and moldy. Letting a child play around that is asking for him to get sick. My choices were collapse it or rebuild it, and I thought you’d appreciate seeing what it looked like before it fell into decay.”

My jaw tightened as I fought to avoid raising my voice. “And yet you passed these edicts from on high without pretense of consultation, or explanation. What did you think you were doing?”

“I was being the best father possible.”

“How? You were never there!” My outburst echoed through the temple chamber, drawing a few uncomfortable glances from the clerics. I sheepishly turned back to the small book of prayers.

“That’s the real problem, isn’t it?” my father asked.

“You were always gone to gods knew what corner of the world. Every so often, you would swoop in for a few months, then vanish again. It was as if we were an after thought, or a footnote in one of your books.”

My father fell silent, almost sullen. I resumed the vigil prayers, my own words spent. We stayed there until dawn came, and I reached the end of the prayer book.

* * *

The jubilee was slated to run for several days. The worst of it was the state dinner. Just trying to keep the protocol and terms of address straight felt like an impossibility. There was not a major polity that had not at least sent an envoy. Ambassadors from Atlor, Iokathra, Vartenthral, Valay, Quendaverus, Yothos, and Zanthas were hard enough to address. Worse were those who came in person. Kings from Snaerveldi and Zesrin were outshone by the Emperor of the Volkmund who brought half the Imperial court. The pageant of glittering finery and exotic costume blurred into one long, gaudy smear in my mind. Too much pomp and pomposity paraded past. It felt odd to be constantly referred to as ‘Graf von Zesrin’. No one called me that normally, even if it was technically correct. I’d never even been to Zesrin, it’s just where my father was born.

I kept my mouth shut as much as possible, ate the overly expensive food, drank the overly expensive alcohol, and tried not to offend anyone important. There was no good reason for me to be here. At least Bas and Max were in contention to succeed our father as an Imperial Count. There was enough of a crowd that I could blend in and disappear. If only the King of Snaerveldi hadn’t just decided to leave his assigned spot to perch on a stool by my father’s elbow. Though his attire was of high quality weave decorated in neat, skillful embroidery, Alvar Lev had cultivated the look of a barbarian. Over his fine clothes he’d draped the oversized pelt of a snow lion, head on his chest and foreleg around his shoulder as if giving him a hug. His auburn locks were neat and tumbled onto the pelt in imitation of windblown wildness. He was betrayed by his beard, which was not as full as I expected he wanted. The scars running down his left cheek had faded to the hue of his complexion, but cut into his beard like furrows where no hair grew.

“It’s been too many years,” Alvar said.

“Why do you act more civilized when I visit you than when you visit us?” my father asked.

“I act as people expect me to act,” he grinned.

“I expect you to act like a king.”

“Liar,” Alvar laughed. He looked at Bas, Max, and myself. “These are your boys?”

“Yes, these two are the twins, Sebastian and Maximilian. Would you believe they’re supposedly adults now?”

Bas exaggerated rolling his eyes.

“And this is Kord, who’s just coming of age now.”

“You were the one born on the prince’s Accession Day.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Happy birthday.”

“That was yesterday.”

“I wasn’t here yesterday,” Alvar said. I realized I was on the cusp of being pointlessly rude to a man who’d been otherwise civil and amiable.

“Well, thank you,” I said.

“Is your father going to take you through the Rite of Manhood?”

“Alvar, I don’t-” my father started. It was Max who interrupted him.

“Is that the hunt where you go out into the woods unarmed and try to take prey?” Max asked.

“You’re far from unarmed,” Alvar said, “You have a knife and your wits.” He rested his left hand atop the head of the snow lion pelt he wore. “I was a bit witless and blundered into my beast. Your father had a bit more craft and put a point on some saplings for spears.” The King of Snaerveldi looked directly at me. “I hear you went to the University. You should be more cunning than either of us were.” The king’s vibrant blue eyes had a mischievous twinkle to them as he waited for my answer.

“I half expected my father to force me to do something like that,” I said.

“Oh, you can’t be forced to undergo the Rite of Manhood. That goes against the whole spirit of the trial. And I’m sure they’ll still treat you like an adult in the Volkmund, even if you’re still a boy in Snaerveldi.”

“If you think you can goad me into a rash action-” I started.

“You know him better than he wants to admit,” Bas interjected. I glared at Bas even as Max suppressed a guffaw.

“You’re lucky this is a formal event,” I hissed.

“You don’t need to make up your mind now,” Alvar said in a conciliatory tone. “After all we can’t rush off and do anything. We’d need to find a forge so you can make your knife, and a forest to do the hunt in.” He paused. “There was this big forest I passed through between Neph and here.”

“That would be the Hookwood,” Bas said.

“Wouldn’t it have been faster to go downriver from Auratus and sail to Salzheim rather than ride all the way through the Hookwood?” I asked.

“No,” my father said.

“More comfortable maybe,” Alvar said, and waved it off. My father didn’t stop.

“Auratus is farther north than most people think, and it’s shorter to take the north road to get from there to Karststadt.”

“Thank you, Dug,” the King of Snaerveldi said. I wasn’t sure if the remark made him stop talking, or if he’d simply finished with the useless piece of trivia. I should have known better than to raise a question of geography around my father. Bas grinned at me.

“You know you’re not going to get a better chance to outdo dad in something he’s done. How many times have you heard that tusk seal story?” Bas asked.

“Alvar,” my father said, “You were nearly killed and I broke a hip.”

“And thousands of others return unscathed every year,” the King said.

“Most of them also just snare a rabbit or other small game. And if Bas is goading Kord to outdo me, he’s not going to settle for something like that.”

“It’s my choice, right?” I asked.

“Of course,” Alvar said.

I sat back and thought about the prospect. “I’ve been stuck in this city for six years now. Gods know I want to get out of here. I was very much at home in the woods and hills.”

“Of Sudtor,” my father said, “Where you could return to a warm bed every night.”

“And if the Hookwood is along the fastest route to Auratus, Hermann will be returning home that way. The only uncle I’ve spent any time with is Horst.”

My father sighed, realizing his error. By arguing against my participation, he’d made up my mind to undergo the Rite.