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Endamir stood dutifully at the worktable, a hammer in his hand now, and not his sword. It did not matter. The smith had set them a task. His hands were unskilled in this work, but he threw himself into it without hesitation. The words of the Smith and the work before him filled his whole consciousness. There was nothing else but his to be done.
In a tiny corner of his thoughts, something curled in upon itself and wept. But Endamir pushed the unwelcome image of one who bore his own face away, drowning out his thoughts with the loud ring of his hammer . . .
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