Although he had gathered his papers in a more or less orderly pile to his left, and the inkstand, with quill to grace it, stood to his right, the only thing that occupied the focus of his attention were two dull blades. Flat ornate daggers, golden-handled, with runes that were so stylized it was almost impossible to recognize the language; they seemed to be so ceremonial no one had thought to sharpen them. He knew; he’d tried cutting paper and cloth, and while the paper eventually gave, the cloth hadn’t budged. He had studied those words, attempting to glean what information he could from their letter forms; he knew them as Old Weston, but they were a style of Old Weston that his scholarship had seldom encountered. But there were other engravings, on hilt and handle, that gave clues. Old, old blades, these; they bore the marks of something that resembled either fire or sun, and given the shape and curve, worn in places, he chose to see them as sun’s light. As, in fact, light. “Where did you get them?”
