Sodar grinned. ‘That’s true, but I put a few strips of cottage bacon in there a year or two ago. Should still be good.’
Annev flinched at the thought of his fingers sliding into a heap of rancid meat. He pulled his hand from the bag and tossed the empty sack at his mentor.
‘I don’t believe you.’
The priest shrugged. ‘More for me, I suppose.’ He reached inside and pulled out a thick strip of cooked bacon.
Annev stared as Sodar crunched on the hot rasher. He caught the unmistakable whiff of grease and smoked meat and felt his stomach rumble.
‘Give me the bag.’
Sodar slid the sack across the table as he ate the last morsel and licked his fingers clean.
Annev picked up the bag and stuck his hand inside, this time imagining a plate piled high with crispy bacon.
‘So,’ he asked, fumbling at the green cloth, ‘how does it stay hot? Does time not pass inside the bag?’
‘Near as I can tell. The artificer that made it seems to have connected the bag to an alternate space where time passes very slowly. I believe that’s part of the reason the artifact is so well preserved.’
Annev glanced at the threadbare cloth, his expression dubious. ‘Looks a bit ratty to me.’
‘I suppose it is. But how old does it seem?’
Annev shrugged, trying to focus on the sensation of hot bacon appearing in his hands. ‘I don’t know. Maybe a hundred years old?’
‘Try three or four thousand.’
Annev stopped concentrating on breakfast, the immensity of Sodar’s claim shaking thoughts of bacon from his skull. ‘This was around during the Age of Kings?’
‘Yes. Possibly even earlier.’
‘How do you know, though? How can you be sure?’
Sodar reached for the sack and Annev let it go, resigning himself to a hungry morning.
‘Because,’ the priest said, ‘one day I reached in to pull out a coin.’ Sodar demonstrated by putting his wrinkled hand inside the sack. ‘I had dropped in a handful of coins a few days before, but I was only buying bread, so I didn’t much care what coin I pulled out.’ Sodar removed his hand from the sack and dropped a misshapen copper on the table. ‘Imagine my surprise when I saw that.’
Annev picked it up. The coin was heavier than he expected, rough around the edges and not perfectly circular – nothing like the copper shields and stars people spent at market. The faces were likewise worn, but Annev could still make out the Staff of Odar dividing a wind-tossed sea from a lightning-streaked sky. Amidst the waves, he spied the faded letters ‘U-R-R-A-N’. He flipped the copper over to see a wicked-looking variation of the raven’s beak hammer: part smithing tool, part war hammer, the long-handled weapon floated ominously above a smoking anvil.
‘Keos,’ Annev whispered, dropping the coin. The copper rolled unsteadily across the table’s surface before toppling over in front of Sodar.
‘Keos, indeed,’ Sodar said, picking up the heavy copper.
‘I’ve never seen anything like that,’ Annev breathed. ‘Is it Darite or Terran?’
‘Both.’ Sodar turned the coin over in his hand. ‘The nations of Daroea and Terra shared currency for a brief period during the Age of Kings – the Second Age.’
‘But how does that prove the bag’s age? If the coin pre-dates the bag, it could have been dropped there by you or some coin collector.’
Sodar gave a half-nod, half-shrug. ‘The coins were put out of circulation in the Second Age, so I think it unlikely, but there’s also this.’ Sodar turned the sack inside out. Annev studied it until he saw what Sodar meant him to see: the letters ‘U-R-R-A-N’ stitched into the seam.
‘What does that mean?’
‘Not what. Who. The Terran who forged the mould for this coin is the same man who crafted this sack. The most talented artisan of his time – a master among master craftsmen whose dedication to his art was beyond compare – and he was born at the dawn of the Second Age. Early in his career, he put his stamp on every artifact he made. He wanted the world to know what his hands had forged and fabricated.’ Sodar flipped the coin expertly between his fingers. ‘As Urran grew older, though, he realised he could only ever leave a fleeting mark on the world, so he gave up making artifacts and joined the clergy.’
‘He became a Bloodlord?’
’Yes and no. Bloodlords are a subset of Terrans who possess the talent, but we Darites tend to group them all together. Technically, Urran remained a Master Artificer but, as the story goes, he gave up being a craftsman in order to craft himself into a better man.’
‘And,’ Annev finished, ‘since he stopped making artifacts, that means the bag and the coin were made at about the same time.’
‘Exactly.’ Sodar stopped flipping the coin, holding it so that the faded letters reflected some of the room’s light.
‘What happened to Urran after he joined the clergy?’
Sodar flicked his fingertips and the coin vanished. ‘That’s a story for another day.’
Annev scoffed as Sodar reached across the table and plucked the coin from behind Annev’s ear. He rolled his eyes and the priest smiled.
‘You groan, but even tricks have their place.’ Sodar dropped the copper back into the green sack and handed the latter to Annev. ‘Do a trick for me. Pull out Urran’s coin.’
Annev took the sack in his left hand and peered inside, then he sighed and shook his head. ‘I can’t do it, Sodar. I can’t find the bacon. I won’t find the coin. I’d be lucky if I could pull out a ball of lint.’
‘I’d take lint.’
Annev snorted but stuck his hand in and fished around for a moment. After a few seconds, he pulled his hand out again. ‘You realise how this feels, right? Rummaging inside an empty sack? It’s—’
‘The embodiment of futility?’
‘I was going to say silly.’
Sodar waved a hand dismissively. ‘Just concentrate on finding the coin. Remember its heft. How it looked. How it felt in your hand.’
Annev swirled his hand around in a circular motion. ‘A very old copper. Got it. I’m picturing it now.’
‘You saw me drop it in there. It’s just waiting for you to pull it out.’
Annev circled his hand around the inside of the bag a few more times then stopped. His eyebrows shot up and a look of astonishment passed over his face. ‘I think I’ve got it,’ he whispered, slowly pulling his hand from the mantis-green sack.
Sodar leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Annev’s tight-fisted hand. ‘You have? Well done, my boy! Well done. Let’s see it.’ He held his hand extended beneath Annev’s fist and watched as Annev opened his hand, palm facing downward.
And nothing fell out.
Sodar frowned, then looked up to find Annev restraining his mirth. When their eyes met, the boy burst out laughing.
‘Gotcha!’ Annev said, snickering. ‘Sorry, Sodar, but that was too easy.’
The old priest huffed and snatched the sack back. ‘If you took this more seriously, you would have more success.’