The faith of armor

The first three months I spent under my master taught me one thing: I was born a bastard. He had to train for years and work hard to be one. (Remind me to talk about that winter, and him, later.)

The next nine months taught me another thing: armor. I learned its names, its shapes, its makes. I learned their histories, their makers, and their makers' stories. I learned their lands, the slight variations that distinguished one town's armor from the others, and the social status they carry relative to each other. I learned their merits, their qualities, and their strengths. Most of all, I learned their weaknesses.

I only wore a serious suit of armor once, on the first day of the tenth month. It was a full suit of butted mail: hauberk, camail, coif, leggings and mittens.

It was enough.

When my mentor sobered up to meet me outside the next day, he said that he'd decided I knew everything I'd ever need to know about armor.

It made noise when I wanted silence.

It glinted when I wanted obscurity.

And most important of all, while I struggled with it, I was deeply aware of every possible way somebody could kill me in it, even if I knew how to use it perfectly.

Some people have an unshakable faith in steel.

I'm not one of them. I know too much to be a believer.