Chapter 06

“Where’s Yren?” Ardt asked, carefully balancing a long sword with its tip softly marring the kitchen floor and its hilt angled against the wall’s corner. He knelt and placed a smaller knife next to it similarly, then rose and took off his dirty, scorched leather smock. He hung it on a peg next to another, smaller leather smock. Ardt’s apron had turned almost black with use, lines of scorch marks criss-crossing the heavy leather covering. The smaller smock was still mostly brown though it was beginning to turn as dark as Ardt’s. It had fewer of the tell-tale burn marks.

The walls and floor, while neat and clean, had seen better days. The floor was smooth and worn in the center from years of use, while the outer edges, near many walls, were scratched and pitted from Ardt balancing his work precariously. The white-washed walls had scratches and grooves where hilts and handles had lain and often slipped, clattering to the floor.

Elva had given up chastising Ardt about the effect balancing swords, maces, hammers, pots and pans had on the floors and walls years ago; she realized he did it without any real thought likely just emulating his father and his father’s father and the rest of his ancestors throughout history. Now, once a season, she just had the man re-plaster and re-paint the walls. She’d likely have to talk to him about new floors soon, as well.

“He’s bathing with Issa,” Elva smiled, kneading some dough on the wooden counter. Elva chuckled at the incongruity of the wooden counter in a metalsmith’s home. She wondered if a metal counter would be worth the trouble, then shrugged it away as needlessly expensive. As she looked at her scratched and pitted cutting board hanging on a nearby wall, she did wonder what a metal cutting board would be like, however.

“Is that wise?” Ardt asked, rolling his shoulders. He twisted first to his left and then right. There was a large, muffled cracking sound from Ardt’s back and he sighed in satisfaction. “He’s getting older.”

“He’s just turned nine today and she’s just seven,” Elva laughed as she added a bit more flour to the dough; it was still sticking slightly to the counter. “They’re still too young for that sort of thing, though I’ve oft seen the wheel’s turning in your daughter’s pretty, little head.”

“Oh?” Ardt asked, blinking his eyes as he caught up to the conversation. He frowned for a moment and then shrugged; his wife seemed to have this in hand – but he was concerned. He didn’t begrudge Yren and Issa time together – Issa could certainly do far worse than her adopted brother – but it seemed to him things shouldn’t really progress for at least a few years yet. “She seems young for it. Is he aware of her intentions?”

“He’s a boy,” Elva replied, rolling her eyes. “Of course not.” She stopped kneading and turned to her husband, a dangerous set to her face. “And don’t you go telling tales to him, either. Issa will let him know of their future when the time is right. Until then, he should remain clueless – like every other male. I swear you lot would not know to come out of the rain if it weren’t for women chiding you.”

“Getting a little wet never harmed anyone,” Ardt’s shrugged. His eyebrows, however, raised nearly into his hairline. “Has it gone that far already?”

“Not yet,” Elva shook her head as she turned back to her kneading. She bit her lip a moment and decided the dough was punched down enough. She picked it up and placed it back in the wooden bowl, covering it with a linen cloth and moving it to sit on a stand off to one side of the fire. Bread making was an art she’d spent seasons mastering. She’d been lucky that Arn Clerin had brewed fresh ale last night; the froth from his vat would make light, soft bread.

Ardt grunted, sitting himself down on the stool. “It might not be too late for her to change plans, then.”

Elva turned from the bowl of bread, looking at her husband anxiously. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s hard to explain, exactly,” he said slowly. Finally, he came to a decision and stood back up. He walked to the sword he’d stood by the door to his forge and picked it up.

“Here,” he said when he’d rejoined his wife. “Hold this.”

Elva looked at the sword and then up at her husband archly. She made no move to take the sword. “I’ll not be lifting that heavy thing.”

Ardt looked down at the sword and then back to his wife. He had the decency to look abashed. He returned to the wall and leaned the sword against it, picking up the smaller knife instead. “Fine. Then take the knife.”

Frowning, Elva took the blade. It felt wrong in her hand; like it was too light on the blade or too heavy in the hilt. She looked down at it; most blades gleamed in silver while others were shiny and black. This one was neither. The blade was shiny enough but it was a deep blue instead of silver or black.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You feel it, d’ya?” Ardt nodded. “It’s weighted wrong. The haft is too heavy or the blade is too light. It’s sharp enough so it will cut vegetables or meat – or skin, should it come to that – but it’s unbalanced and almost unusable to a fighting man. All of Yren’s blades turn out the same – knives, swords and such. Even his hammers and maces are off. I’ve tried to explain it to him but he just can’t seem to understand how weapons should feel.”

“Why is it blue?” She asked.

“I have no idea!” Ardt replied in exasperation, throwing his hands up. “I’ve watched him while he’s working. There’s no cause for it. He is a bit too quick to the oil and he works the metal a wee bit longer than I would – but it shouldn’t affect the color. How did he redden those steel roses we sold to the Earl for three Gilden? How did he color their stems green? I watched him while he did it – oh, not the whole time but for much of it. He was using scrap metal on it so I paid him little mind – it’s good for a smith to re-work scrap; it’s a cheap way to learn the craft. Yet, the colors were true when he was finished – and for the life of me, I can’t understand how. When I ask him, he just said he worked it until it was the color he wanted. The color he wanted! You can turn steel red by adding impurities but I’ve never heard of turning new steel green.”

Ardt slumped into his stool. “I tell you true, Elva, the boy has the makings of a master smith. In my prime I could not have crafted such realistic roses. He takes to his lessons like he’s meant for it and he’s never made the same mistake twice – until now. I asked him how he could make such beautiful roses but couldn’t find the balance for a simple blade and he told me that he could look at a rose and feel it; he could understand what it was. He said he couldn’t really feel the blades; he said he didn’t understand their true purpose.”

“That’s the answer, then,” Elva smiled, beginning to clean up the countertop. She reached for the venison she’d pulled from the house cellar a short while before.

Ardt waited for more but his wife’s smile turned impish as she started cutting the meat – with the imbalanced knife. Ardt noted the blade’s edge in satisfaction; it certainly was sharp enough and could serve as a cutting tool – but it was sloppy work to leave a blade unbalanced. Sloppy work or bad work.

He pursed his lips wondering if it’d be worth it to wait his wife out. He knew eventually she’d near explode with the idea she was withholding from him. He hated when she knew an answer but wouldn’t share it immediately. She always waited for him to come out and ask her for it.

“Love, if you see a solution to this problem then just share it,” Ardt sighed, his eyes rising to the ceiling. “I’ve gone over and over it. I’ve worked with him for the past two months on making different blades so he’d know how they looked and felt – it has been no use. In times of relative peace such as this, not knowing how to craft a weapon is fine – but war eventually comes. If he can’t learn this, I’m afraid he’ll never make even a mediocre smith.”

Elva shook her head. “He can’t understand the feel of a blade because he’s never had cause to use one. He’s a boy so I’m sure he’s played with wooden sticks, using them as a sword or cudgel, but the feel of a stick is not the feel of steel – you’ve told me that often enough.”

“That’s the problem,” he said. “I don’t see the solution. I’ve tried to show him some swordcraft but I’m afraid I know none; I’ve never been more than a blacksmith. What I do know of swordcraft is what I’ve learned on my own – I’m not sure how to teach that.”

“You can’t,” Elva chuckled. “So, you send him to one who can.”

“You want to send him away?”

“Men!” Elva shook her head, imploring the gods in the sky – or at least, her ceiling. “And they wonder why we have to lead them along by the nose.” She turned her face to her husband, her voice taking on the tone of a teacher instructing a slow student. “Is there perhaps someone near who might know swordcraft?”

“Well, there’s Sir Givens he...”

“And what does Sir Givens do, pray tell?” Elva interrupted her husband. Ardt, however, was beginning to smile in understanding.

“He teaches...”

“Exactly,” Elva laughed triumphantly. “Work out a deal with Sir Givens – give him a discount on his next sword or practice sword or whatever. In return, have him teach the boy swords and shields – whatever Sir Givens can teach him – two nights a week. Use a Gilden or two Yren brought in for those steel roses if need be. Yren will learn the proper use of a sword which should aid him in crafting them, Sir Givens gets some coin – one way or the other – and you get an apprentice who can forge swords. Everyone wins.”

Ardt got up off his stool and approached his wife. “Have I mentioned to you how beautiful you are when you’re schooling me?”

Elva snuggled in as Ardt wrapped his arms around her, tilting her head up for a kiss. The two melded for a time, their lips pressed together and their tongues lightly dueling. Finally, after some minutes, Elva pulled back. “Save some for this evening, my strong man. For now, why don’t you head over to Sir Givens and see about Yren’s schooling; I’d like him to be well established before Issa decides to take him to hand.”

“The water’s getting cold,” Issa said. Her long, blonde hair streamed down her face, matted against the sides from a thorough washing. Her soft, sky-blue eyes watched her companion – but she was always watching him. He never noticed – or, at least, he never seemed to notice. Her mom had told the girl that was the way of boys – and even men. On some things, like smithing, they could know a great deal but when it came to females they were lost. Her mother had laughed and called it a necessary advantage.

“That’s what happens when water sits out over-long,” Yren said with a smile. He kept his thick, black hair short, like Ardt. The smith had told him they could pull his hair back if Yren wanted to grow his hair long but long hair was dangerous around a smithy. Yren had opted for shorter hair of just a few inches, slightly longer than Ardt kept his.

His words irritated Issa. She hated it when he reminded her of how young she was. “I know standing water cools, Yren. I’m not some child!”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Yren objected.

“What way did you mean it then?” Issa pouted. “I mean, if not in the ‘she’s just some stupid little girl who wouldn’t know that standing water cools’ way?”

“I didn’t mean it any way,” Yren back-pedaled. “I was just teasing; that’s all! I’m sorry!”

Issa shook her head. “No. I’m sorry, Yren. Really, I’m just tired of being treated like a little girl. I’m seven. I’m not a little girl. Momma says I’m becoming a woman.”

“I mean no offense but you are a little girl still,” Yren couldn’t help but say. He shifted uncomfortably. “Whatever you’re becoming, you’re not there yet.”

“I know,” Issa groaned. “It’s still not fair to remind me!”

Once again, Yren’s hand absently went to the pouch at his neck. He fingered it as he sat, soaking in the water. For whatever reason, the bag never seemed to get wet. He wondered about it almost as much as he wondered about his parents’ rings. Gelbin’s note had called them special and when he looked at them he sometimes thought he could see a pattern hovering in the air in front of them – but it was always elusive and most of the time he felt he was just imagining things.

He sighed as he sat. The water was cooling but still he soaked. He was done with his bath but, as was customary, he waited for Issa to finish.