Chapter 07

Ardt stood to the side of the doorway in a slight cubby formed by the door’s wall and a metal shelf. The shelf was heavy with ore and scrap metal waiting to be melted and used but it wasn’t the contents of the shelves that held Ardt’s eye. He watched in wonder as his young apprentice worked the metal, smoothing it with gloved fingers dripping with a mix of oil and flux. The boy had created the mixture himself, pulping olives to extract their oil and mixing it with finely crushed potash salts, crushed charcoal and limestone shavings in a complex formula only the boy understood. He worked it into a paste, lined his gloves with it and spread it across the metal gently – almost lovingly.

The young man had forged a batch of gaussteel – what was commonly referred to as ghost-steel – and was turning it into a sword. He’d finished the hilt yesterday, crafting it out of gilded steel; gaussteel was too expensive to warrant using it for the hilt. He’d worked long into the night, heating and carving designs into it with a tool he called a ‘stylus’ and then bathing the hilt in acid to cool it. Ardt had been speculative of the process – he, as his father and grandfather – used varying, hand-crafted molds to sculpt metal into whatever they wished, then brushed and filed them until they were perfect. Yren did use molds for shape but then added to them with his stylus and acid wash. The results were phenomenal and intricate.

Ardt never begrudged Yren his lessons with Sir Givens. Not even when, three seasons earlier, Sir Givens asked to expand Yren’s hours at the domen – the sword and shield training grounds – to Seventhday evenings and several hours during the day on Firstday. At first, Ardt had been against the idea but the nearly two seasons Yren had already spent at the domen by that point had helped him produce some fantastic blades and beautifully functional hammers – blades and hammers which, if Ardt were to be truthful with himself, were better than anything he’d ever made. The boy was an artist, of this Ardt could not doubt. The blades he made, short or long, sword or knife, were fantastic and intricate while still made quickly and completely functional. The hammers he made, long or short, metal handle or wood, contained delicate features while still able to perform their purpose.

Besides, he didn’t seem to find any loss of productivity from the boy. Yren still seemed to take his time, to forge every blade and pot and tub and awl and horseshoe with an almost unnatural focus and determination, but never fell behind on work – sometimes working later into the night to ensure he accomplished what was asked of him. He never complained, never tried to get out of work, never dawdled; he was as dedicated to his craft as Ardt could hope and still found time to spend with Sir Givens.

The sword Yren was working on now was special. He was using a new technique, one he’d been practicing with for months. He started with a mold for a blade that was so thin as to be unusable. Next, Yren added to the sword, folding it with more thin layers of steel that were just past molten, shaping it as it cooled. Over and over, he worked the sword until it was as thick as a normal blade. Ardt had laughed when the boy had first tried it; firing metal that many times would make it brittle and unusable.

Ardt stopped laughing when one of the boy’s practice blades, when complete and sharpened, sliced straight through a steel blade made by Ardt himself. For some reason, the process of folding the steel over and over actually made it stronger.

Now, the boy was following the same process with gaussteel. Gaussteel was a combination of kern – a metal ore found and mined only in the Mystral Mountains – charcoal and iron. Kern itself forged into a brittle metal that was near useless for any real purpose. When forged with charcoal and iron, it became a near silver, mirror-like metal that was many times stronger than steel and almost impossible to melt; gaussteel swords had survived dragon attacks and even molten lava.

Kern was very expensive and heavily regulated by the crown. It was actually an act of high treason to ship the ore outside of Wenland just as it was to trade in gaussteel outside the kingdom; the superior metal had saved the kingdom often throughout the past few hundred seasons since it was discovered. Such an advantage was worth keeping. Ardt had heard tales of lives being lost during wars just to retrieve the precious blades and armors.

Yren was aware Ardt was watching him. He was always aware. He couldn’t explain exactly how but he always seemed to know when someone was watching him. At first, it had bothered him but now he was able to shrug it off.

Ardt hadn’t been happy when Yren had started using the new process – and the boy couldn’t tell the older man the metal itself had spoken to him and explained the technique. He couldn’t tell his adopted father the metal often spoke to him, though it didn’t always make sense. It talked of things which had been and things which would be – but he only understood the words it spoke about things which were now.

He also couldn’t explain to Ardt the way he could feel the metal with his fingers, the way he could tell where there was the slightest imperfection or problem. He couldn’t explain how he could literally feel his way through the metal, knowing when it was done – knowing what it wanted of him.

He certainly couldn’t tell Ardt the metal had told him he’d need to start soon on two new blades made of gaussteel but turned a certain way, ordered a certain way, empowered a certain way. He couldn’t tell Ardt the metal had instructed him on how to ‘word’ the blades, to carve them with symbols only the metal knew. He couldn’t tell Ardt he would have to make armor after the blades, armor imbued a certain way, given power by the touch of his fingers and the engraving of the symbols.

He couldn’t tell Ardt any of this – not only because Ardt wouldn’t believe him and might even take him away from his beloved forge, but also because the metal had cautioned him against it. The metal was his friend, had always seemed to be his friend. He had to listen to it.

Ardt watched the young man as he tapped imperfections from the blade. Yren handled each fold exactly the same - fold the molten metal, tap it into shape, then wipe it carefully with the oil flux by fingertip. Turn the blade over and start again.

Ardt couldn’t help but reflect on the changes in the young man since he and Elva had brought the boy from the orphanage. He was taller now, of course, a bit taller than Ardt himself and his shoulders were sloping arches, his arms thick with muscled sinew. His black hair was still cut short – a curse of the forge – but his jaw had firmed, his cheekbones grown more prominent and his bright blue eyes had grown more piercing.

The boy turned young man was definitely clever. One of the greatest perils Ardt faced as a blacksmith was the loss of his eyesight; it had happened to his father and his grandfather and Ardt had always known it would happen to him. The hours of staring at molten metals, the sparks from hammering on metal, the heat searing from flame – each would take their toll until Ardt would end up blind or nearly blind in his dotage. It was inevitable.

Yren didn’t believe in inevitability. One day, while walking through the village on some errand or another, he’d caught sight of some fine, dark, smoky-hued glass vases in the glass-blowers shop. Two days later, he visited the shop with some of the money he’d collected over time – Ardt was generous enough to give him a small part of every item he crafted that sold; an allowance of sorts to buy little things and to save for when he’d want his own smithy. The result was a thick, smoky glass circlet that surrounded his head and sat on his nose.

Yren’s first attempt lasted three days before breaking while he was hammering some metal; evidently the constant movement managed to crack the glass. Yren ended up with a nasty – but temporary - scratch from his scalp to his neck. He didn’t give up.

The next version was a metal contraption which resembled a figure eight and held two new pieces of thick, smoky glass within the circles of the eight. Loops were attached to the top and bottom of the eight so that, when the figure eight sat on its sides over his eyes and on his nose, the loops were on either side of his face. He attached string to the loops and tied them behind his head.

This was much better but still imperfect. The knots on the back of his head had a tendency to loosen and the contraption kept slipping down his face. It was a distraction that a blacksmith couldn’t afford.

The next version improved on the figure eight model by attaching arms instead of loops. The arms stretched back and sat on Yren’s ears, curling slightly behind them. The contraption was better than before but a blacksmith’s face is constantly bathed in sweat; this made the thing slippery and it slipped off his nose and broke.

The final version was the figure eight with the long arms but the arms had a loop and used buckles to hold themselves tight behind the boy’s ears. Yren added a thin leather layer around the figure eight which pressed against his face, cutting out most outside light. The things looked silly and still had a tendency to slip slightly but not enough to cause problems and they protected his eyes from the searing glare of the forge and from sparks that might strike his eyes. Yren had produced a second pair as a gift to Ardt and, while it took a bit of getting used to, he had to admit that his eyes felt better at the end of the day than they’d ever felt before.

Yren held up the sword he was working on, pulling Ardt out of his memories. Ardt couldn’t help but gasp. Gaussteel was bright silver and could be shined to a high gleam. The sword Yren held, however, was a dark, rich blue, the color of the sky in early evening, and it didn’t gleam so much as it actually glowed, seemingly with its own source of light.

Ardt had tried to duplicate the way Yren managed to color metals in blues and reds and yellows and greens but he’d never been successful. He’d always thought the colors were imperfections, things Yren added to his flux that turned the metal different colors. Ardt had tried using Yren’s flux, however, and he’d never managed a single color beyond the silver or gray. How Yren managed to color the metal was as great a mystery as the way Yren seemed to focus on the metal, or the way he seemed to stroke it lovingly.

Ardt watched as Yren took the hilt with tongs and stuck it into the forge, firing it red-hot then setting it gently on the anvil. Then, the young man did the same with the blade, joining it to the hilt. Finally, he doused it with water to quickly cool it.

Ardt didn’t imagine the flash; he couldn’t have. He’d seen lights from the forge before and he swore that the light came from the anvil and not the forge. It wasn’t reflected, either; reflected light was easily recognizable – more a glow than a true flash. Besides, reflected light would be yellow – not the flash of blue Ardt had seen.

He stepped out of the house almost involuntarily; like all blacksmiths, his forge was open air though covered for the most part in a long roof for shade. The movement caught Yren’s eye and the boy looked up. Seeing Ardt, his face opened into a wide smile.

“I’ve finished it!” He called out, reaching down and raising the sword. Ardt noticed that it was still blue but there was no glow to it anymore. “I think Sir Givens will find this to be a fine blade. I only hope it serves him well.”

“I’m sure it will, Yren,” Ardt smiled but it did not quite erase the confusion in his eyes. “I’m sure Sir Givens will like it.” He paused, looking from the blade to the young man. “It’s almost time for supper, however. Wrap the sword in woolskin and then put it in the cellar with the rest of the finished works. You can sharpen it and talk to Julo about a leather scabbard or sheath tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Yren smiled, rushing over to the workbench where he’d already laid out a skin of wool. The boy carefully wrapped the blade in it and then moved to the trap door in the middle of the smithy. He pulled the iron rung to open the door and then quickly moved down the steps to the large, dug out basement. The very back was made of a large rocky outcropping; Ardt had told him it had been a cave at first but his grandfather had turned it into a cellar back when the smithy was first built.

Ardt turned and almost made it back through the door before he turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Ardt called loudly; the flooring over the basement was thick and strong and he wanted to be sure the boy heard him. “Be sure to bathe – Elva’s already prepared your bath – and put on clean clothes; Elva should have left some in the bath chamber. We’ll have a guest tonight.”

Yren frowned as he put his clothes on. Someone pretty important must be coming for dinner; Elva had laid out his worship clothes. Hasp wasn’t a large enough village to warrant a real temple of any denomination. Instead, the village meeting hall was set aside for a few hours on Seventhday and a few on Firstday; only four of the twelve gods were worshipped within Hasp. He joined the family at Deia’s prayers on Seventhday at 13 hours and he knew Burr’s prayers were after Deia’s. Tyln had the largest gathering at 12 hours on Firstday and Galal was worshipped after.

Just as the village wasn’t large enough to warrant a real temple to any one god or goddess, neither did it warrant an actual priest or priestess. Instead, a Deacon or Deaconess – a follower of the religion who took spiritual classes on the average of once a quarter – led the prayers under the auspices of the Priest or Priestess with whom they studied.

At least, that was how Deia’s worship was done and Yren assumed the others followed similar steps. Well, a Tyln Priestess did come out once a season just after the winter solstice and there had been a Deian Priest who had come out twice in the past nine seasons but those were exceptions rather than rules.

Regardless of who led worship, however, Elva had insisted they have a special, finely made set of clothing to wear during the weekly prayers. She laid them out in the morning of every Seventhday just before preparing an early lunch. The five of them would eat around 11 hours, wash and dress and then walk the short distance to the meeting hall for prayers. There were never more than a handful of families – the village was rather small, maybe a few hundred permanent people in total – and Yren couldn’t help but notice that the clothes he was wearing were far better than the other families. After prayer the clothes were carefully taken off, folded neatly and returned back to the special wicker basket in which they were kept; once a month, the basket would disappear for a day or two while the clothes were cleaned. The clothes changed as he grew out of them but the routine didn’t.

He felt out of place as he walked the short distance to the main room; he shared a room with Teran, Issa and Bena in the back of the house on the right side. In the back of the house, on the left side, were Elva and Ardt’s room and, in the middle of both, was a smaller room where the bathing tub was kept. He took the few steps from the bathing room door to the house proper shrugging his shoulders; the shirt Elva had made him was getting a little tight again. He would have to tell her to see if she could let it out a little or get him a new one.

Yren stopped as he entered the main room. The table was set like it was everyday but this time there was an extra place. Ardt, Elva and their daughters were seated – but so, too, was Vana Durthwight.

Vana was a young woman; she’d seen perhaps twenty seasons or so – perhaps a bit more. Her hair was the darkest brown Yren had ever seen and it fell in waves around skin that seemed as pale as a blooming white orchid. Within that pale expanse were gray eyes that seemed to light with their own inner fire, set above a nose that sloped gently down to lips that were the color of roses. She was one of the most beautiful women in the entire village, standing five-feet, eight inches tall with a generous bosom and a soft expanse across her rear. She was thin for all that, making her top and bottom seem all the more incredible.

She’d been married to Bayan Durthwight for a few seasons before the poor man had had a deadfall crush him. Goodman Durthwight – as Yren knew him – was a lumberman; falling trees were a miniscule but real occupational hazard. The man had been out on a Firstday, marking trees for cutting – a good lumberman knew not to take too much from the forest lest there be no trees in the future – when a deadfall he’d marked decided to give way before he could cut it. Another lumberman, Goodwoman Masick, had found him the following day.

Yren had no idea why Goodwoman Durthwight was here. When he’d been forced to wear his prayer outfit, he’d assumed the Baron or Baroness were coming to dinner, possibly to discuss a new commission; it had happened before but normally Elva and Ardt had fed him and the girls early and ordered them to remain in their room for the night while they hosted their landlords. He’d even considered perhaps it was the Viscount or Viscountess or even the Earl or Countess. To be dressed up like this for a Goodwoman had never entered his mind.

Strangely, they were all wearing their prayer clothes. Even Goodwoman Durthwight was dressed in her finery. He couldn’t understand why and his face showed his confusion.

“Joyous birthday, Yren,” Elva smiled as she stood.

Yren was shocked. He’d never paid much attention to months and seasons. He knew the months, of course; to know the gods was to know the months – Tylnae for Tyln, Kyrat for Kyr, Galalae for Galal, Oberat for Ober, Vystrat for Vystra, Yanae for Yan, Mephaef for Meph, Xat for X, Ta’at for Ta, Burrae for Burr, Deiat for Deia and Dagahae for Dagah – but he’d never paid much attention to them passing. In his world, he was concerned only with today and things were ordered as such; he’d started on Sir Givens’ sword five days earlier and he needed to start on shoes for one of Goodman Rivens’ horses in two days. He knew that seasons passed but he just didn’t pay attention to them.

“It’s my birthday?’

Elva laughed. “Yes. Of course it is. The tenth day of Xat.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t realized it was the month of Xat – much less, knew the actual day of the month. His lips started curling up at the edges but then curled down suddenly. His face grew even more confused. “How old am I?”

Ardt stood and walked over to Yren, clapping his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Yren, I know we don’t celebrate birthdays – Deia’s teachings say not to glory in the passing of a season – but this is a big one for you. You’re fourteen seasons, now; you’ve reached your majority.”

Yren’s face looked stricken and his confusion deepened as his head tilted towards the floor. “I-I-I knew it was – it was ... coming. I just – I didn’t – I didn’t think it was this soon.”

He looked up, looking from Ardt to Elva. “Does this – I mean must I – am I going to have to leave now? I-I-I like it here.”

Ardt smiled and pulled the young man into a hug, unusual for Ardt since he was not big on displaying his affection. “Of course not, Yren! You’ll have to strike out on your own eventually – but that day has not yet come. You’ll know when you are ready. For now, nothing much has changed, really. You’ve become an adult so you can marry and start your own smithy should you choose – but you are welcome to stay here, with us, for as long as you’d like.”

“Oh.” Yren’s word was a sigh of relief. He’d been fairly frugal with his money, knowing that some day he would need to strike out on his own, so he certainly had enough to leave if he needed but he just wasn’t ready to leave quite yet. It was like working a blade; he’d know when his time here was finished. It just wasn’t finished yet; there was still something missing to it.

Elva hooked her arm into the young man’s and drew him to his seat at the table, Ardt’s arm around his shoulder. “Come. Let’s sit and celebrate your transition from boy to man.”

The table was generously rectangular; there’d been ample room for the six of them so fitting one more was no problem. Ardt and Elva sat on the table ends as normal but where Yren normally sat to Ardt’s right, Elva directed him to the seat on her left – directly across from Goodwoman Durthwight and next to Teran instead of directly across from her. Instead, Issa was seated on Ardt’s right and Bena was between Issa and Goodwoman Durthwight.

“It is nice to see you again, Goodwoman Durthwight,” Yren said politely. He was always mindful of his manners but most especially around Elva. The woman frowned deeply upon any slight or rudeness to guests. She even made him be polite to Teran – usually.

“Please, Yren,” the Goodwoman smiled, “you can call me Vana.” She caught his glance at Elva and chuckled. “It’s okay, now. You’re a man and, as a man, sometimes it’s appropriate to call familiar people by their first name. This is especially true when you’re talking to friends.”

Yren’s eyes grew wide and he looked to Elva surreptitiously. He had friends, of course, though not many; he worked long hours at the smithy and most of his free time was taken by Sir Givens. He counted Sir Givens’ daughter, Bremer, as his friend but not her older brother, Arclad, who had left this past season to follow in Sir Givens’ footsteps and become a knight. He even had a kind of friendship with Andwynn, Bremer’s younger sister – though the way she was constantly looking for attention set his teeth on edge.

He realized that Issa behaved similarly; maybe it was a young female thing. He certainly didn’t understand it. Then again, he didn’t understand much of anything that had to do with females.

Of course, he considered Issa a friend. He even considered Bena a friend, now that she’d mostly grown out of her babyish, manipulative ways. He was closer to them than he was to any others, though their time together had been cut very short thanks to their collective apprenticeships. They were different, though; they were his sisters.

Issa had been apprenticed to a seamstress – and she was very good. She had an eye for color and design that had created quite fascinating dresses that had sold for a good deal of coin not only around the village but even to the Baroness t’Hasp. She’d even sold a few to the Viscountess t’Allur and one to the Duchess of Wyst herself!

Bena was a different matter. She’d been taking lesson’s from Goodman Nordrey, a Deacon of Tyln. She wasn’t happy with what she was learning but the Baron bent his knee to Tyln so the Church of Tyln was very strong in the Lyx Barony. Yren knew that Ardt paid tithe to the Baron every month; it was the rent for Ardt’s shop and home. As such, he couldn’t refuse the Church; the Baron set the tithe and could increase it at his leisure. If he increased it to the point that Ardt couldn’t pay it, they’d all become debtors and the Baron could assign them whatever duties he wanted until they erased their debt. Bena would become a priestess anyway.

In Wenland, the crown ultimately owned all of the land; the leasing of that land – what most commoners considered a tax – allowed the crown to operate. The crown leased land to the six Grand Dukes and the Grand Dukes, in turn, leased parcels of their allotted land to the Dukes beneath them. And so it went, from Dukes to Marquesses to Counts (or, the more stylish, Earls) to Viscounts to Barons and finally to the common landholders.

In the coming season, Bena would be taken to a local Abbey of Tyln – likely the Abbey at Illster – where she would be isolated in study of Tyln and his mysteries for four seasons or more. When she was finally released from the Abbey, she would be a full Priestess of Tyln.

Elva looked over at Yren. She could see the young man was deep in contemplation though she didn’t know the subject. She assumed he was trying to come to grips with the fact he was now considered a man and he was trying to reconcile the changes. Trying desperately to control the smile that was threatening to escape, she tried to ease his mind. “It’s fine, Yren. You’re a man now and, while the manners I’ve taught you will hold in good stead, there are ... certain things ... that must change.”

Issa snorted at this, her face sullen. Elva raised an eyebrow at her middle daughter. She had pulled the younger girl aside and tried to explain what was going to happen this evening but her daughter had not taken the news well. Elva had thought the girl would hold her tongue and at least be civil through the meal but she’d obviously been mistaken. She probably should have taken the young girl to task but she had problems doing so; she understood her daughter’s misgivings and she couldn’t say for sure that they were unfounded.

As usual, the meal was delicious. Elva had prepared thick steaks, carrots and peas – one of Yren’s favorite meals though, to be fair, Yren’s favorite meal seemed to be the one in front of him at any given time. He had always been effusive with his praise no matter what Elva set before him. Steak was a rare treat since beef was so expensive. Hasp had farms filled with pigs, goats, chickens and lambs by the score but the closest cattle farm was just about a day’s journey to the north and cut meat went bad fairly quickly unless cured or smoked. The only time they were able to have steak was when the Baron bought a cow or two and had them butchered, selling the excess meat in the market.

“This is quite delicious,” Teran remarked as she finished another bite of the tender meat. They had eaten mostly in silence since the beginning of the meal, something rather unusual for the family. There had been some small talk around the table but it had mostly been pleasantries and compliments about the meal. It was one of the most uncomfortable dinners Yren could ever remember. “It tastes of such a rare seasoning, Mother. Wherever did you get it?”

Yren knew that something was amiss. Teran was trying to make a point; the tone of her voice and the use of ‘Mother’ rather than her normal ‘Mom’ were dead giveaways. She was either trying to make a point or needle someone and who was there to needle? Elva? She had complimented the woman.

“Thank you, Teran,” Elva replied but there was an undertone of steel in her voice that Yren couldn’t quite place. “Vana was nice enough to provide some herbs and seasonings.”

Yren noted that Issa’s face darkened at the news but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. It was as if there were a whole other conversation going on right around him, hidden in the plain words. He was baffled.

“What do you think, Yren?” Elva asked. “Do the seasonings make the meat taste any better?”

Yren caught Issa grimacing out of the corner of his eye. He was bemused with this second conversation and wanted to join in though he couldn’t figure out how. Instead, he just spoke simply. “They do add something to the meal,” Yren admitted, turning to Vana. “Thank you so much for bringing them, Goodwoman Durthwight.”

“May I be excused?” Issa said, suddenly rising and pushing her chair back with her legs. “I fear something I ate has upset my stomach.”

Yren frowned and sat back in his chair. Obviously, he’d said the wrong thing – but he wasn’t even aware of the topic of the second conversation, much less what his words were interpreted as.

“Of course, dear,” Elva replied, surprising Yren even more. Normally, Issa would have been reprimanded severely for such rudeness. Elva, though, was smiling at her daughter, a touch of sympathy in her eyes. Yren couldn’t help but wonder if maybe Issa was really sick – maybe that was what the hidden conversation was about. He only had to see the smug look on Teran’s face to realize he was wrong again. He’d missed something and he couldn’t help but feel that it was important.

He watched Issa leave and he could swear she had sobbed as she left the room. Was she really ill? “Should I look in on her, Elva? Maybe take her some grass water to help with her upset stomach?”

“No, Yren,” Elva smiled as she patted his hand. “I’m afraid her problem is more – female – in nature.”

Yren couldn’t help but look confused. He had no clue what that second conversation was about anymore. Worse, as he turned back to their guest, she looked distressed as well. Yren looked down at the meat. Had it gone bad?

“Perhaps I should call it a night as well, Elva. Ardt,” Vana said, pushing her meal forward. She favored Yren with a small, sad smile. “A most happy majority day, Yren.”

“Thank you, Goodwoman,” Yren replied with a tentative smile. He had no idea what was going on but it didn’t seem to be good.

“Yren, why don’t you walk Vana home?” Elva asked.

“Elva, I wouldn’t want to impose on him,” Vana replied, her eyebrows raised. Yren wondered if it were more of the hidden conversation.

“Nonsense,” Elva smiled. “He’s happy to do it, aren’t you Yren?”

Yren was startled. Elva had never asked him to walk someone home before. He wasn’t sure quite what to say. In the end, he decided to use his manners; they’d always been a good default position. “Of course. Please, Goodwoman Durthwight, it would be my pleasure.”