CHAPTER
26
ATIRA MARCHED OVER TO
THE BIG MAN AND stood there, silent, until he looked at
her.
She returned his
stare.
“Well, now.” Dunstan
straightened up and put his hands on his hips. “You still want to
try your hand, eh?”
“Yes,” Atira replied,
her eyes straying to the fire, where the metal was heating. “I want
to . . .” Her voice faltered, and she bit her lip, not certain how
to put the feeling into words.
The apprentices had
stopped their work, and the forge had gone silent but for the roar
of the fires.
Dunstan gave her a
long, considering look, then slowly nodded. “Well enough. But as I
said, this—” He gestured to the blade. “This is earned, m’girl. You
want to start, you start with the basics.” He turned and gestured.
“Garth, come here, lad. The rest of ya, get to work!”
The hammering started
back up as one of the lads came over, staring at Atira. “Yes,
master?”
Dunstan put his hand
on the boy’s shoulder, then looked over at Heath. “You’ve time for
this?”
Atira looked over her
shoulder at Heath. He gave her a smile. “There’s no problem. We’ve
some time.”
“Garth, Atira wishes
to learn,” Dunstan rumbled. “What’s the first lesson of the
forge?”
The boy frowned, then
grinned. “Same as we first learn as babes, master,” the boy
replied.
“And what’s that?”
Dunstan said.
“Hot.” The boy pumped
up his chest and deepened his voice. “It’s all hot. Assume it’s all
hot, and you can’t go wrong. Wear your apron. Lift everything with
tongs or use your gloves. Fire is our friend, but it’s also a
betraying backstabber who’ll turn on you in an instant and cost you
dear.”
Atira
nodded.
“Garth, this is your
apprentice,” Dunstan said. “Teach her your skill.”
“You’ll need an
apron,” Garth said. “I’ll get ya one.”
Atira didn’t smile,
though there were grins to be had around the shop.
“Atira,” Heath
called. He’d settled on a stool by Ismari’s worktable. “You’ll want
to take off your weapons and armor.”
Atira nodded and went
over, unbuckling her sword-belt as she went. She gave Heath a quick
look as she disarmed. “You don’t mind?”
“No, not at all.”
Heath leaned back against the wall. “Better this than dealing with
my mother and the wedding. But we can’t stay all
afternoon.”
Atira nodded,
starting to remove her leather armor. “Just give the word, and
we’ll go. I just want to try—”
“You can stop
stripping now.” Heath coughed and lowered his voice. “Or I am going
to have to challenge every male in this room to mortal
combat?”
Atira paused in the
middle of raising her undertunic. Her hands were just over her
breasts. She’d been so intent, she’d forgotten that Xyian women did
not . . .
Garth was standing in
front of her, mouth open, his eyes bulging.
Atira lowered her
tunic.
Heath’s eyes danced.
“Although it would be a sight to see—you wielding a hammer, your
breasts swaying and gleaming with—”
“Enough of that,”
Ismari said firmly.
“Yes, ma’am,” Heath
said meekly. But Atira noticed that he shifted on his stool,
adjusting himself. He’d just have to ache. She had other desires
for the moment.
She took the apron
from Garth, following him as she tied it on. It covered her chest
and was so long it brushed the tops of her boots. Made of thick
leather, it smelled of the forge, burnt and stained with soot. It
came with thick gloves.
“My job is nails,”
Garth said, leading her to his area in the corner. “But I’m
starting to practice on chain.”
“What is a nail?”
Atira asked.
Garth frowned at her
as if he thought she was teasing him. But his face cleared as he
showed her one. “This is. See the point? And the head?” He pointed
at the flat part.
Atira
nodded.
“So, first I make
sure my fire is hot enough.” Garth pointed at the small hearth by
his side.
Atira looked back at
the hearth where the apprentice was pumping the bellows, but Garth
shook his head. “No, no, we don’t need that hot a flame. Now, ya
feed this charcoal, ya see?” He reached into a bin at his feet and
pulled out a few pieces, feeding it to the flames. “But not too
much. We has ta buy charcoal, and you don’t want to burn so much
that the nails end up costing ya.” Garth looked at her seriously.
“Ya need to be fast and good to master this. Fast enough you don’t
waste the heat, but good enough you make quality,
understand?”
Atira
nodded.
“Well, then.” Garth
reached for his hammer and another tool. “Let me show you first.
You take a length of wrought iron.” He picked up a rod with a
gloved hand. “And you strike off just what ya need.” He tapped the
rod with a sharp blow. “Then put it into the fire for a heat,”
Garth said, “and you pound out the point.”
Atira watched as the
metal responded to Garth’s blows, tapering into a point. Garth
lifted the piece and thrust it into a bucket of water at his feet.
Steam rose with a great hiss.
“Then another heat.”
Garth thrust the other end of the nail into the fire with his
tongs. “And you make the head.” He waited a moment, pulled the nail
out, and placed it on the anvil. His hammer danced again, forming a
flat top. “Then ya cool it again,” he said, thrusting it back into
the bucket, then lifting it to show her. “It’s still hot,” he
cautioned as he set it down in a wooden box with other finished
nails. “But that’s it.” Garth grinned. “Easy, eh?”
“I thought that of
mounting a galloping horse, until I broke my leg,” Atira said
absently.
Garth’s eyes went
wide. “You can mount a galloping horse?”
“Show me again,”
Atira said.
Garth hammered out a
few more nails, then paused, wiping his brow with his wrist. “Now
you,” he said, holding out the hammer.
Atira reached for it,
taking it in her gloved hand.
HEATH WATCHED IN
AMAZEMENT AS ATIRA STOOD there, listening to the boy, concentrating
on his every word. He was even more amazed when she took up the
hammer and chisel and whacked at a piece of metal. She was an
amazing sight, striking the metal and then listening carefully as
the lad coached her.
“Surprised?” Ismari
said finally. She stood close by at her bench, finishing the polish
on the smaller of the rings.
“She always surprises
me,” Heath answered softly. “But this . . . this is
unexpected.”
“Ah.”
Heath glared at
Ismari. “And what does that mean?”
“Nothing.” Ismari
picked up the larger ring and started to polish it. “It just seems
to me that your lady friends in the past didn’t. Surprise you, that
is.”
Heath
snorted.
Ismari shrugged. “I
am simply making an observation.”
Heath smiled
ruefully. “Well, it doesn’t matter, Ismari. I doubt she’ll stay.
She’s talked about going back to the Plains. She doesn’t like the
city. Or our ways.”
“And she’s been in
the city for how long?” Ismari said. “Give it time, Heath. You
never know what—”
“Heath, look!” Atira
was standing before him, waving something in his face. “Look what I
did!” She was smiling, covered in sweat and soot, stinking of the
forge, wisps of her hair surrounding her head. Dunstan and Garth
stood behind her.
The nail was slightly
crooked, and the head didn’t really appear round, but Atira held it
up as if it were the Sword of Xy itself.
“Well, look at that.”
Heath plucked it from her gloved hand, then promptly dropped it.
“Damn!”
“It’s hot.” Atira
gave him an exasperated look, then knelt down to retrieve her
nail.
“I know, I know,”
Heath shook his hand, trying to ease the sting.
“Let me see it,”
Ismari said with a sigh. She grabbed his wrist. “Not bad. You had
the good sense to let go.”
“About all the sense
he has,” Dunstan laughed. “What does every apprentice learn, very
first thing?”
“It’s all hot!” came
the ringing cry from the lads.
Heath joined in the
laughter, even as Atira retrieved her creation from the
floor.
“Keep it, lady,”
Dunstan said. “As a memento of your day at our forge.”
IT WAS A BIT LATER,
WHILE ATIRA WAS PUTTING her armor back on, that Garth approached
with a few of the other lads behind him.
“My thanks for the
lesson, Garth of Xy.” Atira smiled at him as she strapped on her
sword-belt.
“You are welcome.”
Garth seemed nervous. “Lady, may I show you some of my work?” He
started talking faster, keeping an eye on Dunstan, who waited with
Heath and Ismari. “I’ve been practicing with my chain links, ya
see, and I was thinking—”
“Firelanders wear
armor,” one of the others blurted. He was smaller and younger than
Garth. “And they go around naked.”
“Let me tell it,
Laric,” Garth said. “See, lady, we wanted somethin’ to sell, and we
thought that maybe . . .” He put his bundle on the worktable and
pulled back the leather. “See—”
“What’s this, then?”
Dunstan’s voice boomed, and the lads all flinched.
“Armor,” Atira said.
“At least, I think it’s armor.” She lifted a piece from the pile of
chain on the table. “It seems rather . . . small.”
“What in the blazes?”
Ismari asked as she lifted another piece. “What is this supposed to
be?” She held up the piece with two hands, and a faint blush came
over her cheeks. “Oh.”
“And this is the top,
I suppose?” Atira asked. “Not sure what it’s supposed to protect.”
She raised an eyebrow at Ismari, who laughed.
“Or how you keep it
from chafing,” she sputtered. “Really, boys. I think perhaps your
imaginations have run away with you.”
Heath, Dunstan, and
the lads were all standing there as if struck by
lightning.
Atira quirked up the
corner of her mouth and held the piece in her hand up to her
chest.
The men twitched.
Atira was sure Garth was going to faint dead away.
Atira and Ismari
exchanged a glance as she returned her piece to the pile. “Well,”
Atira said, taking a look at the links. “This seems well made. You
fastened each link?”
Silence.
She looked back over
her shoulder. “Garth? You fastened each link?”
The lad blinked.
“Yes. Yes, I did. It’s practice, ya understand?” he blurted out,
his face aflame. “We made a bunch of them.”
“Oh, I think I
understand, all right.” Atira chuckled.
“But they’re of no
practical use,” Ismari said. “You should be making full sets, not
these scraps.”
“I’d give anything to
see you wear it,” Garth whispered, his voice cracking.
“You aren’t the only
one,” Heath muttered.
Dunstan
laughed.
Atira glanced at
Heath, thought for a moment, then smiled at the lads. “I’ll take
one.”
HEATH HUSTLED ATIRA
BACK TO THE CASTLE. HE had to keep her moving since she was still
caught up in the magic of fire and metal, and talking of the forge.
It wasn’t until they were standing in front of Marcus that he
realized his mistake. They should have taken the time to at least
wash.
“What in the name of
the elements have you been doing?” Marcus glared at them as he
opened the door of the Queen’s chamber. “You stink. And not of
sex.”
There was a horrified
gasp from behind him. Marcus rolled his eye.
Heath already knew
his mother was in the room; the guards had warned him that she was
on a rampage. “Lara sent us on an errand,” Heath said calmly as he
ushered Atira in before him.
Anna sat with three
of her ladies, pins in their mouths, staring at Atira as if she had
swords drawn and was screaming a battle cry. Anna’s mouth was open
in a look of pure horror.
Yveni and Aymu stood
nearby, clothed in plain shifts, looking miserable. Heath suspected
that the entire “dress for the wedding” idea was not going over
well.
His mother’s look of
horror melted into one of grim determination. “You both smell like
the armory,” Anna growled. “I need you clean if we’re to have you
ready in time. Best to get yourself off to the baths,” she said to
Atira.
Heath opened his
mouth, but Anna cut him off with a glare. “Not with you, young man. Amyu and Yveni need to
bathe; they can take her.” Anna gestured to her assistants, who
started to remove pieces of cloth from their victims. “Lara and
Keir are still sleeping. Heath, we’ll fit you a new tunic.
Now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Heath
said, accepting his role of sacrifice as Yveni, Amyu, and Atira
made their escape. He waited until the door closed behind them.
“Mother, you can fit me if you wish, but I won’t be wearing a new
tunic. I’ll be armored.”
Marcus huffed in
agreement.
“Armor? For a
wedding?” Anna scowled at him, but then she frowned as he simply
met her gaze with the same determination. “You think—”
A knock at the door
saved him. Detros peeked in and gave him a relieved look. “There ya
be, lad. A word, if you would.”
Heath gave his mother
a smile and a shrug and slipped out before she could prevent
him.
“I SWEAR TO YOU, IT
HAS BEEN ENDLESS,” YVENI complained. “She has been at us since the
Warprize secluded herself.”
“I don’t think she
and the Warlord are napping,” Amyu agreed. “I think they are
hiding.”
“But it’s just
clothes,” Atira said. “You try it on, and it fits or
doesn’t.”
“Oh no,” Yveni turned
down another hallway and led them to a set of circular stairs.
“They want to sew them tight to the body at the top, and long and
flowing at the bottom.” She shuddered. “They have
pins.”
“I am not wearing one
of those things,” Amyu declared. “How in the name of the skies am I
supposed to deal with skirts and swords?”
“We must,” Atira said
as they trotted down the steps. “The Warprize wishes it so, and how
can we not?”
“Where did you go?”
Yveni asked. She wrinkled her nose. “You do stink.”
“Someplace amazing,”
Atira said. As Yveni opened a door, they spilled out into a
hallway. “A place where they wield the very elements to create
metal. Weapons, and other things.” She paused, and held out her
hand. “Look,” she demanded. “I made this.”
Yveni and Amyu
gathered around and stared at the nail in her hand. “You made
that?” Amyu asked in astonishment.
“Yes,” Atira said.
She struggled to explain the feeling that gave her. The rising
excitement of the idea of bending metal to her will. “They taught
me. They showed me to use fire and tools to make it.”
Yveni gave her a look
of amazement. “They make weapons?”
“Swords,” Atira said.
“Knives, and other things. I thought they commanded the elements
themselves, but the elder told me they only work together. That no
one commands the elements.”
Yveni shook her head
in disbelief. “A city-dweller understands that? These people amaze
me.”
Atira looked at her.
“They are amazing, aren’t they?” She hadn’t really thought of it
like that, but it was a truth. She closed her hand over her nail.
“Now, where are those baths?”
“SO IT HAS COME TO
THIS.” DURST EASED BACK IN his chair and extended his
leg.
Beatrice knelt before
him, her full skirts billowing around her, and pulled on his boot
for him.
With some effort,
Durst pulled that leg back and extended the other one. “Lanfer says
that all is in place, my love. The bribed castle guards, the
sell-swords we’ve hired, the other lords who have offered their
support. All is in readiness.”
Beatrice’s face
remained neutral, her expression bland, her eyes vague. As it had
been since Degnan’s death. The only time Durst saw her eyes flicker
with any emotion was when there was talk of vengeance.
But she didn’t speak.
Not anymore.
Durst pointed his toe
to aid her. “In some ways, I welcome this. It seems appropriate.
When this tale is told, it will be a tale of a son avenged, and a
kingdom saved.”
Beatrice rose and
walked slowly to the table to pick up his embroidered tunic,
shaking out the wrinkles that were not there.
“We tried reason,
Beatrice.” Durst shifted to the edge of the chair and then used
both hands to push off, pausing as he came upright. The weakness of
his body was never more obvious than when he stood. “We tried talk.
We tried appealing to her morals, her religious beliefs. So, let it
be blades. Xy will be reborn in the blood shed this
night.”
Beatrice held out his
garment, and Durst struggled into the sleeves. She came around to
stand before him, her face placid and serene. She tugged at the
tunic, then started to fasten it for him.
“A son for a son,
beloved,” Durst said softly. “The Firelanders will die this night.
Lara will be our prisoner and live long enough to bear the child.”
He raised his neck to allow her to adjust the collar. “We will tell
the kingdom that she has died in childbirth.” He shrugged his
shoulders, getting comfortable. “We’ll take the child from her body
and raise it as a proper Xyian, won’t we, dear one?”
Beatrice stood before
him, the sheath of his bejeweled dagger across her palms, her eyes
glittering with hate.
“Thank you, my dear.”
Durst kissed her cool and impassive cheek.