“Thou shalt not kill. Thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not covet, nor disrespect thy mother or thy father. Thou shalt not forsake thy God. Thou shalt remember the Holy Day.” And the last: “Thou shalt not lie.”
“In weaving these decrees through the very fabric of our lives, may we uphold our vows,” Mother Mabel continues. “May we act, always, with honor and rectitude.”
I clench my sweaty hands.Honor. What honor is there in abandoning a man to the forest, prey for whatever insidious creatures pass?
“May we abide devotedly by the faith. May we keep no secrets from the Father.”
My eyes snap open as the congregation stirs.
“And,” Mother Mabel intones, her gaze holding mine, “may we never lust for man’s flesh.”
2
LIFTING MY ARM, ISLAMthe hammer onto the smoldering metal. The discordant ring expands, then expires, crushed into silence beneath the sweltering heat of the forge.
Another strike. Back and shoulders tighten against the rising sting of exertion, but this, too, is familiar. Molten iron, shaped and cooled. The dagger, once complete, will be added to the rest awaiting transfer into Under. Though the tithe is months away, preparations have already begun.
Down falls the hammer. The work is never done. Sweat plasters long, red strands of hair to my neck and forehead. My cheeks flame scarlet—an unfortunate side effect of milk-pale skin.
While I work, I think of Carterhaugh. I think of the fair folk and their penchant for violence. An entire day has passed since I stumbled across that man in the wood. I told myself I would forget him, yet my thoughts reach for his battered face, the questions that plague me.
When the blade loses color, I return to the great slab of stone where the fire burns and shove the weapon into the smoking coals. I work the bellows surely. The contraption contracts, air punching outward, the coals flaring in response.
Hammer, reheat, hammer, reheat. The pattern will repeat itself until the dagger is properly profiled. Gripping the tang with my heavy tongs, I beat the metal against the face of the anvil. A chip flakesoff the blade’s edge, singeing the front of my cowhide apron. After another hour of hammering, I quench the dagger in a bucket of water. A spitting hiss seethes the air as the iron hardens, its structure stabilizing. I examine the blade from all angles. Its silvery sheen brightens like a star, and satisfaction warms me.
While the weapon cools on the table, I refocus on my surroundings. Night has fallen beyond the small, darkened doorway.
Dampness springs to my palms, though the heat has nothing to do with it. Evening Mass finished an hour ago, but I often return to the forge following service to work in the more favorable temperatures, with Mother Mabel’s permission. It’s silly, this fear of the darkness. My lantern provides more than enough light. I tell myself it is enough.
After untying my apron, I hang it on a hook near the doorway, then toss my leather toolbelt onto the table with a clatter. Lastly, extinguishing the fire. I stir the coals, watch the cooler air lick their searing edges until they begin to darken. Within minutes, the fire is out.
Outside, I set my lantern on the ground and plant my feet. In the shadow of the forge, I draw my dagger and begin to practice a short round of exercises. I stab and duck, striking high, driving low. Although my old swordsmithing mentor taught me the basics, it is Mother Mabel who demands that I whet my knife-fighting skills as I would a blade. Not many know she is an accomplished swordswoman.
Drenched in sweat, blood humming eagerly, I sheath my dagger and return to the main complex, hurrying toward its distant glow. The bathing chamber is empty at this hour, allowing me the rare opportunity to bathe in peace, without any snide comments about how I take up too much room.
I soak in the tub, sloughing the soot and grit from my body, before returning to the dormitory, my wet hair plaited, cool cotton whispering against my skin. The bell tolls the ninth hour—curfew.
The moment I enter my bedroom, I light the candle on my bedside table. Amber light warms the plaster walls. Like every dormitory in Thornbrook, mine is sparse. Very few personal possessions. The Text lies open on my desk, along with my journal.
All novitiates must share a room, but because I’m the bladesmith, coming and going at odd hours, I sleep alone in the eastern tower at the end of the hall. My window offers a view of the highlands to the north, and the strait—a dark line ruffled by white waves, twenty miles eastward—which separates Carterhaugh from a realm known as the Gray.
Text and journal in hand, I climb into bed and open my journal to the most recent entry, an entire page inked with last night’s musings.
I do not know where this man has come from, but I wonder.
I thumb the corner of the page pensively, then close the slim, leatherbound book. I’ve nothing more to add. The man remains a mystery.
Setting aside my journal, I complete my nightly prayers, ending with a mumbled, “Amen.” That leaves the Text. Seven sections comprise the complete liturgy: the Book of Fate, the Book of Night, the Book of Grief, the Book of Truth, the Book of Origin, the Book of Change, the Book of Power. These chapters are both history and moral compass, penned by the first of the Father’s followers: the bedrock upon which our faith is built.
Turning to the Book of Fate, I pick up where I left off yesterday. But the script may as well be freshly inked for how it blurs before me. I shut my eyes, think of the man lying in the wood, so still. His horribly disfigured face stamped into my mind.
My nature is not impulsive in the slightest. I am not the river’s current, cutting pathways into earth. I am the rock within the stream. The man is likely gone, dragged off by the beasts of Under, where only the truly insidious dare dwell, and yet—
My eyes snap open. The dark cuts shapes into the ceiling.
Easing onto my side, I stare at the flutter of candle flame. Here, safety. A small brightness. Yet sweat stings beneath my arms, as though my body has already sensed my mind’s intention. Night curtains Carterhaugh. These woods are not safe. But if I were to carry my lantern, surely that would be enough to guide me?
Cursing my soft heart, I toss off the blankets and throw on my cloak, my lantern gripped tightly in hand. As long as I return before dawn, Mother Mabel will be none the wiser.
