The shards inside my chest grind painfully. I gave all of myself only to learn I knew nothing of him, this Bringer of Spring.
“I came to you, Father, because I fear something terrible has befallen Zephyrus.” As my throat cinches, my voice pitches high, ridding itself of the confession. “He is a man grown, far older and more experienced than I, but something bids me to go to him. I don’t know what to do,” I whisper, hunching farther over the railing, nearer to the altar and its trio of candles. “Tell me what to do,please.”
I am not certain. I am not strong. I am neither obedient, nor pure, nor devoted. There was a time when I was committed to those morals. They were, in all ways, my anchor.
Obedience: to abide by my duties as a novitiate.
Purity: the simplest vow, yet quickest to deteriorate.
Lastly, devotion. I’d planted this seed most readily. A devout life gave me purpose. It masked my loneliness—for a time.
It was never my intention to break my vows. I had truly believed I would live out my life on these grounds, my days spent on my knees before the church altar, my purpose one of singular importance. But I have exhumed new facets of the world, and I wonder: is Thornbrook still right for me?
“If my duty is to spread goodwill, then I ask you, Father, how I can turn away from someone in need, even if that person has betrayed me? Even if he is a man? A god?” It would be reckless to return to Under,and I’d risk more than my life. But I must know. I must understandwhy. “Will you not guide me through?”
The church seems to hollow out. My ears ring from the change in pressure. I receive no answer, no reassurance, no forgiveness. I came here for clarity, but I only feel more confused, a woman kneeling in an empty room, all the world’s warmth deserted.
It is the greatest effort to stand. A greater one still to look upon the altar and understand what the silence means. I have erred. Regardless of my repentance, I made a choice, and the Father made His. There is no response as I depart the church, the altar candles swallowed by darkness. I fear there never will be again.
I do not return to my room. My feet carry me through the cloister, downhill toward the overgrown outer wall, the forge tucked at its base. Cooling air blankets the deep greenery, but it lasts only as far as the forge’s threshold.
There the daggers hang, twenty-six blades, rows upon rows of glinting black teeth. I gather them woodenly, deposit them into the cart sitting outside the doorway. The clatter of metal splinters the still eve.
Tomorrow, I’ll distribute the weapons at dusk. Once the Daughters of Thornbrook gather, Mother Mabel will look to me with a question: stay or go? I am still uncertain, and I begin tidying the space to keep busy when a shard of metal catches my attention in the back corner.
I kick aside a pile of old, rotten beams and lift what is most definitely a broken sword. Another segment peeks from underneath a pallet of wood. I drag it out, lift the pieces so they fit together.
I remember this blade. At the time, it had been my most ambitious work, but I’d hammered the metal too thinly. I still recall the sound of its fracturing, clean and sudden and cold.
My chest twinges at the memory. There had been tears, a furious sweep of them, as I’d knelt at my cot that evening for prayer. I’d wanted to be great.Known. For three years I’d apprenticed, toiling in that sweltering forge until my blisters burst and calluses collected in layers of toughened skin. I was a bladesmith, but I wasn’t good enough. Not then. Not yet.
For whatever reason, I hadn’t tossed the sword. I’d discarded it in a corner, and over the years, tools and material had piled atop it, burying the evidence of my failure.
Moving toward a worktable, I lay out the two segments. The blade’s profile is quite good. My error occurred in the distal taper, or the reduction of the blade’s thickness from hilt to tip. Ideally, one desires a gradual thinning of the steel. I’d hammered it with too much enthusiasm.
My hand tightens around the unfinished tang. I didn’t stamp this blade with my touchmark. I was too young then, not yet a master. Now? I see the faults clearly. I understand the steps needed to repair this break. The sword lies in pieces, but if they fit together once, can they not do so again?
I get to work.
Gone is my exhaustion, the weight dragging at my bones. I begin by piling slow-burning kindling into the forge’s stony mouth. Thick white smoke drifts through the cracks. Once the kindling catches, I layer it with additional coal, smothering the flame.
Tonight, I am awake.Hungry.How could I have forgotten? The charged air changes shape around me. My muscles lengthen and contract in a rhythm that is both grief and exaltation.
The heat climbs as I work the bellows, putting all my strength behind the motion. The fire speaks. It demands more, though sometimes less. When it criesenough, I know to step away, let it settle, before building it higher and brighter than before. For the blade to become whole again, everything must be melted and reshaped.
It takes the night. I heat the metal to a burning orange. I hammer it out before allowing it to cool, the metal strengthening. Again and again, I follow this process as the fire grows, exhaling mouthfuls of blistering heat.
I shape the point, then the blade’s profile. The distal taper, then the bevels. I drive the blade into the fire, heat soaking into the searingmetal, before setting it atop my anvil. The steel cools, white to orange to deep umber. Lifting the hammer above my head, I drive it down, the impact tossing sparks into the dark, to forge what was once broken into something whole and new.
26
TWENTY-ONEDAUGHTERS OFTHORNBROOKgather as the sky blackens and the evening bell tolls its final lament. Cloaked, hooded, devout, each carries an iron blade. They are my peers, but tonight, as I instruct each woman how to grasp the hilt, how to draw it safely from its sheath, they are my pupils. Their eyes exist as slots of darkness, watchful beneath their hoods.
Carterhaugh rattles and seethes beyond the outer wall. I can sense it—the hunger. The tithe calls for blood, and tonight, the price will be paid.
At the corner of the grassy quadrangle, Mother Mabel ties a scabbard at her waist. Hours earlier, I’d watched her sharpen Meirlach from my bedroom window, a high whine cutting the atmosphere as she dragged the whetting stone down the blade’s edge.
“You skipped me.”
