“We’ll see.” This is the first time in my life I’ve had access to nearly unlimited resources. “It’s for Ventos.”
“Ventos is rather partial to his broadsword.”
“He’s too useful with it to dream of replacing it,” I say. “But he’s not going to be able to take it back to my world.”
“Why not?”
“Broadswords haven’t been smithed for the hunters in generations.” I hoist the rod-shaped mold I’ll be pouring the liquid metal into onto the table. “The form used up too much silver and quickly depleted stock. The silver mines are far to the northwest and traders come rarely; the seas are infested with monsters up north, they say. Thus we have to preserve our resources as best we’re able. Broadswords were smelted down to make smaller weapons in my great-grandmother’s time.”
Ruvan listens intently, eyes shining as if I am the most fascinating thing to ever exist. “So you’re making him a new weapon?”
I nod and pick up my tongs, getting ready to take the crucible from the heat. “And for myself, too. In Hunter’s Hamlet, if there’s any suspicion about a person they’re often forced to be nicked by a silver blade—just to ensure it’s not a vampire who stole someone’s face. Obviously we don’t want that happening to Ventos.”
“Obviously.”
“So, I’m trying to make something that can pass for silver but isn’t pure. Or is modified enough that it won’t harm Ventos.”
Ruvan is momentarily distracted by the flames that spontaneously combust when the river of golden heat meets the cooler mold. I return the crucible to the side of the forge to cool, changing out my tongs and picking up my hammer.
“Your process is fascinating,” he murmurs. He doesn’t know it, but being wide-eyed and enthralled with the endless mysteries and possibilities of heat and metal is the most attractive thing he could’ve ever done.
“I agree that the process is fascinating, but I’m biased.”
“Biased, maybe. But that doesn’t make you wrong.” He shifts his weight and clears his throat. “Do you think you could teach me how to do it?”
“Usually smithy apprenticeships are about a decade, and that’s just to make the more basic things. Another five to ten years before I’d let you hold a hammer and even look at silver work or anything else complex.” This isn’t my smithy, not really, but the instincts of my family are too ingrained in me to ignore. There is a procedure to someone learning the way of the forge and every step is there for a reason.
“Fifteen years to work with silver? Did you begin smithing when you were born?”
I snort. “Felt like it, but no. I began working in the smithy when I was five.”
“That’s so young,” Ruvan says thoughtfully.
“Not for Hunter’s Hamlet.” I watch the metal as it slowly cools, gold changing to amber. “None of usexpectto live long lives, though many of us do. At least, those of us that aren’t hunters. The promise of Hunter’s Hamlet is that you’ll only ever have to fear one thing—the vampire. Everyone takes care of everyone else otherwise.” I glance his way. “So even though most people are comfortable, if you can ignore the constant fear, we all know our days could be numbered. We know we’re only ever one full moon away from death. It’s common for young folk to be treated like full men and women by the age of thirteen. That’s the youngest a hunter can go out.
“But, yes, I began working the smithy when I was five. Sweeping, fetching water and other things for Mother, all small tasks that a young one could do safely. The jobs that would strengthen my body and help me grow accustomed to the sights and sounds of the smithy. That way, when I did begin doing more, I was ready.”
“And how old are you now?” Ruvan asks. I’m startled that he doesn’t know. And I almost drop my tongs when I realize I still have no idea how old he is either. I long ago figured out that Ruvan isn’t the ancient being I once thought of the vampir lord as. But how old is he in actuality?
“Nineteen.” Using tongs, I take the freshly smelted bar of metal from its mold and carry it to the anvil. The residual heat still radiating as red throughout the metal has it slowly curling around the head of the anvil, beginning to form what will be the base of my sickle shape. “And you?”
“Counting the slumber, or not?” Ruvan asks coyly.
“Let’s say both.”
“Not counting the long night, I’m twenty-four,” he says. “Counting the long night, around three thousand, one hundred and twenty-four.”
“What…”
“The long night has been the past three thousand years while we slumbered in stasis to avoid succumbing to the curse. But for me, it was mere moments.” There’s a heaviness to his words that lingers as I return the iron to the forge. I remember Quinn’s mention of the chrysalis slumber.
Callos returns before we can speak further on ages, or long nights.
“There was mention of something like this in the notes you brought back.” He opens one of the books he carried in and I find it filled with loose papers I recognize from the workshop in the old castle. Two books he lays out also have the same script as some of those papers. He arranges them next to the blacksmith’s ledger. “There’s word here of encasing blood magic within metal—using it to preserve and carry power.”
Wiping my hands, I approach and scan the page he’s pointing to. On one side is a rough sketch of the door I opened down in the old castle. It’s not exact. But it’s close enough that I can tell it’s an early concept. On the opposite side are some notes, almost like messages passed back and forth between two different people. There’s the same hand that I recognize from the workshop alongside a penmanship that matches the forge master’s ledger. They’re focused on the specifications and details surrounding the actualhowof building something like a magic door that channels blood magic.
“Like the disk and the door.”
