Page 31 of Darach

In the silence that followed the echo of her last words, which she’d shouted, the armorer reached for the dagger she’d chosen before and offered it to her.

Charlotte took it, wrapping her fingers around the hilt as he’d shown her. “I’m sorry that I yelled like that.”

“’Twas likely deserved, and never shall I attack you now,” Camdyn said. “Extend the blade out so I may look at your hold again.” After she did he studied her hand, and then picked up a chunk of something white and touched it to three spots on the side of the hilt. “I need make a new grip wrapping to better fit your palm, and carve a wooden dagger the same size and shape.”

She frowned. “Why would I need one made of wood?”

“’Tis for practice. You said you need learn blade fighting, and wood, ’twillnae wound nor kill your trainer.” He took the blade from her and placed it on another table where strips of leather in various widths hung neatly coiled on a low rack. “Ask Darach teach you. He’s better with short blades than most in the clan.”

Charlotte saw the scowl that went along with the reluctant praise. “I thought you two didn’t like each other.” When he didn’t say anything she sighed. “He’s busy with his duties, and I’ve already imposed enough on him. Do you have time to give me a few lessons?”

“Mayhap, if ’tis worth my effort.” Camdyn deliberately let his gaze wander over her, this time in a more obvious manner.

“It’s not worth what you’re thinking right now.” She suspected his interest had more to do with provoking Darach than any attraction to her. “Do you ask everyone you train to pay you back with sex?”

Instead of being offended he made a rude sound. “I cannae fack my brothers.”

“I’m sure they’d be relieved to hear that. Let’s see, I can barter something else for the lessons.” She walked around him, making a show of inspecting him in the same way he had her. “You’re quite good-looking––when you don’t scowl––and you have a very nice body. Have you ever had a portrait done?”

“Never, and I’m no’ so vain I’d wish one. You shall instead owe me a boon. What Emery calls a favor,” he added when she started to shake her head. “Or ask the chieftain for training, which he shall refuse, for to him you’re but a helpless wench who ever needs coddling.”

Camdyn could teach her mother a thing or two about how to subtly insult, Charlotte thought. “All right, I’ll owe you a boon in return for training, with two conditions. Don’t use my training to provoke another shoving match between you and Darach.”

He moved his shoulders. “I shall say naught to the chieftain. What more?”

“The boon needs to be reasonable to me,” she told him. “I want the right to refuse if you ask for too much.”

“You’re a canny wench.” The armorer gave her a stunning smile. “Agreed.”

Charlotte held out her hand. “All right, let’s shake on it.” As he clasped her forearm instead she frowned. “What’s this?”

“’Tis how we put bond to our vows,” he said.

Camdyn went over to retrieve the sword he’d been hammering from the furnace, and then pulled off his tunic before he placed the red-glowing blade on his anvil. “I shall ready your practice blade by the morrow. We’ll begin your training after the evening meal. Meet me in the lists.” He glanced at her. “Shall you tell Darach, then?”

“If he asks, I will.” She had to end her dependency on the chieftain. “Thank you, Camdyn.”

Charlotte left the forge and walked back in the direction of the great hall. Along the way she passed a pair of teenagers wearing long robes that fluttered as they rushed toward her. Between them they carried a large crock brimming with what appeared to be black and brown hockey pucks. They slowed long enough to gape and then bow to her, and in the process spilled some of the crock’s strange contents on the floor.

“What’s this?” she asked, stepping aside as the pucks bounced around her feet.

“Your pardon, Mistress.” One of the boys tried to catch the rubbery objects, but they ricocheted off the walls higher and higher until they stuck to the wooden braces overhead. “Oh, no, Sradag. The spores, they’re rooting again.”

“Go and fetch Master Duine, Losgadh,” the other boy said. He grimaced at her. “Forgive me, Mistress, but you shouldnae stand beneath them. They spawn very fast.”

“What are they?” Charlotte asked, and then blinked as the pucks sticking to the ceiling began to swell and turn red.

“I meant to dry them to serve as torch heads,” a querulous voice said, and a bald elderly man came hobbling up to them. “Fair day, my lady. Your pardon.” He gently nudged her aside to stand beneath the pucks, which were now the size of basketballs and glowed yellow-orange. “Och, ’tis too late.”

The pucks burst, raining down dozens of tiny black and brown pebbles onto the elderly sage. The little spores bounced like jumping beans on the passage’s stone floor and walls, but they were too small to reach the wooden braces overhead.

“Gather them up quickly, lads,” the old man said as he peered at the floor. “Else they grow large enough to plant themselves in the rafters and swell again.” He smiled at Charlotte. “I reckoned the mushrooms that grew in the crystal caverns should have some special use, and when one fell in the hearth I saw the thing burned but it didnae char nor stop burning. I reckoned they’d make torch heads to last for eternity.”

“I see.” Charlotte actually didn’t understand, but she crouched down to help him gather up the rubbery spores anyway. “They seem to grow very fast.”

“Och, aye, for they dinnae have wood in the caves. ’Tis like clootie dumpling to them, and makes them jump like randy hares.” Sgur gathered up the last handful and dumped them into the crock. “Lads, we must take them back to the cavern before they escape the castle through this passage and find the forest at its end.”

Charlotte glanced at the other end of the corridor, which went past the forge. “You can walk out into the forest from here?”