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Chapter Nine

Aedre

Smoke rises from the forge, the smell of coal dust and molten iron oddly comforting. I walk inside, grab an apron, and begin to work. Father doesn’t pause as he hammers away, the clanging sound of hammer meeting iron ringing in my ears.

I look at his work.

A sword, and a fine one at that.

Amery, my father’s apprentice, nods in greeting. Though he’s not seen twenty summers, he’s a fine apprentice and will make a master smith someday.

I pick up a set of metal spoons in obvious need of filing and begin to smooth the sharp edges. Though part of me wishes my father was between pieces, as we need to talk, the other part of me is glad for the respite, as it will be an uncomfortable conversation.

Amma waited for me last eve, as she typically retires early, to tell me that Father had gone to Hester’s Tavern. As it was his second visit in a matter of days, Amma is convinced he has feelings for the alewife. I disagree. He’s visited the tavern more oft of late, there’s no denying that, but not once in all my years has Father shown interest in another woman. I would welcome it, of course. But when my mother died giving birth to me, he swore, according to Amma, he’d not take another woman to his bed or as his wife.

And he never had.

Despite both Amma and I encouraging him otherwise.

“Daydreaming will not get those spoons filed.”

Despite Father’s gruff tone, I turn and wrinkle my nose at him. I’ve done this since I was a babe, according to him, and he cannot resist it.

“Come.”

Wiping his hand on an already dirty apron, he strides from the dark room into the bright light of the day. The docks are visible from here, the sea beyond them rough this morning.

Picking up a jug of water from the ground, he pours it into a leather skin. Father leans against the side of the stone shop and drinks deeply.

“’Tis a fine weapon you were forging,” I say, wiping my hands instinctively on my apron before I register they aren’t yet dirty.

“A commission from the new lad.”

Everyone is a “lad” to my father. If King Galfrid himself had seen one less summer than him, Father would call him lad as well.

“Which one?”

If there is a sword to be forged, Father will prioritize it above all else. As the only smith in Murwood, his days are usually spent making tools and nails.

“The commander.”

Vanni commissioned a weapon from my father?

“When did he speak to you?”

And why did he not mention it to me? After we parted ways last eve, I told Amma about our conversation. As was her custom, she did not tread lightly with her advice.

“Your attraction to him will cause poor judgment.”

Not that I told her of any such attraction, but she is a Garra, after all.

“This morn, at daybreak.”

Oh, he is a slippery one.

“What did you think of him?”

Father takes another swig of water before putting the skin back down. He will not bring it inside the forge, even sealed. Coal dust tends to find its way inside of every crevice in the shop.