Liedral grins, but the expression only emphasizes the blackness under her eyes and her reddened face. “It took some doing. There’s a coastal sled run between Quend and Spidlaria. They run the beaches. They say it’s safer than running the ice floes. I brought in dried pork and a few other things.”
“She brought supper-a good ham.” Reisa does not turn from the ceramic and iron stove. “They’re dear, now.”
“Be getting dearer.” Petra fastens her jacket before heading to the barn.
“Why… ?” Dorrin stops. Of course, with the Northern Ocean frozen north and west of Diev, Spidlar is cut off from the western trading routes. Few traders will dare the icebergs that dot the ocean between Spidlar and Sligo. He shivers, considering the pinched faces he is already seeing. It will be another season before even the early crops are ready or the coasters from Sarronnyn or Suthya will travel the Northern Ocean.
“Thought it might make more coins. You trade where people need it. Besides, I don’t like staying around Freidr for too long.” Liedral sips the hot spiced cider. “And even if I go back empty,‘ I’ll still be ahead. Not much, but something’s better than nothing, especially in winter.”
“It seems a mite risky,” offers Reisa.
“All trading is risky these days, thanks to Fairhaven. You risk losing your coins or your life.” Liedral takes another swallow of the cider.
Petra sets a mug in front of Dorrin. “This time I got it for you. But just this time.”
“Thank you. Next time you can get the water.”
“He’s impossible,” Petra confides to Liedral.
“He’s a man,” answers the trader.
Vaos hammers his way through the door and into the kitchen.
“Don’t touch anything,” snaps Reisa, lifting the kettle with her single hand and pouring warm water into the empty washbasin. “You need to wash up before you eat.”
Petra adds some of the cold water from the bucket.
“But, Reisa, I’m starving.”
“Wash.”
Vaos looks at Dorrin, then steps up to the wash table.
“When’s dinner?” asks Yarrl, shutting the door hard, and bending to set his boots in the corner.
“As soon as you wash up,” Reisa repeats.
Vaos grins as he hurriedly wipes his hands and face on the gray towel.
“Sometimes…think you were a washerwoman by the river…” But the smith follows Reisa’s instructions. “Smells good.”
“The trader brought a ham.”
“A real ham out of Kleth, smoked the slow way,” adds Petra.
“Ought to taste real good.” Yarrl washes hurriedly and sits at the table. Reisa hands him a knife, and he begins to slice the meat.
Vaos licks his lips, and Dorrin and Liedral look from the boy to each other and smile.
Reisa sets two platters on the table, one with a steaming pile of vegetables, and one heaped with roasted yams. “Help yourself.”
Liedral spears two yams and takes a spoonful of beans. “Thank you.”
“What’s happening with the White Wizards?” asks the smith as he lays slab after slab of ham on the chipped .platter.
“They’re trying to cut Spidlar off without saying that’s what they’re doing. They’re talking about building more ships.”
“Let’s enjoy the ham,” Reisa suggests.
Vaos’s eyes remain fixed on the platter as it goes to the trader, then to Dorrin, and Petra.
“Here you go!” Petra holds the platter in front of Vaos.
“Thank you, Miss Petra,” says the boy as he takes the two top slices, but his eyes linger on the platter.
“Take another, imp.”
Vaos does, and for a time, no one speaks.
“Good ham,” Vaos says.
“Very good,” Dorrin agrees.
“Personally,” Liedral says with a smile, “I liked the roasted yams, and the beans. You don’t get those traveling.”
When Dorrin finishes his plate, he swallows the last of his cider and turns to Liedral. “Do you want to talk? I need to finish up some things in the smithy.” Dorrin stands.
“With all that hammering?” asks Liedral.
“It’s just filing and polishing.”
“He never stops,” Reisa says dryly.
“No one’s ever seen him stop, anyway,” adds Petra.
“Not even me,” adds Vaos from the end of the table.
“Quiet, boy.” Dorrin’s voice is playful.
Yarrl chews the end of the loaf of bread, methodically, before speaking, his mouth full. “That’s what makes a good smith. Not yammering on and on.”
All three women look at the smith. Yarrl continues to chew.
Dorrin grins, standing by the door.
“Let me get on my jacket. I wasn’t raised on a mountain-top.”
Dorrin does not protest that Recluce is milder than even Jellico; he waits while Liedral pulls on her coat. They walk to the smithy, where he lights the lamp. Then he takes off his shirt and puts it on a wall peg before returning to the workbench and lifting the box with the iron toy parts in it.
“Aren’t you cold?”
“Not really.”
He sets the box on the clay, sits on the stool, and begins pushing the foot pedal, dipping the iron piece in the polishing paste before setting it against the grindstone.
“Oooooo… how can you stand that?”
“I suppose you get used to it.” He turns the miniature gear power train and continues to grind and polish the dark metal.
Liedral watches as he works the metal.
When he is done, he replaces the metal parts in the box and wipes his hands on the tattered towel at one end of his bench.
“Do you have any toys that are done?” Liedral’s brown eyes meet Dorrin’s, then look over his shoulder at the forge as he pulls on his shirt.
“Not a simple as those. I have some like the first one. They’re in my room. Would you like one?” He snuffs the lamp and steps toward the yard, waiting for her to leave the smithy before he closes the door against the winter chill.
“I can’t afford one, not the way things are going, but once the ice breaks, I’m taking a wild run to Nietre, upland hills of Suthya. It’s far enough from Rulyarth that most traders don’t bother. Lousy roads, not wide enough even for the cart. That’s fine, because it’s cheaper just to take two horses on the coasters.”
“Things are really bad?” He stops by the well and draws some water, pouring it over his hands, ignoring the chill.
Liedral shivers. “Isn’t that cold?”
“Yes, even for me.” He walks toward his room, and Liedral follows. Once inside, he dries his cold hands on his working towel. Liedral sits on the bed and shivers. He lifts the quilt and wraps it around her.
“Your hands are warm already.”
“I’ve learned a few things already from being a healer.” He settles into the hard chair that has replaced the stool.
“Your room is cold.” Liedral wraps the faded quilt around her more tightly. “You must be related to mountain cats, or something else that prowls in the cold. And yes, things are bad. You don’t even write me back.”
“I’ve sent you a letter.”
“How?”
“Like you told me. Through Jarnish.”
“You really did?” Liedral squirms on the hard pallet.
“I did. I’ll admit I only sent it an eight-day ago, but I did get around to writing you. I didn’t expect to see you this soon.”
“You didn’t?”
“Not from your letters. You were talking spring.”
“I didn’t know about the beach runners.”
“Neither did I.” He shifts his weight, then gets up. “What about another model?”
“I can’t pay you…”
“We can do it the same way you did last time. This one’s different.”
“That’s probably better, if it’s as good.”
“You judge.” Dorrin returns with
an object almost a cubit long.
“What is it?”
“A boat. You wind this, and these bands tighten.”
Liedral points at the stern. “What’s that?”
“Oh… that’s a screw. It’s like a fan, except it pushes water instead of air.”
“But what does it do?”
Dorrin grins. “When it pushes the water, it makes the boat go in this direction. I made it to see if the idea really worked. The bands here are a rubber and string mixture. They really don’t work that well. The rubber comes from Naclos. The druids don’t always trade, and that makes it hard to get.”
“I’ve heard. I never been that far south, though.”
“When I build a full-sized ship, it will have a real engine.”
“Engine?”
“A machine that will turn the screw like the bands do.”
Liedral takes the model. “The bands seem simpler.”
“They don’t work as well when you build them bigger.”
Liedral looks over the boat. “Why do you want to sell it?”
“I’ve done better ones.” He holds up his hands. “The second one has a spring, but it isn’t big enough.”
“You amaze me.”
Dorrin looks at the rough-planked floor.
“You work like a smith. You’re a healer, and you make wonderful toys-”
“Models.”
“Models… whatever…” She pauses. “Why did you write me?”
“Because… I think of you. It’s different.”
“Would you sit next to me? Please?”
Dorrin sits on the end of the pallet.
Liedral edges next to him. “I came to see you. Not to make coins. Not to make polite conversation.”
“I know. But I feel… so… young.”
Her arms are surprisingly strong as she pulls him to her, and her lips are warm on his.
After the kiss and embrace that seems timeless, he looks at her. “I missed you.”
“I missed you. And I’m not that much older than you, especially in love.”
“But…”
“Look at me, the way you do when you’re healing.”
Dorrin does, and sees the rightness, the essential order. “Oh…”
“Now, do you see?”
He nods. Knowing little of order, Liedral is still wise enough to know that she needs order in her lover. He tightens his arms around her, and her lips touch his again. Soon, not just lips touch, nor skin, nor souls.
LXX
“YOU’RE IMPOSSIBLE… AFTER last night…” Liedral’s lips touch Dorrin’s, and his fingers dig into her bare back.
“Last night… was just… the beginning.”
There is a rap on the door. Dorrin looks up. Another rap follows.
“Yes?” Dorrin says.
“It’s Reisa. If you two lovebirds aren’t too tied up, you might want to bundle up and come up to the hilltop. I forgot. Tonight’s Council Night.” Dorrin sighs. “Council Night?”
“They’ll be starting the fireworks soon.”
The two look and each other, then burst into giggles.
“… fireworks, indeed,” Liedral mutters, pulling on her shirt.
“Couldn’t we have both kinds?” Dorrin pleads.
She throws one of her boots at him, but he ducks, and it crashes into the wall. “All right.”
Dorrin shrugs, then frowns.
She grins. “Don’t worry about it. Let’s go out into the cold and watch the fireworks.”
Dorrin groans, but yanks on his shirt and boots. After they don jackets, and Liedral pulls on a knit cap, Dorrin takes her face in both hands, then brushes her lips with his.
“Cold fireworks, first.”
“All right.”
Reisa and Petra stand on the hilltop, looking down on the frozen river and the harbor beyond.
“You did manage to venture out into the cold.”
“Ah… yes,” Dorrin stumbles.
The three women exchange knowing glances. Dorrin blushes and looks toward the harbor.
A skyrocket bursts, and pinwheels of light cartwheel from it, casting momentary shadows of the leafless trees against the hills to the west. The ice on the River Weyel shimmers.
“It is beautiful.” Liedral’s voice is barely audible as the sounds of the next skyrockets echo through the darkness. “What are they for?”
“Celebrate the founding of the Council.” Reisa snorts. “Not that the Council’ll last much longer unless they do something about the White Wizards.”
Dorrin thinks about the skyrockets, about what powers them, and whether the black powder would or could power a machine.
Another crummp echoes through the velvet night as the shower of red sparks it has delivered is already fading.
“The Wizards don’t move that fast,” Liedral says slowly. “They’re very careful, very thorough. When they do move, it’s usually too late to do much.”
“Wonderful.” Reisa coughs in the cold.
Another rocket stews golden sparks across the black and white winter sky. Petra clears her throat.
Dorrin squeezes Liedral’s hand, and she returns the pressure.
Yet another explosion of light flares over the harbor.
Reisa coughs, once, twice, and again. “Going in. Cold’s too much.”
The three remain, near-silent, until the last rocket flares.
Petra stamps her feet in the snow, turning back toward the house. “Stupid time for fireworks. It’s winter, for darkness’s sake.”
Dorrin and Liedral grin at each other. Dorrin has to cover his mouth and swallow hard.
As they reach the yard, Liedral says softly. “Good night, Petra. Thank your mother for telling us about the fireworks.”
“Good night, lovebirds.” Petra’s voice is warm, even as she closes the kitchen door.
“She’s nice.” Liedral squeezes Dorrin’s hand again as the two cross the frozen yard to his room.
“She is. But you’re special.”
“Like fireworks?”
They grin again.
Once inside the room, Dorrin slides the bolt.
“I’m cold.” Liedral has the quilt wrapped around her.
“You need more fireworks?”
A boot flies in his direction, and he ducks, then catches her. Their lips meet again.
“Fireworks…”
LXXI
DORRIN AND LIEDRAL stand outside the barn in the cold, but bright, morning light.
“Do you want to take Meriwhen?”
“Your precious mare?” She grins.
Instead of answering, he bends down and crushes together the icy snow, then straightens and throws it at her, spraying her with icy powder.
“You…” She edges closer to him, tilting her lips for a kiss.
He bends forward, closing his eyes-and finds himself falling backward into the hard packed snow next to the barn. In spite of himself, he laughs, and she reaches down to help him up with gloved hands. Instead he pulls her down and into his lap. They kiss once… and again. In time, he struggles upright, lifting Liedral with him.
“You’re much stronger than you look.”
“All that smithing. Do you want Meriwhen?”
“No. I’ll take the nag I bought.”
“What are you doing today?”
“Being a trader. Trying to find what people will sell cheaply. I’ll know it when I see it. Part of it’s just feel.” She shrugs. “Just like part of being a smith is feel.”
He opens the barn door, and they step inside, hand in hand. Dorrin kisses her again, feeling the chill of her cheek and the warmth of her lips.
“Don’t you have to go to the healer’s this morning?” She breaks away.
“I should.” He sighs. “More hungry children, more broken bones.”
“Broken bones?”
“Always women,” he explains. “They say they have accidents. They’re lying, of course. When times are hard, the men beat them.”
<
br /> “Can’t you do something?” Liedral looks for the battered saddle for the even more battered gray mare that shares the stall with Meriwhen.
“What?” Dorrin takes a deep breath. “They won’t leave the men. Where would they go, especially in winter? What could they do? Most of the men won’t change.” He pauses. “Look at you. You dress and act like a man. Why can’t you be a trader and a woman?”
“People still fear the Legend, I guess.”
Dorrin hands her the worn brown saddle blanket, waits until she puts it on the gray, and swings the saddle into place, deftly cinching the girths.
“You’ve gotten a lot better since we first met.” She grins. “At a lot of things.”
He finds himself blushing.
“But you still blush the same way.”
He slips the gray’s bridle in place.
“I can do that. I was doing it before you knew what a horse was.”
“I know you can, but I like doing things for you.” He hands her the reins and begins to saddle Meriwhen. “Darkness!”
“What?”
“I forgot my staff. Have to get it on the way out.” Meriwhen steps sideways as he slips the hackamore in place.
“That’s a giveaway, you know?”
“What?”
“The hackamore. None of the great ones used bitted bridles, not according to my father. He said even Creslin used a hackamore.”
“How did he know?”
“According to the family tales, Creslin once was a guard for a distant ancestor. That’s why Freidr is so assiduous in courting the Whites in Jellico.” She snorts. “Much good it does us.”
Dorrin looks toward the barn door. “I suppose we ought to get moving.”
She leans toward him for another kiss. He obliges.
“Later…” she finally says, breathless.
“That’s a promise.”
She smiles as he opens the door. He watches until she turns left on the main road toward Diev. Then he closes the door and leads Meriwhen across the yard, leaving her outside for the moment it takes him to reclaim his staff.
After returning and setting the staff in the holder, he mounts, and flicks the reins. “Let’s go. Rylla will be complaining that I wasn’t there at dawn.”
LXXII
DORRIN GLANCES AROUND the barn, but Leidral’s gray is nowhere to be seen. Quickly, he unsaddles Meriwhen, brushes her, and then hurries to his room, where he deposits his staff and shirt. He looks at the stains that resulted from his efforts to mix honey and spices. The shirt needs washing, but washing is a chore in the winter. With a deep breath, he pulls on the ragged shirt he wears in the smithy. He still thinks about the fireworks. Can he obtain some cammabark or black powder? Where would he store it? The old root cellar down the hill from Rylla’s cottage?
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