The Blacksmith's Son

by Michael G. Manning

  The air hissed between Dorian’s teeth as he drew a sharp breath, seeing her state. The torn dress, the blood, I couldn’t blame him. I felt much the same. I cradled her in my arms and looked into his gaze. Fury dwelled within him, and I wondered what we might do once we had put her safely to her bed. “Who did this Mordecai?” His voice held dark intent.

  “Not yet Dorian, we have to take care of Penny first.” I prayed he could keep his calm.

  “I said, who did this Mordecai!” he wasn’t in a mood to wait.

  “Listen Dorian,” I started to say, but he interrupted me.

  “No you listen! I want to know who did this and I want to know now!” he was shouting.

  “Goddammit!” I yelled back, “Shut the fuck up and think for a second!” I believe that was the first time I had ever raised my voice to him. He closed his mouth, startled, so I went on, “What do you think will happen to Penny if someone sees her like this? She’ll be ruined! Her father is destitute, she has no dowry; she’d never be able to get married. No one would take her! Whether she’s been ‘spoiled’ or not won’t matter once the rumors start flying.” I took a deep breath and calmed down. Looking at Dorian I could see he was still listening.

  “Now are you going to help me get her to her room or do I have to do it by myself?” I started toward the door. Dorian was there before me and got it open.

  He led me down several flights of stairs to the lowest floor of the keep; staying ahead of me the entire way, checking each doorway to see if anyone was up and about. We got to the maid’s quarters without incident, yet when he opened the door someone stirred. It was fairly dark, but a woman’s nervous voice called out, “Who’s there?” Dorian ducked back from the entryway quickly and I didn’t waste any time.

  “Shibal” I put as much strength into it as I could still muster, not bothering to focus it in any particular direction. Again I noticed that Dorian was completely unfazed. I would really have to look into that one of these days, but now was not the time. I stepped inside and looked around.

  It was too dark to see, so Dorian lit a lamp after I assured him none of the occupants would be waking up anytime soon. The room contained five small beds, all but one held sleeping women. Dorian drew the sheets back while I placed her carefully down. Then I began the difficult process of getting her clothes off.

  “What are you doing?” Dorian hissed at me.

  “Turn around if it bothers you, I’ve got to get rid of the evidence. In fact, turn around anyway, it bothers me.” When had I developed this jealous streak?

  I wasn’t having any luck with her dress, so I drew my knife and began cutting it away. It was already spoiled, so it didn’t matter. Once I had it off I couldn't help but look at her for a moment. Say what you will, but I’d like to see you pretend not to notice the most beautiful woman in the world lying naked in front of you. If you said you hadn’t stared, even for a moment, I’d call you a damn liar.

  Regardless, I was very focused on making sure Penny was safe. I drew the covers over her and stood back up. Glancing around I noticed a plain nightdress neatly folded under her bedside table. I quickly dismissed the thought of dressing her in it. I didn’t see how I could manage it properly so she would just have to figure that part out in the morning. I also took a moment to make sure she had a second uniform. It turns out she had three, well two now. That was one thing less to worry about at least.

  I balled up her ruined outfit and rummaged about the room for a moment till I found a scrap of parchment and a charcoal pencil. I hastily penned a note.

  Say nothing. We’ll talk later.

  ~Mort

  I tucked the note under her nightdress and hoped she would find it in the morning. Then we went, leaving the room much as we had found it. It was near three in the morning now and I worried that Devon might have woken up while we were about our business. I needn’t have worried though, he was still sleeping like a babe when we got back to his room, the bastard.

  I turned to find Dorian staring at the scene, “Where’s the door Mort?” He looked at the splintered wood on the ground and then saw the look in my eyes. I had never seen fear in my stalwart friend’s face before, but I saw it flicker there now. It made me feel old and tired; a strange sensation to have at sixteen. “Did you?” he motioned at the shattered wood with his hand.

  “Yeah,” I answered. What else was I going to say? Then I heard Devon stir, as if he might wake. “Shibal” I put as much strength as remained to me into it. A wave of dizziness swept over me and I nearly fainted then, but Dorian caught my shoulder as I swayed and helped me sit down on the bed.

  I looked at the floor for a moment, trying to think, when I heard the sound of steel being drawn. Dorian was moving toward Devon now, cold murder on his face. “Wait!” I said.

  “Why?” he asked in return.

  “Honestly I don’t know, but if we kill him now we’re both dead men, and I don’t think that would make Penny very happy. If we’re going to give this bastard his comeuppance we’ll have to find another way, but not now, not tonight. We’re too tired to think straight,” I said. That sounded entirely too logical to be coming out of my mouth. Someone else must have been talking when I wasn’t looking.

  Dorian struggled with himself for a moment before finally sheathing his sword, “Alright,” he said, “what do we do about the door?”

  “Well there’s no way to fix it,” I replied. “Would one of the other doors fit?”

  “Wait here,” Dorian looked like he knew what he was doing, so I laid back on the bed and waited. I must have dozed off for a bit, because it seemed like only a moment before he returned carrying another door. He had a hammer and a couple of other tools tucked into his belt.

  He soon had the new door on the hinges, and I had to admit it looked a lot like the original. I wasn’t sure if anyone would notice the difference but I was too tired to care. Dorian went off again and came back with a broom. I swear he was getting positively domestic. He cleaned the floor without my help, but I like to think I supervised. He got all the wood up he could find, being careful to leave the jewelry where it lay; then in a stroke of pure genius, he plucked up a bottle of red wine from the credenza.

  “Wha?” I asked intelligently, as he smashed it on the floor next to Devon’s head.

  “Maybe the fool will think she brained him with it. At the very least his clothes will be ruined, he should count himself lucky.” He helped me up and half carried me to my own room. You can never have enough friends like Dorian, but I was grateful to have him. I never could have finished our night’s deception without him.

  I sank slowly into the soft feather bed, but as I drifted off I couldn’t help but wonder, what would Devon think when he discovered his key no longer fit the lock on his chamber door? That made me chuckle for a second, then I was asleep.

  Chapter 8

  For the same reason mages eschew purely mental methods for channeling their abilities, use of the common tongue for that purpose is generally avoided. The best tool for controlling aythar is usually considered to be a dead language, one acquired by deliberate learning after reaching puberty. It is also believed that languages which have been used for this purpose over many generations serve best, as the words and phrases gain a certain amount of power in their own right. Because of this, even individuals with a moderate to low emittance are sometimes able to effect minor spells by using language and symbols that have absorbed some inherent power due to long use by mages past.

  ~Marcus the Heretic,

  On the Nature of Faith and Magic

  Devon woke early the next morning, only two hours after Mordecai had at last fallen asleep. He was careful not to move at first, uncertain what had happened. He was lying on the floor, fragments of glass scattered about around him. He listened for several minutes before deciding he must be alone, so he sat up and assessed himself.

  It didn’t look good. His clothes were beyond saving, soaked through with dark stains. For a moment he thought he
had been stabbed, till he realized it was wine rather than blood on his clothes. The door was closed, but the girl was gone. He was fairly sure he hadn’t finished his business with her... unless he had some memory loss. Had someone hit him with the wine bottle? Was it her, or someone else? Either possibility was disturbing.

  He stripped his clothes and used some water from the pitcher to clean himself up before donning fresh attire. If someone else had struck him, then that meant he had an unknown enemy, one who had managed to get into his room while he was unaware. If the girl had done it then he had a gap in his memory, for she had been quite beyond such things at his last recollection. It must have been someone else; he would not have been so incompetent as to let that slip of a girl get away so easily.

  The door... he checked his pocket, the key was still there. If she had used his key she had replaced it, unlikely, he thought. Her fear had been too great, she would have run, and kept the key. Devon Tremont knew a lot about fear and its effects. He checked the door, and sure enough it was unlocked.

  “Someone’s been interfering,” he said to himself. The real question was who? What would they do with the knowledge they had? Nothing. If they were planning to use last night against him they would have done so already, bringing guards and witnesses while he lay unconscious. If anyone accused him now he could easily deny it. Why? That’s what he would have done. Whoever it was had sacrificed a large advantage. They took nothing, his money and possessions were intact, only the girl was missing.

  The girl, that was it. The only reason to hide last night’s crime would be to protect her reputation. But she was a common maid, he thought. No one would care about her. Almost everyone within the castle would be more concerned with justice; only a select few would care more for her than destroying him. What had she said last night? He’s the blacksmith’s son. “He’s also a mage,” muttered Devon. He had seen a strong golden aura about the man each time they had met. It was the first thing that had piqued his interest.

  She had held out against fear for a remarkably long time, and still had told him little. She must have strong reasons to protect him; likely enough she was in love with him. “And his room is only a short walk from here... and one corridor over.” he said to himself.

  Devon Tremont had always been decisive, he did not waver now. Rising he buckled on his sword and left the room and locked the door behind himself. At least he tried to... the key would not turn in the lock. Another mystery, he thought. He shook his head and headed for Mordecai’s room at a casual pace.

  When he reached his destination he was dismayed to see a large guard standing outside the room. What is his connection to the Lancasters? Nothing made sense. They were clearly complicit in his deception. The man was a commoner, yet they had given him a room fit for a king. Marcus was obviously quite attached to him. And he is a mage, he thought. That was the lynch pin, the key everything revolved around. The Lancaster family needed a mage. Did that mean they knew something regarding his plans for the future? If so the Lancasters might well be seeking magical power to bolster their position.

  He kept walking, nodding at the guard as he passed. Deep in thought he began to carefully consider his next step.

  ***

  Much lower in the castle Penny awoke. She had worked very late so Miri, the head maid, had let her sleep in. Normally all the staff were up before dawn. Penny’s eyes snapped open, something was wrong. She had slept well, but now she was wide awake. Looking around the room she was beset with confusion.

  How did I get here? she thought. “What happened?” she said. Suddenly she remembered, and her chest tightened with emotion. Fear, shame and rage fought within her for dominance. A surging storm rose up within, the fear and helpless terror of the night before washed over her, threatening her sanity. Mother, what should I do? That thought brought her nearly to tears, the helpless sorrow of a child who knows she can never go back, never go home. Her mother was dead and her father was almost an invalid, unable to work. Caring for him had become her purpose; he was why she had taken this job.

  Now it was gone, along with her hopes for the future. She doubted she could keep her job once her shame became public knowledge. The room was empty so she drew the sheets back, afraid of what she might find.

  She was naked, every stitch of clothing gone. There was blood on her thighs and a bandage around her right leg. The blood was to be expected, but she didn’t recall hurting her leg. He must have done that after I passed out. A vivid image rose in her mind, an ugly image of what had been done to her. The only mercy was that she had been unconscious; at least she wouldn’t have to remember that. Except in my nightmares, she added mentally.

  She got up and mechanically began putting on one of her spare uniforms. Her leg was stiff where it had been injured but she felt alright otherwise. There was no soreness, no pain... down there, which seemed a bit unusual. She knew some girls had little pain, but she suspected Devon had not been gentle. “I guess I should count my blessings,” she said, and then it was too much, she began crying. The tears poured out of her and her body heaved with great wracking sobs. She hadn’t cried like this since she was a child.

  Her mother had comforted her then, but there was no one now. After what seemed like hours, she ran out of tears. She was exhausted, too tired to care, too numb to feel anything. She finished dressing and decided she might as well report for duty. Before she left she tidied up the bed and put her spare clothes away. A small slip of parchment fell behind the bedside table unnoticed as she picked up the nightgown.

  She found Miri and told her she was ready for work, hoping that the head maid wouldn’t be too angry with how late she had slept.

  “No problem lass, you did well yesterday and we had you running till well after everyone else was snug a’bed.” The older woman seemed genuinely grateful, “If you’ll run down to the laundry and give them a hand there for a bit I’d be glad of it.” Miri’s orders always sounded like requests, as superiors went she was nicer than most.

  Penny was glad to do it, anything to keep herself busy. She kept herself moving, working the rest of the day in a mad rush, desperate not to remember. No matter how she worked though, her mind kept going back to it every time she let it stray. The worst came that afternoon, she had to take fresh sheets up to the guests' rooms. Every step filled her with dread and she prayed that one particular occupant would be absent.

  As luck would have it he was not in the room. She changed the sheets as quickly as possible yet she could not help but notice the blood on them, as well as a torn section that must match her bandage. She was out of the room in less than five minutes and her heart was still pounding when she reached the stairs. Thinking herself safe at last she almost ran headlong into Devon as he came up the stairs.

  She came close to dropping everything and bolting, but Penny was made of sterner mettle than that. She clenched her fists, gripping the bundle of linens and made her face a mask of indifference. She had already passed him on the stair when she heard his voice, “Penny.” She stopped, refusing to turn back toward him.

  “Don’t think matters are finished between us,” Devon’s voice was like ice. “Last night was just the beginning. I’ll see your blacksmith’s son cold and dead before this is over. You have my word on that.” She could feel his eyes on her back, and fear held her heart in an iron grip. In her mind she saw Mordecai lying in a field, his body broken, blood running from his nose and mouth, as he struggled to breath. Devon stood over him smiling, murder in his eyes. The vision was so powerful it made her gasp, and she knew instinctively that it would come to pass. Rage built in her, a raw animal fury, without thought she whirled, throwing the bundled laundry ahead of her. Perhaps it would distract him for a second. A second was all she needed, she would pull him down. If the fall didn’t kill him she would finish the job herself.

  “Hey now! There’s no call for that!” Devon was already gone and standing where he had been was Marcus, looking surprised. The sheets had struck him full
in the face and now lay scattered across the stairs. The anger that had filled her with strength drained away as speedily as it had appeared, leaving her empty. She almost lost her balance then, but Marc’s hand caught her shoulder steadying her balance. “Are you ok Penny?” His voice sounded concerned.

  “Yes, yes I’m fine. I’m just not myself today.” Words were inadequate to describe just how not herself today she truly was.

  “I won’t ask about the laundry, then, I can guess who made you so angry,” he jerked his head in the direction that Devon must have left in. “I wanted to talk to you anyway Penny. There are some things you need to know.”

  She looked at his face, surprised at the seriousness she found there. Marc was normally the most easy going of her friends. “What is it?”

  Marc took a few minutes to describe what had happened at the reception the day before. Detailing the trouble he felt was facing Mordecai. She nodded dumbly, it all made sense. He continued, “Penny you have to understand how dangerous that man is... he doesn’t understand jokes and he doesn’t tolerate insubordination. If he had been standing where I was when that laundry came flying at me, things would have gone ill for you. Worse, if he finds out you are associated with me or Mordecai he will try to use you to get at us. Do you understand?”

  He’s already used me Marcus. Used me and tossed me away, she thought. “What can I do to help?” she said instead.

  “Nothing Penny, I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. Just keep your head and above all else don’t let him find out about our friendship, as long as he doesn’t think you are connected to me or Mort you should be safe.” His earnestness almost brought her to tears again.

  “Sure, I’ll try to avoid talking to you or Mort.” she answered.

  “It’ll only be a few more days, then he’ll be on his way,” Marc tried to reassure her. He could see there were some deep emotions behind her face. He had probably offended her, but it would have to wait. He would apologize later, once Devon Tremont was safely away from Lancaster. Then they could all relax.