Úlla looked up, flushed and bitter. “So, the forests have been cleared of wood,” she sneered, pushing the rod further into the coals as she glanced over to the woodpile to see that Marnej had indeed chopped all the wood.
“The forester hasn’t returned with a fresh supply of logs,” he said.
And before Úlla could think of another a task for him, Marnej said, “Why don’t you teach me something useful? I’m happy to chop wood for charcoal and lay the fires. I even welcome working the baffles. But if I’m to be your apprentice, shouldn’t I learn something?”
Úlla pulled the rod from the fire, bringing it close enough to the maddening Olmmoš that he jumped back.
She picked up her hammer. “Apprentice.” She snorted. “It takes four or five seasons of snow to learn what you need to know to be an apprentice.” She struck the rod, shouting over her pounding. “Smithing is not some task to do. It is the heart of us. Every nail, every bolt and latch, every cooking pot is born here in this fire, shaped by my hands and the hands of the other smiths.” Her hammer punctuated her words. Úlla stopped to push the rod back to the fire.
“Teach me,” Marnej said. “I’m here to learn. If I can’t, then you can cast me aside. But if I can, aren’t we all served by my work?”
Úlla shifted her attention from the coals to Marnej, ready to meet his smug Olmmoš face with a scowl. But his sincere expression caught her off-guard. There was none of his usual arrogance. She eyed the rod. It glowed, even as her anger cooled.
“Fine,” she said, worn down by this Olmmoš and the inevitability of her future. “We’ll start with the nail. The winter cold will swell the wood and come spring, repairs will be needed on doors and sleds and hand carts.” When Marnej made no objection, she pulled the rod from the coals. “You’ll pound the iron I narrowed. Turn it a quarter each strike to form a tapered square.” She demonstrated her point with powerful strokes. “Cut the sharpened end from the rest of the iron. Then shift that piece into the head mold.” She moved swiftly. “Pound the top to form a flat head. Remove it and leave it to cool.”
Bang. Shift. Clang. Snap. Hiss. She repeated her movements.
“I want you to form six in the time it takes me to form twenty. If you succeed I will consider you worthy to continue.”
Marnej donned a smock and gauntlet. Úlla handed him the rod and hammer, then gestured for him to start.
She pulled out another stretch of iron and her own hammer. “Temperature is the most important thing,” she said. “Too cold and nothing happens. Too hot and the metal becomes brittle. Look for the colors yellow and red. White is too hot.”
Úlla was about to add some further instruction, then decided against it. If the Olmmoš could succeed with what he had observed, then he had a natural skill. She was not going to waste her time training someone who lacked ability. Returning to her own task, she found comfort in the reverberation of metal upon metal—the sound of rock turned to ore, turned to iron, turned to whatever she wished to create.
When Úlla had completed her twenty nails, she looked up. Marnej worked on, but she noticed he had surpassed her expected count by one, and was about to finish another.
“Do not grin like some nattering Billy goat,” she warned him, coming around her anvil to inspect his work. Surprisingly good, she mused.
“Acceptable,” she said.
“So, you can look forward to another five seasons of snow with me,” Marnej said, handing the nails to her before pulling off his gauntlet.
Úlla accepted them, saying, “If we live that long.”
“The war’s over,” Marnej said, replacing the hammer he had been using. “You’re safe here.”
Úlla grunted. “We are safe here. But out there?” She pointed toward some unknown place. “We are not safe.”
Marnej’s expression darkened. “No. You’re right. It’s dangerous. The Olmmoš and the Piijkij are both armed. And . . .”
“And the Song will not hide us,” Úlla interrupted, tossing the nails into a bowl.
Marnej shook his head. “Dárja and I traveled within the Song to return.”
“Well, Dárja’s blessed with skills beyond us all,” Úlla said, her dislike for that nieddaš like a splinter under the skin.
Marnej’s eyes narrowed. “If you mean that to be unkind, you miss your mark. But you’re right when you say that she’s skilled. I know. I’ve matched metal with her. She’s more than my equal.”
The Olmmoš had kept his voice calm, but the tension in his body told Úlla he harbored stronger sentiments.
Her reserve shattered like brittle metal.
“Dárja struts around with pride. Cherished by the healers. Acclaimed by the Elders. But what about Lejá, who is leaving us and will never come back? And do not tell me she will return, because then I will call you a liar and a killer. Dárja is not special. I know she has prayed her time will never come just as I have. Just today, she ran from the gathering hall when Lejá spoke of the Chamber of Passings. She may wield a sword, but she is a coward nonetheless.”
“Her time will never come!” Marnej’s booming voice cut off the rest of Úlla’s tirade.
The farther away Marnej drew from the forge, the more enraged he became. He’d taken to heart Kalek’s suggestion and made himself useful, and promised himself he wouldn’t let Úlla goad him into a bad mood by her capricious orders. And, for a moment, it seemed they were able to work together companionably. He could tell she’d been impressed. But she couldn’t keep a civil tongue in her head, even when he agreed with her. He hadn’t thought it possible, but Úlla was even more adept than Dárja at bringing out the worst in him. Whatever Dárja’s faults, she didn’t deserve Úlla’s scorn and ill will.
Without considering the possible consequences, Marnej turned on his heel and marched back to the forge where he found Úlla by her anvil, pounding on a thick piece of iron.
“It’s my fault,” he shouted at her.
Úlla stopped what she was doing. Her head snapped up, mouth open. Ready to argue, he thought. But Marnej didn’t give her a moment to gather up her spite.
“Dárja will never travel to her Origin because of me,” he continued shouting. “So, while you may return from your Origin an almai and hand over your mánná to her guide mother, Dárja never will. Think on this when you feel it necessary to cast scorn upon her. Whatever Dárja is, it is because of me.”
Marnej paused breathless, his body trembling with spent rage.
“What do you mean?” Úlla asked, her confusion genuine.
Weighed down by a truth he could no longer bear, Marnej sagged. Looking directly at Úlla to make sure she heard him, he explained, “To bring me back from death, my father placed me in the spirit stream meant for Dárja and her oktoeadni. Her mother died because of it, and Dárja only received a part of what was meant for her. I am alive and she will never be an almai.”
His confession made, Marnej turned to walk away, but then the last spark of justice flared within him. He met Úlla’s stern gaze.
“And before you call Dárja a coward, imagine yourself riding into a screaming mass of men and horses, to fight, knowing you’ll die. She did that. She survived her wounds. She escaped her jailors, bringing me with her. What you called cowardice is the will of one who’s lost everything and can’t bear others to know.”
Marnej fell into his bunk, the smell of hay and wool and dust filling his nose. His cooling anger had turned his sweat sticky on his skin. He strode to the icy water bucket where he scrubbed his chest and shoulders with a piece of felted wool. When he was done, Marnej dried himself with enough force to smooth timbers. Clean and dry, he dressed in haste. The pressure he felt within him was building once again. He needed to talk to someone—someone with enough reason—preferably Kalek, but Okta would do.
Descending from the sleeping loft, Marnej moved with purpose. As he passed through the gathering hall, Ello waved to him. He waved back but didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, not when his apprehension ga
ined traction with each step. Marnej was certain now that he’d made a grave mistake in revealing Dárja’s truth to Úlla. He’d been so angry. So frustrated. But what kind of excuse is that? he thought derisively, knowing that it was a rationale he’d begun to rely upon. I need Kalek’s advice. Kalek knew Dárja best. He could help Marnej sort out the mess he’d created.
Remembering earlier warnings to not barge in, Marnej knocked when he reached the door to the apothecary.
Dárja’s voice rang out to enter.
Marnej groaned. He took a cautious step away from the door, then glanced up and down the hall, deciding on which way to run. But if Dárja opened the door and saw him running, she’d track him down and grind him like a millstone until she had the truth. No, I’ll go in and face what I must, he thought. Squaring his shoulders, he pushed open the door. The unoiled hinges protested.
Dárja shot a hasty grimace in his general direction, then returned to her work.
“I’ll oil the hinges later,” he said, unable to think of anything else to say.
With her back to him, Dárja continued to work.
Marnej cleared his throat. “Are Okta and Kalek here?”
Dárja shook her head but didn’t look up.
“Will they be back soon?”
She shrugged.
Pulled by guilt, Marnej took a step forward. “Are you feeling unwell?”
Dárja shook her head again.
Marnej waited for her to say something. When nothing distinct came out of her hunched figure, he breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’ll leave you to your work then,” he said.
Dárja’s whirled around, her eyes were swollen and red. “No! Don’t go.”
The cold, clammy feeling returned to Marnej, creeping up his spine. Without really wanting to, he found himself asking, “What’s wrong?” He then cringed inwardly, knowing there’d be no escape for him now.
“I can’t do this,” Dárja said.
“What? Mix herbs?” Marnej asked, hoping the problem were that simple. “I’m sure you can do it. It just takes practice.”
Dárja waved the suggestion away. “No. I can mix herbs. I’m surprisingly suited to be a healer if you ask Kalek and Okta. But I can’t do this.” She motioned to where she stood.
Marnej found himself praying Dárja would go no further, that she would stop with the last statement. But an inescapable certainty suggested it couldn’t be that easy. So, he waited with mounting dread for Dárja’s explanation.
“I can’t just stand here mixing herbs when Lejá’s about to go Outside and face dangers for which she’s not prepared.”
“Oh. Lejá,” he said, wishing this were a casual conversation where an amusing story was about to be told. But it wasn’t that kind of tale and Marnej knew it. He knew because Úlla had already assailed him with the outcome.
Dárja’s brows furrowed. “Do you know her?”
Marnej shook his head.
“Then how do you know of her?”
“Úlla mentioned her today.”
Dárja’s eyes narrowed further. “What did she say?”
Marnej felt the walls closing in on him. “She said Lejá was leaving for her Origin and that she was worried.”
Dárja leapt around the work table to stand directly in front of him. “Exactly! Lejá’s vulnerable. The dangers are even greater now. She won’t know what to do. But I do.”
Dárja seemed to radiate an unnerving recklessness. And when he didn’t answer right away, she went ahead, undeterred. “I’ve been there.”
She pointed in a direction that had no meaning to him.
“I’ve traveled outside the Song,” she said. “I can protect her.”
“You mean, to escort her to her Origin and back,” he said, finally grasping her intention.
“Yes!” Dárja’s dark eyes blazed with intensity. “I can’t just offer Lejá herbs and tinctures and let her walk out there alone. I’ve fought—you’ve seen me—I can protect her.”
“But . . . Kalek? Okta? The Elders?” Marnej sputtered every objection he could imagine.
“It’s the only way to ensure we’ll survive,” Dárja said with such ferocity that Marnej dared not object.
“Then I’ll go with you,” he said, his feeling of responsibility overriding his better judgment.
Dárja shook her head. “No, this isn’t for you to do.”
Marnej stood rooted as guilt hardened into insult. “So you’re saying one blade, your blade, is better than two?”
“This is something I must do,” she said resolutely.
Marnej threw up his hands, stalking the corners of the apothecary. “Are you so stubborn you don’t see what’s offered?” He circled back to face Dárja. “I was trained to kill your kind. Don’t you think that I’m capable of protecting them as well? It’s my world out there, as you so often like to point out.”
A crack in Dárja’s determined expression gave Marnej hope that she was beginning to understand and he pressed his point, “My blade served the Brethren in training and in war. We both know it’s wasted here. I can work with Úlla and the other smiths, and I can learn to forge a blade, but it would be better for us all if I were using my weapon instead of learning to craft one. It’s where my true skill lies.”
Without warning, Dárja shot forward and embraced Marnej, squeezing him tightly about his ribs. “Thank you,” she said, her voice thick and muffled against his shoulder. “We can protect them. I know we can.”
Stunned by the sudden change in Dárja, Marnej stood frozen for a moment, then he awkwardly brought his arms around her and returned her hug. Her hair smelled of herbs and smoke.
Uncomfortable in the embrace, he felt like he should say something, but the right words eluded him. Instead, he wondered how many times Dárja had embraced his father like this. Part of him wanted to be jealous of their connection, but another part, the bigger part of him, just wanted to be held a little longer.
Úlla stood alone in the forge long after Marnej stormed out. She had not tried to stop him because her mind reeled in shock. For so many seasons of snow, Úlla had resented Dárja’s blind love for her Olmmoš bieba, Irjan. She had imagined Dárja to be proud and disdainful of the rest of the neiddas, those older than her and deserving respect. When Dárja had disappeared with their warriors, Úlla had celebrated her absence, while others worried and fretted over her. The fawning concern had made Úlla despise her even more.
When Dárja returned from the battle and Kálle had not, Úlla had wished upon her the darkest evil. How could it be that Dárja walked among them, while Kálle lay rotting in some Olmmos field? Úlla pictured her beloved, as she often did. His soft, dark eyes had held the promise of happiness, of a long life lived together. She wished a thousand times to see those eyes once more.
Úlla slumped against the wooden post next to where Kálle’s smock hung—the smock she wore each day, hoping to find his strength. She sank to the ground, her arms crossed tightly against tender breasts. The pain of examining her loss, her fears, was too much for her to bear. Úlla spent her days working in this forge, working with tools Kálle had used, showing the other smiths that she was worthy to take over for him. But as much as she wished she could be as strong as the iron she wrought, she was still just flesh and bones and blood, and all of her ached. She had lost so much. Tightness gripped her chest. Kalle, my sweet one. How can I do this without you?
Part Three
WE SING TOGETHER
AS ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
COMPARED TO THE FROZEN practice ground, the heat of the apothecary felt stifling. Dárja shrugged off the outermost layer of her furs. Marnej came after her, tugging her arm to make her stop, a sheen of sweat upon his face.
“I don’t think it’s wise to talk to Kalek today,” he whispered, looking over her head toward the work area.
Dárja pulled her arm free. “Why not?” Her eyes narrowed. “Have you lost your nerve? Because I can travel with the nieddaš by
myself. I don’t need your help.”
Marnej held up his hand to make her stop. “I haven’t changed my mind. It’s just . . . Kalek isn’t well disposed to hear this today.”
“How do you know?” she demanded.
Marnej fumbled for an answer, not wanting to reveal Kalek’s recent embarrassment at the forge. “I just know, Dárja. Can’t we just leave it at that?”
Her eyes narrowed further. “No. Nothing’ll improve by waiting longer.”
Marnej lunged to catch her arm, but Dárja slipped free and entered the workspace. Marnej trailed, a step behind.
Kalek stood bent over the fire, stirring something.
When he heard Dárja call out his name, he turned to them. His face was flushed with the heat from the fire, but there was something else about Kalek’s expression that Marnej couldn’t quite define. The last time he’d seen him, the healer had been upset and embarrassed. Now he looked as if his world had not only righted itself but perhaps even held some light.
Yes. That’s it, Marnej thought. The frown Kalek normally wore had been replaced by what Marnej could only call light.
Dárja cast a fleeting glance back at him, her eyebrows arched with condescension. Then she returned her attention to Kalek, saying, “I need to talk to you.”
Kalek held up his hand. “I need to take this to Ávrá. She is ill and this will ease her discomfort.”
“Marnej can take it to her,” Dárja promptly suggested.
Marnej elbowed her in the side with a warning look. She winced but went on undaunted, “I need to talk to you.”
“No. I prefer to take it myself,” he said, ladling a strong-smelling tea into a pitcher. “I will speak to you when I return.”
“I can go with you.” Dárja edged forward, her eagerness barely contained. “We can speak along the way.”
Kalek offered her a brief smile. “Thank you, Dárja, but I prefer to go by myself.”
Marnej grabbed Dárja’s hand. “It can wait.”
Dárja snapped her head around to Marnej. “No, it can’t!” she said, turning back to Kalek. “I wish to travel with the nieddaš on the way to their Origin—to protect them.”
Dreams of the Dark Sky Page 27
