I nodded. “I visited the blacksmith’s shop in my village sometimes to watch him make horseshoes or nails.”
“I’ve been working on a new sword. Come by the smithy tomorrow morning after you finish with Brother Thistle and you can see what I mean. Perhaps if you can envision the steel in its nascent state, it won’t feel so repugnant.”
“Does that apply to Frostbloods?” I asked with feigned innocence. “If I’d seen you in your nascent state, would you be less repugnant to me?”
A wicked gleam lit his eyes. “What nascent state do you mean, exactly?”
Realizing the other possible meaning of my words, I spun away. “Not that, you conceited icicle. I meant, if I’d known you as a child. Which, though impossible, is more likely than the scenario you’re suggesting.”
“Thank Fors. I’d hate to bare my… soul to you and be judged harshly.”
Unwilling to let him get the better of me, I turned on my heel to face him and stepped in his path. He put his hands out reflexively, catching my upper arms. I let my eyes flick over him. “It might be worth the experience if I could take a chip or two out of that towering pride.” I smiled the way I’d seen shopkeepers’ daughters do with village boys.
He was silent, an unusual state for him. It was exhilarating, putting him off-balance, to the point where I felt a pang of danger. This was a game to which I could become quite addicted if I wasn’t careful.
I turned away before he could see the flush that crept up my neck. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“Just don’t wear your cloak in the forge,” he called after me. “With all the stray sparks, you’re liable to catch fire.”
But it wasn’t the forge’s effect on me that was worrisome.
The smithy, a long building to the southwest of the abbey, was dominated by a stone hearth filled with glowing coals and a large bellows in front. A variety of metal instruments hung from hooks on the walls. To the left of the hearth, a broad male back, uncovered but for a sheen of sweat, was bent slightly. He lowered a hammer with ringing force onto a piece of heated metal held with tongs on an anvil.
Luckily, the flush that swept over my skin was easily dismissed as a result of the heat of the room.
“I didn’t think you were serious yesterday,” I said between hammer blows, “about baring yourself to me.”
Arcus stopped and turned, and I saw that a leather apron covered his chest. “It has nothing to do with you. It’s hotter than the inside of Sud’s volcanoes in here.”
It was clear from his tone that his mood was a lot less playful than the day before, possibly because he was in a room that must feel excessively hot to him.
I moved closer, touching implements on a worktable along the way. “I thought you hated heat and flame.”
“Necessary evils. I don’t spend more time here than I must. Put on those gloves.” He nodded to leather gloves that sat on a table along the wall. I noticed he also wore a pair.
“I don’t need them.”
“Put them on.”
I did and joined him in front of the anvil.
“Take the tongs and put the blade in the fire,” he instructed.
I took the tongs and held the long, crudely sword-shaped bit of metal above the coals. He put down the hammer and worked the bellows, making the flames leap higher.
“Ironwork is a dance of air and flame,” he said. “To get the right level of heat, you need the right balance. Too little and you can’t work the metal. Too much and you melt it. There, see that? That’s the color we need. Put it on the anvil. Carefully.”
I rolled my eyes at his imperious tone and did as he said. “I thought you wanted to show me liquid steel.”
“You’ll have to imagine that part. A few days ago, Sister Clove helped me heat the metal until it was pure liquid, then poured the liquid into a form and cooled it before starting to shape it. I’ve already refined the tip, but I need to add the bevel. Hold it steady.”
He hammered the glowing orange metal, starting at the tip and working along the edge. “See how it glows? Think of it this way. Fire is at its heart, even when it has cooled and hardened. Without heat, there would be no transformation, just an unformed piece of metal.”
I shifted position to give my arm relief. “So you admit fire is necessary.”
Hammer, hammer, hammer. “I’ve already said as much.”
“A necessary evil, I believe you called me. Hardly flattering.”
He glanced up. “Do you need flattery?”
“I’d like you to admit the value of heat. And of Firebloods.”
The hammer stilled. He met my eyes. “I do. Some of the best weapons are forged in the Fire Islands. There is nothing here that compares to the beauty of a Fireblood sword.”
My stomach made a peculiar dip. I couldn’t find any words, so I nodded.
“It’s cooled too much. Back into the coals,” he said, and we repeated the process of fire, bellows, waiting for the right color, and back onto the anvil so he could work the metal.