The Vampire & Her Witch

”If you’re certain,” Erkembalt said. ”Then tell me why.”

”Because I want to be able to protect myself,” Jocelynn said. Her voice was steadier than her hand had been, but as she spoke, her grip on the dagger’s tang tightened. ”I was lucky this time. People came to rescue me. But I lost someone. Someone precious to me couldn’t hold out long enough to wait for rescue,” she said as moisture collected in the corners of her eyes.

”Whatever kind of witch I become, I have to be able to fight back,” Jocelynn said. ”It’s not enough to feed people or keep them warm through the winter, even though those are important things. If I can’t protect myself, and protect the people I cherish... then what’s the point of becoming a witch?”

”I don’t know how to fight with a knife like this,” she said, looking at Ollie who nodded when her gaze fell on him. ”But I’m willing to learn. I have to be willing to learn, or.... Or I’ll never be free to choose for myself when someone tries to take my choices and my loved ones away from me. I can’t let that happen. Not again,” she said resolutely.

For a long moment, Erkembalt said nothing at all. He looked away from Jocelynn and met Aspakos’s dark gaze from across the room. The silence stretched between the artificer and the sorcerer long enough that it began to feel uncomfortable until Aspakos gave a subtle nod.

Then Erkembalt gave a satisfied grunt and his bushy tail perked up behind him.

”Good answer,” Erkembalt said, taking the dagger from Jocelynn’s hand. ”The right reason makes for a better blade. If you were uncertain, it would only turn in your hand when you needed it most. Now go and fetch me that little clay jar on the shelf behind you. The one with the cracked lid.”

Jocelynn brought it to him, and Erkembalt dipped a long iron ladle into the pan of oil, drawing out a ladleful of the fragrant, golden oil that carried a trace of the Ancient Oak’s presence with it. He poured the oil carefully into the jar before pressing the cracked lid down over it.

”What is that for?” Jocelynn asked as she watched the artificer work.

”Later,” Erkembalt said, setting the jar aside on the bench. ”Remember what Aspakos said about ruining the oil once you quench a blade in it? But we’ll want a trace of the oil to finish the blade at the end, so we have to collect it now, before the blade is quenched.”

Once he’d set the jar aside, Erkembalt turned back to the forge and raised his voice.

”Sir Ollie!” the artificer called. ”Early orange, if you please!”

”Early orange it is!” Ollie called back cheerfully as he got to work.

Ollie threw his weight into the bellows and his muscles tightened visibly beneath his tunic. The coals roared to life with a deep, rushing breath, and their sullen glow brightened to a hungry orange. Then, once he was certain that the temperature wasn’t just correct, but that Ollie had found the rhythm to hold it steady, Erkembalt laid the dagger into the heart of the fire and stepped back, folding his arms across his apron.

”Now we wait,” the artificer said. ”Steel can’t be hurried. Rush it, and you’ll heat the edges before the spine, and then the whole blade warps like a wet board.”

From his seat at the table, Aspakos made a soft, clicking sound deep in his throat that Jocelynn had come to recognize as laughter.

”How many years has it been, Erkembalt?” Aspakos asked. ”How many years since you last chased an apprentice out of your shop for asking questions instead of searching for answers in books the way you did? And now you’re explaining the patience of steel to a princess and looking happier than I’ve seen you since we left the High Fen.”

”Are you certain you’re doing this for her sake?” Aspakos asked. ”Or are you trying to steal an apprentice from the Evergreen Empress?”

”Mind your own business, you old buzzard,” Erkembalt said without turning around. ”You’re the one who tried to set her path, talking about unbreakable pacts and the powers of an olive pen. I’m just showing her other options,” he said with a huff. ”Now finish your cup and let us work.”

Jocelynn stood beside him and watched the dagger lying in the coals. The heat pressed against her face and her skirts, and before long, she could feel beads of sweat gathering at her temples. After a day spent shivering in the carriage and kneeling on a frozen hill, it felt almost luxurious.

”You said it was folded steel,” she said after a while. ”What does that mean?”

Erkembalt’s tail gave a pleased little flick, as if she’d asked exactly the right question.

”It means I took two kinds of steel, one hard and one soft, and hammered them together while they were hot,” he said. ”Then I folded them over and hammered them again. And again. And again. Hard, soft, hard, soft, until there are more layers in that blade than there are pages in your steward’s ledgers.”

”Why go to so much trouble?” Jocelynn asked. ”Shouldn’t you just choose the best steel you can reasonably afford for the thing you’re trying to make?”

”There’s no such thing as ’the best steel,’” Erkembalt said. ”You need the right steel for the job, and sometimes that means marrying up different kinds of steel. Hard steel holds an edge, but it’s brittle,” he explained. ”Soft steel bends, but it won’t stay sharp. Fold them together, and you get a little of both, and the blade is better for it.”

”That pattern you saw is the layers showing through,” Erkembalt added. ”Once it’s finished, it’ll show even better. It will be very pretty,” he said, as though he were concerned that she might find the blade somehow ugly and therefore uninteresting or inferior.

”You can do things like this because it has a functional purpose and because it’s beautiful at the same time,” the artificer concluded. ”The best things are both, but in a pinch, I’ll take a functional blade over a pretty one every time,” he admitted.

”Mmm,” Jocelynn said, nodding in understanding while she watched the steel slowly begin to change color. Pretty wasn’t important. Useful. That was the key. The rotten acorn had been very pretty to look at, but it crumbled at the slightest bit of pressure.

She didn’t have to be pretty. Pretty had brought her Owain Lothian’s attention and his twisted forms of affection, but in the end, those had proven to be as empty and rotten as the polished acorn. So long as she could be useful in the end, that was all that really mattered...