The Vampire & Her Witch

Jocelynn’s eyes were fixed on the dagger blade where it lay nestled among the glowing coals. First, it turned a dull, smoky red. Then, ever so slowly, it took on a brighter, cherry hue.

It wasn’t until the red had begun to brighten that Jocelynn realized she hadn’t thought about the Ancient Oak since she’d dropped the twig into the oil. Not the voices in its leaves, or the broken acorns, or the three days that remained before the trial. For a few precious minutes, there had only been the fire, and the steel, and the gruff little artificer beside her.

”My boys used to fight over who got to watch the steel,” Erkembalt said suddenly, his voice gruffer than before. ”Three of them, all born on the same night, and not one of them could stand to let the others have a turn at anything. Korine used to say the forge was the only place in the world where they’d stand still for longer than a heartbeat.”

Jocelynn glanced at him. He was still watching the fire, but the corner of his small mouth had softened beneath his whiskers.

”Did any of them become artificers like you?” she asked. ”Or are they still too young?”

”Bah. Not a one,” Erkembalt said. ”One keeps ledgers, one keeps bees, and one keeps writing from the Lake of Stars to tell me he’s going to be a famous poet any day now.” He snorted.

”Never mind them,” Erkembalt said, twitching his whiskers and wrinkling his nose. ”They enjoyed watching the steel when they were kits, and they kept their old man company in a lonely shop for years. That counts for more than a father has any right to ask,” he said gruffly.

In the forge, the dagger had turned a deep, glowing orange, as bright as the coals around it.

Erkembalt reached into one of his many pockets and pulled out a small, dark stone tied to the end of a string. He pressed it into her hand.

”It’s a lodestone,” Erkembalt explained. ”Steel loves it, right up until the moment it gets hot enough. Touch it to the blade. When it stops sticking, the steel’s ready. Just don’t linger too long if it sticks,” he warned. ”If the string burns, we have to pry the loadstone off the blade with tongs and hope it doesn’t crack from the heat.”

Jocelynn leaned in as close as she dared, dangling the stone from the string and touching it to the glowing blade. It clung to the hot blade with a faint click. Jocelynn quickly tugged on the string, pulling the lodestone free of the dagger. A relieved sigh escaped her lips before a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

It was just like fishing for rings in a barrel at the Festival of Light in Blackwell. You had to have a steady hand and pull quickly or the rings would drift out of the way. With the blade, if she pulled too slowly, the loadstone would drag the blade out of the coals, but if she tugged quickly, it would break free.

Eager to test her theory, Jocelynn touched the loadstone to the dagger again, hoping that it would still stick. The smile on her lips widened when she did, and she pulled ever so lightly, moving the blade just a fraction of the finger’s width before giving it a sharp tug and pulling the loadstone free.

Beside her, Erkembalt nodded in approval, smiling as he watched her test her own understanding.

The third time, the stone slid away from the steel as if it had never known it at all.

”It’s ready,” she said confidently.

”So it is,” Erkembalt said as he glanced toward the pan of oil, where the twig still lay curled at the bottom before returning his attention to his royal apprentice. Maybe he really did want to steal her away from the Mother of Trees.

Or they could share, he thought. As the Olive Witch, Jocelynn would have plenty of time to master her various powers. She could spend a decade or two with him, learning what he had to teach before returning to other responsibilities.

”Now,” he said warmly, relishing in the flight of fancy that he finally had a proper apprentice, even if only for the evening. ”Have you ever quenched a blade before, Princess?” Erkembalt asked.

”No,” Jocelynn said, shaking her head. ”Never. I’ve only seen it done once when Father brought me to tour a famous swordsmith’s shop on Stormwarden Isle. The blade was glowing hot when he plunged it in the oil, and when he pulled it out, I thought it was a Holy Flame Blade because it caught fire as soon as it left the oil,” she said, blushing slightly in embarrassment.

”I was only nine at the time,” she said in a small voice.

”Why oil?” Eira asked suddenly from the table, coming to Jocelynn’s rescue as she pulled the attention away from the blushing princess. She flushed a little bit herself when everyone turned to look at her. Clearly, most of the people in the room had forgotten about her while they focused on the knife-making lesson, but Eira pressed on with her question anyway.

”The blacksmith back home always plunged his horseshoes into a water barrel,” Eira said. ”So why use oil if it can burst into flames?”

”Horseshoes don’t need to hold an edge,” Erkembalt said with a light chuckle. ”Water cools a blade too quickly. It shocks the steel and cracks it like a cold cup filled with boiling tea. Oil is gentler. Slower. It cools the blade without breaking it.” He tapped the side of the pan with one claw. ”And remember, oil can carry other things, too, like the essence of the Ancient Oak contained in the leaves and twig. Water can’t hold onto much of anything.”

”Now then listen close,” Erkembalt said, turning back to Jocelynn. ”Because you only get one chance at it. When the steel goes into the oil, it’s going to complain. Loudly. There’ll be smoke, and there might be fire. Don’t let go. Don’t pull back. And whatever you do, don’t stir it about like a pot of soup, or you’ll warp the blade, and we’ll lose the only infused oil we have. We only get one chance.”

”All right,” Jocelynn said, swallowing heavily and nodding her head.

”Let her practice,” Aspakos called from the side. ”You have at least a few minutes. Sir Ollie is very steady on the bellows. If he slows by half a beat, you’ll have enough time for her to practice with a blade in cold oil.”

”We all make mistakes the first time,” Aspakos said kindly as he walked up behind Jocelynn and rested a taloned hand on her shoulder. ”The important thing is to learn from it.”

”The old buzzard is right,” Erkembalt said, setting out another pan and filling it with cold oil before he fetched a pair of tongs and the unfinished blade he’d said would be good for cooking. ”Here, I’ll show you how.”

It sounded simple. Pick something up with a pair of tongs, put it in the oil and wait for it to cool, but when Jocelynn actually tried the first time, she dropped the cold blade on the floor as she fumbled with the unfamiliar tongs.

”That... That would have been bad.”

”It’s fine, it’s fine,” Erkembalt said, retrieving the fallen blade from the workshop’s floor and setting it out for her to try again. After three more tries, she was able to move the blade smoothly from the top of a stool to the pan on the table without dropping it.

”Now, one more thing,” Erkembalt said. ”A straight plunge will do, but if you can saw it back and forth a little, not side to side, but like you’re cutting steak, then it will cool a little better. Do you think you’re up to that?”

”No,” Jocelynn said honestly. ”I’m sorry, maybe you should do it, I...”

”No, no, it’s fine,” Erkembalt said quickly. ”We’ll do it together. I’ll help. Point first, straight down. You just support the weight and let me guide your hands.”

”All right,” Jocelynn said with a nod that looked more confident than she felt.

Working together, with Erkembalt’s dexterous hands guiding hers, they drew the glowing dagger out of the fire and plunged it into the pan.

– WHOOSH –

The oil erupted in a burst of flame. Jocelynn flinched, but Erkembalt’s paws held hers steady. Fire leapt up from the surface of the pan, licking at the air, and the smell of the Ancient Oak filled the workshop so thickly that she could almost taste it.

”Steady,” Erkembalt growled. ”Steady...”

Across the room, Eira gasped. Even Ollie stopped working the bellows.

Because the flames weren’t orange; they were copper and crimson and gold, the same colors as the Ancient Oak’s leaves. And the plume of flame wasn’t just a simple burst of fire. It seethed like a living thing, rising from the oil before billowing outward in the shape of a great oak tree...

Beside her, Erkembalt went very, very still.

”Well, now,” he breathed moments later when the flames consumed themselves, vanishing as though they’d never been there. ”I’ve never seen that happen before...”