The Vampire & Her Witch

”This is even better than expected...”

”Really?” Jocelynn asked, her hands going still on the stone. ”I’m glad,” she said, sighing in relief. The more she’d worked at the blade, the clearer it became that it was something special. Hearing that it had turned out better than a master like Erkembalt expected took a giant weight off her shoulders.

”Keep polishing,” Erkembalt said gruffly, straightening up and tugging at the hem of his vest. ”I want to see what it does when it’s finished.”

He didn’t go back to his own bench right away. Instead, he lingered at her shoulder for several long heartbeats, watching the glow of the steel with his whiskers twitching, before he finally turned away to fetch a short length of pale timber from one of his stacks.

While Jocelynn worked, he split the timber, shaved it down with a drawknife, and shaped it with a series of rasps and files until it had just the right shape. When he was satisfied, he set it down beside her.

It was white oak, pale and creamy, with a fine, tight grain. He had already cut a slot through its heart for the tang.

”Rub it down with this when you’re finished with the blade,” he said, handing her a bundle of dried, ridged rushes tied together with twine. ”Horsetail rush. Better than any rasp for the last of it. Smooth as a baby’s cheek, mind you,” he said. ”This isn’t the kind of thing you want to find an unfortunate splinter on.”

When the blade was finished to his satisfaction, Erkembalt took it from her and laid it in a long, shallow dish of sour wine vinegar.

”Remember what I said about acids and oils earlier,” Erkembalt explained. ”Steel and vinegar don’t like each other much. The softer layers will darken. The harder ones will stay bright. Leave it be for a while, and we’ll see what comes up.”

So Jocelynn picked up the horsetail rush and the white oak handle and went back to work. Her head was clearer now. The essence of wine’s effects had faded while she was working on the blade. It made it harder to stay absorbed in the task, and every now and then, worries about the things she still needed to do crept in. Still, she pressed on with the work until the wood was smooth to the touch.

When he finally drew the blade out of the vinegar and wiped it clean, Jocelynn momentarily forgot to breathe.

The pattern had come up through the steel. Swirling lines wound down the length of the blade, curling around each other the way grain curls around a knot in polished wood. But where the soft layers had darkened to the deep red of smoldering coals, the hard layers shone bright, red-gold and glowing, like the sun sinking behind the mountains. It didn’t look forged at all. Rather, it resembled a branch pulled directly from the fire, carrying the warmth of the forge with it.

Erkembalt slid a small brass guard onto the tang, then fitted the white oak handle down over it and tapped it home with a mallet. He capped the end with a disc of brass and peened the end of the tang over it with a series of sharp, ringing blows.

– Tink. Tink. Tink. –

Then he reached across the bench and picked up the little clay jar with the cracked lid that held the measure of oil he’d reserved from the quenching pan before they’d quenched the blade.

”Here,” he said, setting it in front of her. ”Now you know what it’s for.”

Jocelynn lifted the lid. The smell of the Ancient Oak rose up from the jar, softer now, but still there. Earth. Grass. Flowers.

She poured a few drops onto a clean rag and rubbed them into the handle. The pale oak drank the oil in greedily, and wherever the rag passed, the wood deepened to a warm, glowing honey color, its grain standing out like the lines on a palm. Then, at Erkembalt’s nod, she wiped a thin coat of oil along the length of the blade.

The steel seemed to drink it in, too. Wherever the rag passed, the red-gold glow deepened and warmed, until the whole blade shone like embers stirred back to life.

”Nothing goes to waste,” Jocelynn said quietly.

”Nothing goes to waste,” Erkembalt agreed.

He sharpened the edge himself. He worked it across three different stones, each one finer than the last, and he wouldn’t let her touch it, though he seemed less protective of the blade than he was of the princess.

”I’m not sending you back to Her Dominion three days before your trial with one finger fewer than you came with,” he grumbled when she offered to help.

When he was finished, he tested the edge by drawing it lightly along his own forearm. A neat tuft of silvery fur drifted down onto the bench.

”Hmpf. Korine would have my hide for that,” he muttered. Then he turned the dagger around and held it out to her, hilt first.

Jocelynn took it.

The handle was warm and smooth, and it fit her hand as though it had been carved for her alone. The blade caught the forgelight, and the pattern in the steel seemed to ripple and flow like embers stirring in a breeze.

This time, her hand didn’t shake.

A shadow fell across the workbench as Aspakos came to stand beside her once more. He lowered his great head until the gold seam in his beak was level with the blade.

”The Ancient Oak has stood on that hill through more winters than anyone has counted,” Aspakos said. ”It’s weathered every storm, every drought, and every war this valley has ever known.”

”Nearly every tree in the valley burned when the Lothians set fire to it a century ago. Only the strongest and the luckiest survived, and the Ancient Oak has never forgotten those flames,” Aspakos said as he straightened.

”That dagger will never chip, Princess. It will never crack, and it will never shatter,” Aspakos said confidently. ”It will hold its edge long after every other blade in this workshop has been ground down to nothing. Strike it against an anvil, and it’s the anvil you should worry about.”

”There are flames trapped within it as well,” Erkembalt said. ”Not just the heat of the forge either. From a single burning ember, an inferno can consume the world. You’ll need practice if you intend to draw out that power without harming yourself or others,” he warned.

Jocelynn stared down at the dagger in her hand.

”All of that,” she whispered. ”From a twig, and a pan of oil.”

”When the proper resources are gathered and given the right attention, wondrous things may be born,” Aspakos said, interrupting Erkembalt before the artificer could respond to what Jocelynn had said.

”Now,” Aspakos added. ”A blade like that deserves a name. This blade wouldn’t have come to life without you and the gift you brought, so I think it’s only fitting that you be the one to name it and the one to bear it. So?” Aspakos prompted. ”What will you call it?”

Jocelynn turned the dagger slowly in her hand. The forgelight slid along the steel, crimson and gold, like the last light of a long day. Crimson and gold...

”Crimson Promise,” she said.

Erkembalt waited, his head cocked to one side, as if he expected her to say more. When she didn’t, he only grunted.

”Crimson Promise,” Erkembalt repeated. ”Good. It’s a good name for a fine blade, and I have no doubt that it will serve you well for many years to come,” he said confidently.

”Which brings us back to the question that started this all,” Erkembalt said. ”Now that you’ve learned a bit about what power can do, are you any closer to knowing what kind of Olive Witch you want to be?”