Vignette
Keenan
ONE WEEK EARLIER…
Keenan tightened his grip on the tongs and swung the hammer with more force than usual. The glowing metal rang under his strike.
“He isn’t dead yet,” he ground out while bringing the hammer back up. “The smithy still belongs to him.”
From the corner of his eye, he could see Geoffrey fold his arms and lean back against the workbench. “It’s only a matter of time. My father has been ill for two months, and he’s not getting better.”
Anger as hot as the forge flared through Keenan’s chest at the man’s callous words, but he fought it down. His temper would do him no good. Instead, he spent his fury on the sword he was crafting.
“My father took you in when you had no one.” Geoffrey examined his fingernails. “A few more special orders isn’t asking too much.”
“But Master Elias set limits,” Keenan ground out. “I can’t complete all those orders by the times you promised.”
“You can if you don’t patrol the neighborhood looking for opportunities to play the hero,” Geoffrey retorted. “And if you give up practicing with the swords instead of forging them.”
“I don’t—”
“I won’t bail you out the next time you get in trouble,” Geoffrey warned. “So I’m doing you a favor. I suggest you consider that the next time you’re tempted to complain about your workload.”
With that, he pushed off the workbench and left the smithy, letting the door bang closed behind him.
Another strike, another tiny piece of Keenan’s frustration. He would never understand how his kind master had turned out such a son as that.
Setting the hammer down, Keenan plunged the blade he was shaping back into the fire. He was about to pull it out to pound some more when the little bell over the front door jingled.
He huffed in annoyance. The least Geoffrey could do was watch the counter so Keenan could focus on the special orders. Working for Master Elias was a privilege, but Keenan had no desire to work for his son.
Wiping his hands on his apron, he plastered on a smile and stepped into the front room to answer the questions of whichever nobleman had wandered into his shop this time.
But instead of one of his usual visitors, a young man in a traveling cloak stood just inside the doorway, a pack slung over his back and a black cat perched on his shoulder.
It was a pretty cat, with brown paws and a white sunburst on one shoulder, but most men didn’t bring cats weapon-shopping.
“Can I help you?” Keenan asked politely, resting his large hands on the counter.
The customer turned heavy-lidded eyes on him. “I need a sword. And a bow.”
“Do you know how to use them?” Keenan noted the man’s smooth hands and pale skin. “A weapon in untrained hands can be as dangerous to the wielder as to his opponent.”
“I am aware.” Turning away, the man began perusing the weapons displayed along the wall. “I left mine in Ralnor.”
A fugitive? Keenan’s hand drifted toward the dagger he kept under the counter. If the man was unarmed, it should be a simple matter to subdue him.
Unaware of Keenan’s thoughts, the man picked up one of the dull swords. His mouth curved as he studied the hilt. “A rose.”
“Yes. It was an experiment, one of my earlier works.” Keenan gripped the plain hilt of his dagger, but he kept it out of sight. “Did you just arrive in Hartford?”
“I’ve been here for several months.” The cat mewed, and the visitor tilted his head toward it. “She’ll compete, so I’ll lose. Going home will only waste time.”
“I’m sorry?”
The strange man glanced at him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
Then who was he talking to? The cat?
Keenan wasn’t sure if he should release his dagger or not.
“Castellia is the fallback plan, Puss. Ryuni is closer.” Turning back to Keenan, the man lifted the rose-hilt sword and asked, “How much for this one? And how long to sharpen it?”
Keenan named his price. “I can have it ready in an hour. What are you looking for in your travels? Will you join the sword dancing competitions if you make it to Castellia?”
Snorting, the man set the sword on the counter and stuffed a hand in his money pouch. “I don’t need glory. I need a princess.”
“A…princess?” Keenan echoed, feeling his eyebrows lift as he accepted the stranger’s money.
The other man paused and rubbed his cat’s chin with a finger. His eyes drifted to the north, a hint of longing softening his face. “Not my first choice.”
As Keenan carried the sword to the back, he thought he heard the stranger arguing with the cat, ordering it to stay at the castle because the journey would be too dangerous. He shook his head. Was it ethical to sell weapons to someone whose mental state was questionable?
He looked at the glowing metal in the fire and sighed. He’d spent too long with the stranger; he would have to start over on that one.
Sitting down at the grindstone, he started it turning and poured a little water on the edge. Since Geoffrey’s laziness had ruined his work, he might as well sharpen the rose-hilt sword now.
As sparks flew off the blade, Keenan’s mind wandered back to the stranger in his front room. Had the stranger been a woman, he might have stepped in. After what happened with Mama…
He shook his head and focused on his work. The stranger was odd, but men could take care of themselves. He and his cat weren’t Keenan’s problem.
And neither was the princess that the stranger sought.
THE END