Chapter 2
2
L IFTING MY ARM , I SLAM the hammer onto the smoldering metal. The discordant ring expands, then expires, crushed into silence beneath the sweltering heat of the forge.
Another strike. Back and shoulders tighten against the rising sting of exertion, but this, too, is familiar. Molten iron, shaped and cooled. The dagger, once complete, will be added to the rest awaiting transfer into Under. Though the tithe is months away, preparations have already begun.
Down falls the hammer. The work is never done. Sweat plasters long, red strands of hair to my neck and forehead. My cheeks flame scarlet—an unfortunate side effect of milk-pale skin.
While I work, I think of Carterhaugh. I think of the fair folk and their penchant for violence. An entire day has passed since I stumbled across that man in the wood. I told myself I would forget him, yet my thoughts reach for his battered face, the questions that plague me.
When the blade loses color, I return to the great slab of stone where the fire burns and shove the weapon into the smoking coals. I work the bellows surely. The contraption contracts, air punching outward, the coals flaring in response.
Hammer, reheat, hammer, reheat. The pattern will repeat itself until the dagger is properly profiled. Gripping the tang with my heavy tongs, I beat the metal against the face of the anvil. A chip flakes off the blade’s edge, singeing the front of my cowhide apron. After another hour of hammering, I quench the dagger in a bucket of water. A spitting hiss seethes the air as the iron hardens, its structure stabilizing. I examine the blade from all angles. Its silvery sheen brightens like a star, and satisfaction warms me.
While the weapon cools on the table, I refocus on my surroundings. Night has fallen beyond the small, darkened doorway.
Dampness springs to my palms, though the heat has nothing to do with it. Evening Mass finished an hour ago, but I often return to the forge following service to work in the more favorable temperatures, with Mother Mabel’s permission. It’s silly, this fear of the darkness. My lantern provides more than enough light. I tell myself it is enough.
After untying my apron, I hang it on a hook near the doorway, then toss my leather toolbelt onto the table with a clatter. Lastly, extinguishing the fire. I stir the coals, watch the cooler air lick their searing edges until they begin to darken. Within minutes, the fire is out.
Outside, I set my lantern on the ground and plant my feet. In the shadow of the forge, I draw my dagger and begin to practice a short round of exercises. I stab and duck, striking high, driving low. Although my old swordsmithing mentor taught me the basics, it is Mother Mabel who demands that I whet my knife-fighting skills as I would a blade. Not many know she is an accomplished swordswoman.
Drenched in sweat, blood humming eagerly, I sheath my dagger and return to the main complex, hurrying toward its distant glow. The bathing chamber is empty at this hour, allowing me the rare opportunity to bathe in peace, without any snide comments about how I take up too much room.
I soak in the tub, sloughing the soot and grit from my body, before returning to the dormitory, my wet hair plaited, cool cotton whispering against my skin. The bell tolls the ninth hour—curfew.
The moment I enter my bedroom, I light the candle on my bedside table. Amber light warms the plaster walls. Like every dormitory in Thornbrook, mine is sparse. Very few personal possessions. The Text lies open on my desk, along with my journal.
All novitiates must share a room, but because I’m the bladesmith, coming and going at odd hours, I sleep alone in the eastern tower at the end of the hall. My window offers a view of the highlands to the north, and the strait—a dark line ruffled by white waves, twenty miles eastward—which separates Carterhaugh from a realm known as the Gray.
Text and journal in hand, I climb into bed and open my journal to the most recent entry, an entire page inked with last night’s musings.
I do not know where this man has come from, but I wonder.
I thumb the corner of the page pensively, then close the slim, leatherbound book. I’ve nothing more to add. The man remains a mystery.
Setting aside my journal, I complete my nightly prayers, ending with a mumbled, “Amen.” That leaves the Text. Seven sections comprise the complete liturgy: the Book of Fate, the Book of Night, the Book of Grief, the Book of Truth, the Book of Origin, the Book of Change, the Book of Power. These chapters are both history and moral compass, penned by the first of the Father’s followers: the bedrock upon which our faith is built.
Turning to the Book of Fate, I pick up where I left off yesterday. But the script may as well be freshly inked for how it blurs before me. I shut my eyes, think of the man lying in the wood, so still. His horribly disfigured face stamped into my mind.
My nature is not impulsive in the slightest. I am not the river’s current, cutting pathways into earth. I am the rock within the stream. The man is likely gone, dragged off by the beasts of Under, where only the truly insidious dare dwell, and yet—
My eyes snap open. The dark cuts shapes into the ceiling.
Easing onto my side, I stare at the flutter of candle flame. Here, safety. A small brightness. Yet sweat stings beneath my arms, as though my body has already sensed my mind’s intention. Night curtains Carterhaugh. These woods are not safe. But if I were to carry my lantern, surely that would be enough to guide me?
Cursing my soft heart, I toss off the blankets and throw on my cloak, my lantern gripped tightly in hand. As long as I return before dawn, Mother Mabel will be none the wiser.
I move with haste, tucking myself into the shadows along the pillar-lined cloister. By some miracle, I manage to navigate the corridors unseen, slipping wraith-like onto the outer grounds.
Darkness coats the cobblestoned courtyard and its ring of trees. The herbarium sits on the other side of an open gate to my left; tucked inside is a small shed whose door swings open to reveal pails, gardening tools, and a cart to carry heavy burdens. To muffle the creak of the wheels, I oil the axles of the cart, then toss a blanket into the back. Thankfully, I reach the gatehouse without incident.
Since Thornbrook hasn’t the funds to hire a night watch, I lift the gate with painstaking slowness. The crank shrieks so loudly I’m certain the townsfolk of Kilkare will hear it. I glance over my shoulder as a wave of cold pebbles my skin.
Nothing. Neither movement nor sound. Fear of discovery hastens me. As soon as the opening is large enough, I haul the cart through and lower the gate behind me. The iron barricade is all that stands between Thornbrook and the fair folk.
It’s a slow journey through the dark. Moonlight brightens the earth’s swells in silver, for which I’m grateful. The cart bounces and clatters onward, four wheels rolling sloppily over the uneven terrain.
I tread cautiously, for the fair folk revel in their nightly schemes. Not much farther. I lift my lantern high, let its orange light brighten the surrounding area. If memory serves me correctly, it is here I ventured off the path to collect pearl blossom—
And there lies the man.
He is exactly where I left him, spread-eagled in the dirt. It is strange. He seems to blend in with the soil, the ferns curling over his torso in a disconcerting impression of affection. I’m relieved by the rise and fall of his chest.
After setting down my lantern, I tug on my gloves and arrange his arms against his sides. My waist is thrice the size of his, my arms broad, heavy with muscle. Thus, it takes little effort to lift him into the cart. I cover him with the blanket for warmth.
The return trip takes an age. With a misaligned wheel, the cart veers crookedly over the ground, and the burn of exertion hooks talons into my upper thighs. Yet I push onward up the mountain, up and up and up. The ground levels off, then climbs once more as the east lightens. Soon, color will run cracks through the world.
By the time I reach the crumbling abbey walls, sweat pools beneath my arms. With dawn so near, it would be foolish to haul the cart back onto the grounds. I discard it outside the entrance, along with the lantern, heave the man across my shoulders, and enter Thornbrook via the gatehouse.
A worn footpath rounds the back of the forge where the smoky air lingers. After a few paces, I stop to adjust the man’s weight. Despite the filth coating his garb, a sweet scent, like moss and sunshine, drifts from his skin. I cannot hide him here, for Mother Mabel often drops by unannounced. My options are limited: the infirmary, or my dormitory. Ideally, I would take him to the infirmary, but with men barred from the abbey, I fear the physician would cast him out to the elements despite his injuries. And I cannot abandon him. This I know. Only my room will provide sanctuary.
My ears strain for sound as I pass through the herbarium, skirting the raised beds of vegetables and medicinal herbs before entering the cloister. Voices drift like a muffled fog through the pillars of stone. Who would be up this late? Curfew was hours ago.
I slow as I turn a corner. A dark, quiet passage, brightened by islands of flickering light. Moments later, a silhouette, tall and rigid, materializes at the end of the hall.
My blood turns to ice.
I dare not stir, though my muscles strain beneath the man’s weight. The distance is too great to determine if Mother Mabel looks this way, but something has caught her eye. As the twinge in my lower back lights to a brushfire, a whimper slips out, cracking the silence of the warm evening.
Her head swings in my direction. Shadow engulfs her form save the sheen of her eyes, the glint of her gold, serpentine necklace.
“Mother Mabel,” someone calls.
She startles, whirls toward dark-eyed Fiona, one of the novitiates. “My dear. What are you doing up at this hour?” Together, they stride in the opposite direction, vanishing through the doors leading to the church.
Silent as the dead, I climb the narrow dormitory staircase. I’m panting by the time I reach my bedroom. The door opens soundlessly, then shuts, a muffled click as I engage the lock.
My knees immediately liquify, and the man slides face down onto my cot seconds before I sink to the floor.
That was far too close.
To touch a man’s flesh is a grave sin. To house a man, unchaperoned, in one’s room? The thought of repercussions tightens my airway. We’ve all heard the gossip: women who had given themselves to faith, suddenly banished out into the cold, their vows broken.
No home.
No warmth.
No purpose.
No god.
But—the man.
Pushing to my feet, I turn to inspect my guest by the glow of the still-burning lamp. The rip in his tunic reveals a smooth, muscled chest covered in sparse brown hair. I push the fabric aside, revealing yet more wounds. A beating? If so, this is not the work of the fair folk. Those who dwell in Under enjoy their violence. It is a game to them. The objective is never to end, but to prolong, always. Why snap when you can bend and tear and wrench?
I straighten the man’s legs, which are so long they hang off the edge of my cot. Then I rummage through the chest at the foot of my bed, searching among my few worldly possessions. For I had another life before this one, long ago.
A small, woven basket holds a plethora of poultices and balms—the work of my mother. Unscrewing the top off a glass bottle, I pour a small amount of ointment into my gloved palm, coating the leather to a high shine.
I begin with the worst of the bruising—the underside of his jaw. As the swelling on the man’s face begins to recede, I pluck leaves and twigs from his hair, brush the curls from his face. Fringed lashes rest upon lightly freckled cheekbones. The color of his eyes remains hidden from me.
And then, inevitably, the tolling of the bell: dawn.
Followed by a knock at the door.