Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Or maybe it just felt that way after hours of scrubbing herself clean, meditating, and worrying.
It still hadn’t sunk in, not really. Nothing felt real.
They passed through the courtyard, and even though they passed a few other monks and one younger girl that might have been an initiate, everyone was silent.
They ducked into one of the stone buildings on the edge of the courtyard, and she watched, unease swimming in her gut, as the monk crouched down.
He brushed aside the straw that littered the ground and lifted a large hatch by its newly revealed handle.
Passing her an old lantern, the Keeper started down the ladder without a word.
A moment of trepidation seized Iryana as she looked down into the dark hall. She had heard rumors of what happened during a forging—all from those who’d never experienced one, of course. It was deeply forbidden to speak of, even after the dakii had done away with so many other traditions.
This was her last chance to turn back, to avoid whatever would be asked of her next. She wished she could.
Once they both reached the bottom of the ladder, Iryana looked around, holding out her lantern. The space was small, barely having room for the few storage shelves that lined one wall.
How could one be forged in such a place?
But then the Keeper opened a hidden door in the side wall, revealing yet another ladder, and down they went again. Her heart beat even louder. There were four different passages they descended through before Iryana knew they had reached it.
She could feel the hum of energy in the air—the power of the well—even though she could not see it. They stood in what seemed to be some kind of antechamber, and she believed the actual well was through one of the doors circling the room.
The large chamber had walls with tapestries hung floor to ceiling, some displaying beautiful scenes in their embroidery, others bearing the symbols and patterns Iryana associated with the art of metal-forging.
The central wall-hanging depicted Noshtiz, god of metal, surrounded by what were most likely his champions.
There was a raised platform in the center of the room, with posts at each corner bearing large lanterns that, with the help of the fixture on the ceiling, cast the entire room in a warm glow.
On the platform sat a simple wooden cot and a padded stool around what looked to be a large metal jar that was clearly attached to the platform.
She could not describe the way the room smelled, but it was distinct.
Iryana took it all in. The reality of where she finally was brought tears to the corners of her eyes.
“This is the true temple, the chambers of the well.” The sudden sound of the Keeper’s low voice caused Iryana to jolt. “When we leave these chambers, you will be forged.”
Her knees weakened, throat bobbing, as that fate sunk into her. She would be metal-forged. The first Guardian of Klees to do so in over a decade. The thought was terrifying.
When the Keeper turned to her, Iryana forced herself to take him in again.
He wasn’t the type of man who would have drawn her attention before; he had looked harmless, powerless up above.
But down here, there was a magnetism about him.
He was in his domain, and he watched her with brilliant green eyes that promised untold secrets.
Then she processed what he’d said about not leaving until she was forged.
“Doesn’t it take days? Weeks?” That was what she had assumed, based on how long her various family members had been gone for.
“Sometimes, yes. Once the forging has begun, it is dangerous to leave until it is done.”
The walls seemed to close in tighter. They would be deep underground for so long, not a glimpse of the sky. Iryana swallowed. She wasn’t necessarily claustrophobic, but being trapped there for so long…
The Keeper approached her.
“To be forged is not to be taken lightly,” he said, voice heavy with wisdom.
“It is a careful art where many things can go wrong. There is always the chance you aren’t strong enough and the process will kill you.
A chance we go too far, and magic is cut off from you forever.
Assuming we succeed, your magic can always be reforged at any metal well, but once you have accepted the power of this well, trying to take the power of any other kind will kill you. ”
Iryana dropped to her knees before him, inclining her head. She knew the words to say, had heard them in lullabies and nursery stories since her birth. “I understand the risk, Keeper. Please bind me to this well and guide my forging.”
Her heart was beating hard as she stared at the worn stone floor.
The dangers didn’t matter. She would risk it all for the Klees Guardians. For Hadima and Misha.
“Then, Iryana of the 18th, please sit, and we will begin.” The Keeper gestured at the long bench on the platform and sat himself down on the stool beside it.
Iryana complied, scrunching the fabric of her robe with her fingers nervously. She looked around, taking in mostly empty space, save for the bench, the stool, and a jar between them.
She knew what came first. The Kleesold clan wore their tattoos proudly, though they were usually out of sight.
She had seen glimpses of the tattoos within the brigade too.
Some had them on an arm, revealed only in the heat of exercise with their sleeves pushed up.
Other times exposed in the shadows of the hall or around the fort where couples bared each other’s flesh.
There seemed no pattern to where the tattoos could be located, and no two looked the same, although each type of magic had its own symbols.
“Who are you?”
Iryana whipped her head up in confusion. “What?”
The Keeper reached for the enameled lid covering the strange jar between them. When he lifted it, Iryana gasped. She could feel the power like she could sense her own magic, but this felt infinite and unreachable.
Almost instinctively, she tried to pull it, and a terrible throbbing echoed in her head.
“This is the magic of the well: the blood of Noshtiz, the Metal god,” the Keeper spoke reverently.
“It will not obey just anyone. You must open yourself to it, lower all defenses. That is the purpose of the sacred tattoo. It will be your bond with Noshtiz’s blood that allows you to forge your magic with his. ”
She gripped her knees, realizing how unprepared she truly was.
How did one introduce themselves to the magic of a dead god?
“I am Iryana Kleesolda?” she started hesitantly. “Soon to be of the 18th Brigade, but born to the Kleesold Clan, a Guardian of Istri.”
“Those are mere titles; they mean nothing to the blood. You must tell me who you are. This story is what I must tattoo you with to bind you to the blood.”
Iryana bristled as hot panic crawled up her neck. How truthful could she be? She looked at the Keeper nervously.
She could do this, she encouraged herself, and sucked in a shaking breath.
“I was born in Klees and trained in the ways of a guardian, then followed them to the Dovaki post when the dakii came. I became a guardian at 16, but I never fit in, so I left and joined the Brigade.”
“That will not do.”
She clenched her teeth in frustration.
The Keeper raised his hands, concentration pinching his face, and Iryana watched as silver tendrils of magic rose from the small well. They seemed to twist and fight him, recoiling each time he pushed them in her direction. He raised a brow at her, as if to say, see.
“When you’ve given in, the magic of the well will accept you.
” His voice gentled. “This bond is a sacrifice, Iryana. Not a judgment. Nothing you say here will leave these walls. You must humble yourself before the god’s blood.
You must make yourself so vulnerable that your defenses lower, or the magic has no chance of bonding with you. ”
He sank into his perch on the stool, as if readying for a long wait. “We’re listening.”
Iryana clenched her fists, aggravation curling them tight. “I am adrift. Not truly belonging anywhere or to anyone. I take care of myself. I can hunt, forage for herbs, and fight off the dakii.”
“Keep going. Think of the things you’d never say to another. Your shames, your pains, your dreams.” His voice was soft despite how hard his words struck her.
“So you can brand me with it forever?” Iryana shoved herself up, chest heaving. “I don’t want that reminder on my body. Those are things we’re meant to forget and move past, not torment ourselves over.”
He watched her with patient eyes. “These things are already a part of you. You can’t pretend they don’t exist. And the magic requires sacrifice.”
“I can’t.” But she had to; she knew she did. Her family would be lost otherwise, and she was so close.
The Keeper was silent for a moment. “Then you will never be forged.”
“You ask me to share things I don’t even know how to say to myself.”
“Then let me guide you; that is my calling.” He smiled gently. “Start at the beginning, and we will find the truth the magic needs.”
She lowered herself back down, trying to find the words. She already felt shaky.
“My life was good before the dakii attacked. I was raised in the Kleesold’s main house in Klees. It was loud and strict, but…” Iryana hesitated, but the Keeper nodded encouragingly. “I was loved.”
“And when the dakii came?”
“I was about to turn five. We only managed to hold up in Klees for a year and a half, and we fell back to Shumskigron. My family was still guardians. We protected the people where we could. The Kleesolds, like many other clans, were eventually recruited by Duchess Vrinikolda. We were given a post, a valley to guard. We built great walls and renovated the old village.”
“Those were hard years for us all.”
She nodded.