Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“Tasírath?” The capital of Ela, of all places. “Jalomir, it takes almost three days’ travel to get there. All that for a single sword?”
The ornamental weapon in question graced the table before them.
Four small cerulean jewels sparkled in the pommel of the hilt, while the lower part of the grip boasted the Elan crest, a delicate five-petaled rose surrounded by creeping vines native to the kingdom.
Farther up the handle sat the Dalvian crest, a glittering snowflake nestled in the curve of an intricately woven crescent moon, floating above the jagged mountains of her beloved home.
She couldn’t help but admire her mentor’s perfect craftsmanship before turning her attention back to him. “Don’t they have a weaponsmith of their own they can commission?”
Jalomir grunted as he finished the last of his pastry, his calloused fingertips coated in white powder. “Alvara, there are nobles in other kingdoms that are strong Dalvians, and we are the best smiths for swords that are able to channel that kind of power.”
Right. A noble that would likely hang the sword at his hip as nothing more than decoration and never wield it. The same as every other elf who abandoned the way of the blade as soon as they finished academy, believing magic to be superior.
“Can we at least wait until nyr? We’ve already had so much snow. And there can’t be that much of a rush—we haven’t had a war in over two hundred years. What are they going to use it for, slicing bread?”
“You know, Alvara,” the older elf said, raising his gray eyebrows, “if you would practice your magic, the snow wouldn’t be much of a bother at all.”
The scathing blow landed exactly where he had intended. She hadn’t used her Dalvian magic since her sister’s fading—the spark that fueled her powers had been snuffed out at the same time as Eloisa. It reminded her too much of her sister, with such a passion for magic and all the potential it held.
She could argue, but it would only lead to a deeper discussion she had no interest in. “I’ll go.”
“Then it’s settled. You and Pyrymar will set out tomorrow at first light.”
Vitharen help me. “Pyry? You somehow didn’t mention he would be joining me.”
Jalomir picked up the blade in front of him and examined its edge. “He has business to attend to in Tasírath.”
Unlikely. Since his father’s fading, Pyry rarely left Vorianta, let alone Dalvi, and had enough work in the city to keep him busy at his forge all hours of the day. She hadn’t seen him in…No, she had stopped counting after a year of waiting to hear from him.
And now she was supposed to spend at least a week with him as if he hadn’t abandoned her in the pits of grief.
She supposed she couldn’t blame him too much after morphing into a shallow shell that reeked of alcohol the entire first year.
When the sour smell wafting off your own body nauseated your stomach, you knew things had taken a turn for the worse.
Jalomir blew out a long breath. “I am not comfortable with you traveling alone. And if you had any other friends, I would have other options.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he added, “The baker down the way does not count.”
“I see her every day,” Alvara grumbled. It was impossible not to. That elf’s sweet creations were even more addicting than the ale they had replaced. “And I’m more than capable of defending myself should some Elan flower-sniffer decide I’m worth the trouble.”
“I worry about you, young one. You spend too much time here.” He gestured to the ancient, somewhat crumbling stones around them.
“It is time to leave the past where it belongs, Alvara, and head out into the world. Experience what our beautiful lands have to offer. I never expected you to stay here, with an old elf close to his fading.”
“Jalomir, you spend just as much, if not more time here than I do.” The words came out sharper than she intended. He had lost his seluri decades ago, burying himself in his work and never taking the time to mourn his soul-bonded. Just like Alvara had done after giving up ale.
His sapphire eyes studied the ground for a few agonizing seconds.
“It will do you some good to leave Dalvi for a few weeks. And I want you to stay there for a few days after you finish with your delivery.” Alvara lifted her hand to interject, but Jalomir shook his head.
“Stay there a few extra days and enjoy life a little. And bring back some tales of adventure to an old elf, will you?”
He never asked much of her, sometimes caring for her like the younglings he and his seluri wanted but could never have, like so many of their kind. She could do this for him. “Of course, Jalomir. I’ll go.”
“I need you here for a few more hours and then you can head home.”
She grinned. Her moments as a smith were some of the most serene her mind would allow her. The physical and tactical work of forging weaponry gave her something else to focus on other than the darkness she constantly battled to keep at bay.
Alvara pulled her thick leather apron over her head, and the familiar musky scent calmed the apprehension that had settled into her bones at the mere thought of seeing Pyry again.
She wrapped her fingers around a pair of tongs, cool to the touch, and placed a bar of steel into the blazing forge fire, the beginning of its transformation into something both beautiful and lethal.
As she started to hammer and fell into the rhythm of her work, each strike grounded her mind and body until it was almost as if nothing existed but the metal and heat surrounding her.
Gods, she loved weapons. Metal had sung to her from a young age, sweeping her right into an apprenticeship with Jalomir as soon as she finished academy.
She could have had a profitable life as a Dalvian goldsmith, as her mother had often reminded her, but crafting jewelry would never hold the same charm as a blade.
Though it didn’t stop her from donning countless small studs and chains in her pointed ears when she could afford them.
Sweat dribbled down her forehead, trickling into her eyes.
Few of her people would care for this sweltering work, but Alvara lived for it.
She brought new weapons into existence that would one day forge their own stories, wielded by elves of every generation.
Even if it was all she did with her life, it was enough for her.
Alvara dragged her weary feet to the washbasin as soon as she arrived home.
Ela. Pyry. She groaned. She should have known Jalomir had kept in touch with him after his years as an apprentice.
How many more times did she need to explain to the old elf that their relationship was nothing worth rekindling?
The chilled water spread over her blackened hands and dissolved the soot caked on her skin. If only it were that easy to cleanse marks from a soul—or fluffy white sugar from her favorite pair of dark pants.
And Ela? Their melodious accents and bright nature were enough to make her want to bury her head in the water they used to quench weapons.
She needed to train.
Her fingers tugged through her long silver hair, separating the small delicate plaits that held it back, and Alvara stared at the vacant space on the wall where her mirror had once hung.
Silver. That word sunk its talons into the heavily guarded memories of her mother, Marja, who shared the trait that ran in the first-born females in their family.
Eloisa should have been grateful to have escaped it, with her beautiful golden locks, but instead, she had always made a fuss over the beauty of Alvara’s silver hair.
It was gray.
Strangely enough, having the hair of a centuries-old elf was not in fact a popular trait, but something the other younglings loved to tease her about. They had called her everything over the years, from elder to grandmother to her personal favorite, oh ancient one.
Her fingers twisted and tightened in a soothing rhythm, tying her hair into two thick braids down the back of her head, one of many variations her mother had taught her as a youngling.
As much as she enjoyed leaving her hair unbound when she could, it only functioned as a disadvantage in combat.
A few painful yanks to the ground had proved that fact rather quickly.
Alvara pulled her favorite spear away from its brethren lining the wall and flowed through Mikavar’s drills, the quick thrusts and parries she had come to know so well.
She preferred to spar with the weapons teacher or the son who would take his place one day, but she already stole an hour of their time early each morning for that very purpose. This would have to do.
They understood this side of her in a way few else did.
The tradition of honoring and wielding weapons, customarily swords, remained a basic tenet of every elf’s schooling, but it had gripped her in a way she couldn’t shake herself free from.
Even better, the two weapon masters shared her love of silence and also preferred to communicate with steel.
Not everyone was born strong in their magic, but anyone could learn how to hold their own in a battle.
It wasn’t mere luck that created a warrior—it was dedication.
Devotion. Though she hadn’t put her skills to the test outside of the sparring ring enough to know if she also had the ability to stomach the violence and bloodshed that accompanied the metal and movements she loved so much.
Lungs burning, Alvara slowed to a halt and returned her closest friend to its resting place. Her muscles screamed as she stretched her limbs, but she savored the tingling sensation that reminded her she was still alive. She could still feel.
As she tucked provisions into her pack, Alvara mentally checked each item off her list. Clothes, food, maybe something to smack Pyry over the head with. Eloisa would say she needed to bring a positive attitude, because you never knew what blessings fate might hand you at any moment.