The Sword Page 20

  The frontier village lay quiet. With the growing season over, many of the farmers had left to spend the winter in more civilized lands. Yet Ana knew one family would still be there, waiting for her in steadfast hope. She smiled at the thought.

  As Ana and Teo walked toward her home, the pedestrians and shopkeepers of Edgeton gasped and pointed. Ana approached her house and paused before the door with a lump in her throat. Collecting herself, she knocked.

  Her father answered. When his eyes fell on the face of his only daughter, returned from the dead, they grew wide with shock, then joy—inexpressible joy.

  “Ana! My Ana!” Stratetix sobbed uncontrollably and held her tight, stroking her hair. She hugged him as hard as she could, tears running down her face. The security of her father’s embrace felt like her entire childhood wrapped into a single moment.

  Ana’s mother burst through the door with a euphoric cry of her own. “Oh, my love! How I’ve longed for this day!” She threw her arms around Ana and joined the weeping. The jubilant family huddled on the porch, pouring out their mutual love.

  Ana motioned toward Teo. “Father, Mother, you must thank Teofil! His bravery is unrivaled in all the annals of Chiveis! We have so many stories to tell!”

  Stratetix approached Teo and started to clasp his hand, then changed his mind and embraced him in a manly hug, pounding Teo’s back with his palm.

  “You’re a man of incredible courage, Captain Teofil,” he said through tears. “Come now, eat at my table, and stay the night as an honored guest in my home. I hold you in highest esteem!” When Ana heard her father’s words, a strange sense of pride flooded her heart.

  The foursome spent the evening as such an evening should be spent—with bold tales of mighty deeds, good food and drink, and much laughter. Stratetix and Helena kept touching their daughter as if to make sure she was real and not a dream.

  Late that night, when the household had stilled, Ana heard a sound on the balcony outside her room. Dressed only in her night shift, she stepped into the moonlight. The wooden floor was cold against her bare feet. Teofil had come out from the spare bedchamber and stood at the railing, gazing north. Ana went to his side; it seemed right.

  “You’re a good man,” she said quietly as they stared into the night sky. “You came to me with the sword of Armand at your side, like a hero of old.”

  “It was quite an adventure we had out there.”

  “I used to enjoy going into the wilds. Now I’m never going to leave Chiveis again.”

  Teo turned his head and looked at Ana. “Do you think our adventure is over?”

  The question was strange to her, and she considered her answer. Finally she said, “I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “I think perhaps it has just begun.”

  Ana turned toward the man at her side. “I admire you so much, Teofil.”

  “You know, my friends just call me Teo.”

  She smiled. “My loved ones call me Ana.”

  “Ana,” he said.

  “Teo,” she answered.

  They looked at each other uncertainly. Teo moved forward, and Ana didn’t shrink back, so he took her hands in his. Something profound passed between them then, though not a word was said.

  CHAPTER

  8

  Shaphan the Metalsmith tightened the hood of his cape against the biting wind. His eyes watered and his nose ran, making the olive-skinned young man wish he could afford more than the worn-out rabbit fur lining his hood. The vernal equinox was approaching, but it had been a cold winter, and it certainly didn’t feel like springtime yet on the high mountainside in the swirling wet snow. “I ought to take the profits from this delivery and spend it on a decent cloak,” Shaphan muttered into the wind. But of course he wouldn’t do that; he would pay his tuition. Wiping his nose on the back of his mitten, Shaphan continued trudging up the trail.

  A lonely chalet came into view ahead. Its owner obviously valued his privacy, for his home was nestled in a secluded forest outside the hamlet of Vingin. The chalet sat at the base of a steep incline whose blanket of snow was nearly the same color as the pale winter sky. In the bleached landscape, only the ribbon of smoke curling from the chimney proved the cold had not entirely suffocated the place. Shaphan focused his thoughts on the hot tea he hoped he’d be offered when he delivered the package.

  For all its solitude, the home was a snug little cottage with good protection from the wind. A fenced yard surrounded a small barn, and Shaphan caught the sound of sheep bleating inside. Everything was tidy and well constructed. Though the location suggested the owner was reclusive, he was no deranged hermit living in a ramshackle hut. The chalet was in good repair, and its decorative touches implied its owner even had a sense of style.

  A voice interrupted Shaphan’s thoughts: “Hurry! Come in from the cold!” The inviting words startled him, not only because he hadn’t seen their speaker open the door, but because the voice was female. Shaphan looked up to see a young woman beckoning him from the doorway. She smiled as he climbed onto the porch. Stepping across the threshold into the great room with its blazing hearth, Shaphan found himself immediately attracted to the woman who stood before him. Her hair was black, her eyes dark, her chin delicate. She had the slender figure of a woman still in her twenties. Though her manner wasn’t seductive, Shaphan felt excited to be in her presence. He sensed she genuinely wanted him there.

  “Uh, hello. I’m Shaphan.” The metalsmith flipped his hood onto his shoulders and combed his fingers through his damp hair.

  “Welcome, Shaphan. My name is Sucula. My husband will be home soon, but until then you can keep me company while you warm up and your cloak dries off.” Without waiting for an answer, Sucula took Shaphan’s cloak, which she shook out, then hung on a rack by the fire.

  “I suppose you’ll want to take a look at this.” Shaphan handed Sucula a cloth-wrapped package. She took it from him and laid it on the mantel.

  “Business can wait. Have something hot to drink first.” Sucula pulled the stopper from a jug and poured mead into a pewter stein. Selecting a poker from the fireplace, she plunged its tip into the golden liquid, making a sizzling sound.

  Shaphan accepted the stein from her and sipped the sweet drink. Its warmth trickled down his throat to his belly. He sighed deeply. “It’s good. Thank you.”

  “It’s an old recipe I learned from a witch-woman. The spices are unique. Who knows? Maybe I’m putting a spell on you.”

  Shaphan glanced up at his hostess, who stared at him with a hand on one hip. Her expression was coy. No doubt she was just being friendly—or was there something else behind her smile?

  The sound of heavy boots on the porch broke the moment. The door swung open in a gust of cold air as the owner of the house stepped into the room and claimed it as his own. He was a tall, strong man with long red hair and a beard to match. He wore black woolen trousers and high boots made for the deep snow. The fur around his neck was wolverine, the very best. He crossed to Sucula’s side and kissed her, then turned to Shaphan and extended his hand with a smile. “You must be the metalsmith!” he boomed. Shaphan found himself drawn to the handsome man with the winsome smile.

  “You’ve guessed correctly, Master Valent,” he said as he shook hands. “My name is Shaphan. I’ve brought your package.”

  “Excellent, Shaphan! Just call me Valent. This is my home, and you’re here as an esteemed guest.” He clasped Shaphan’s hand longer than seemed socially acceptable, but Shaphan understood it to be a gesture of hospitality, so he waited until Valent finally let go.

  Sucula went to the mantel and brought the package to her husband. “Shaphan just arrived a few minutes ago. I invited him to dry his cloak by the fire while we awaited your return.”

  Valent nodded and untied the string on the package. Unfolding the cloths, he removed an object and held it up to the light. It was a beautiful hunting knife in a scabbard inlaid with silver. The couple admired its craftsmanship, while Shaphan, a little
embarrassed, lowered his eyes to take a sip from his stein.

  Without warning, Valent yanked the blade from its sheath and pointed it at his guest. His eyes flashed, and he bared his teeth. Shaphan jerked back, dribbling mead down his chin. Valent belted out a laugh. “I’m just kidding, my boy!” He clapped the young metalsmith on the back.

  “Oh! For a minute there I thought—”

  “Nah, you have nothing to fear from me.” Valent held the knife near a ceiling lantern as he examined it, gripping Shaphan by the back of the neck with his other hand and shaking him affectionately. “It’s a fine piece of work, my boy, a fine piece!” Reaching into his belt pouch, Valent pulled out a large steel coin, plus another smaller one. “Such skilled work deserves a bonus!” He pressed the coins into Shaphan’s palm.

  Surprised at the generosity, Shaphan beamed at Valent. “Thank you, sir! But I can’t take more than the agreed price.”

  “You can, and you will. I give it to you because you deserve it. Take it.”

  The praise made Shaphan even happier than the extra coin. He worked hard at his trade, and he always enjoyed acknowledgment of his efforts.

  Sucula approached Shaphan with his dry cloak in her hands. “My husband must be very pleased with your workmanship. He isn’t one to give compliments often.”

  Shaphan buttoned on his cloak and nodded to the lord of the house. “Master Valent, I’m honored to have been entrusted with a requisition of this magnitude. The blade of that knife is forged from the finest steel. It will not quickly go dull. May it serve you well and always find its mark.” Turning to Sucula, he downed the last of his cup and thanked his hostess for her hospitality. She held the door for him as he stepped into the brisk wind.

  Shaphan crossed the clearing outside the chalet and paused at the edge of the trees. Looking back over his shoulder at the house, he saw Valent and Sucula standing side by side on the porch. They lifted their hands to him, and he returned their farewell.

  “Such fine people!” he marveled. He hunched into his cloak and turned his face to the trail. Though the weather continued to be blustery, Shaphan didn’t mind, for he could still feel the satisfying warmth of Sucula’s spicy mead.

  An overpowering stench hung in the air as the archpriest of the Elzebulian Order stepped from his carriage to the muddy ground. The two mares in the traces were entirely black, an appropriate color for a religious order that celebrated all things filthy.

  The priest folded his arms and surveyed the hilltop monastery. A bald monk soiled with mud and who knew what else approached him and bowed low, awaiting his orders.

  “I am here by the direct command of the High Priestess,” the old priest announced to the monk. He snorted to clear his nose of the awful smell, then continued, “I am to determine if your work has been proceeding according to Her Holiness’s satisfaction.”

  “All is in order, my lord,” the monk replied. “You will be pleased with our progress.”

  “Show me everything! I am especially interested in the quality of your final product.”

  The monk in the stained garments led the archpriest to a series of foul-smelling mounds. As they walked, the priest noticed how clear the ground was of snow. The sun had been bright here, and it was sunshine he wanted more than anything else. The monastery’s location on the Farm River had been chosen because it had longer, sunnier days than the mountain valleys. The flat hilltop with its southern exposure was one of the warmest spots in Chiveis. Although the last day of winter had not yet passed, the leader of the Elzebulian Order knew spring would come soon, followed by the hot days of summer. Then the sun would warm the mounds of feces and urine, doing the work of decomposition. He exulted at the thought of the sacred salt-stone it would make.

  The pair stopped at a pile of oozing manure under a rough shed. The mound’s protective tarp had been removed so men with pitchforks could turn the heap, while others with shovels threw straw, garbage, earth, and more dung into the mix. Another crew poured privy water onto the mound to keep it moist.

  “This is one of the active ones,” the monk said. “It isn’t ripe yet.”

  The monk led the priest to another mound whose top was covered with a feathery white efflorescence.

  “This one is ripe. Taste it, my lord.”

  The priest surveyed the workers, who awaited his next move. “We shall see if you men have pleased Holy Elzebul with your labors, or whether the god will be vengeful upon you.” A hush fell on the small crowd. The priest licked his finger and inserted it into the black earth of the mound. Swiping his tongue with his finger, he was immediately struck by the strong taste of salt. After a long pause, he spit out a wad of dirty saliva.

  “It is ready for harvest!” he declared. “Elzebul will do you no harm.” A murmur of relief rippled through the onlookers.

  Satisfied with his examination of the fecal mounds, the priest ordered his guide to lead him to the leaching factory. They entered a wooden hall whose odor, though notably different from the mounds, was no less offensive when it hit the nostrils. At the center of the room was a series of vats into which men poured barrels of water.

  “The mound waste in the vat has decomposed for more than a year,” the man said. “We’re ready for the final extraction from this batch.” He opened a stopper at the bottom of the vat, letting leach water run into a trough toward another vat, where men mixed it with wood ashes. Nearby, a large iron boiler sat over a blazing fire. A foreman ladled out some of the boiling water, dropping it onto an iron bar in his hand. The concoction sizzled and left a white powder behind. Nodding, he ordered the fire to be extinguished. Upon his signal, the workers tipped the boiler and poured the contents into a cooling tank.

  The old priest surveyed the activities with growing excitement. He knew he was nearing the end of the manufacturing process, and he wanted to examine the final product.

  “That one over there is cooled now, my lord.” The monk pointed to a tank at the far end of the room. “Perhaps you would like to examine it?”

  The priest plunged his arm into the tank and searched along the bottom. He could feel the small crystals that had separated from the cold, murky water. Pulling some from the tank, he dropped them in a basket and shook off the moisture. When they were dry, he carried a handful outside to examine in the sunshine. The crystals were translucent, almost colorless. He turned them over in his palm with the clawlike fingernail on his other hand. Satisfied with their appearance, he licked one of the little stones, savoring its salty taste.

  “Yes,” he murmured, “this is very good.” He smiled as he clutched the crystals to his chest. “She will be most pleased.”

  For a moment, he let himself fantasize about the day he would deliver a barrel of the crystals to the High Priestess of Chiveis. He pictured her black lips smiling as she gazed at him from her throne. The thought of her praise washing over him gave him intense shivers of delight. Though he didn’t know why the High Priestess liked the salt-stone so much, he enjoyed being the man who could please her by providing it.

  “My lord?” The dirty monk interrupted his master’s fantasy. “There is one more thing I wish you to know.”

  “What is it?” the priest snapped.

  “We’re running low on material for the mounds. It’s time to start new ones, but we need more dung.”

  The archpriest turned toward the obsequious monk standing next to him. His smirk grew into a cackle as he considered the request. “Do not fear, servant of Holy Elzebul! Preparations for his great festival are underway as we speak. Filth you shall soon have, for the Wild Night approaches!”

  A wicked expression crossed the monk’s face at the mention of the Wild Night. “Of course you are right, my lord. And when that night comes, we at the monastery will be ready to receive the god’s bounty!”

  Ana sat hunched over the table in her bedroom, her eyes straining to see the sewing needle in the dim light. She glanced out the window at the growing dusk, then rose from her seat to retrieve the lant
ern from the mantel above the fireplace. Lighting the lamp with a twig from the fire, she paused in front of the hearth to let its warmth envelop her body. Though it felt good, the urge to continue her task prompted her to return to the table. She resumed sewing the woolen lining of a bearskin cloak. A gust of wind rattled the little house in Edgeton.

  I sure hope Teo appreciates all this hard work I’m doing for him, she thought. Immediately Ana regretted her selfishness. She reminded herself she was making the cloak as a labor of love, an expression of gratitude for a well-deserving man. She had been lost beyond all hope until, at great personal risk to himself, Teo had swept into the wilderness to find her and take her home. Ana would be forever grateful for his courage.

  “What are you doing right now, Teo?” she asked aloud, preferring a one-sided conversation to the silence in the room. When Teo didn’t answer, she gave a little laugh, imagining him in some “cold hut on the frontier,” as he had put it, watching the passes in lonesome misery for the past several months. She hadn’t seen Teo all winter. Now she wished she could be there to cheer him up and give him the cloak in person.

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in!”

  Stratetix entered the room carrying a pair of breeches with a ragged gash in the seat. “Your mother said you were sewing, so I brought this to be mended when you get a chance.”

  “I’ll take care of it after I finish this stitch. Put it here on the table.” Ana moved the bearskin aside. As she did, Stratetix bent to inspect it.

  “You’ve been working awfully hard on this cloak. Now you’re almost done.” He fingered the soft hairs. “The fur has been well prepared. It’s an excellent piece of craftsmanship.”

  “Thank you, Father. That means a lot, coming from you.”

  Stratetix spread out the cloak. “It’s sized for a man,” he remarked.

  Ana didn’t look up from her sewing, though a slight smile crept to her lips as she worked.