"When I was a child and stood too near the forge," he said, "Mairi used to kiss my burns."
"Not like this," she drawled.
He chuckled, low and soft, and trailed his lips over her hand, licking her fingers a little. Eva was sure she would melt like the butter that slicked down her arm. "A kiss takes away pain. It worked quite well when I was small," he said.
"I am not a child."
"I know," he murmured. His other hand snugged in the curve of her waist, his thumb on her abdomen. A throbbing began inside of her. "Is the pain gone?" he asked.
She tipped her head back, her heart thudding hard, her hands now sliding along his sinewed arms to the swell of his chest. "Somewhat," she admitted, while she felt intimate awareness like a strong pulse between them.
"Perhaps we can take away the rest," he murmured, and dipped his head to kiss her. Eva drew in a quick, ecstatic breath and melted into his arms, under the power of his hot, gentle mouth.
"How is it now?" he murmured.
"Oh," she breathed, "it might still need attention." She laughed suddenly as he swept her up into his arms and carried her across the room, kneeling with her on the thick heather bed covered with plaid wool. He shifted down to lie with her, and she threw her arms around his neck, kissing him deeply, taking his tongue into her mouth with delight.
Then she groaned with eager pleasure as he rucked up her skirt and chemise and skimmed his hand, still warm from tending iron, over her legs, and higher. His fingers slipped under her gown and chemise to find her breasts, full and aching for his touch. The gown went even higher, and his breath caressed her skin.
"What about the forge?" she asked, as he rolled over with her, settling into the deep nest of the bed. "What about the fire and the iron?" she breathed. She slid her hands under his plaid, finding him ready for her, heated and fervent. She sighed with utter pleasure.
He kissed her, tracing his lips, moist and ardent, down along her body, until she lay bared and sultry, shivering for him as she drew him toward her, and he covered her with his body.
"I am tending the fire," he whispered, and slipped inside her, hard and exquisite, and then she knew just what he meant.
* * *
"So much rain," Eva said, turning away from the window in the smithy the next day, closing the shutter. "I have never seen so much rain. And I love it," she added.
Lachlann looked up from the forge, where he had been carefully stacking charcoal pieces into a pile and setting them alight. "Rain? You always loved sunshine and warmth best," he murmured, and smiled at her. "Sun suits your nature more than rain, mist, and mud."
"I love the rain because it keeps us alone here," she said. "No one has come over the water, no one rides out on patrol, no one comes to the smithy at all. It is just the two of us. I hope the rain continues forever."
"You will sink to your knees in mud if it does," he commented, and pulled the bellows handle, then raked the little fire in the forge bed. He crossed to a sack that leaned in the corner and removed a fist-size chunk of metal, shapeless and greenish. Setting it on the anvil, he took some tongs from a wall rack and the heavy leather gauntlets that he often used.
Eva came closer, curious as Lachlann filled a ladle with water and drizzled some over the fiery pile of charcoal in the forge bed. Steaming, smoking, the charcoal crusted, while its inner core glowed like a cave. "What are you doing?" she asked. "You have already repaired Alpin's swords, grinding and polishing them, and made a thousand nails. What now?"
"And I would have made a lot more nails if not for a certain distraction," he said wryly. "This will be a fine pastime for a rainy day. We are going to forge steel."
"Steel?" She stared at him. "Together?"
"You offered to be my apprentice," he said. "I will be needing that bucket over there, with the white sand in it. And that sack of salt under the table. Get yourself a pair of gloves from the rack too."
Eva did as he told her. "What else?"
"Pour salt into the quenching tub—the large one with the water already in it. Lots of salt, so that the water is clouded and thick with it." As she did that, he heated two iron rods and slipped them, sizzling, into the brine to heat it.
"Are we ready now?" she asked, as he slid a poker into the little cave of fire and pulled the bellows handle, so that the charcoal pile glowed like a living thing. He tended it for a moment without answering, and Eva waited. His patience seemed infinite, his tenor steady and at ease, yet banked with power.
"Now," he finally said, "I will need the sword."
"Her sword?" she asked, breathlessly.
He nodded. "I am ready now."
She went to the ledge at the top of the wall and took down the cloth-wrapped bundle, carrying the broken sword to the anvil, where she laid it down and opened it almost reverently. The hilt, pommel, and cross guard had already been removed and lay in the wrappings. He had been thinking about this for a while, she saw, for he had dismantled the handle. That first step must have required great inner strength from him, she realized.
Lachlann took the two pieces of the bare sword and held them, firelight shining on the steel. He fitted the cracked edges together into a whole weapon, and she saw the sadness in his eyes. Yet she felt as if the great wound within his soul had finally begun to heal.
"Can you weld the pieces together?" she asked.
He shook his head. "That would create a deep flaw. The blade could crack again. It needs to be made new, but the old sword will be part of the new one."
Drawing a deep breath, he looked down at the bare tang and the short, jagged blade. Eva saw a muscle thump in his cheek, saw him swallow hard.
Then he turned, set the piece in the tongs, and slid the broken end into the fire.
* * *
Lachlann watched the remnant of steel take on the first blush of heated color, like blood from within. He turned the piece with the tongs, frowning. Dismantling Jehanne's sword and slipping it into the little inferno he had created was one of the most difficult choices he had ever made.
Now it was done, and he would proceed. "I will need some sand—there is a small ladle in the bucket," he told Eva. "And keep the bellows going steady and easy, if you will. Watch the flames as they are now, and feed out just enough air to keep the fire at this heat."
She fetched the sand, then reached up and took the bellows handle, earnest and silent. He smiled at her, then removed the steel remnant from the charcoal fire cave and poured a little sand over the metal. The sand slithered over the steel and turned to molten glass.
Eva watched avidly, but kept silent. He blessed her for that, knowing it did not come easily to her curious nature; deciding on mercy, he began to explain. "Charcoal burns clean and very hot, and is best for making a clean weld. The sand melts into the steel as glass, and will give it a shining surface when it is polished."
When the glassy coating began to smoke gently, he drew the tanged piece, glowing golden and nearly white-hot, out of the fire and laid it on the anvil. Tapping lightly, he worked the broken blade with the hammer until the hot steel thinned out and grew longer, still glowing. "This will become the core of the new blade," he said. "The new steel will be bonded to this."
"With the sand," Eva murmured, watching.
"You learn quickly," he praised, and turned back to the fire to reheat the piece, easing it into the luminous little cavern until it reddened. "'Cherry red to pigeon blue, the iron is hot—'"
"'The steel is true,'" Eva finished, remembering the rhyme. She stepped closer, her leather gauntlets pulled high, one hand hovering on the bellows handle. "I will watch the colors for you," she said. "It is very red now, and going more gold."
"I can see that well enough. Later, when the steel is tempered, the colors are far more subtle. Then I will need your eyes." She nodded.
Blinking a little, for there were sparks and dashes of light before his eyes that did not shine in the metal he worked, he heated the piece, hammered it and drew it out longer. Then he
repeated the steps until the broken blade was slender and elongated, the tang unaltered. Setting that aside, he took the greenish chunk of metal and introduced it into the fire.
"A steel ingot," he said. "I purchased this from Leod MacKerron, the charcoal burner. Steel is iron heated with charcoal and mixed with sand so that it takes on magnificent luster, strength, and flexibility. This piece is special steel, made not from bog iron or mined iron, but from a sky stone."
"Oh!" she said. "The rocks that sometimes fall out of the sky, glowing red? I have heard of those."
He nodded. "That is the purest iron, and is believed to carry great magic in it, for the stones are said to be shooting stars fallen to earth." As he spoke, he poured sand over the red-hot ingot. The sand melted instantly, sliding over the steel in a beautiful flux, moving, smoking.
"Is that white sand from our beach?" Eva asked then.
He nodded. "Collected under a new moon."
"I remember once when you gathered it. I was with you."
Glancing at her, he saw the flush in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes. "I remember that, too," he murmured. "I loved you then, Eva, but I kept it from you. I scarcely wanted to know it myself. I think it terrified me." He laughed.
"You kept your secret well, smith." She smiled.
"No longer, my friend." He grinned at her. "White sand gathered under a new moon, like this, grants an auspicious beginning." He poured more sand over the lump, and glass particles flew about like stars.
Eva stepped back. When the billet of steel smoked and turned white-hot, he took it out of the fire and began to work it with the hammer, lightly and deftly. The piece took on the rudimentary shape of a blade made of solid light.
Liquid glass flew off the steel, lambent sparks in a fine and brilliant shower. Eva gasped and skipped back. Lachlann felt the burn as a few tiny stars landed on his arms. He shook off the pain and went on hammering.
More heating, more hammering of the blazing, roughened sword. Time passed, sweat dripped from him, but Lachlann hardly noticed. Nor did Eva complain about fatigue, though he could see the strain telling in her. He glanced at her as she fed air into the fiery pit while he turned the steel.
"You have kept the fire well. Now I want you to hammer with me," he said, and laid the piece like live fire on the anvil.
Wordlessly she took up a hammer and followed his silent lead. After his hammer strike she struck also, and created with him a fast cadence of overlapping blows, a drumming upon the bright surface that flattened the steel further. The rhythm beat down into his bones, into his deep center, pulsed through him like heated, insistent, glorious lovemaking.
Now they no longer needed words, barely needed gestures. Eva sensed what was needed, felt the rhythm as he did, and he blessed her for it. Striking, heating, repeating it, she kept up with him, and between them the blade surged toward being.
He paused to drink from a ladle in a bucket of cool water, and brought one to Eva. Wiping his brow, he watched her long throat as she swallowed thirstily. Perspiration beaded upon her upper lip, her cheeks were high pink, her eyes like vivid jewels.
Silent, she trickled the rest of the water over his head, cool and wet and divine. He did the same to her, and she gasped and licked at it. He kissed her, quick and deep. Then she lifted her hand to the bellows, ready to begin again.
He loved her greatly in that moment, for her loyalty, her willingness, her understanding. He knew he should stop and let her rest, should rest himself, but passion filled him, an urge to keep going. Somehow she knew that, perhaps felt it as well.
The sword was forming, its fluid splendor begun. He could not stop until he had seen it birthed in fire and light.
He laid the larger billet in the fire and took up the reshaped blade and tang, heating both pieces until they bloomed with pale light. Setting them both on the anvil and using tongs with a surgeon's delicacy, he placed the tanged, smaller, older piece on the luminous surface of the new blade. Then he wrapped the larger piece around the remade sword like a piece of dough.
Hammering them together until the glow faded, he heated them as one piece, pouring sand in a slippery, beautiful stream. Taking up the hammer again, he glanced at Eva. She understood, and took up her own hammer, and the rhythm began.
"So," she said later, when he slid the newly flattened blade into the charcoal cavern. "The old sword—Jehanne's sword—is now the core of the new one."
"Its heart," he said, and then the truth of that, the power of it, nearly sank him to his knees. He paused, hammer in one hand, radiant new sword tonged in the other, and looked at Eva.
"Jehanne's sword is now the soul of the new blade," she whispered. He saw awe and understanding in her eyes. A shiver went through him from crown to heel, and he knew then that all this—all of it, over years, encompassing lives, bringing souls and causes together to draw strength from one another—was meant to be.
One day you will know what to do with this sword, Jehanne had once told him.
Now he knew. He looked at Eva, and he knew.
Chapter 27
Staying by his side through the night as he worked, Eva shared the tasks, though her muscles ached and her limbs trembled with weariness. And yet he drove himself on, and would not rest. She brought him water and insisted that he drink, for he perspired freely; she fetched him food, but he only nibbled lightly, then took up hammer and tongs again. Rain sheeted against the walls of the smithy, but the forge gave warmth, and light, and purpose.
In his capable, driven hands, the lump of steel and the broken blade came together, glowing, and became a new sword. The metal was dark and crude yet, but its graceful shape emerged.
Lachlann brushed his forearm across his brow, rubbed his fingers over his eyes. Eva touched his arm in concern, but he shook his head and kept going, turning from forge to anvil, heating, hammering, shaping the steel. Tending the bellows and pounding the hammer in tandem with him, she felt as if she did little. Lachlann did the work, and Lachlann had the vision.
Later, when the bright heart of the forge pierced the darkness, she faded, losing strength to lift the hammer, or to lift her arm to the bellows handle once again. Yet she forced herself, as Lachlann forced himself, for she would not leave him.
"Eva, come here," he murmured, and set down his tools.
He put his arm around her and guided her to the heather bed, and though she protested, he made her rest. Meaning only to close her eyes, she slept deeply, and when she woke daylight had returned, gray and dismal once again, and the forge was still hot. Lachlann sat beside the anvil on a stool now, bent over the sword, with a file in his hands.
He had not yet rested, she realized, for beside her the bed was undisturbed. The need to finish the sword was yet with him. Still weary to her bones, she rose and went to him.
He smiled at her, his eyes brilliant blue and smudged beneath, his cheeks and chin bristled, his hair tangled. She brushed back the waves from his brow, kissed him, and looked at what he held.
The sword was roughened, dark, without a hilt as yet, but it was whole, and would be magnificent, she knew. He turned it to show her how he had filed the steel to bring out the precise shape and edges of the long, tapered blade.
"When this is done," he said, "it will need more heatings and quenching, then tempering. And then I will need your eyes, my friend, for those colors must be judged true if the sword is to be fine and strong."
She nodded, and he kissed her, and she felt the fatigue running through him like the low vibration of a harp string. Soon she coaxed him back to the heather bed and lay beside him, though the dreary morning light grew stronger. Wrapping her arms around him, she held him until he slept.
* * *
Hours of filing, until his arms and neck and back ached with it, yet he would not let himself stop. Days of filing were more usual for a sword like this, but the work skimmed along without regard to day or night, without regard to time. As the cool and drizzling day faded into a colder, rainy evening
, the filing was nearly complete.
He set the blade on the anvil and picked up the pommel, hilt, and cross guard that he had earlier removed, and he slid them on, one by one, to make sure they fit. Nearly perfect, he saw, despite changes to the tang from all the heatings. He removed them again and resumed the filing, the sound a soothing, persistent drone.
Glancing up, he saw Eva sweeping the floor of the smithy, a heathery broom in her hands. He was deeply thankful for her devotion, for her help, for her profound, complete understanding, even for the quiet she afforded him. He was glad she made him rest and made him eat; on his own, he might have crafted this blade until he collapsed from sheer stupefying fatigue.
Watching her, he smiled to himself. Eva glanced over her shoulder as if she sensed his regard, his love, and she smiled too. He held up the painstakingly filed blade to show her the result, and she hurried toward him.
* * *
"The rain has stopped," Eva said later, turning away from the open door. The fresh, damp, cool night breeze swept into the smithy. Her hair, her gown, her very skin seemed saturated with the smells of charcoal, smoke, and metal. She shoved a hand over her thick, saggy braid, and glanced at Lachlann over her shoulder, where he constructed a long, narrow piling of charcoal, into which, she knew, he would slide the full sword blade.
"Your bath is warmed, my lady." He indicated one of the two great wooden tubs in the smithy, one filled with brine for quenching the steel, the other brimming with water, currently being heated by the addition of red-hot iron rods. The water steamed lightly in the cool air. Earlier, when she complained of the grime and the sweat, he had set about heating the plain water in the dousing tub, which had not yet been used.
Delighted at the thought of feeling clean again, she crossed the room. "Perhaps the smith would like a bath, too."
He shrugged. "I will dip into the loch in the morning."
"There are no rose petals in the loch, and it is cold," she said, slipping her hand into the sack that Ninian had given her, sprinkling some of the dried flowers into the steamy water in the low, wide tub.
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] Page 26