Journey of Awakening

by Shawna Thomas

  The steam mixed with the deeper smoke from the burning logs. Sara watched it twine before it disappeared into the chimney. A real fight? I’ve never been in a real fight. Could I use my sword knowing I’d wound or kill my opponent? Would she have to?

  “It is good you wonder, Sara.” The old woman’s voice broke the silence.

  Sara fumbled with the teakettle. “What?”

  “You are a healer and a warrior. A difficult combination. You need a real sword. It is good to be prepared.” Maelys accepted the tea from Sara and offered a small smile. “You wear your struggles on your face, child. It would be a good thing if you learned to hide them.”

  * * *

  “Grandfather!” She ducked her head to clear a branch bridging the path to their house. Grandfather had repeatedly vowed to chop it off for as long as Sara could remember, but he never seemed to get around to it. She had a feeling he secretly liked the form of the tree, including the offending limb. Flanked by vegetable and herb gardens, the house nestled under towering trees and sat on the edge of a brook, its waters still icy from the trek down the mountain overshadowing their house. Save for the gentle noises of forest and water, silence fenced in the small house. Terror filled her heart. “Grandfather!” Crushed seashells, weathered smooth by the elements, crunched under her sandaled feet as she approached the doorway.

  She slipped off her sandals and ran through the house. Willam sat under the arbor, shaded from the sun.

  “I found clams.” She shook a sandy bag she just realized she was holding.

  He looked up. Sara took a step back, the clams rattling as the bag hit the wooden floor.

  His eyes swirled red. “What’s wrong, child? I’ve been waiting for you.”

  To her horror, she took a step forward.

  “Come home to me.”

  Mists swirled, enrobing and freezing her in place.

  She gasped and sat up, clutching Ilydearta and breathing heavily. The fire had died to embers and the coals winked in mockery of the eyes in her dream. Sara added logs until the fire blazed, then quietly dressed and made her bed. There would be no more sleep for her tonight. By the light of the fire, she began tearing dried leaves off a stem and placing them in a bowl. Who is he and what does he want with me?

  * * *

  Sara marched along the lane, warm under Maelys’s winter garments. Before the sun crested the horizon, the women packed the bare necessities for an early winter trek. They’d agreed, if she could find lodging, it would be best to stay in Ohanti, the nearest town to the north, a three-day journey. Assuming she could find a blacksmith willing, and able, to make her a sword.

  Maelys insisted she take a few silver pieces with her, claiming she’d earned at least that much. Sara had argued but in the end Maelys won with logic. How else was Sara to pay for the sword?

  Frost limned the shadows, creating ghosts of winter grass, edging the path in lace like a dirty boy dressed in his best. She patted the purse tied around her neck, comforted by the coin’s weight.

  Evidence of life appeared across the land; plumes of smoke rose from chimneys, footprints melted the delicate frost trailing from house to barn or cellar. Following Maelys’s directions, she soon reached a large building, only a sliver of light escaping between its heavy doors. The distinct sound of metal on metal broke the early-morning silence.

  Warm air chased away the chill as Sara pulled open the door and slipped inside. A large man glanced up, but didn’t draw away from his task. His eyes narrowed in concentration, hammer pecking anvil in rapid movements, sparks flying through the air, to die on the dirt floor.

  The room fell silent. “What can I do for you?” His voice seemed at home with the medium of his chosen profession, rich, with an edge. He turned startling blue eyes in her direction. “Miss?”

  Sara caught a glimpse of what he’d been working on and hid a smile. “I need a sword.”

  “I see. And what are you going to do with a sword?” The hiss of metal cooling in water punctuated his question.

  Sara’s chin came up. She ignored the question and the sarcasm behind it. “I don’t want just any sword. I need to know if you have the talent to create a special one.”

  The blacksmith adjusted his heavy apron and sauntered toward a cabinet on the wall, produced a key from his pocket and opened it with showmanship. The forge’s light danced over a dozen swords. Sara moved closer, examining each of them. The quality seemed good from a distance.

  “May I?”

  He stepped aside and nodded. Sara chose a weapon from its perch and held it at an arm’s length. The sword shone in the light, straight, without blemish. Not pure metal but pattern welded. The double-sided blade stretched about thirty-five thumbs long and was broad, almost the width of her hand. She tested its weight and felt a smile stretch her features. The blade drew life from the forge’s flames as Sara wove first simple then complicated patterns in the recesses of the blacksmith’s shop. It felt good to hold a sword again.

  The blacksmith shifted his weight; there was a measure of respect in his voice. “You’re no stranger to a blade.”

  Sara let the sword rest against her palm, checking its balance. “If I drew you a picture of a sword, could you make it?”

  He pointed to the sword in Sara’s hand. “That’s the best I have. I’ll sell it to you at a fair price.”

  “Thank you.” Sara replaced the weapon. “But I’m in need of a special sword. If you can’t do it, can you direct me to someone who can?”

  He closed the cupboard doors and crossed his arms over his large chest. “Now, I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. I merely wanted to point out the fine blade you held in your hand.”

  “It is and you did.” Sara regarded the blacksmith. Would he do it?

  Handing Sara a piece of charcoal, he pointed at the wooden wall. “Draw away.”

  Sara tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and closed her eyes, picturing her sword. Slowly and then with greater assurance, she sketched the slightly curved blade of the sword her grandfather had developed long ago. “The blade should be at least a quarter thumb thick and twenty-nine thumbs long extending all the way to the handle. I need the handle ten thumbs long—”

  “Ten thumbs? A double-handed sword?”

  Sara smiled. “When necessary.”

  The blacksmith examined the drawing. “I’ve always been fascinated by swords but I’ve never seen or dreamed of one like this.”

  The image of her grandfather polishing just such a blade blazed in her memory. He’d created a forge on the island where he made any tools, including their swords, they might need. Oh Grandfather. Did you know how complicated this would g
et? The blacksmith still studied the drawing with obvious fascination. “Let’s keep it our secret then. How long will it take you to finish?”

  “Half a moon at most. Depends if I run into any trouble.”

  Trouble. Of what kind? “Do you expect any?”

  The blacksmith grinned and shook his head. “No. Business is slow this time of year. The occasional shoe, not much else.”

  Business. He was talking business. Stop being so paranoid, Sara. “Good. My name is Sara.”

  The blacksmith took her extended hand. “They call me Yann.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Yann.”

  “Likewise.” Yann examined the dirt floor; a faint blush tinged his cheek as he raised his eyes. “Miss, you do have coin to pay for this blade?”

  Sara removed a silver piece from her purse and placed it on the worktable. “This should cover materials. I’ll be back in a quarter moon to check your progress. When I am satisfied, I’ll pay you what we decide is fair.”

  “I’ll look forward to that, Sara.” Yann’s blue eyes twinkled.

  “One more thing. Can you tell me where I can find a piece of leather?” She hesitated. “And a place to stay?”

  “Two doors down, across the street for the leather.” Yann scratched his chin. “Not to pry, but where’s your family?”

  “Dead.” She paused to acknowledge the pain of loss that accompanied the single word. “I’m staying with Maelys in Shayner.”

  “Maelys, the wit—I mean healer?”

  “That would be the one.”

  Yann nodded slowly then took a step back. “Are you a healer too?”

  “I know my herbs.”

  His heavy leather apron moved as Yann took a deep breath. “Maelys saved my uncle once. He went into Shayner babbling and burning with fever and came back home to once again to terrorize his wife and children. Not that it’s the healer’s fault. It is what it is.” He paused and seemed to consider. “There’s a room above the shop. It’s small but stays warm. I lived there before the wife wanted a real house.”

  “I can’t—”

  “I’m not gonna rob you blind, and I don’t run a boarding house or nuthing, but the missus can cook a fine meal. There’s nowhere else to stay around these parts and if you freeze to death in a field, how are ya gonna pay me?”

  “Good point.” Sara nodded. “Then I’ll just thank you.” She turned to the door. “I’ll, um, be back later.”

  “A curved blade, who would have thought?” Yann mumbled as she stepped into the cool air.

  Chapter Six

  Wind pounded the little attic room, whistling through cracks and whipping the fire in the hearth. Sara clenched the last leather binding and pulled it taut and then reached for a cup of tea and sipped. The warm liquid relaxed her jaw muscles. She spread the pouch out on a small table. Laid flat, the leather reached twenty-four by twelve thumbs. Small pockets lined the interior, each labeled with the hieroglyphic markings Maelys had taught her.

  She’d dyed colored lacings to represent the moon’s cycles. “A real healer’s pouch.” Now she only needed herbs to fill them all. She’d kept busy while she waited for Yann to finish her sword, but now the pouch was done and the sword neared completion. Would Maelys be proud? She was looking forward to seeing the old woman again. The creak of the blacksmith door opening below brought a smile to her face. Yann was at work. She’d grown fond of the blacksmith and his expectant wife in her short stay in Ohanti. Yann and his wife offered her the small room on a more permanent basis, but Sara had declined. She needed to get back to Shayner. Finish her training. It was time to ask Maelys about the Siobani. Stretching her arms above her head, she stood.

  “Sara!”

  Sara drained her tea and made for the ladder. “What? Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed? How’s the wife?”

  “The herbs you gave her helped. Thank you. She slept the night.” He threw a wrapped bundle toward Sara. “She also made you these.”

  Sara opened the cloth and shook out a leather tunic. “I told you she didn’t have to pay anything.”

  He shrugged. “She made it from bits and pieces of my old things. Said if it kept fire from me, might keep cold from you too.”

  “I thought you said she slept the night.” Sara turned the tunic around. The material was soft, supple, and the garment well made. Slightly different colors of leather made up the arms and body. The effect was pleasing. She held it up. It would fall to almost midthigh.

  “She did. Been working on that for a while.”

  “But...”

  “I told her you were planning on leaving our fair town soon, heading back to Shayner. She didn’t want to see my finest work rusting in some field cuz you froze to death.” Yann’s blue eyes twinkled as he squeezed the bellows to feed the coals.

  “A wealth of wisdom. Tell her I said thank you.” Sara stared out the open doors. The first flakes of snow lingered in the shadows where they escaped the sun’s meager rays.

  “Oh, she also sent some bread. It’s in the basket.” He nodded toward a cloth-covered basket on a shelf. “When ya leaving?”

  Sara retrieved the bread. “When’s my sword going to be done?”

  “’Bout thaw.” Yann raised an eyebrow.

  “Shoddy delivery. I’ll have to take coin off.”

  “My ass, you will.” He held the sword to the light. “This is the finest blade I’ve ever made.”

  Light danced from one end of the blade to the other as Yann moved the sword. “She’s beautiful,” Sara agreed.

  “You expecting trouble?” Yann turned piercing blue eyes in her direction.

  Sara hesitated. How much to tell him? “Preparation is the best, first line of defense.” One of her grandfather’s favorite quotes.

  “That’s warrior talk.” He nodded toward the swords on the wall. “I’m more than just a backwoods blacksmith, you know.”

  “Yeah, you’re a backwoods blacksmith with a soft spot for homeless females.”

  “Hey, don’t let that get around. You’ll ruin me.” He set the sword on his wooden worktable. “Are you thinkin’ you’re gonna need a sword in Shayner?” He paused. “Ahh, you don’t plan to stay there much longer either, do you?”

  Sara scratched at the dirt floor with her shoe. “Don’t know.”

  “What do you know?”

  “That when I do leave, I’ll have the finest sword in Anatar.”

  Yann smiled. “Get out of here and let me work, would you?”

  With a grin, Sara jumped to the third rail on the ladder and climbed to her attic room to finish the pouch.

  * * *

  Sara’s pace quickened as the decrepit house came into view. A thin thread of smoke escaped from the chimney only to be captured by the wind and whipped into the sky to disappear among the heavy clouds. There hadn’t been any snow on the island, and Sara had little experience with it. But by the look of them, the clouds were about to change that. She’d been a little afraid she wouldn’t make it to the healer’s before they unleashed their contents on the world below.

  The wind tried to wrestle the gate from her grasp, but Sara managed to get it shut and make it up the path to the house.

  “Maelys!” she called.

  There was no answer. The healer could be out on a tending to one of the townspeople. But she hoped not. Not in this weather. She carefully laid the sword and new healer’s pouch down on her cot, drew her practice
sword and walked through the kitchen. A single candle burned in Maelys’s room. The old healer sat on her bed. Still.

  The greeting fell from her lips. Fear cooled Sara’s skin. “Maelys. What’s happened?”

  The older woman didn’t turn. But her shoulders slumped. “Caravan came in today. Traders. Last of the season.”

  A chill ran down Sara’s spine. “And?”

  “Tyrol was attacked.”

  Sara leaned against the doorway. “What do you mean?”

  “No survivors.” The harsh words crackled with emotion.

  Nausea twisted her gut. Nolwen. Pierric. Maelys’s image blurred. The dreams. The voice. A real warning. “Tell me what happened?”

  “I did.”

  Sara infused steel into her voice. “Exactly what happened.”

  The older woman studied Sara. “There was a small band of warriors from the south. They were looking for someone or something. When they didn’t find it, they slaughtered everyone and burned the town to ground.” Her words were without emotion or mercy. “Tyrol was not the first town. I don’t think it will be the last.” Maelys took a deep breath and then sighed. “It’s time to tell me about that necklace you wear. Where did you get it?”

  Sara sat down hard on Maelys’s bed. “Because of me? This—”

  “Enough. If it is what I think it is, you don’t have time for self-pity.”

  Sara stared at Maelys’s stern gaze. She pulled Ilydearta from under her blouse. The blue stone caught the fire’s light; Sara’s hand glowed. A flash of blue light radiated from the stone, brightening the room’s dim interior, then died back to pale luminescence. Sara bit back a gasp. “I’ve never seen it do that before.”

  “Put it away, Sara. That stone can do more. It’s Ilydearta. I’d wondered which you held.” Maelys dropped into a nearby chair. “After all this time...”

  “What? How did you know?”

  “Because I know.” The healer’s words were harsh, her eyes seeing something far away. “Do you know nothing of the stone?”