Glass and Steel

This story makes reference to events from a previous story, "Blood in the Water."

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Brin Gaelith woke alone on the right side of his bed, as usual. He had pulled the fur blankets around him, giving his large body the appearance of a hibernating bear. He grumbled. His complaint was not against the cold - the winter air would be a welcome respite before another day at the forge. Simply, he did not wish to wake.

He did anyway.

His tabby cat mewed as he pulled canvas tunic and trousers over his muscled body. He tussled the cat’s head, ran his fingers through his own salted hair, and wandered into his shop. He ate while inspecting the saleroom. Glass jewelry, vases, and other decorative baubles glistened as a pale morning light landed sleepily upon them. Here and there, Brin wiped a little dust off with his finger.

A sharp knock rattled his door. Knuckling the last drowsy out of his eyes, Brin dragged himself to answer. A little brass bell tinkled as he opened the door. Standing outside was a young woman, feet squared and sturdy, back tall. The leather cloak she wore indicated she was born of a Lower House, but her choice of dress was simple and practical. Her face had a hard beauty about it, and her eyes were grey as an overcast sea. Brin met her determined demeanor brusquely.

“Noble or not, shop’s not open till afternoon,” he said, his voice like a calloused hand scratching stubble.

The woman nodded.

“This will take not a moment. I was told you were the finest weaponsmith in Sythra.”

Brin blinked, his lip curling. He gestured at his wares.

“These look like weapons to you?”

“No need to pretend, Brin Gaelith,” the woman parried. “I have proof enough.”

She drew a dagger from a leather sheath. The blade shone in the rising sun - simple, elegant, balanced - but the woman needn’t have drawn it. Brin had recognized the weapon from its grip, wrapped in the purple skin of a dusk ray, wound with a silver wire. He screwed his eyes shut, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a thick knuckle. He relented.

“Fine,” he exhaled. “And you are?”

“Fior. Technically, Lady Fior of Trinish, House of Herons. But save the formalities.”

“You wouldn’t have got none, either way,” Brin huffed. He made a noncommittal gesture inside, turning his back to Fior as he reentered the room. “Well, come on.”

Fior stood a moment at the door, a doubt wriggling in her stomach. It did not live long. Hardening herself, she followed the smith inside.

As the door closed behind them, Brin trudged across the showroom towards a large cabinet. Fior noticed he dragged his left foot, very slightly, across the floor. A rusty click scraped through the room as Brin unlocked the cabinet and pulled from it a practice sword. He considered it for a moment then looked at Fior out the corners of his eyes. Fior could not interpret the look on his face.

“What’s it for?” Brin asked. 

“What else is a weapon used for?”

Brin didn’t hesitate or flinch.

“Justice? Revenge?”

His voice carried no judgment or scorn. More than anything, Fior thought, he sounded tired. She measured her reply.

“Protection.”

Brin shrugged. Turning fully towards Fior, he held out the practice sword’s grip for her to take. It was heavier than the one Fior had been training with, and she took a minute to adjust to the blade’s weight.

“Who did you train with?” Brin asked, taking a seat on a small wooden stool.

“Lieutenant Thrace.”

“Guard’s Captain Thrace,” Brin corrected. Fior smiled a bit.

“His son. Thrace the Senior is now retired.”

“Well, if he’s anything like his father, he taught you Phoenix Form. Let’s see it.”

For the first time, Fior was caught off guard. Looking around, Fior truly took in her surroundings. Glassware and glass jewels were everywhere around the room, on shelves, in curio cabinets, in glass displays. Brin pursued the opening.

“You do know it, yes?” 

“Of course,” she said, regaining her composure somewhat. “But… Fine. If you insist.”

Fior took the starting stance and began plotting her course around the room. With Brin’s unwavering eyes on her, Fior took a deep breath and made her first step. It was more tentative than it should have been, and her opening strike left her off balance. The weight of the sword, too, pulled her farther than she expected, and her next step almost stumbled.

Readjusting her feet, Fior stepped and lunged, her shoulders fighting against the extra pounds in the blade. The next attacks of the form were similarly clumsy, barely avoiding a vase here and a shelf there, and sweat beaded on her brow even in the unheated room. She imagined how Thrace would frown at these amateurish attempts, and could hear his disapproving critique, “That strike wouldn’t even cut a dead branch! Put some fight in it!”

The memory pressing from within, Brin’s grim stare pushing from without, Fior moved into the defensive portion of the form. The room circled around her, the glint of light off glass pricking her eyes. Her parries and ripostes were directed as much at memories of conversations she was never supposed to overhear as they were at an imaginary opponent.

“Certain investments have fallen through…”

“No, we didn’t get the votes for the bill, but we did get…”

“The debts will be repaid, I promise, just…”
“Sir, news. Bad news. It’s about Councilman Taggard…”

“Nothing certain, but the guard suspects a waterkin, a courier…”

Buffeted by these memories and the fragile room around her, she swung wildly, the blade arcing just shy of a shelf. A row of curios, little glass children and animals, rattled as the sword passed. Growling frustration, Fior looked up and saw, smiling back at her, her son. Blinking the sweat from her eyes cleared the salty haze. No, not her son, but a statuette - a smiling boy in red overalls, pink cheeks and blue eyes, skipping with hand outreached as if to catch something.

Fior stopped, breathing heavy. She thought of the Pooled Gardens of Emerald District, of catching butterflies. She thought of her son leaping in the air and coming back, hands empty, laughing. 

She thought of the hole in Taggard’s throat, covered by a cravat for the funeral. 

Closing her eyes, Fior refocused for the final phase, offensive and defensive maneuvers woven together into seamless gestures. Her steps landed lightly, now, her blade precisely aimed. Wherever she was, she allowed herself to be, and the sword found itself, several times, threaded between glass decorations. Thrace had told her, of the Phoenix Form, “Contain the fire, follow the fire.” Now, the fire flickered within her, and her final strike, a decisive thrust, landed a hair’s breath from a small earring. The glass bead quivered a second, then stopped.

Brin gave Fior time to settle. The room, even with the growing foot traffic outside, seemed silent. Once she recollected herself, she extended the grip towards the smith and said, with heat on her breath, “Satisfied?”

The old man took a long time to reply. When he finally did, he said, “Bit rough at the beginning, no?”

Fior just about stabbed him with the pommel.

“Fine, fine!” he said, grabbing the grip and pulling away. “You’ll have your sword. I’ll begin on the next day of Fire’s Waking, but it will be done when the sword says it’s done.”

For the first time since her arrival, Fior relaxed.

“Thank you, Brin.”

“You’ll owe me more than thanks when this is all over,” he said, relocking the sword cabinet.

“Money is no object.”

“Not what I meant. But, while we’re on the subject…”

Brin limped to a shelf and removed an object from it. Very carefully, he placed it in Fior’s hand and whispered, “You break it, you buy it.”

Fior opened her fingers. In the palm of her hand was a small glass figurine, a statuette of a boy in red overalls, with pink cheeks and blue eyes, and a tiny fracture running like a shadow down his outstretched arm.