He woke lying in a pile of musty straw, shackles on his wrists and ankles. This time, his belongings were not in evidence, and he felt suddenly bereft, the pain of losing Gilda and Avril and all the people he’d lost before swallowing him. Scrubbing the tears away before they could drop, he sat awkwardly. He examined his bonds carefully, looking for flaws. The cuffs on his wrists and on his right ankle were common iron, soft as metal goes, but still hard. The fourth shackle, on the ankle of his wounded leg, was bronze, a wrought strip covered in copper and silver characters. He tugged at it, and sucked in a breath as pain shot up his leg, and his vision darkened with a red haze.
The door opened a short time later. A man entered, dressed in rich furs, a chain connecting the corners in front, fine clothes beneath the cloak. He had pale hair and dark eyes, and his mouth was bracketed by lines of cunning and malice.
“You are Weyland, the smith?” The man’s accent was thick but Weyland could understand him well enough. Weyland shook off the effects of the shackle and sighed.
“I am. Why am I in chains?” He lifted his bound hands before him.
“You have work to do, and a reputation for running away. You will make me weapons and rings, fine jewelry fit for a king.” The man in furs eyed him speculatively. “One of them pleases me greatly even now.” He turned and Weyland got a good look at the sword hanging by the man’s side. It was Weyland’s own creation, the one he’d forged from waterborne iron, that had been stowed carefully in Weyland’s pack. Weyland closed his mouth on his other questions. “If you try to run, I will have your legs cut so you cannot. It will be easier to work if you can use your legs, I think.”
The man stepped back outside the room, and three guardsmen came into his cell, the first unchaining the shackle from the wall and the other two lifting Weyland by his elbows and marching him from the room, down endless corridors and finally into a workshop, well appointed with a forge and furnace, work benches, and a larger variety of materials than Weyland had ever seen.
Bones and horn, antlers and at least five different types of wood were laid out on the long counter that ran down one wall, baskets of ores below them. Through an open door, Weyland sighted a bloomery. All of the fires were unlit, including the one in the immense hearth, and Weyland shivered a little. Tools were laid out on the work table, Weyland’s hammer and whetstone, the jewelsmith’s tools he’d been given by Aodhan, and other more common tools, tongs and forks, and a large anvil. A cot was in the corner next to the hearth, and his chain was attached to a staple anchored deep into the stone of the floor near the forge. It was linked securely to the bronze shackle on his left ankle, and the chain was long enough for him to pace the room and perhaps to go to the bloomery, but no further. When he thought of escape, the shackle bit him again. A wave of irritation washed through him, and he struggled to push it down.
“Begin. The sword is expected three days hence, it is to be a nameday gift for my newborn prince.”
“Who are you?” Weyland asked warily, surveying the workspace.
“I am Nithad, king of Nerike, and I am now your master.” Nithad swept out of the room, followed by two of the guards. The third took up a position next to the door, watching Weyland’s every move.
Weyland looked around the workshop, thinking carefully about his predicament. He lit the fire in both furnace and forge, and walked past the watchful guard to ignite the bloomery as well. Inside the workshop, next to the forge, against the wall, there was a long trough half filled with water, a strange contraption with a lever mounted to the wall behind it, a pipe and spout. Curious, he moved the lever a few times, and at the third pass, water spilled down the spout and into the trough. Thirsty, he tasted the water and then pumped the handle again, drinking his fill. The water was simple rainwater, tasting a bit of oak from the barrel that collected it, and slate, as of a castle roof.
The long shelf had ore and ingots, and dozens of metal rods, iron and steel, copper and bronze, and spools of wire as well. He thought to make the sword and curse it, or forge a weakness into the steel, that it might shatter on the third blow. Exploring further down the bench, he found baskets of gold and silver, and small boxes that proved to contain gems of every color and size, teeth and small bones of myriad creatures, and last was a pile of shells, their inner surfaces gleaming in rainbow hues.
He was examining one of the shells thoughtfully when he heard a cough behind him. Turning, wary, he saw two women standing near the door, one holding a very young babe. They were both dressed in fine gowns and high wimples, and he saw that the hair around the younger woman’s face was pale gold, her eyes a deep brown that was almost black.
The other woman he knew well, though he could never remember her face or eyes or the color of her hair. He would always remember the gracile way she moved, and the curve of her hip to her waist. That last curve was thickened, and he saw other changes to her body wrought by carrying a child in her womb.
“Loch,” he said roughly. “I had not thought to see you again.”
“Perhaps, but you changed the game when you stole from me,” she said, and he saw for the first time a line of cruelty between her eyes, that he’d mistaken for concentration in another life and time, in a sunlit meadow with a tower.
“It was not a game, not to me, and I never thought to steal from you.” He remembered the last lumps of hard red clay that they had drawn together from the dark waters of the lake. He thought of the knife he’d wrought, thinking of her loveliness, and the strength and beauty and grace of Hervor and Sigrun and Frigg. The knife that had shone in the sun, and in the moonlight as he sliced the eye of the wolf before dropping the knife to take up his mother’s spear to kill the beast, defending Bronwyn. He saw the maiden’s face, her clear gray eyes and gentle hands, the fierceness of her mouth set in a line of determination as she wrapped the injured leg of a ewe in a splint. He shook his head, setting aside the thoughts of the girl to better address the reality of the women before him. His fingers drifted to his collar, and for the first time he found that the ring he wore on a thong, sweet gold and a teardrop gem, was missing.
The younger woman shifted the babe as it fussed a bit and settled again. Its dark swaddling began to smell of a need for changing, and on the young woman’s hand he saw the slim gold band with its red gem. The sight of it, knowing that the king wore the sword Weyland had made, caused a ripple of emotion that he was hard pressed to control, struggling to keep his expression bland.
“Lady Ninian,” she said softly, looking at Loch. “I should take my brother to be cleaned and fed.”
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“First, show him to the Smith.” The young woman stepped forward, pushing back the blanket covering the babe’s head. A crown of hair of the palest gold fringed the gently rounded head of the infant, and as he was turned to face Weyland, the still puffy lids opened, and the smith was shocked to see eyes as black as his mother’s peering dimly at the world around them, the head wobbly still on the frail neck. “This is Prince Wigia, my son. Take him to the wet-nurse, now, Princess Beadhid. You’re right, he needs tending.” The princess curtseyed to Loch and left them under the watchful gaze of the guard at the door.
“Perhaps you recognize the thing you have made,” Loch said sweetly.
“Of course. The ring was intended for a sweetheart I had not yet met. The sword was intended for a mighty king who would unite the isles. I wonder that the rest of my creations are not on display, things I was charged to distribute to those who had need.” Weyland’s leg began to ache fiercely, and he found a stool near the workbench and sat.
“You are one to talk of how things are intended to be delivered,” Loch’s rage resurfaced.
“If we are finished, Loch, I have a task to complete.” He thought of the infant prince, Wigia, who had Weyland’s own mother’s eyes and hair, and suppressed the grief for those he had lost or left behind.
“Many tasks, I should think, for my husband the king will keep you at the bench and forge for the rest of your days.” She turned to go.
“Loch,” he said softly. “I shall indeed craft a sword like none other, and as the king demands, it shall be for my son. It will be used by a warrior and be deadly sharp against tricksters who bargain in bad faith, and always maim anyone unworthy who tries to wield it.” Lightning pain shot up his leg from the shackle, and rage made his hands tremble.
“You know much of bargains in bad faith, I think,” she retorted, leaving him alone with only the company of a silent guard and the roar of furnace and forge.
The days that followed were glorious and terrible. Knowing the sword he crafted would be given to the black-eyed and golden haired infant boy, Weyland smelted the iron and steel fresh from the ores provided. He poured out his joy in the act of creation, and the fierce passion of sparring and fighting, the blackness of despair and unworthiness. He held in his mind the youth who the infant would grow into, and then the man with Weyland’s father’s imposing size and his mother’s deep compassion for the dying. With all of that, he wove hard limits as well. None but the prince or one of his blood could take up the sword and fight with it; for all others it would twist and maim the holder, bouncing off the foe as if dull.
The blade itself was patterned in chevrons from the forging of it, looking like nothing so much as dragon scales. The hilt he made of a bear’s leg-bone and blackwood he found in the back of one of the bins of scrap. The tang itself was softer iron, and when he lifted the finished weapon, it seemed to dance and flex in his hands. He thought briefly to try to cut his chain with it, for surely it was hard and sharp enough. He was brought to his knees with the agony and red fury of the cuff. The sword skidded off the stone floor, shaving a sharp wedge of granite out of the flagstone.
Weyland lay panting, pushing at the rage that pulsed through him in waves. The fury made him want to strike out, to maim and murder and destroy things, and left him shaking violently. When he could finally stand, he picked up the wedge of granite and tossed it on the countertop with shells and other odd things. He hung the sword by its crosspiece on the wall over his cot and considered his next creation. The next day, Loch, the queen called Ninian, returned to the workshop to examine the sword, and Weyland stayed as far away from the woman as his chains would allow.
The princess Beadhid was charged with bringing him his meals at morning and evening, and she frequently lingered in the workshop, watching as he worked. He ignored her, for the ring on her hand stoked a low fire of rage and betrayal in his gut. She did not speak except to a mangy tom cat who took up hunting insects and mice in the workshop. Sometimes Weyland thought the cat might be speaking back to her, the occasional chirp or mew, particularly if she brought an extra bit of meat or fish for it with Weyland’s meal. A large spider spun her web above his bed, and sometimes the eddies of heat stirred the air and wafted through the cobwebs left by her endless weaving. When he dreamed it was of a different girl with gentle hands, though he turned his waking thoughts away from that memory.
Weyland made scores of arrowheads and spearheads. They were all very pretty, but only every third arrowhead and every fifth spearhead would fly true or pierce the armor or hide of its target. When he set his hand to making rings and brooches, he made molds he could reuse, boiling the wax away and then pouring the gold or silver into the mold, opening the clay block carefully to begin again with the next.
Though he found solace in the creation of things, he was tormented by the king and the king’s two bastard sons, Regin and Raedin. The king was endlessly critical of all of Weyland’s work, imagined blemishes and flaws, and would lecture Weyland for hours about the inferior quality of such a legendary smith’s efforts. He would accuse Weyland of cheating him, and cast exquisite pieces directly into the fires of the forge itself, ruining them. Weyland thought occasionally of taking umbrage to the man’s violent words and destruction, and when his mind even wandered a bit in that direction the cuff on his ankle would send sharp shocks up his leg and into his groin.
For all the king’s unending criticism, the boys were almost as bad. Barely a dozen years old, they took it upon themselves to find myriad way to torment Weyland, sometimes hiding his tools or venting the forge. Once they spoiled an entire batch of copper by adding chunks of lead and clay into the bloomery where it was melting. He could not retaliate or reprimand them, the cuff took umbrage to that as well. His expression darkened whenever they came into his realm, and he discovered that when he raged only in his heart that the cuff left him alone with his musings, and if he whispered or cursed in low tones, that it would likewise leave him be. When they started leaving mangled creatures, dead and dying, in his workshop, he had to close away his soul, giving the mercy of a quick death to the animals who were not yet gone beyond.
On the third name-day of the Crown Prince, the Lady Ninian left in the night, and was never seen again, eluding all of the search parties sent for her. The king did not appear perturbed, eventually declaring her dead and trusting the rearing of his young son to his daughter.
The guards who took turns at his doorway became more and more wary, and rumors began to circulate about him, and they often called him the Mad Smith and left as quickly as possible when their relief arrived.
After the disappearance of the queen, Beadhid brought the young crown prince, the child a balm to Weyland’s soul. Prince Wigia was the only son of a wife of King Nithad, and Weyland was not eager to disabuse the king of the notion of that wife’s true name or nature, nor the boy’s paternity.
Months and years passed, if measured by the growth of the prince, the bloom of his sister the princess. Still, the smith worked, the endless mound of spears and arrows and plain crafted swords, the hundreds of rings and crowns and brooches that Weyland crafted in an effort to keep the madness of the manacle at bay.
The bastard princes, Regin and Raedin grew even more cruel as time passed, and one day Weyland returned to the workshop from the bloomery five steps from the door to find the whiskers burned off of the mangy cat and the spider’s web swept down. Weyland found bits of fine curling straw and carefully petted the ugly feline, smoothing away the burns. He held the straw in his scarred hand, and soon the whiskers were long again, though they were slightly curly for the rest of the cat’s life. The ill-tempered thing scratched him in thanks, and the next day he found pawprints in blue across the hearth. The spider patiently spun her web again, and life, such as it was, returned to a semblance of normal.