Page 6 of Fate’s Bane

T HE M AKING

And so we lit two rush lights and I finished tracing the outline of my vision while Hadhnri grumbled.

“He can’t even lift a warrior’s sword,” she muttered, more cranky than truthful, for we both knew how strong a warrior he would be. “He will bring shame to Clan Aradoc. Better he keep it sheathed than look a fool.”

I raised an eyebrow at her in amusement as she watched over my shoulder. She flushed, abashed.

“Fine. But I curse him still.” Hadhnri laughed. “He should be shamed for spying.”

Idle curses, the curses any sister would swear upon a meddling brother who had paddled her backside with a sword in their youths, or who told tales to guard their father’s favor for himself. Only idle.

I laughed too. “You mean for interrupting.” I looked at Hadhnri through my eyelashes.

Hadhnri traced a caress across the back of my shoulders.

My eyes closed involuntarily as I shivered down to my center.

She was pleased. Then she took the leather from me, and with nimble hands, used her sharp awl to trace the careful curves and lines I’d drawn with my blunt one, pounding gently with the stone mallet.

It felt strange to work with her, as if the passing of leather between us wove something deeper than the knots we graved. My skin stippled, the hair on my arms rising as if before a lightning strike. It was cold, cold as it had been at the spring in the Baneswood, but our hands were steady.

The air smelt sweet.

Time raced away from us. When we at last lifted our heads, I could tell it was dark by the changing light against the workshop’s walls and the sound of voices as clan members returned from working farther afield, greeting their families and their friends.

Hadhnri and I looked at each other, breathless again but giddy this time, a new weight between us.

As if we had been together, something precious kindled between us.

With both of our hands on the leather, I could feel her.

This time, a heavier tread stomped into the workshop, and my heart sank as Pedhri Clan Aradoc entered. He examined the table, the tools and the leather, the nearness of Hadhnri’s body to mine. His brow creased and his mouth pursed, his scowl the larger, fiercer version of his children’s.

“Father, look.” Hadhnri stood, raising the strip of leather gingerly in both hands. It was too long, but Hadhnri would cut it to fit the hilt when the sword was ready. The design would fit perfectly.

Aradoc-Father approached until he stood behind us, and while his expression toward me was suspicious, for his daughter, there was only warmth. He reached between us and took the leather, then held it up to his face, squinting. He turned it this way and that in the smoky rush light.

“This is what you made? For Gunni’s aging day?”

“Yes, Father.” Hadhnri clapped her hand to one eye and bowed in respect. “Agnir drew the design and we tooled it together.”

I stayed silent, eyes lowered.

“Is this true, Ward-Aradoc?”

“Yes, Aradoc-Father.” I bowed with my own hand pressed to my eye.

Pedhri Clan Aradoc set the leather gently upon the table and patted my back and Hadhnri’s.

“This is fine work, both of you. Fine work. Can you do more like this?”

“Of course,” Hadhnri said, chin high and haughty.

Aradoc-Father waited for me, his eyes sharp.

“Yes, Aradoc-Father.”

“Good. Now come. It is time for supper. You’ve made me wait.” He squeezed our necks and steered us, as if we were kittens.

By the time we had eaten and gone to bed, the feeling that had overcome us while we worked together, the feeling I had first felt with her in that spring, had faded. If I could sense Hadhnri from across the roundhouse, it was only in the usual way I had always been able to find her, my lodestone.