Chapter 4

  Lyenass, Rankia, 30th of May 987, early night

  This morning, I prayed. I prayed and kept praying as if I was making up for all my days of wandering, when I was lost and didn’t pray once.

  Even as the sun rose in the sky, even as its roar flooded my mind, even as my skin bubbled in the heat, I kept praying. I wanted Goddess Kerron to hear me, I told her how contrite I was, how lost I felt, I cried to her about the loss of my father, of my mentor.

  Now I’m waking up in an unknown bed, inside a room with no windows. It smells damp and cold. I feel… not bad. Lighter, somehow.

  I think I passed out while praying.

  And I’m not dead yet. I don’t know why I am relieved about my survival.

  Maybe I don’t want to die as much as I believed I did.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t actually need to breathe anymore, but it helps me focus and push back dark thoughts. Good.

  Clothes are waiting for me on a small table, I note, along with a bucket of water.

  I step out of bed. I’m naked, I realize. I look at my skin, caress my arms.

  I remember the smell of shared flesh, the pain of burning, yet my skin is pristine.

  I close my fists. I remember this morning. The anger, the challenge, the affront. Charles is yet another man in a long list of people who wants to crush me, drag me down, dim my light.

  “You’ll have to fight, girl. The world is against you, men will smother your ambitions simply because you’re not one of them, and many women won’t understand what you’re trying to do. Be the most decisive of generals, the most ruthless of warriors and the most merciless of rulers. Crush men at their own games, but remember who you really are, that all of those are survival tools, only meant to even the playing field. They will carry you to a point where you’ll be able to be yourself. Only then will you be able to thrive, not by aping men, but by imposing yourself before revealing who you truly are.”

  I remember those words Henry told me, years ago. I had to ask what ‘aping’ meant. I smile at the memory, even though it also twists my heart, tainted by tragedy.

  Decisive, ruthless and merciless. They didn’t kill me, which means I have allies in this place, they want something from me. I turn my head.

  The door is simple wood without a lock, not a piece of steel. I am no prisoner. That’s a good start.

  My heart twists again. I hope my backer is Manon.

  I quickly wash myself with the bucket of water, then put on my new clothes, underwear and a simple well-cut brown shirt and long skirt, a bit tight around the chest and the hips, but it will do for now.

  I grab the door’s handle. Time to know what the future holds.

  ***

  “I don’t know what you are, as I’ve seen your flesh burn under the gaze of our lord and savior Yrion, He Who Banish The Darkness, yet I also saw your pray Lady Ekkon with fervor only shown by the purest of priestess, with a sword on your neck and your flesh set aflame. I cannot deny your devotion anymore that I can deny your strength…” He frowns,” …and I should have listened to my daughter and my instinct.”

  I am standing in Charles’ throne room, Manon at his side. There are no guards, I realize, only the three of us. I don’t believe he would have apologized to me if others had been present. Acknowledging that you’re wrong is seen as weakness by his kind, after all.

  The Lord is better-rested than this morning. I can smell his mood, he’s calmer, there’s less pain and anger, and even though I can still feel his disgust for me, it is mixed with other emotions. Respect, caution, cunning.

  Surprising. Maybe I should flaunt my power more often. Or pray more in public.

  “As such, Camille from Tellon-Sur-C?te, I want you to serve House Lyenass, and my daughter. What do you say, Night Warden?” He asks. Again with this nickname. Francis told me that I had been called that because of all the people I saved at night, all the bandits I hunted and killed.

  I… don’t dislike it.

  Still, I am annoyed by his proposition, pride burning in my mind, so I answer, “I am willing to ally myself to your House,” I know that I’m pushing my luck, but I will not be anyone’s servant. Still, I add slowly, “Lord Charles.” No need to provoke him beyond reason. I made my point this morning.

  He’s surprised but he hides it well. Manon is not as experienced as him, and I can see the shock on her face, yet my eyes are stabbed in Charles’.

  The Lord looks at me with a calculating and cautious gaze. I feel good. He’s not treating me as a rag anymore, oh no, he knows what I can do, and gives me the attention I deserve.

  “This is… agreeable. I accept.” He stops talking for a few seconds, his gaze lingering on me, then adds, “I have other matters to attend to, you will work this agreement out with my daughter,” He then waves his hand, and I know that he’s dismissing me. It annoys me, yet Manon walks down from his side and take my hand to lead me out, which calms me slightly for some reason.

  He doesn’t believe that we’re equal, not yet anyway. That's... fair.

  I’ll have to convince him.

  ***

  “That was reckless,” Manon tells me.

  I don’t hear her, I’m in awe and overwhelmed by the many tens of books and hundreds of parchments covering shelves and racks all around the room, some of them in languages I can’t even read!

  I should have known that her office would look like that. Only a scholar would have studied me as she did in the carriage.

  “Camille?” She asks, and I snap out of it.

  “Sorry, I was looking at your… collection?” I answer, waving around me, “It looks marvelous!” I feel slightly excited now, and have a newfound interest and respect for the noble woman.

  “Oh?” She blinks, following my hand, then sighs, “Thank you. I may be a woman, but I’ll need all the knowledge I can to stand side by side with my future husband.” She feels desponded, if not angry. A sore point, noted.

  “Now, back to you. You were reckless,” She says again, and I shrug, “Thrice, he challenged me. First my truthfulness, then my devotion to the gods, finally my independence. I won’t be forever under to boot of a man, Manon, and this has to start somewhere. He caved in, and now we’re free to set up this accord as we two see fit.” I answer aggressively.

  She’s stunned, at first she doesn’t know how to answer, but then she gives me a sad nod.

  “It won’t work. Even if you’re able to steal dominance over the rightful domains of the men, you won’t be able to keep it for long. People will riot and lords will fight you, as you would go against all that’s natural. It’ll be even worse for you, I reckon, as you’re… not exactly human.”

  I look at her, and I realize that she believes what she’s saying. There’s an order to the world, men fight and rule, women make children and submit.

  “I refuse to believe that. Lady Kerron is ruler of her house and her domain, and none of the gods would contest that. They are always invited, her door forever open, but should they one day go too far, they shall see how she welcomes them. No, it is not against the natural order for women to fight and rule,” I answer with great conviction, and… something else. An echo of a memory, faded, but strong. A dream. A place where women and men are equals.

  “You don’t need to believe me, Lady Manon, you just need to… not fight me.” I finish, my gaze locking with hers in undying faith.

  She withstands my gaze for a while, then starts to slowly nod, “I… shall watch you, then.” She’s not convinced yet, of course, but I did my job. I planted a seed of hope. And... something else, that I can't pinpoint, a spark in her eyes.

  I shrug.

  “Thanks. And now, about this alliance. How… does it work?” I ask, a bit lost, and the moment ends, its intensity fading already. Manon smiles mockingly but without harm, “You sure talk big for someone lacking education,” She comments, walking behind her desk, and I answer with a barb, “If knowledge was needed to have gall, why, the world would be such a peaceful place,”

  ***

  The alliance I and House Lyenass signed is as follows:

  For as long as neither party breaks this alliance:

  House Lyenass shall always harbor Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te and do their utmost to protect her from forces, outside and inside alike.

  Baring the House Head of House Lyenass, Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te has the highest legal authority on Lyenass’ lands, which oversteps the appointed judge and equals the Heir Apparent’s authority.

  Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te can, at all times, freely commander a fifth of the warriors of House Lyenass, including knights and vassals.

  Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te will support and work in the best interest of House Lyenass at all times, baring needed respites.

  Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te will answer to the authority of the House Head of House Lyenass, but can challenge or refuse any order given with proper reasons.

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  Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te will always put House Lyenass before any other forces.

  There are also exit closes for both parties, to avoid violent separations as much as possible.

  It’s not airtight, it’s a bit messy, but it’s… acceptable. I think Manon wrote it like this purposely so I could wriggle without breaking it and, to me, the close about being able to challenge the House Head’s orders feels a lot like revenge for how Charles behaved this morning, dyed with a bit of hope. I guess that my little speech made its way into Manon's mind. I'm happy, somehow.

  The Lord and I end up reading this contract under Manon's anxious gaze, and a tense moment happens when they look at each other, Charles all grim and judgmental, Manon tall, proud and determined.

  For one second, I believe Charles will spit on the parchment and call for the guards, but then he looks at me, frowns, and sights before signing the strange alliance. Something just went on inside his mind, but what, I can't tell, so I bloody my thumb and add my own signature.

  “You will thank my daughter, as this contract is a powerful tool in your hand. We will see how worthy you are of wielding it. Do not make me regret this, Night Warden,” He says afterward, before leaving.

  Manon relaxes visibly, and I smile.

  Her first big act of defiance, and it went smoothly, for now. With a bit of luck, and my continued presence, she’ll be able to do more.

  After taking a breath or three, the noble lady finally turns and towers over me, smiling. Gods is she tall.

  “Welcome to House Lyenass, Camille of Tellon-Sur-C?te.” She tells me with genuine happiness. Let’s hope I’ll bring them luck.

  ***

  Tomorrow will be a big day. I’ll be presented to the staff, I’ll meet with Manon and Charles to talk about the attack on Manon, and I’ll most likely go have a chat with our little blood mage, down in the dungeon. At least that's the plan I'm aware of.

  For now, however, night finally draped itself over the world, and I feel more alive than before.

  I’m in a new place, ripe for exploration, the castle and its surroundings, the city proper, maybe even its outside. I have all the time in the world and then some, as things are now sluggish beyond measure. I still suffer from this slowness, yet I find myself hesitantly hopeful. After all, I was able to bring the slowness back even though the sun had risen, so maybe this is no fatality, but a power I can learn to control, much like how I conjure my claws at will.

  I’m trying not to think about my village. I’m in a new place, with new people, and a new me. Or at least, a me that’s different enough. I just want to leave everything behind, to forget, to stop hurting.

  And so I start exploring…

  I walk the many doors and corridors of the Lyenass Castle, and soon start to get an inkling of the building.

  The core of the place is one big stone tower, where Charles’ throne room and Manon’s study are located. This place is reserved for the noble family, and their bedrooms and living rooms are located on the second floor to the fourth floor, while the first floor is dedicated to guard rooms and other military uses, as well as the kitchen of the Lyenass family.

  Then there’s the dungeon, where I was sleeping earlier, which is not, in fact, a dungeon, but one big floor with many rooms dedicated to storing grains, wine, honey and many others.

  Through this exploration, I cross paths with a few people, many of which are surprised to see me. Only the guards know who I am, and only from off-hand accounts of their peers I completely flattened in the throne room. They lower their head in respect or fear, often both, and avoid my gaze, not that they can follow me. I’m too fast. I just slow down a little to make my presence known, lest I’m not recognized and people mistake me as a thief or assassin.

  It takes me some time to finish going through the tens of rooms of this stone tower, even though some of them are locked, but soon enough I'm finished and I step outside.

  I’m standing in a very large stone-paved courtyard, surrounded by a large stone wall. Smaller wood buildings stand here, leaning against the thick defensive wall. Quarters for the servants, barracks for the guards, maybe an armory? I don’t know yet, but as I take one step forward, the sound of iron against iron echoes between the walls.

  Smithing, at this hour? With the sun down? Surprising.

  I follow the sound, turning around the big central tower, dodging crates and carts that have been left in place for the night, walking through straw and the odd patch of dirt not yet cleaned.

  ***

  The smithy is one of the few stone buildings in the courtyard. It is large and open, with the forge itself standing under a large roof of black tiles through which a chimney has been built. A heavy bellow rests at its side, and anvils of different sizes stand close at hand.

  A man is working there, with no light but the forge’s fire. Of course, this night is as clear as a day for me. It has been like that since I lost everything.

  I walk closer, and look at him. He’s old, for starters, and bald, with a short white beard. He doesn’t wear much, and I can see that he’s thin yet strong, his muscles like the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, coiled around his long, light limbs. All blacksmiths aren’t thick and extremely muscular, to my utter and total surprise. Curse my father and his unrealistic stories.

  His eyes are in a bad shape, too, not completely damaged, but badly wounded enough that he must not see much.

  Yet, he strikes the white-hot iron without hesitation and with great precision and technique.

  I’m not sure how good he is, but Henry showed me once or twice how to use a forge, and this man is clearly better than my mentor at being a blacksmith. His strikes are fast and measured, and I feel like each of them contains exactly the amount of strength he wants to put into them.

  He’s making nails. One, two, five, ten, even at my pace I find it fast. There’s always multiple iron stick heating in the forge, all the while he’s striking at a would-be nail.

  He finishes squaring one, half-cut it, then put it back for the head to heat, before taking out another, already bend and ready to be cut, after which he hammers it into a proper head.

  He put it into a bucket of water, toss it in another bucket, full of nails, and step back, taking yet another iron rod out of the fire.

  Once, he goes back to the bellow. He hesitates ever so slightly, then uses it to bring the forge back to a higher heat. More nails follow, and he goes back to the bellow, but stops before touching it.

  “Come here, make yourself useful.” He says, looking at me through his hazy grey eyes, veiled by wounds and old age.

  I realize that time has sped up ever so slightly, and he’s not that slow in his elocution. I feel an emotion squeeze my heart, but I discard it.

  “Yes,” I answer slowly, and walk to the bellow, pumping it.

  The stars shine above, some clouds drift there. I feel the heat on my body, and some fundamental part of me is deadly afraid of the fire, yet it is smothered by the peace that I feel. Maybe what I am now is weak to fire, at least that’s what I believe my instinct is telling me, but I don’t care, I love it so much, and another part of me is whispering to not be afraid, that fire is my ally.

  Soon enough the old man tells me to stop, and he goes back to making nails. I’ve seen exactly how hot he wants his forge, so every time it cools down, I bring it back to what it should be.

  My hands are working by themselves, and I start breathing again. I don’t need air, not anymore, yet this feels like a part of the process, and it sooth my mind.

  At one point, the heat bothers me much, so I get rid of my shirt. I only wear one large band of cloth underneath, to anchor my bust in place. I already needed it before I became like this, but now with my speed, my chest is all but inconvenient. I don’t dislike its size, however, even if it has the bad habit of dangling heavily when doing much anything intensive, no.

  I just hate how most men, when they talk to me, look at my chest more than at my eyes. My face is up there, you know?

  Anyway, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable revealing myself like this a few months ago. I feel more confident now, the heat is getting to me, and the old blacksmith don’t care, I can feel it. Only heat and iron exist for him, and so I make myself comfortable to better follow him in his obsessive work.

  The fact that nobody wanders through the courtyard also helps. The place is deserted.

  I feel safe.

  We work like that, in silence, for a time, then he speaks again. Time goes at its normal speed. I don’t understand how it works, but I’m grateful to see that I can still connect with people.

  “Come, lass,” He says. He knows I’m a woman, his gaze darts on my figure, my exposed torso, the binder around my hefty chest, then settles on my eyes. He doesn’t care. He sees me, not as an equal, but not as a piece of meat either.

  As an apprentice, maybe. Like Henry looked at me.

  I grind my teeth and, once again, push back the thoughts, the emotions, the memories.

  I walk to the blacksmith’s side and he gives me his hammer.

  “Make a nail,” He tells me as he puts the tool in my hands. Now there are only two iron rods in the fire, he did it on purpose.

  I take one, and tries to mimic his motion, his technique. On the anvil, iron is whispering a soft song of growth and trials.

  “Wrong,” He says after a few strikes. He softly recovers the hammer, and shows me my error, then gives it back.

  I make mistake after mistake, but he’s a man of few words and seemingly infinite patience. When the first rod is too cold to work with, he puts it back in the forge, showing exactly how it’s done, then makes me pick the next one.

  He’s not forceful, he never pushes me into doing anything. I just know the next step, and take it under his misty yet sharp gaze. Most of the time, he doesn’t even look at the anvil when he points out one of my mistake. He works more with sound than sight, I believe.

  Once, a guard gets close to us, angry. It’s night, we’re making much noise.

  He sees me and freezes right there. I’m more naked than most women he’s ever seen. I’m young, I’m muscular, I’m busty. I'm an impossibility in his world. A woman like me, doing right now what it is I’m doing, isn't that preposterous?

  His anger turns into confusion for a few seconds, then into outrage at my shameful display.

  I never stop hammering, and simply battle his gaze with mine. He looks more at my chest, which goes up and down with each of my strikes, than at my eyes, which stab at him. I recognize his gaze. He likes what he sees, and what he sees is not another human being, not a woman who deserves respect.

  Pig.

  He’s not leaving, his anger and outrage forgotten as he leers and gets much more than an eyeful of my body.

  “Leave.” The blacksmith finally says. His voice is like the metal he works, and the guard is startled.

  “Don’t order me around, old man,” The guard threatens. He’s a bit older than Manon.

  “You’re new here,” The old man adds, “Go back to your friends, and ask them about me,” He explains, then turns his eyes towards me, “No. Better. Ask them about the monster who trashed all of Charles’ guards,” He rectifies. Charles. No honorifics.

  “They will tell you of a beautiful maiden of black air and sultry countenance, a young woman of claws and rage, faster than an arrow, stronger than ten men.” The blacksmith keeps looking at me until he finishes his description, then turns his eyes back at the young guard, “Ask them about the Night Warden, how during Spring she killed more bandits than all of Charles’ patrols combined, then saved his daughter.”

  There is… something in the blacksmith’s voice, intimidation, emotion, the gravitas of old age, I don’t know, but the guard is now white as snow and, miracle, he looks no longer at my breasts, but at my face, in fear.

  I’m still hammering the iron, slowly, with strength. My claws are wrapped around the shaft of the hammer. The iron is cold, yet it still bends. I know it’s not good for the nail, but I’m getting the old man’s point across.

  The guard stumbles and retreats, tail between his legs.

  I smile.

  The old man sneers.

  “Strutting around like they own the world, as if young women and half-blind old men weren’t worthy of their respect,” He spits and turns away, back at the forge.

  I get the cue, and we go back to making nails. I have to discard this rod, but the blacksmith says nothing about it. He understands.

  I finally get it mostly right after many tries, and from there on the old man watches me get better at it, sometimes with a small appreciative nod, sometimes with a motion to barely adjust my posture. The world starts to slow down again, but this time I’m doing it on purpose. I think. Hopefully. Please I don’t want to be stuck like this.

  I make nail after nail, getting faster and faster simply because I’m better at it after each strike. The iron’s whispers turn into a song. I know where to strike, and how strong, each nail I make is a step towards perfection.

  And yet…

  It’s still not enough. My instinct is telling me. Those are simple nails, yes, but I can make them better, stronger, as sharp as my claws, as tough as my flesh.

  The calling is overwhelming and, soon enough, I have a claw against my wrist.

  I extend my hands above the bucket of water, and cut.

  Plik, plik, plik, drops of heavy black blood flow and mix with the clear liquid. The vital fluid flowing in the water is thicker than any human’s, and I recognize it as it is: an alchemical reagent. Henry taught me to recognize power, and I’m seeing it, here and now. The unseen vibration, the unheard song, it is all there.

  The old man’s eyes are now full of caution, yet no disgust burns in them, no repulsion.

  I don’t care, I’m too focused. I forge the next nail, fast strikes, precise motions, exact strength, then cool it in my own blood. It enters the red liquid without a hiss, not even a ripple, and when I take it out, it is entirely red and as mesmerizing as a blooming tulip.

  I put it down on the anvil, and the blacksmith walks to my side.

  “What is it?” He asks in a guarded tone.

  “A damn good nail,” I answer simply, “that’s what it is,”

  Silence, and then...

  A voice, booming on my side.

  The blacksmith is laughing and patting my shoulder, and I feel only good emotions in his motions.

  I like him.