flew to the doorway.
‘Good. Now on the forehand to my knee.’
The air thrummed past her arms. The solid, unformed edge of her blade sang down the full length of his, riding over the notch that the white-headed champion of the Coritani had made when he fought her great grandfather in single combat to settle the dispute of a boundary line. A storm of sparks flew high in the darkness. She let the tip of her blade bounce off the packed earth of the floor.
‘And a thrust to the chest …’
She was more careful with this one, knowing he would catch the weight of it on the hilt. Her blade rode on his and stopped, suddenly. The shock of the impact rolled through her shoulder. The oval of red enamel on the left side of her father’s crosspiece chimed out of tune with the rest but did not crack as it had done in the hands of her grandfather’s grandfather as he fought Caesar’s legions by the river.
‘Good. Very good.’ He was smiling, quietly, as he did when he had a surprise for her. Taking up a chalk stone, he measured the blade against the length of her arm.
‘You are young. You have two hands’ more growing in you yet but it is still too long for what you will be. We will cut it, here’ -he made a mark with the chalk -‘at the lower third. If you want, we can use the extra iron to make the crosspiece and the pommel. Or, if you prefer it, they can be cast in bronze. If you were the one making the sword, which would you choose?’
Her eyes sprang wide. ‘Am I to make it?’
That would have made the day perfect. For years, she had imagined the blade she would make when he deemed her old enough to work iron.
His gift was better yet. He said, ‘You can help to make it if you want, but I think your own blade should be made by someone else. It is stronger like that.’
Her head spun. This was more than perfect. Tentatively, she touched the unmade blade and felt the thrill of it. Her father said, ‘When your mother died, I promised to make you a sword. This is the one. It sings to you and you to it. And so, knowing that, would you have me make the hilt of bronze or of iron?’
Too much, too soon. She sat down with her back to the furnace and tried to let go of the song in her head. She needed to think as a smith. The quality and weight of the blade made for the length of the stroke and the power it needed to bite into flesh, but a good craftsman put the soul of the sword in the patterns on the crosspiece, the feel of the grip and the shape set on the pommel and it was the choice of materials that made each of these unique. Iron was harder but colder. Bronze might dent but was easier to work and could carry more detail. Her father’s sword hung on the wall behind him. The patterns on the hilt of the shebear blade were ancient and complex; it would not be possible to draw the same subtlety from iron. Looking at it, Breaca found that she wanted her own blade to be as close to her father’s as possible.
‘The hilt and the pommel should be of bronze,’ she said, formally. ‘But we should not make them until I have had my dreaming and know what shape they need to be.’
‘Then it will be so. We will make the blade first and wait for your dream. Come when you can and we will make it together. I have an idea of something new we might try.’
III.
THEY WORKED ON THE NEW BLADE INTERMITTENTLY THROUGH the remainder of the spring, snatching shared time. Foaling ended and the late planting began. Breaca spent her mornings and evenings attending to the needs of the elder grandmother and the greater part of each day in the company of every other able-bodied adult and grown child, sowing beans and peas and barley and weeding between the rising rows of winter wheat and carrying water to the high fields when the new seeds began to sprout. In the times between, there were mares to check for mastitis and foals to be handled and the first few steps to be taken in gentling last year’s foals that had spent the winter
‘Good. Now on the forehand to my knee.’
The air thrummed past her arms. The solid, unformed edge of her blade sang down the full length of his, riding over the notch that the white-headed champion of the Coritani had made when he fought her great grandfather in single combat to settle the dispute of a boundary line. A storm of sparks flew high in the darkness. She let the tip of her blade bounce off the packed earth of the floor.
‘And a thrust to the chest …’
She was more careful with this one, knowing he would catch the weight of it on the hilt. Her blade rode on his and stopped, suddenly. The shock of the impact rolled through her shoulder. The oval of red enamel on the left side of her father’s crosspiece chimed out of tune with the rest but did not crack as it had done in the hands of her grandfather’s grandfather as he fought Caesar’s legions by the river.
‘Good. Very good.’ He was smiling, quietly, as he did when he had a surprise for her. Taking up a chalk stone, he measured the blade against the length of her arm.
‘You are young. You have two hands’ more growing in you yet but it is still too long for what you will be. We will cut it, here’ -he made a mark with the chalk -‘at the lower third. If you want, we can use the extra iron to make the crosspiece and the pommel. Or, if you prefer it, they can be cast in bronze. If you were the one making the sword, which would you choose?’
Her eyes sprang wide. ‘Am I to make it?’
That would have made the day perfect. For years, she had imagined the blade she would make when he deemed her old enough to work iron.
His gift was better yet. He said, ‘You can help to make it if you want, but I think your own blade should be made by someone else. It is stronger like that.’
Her head spun. This was more than perfect. Tentatively, she touched the unmade blade and felt the thrill of it. Her father said, ‘When your mother died, I promised to make you a sword. This is the one. It sings to you and you to it. And so, knowing that, would you have me make the hilt of bronze or of iron?’
Too much, too soon. She sat down with her back to the furnace and tried to let go of the song in her head. She needed to think as a smith. The quality and weight of the blade made for the length of the stroke and the power it needed to bite into flesh, but a good craftsman put the soul of the sword in the patterns on the crosspiece, the feel of the grip and the shape set on the pommel and it was the choice of materials that made each of these unique. Iron was harder but colder. Bronze might dent but was easier to work and could carry more detail. Her father’s sword hung on the wall behind him. The patterns on the hilt of the shebear blade were ancient and complex; it would not be possible to draw the same subtlety from iron. Looking at it, Breaca found that she wanted her own blade to be as close to her father’s as possible.
‘The hilt and the pommel should be of bronze,’ she said, formally. ‘But we should not make them until I have had my dreaming and know what shape they need to be.’
‘Then it will be so. We will make the blade first and wait for your dream. Come when you can and we will make it together. I have an idea of something new we might try.’
III.
THEY WORKED ON THE NEW BLADE INTERMITTENTLY THROUGH the remainder of the spring, snatching shared time. Foaling ended and the late planting began. Breaca spent her mornings and evenings attending to the needs of the elder grandmother and the greater part of each day in the company of every other able-bodied adult and grown child, sowing beans and peas and barley and weeding between the rising rows of winter wheat and carrying water to the high fields when the new seeds began to sprout. In the times between, there were mares to check for mastitis and foals to be handled and the first few steps to be taken in gentling last year’s foals that had spent the winter
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