Daughter to a fighter, and once a fighter herself, though she was now a mage-smith, she knew the value of being able to keep a cool head under the worst of circumstances. Spring swords generally went to young fighters, given to them by their parents. the value of the spell of Warding went without saying; to be able to withstand even some magic was invaluable to-say-a bodyguard.
With one of her Summer swords, no guard would ever be caught by a spell of deception or of sleep. Wealthy mercenaries generally bought her Fall swords-or the noble-born, who did not always trust their Healers. And the younger sons of the noble-born invariably chose Winter blades, trusting to Luck to extract them from anything. the ornamentation meant nothing; anyone could buy a worthless Court-sword with a mild-steel blade that bore more ornament than one of hers. But her contact had assured her, over and over again, that no one would believe her blades held power unless they held a trollop's dower in jewels on their hilts. It seemed fairly silly to her; but then, so did the fact that most mages wore outfits that would make a cat laugh.
Her forge-leathers were good enough for her, and a nice, divided wool skirt and linen shirt when she wasn't in the forge.
Once every four years, she made eleven swords instead of twelve, and forged all four of the spells into a single blade. those she never sold; keeping them until one of the Sisterhood attracted her eye, proved herself as not only a superb fighter, but an intelligent and moral fighter. those received the yearswords, given in secret, before they departed into the world to earn a living.
Never did she tell them what they had received. She simply permitted them to think that it was one of her remarkable, nearly unbreakable, nonrusting blades, with a simple Healing charm built in.
After all, why allow them to depend on the sword?
If any of them ever guessed, she had yet to hear about it. there was one of those blades waiting beneath the floor of the forge now.
She had yet to find someone worthy of it. She would not make another until this one found a home. that's what I was," whispered the sword in the back of Elspeth's mind.
The scene changed abruptly. A huge building complex, built entirely of wood, looking much like Quenten's mage-school. There were only two differences that Elspeth noticed; no town, and no stockade around the complex. Only a forest, on all four sides, with trees towering all about the cleared area containing the buildings. Those buildings looked very old-and there was another difference that she suddenly noticed.
Flat roofs: they all had flat roofs and square doorways, with a square-knot pattern of some kind carved above them.
She was tired; she tired often now, in her old age. A lifetime at the forge had not prevented joints from swelling or bones from beginning to ache-nor could the Healers do much to reverse her condition, not while she continued to work. So she tottered out for a rest, now and then, compromising a little.
She didn't work as much anymore, and the Healers did their best. While she rested, she watched the youngsters at their practice with a critical eye. there wasn't a single one she would have been willing to give a sword to.
Not one.
In fact, the only girl she felt worthy of the blade wasn't a fighter at all, but was an apprentice mage-now working out with the rest of the young mages in the same warm-up exercises the would-be fighters used. All mages in the Sisterhood worked out on a regular basis; it kept them from getting flabby and soft-as mages were all too prone to do-or becoming thin as a reed from using their own internal energies too often. She watched that particular girl with a measuring eye, wondering if she was simply seeing what she wanted to see.
After all, she had started out a fighter, not a mage. Why shouldn't there be someone else able to master both disciplines? Someone like her own apprentice, Vena, to be precise.
Vena certainly was the only one who seemed worthy to carry the year-blade.
This was something that had never occurred in all the years she'd been forging the swords. She wasn't quite certain what to do about it. She watched the girls stretching and bending in their brown linen trews and tunics, hair all neatly bound in knots and braids, and pondered the problem. the Sisterhood was a peculiar group; part temple, part militia, part mage-school.
Any female was welcome here, provided she was prepared to work and learn some useful life-task at the same time. Worship was given to the Twins; two sets of gods and goddesses, Kerenal and Dina, Karanel and Dara; Healer, Crafter, Fighter, and Hunter. Shirkers were summarily shown the door-and women who had achieved self-sufficiency were encouraged to make their way in the outside world, although they could, of course, remain with the Sisterhood and contribute some or all of their income or skills to the upkeep of the enclave.
All this information flashed into Elspeth's mind in an eyeblink, as if she had always known it. those girls with Mage-Talent were taught the use of it; those who wished to follow the way of the blade learned all the skills to make them crack mercenaries. those who learned neither supported the group by learning and practicing a craft or in Healing-either herb and knife Healing, or Healing with their Gifts-or, very rarely, taking their place among the few true Priests of the Twins at the temple within the Sisterhood complex. the creations of the crafters in that third group-and those mages who chose to remain with the enclave-supported it, through sales and hire-outs. the Sisters were a diverse group, and that diversity had been allowed for. Only one requirement was absolute. While she was with the Sisterhood, a woman must remain celibate.
That had never been a problem for the woman whose soul now resided in the blade called "Need."
Interesting, though-in all her studies, Elspeth had never come across anything about the "Twins" or the "Sisterhood of Sword and Spell." Not that she had covered the lore of every land in the world, but the library in Haven was a good one-there had been information there on any obscure cults.
On the other hand, there had been nothing in any of those books about the Cold Ones, and Elspeth had pretty direct experience of their existence.
She'd never found any man whose attractions outweighed the fascination of combining mage-craft with smithery. Of course, she thought humorously, the kind of man attracted to a woman with a face like a horse and biceps rivaling his own was generally not the sort she wanted to waste any time on.
She sighed and returned to her forge.
The scene changed again, this time to a roadway running -through thick forest, from a horse-back vantage point. The trees were enormous, much larger than any Elspeth had ever seen before; so large that five or six men could scarcely have circled the trunks with their arms. Of course, she had never seen the Pelagiris Forest; stories picked up from mercs along the way, assuming those weren't exaggerated, had hinted of something like this. the Fair was no longer exciting, merely tiring. She was glad to be going home.
But suddenly, amid the ever-present pine scent, a whiff of acrid smoke drifted to her nose-causing instant alarm. there shouldn't have been any fires burning with enough smoke to be scented out here. Campfires were not permitted, and none of the fires of the Sisterhood produced much smoke.
A cold fear filled her. She spurred her old horse which shuffled into a startled canter, rolling its eyes when it scented the smoke. the closer she went, the thicker the smoke became.