The resounding din of the smithy assaulted Taran and Eilonwy's ears well before they reached the workshop threshold. Once inside, the blazing heat of the forge and tang of hot metal in the air joined the fray, enveloping them in an iron-tinged embrace. Above it all rose Hevydd's booming voice, belting out a rhythmic song as was his wont. For a moment, they watched the showers of sparks flying from each of his hammer strikes, marveling at the burly master smith's simultaneous power and control.
"You wished to speak with us, Hevydd?" Taran called out once he'd paused in his hammering and returned the partially-worked ingot to the fire.
"King Wanderer! Queen Eilonwy! Well met!" Hevydd called back. He set his hammer and tongs aside, wiped his streaming brow, brushed off his massive hands on a corner of his leather apron, and came over to greet them. "Indeed, I did request a visit from you both. I have news to share that should be of great interest to you." Beneath his thick black brows, the smith's eyes sparked eagerly.
"Of interest in a good way, I hope," Eilonwy remarked. "Did you find that vein of iron ore you saw mentioned in the Annuvin parchments?"
"Even better," Hevydd replied. He raised a stout finger, gesturing for them to wait a moment while he went to the rear of the workshop. When he returned, he bore a long object in hand, wrapped in a leather shroud. Reverently, he laid it upon one of the work tables. "I did find that legendary ore," he said, "and it gave rise to this." As Taran and Eilonwy drew close, he pulled back the leather to reveal a gleaming sword, sanguine in the red-orange light from the forge. They looked on, impressed by the sheer beauty of the blade, but wondering why it warranted a special visit to see it.
"I am not generally one to boast, but that is no ordinary blade," Hevydd declared, sensing their unspoken questions. "Take it up and test it for yourself—there, against that post," he urged Taran. "Strike as hard as you are able! Be reckless, even—just you try to shatter it, as you strove to break that sturdy but unlovely sword you made in Commot Cenarth."
Curious, Taran took the sword in hand. It felt remarkably light and perfectly balanced, almost delicate for all its deadly sharpness. Somewhat warily, fearing for the exquisite blade despite the smith's confidence, Taran did as directed. He tested the weapon forcefully, striking at least a dozen times with each edge and several more times against the flat, feeling the impact shudder up into his palm. Splinters flew as the top of the block yielded, but the blade held firm.
"Now, look closely at that edge," Hevydd said with a nod, a satisfied smile visible even through his bristly beard. "No nicks or scratches, are there? And no bending from straight?"
"No, not at all," Taran remarked as he examined it. But something even more astonishing had caught his eye: an intricate array of sinuous ripples and feathery lines covered the entire surface of the blade. "But what is this pattern in the metal, Hevydd?" he exclaimed. "Never have I seen anything like this! How is it done? Eilonwy—come look…" He handed the sword over to her, and she peered at it with the same scrutiny she had paid to the mysterious inscriptions on Dyrnwyn's sheath.
Hevydd gave a loud, amused snort. "It is done with much toil and sweat, and many failed attempts, I will tell you. Yes, and re-reading those Annuvin parchments until I began to see double and my mind burned like a furnace, trying to comprehend them. But I believe I am getting the trick of it now."
"The pattern flows like water!" Eilonwy exclaimed, tilting the blade back and forth, catching the light in its swirling waves. "You have captured the sea in a sword, Hevydd!"
"And not only in appearance," he noted. "Like the sea, this metal is both supple and strong. Always before, strength came at the cost of brittleness. But not so with this blade. It bends without breaking, yet holds an edge sharper than any I have known."
"So what is the secret?" Taran asked.
"Secrets, more like," the smith replied. "Particular ore, to start with—from that vein northwest of here, unknown before but described in the text. I could not tell you what that ore contains that sets it apart, but the proof of it is clear enough in the finished work. And then there is the smelting process, too. The ore goes through the bloomery first, as any would, to draw off the unwanted stone. But then—and you will appreciate this, Wanderer—the iron that yields is fired again within a crucible of clay, right down to its molten state along with glass, and charcoal, and fresh leaves. Leaves!" He shook his head, incredulous. "I would never have dreamed such a thing, but it works some strange magic. The impurities rise to the top, and the ingot that comes forth below is so clean it needs no folding to drive out the flaws. Mind you, it does need a great deal of other work—heating and cooling, again and again, and forging, and heating, and forging some more. And all of that just to yield a bar. Still more work follows, as you well know, to craft a blade. But do it all properly—with that particular ore, and with not a single step overlooked, mind you—and that pattern emerges in the final polish. Why, it looks as if Llyr himself had touched the steel, turning it to water before it hardened."
"Remarkable!" Eilonwy breathed, still admiring the mesmerizing currents frozen in solid metal. "The beauty alone is beyond compare. But if it is stronger, too… less likely to fail…"
"Indeed, that would make it worth the additional toil," Taran said, running his own fingers once more over the blade in Eilonwy's hands. "Have you begun training any apprentices in this Hevydd? How soon could we spread this skill throughout Prydain?"
Hevydd's brows drew together and he scratched at his beard, contemplating. "It is noble of you to want to share this knowledge," he said slowly, "and I have not forgotten my oath to you that I would do so… but it might be wisest to keep this particular secret close to your breast."
Taran looked up sharply. "To what end?"
Hevydd wiped his brow again, leaving behind a smudge of soot. "Well, now… Having such weapons would give you an advantage against your foes—not a great one, but an advantage nonetheless. And at the moment, those foes are likely to be some of the very countrymen to whom you would grant this boon."
Taran's excitement cooled as abruptly as a quenched blade. "What, are we to hoard the knowledge, then, as Arawn did? Are we to do the very thing we despised him for?"
"I seem to recall despising him for a great deal more than that," Eilonwy muttered, placing the sword back on the table. "And far worse things…"
"We would not be worthy of possessing this wisdom if we withhold it thus," Taran continued, ignoring her remark. "This once belonged to all in Prydain, and by rights it should be given to them again. So have I already sworn to do."
Eilonwy spoke up again. "And in most cases, yes, the knowledge we regained should be shared—in farming, weaving, woodcraft, medicine… in all manner of things that serve life. But the tools of war, of death…" she shook her head and looked Taran steadily in the eye. "Hevydd is probably right on that count. We owe it to the people to keep the peace, and some cantrev leaders will likely require a bit of persuasion to abide by that—steely persuasion, if need be. Our having an advantage could help quell fighting sooner, or even discourage troublemakers from rising up in the first place. That would serve the greater good. Surely, you can see that."
Taran's brow remained furrowed. "I see it quite clearly. It does not sit well with me, though," he contended. "If our ability to keep the peace comes down to a few less broken blades on the battlefield, that will mean we have already failed. We should not need to be misers with this."
"But can we afford not to be? Consider what happened to Achren," Eilonwy cautioned. "Her power was unmatched until Arawn gained the cauldron. But the moment he had the stronger weapon, she toppled like a tree in a windstorm."
"I hardly think the advantage of this steel is on a level with deathless Cauldron-Born," Taran argued. "In withholding this knowledge, we would lose more in honor than we would gain in strength." He saw Eilonwy's lips press together disapprovingly, heralding an oncoming retort. "And what if we face an enemy from beyond Prydain?" he rushed to say. "Then keeping such weapons to ourselves could mean the downfall of our entire land."
"But the greater threat right now is from within," Eilonwy argued, her voice rising. "You heard how little faith Rhodri had in us. You saw how large Meilyr's garrison is. And surely, they are not the only ones who might have an eye on the throne. One can't worry about a snowstorm when there's a fire outside the door!"
"Ahem," Hevydd cut in with a pointed cough. Taran and Eilonwy looked his way, startled, as though they had entirely forgotten his presence. "Not to interrupt a decision that is not mine to make," he said, "but I should say that, secret or no, this sort of blade will never be one for the masses. It demands too much time, too much care. There are but a handful of smiths I know of who might be up to the task."
Both king and queen remained silent for a moment, partly in thought, and partly in embarrassment at the exchange they'd allowed Hevydd to witness. Taran spoke first, his voice firm. "How long would it take to provide such weapons for our entire garrison?"
"Oh, months at least—years, even, if it is left to me alone," Hevydd responded.
Taran nodded once. "Find and train at least two apprentices you deem capable, and set to work fashioning arms for each member of our guard. We will keep these methods a secret for that long, and no longer. If Eilonwy and I have not solidified our alliances in that time, then so be it. I will not keep this land in ignorance for the sake of our own security. I thank you, Hevydd, for sharing this news with us, for your diligent work thus far, and for your labors to come."
Before Eilonwy could mount any further debate, he gave an abrupt nod of farewell to the smith, and strode from the workshop. She remained behind, her temper flaring as hot as Hevydd's forge. She saw Taran's reasoning well enough—and didn't even entirely disagree—but to have her opinion brushed aside so abruptly, so dismissively…
"Queen Eilonwy…" Hevydd's voice cut through the angry din in her head. "I am sorry this discovery has brought trouble when I meant only for it to bring joy and wonder. I ought to have known a sword would cut both ways. It is their nature, after all, as surely as a forge is hot and an anvil hard."
Eilonwy turned with a sigh, exhaling at least some of the ire pent up within her. "Oh, it is no fault of yours, Hevydd," she said. "We bade you to explore those metalworking secrets, and so you did. I can't quarrel with what you uncovered." She gazed once more upon the shimmering blade. "And that sword you have crafted is truly a thing of beauty, for all its deadly power."
"And that, too, is why I asked you here," Hevydd put in. "Not only to show you the blade, but to give it to one who will wield it with due respect. Take it, milady. It was intended for you from the outset. A sword touched by Llyr belongs in the hands of one of his Daughters."
Eilonwy's lips parted in surprise. She looked down at the sword, then back up at the smith. "Truly?"
Hevydd let out a rugged and rumbling laugh. "Oh, I would not gift it to any ordinary court lady. But I recall how staunchly you defended Caer Dathyl before, riding into the thick of battle with a borrowed lance. Never again should you be so ill-appointed. The High King has Dyrnwyn. The High Queen deserves a sword of her own to match."
Still, Eilonwy had difficulty believing the words that fell upon her ears. She stepped forward and took up the sword again, feeling the heft of it, both material and symbolic. Shielded by her body from the ruddy light of the forge, the patterned steel gleamed whiter, like moonlight on water. The leather of the grip was soft against her palm, but the solidity behind it was undeniable.
"Go on. Test it," Heyvdd urged, tilting his head toward the wooden block Taran had used.
Eagerly, she strode across the workshop, adjusted her grip on the weapon, and delivered a sweeping blow. The blade bit into the wood with a gratifying thunk. She struck again. Then again. None of the blows hit exactly where she'd intended, and the movement felt a touch awkward for all the impeccable sword's balance, but Good Llyr did it feel satisfying. And the blade was hers—not a borrowed weapon, nor one stolen from a barrow, nor one taken from a fallen enemy, but hers.
Beaming, she turned back to Hevydd. "I yet need some proper instruction," she said. "Swordplay was not among the skills taught to ladies at Dinas Rhydnant, I'm afraid. And what practice I've had otherwise was haphazard at best. But this feels good in my hand, Hevydd. Thank you, from the very bottom of my heart."
The brawny smith waved aside her thanks, but his grin betrayed his proud delight. "Anything for the Queen," he stated. "Now, you'd best make a stop by the armory to see if they have a suitable scabbard for that. In my haste to show it off to you, I hadn't the time to have one made." He wrapped the blade back up in the bolt of leather and presented it to her with a bow.
Eilonwy clutched it tightly to her breast all the way to the gatehouse.
She caught back up with Taran in their chambers, where he had already buried himself in another pile of legal documents. It was a common site, of late: him sitting bent over the table, head resting on one hand, frustratedly scrutinizing the parchment before him. He glanced up when she entered, but turned so quickly back to the document that he did not even seem to notice the sword in her hands. A fresh twinge of ire sliced through her exultant mood.
"Have you looked through these yet?" he asked. "The next set of old laws transcribed by the bards… I cannot make heads or tails of them. The language is so convoluted that I might as well be illiterate for all I can comprehend it. How are we to decide which laws should be changed if we cannot even decipher what the existing ones truly mean?"
"No, I have not read them," Eilonwy replied brusquely. "But if they're at all like the last set, I imagine they're about as densely woven as a bird's nest." She stood there a moment in silence, staring at Taran while he continued to stare at the documents. "You ought to have stayed a while longer at the smithy, you know," she remarked in a tone like a knife point. "You missed the best of it."
Taran looked up again, more perceptively. "Huh? Oh—is that the sword Hevydd showed us?"
"It is… He gifted it to me." She watched as all of Taran's thoughts played out across his face: surprise, then a twitch of envy, quickly-overridden, followed by skeptical concern.
"Eilonwy—" he began slowly, a protest gathering like rain clouds on the horizon.
"Hevydd said it was only fitting that a Daughter of Llyr should have a blade seemingly touched by Llyr—rather poetic for a smith, I thought," she went on, cutting him off.
"Ahh… of course. I see," Taran said with some relief. "Yes, it is indeed a fitting token for you. We shall have to ask one of the master wood carvers to make a proper stand on which you can display it proudly."
"A display? Whatever for?" Eilonwy responded, knowing full well what he meant, and feeling her blood heat at the insinuation. "It's not an ornament. It is a tool to be used, and I fully intend to use it. Well, in practice, at least—I do hope there won't be any more actual battles for a good long while. But in the event that there are, I will now be better prepared."
"If there are any battles, I want you as far from them as possible," Taran asserted. "Simply because you have sword of your own now—" Seeing Eilonwy's jaw tense and her posture go rigid, he cut himself off abruptly, biting his lip.
"Simply because I have a sword, what?" she questioned slowly, extending a dangerous invitation.
"Another time. We can speak of it another time," he replied hastily. "I… I do not mean to spoil your happiness at this gift."
"Hmph. Well, I would rather my happiness not be spoiled another time, either, so bear that in mind while you think over what it is you wish to say and how you mean to say it."
Taran sighed, his shoulders sagging a little. Eilonwy's lips quirked sideways in dismay—this was not the direction she had wanted the conversation to turn. "I do not wish to argue; we did enough of that earlier," she said. "Here," she went on more brightly, stepping forward and presenting the sword to him in both hands. "Do gird it on me, won't you? It's backwards of tradition, I know, but it still seems most fitting for you to do it."
Taran's look of surprise returned immediately. "Me? That would mean something to you?"
"Well, yes, you ninny," she added with a smile. "I wouldn't have asked otherwise. It ought to be the person one cares for most, no? Even if that person does occasionally say vexing things…" She took another step forward, still extending the blade to him.
He rose from his chair and came around the table to meet her. "I'm afraid I don't recall the proper sayings for this…" he remarked as she passed the sheathed blade into his hands.
"Oh, bother those. I didn't know them either when I girded on your first sword, so it's fair enough that you skip them now."
She raised her arms slightly away from her sides and watched as Taran first blushed at the memory, then fumbled to unbuckle the sword belt.
"I seem to recall you were vexed at me that day, too," he noted ruefully. "Odd how life spirals around on itself… familiar, yet different."
So saying, he leaned in close and passed the leather belt around her waist—broad shoulders tipped in an inadvertent bow; strong arms encircling her in a brief, implied embrace. Only a moment later, he'd tucked the end of the strap through the buckle, cinched it tight, and adjusted the placement of the scabbard to hang comfortably. It had a reassuring weight to it, slung around her hips—bracing, tangible, assertive. She found herself standing a bit taller, holding her shoulders a touch wider. Even her breath felt more expansive as it filled her chest.
Taran had stepped back a few paces, and was studying her with a highly conflicted countenance. There was still that shade of concern present—a tightness about his mouth, a slight crease between his brows, a tension in his posture. But there was something more, too—a spark of interest and… pride perhaps? And something else yet again that she couldn't quite interpret.
"Well? What do you think?" she asked.
Taran did not answer at first. He swallowed hard, cast his eyes upon the sword, looked back up to meet her gaze, made that sideways twist of his mouth that always tugged at her heart, whether it bespoke humor or uncertainty. Uncertainty this time, it seemed.
"I do not know quite what to think," he admitted at last, shaking his head with what might have been a smile were it not for his bewilderment. "I do not want you running headlong into any more battles… We have been lucky thus far…" Behind his words, she saw the cresting wave of a deathless army, clouds of black smoke rising above Caer Dathyl, a ruined wall snaking across the Red Fallows, the long shadow of mountains in which he'd feared she'd been lost forever.
"And what if the battle comes to me?" she asked quietly.
The furrow in his brow deepened. "I should never allow it to reach you," he replied, his voice equally low.
"And what if you cannot stop it?"
He sighed deeply and went silent again for a long moment, his eyes tracing over her. When he spoke again, that other side of his earlier expression had stepped to the fore—respect and affection pushing aside his worry. "It does suit you," he confessed. "Quite well, in fact."
"It runs in my blood," Eilonwy replied with a wry smile and a shrug. "The Sword Maidens of Llyr are a lineage not easily vanquished—magic or no."
That prompted another of Taran's characteristic crooked smiles. And another round of glances flitting over her.
"What?" she asked, looking down at the sword on her hip, then back up at him. "Is it askew or something?"
"No." He shook his head, eyes glinting and a touch of color rising into his cheeks.
"Then what?"
He ruffled a hand through his hair, glancing away, then back again. He worried his lower lip for a moment before answering. "Ah… How soon would you be willing to take it off again?"
Eilonwy's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Huh?"
Taran's smile deepened, as did the flush across his cheeks.
"Ohhh…" she replied, her expression turning coy. "Well then." She took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them and twining her arms around his neck. "I suppose I might be persuaded to set it aside, if you have a compelling reason… You desire a respite from those legal documents, I take it?"
"Oh, yes," he murmured, then leaned in to place a kiss on her neck while his hands moved to unfasten the sword belt. "Absolutely, yes."
.
A/N: So, a bit of total fantasy here. Congratulations, Prydain! Unlike Wales, you now have an indigenous source of vanadium-laced iron ore, as well as knowledge of how to create wootz Damascus steel from it! Use it well against any future Viking/Roman/English invasions that come your way. ;-)
The spark of inspiration for this chapter came from someone on one of the various Prydain fan sites somewhere (my memory is apparently more colander than steel trap). So, thanks to whomever that was who suggested Damascus steel technology might have been one of the secrets stolen by Arawn. It turned out to be an interesting topic to both research and weave into a chapter. Special thanks as well to Skyboy for all of the help tracking down articles on both Damascus and pattern-welded steel. If anyone is interested in the topic, search for "The Secrets of Wootz Damascus Steel" on YouTube. It's a fairly in-depth documentary with renowned bladesmith Al Pendray and metallurgist Dr. John Verhoeven, who spent more than a decade rediscovering the process and the chemical/structural properties of it.
Going to be another double-post weekend, so stay tuned...
