“How can I assist you?”
Cassian nudged Nesta forward with a hand to the small of her back, and grinned at the male. “I want Lady Nesta to learn how a blade is made. Before she picks up a real one.”
The blacksmith surveyed her again. “I don’t need an apprentice, I’m afraid.”
“Just a quick demonstration,” Cassian said, keeping his smile in place as he glanced to Nesta, who was staring over the blacksmith’s broad shoulder into the workshop behind him. The blacksmith frowned deeply, so Cassian added, “I want her to learn how much work and skill goes into the process. To show her that a blade is not merely a tool for killing, but a piece of art as well.” Flattery always helped smooth the way. Rhys had taught him that.
Nesta’s gaze shifted to the blacksmith’s face, and for a moment, they stared at each other. Then Nesta said, “Whatever you can show me, in whatever free time you have, would be much appreciated.”
Cassian tried not to show his surprise at her polite words. The hint of deference.
It seemed to do the trick, as the blacksmith waved them in.
Nesta listened while the dark-haired male explained the various stages of forging a blade, from the quality of the ore to the proving. Cassian kept near her, asking questions of his own, since she said little herself. One of the few times she’d spoken had been to request to move away from the roaring fires of the forge room to the quieter, cooler dark of the workshop proper. But as the blacksmith finished going over the design process for more ornate blades, Nesta asked, “Can I try it?” At the blacksmith’s hesitation, Nesta stepped forward, eyes on the doorway beyond them, filled with the bellowing of the forge. “Hammering the blades, I mean. If you have any to spare.” She glanced at Cassian. “You’ll be compensated, of course.”
Cassian nodded. “We’ll pay for the blades if they’re damaged.”
The blacksmith surveyed Nesta again, as if testing the ore in her, then nodded. “I’ve got a few you could try your hand at.”
He led them back into the heat and flame and light, and Cassian could have sworn Nesta was inhaling and exhaling in a perfect, controlled rhythm. She kept her gaze only on the blacksmith, however, as he carried over a half-made sword and laid it upon the anvil. Pretty, but ordinary. A common, everyday sword, the blacksmith said. After a swift, flawless demonstration, he handed her the hammer. “Brace your feet like so,” the blacksmith said, and Nesta followed his instructions until she lifted the hammer above one shoulder and swung down.
A clanking thunk sounded, and the sword clattered. A clumsy near-miss. Nesta gritted her teeth. “That’s not as easy as it looks.”
The blacksmith pointed to the sword. “Try again. It takes a while to grow accustomed to it.” Cassian had never heard the male speak so … gently. Normally their conversations were swift and to the point, free of formalities or personal tidbits.
Nesta struck the sword again. A better hit this time, but still a sorry blow. Coals popped in the forge behind them, and Nesta flinched. Before Cassian could ask why, she’d gritted her teeth again and struck the sword a third time. Fourth. Fifth.
By the time the blacksmith brought out a dagger, she’d gotten the hang of it. Was even smiling slightly. “Daggers require a different technique,” the blacksmith explained, again demonstrating. So much work and skill and dedication, all for an ordinary blade. Cassian shook his head. When had he last stopped to appreciate the craftsmanship and labor that went into his weapons?
Sweat beaded Nesta’s brow as she hammered at the dagger, blows and body surer now. Pride wended through his chest. Here she was, that female who’d been forged during the war with Hybern. But different—more focused. Stronger.
Cassian was only half-listening when the blacksmith brought out a great sword.
But he snapped to attention as Nesta fell upon it in one smooth movement, the hammer striking clear and true.
Strike after strike, and Cassian could have sworn the world paused as she unleashed herself with the same intensity she brought to training.
The blacksmith smiled at her. The first time Cassian had ever seen the male do so.
Nesta’s arm arched above her, the hammer gripped in her clenched fingers. It was a dance, each of her movements timed to the ringing echo of the hammer on the blade. She pounded the sword to a music no one but she could hear.
Cassian let her keep at it, the rain and wind rustling the thatched roof a distant counter-beat above them, and began to wonder what would emerge from the heat and shadows.