Like Fire In The Forge

32 – Traveller

The road ahead draped another hilltop and curved out of sight like silk over a sleeping woman’s hip. This was wild stony country, but the going was smooth enough to allow Daja’s to wander. Lulled by the motion of the horses her thoughts ran back along their way to the palace of Namorn—and Rizu.

Behind her she could hear Briar chatting aimlessly with one of the caravan guards and the rustle of Tris turning pages. From ahead, Sandry’s flowery perfume floated back on the breeze. Stirred by the scent, a memory of spice and frankincense ghosted past Daja’s nose. Quick on its heels came an involuntary shudder and a hot pricking in her eyes. Daja touched the cool brass head of her staff (tucked into a loop of leather at the back of the saddle). She traced the embossed monkeys until she’d steadied herself again. She wished the wardrobe mistress had agreed to come with her. Daja’s chest felt at once heavy and hollow, like a forge bucket emptied and scraped clean.

But after all the chaos – after the poison of their last exchange – part of her was glad it was over. She was free of it. Still, she couldn’t shut out the quicksilver flashes of what it had been like to be loved by that sweet, sensual Namornese woman: the silky skin in the crease of elbow and wrist, the tastes of cardamon/honey/cloves when their mouths met, the hard curve of her jaw, the soft one of her waist. The last were especially vivid, and a fresh wave of hot, strong loss struck Daja and nearly doubled her up in her saddle.

Turning her mind from them, she stumbled down a different path. New memories—older, more faded, but the sensations as vivid to her senses as the day they were made. Reaching into them, she grasped their hot core and pulled. The smells of sage, saltsweat and hot metal filled her nose. Warmth bloomed in her fingertips. How could she have forgotten?

A hundred weary smiles over the practice yard and one misty day in the forge, all scored indelibly into her past like the symbols on her staff. They’d been barely girls, all angles and teeth clacking and budding breasts, but something about it set a fire inside Daja she’d never come close to matching—until Rizuka. The more she thought about it, the more auburn hair blended into brown, brown eyes into blue, all their touches and caresses together until Rizu/Lina sang out Daja’s name as one. Trader exhaled in a rush.

It hadn’t lasted. Every piece of metal in the forge had sung out as if struck by Hakkoi’s hammer; the heat-stone smouldered blackly on the hay beside their entangled bodies. As soon as they had their breath back, both had known it would never happen again.

A month later, Daja and Frostpine left for the west. She caught a glimpse of Lina one day before she left. Just for a moment. The Fire Temple novice was walking arm in arm with her twin towards the Hub. As Daja cut across the ring road to Discipline, she thought Lina looked back at her, just for an instant. But she could have imagined it. When she blinked, the duo was already dwindling into the distance.

The smith remembered with aching clarity the pang she’d felt at leaving Winding Circle. At the time she’d thought it drew from leaving home, and family, and familiar—in spite of the excitement of new places, new magics, new metals. The sensation had been bitterly double-edged: sharp as a new blade, sweet as a candied cherry bursting on her tongue. But she understood it.

Six years later – after everything she’d been through, after Namorn, Empress Berengarde, and Rizuka – Daja spared her first thought for the novice at Winding Circle, all those miles ago, and wondered.

Tris’ sudden cry of outrage startled Daja from her thoughts. She turned in her saddle just in time to see Briar’s wicked retort as he tweaked a braid. Sandry did the same from the head of the short column. The little blonde scowled and immediately started to scold.

Daja hid a smile. Time might pass, sure enough, but in the end people had a way of finding their way back to each other.