The Blacksmith's Daughter

“I finally remembered how I know you,” said Acwellen after a pause. “You are Boyce Roweson’s little Enith. I used to see you hanging around his forge when you were just a girl. You have his eyes and, apparently, his talents at smithing.” He glanced around the room at the stored plowshares and wagon wheels. “You do good work.”

Enith glanced around her at the disorganized racks and the grimy walls, angry that despite the compliment, her work had been defined by the clutter and mindless labor around her.

“I helped him forge that sword you wear,” she responded defensively. “This is my uncle’s shop—not my father’s.”

“Truly, I meant no disrespect,” he answered, moving closer as she began to pull items from the trunk. “What do you have here?”

Enith paused a moment, then decided to just brazen it out. If she wished to be judged on her own merit, she would have to reveal the work she’d truly put her heart into. If Acwellen were as disturbed as her uncle was by the thoughts of a woman crafting weaponry, then so be it.

“These are mine,” she stated as she brought out several daggers, two battleaxes, and three swords. He watched as she wrapped each carefully in oiled cloth and packed them into a wooden crate for travel. “I bought the steel myself and I forged them. But they aren’t completed.”

One sword lay apart from the others, and Acwellen lifted it, swinging it briefly to check its balance. She knew the sword to be nimble and light and was gratified by his smile of appreciation as he handled it. Then he ran a finger over the leather wrappings on the hilt. They were a lovely yet unexpected shade of violet. “This one seems finished to me,” he offered as he passed the blade to her.

“That one is. It is mine,” she responded.

“You are a swordswoman as well as a blacksmith and a diplomat?” He smiled at her as he took a seat on the edge of the workbench.

Enith had expected Acwellen to be derisive of her occupation and interests, but instead he seemed genuinely interested. “My father was not just a weapons maker, if you recall. He also served as weapons master for your grandfather,” she answered seriously. “He trained me to fight. But I fear my skills are rusty after years of practice without a sparring partner.”

“I shall spar with you,” stated Acwellen, removing his jacket.
“Now? In here?” Enith squeaked.

Acwellen shrugged and picked up his jacket again, then she called his bluff.

“Come out back,” she said as she picked up her purple-hilted blade and headed out into the shop. “There’s more room.”