Charles nodded.
“I’m a Wizard.” Heather said.
“There’s no such thing,” Charles said. “Fire magic was wiped out ages ago when the Wizards tried to destroy the Abvi Kingdom.”
“Both what you say and what I tell you are true.” She reached into the forge and pulled out a burning lump of coal. “Didn’t you ever wonder why my father and I, the only two Abvi in Blackstone, are so far from the Abvi Kingdom?” She tossed the coal back into the forge.
“Your father came to town to make sure the coal mining wasn’t damaging the local wilderness,” Charles said. “We all know the story. He runs the mine now because he has a couple centuries of experience with the mine.”
“We’re here because my magic is forbidden,” Heather said. “If the Abvi knew, they might have me killed. So I’ve lived here, as far from the major trade routes as my father could find among the civilized races, since just after I was born.”
Of the people Charles had met, only Heather’s father, who served the nature goddess as a Tempest, could use magic, though Charles had never thought of it as rare. The shop used magelights to illuminate the workspaces and several of the tools had been enchanted to not wear through use. Such was the work of the water college, the Mages. He only heard fantastic rumors of the abilities of fire magic, most of them horrific. “What can you do?” Charles asked. “I mean other than handle hot objects.”
Heather picked up the unfinished sword. “You still need to bevel the edge, maybe allow it to stretch another handbreadth or two?”
“Right,” Charles said.
Heather closed her eyes and the sword began to glow red and then brighter orange and then yellow. Charles stepped back, any hotter and the steel would burn, throwing sparks. She ran her hands over the length of the steel and the shape of the steel changed with her touch as if she were molding clay.
“Hand me another chunk of metal this size or bigger,” Heather said, holding out one hand and lowering the end of the sword to rest on the anvil.
Charles grabbed a bar of iron stock and placed it in Heather’s hand, careful to make sure she could hold the weight before releasing it. The iron glowed bright and hot after only a moment, but as it warmed, he could see the sword blade blacken. Heather held the sword out to him.
“This is cool enough to touch now,” She said and Charles took the sword from her. “It should be springy without being brittle. I can create heat, but cannot make it go away. I can only move it from one location to another.” She set the hot iron bar on the anvil. Charles bent the blade then let it bounce back to its shape. The temper was exactly where a sword blade should be. “You can manipulate the crystalline structure of the metal?”
“You should know that’s only a side-effect of the heat manipulation,” Heather said. “I can heat it to the point where I can shape it by touch, and I can control how and where the heat leaves the metal, as long as I have somewhere to put it. I’ve heard you talk enough about your blade-making to understand how it’s supposed to be inside.”
“Just, wow.” Charles said. “You can do in seconds what it’s taken me three years to learn.”
“I learned as you did,” Heather said. “I can also light candles. Now, is your work done for the morning? Are you up for a long walk in the woods and a picnic?”
He always had work to do, but none of it needed to be done before lunch. “Let me cool the coals,” Charles said. “I’ll meet you by the birches. Will you be bringing the food?”
“Who said anything about food?” Heather winked then giggled as she spun and walked with a sassy bounce from the workshop.
The afternoon clouds tried, with little success, to hide Amethyst, the huge violet moon. Charles lay on the blanket staring up, somewhere between bliss and unconsciousness. Heather lay beside him breathing deep. “I love our picnics,” she said.
“I should go back to the forge,” Charles said. “I am supposed to have a dozen cart hinges ready by tomorrow morning.”
“I could help,” Heather said.
“Master Segric will be there until sunset,” Charles said. “I’m sure it’s best for everyone to keep your secret a secret.”
“My father would not be pleased at all if he knew I told you,” Heather said. “I’m not sure he’d be any happier to learn of our frequent picnics.”
Charles heard the footsteps in the grass somewhere behind him. He glanced up to see his master and Heather’s father walking towards them. He jumped to his feet, quickly tightening his belt and then pulling his long blonde hair away from his face into a ponytail which he secured with a leather thong.
“Damnit!” muttered Heather. “This is not going to be pretty.”
“Charles,” his master called.
“Back to work?” Charles ventured.
“I think that would be best, Lord Feystal is not in the best of moods today,” Segric said, glancing at the Abvi by his side.
“Good luck,” Charles said to Heather as he threw on his tunic. He didn’t dare kiss her goodbye with her father standing there, silent but fuming. Charles just gathered his boots and headed back to town at Segric’s side. Before they made it back to town he could hear Heather and her father yelling at each other.
As he spent the afternoon filling the hinges order, the yelling continued off in the distance, coming from the Feystal house. After Segric left for the night, Charles pulled out the box under Segric’s workbench. The silvery hilt and crossguard in the box were the most beautiful pieces of metalwork Charles had ever seen. He’d asked Segric once if he could have them, to put them on a blade. Segric had laughed and said that when Charles made a blade he considered worthy of a master swordsmith, he could adorn it with the pieces from the box.
Charles had never been prouder of a blade, though Heather had helped some. Perhaps it was due to the collaboration he felt so good about it. After examining the crossguard, Charles took a file and made some adjustments to the shape of the tang and the base of the blade. He felt a rush of pride and accomplishment when he affixed the hilt, grip and a pommel onto his sword. It was just after midnight when he finished. The blade was double edged and long enough to reach from his hip to the ground. The handle was fit to one hand perfectly but could be held in two without having to grip the pommel. His master wouldn’t be able to deny the blade was worthy. He couldn’t focus entirely on the blade, though, the screaming between Heather and her father continued.
He stepped out into the yard and noticed dozens, if not hundreds of people stood down by the town square, all staring up towards the Feystal house. Heather did not need to stay with her father; she was well past entering adulthood at two hundred and fifty three years old. Charles could barely comprehend that much time. He’d just celebrated his twentieth birthday, though in actuality it was just a celebration of the third year since he’d been found lying by the river. He had no memories from before that.
After learning of Heather’s magic, Charles understood why Heather’s father was so protective. The argument, though incomprehensible, was not pleasant to listen to. It seemed to be getting louder.
A bright flash burst from Heather’s house; Charles felt a moment of pain and then felt nothing.
Charles stared up at the violet moon, the tiny white moon passed in front of it. There were no clouds in the sky, just Heather kneeling over him, looking down at him with tears pouring from her eyes and a smile on her face. The curls of her long auburn hair brushed against his nose. He reached up and grabbed her hand, “Are you okay?” he asked.
Her touch hurt his hand. It wasn’t her, but his hand that hurt. His entire body felt scalded, like he’d just stepped out of a boiling bath. He gritted his teeth to keep from groaning from the pain.
She chuckled with a sputter and a sniffle. “It’s funny, you asking me. A minute ago you weren’t breathing. Three minutes ago you were bleeding a river of blood.”
“I what?” Charles asked, climbing to his feet. As he did so he noticed the blood stains on the charred tatters that used to be his clothes. His skin was deep pink but fading back to the usual sun tinted color. The scalding
