The Blade, The Hammer

"I'm sorry about your aunt," Mia said. Beside her on the fallen log, Sanan scrubbed her toe in the dirt and scowled at the dust she kicked up. They'd come back here to escape the noise and grease of Mia's father's smithy, but now the silence hung just as weighty as the racket of bellows and hammers.

"I didn't really know her," Sanan said. "She was always off in the capital, being a hero. Dying a hero." Suddenly she grabbed Mia's hand and squeezed it tight, and like every furtive time they'd held hands, Mia's heart skipped beneath her ribs. Fourteen was too young to be in love, everyone told them. Fourteen was too young to do anything adult.

Or it had been, until last week when Sanan's aunt died, and Sanan woke the next morning with the glyph of the great protector glowing on her hand. Fourteen was not, apparently, too young for Sanan to be chosen by the implacable and unknowable powers of the kingdom. It wasn't even supposed to be her. She had six cousins downriver in the capital, all trained in combat and sorcery since birth by the finest tutors. But the inheritance running in her family's blood cared nothing for any of that, it seemed.

Mia felt the growing calluses on Sanan’s hand from her new weapons training. "Is it going to be heavy, do you think?" Sanan asked. Once she went to the capital, those calluses would harden until she stopped noticing the grit of the hilt. The thought that someday soon Sanan's touch would feel like a stranger’s hit Mia straight in the center of her chest. "You know how I hate carrying water back from the well."

"Dad's making you a small one first." The only swords they'd played with before were crudely carved planks of wood. When they were smaller and still silly, they ran in a pack with the other village children, smacking each other around until someone hit too hard and drew blood and all their mothers came out to yell at them. "And they'll train you to carry it. You'll have glorious muscles."

In the village square, the adults were decking the houses with wreaths and pennants and streamers. Someone was making a cake, someone else was roasting a whole baby hog. What a great honor for them that the land's magic had chosen one of their own.

Mia swallowed. The smithy smoke burned the back of her throat. Or she told herself it was the smoke. If the world blurred under a film of tears? Just the soot stinging her eyes.

"We'll write," Sanan said. "You'll write me, won't you?"

"Of course." Now it was her turn to squeeze Sanan's hand.

"And if I die, you'll come see me? Lying in state?"

"You're not going to die."

"You don't know that." And now Sanan's eyes shone, and she used her other hand, the branded one, to wipe the traitorous tears away. "Lots of people die in war. Even people with magic. They won't keep me in training forever."

Mia tried to breathe, but it was like someone had her in their grip, crumpling her up. She couldn't cry now, not when Sanan needed her. This morning, she'd crept in through Mia's bedroom window and curled against her on the narrow mattress until her tears had soaked the pillow. Mia's own would have to wait until Sanan had ridden off, dressed in the imperial blue she was now permitted to wear.

She didn't want this. This moment was the first forever-thing in her life and every time she thought of the weight of forever, it felt like dying. She wanted to be a child again, swinging sticks and believing war was nothing more than another story.

"Listen to me," Mia said, as the hiss of steam came from the smithy. "You'll go to the capital and learn to be the best swordmaster in the kingdom and the war will end before your training does. You'll be safe." It tumbled out of her all at once, like she was speaking a future into being. "We'll write each other every day. You'll be so beautiful in your armor that I'll dream of you in it every night. And my father will teach me his craft, so that every time you break a sword, I can be the one to make you a new one."

Sanan was crying silently now, looking out into the setting sun on the horizon. Mia kissed her hair and tried to remember all of this, the sun and Sanan's face and the warmth in the space between them.

Then the wide door to the smithy flew open, and there was her father, a thin and shining sword in his hand. He held it out, even though he was a hundred yards away. It would be, Mia knew, the best thing he had ever made.

Sanan stood, and let go of Mia's hand, and went to accept her inheritance.

© 2022 Lina Rather

About the Author

Lina Rather is a speculative fiction author from Michigan living in Washington, D.C. Her short fiction has appeared in venues including Lightspeed, Fireside Fiction, and Shimmer. Her books include Sisters of the Vast Black (winner of the Golden Crown Literary Society Goldie award and shortlisted for the Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Award) and Sisters of the Forsaken Stars. When Lina isn’t writing, she likes to cook overly elaborate recipes, read history, and collect cool rocks. Find her on Twitter or Instagram as @LinaRather.