Sethlzaar woke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat. Making his way out of the tent, he strolled around, finally coming upon a flame where a few adults were gathered, amongst whom was Sister Emeril, drinking and laughing and sharing tales.
Avoiding detection, he wandered into the forest, finding a more serene and encompassing silence. Unlike the Seminary, where the silence seemed dead, this one seemed very much alive, almost as though it stayed awake with him. So alive did it seem that he felt he could hear it should he listen closely enough. Satisfied with his escape, he returned just in time to find Emeril asleep in the tent, wrapped only in a blanket, her curves evident. He found himself lost in its hypnotism with every slight movement she made in her slumber.
Before dawn he made his way to the smithy in time to catch the blacksmith opening it. Making his way inside, Sethlzaar found his wood and blade unmoved from where he had left them.
As the sun climbed to its peak, it found him chipping away at the wood with a rhythm of his own and, at some point, catching the blacksmith as he raised his head to assess him for the first time since he walked into the smithy the previous day. And as the midday sun had found him still carving, the night saw him sanding the wood.
"Good work," the blacksmith complimented as he surveyed the smoothness and curves of the bow. "Tomorrow we will continue."
In the night Sethlzaar found his dreams haunted by the darkness and its cohorts. He awoke again, drenched in sweat. He spent the rest of the night awake, watching the hypnotic rise and fall of Emeril's bosom as she slept, feigning sleep when she awoke to leave, and setting eyes on his first truly naked woman whilst she dressed.
The blacksmith had him draw out a pattern that would be placed on his bow on a piece of paper. Sethlzaar drew, first, guided by the memory of the one on Groc's bow. Soon he found himself ending on an entirely different outline. One the blacksmith had referred to as 'beautiful'.
Next was the forging. Under the guidance of the blacksmith Sethlzaar spent the rest of the day shoveling coke into the furnace while the man hammered away at his work. The smoke threatened to choke Sethlzaar and the sound of the hammer against the anvil left him with a constant ringing in his ears.
"Time for the forge," the blacksmith informed him the next day. Having Sethlzaar empty a few sacks of coal into the forge, he instructed him to light it, after which Sethlzaar manned the bellow under his instruction, heaving at the heavy wooden handles as sweat trickled down his skin with each heave, as the coal slowly transformed into a soft glow of bright red.
As they waited, Sethlzaar found himself wondering what his mates were doing back at the seminary and how Soartin was.
The Blacksmith spoke little, using his words to give the briefest of instruction that Sethlzaar would at times find himself having to work his brain to understand.
When the blacksmith considered the forge hot enough he plunged a metal into the forge, holding it with a pair of iron tongs, watching as it took on a similar glow as the coal. Then he placed it on the anvil and struck it countless times with a hammer, bending it to shape as he pleased. By the life of Sethlzaar, he watched as the blacksmith hammered and flipped the metal in different ways, and understood nothing of what was going on before him even as he watched the metal curve and shape.
Holding up the metal for Sethlzaar to see, the blacksmith said, "This metal is special: Vaelusian ore. It is not like other metals. It is best for making bows, and I suspect your priests use it in the making of their weapons as well. It would do you well to remember its name. It is how we get the bow to bend the way it does during its creation, and what makes it capable of withstanding blows from any force."
At some point Sethlzaar found himself barely avoiding a speck of molten that had flown at him, gaining him only as much as a sideways glance from the blacksmith before returning to his work.
"Bring," the blacksmith ordered in one of his famous one-word commands. Sethlzaar, deducing his request from the formed metal he'd taken from the anvil, brought the bucket of water situated at the corner of the smithy. In it the blacksmith drowned the metal. The liquid hissed as the metal cooled and it boiled. Sethlzaar, unable to escape unscathed was graced by a few splashes on his hand. The blacksmith retrieved the metal only after the boiling was completely subsided.
"Polish," the man instructed after he'd had Sethlzaar file away the bumps on the fashioned bow, and soon the bow gleamed beautifully in the light of the furnace.
The next day the blacksmith arrived only to open the smithy then left. Itsaw Sethlzaar weaving the bow string amidst which were metal wires, as thin as strands of hair. They made the task of weaving more challenging. Vaelusian ore, no doubt, Sethlzaar observed as he weaved alone in the smithy.
After weaving more than twenty strings he retired from the smithy, as was the blacksmiths instructions, and found himself sparring with a wooden sword with Priestess Emeril.
"Why do you love this place so much?" he asked her on their way back to their tent.
"Because they are family," she replied simply.
"But I thought the church is our only family."
"Yes." She smiled. "But as a first bow I can have two families."
Sethlzaar held his tongue a while, but in time he found his curiosity winning his discipline. "Why do you sleep late?"
"Why do you wander at night?" Emeril returned jovially.
Unable to bring himself to enjoy the turn the conversation had taken, Sethlzaar returned to silence.
"If only..." Emeril rubbed his head, letting her words trail. And as much as Sethlzaar's curiosity wanted to hear the end of the sentence, he held his tongue in fear of inciting something he would not like to speak of.
In the dark of night Sethlzaar woke from his nightmare covered in sweat and panic. But what made it worse was the sight of Emeril watching him with compassion... and worry... and pity.
Sethlzaar bolted out of the tent with her following behind him. He moved fast, cutting through the wind, ignoring the sound of the wind in his ears or its feel through his hair, and it wasn't until he took to the trees that he lost her.
Making his way to the smithy early the next day, he sat and waited as the blacksmith presented him with two well-made bows: one of wood and one of metal. They both gleamed in the sunlight, the metal much larger than that of the wood.
The wooden bow, polished in black to look exactly like the metal, was designed in the pattern he had scribbled on the piece of paper. However, the pattern held an artistic note that proved itself an enhancement on the one he had drawn. It was a piece of artistry the likes of which he could only ever dream to attain, its beauty, something to truly behold. A space was reserved on the insides of both bows. He strung them with the two bowstrings the blacksmith had given him, and he could tell they were among the few he had weaved the previous day.
"What's your name?" Sethlzaar finally mustered the courage to ask before he left, knowing it might be the last time he would see him.
The blacksmith spared him a skeptic gaze for a while. "Naelii," he answered eventually. "You have a gift with the bow, child, but you have no place in the smithy." The last words he gave as a form of advice.
"Every first bow gains a title at some point," Emeril offered, entering the tent where Sethlzaar studied the space in the pattern, midway through appreciating the metal bow after darkness had made its crawl over Ayla's skies. Emeril nodded to it. "The space is for our titles."
Unable to find any words to offer her, he nodded. "You are early."
Emeril smiled. "And how are you?"
It was their first conversation since last night.
"Fine," he replied, inspecting the space with his fingers. The metal was cold to the touch.
"Want to talk about it?" Emeril asked.
"No. It never helps..." ...Only makes things worse.
Emeril stayed awake with him through the rest of the night, narrating tales of her endeavors as a Blessed as well as her favorite first bows since its introduction to the church.
"Why are the priests in the seminary so old?" Sethlzaar asked after a few tales.
Emeril shrugged indifferently. "After twenty-five years of service, some priests are offered positions to instruct the younger generations of the seminary."
"Then why are you so young?"
Emeril smiled at the question. "Because, thanks to king Criver who has ensured peace in the realm the demand for the church's help is as little as its priestesses." She paused. "I have only been in service to the faith for eight years."
Sensing the bait Sethlzaar replied with a brisk "Oh."
"I'm still young, right?" She teased, nonetheless, causing Sethlzaar's cheeks to flush as he turned his face from her.
Emeril laughed. "I'm joking."
Sethlzaar didn't believe her, and he couldn't see what joke could be found in her words.
Sethlzaar's last day found him training under Filiis. His final test involved sparring against three other boys with only the bow, while hitting moving targets. He found himself feeling free each time he evaded an attack with an aerobic display. In the end he failed to evade all the attacks. It left him bruised. But Filiis claimed the aim was not for him to win but for him to last and hit all his targets till he ordered them to stop.
On the morning of the day they were to depart they stood in Lady Pinks' tent.
"How was it?" Lady Piniis asked.
Sethlzaar smiled genuinely. "Like riding the wind."
Piniis smiled, walked up to him and took his face in both hands. "You have the eyes of an archer," she said, "they will help you. And your gift with the bow is a gift even amongst gifts."
Her words drew a pride in Sethlzaar as she met his eyes. It was the first time he ever felt proud that his eyes were the color of the blue sea.
Her smile widened, as if she sensed his pleasure. "Remember, child, you will always have a home here."
Somehow Sethlzaar felt it wasn't just an offer to him but a reminder to Emeril, and he wondered if she would ever take it up.
"It would seem you, too, now have two families," Emeril said, a happiness in her tone, as they rode away from the village, Sethlzaar's bows wrapped in a sack fastened to the horse.