Old Calvin

Lavenza vacated her room the following morning.

The apostate’s side of the upper floor had been cleared of all her possessions. The bedsheets were rolled up and stored in an old wardrobe. The candles on the desk beside the window had been resealed. Lavenza had even gone as far as to extinguish any scent of wax.

The kitchen was wiped spotless. The ashes beneath the brick oven had been swept clean. Even the benches had been moved back to their original places. It was as if no one had ever visited the tavern at all.

Deme recalled what Lavenza had said about not trusting others. Panic settled in. She rushed up the stairs and jammed her belongings into her knapsack. She then leapt back down the stairs and burst out the tavern entrance in search of tracks.

But Lavenza hadn’t left. She stood on the far end of the village alongside Ariadne, who had already worked up a sweat hammering away at a new set of horseshoes. The apostate held in her hands baskets wrapped in silk cloth.

“Are you okay?” Lavenza inquired when Deme hurried over. “What’s with the heavy breathing?”

“It’s… nothing,” the child gasped. “You’re up quite early.”

“It’s customary for Menuans to depart with gifts to the people of the village,” Lavenza lifted one of the baskets. “I hope you’ll find these tithings adequate, Ariadne.”

“Really, this is all too much,” the blacksmith’s wife blushed. “First, last night’s dinner, and now this. I can’t accept it all.”

But Lavenza insisted, practically shoving her gifts into Ariadne’s arms. Deme spotted bread crumbs between the basket weavings along with uncut fleece fabrics for knitting.

“It’s for your child,” Lavenza whispered. “I hope your husband returns to you soon.”

And with that, Deme and Lavenza departed again.

“You think her husband’s coming back now?” Deme asked.

“Sometimes, people should be left to their own delusions,” Lavenza shrugged.

The two reached a mountain pass by mid-morning, but beneath the shadows of tall snowy peaks and clouds, Deme could have believed the sun had not yet risen. At the pass, there stood yet another gatehouse, though the local garrison here had abandoned it long ago. Broken axels and empty chests lay strewn on the roadside, forming a trail of its own into the mountains.

“There’s a village on the way to the royal academy,” Lavenza explained. “You will remain there until I am finished.”

“You don’t think it’ll be empty, just like everywhere else?”

“No,” Lavenza shook her head. “The imperial mages require sustenance while they do their work. The villagers provide such things. They have all been granted passage to The Opposing Shore by Royal Decree, so long as the academy completes their work.”

“And that work is?”

“You think I know?” Lavenza asked. “I’m an apostate, remember?”

“Of course…”

It began snowing as they ascended the pass. The snow grew fiercer with each passing moment. Snowfall became winter storm. The whistle of the wind became the shrieks of banshees. The warning message was not lost on Deme.

“Should we not turn back?” she asked.

“This just means the academy is hard at work,” Lavenza murmured.

After what seemed like hours of wading through blinding white sheets, Deme saw a faint glow atop a nearby ridge. Above the cliffs sat the sturdy walls of wooden cabins. Past a metal gate adorned with emblems of the imperial crown, Deme encountered yet another tavern at the fringe of yet another town. 

This establishment, however, was blessed with noisy company. Men and women, fitted in bulky fur suits, laughed and roared beneath a covered garden with filled mugs of mead in their hands. Work horses shook off their snow blankets in the adjacent stables.

“I will not be long,” Lavenza said. “I shall be back by sundown, or tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“And what am I supposed to do while you’re gone?”

“Well,” Lavenza paused. “The mages occasionally come here to keep themselves occupied, so I’m sure there’s something in this place that will suit your fancy. Ask the innkeeper for the blacksmith.”

Lavenza left the way they arrived, through the metal gate and disappeared into impenetrable snowfall. Deme considered following her, but weighed the risk of being lost in the snowstorm forever and reconsidered. She instead surveyed the rest of town. There was no one wearing mysterious robes and pointy hats. No one that looked like Lavenza.

“Where are all the mages?” Deme asked herself. Were they all cooped up in the royal academy?

The tavern interior was quieter than outside. Despite the snowstorm, only a handful of customers sat inside. Those that did, drank in silence and kept to themselves in the corners. Deme approached a tall man in the middle of the room, who busied himself wiping down glass cups with a hand towel.

“Excuse me, innkeeper,” Deme asked. “Might I ask a few questions?”

“Haven’t seen you before,” the innkeeper replied. “You by yourself kid?”

“My companion is a mage,” Deme said. “She’s gone to visit the academy. My questions?”

“Room and board is free, if you’re asking.”

“I’m not,” Deme tapped her feet. “I wanted to know, is there a blacksmith in this town?”

“A blacksmith?” the innkeeper raised an eyebrow. “Sure there is. Old Calvin. His forge is by the stables. If you go now, you might catch him before he spends the rest of the afternoon drunk in here.”

“Thank you,” Deme said. “I expect my room to be prepared for me when I’ve returned.”

“Your mage companion teach you those manners, kid?” the innkeeper frowned.

“You’re the one who acted as if you had read my mind,” Deme said. “I appreciate the tip, innkeeper.”

Deme returned outside. As if the innkeeper’s directions had given her a hearing aid, there came now from the stables a familiar ringing obscured by white fog. Deme followed the sound, past horses and a stableboy brushing the animal with the longest mane, until the forge came into view.

Unlike Ariadne’s workshop, the forge of Old Calvin was surrounded by complex contraptions. Upon the racks rested swords nestled with glowing crystals in their pommels. Staves, similar to the one carried by Lavenza, lay heated on a hearth, their bark unflinching amidst the flames. Wooden mannequins at the back of the forge were dressed in helmets and chainmail and metal gauntlets.

Old Calvin stood over the bellows with an old hunched back. The color of his hair shared a remarkable resemblance with the color of snow, and it fell to his knees in such a way that Deme at first believed the old man was a lycanthrope.

“Are you Old Calvin?” she asked.

Old Calvin did not reply. His focus was on a cloak laid over the fire. One arm tugged at the bellows, which breathed blue flame over the fabrics. The other pulled the cloak across the hearth to ensure an even distribution of heat. Pink sapphire sewn onto the pleats absorbed the flames. A few seconds more, and Old Calvin lifted the cloak towards him. He set aside his tongs and squeezed the cloak’s collar with two frail fingers. He smiled.

“You’ve come to show me what’s in your bag?” the old man turned to her. “You may present it, child.”

Deme’s verdant eyes burst aflame. She gasped with delight and set down her knapsack. She folded open the pack, moving aside her utensils and machete and other items of varying sentimental value.

“Slow down,” the old man chuckled.

Deme’s fingers brushed against cold metal at the bottom of her bottomless bag. She pulled it towards her. Small baubles and trinkets spilled onto the floor of the forge. As it approached the top of her pack, the item gained weight, and Deme towed with both hands to reveal a rusted cuirass to Old Calvin.

“May I?” said Old Calvin.

“Yes,” Deme breathed.

The blacksmith lifted the cuirass with both arms. He stumbled at first, surprised by its weight. He bent his knees and grunted until his hands bore enough strength for his eyes to lay level with the cuirass. The silver armor possessed no distinguishing features, no ornamentation save for the narrowest of trims around the arms and neck. Old Calvin knocked on both breast and backplate.

“Lovely,” Old Calvin rasped. “A family relic? Did your father wear this? Or perhaps it was a brother?”

“My father forged it, yes, but he never wore it,” Deme answered.

“Who did he forge it for?”

“I don’t know,” she replied.

“You’ve done quite well to preserve it,” said Old Calvin. “I could sense its essence even from deep within your bag. Was that spatial magic?”

“My companion is a mage.”

“Yes. Yes, that explains many things,” Old Calvin nodded. “Why did you want to show this to me… your name is…?”

“Deme,” she said. “And I wanted to ask you. Have you ever crafted with Rafta?”

“Oh! Long, long, long ago, Deme,” Old Calvin smiled. “I’m stunned that someone so young knows the name of the sacred flower. Did your father teach you this?”

“He said the armor needed Rafta to be completed. I’ve been looking for it ever since his death.”

“I’m sorry,” the old man bowed. “From one blacksmith to another, I would like to honor such marvelous craftsmanship. Take this.”

Old Calvin returned the cuirass to Deme. He turned around and fetched the cloak from the edge of the hearth. He folded the cloth in half, then again, then again, until the length of it could be thrown over the top of the armor.

“It isn’t Rafta,” said the old man. “But this cloak will complement this armor well, I believe. When the time comes.”

“I’m… flattered by this gift,” Deme persisted. “But I must know. When did you last see Rafta?”

“Slow down,” Old Calvin chuckled again. “Come. Come with me to the tavern, and allow a frail old man to rest his hand upon your arm. Then, after a mead or three, I shall tell you everything you want to know about The Withering Flower.”