Cobalt Crown - Book One

8 The Pockets in our Hearts

     Kyrael woke up wet with sweat sticking her to the bed, even though it was autumn, when the nights are comfortably chilly with the crispness of the widening evening. At some point in the night, she had covered herself back up with the blanket she threw away. She reached up a hand and touched her cheeks. They were still tight with the after-feeling of dried tears.

     She sat up and walked over to open the window. There was a chill in the air, and the wind jumped between stillness and stiff gusts, as evidenced by the trees out her window, which bowed to the wind. It was going to rain today. All else was silent, save for the din of the marketplace in the distance. It was early. The sun had just begun its run across the sky and she didn't hear anyone else awake in the house. She dressed for the day: long sleeves for the cold, a hood for the inevitable rain. Slowly and without a particular purpose, she left her room. The shop was empty, confirming her suspicion that her mother was still asleep. Across the shop floor she spied the door nobody ever opened. Silently she approached it.

     It was heavier than she expected, so it did not give way easily. But despite the weight, Kyrael managed to open the thick oak door. Beyond the doorframe was a near pitch black room. A streak of light from the morning sun beamed in through a large four-part window designed to vent the room as well as let fresh air inside.

     Kyrael closed the door as slowly and quietly as possible. With only the light from the window, the room grew darker. She walked straight for the light and opened the window even further, unlatching its four parts, and swinging all of them fully open. She turned around. The light expanded and found its way through the room fully now.

     The first thing she saw was the largest piece of the room. In the center a thick circular stone forge dominated the middle of the floor and rose straight upwards. Its flue pierced the ceiling. Its heart was cold and dark. To Kyrael it had the look of a cabbage in drought, it longed for the thing that gave it life. A cabbage needs water like a forge needs fire, like a man needs air. The thought of its flames turned a knot in her stomach and drove a blade through her heart.

     She forced herself to look away then, and spotted the rest of the forge's equipment. Various hammers and calipers hung on one side of the room, neatly nestled into hooks specifically located so that each tool fit within the shape of its larger counterparts. Three workbenches lined the opposite side. One of them had some pieces of metal scattered upon it. Half had a bright silvery sheen, the other half a dark, bitter grey. She continued and spied the anvil, a blacksmith's ashen canvas. And hung just beyond it was a large brown apron that covered the front of the shoulders and arms as well as the belly and thighs. Her father had designed it himself.

     The sight of it touched a hot poker to her mind. A thick fist of dread coalesced inside her. And she remembered.

     Suddenly in her mind the forge was roaring with flame. The whole room lit up with an orange heat. From in front of her, the anvil crashed and sang. A rhythmic ting erupted from it. Ting. Ting. It enveloped her in a pain so crystallized that it reached her bones. It was hot as the sun and singed her memories.

     "Kyrael. Fetch me that hammer there, this one is almost ready." The voice was deep and strong and comforting.

     "Yes, father." She said reflexively, her voice sounding ten years younger. Without thinking about it, she went around to the other side of the room and reached for the hammer he wanted. Third from the top, the cross peen, her father's favorite. She went back around to the anvil, and there he was. She stood several feet below him, and the worktables seemed taller, too. Though she saw her father before her, and she did not cry.

     "Here you are, father." She handed it to him.

     "Thank you, my little cardinal." He smiled a gentle smile.

     Ting. Ting.

     He hammered the metal. Sweat dripped from his brow but never fell on the iron. He was careful to avoid that.

     Ting. Ting.

     "Stand back."

     He grasped the metal with calipers and walked over to the water basin. The water hissed and boiled at the touch of the iron. He held it there for a few moments. Then he pulled out the sword, clamped it in a vise and eyed it carefully. With a methodical grace he bent and straightened its shape until he was satisfied. Then he set it up right to cool in the vise, and turned to young Kyrael.

     "You were a great help, my little cardinal. If you keep working at it, and with my help, you could make a good blacksmith. Tell me what you saw just now."

     "You cooled the sword in the water and had to straighten it because it can bend when you put in in the water."

     "I quenched the sword." He corrected gently. "And it can warp in the water. A warped blade is of little use to a knight of the realm."

     "Quenched." She said deliberately. "Warped." Her lips moved slowly, getting the feel for each word.

     Her father turned to hang up his gloves.

     Kyrael moved to where he was standing and mimicked his technique for straightening. Her hand got too close in her pantomime. She didn't touch it, but it burned nonetheless.

     "Ow!" Kyrael pulled her hand back quickly and sucked in air through her teeth.

     "Oh, you didn't touch that thing, did you? It's still hot!"

     "I thought it cooled in the water!" She almost shouted in pain.

     "Not all the way, Kyrael! Gods. Let me see it." Her hand was red and puffy. "It stings, doesn't it?" She nodded, and tears began to form in the corners of her eyes. "Okay, here is what I do when I have pain like this. I feel pain like this every day but I can't let it get to me because if I did, I wouldn't be able to provide for you and your brother, so I have to get through it." He explained, taking hold of her hand.

     She nodded, wincing. He continued.

     "I'm going to teach you about the pockets we have in our hearts."

     "Pockets?" She managed to blubber, trying to contain the pain.

     "In all of our hearts we have these pockets. It's where we put our feelings. Joy, pain, rage, love. All of these can be stowed in the little pockets of our hearts." He placed a big finger on her chest. "You see, we humans are not perfect. So we tend to get a little mixed up about what we should feel and when. But if you learn to put your pain in a pocket, you can pull it out when the time is right and use it. I use my pain when I'm forging." While he said this, he retrieved a bucket of water from the table next to him and placed Kyrael's hand inside of it. The cool touch soothed the burn, but she didn't even notice. She was transfixed on the story.

     "So I need to put the pain in a... pocket?"

     "Yes, little cardinal. In your heart. And when the time is right. You can go back and retrieve it. You can use it for good instead of letting it get the better of you."

     "Are you sure?" Young Kyrael said with trepidation in her voice.

     "Have you ever seen me cry in pain when I burn my tongue on your mother's overly hot soup?"

     She laughed. "No. but Mom would say that you were just being impatient again."

     "Oh would she now?" he chuckled, amusement deep in his voice. "Well, I am that."

     Kyrael took her hand out of the water and realized that there was no water at all. The bucket was set upon one of the side tables, and empty. Her hand was unburned. In her other hand she held the cross-peen hammer. She turned to the anvil and saw that her father was gone. The forge was cold as ice.

     She went back in the pocket and reached for the memory. The crystal of pain in her heart was cooled, now, only slightly warm to the touch, as if her father had quenched it.

     She clutched the hammer in her hand, then set it back among the others, in its designated spot on the wall. Perfectly tucked between her father's other hammers.

     "Thank you, dad. I dearly needed that."