An Enchanting Tale

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

It was early morning in Whiterun. The sun had yet to rise. Dewy droplets fell from rooves as S'maash traveled to Dragonsreach. Before entering Farengar's study, he snatched a sweet roll off the large table in the palace's dining room. The court wizard was already working over the arcane enchanter.

"Made it back in one piece, I see," he said.

"I recovered your tome."

"Excellent, let's have it."

Frowning, the elf found it odd that he wasn't able to get a read on the strange wizard. He never allowed for eye contact. Even when he turned his head, his eyes were covered by his black robe's thick hood.

Farengar placed the book on the enchanter. As S'maash observed him, he saw the wizard sort of rifle through the pages. After only ten or so seconds, he tossed the book aside.

"Did you read this," he asked.

"No. I ran it here as fast as I could. Did you read it?" S'maash was surprised.

"Sometimes, I forget average people lack the ability to absorb knowledge at a decent rate. Forgive me," Farengar said. S'maash grumbled. Even his apologies are insults, he thought. "I suppose you expect some kind of payment. There's a coin purse on the table behind me. It's yours. You may also want to read the tome when you have the time."

At first, S'maash remained silent. He took the purse and looked inside. He figured it was close to twenty Septims.

"So, that's it," S'maash asked.

"You expected more gold?"

"No, I meant; there isn't anything else you need?" the elf clarified.

"Not at this moment, no."

"I'm going to rest for a bit then. Once I wake, I'll check with Adrianne for results," S'maash said.

As S'maash turned to leave, he heard Farengar speak. "Don't be overly optimistic. Our first projects usually yield very little knowledge."

"What does that mean?"

"It means...best of luck."

He was too tired to care about more veiled insults, and instead, he shuffled off to sleep in the basement. Mere hours later, he woke up. His mind had been overly preoccupied with obtaining results, so he left for Whiterun. As usual, Adrianne was hard at work outside her shop. Waves of heat wafted off the forge.

"How did it turn out," S'maash asked.

"Not well, I'm afraid. Your ingot shattered," she said with both hands on her hips.

"Shattered? I didn't expect that," S'maash said to himself.

"Care to buy another, and try again?"

He mulled it over. "No. Thank you."

Disappointed, he went back to Farengar. A nagging feeling gave him the impression the wizard knew something. Chilly wind blew through his hair during the quick jog.

"Failure, eh," Farengar asked, still bent over the worktable.

"How did you know?"

"It's simple, really; like any enchanted item—be it ring, blade, or ingot—once external forces are applied to a point causing an effect to the item in question, it shatters before changing. Magickal fire—or fires of a forge—affect items similarly. Even a master smith cannot alter an enchanted item's structural physicality," Farengar explained.

"How come they can sharpen blades then?!"

Huffing and shaking his head as though the explanation was an ordeal, Farengar returned to his work, yet S'maash demanded an answer. "A sharpened blade is still a blade."