Lyra Fernbrook's Arc

Chapter 5 of 18

Lyra spoke every note until her throat went dry. The smith listened without interrupting. He worked while she talked. His hammer fell in a steady rhythm against the anvil, and the blue flame of the forge hissed each time he plunged a rod into the quench. The drake watched from the floor, wings folded, pollen drifting from its scales onto the boards. Outside, the pines went black against a purple sky. Near midnight the smith set down his hammer. Four iron pieces lay cooling on the bench. He had cut runes into each one. A long nail for the threshold. A flat plate for the hearth. A hooked bar for the window. A ringed bolt for the door. He held one up to the lamp so she could see the marks. "These are older than the grove's quarrel with your people," he said. "I have not cut them this clean in twenty years. Something in the fire wanted them right tonight." Lyra stood and touched the flat plate. It was still warm. The runes hummed under her fingers, faint as a bee inside a wall. She looked up at him. He had taken off his spectacles to wipe them and his green eyes were tired. There was blood on his knuckles where a spark had bitten him. "Thank you, Dorian," she said. It was the first time she had used his name. He did not answer at once. He put the spectacles back on and looked at her for a long moment. "Bring me the lyre," he said. She brought it. He laid the ringed bolt against the frame near the strings and tapped it with a small punch. A thin ward bit into the gilding, no bigger than a fingernail. "So it can't be turned against you," he said. "Whoever taught you to play did not teach you that a named instrument can be stolen through its own sound." He handed the lyre back. Their fingers touched on the wood. Neither of them moved for a breath. Then he stepped back and reached for his belt. He strapped on a short hammer and a knife. He gave her the door bolt to carry and slung the other three wards in a leather roll across his shoulder. "We set them at your house," he said. "Not here. Whatever is coming has your scent, and I will not fight it on ground I need to sleep on." Lyra nodded. She lifted the drake to her shoulder. The small creature pressed its head against her jaw. She felt steadier than she had in days, and it was not only the iron. Dorian opened the door. Cold air came in, clean and sharp. The path down the ridge was dark, but she could see the soft glow of her crystal windows through the trees below. He looked at her once, quickly, then away. "Stay close," he said. They stepped out together into the night.