I did not love him, in the beginning. Later, I have loved him so much it hurts.

  Memoirs of Anaya

  Year six

  The Academy's forge is a thing to behold. It is carved inside a rge rock formation, oversized windows at the top—no, not windows, there are no gss panes; more like...simple wide and tall openings.

  There are openings also on lower levels to bring in cooler air from the outside. The ample interior has a pleasing conical shape. And despite the chimneys and ventholes taking away most of the hearth smoke, the ceiling is pitch bck.

  Design drawings and some small instruments are on the tables, often pced near a hearth.

  I'm in an iron womb furnished with chests and cases for storing tools, sharpening wheels, tables small and big, quenching troughs, firewood neatly stacked, small coal mounds, and so on. Long chimneys rise. Strange instruments and chains are on the wall and ground.

  The Forge has scores of undershot waterwheels for powering the bellows but only a few are operational at the moment. I lower my hearing. The cranking sounds coming from the beam and the wheel's rotating shaft combined with gurgling water in a way that made the ambient rather annoying to the ear.

  The number of furnaces outnumbered all the waterwheels of the smithy several times.

  The gray-bck anvils are strewn across the space like metallic stumps of some long-felled iron forest. A triquetra is engraved on the side of each anvil's body, just above the base.

  The pce reeks of stale sweat, smoke, and steel.

  It is in the Forge where I'm greeted by the chief bcksmith of the Academy. Needless to say, the bcksmith has biceps almost as thick as half of my waist.

  We move to a quiet space, well...quieter, away from the cnging noise.

  I sit in front of his office table. As is the way of times, I speak almost cordially, and then, pleasantries being done, I move on to why I'm here, giving him the parchment.

  Forgemaster Gofannon regards me with slight confusion. ''Your request is highly unusual. A polearm with rge bdes on both ends is simply not a practical weapon to use. The amarium for the haft alone would be far better used for making a sword or a pair of axes.'' He continues looking at the parchment's specifications, shaking his head.

  For many years Father stockpiled hex. He wanted for me to have a house to my name and to marry well. The polearm will be like a birthday present from my parents.

  The weapon depicted was drawn almost entirely by Father—my small contribution focused on minor decorative elements. He has paid a small fortune for a retired Forgemaster of Lodestar's military academy to help him with the design. The weapon portrayed on the parchment has the artistic beauty distilled from Father, and there was the look of brutal practicality of an experienced bcksmith. That retired bcksmith has also made remarks simir to Gofannon's, and I'm in no mood to hear more of the same.

  ''Not to mention you want phoenixash bdes,'' Forgemaster Gofannon continues. ''You must understand---''

  ''Forgive my interruption Forgemaster but my father is willing to pay a substantial sum for the phoenixash to be made. And I've already completed much of my training specializing in this type of weapon. With impeccable grades. Also, there is a good chance I will never need to even use it, depending on my affinity upon graduation, of course.'' I've improved on my sword, and all things bdecraft. And these days I pretend to sleep for about five hours. Chronos is plenty.

  ''Yes...Bde Grandmaster Cariocecus spoke well of your skill. And that man is cheaper with praises than my grandfather was with hex.''

  I smile warmly, with my lips and eyes. ''So there is no problem then. How soon can---''

  ''Girl, there are less than fifty people in existence who know how to forge phoenixash. And more than half of them believe the metal is cursed. Some of the clergy even believe that the bcksmiths who make it give their souls to the Void. Without a special dispensation---''

  ''Oh!'' My hand brushes the cozy and gentle mbswool. Out of my coat's inner pocket I pull out a letter. Signed and sealed by Aleera. His worry is not without merit. Historically, phoenixash was used by many false religions and cults in their rituals. The metal is often seen with disdain by most of the popuce.

  ''Apologies, Forgemaster.'' I blink rapidly while trying to look all innocent-like and slightly lost. ''I should have given you this sooner.'' I throw a gentle smile at him. A warm memory fshes through my mind: me as a little girl, jumping off a rge, six-winged snake. You'll sprain your ankle like that.

  With slight hesitation, he reaches to take the letter from my outstretched hand. He breaks the triquetra wax seal, and after barely a heartbeat or two of reading passes, his fat eyebrows go skyward.

  ''You are very deceiving, Mistress Bolormaa,'' he finally states. Looking at me like I pissed in his soup.

  I ignore his words and the face he makes. ''Besides a hefty payment my father offers to decorate half a dozen weapons or items of your choosing with beautifully carved crystal. After our...project is finished, and if the result is satisfactory. And if half of what I've heard of your aptitude is true, no other outcome is possible.'' I choose him not only for his skill but also...he is the type that loves a challenge, a type that prides himself in his work. Forgemaster Gofannon is simir to my father in this regard. I did my research, of course.

  He regards me for a few moments while stroking his jutting chin.

  I look back at him, unflinching. My countenance is the same as the one my mother had on that day, a lifetime ago, when the Genesis test was positive. Stoic and marble-like.

  ''It will require a strong forge fire and good refractory bricks,'' he states. Speaking more to himself than to me. ''A lot of coal, sweat, and some more coal.'' He looks deeply at the rge parchment, highly eborate drawing reflecting across his eyes. For a moment I wonder if he forgot I'm sitting across. His fingers caress the surface of the parchment, dancing across the meticulously drawn dimension lines that surround the polearm on almost all sides.

  At st, he looks at me for a breath or two, and then says, ''If my final work is half as good as this drawing is, and if Allmother wills it, I'll make you a weapon fit for an emperor of old.''