Something old. Aka: Trent

Prologue

I don’t want to be a knight! Why can’t we just let Domi go?” It was late at night, and the young girl had a bad temper. It was the evening of her 7th birthday, and she did not enjoy the latest news from her parents.
“Why don’t you want to go to the palace, Trin? I thought you wanted to follow your mother’s footsteps,” her father asked. He had dark brown hair, and blue eyes. A retired sergeant from the Second Company of the King’s Own, he was a large man, with a body of finely toned muscles. His name was Domitan of Masbole and Protector’s Hill, a title gained from his marriage.
“Don’t get me wrong, I love Mother and I love the changes that have come about because of her knighthood, but—. It’s not what I want to do.”
“Then what do you want to do, Sweetie?” Domitan’s wife was a tall woman, well-muscled, but beautiful. She had mid-length plain brown hair, and brilliant green eyes. She was the Protector of the Small, Lady Knight Keladry of Masbole and Protector’s Hill.
“I—I want to be a blacksmith.”
“A blacksmith!”

Chapter One

It was cold and raining. Trinity hated the rain; it made her work harder. It was only after her work was finished that she welcomed the cold, but while she labored she’d prefer to have her furnace as hot as possible in order to maximize the speed and quality of her craftsmanship—especially when she was making swords.
She was a young lass of almost nineteen years. But she looked to be twenty-one. Trinity was almost six feet tall, her shoulders broad and, her slender arms hid hard muscles, toned from working all day in the forge. She had dark brown hair braided to below her waist, tanned skin, and her eyes were deep pools of blue and green. A heart-stopping-beauty, and born to Keladry of Mindelan and to Domitan of Masbole during the Scanran War, somewhat illegitimately. Her parents were married secretly a month after the War, so it didn’t matter all that much. Most people didn’t even know that Trinity—or her three identical sisters—even existed. Trinity was the youngest of a set of quads, identical from birth, and blessed with the Gift—and a little extra something. Somehow, the four girls were able to utilize their Gift and yet hide it from other Gift wielders. Because of such an advantage, they used their masked-Gift to alter their appearance without being detected. Trinity\'s sisters, Dree, Hope, and Haven, played a diabolical joke on Trinity, making her the prettiest of them all. But Trinity had no intentions of ever catching a man.
Presently, Trinity was living under the façade of a common blacksmith in the city of Corus. But no one knew her by that name in Corus. They all called her Trent Masdlan—a name taken from a combination of both her parents’ former titles before they wed. After three months already, no one, not even the nobles who raised her, knew that she was there.
Before Corus, Trent lived in Scanra for the last thirteen years . Ten of these years were spent learning to be a blacksmith. Upon Trent’s arrival and her family’s introduction to the Court of Scanra, no one had taken any mind to her and her sisters, so Trent spent most of her time alone with her sisters Dree and Hope, both of which would be leaving in five years for the university and the convent. Their eldest sister Haven had left to join the Shang Warriors just before they left for Scanra. Trent was the only one left who didn’t know what she wanted to do with her life.
But then, one fateful, rainy day, before her 7th birthday, she, her sisters, and their maid took shelter in a smithy while they waited for the ongoing storm to abate. To many people in town it was simply the warmest place during the rains, but to Trent, it was a new world. On that very day, she fell in love with the smithy, the blacksmith’s work, and weapons. Trent knew she was born for the forge. She finally knew what she wanted. And lucky for her, her parents understood! The the day after their birthday, her parents took Trent\\ back to the smithy and asked the master there to take Trent on as an apprentice. The smith complied and signed a contract.
By this time, Trent had already spent two years immersed in the Scanran Court. She knew what the weakness was of every man there: pretty eyes. Trent had dazzling blue-green eyes and was therefore preyed upon by all the men there since the day she turned eleven and her badges started bulging. They trapped her in dark rooms, cornered her in empty hallways; anything to get where they could be alone and have their way with her. She was not interested in boys, lovers, or sweethearts, and now Trent hated noblemen with a vengeance. She had no respect for any of them at all, and distrusted them more than anyone else. It was lucky for her, though, that her master got wind of her mistreatment right away. He came to her rescue more than once during those few months of her living hell.
His name was Ivan von Dreggor. He was gray haired and scarred—scars gained at the forge or in a fight. Not only did Ivan make the best swords, axes, arrows, maces in all of Scanra, he was an expert in using them. But he did not fight in the Scanran War like the other skilled men. It wasn’t as if Ivan hated violence—he just hated the warlord. When the first signs of the War broke out, Ivan fled to the mountains and he continued his trade there. There were not many buyers, of course, but Ivan was able to perfect his skill, both as a blacksmith and as a fighter. As soon as the War ended, he returned to civilization and started up his shop again. He had lived quite prosperously for three years until Trent first walked into his forge and changed his life forever.
After a few months of trying to protect Trent, and not always succeeding for lack of proximity, Ivan requested of her parents that she come and live with him in the forge. He assured them that he meant no harm to her, and was only concerned for her well-being. He couldn’t protect her very easily while she lived in the palace and he in the town. The nobles wouldn’t dream of going into a smith’s shop and taking advantage of the apprentice while she lived under his roof.
Thus, Trent came to live with Ivan, and the two became ‘thick as thieves.’ It was shaky at first. Ivan knew next to nothing about girls, and here was this seven year old who was already more beautiful than any creature he had set eyes on—and she wanted to be a blacksmith! Who had put that idea into her head? Might as well try to be a lady knight! After they got to know one another, everything went smoothly. Ivan looked after her, taught her the trade, and also taught her how to fight with everything he had her make. Trent loved it.
The noblemen who preyed upon her before feebly attempted to get alone with Trent again, but were thwarted by Ivan and his swordsmanship easily. They soon gave up. The smithy had become a refuge for Trent, and her master became a well of wisdom and knowledge about the world. He taught her everything he knew, and treated her as his niece that he had lost before the War.
As to training her as a blacksmith, Ivan was at first surprised by Trent. He wasn’t sure at the onset whether she was determined or not, but it was only a week before he knew the truth. Trent was persistent, and she would not slow down or give up just because the task was hard. She was not a spoiled little girl like the other nobles’ daughters. She learned quickly, listened well, and was wiser than she appeared. He taught her everything he knew about the smithy, and how to use everything she would make: from everyday nails to majestic sabers.
Not only did Trent receive blacksmithing lessons from Ivan, she also had lessons from her parents whenever she visited—which was once a week. Her lessons were of jousting, fencing, hand-to-hand fighting, knife fighting and throwing, archery, diplomacy, leadership, and delegation. Everything a knight would need to know, and more. That was probably part of the reason why Trent never changed her mind about being a knight. She was already learning in Scanra everything her brother Domi was learning at ‘knight-school’ in Corus! Who needed an Ordeal to protect people? Let Domi go through all that. Now Trent could defend herself, or someone else, the next time some noble tried to get friendly.
After ten years as an apprentice in Scanra, Trent was finally a journey woman-blacksmith. A month after receiving her certification, Trent had decided to go back to Tortall. Two of her sisters, Dree and Haven, were there already. Corus was the best place to see them again. Besides, it would provide her a base of operations, a home, and old friends of her parents who still lived there. After only three months’ business, her place was already very popular with the commoners. The nobility would have been interested too, if they ever walked farther than Raven’s Armoury, which was down the hill and around the corner from the palace. Most nobles were not like her parents, though, and would have up-turned noses at Trent’s place because it was not Raven’s. Trent preferred it that way. She didn’t charge as much as Raven’s, even though the quality of her work was as good as Raven\'s, and it was easy to find for commoners and travelers. She still disliked nobles, of any country, and any court.
On this particular rainy day, however, a traveler wandered in to Trent’s armoury. His clothes were muddy and tattered, he held his horse’s reins in his hand, and the horse’s saddle was as muddy as he was, with the packs close to empty. He had been on the road for a while. His rations were dangerously low. His eyes were tired and delirious, his lips slack, and his face ashen. Truth be told the young traveler was dying on his feet.
“Hello?” the traveler called. He walked inside and stared with bleary eyes at the walls. There were swords everywhere! Broad swords, short swords, fencing swords, long swords—he had never seen so many in one shop before!—All good enough quality to rival Raven’s Armoury even! If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that he was in Raven’s Armoury, except that he knew what Raven’s interior looked like, and this was not it. Yes, the walls were covered with weapons, there were glass-covered tables with more equipment on display, and towards the back of the room where the money was transacted, and another door leading to another room, but there was one corner that looked like a family room! There was a fire place, with chairs and a couch in a semi-circle with a small table in the middle. This place must get a lot of business for there to be a waiting area, the traveler thought.
He shook his head to clear his mind, and continued to study the weapons on the walls. There were more than just swords. There were axes, for battle and everyday-use, knives, daggers, riding gloves, gauntlets, arm guards, and bows and arrows even! The traveler was amazed to find such a place on the outskirts of Corus. He must be dreaming.
He was startled from his inspection of a particularly grand sword when a woman walked out of the back room, wiping her hands on a leather work-apron. He clumsily jumped back from the wall and began to explain why a stranger was now standing in her living room/shop.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to intrude, but it’s cold and wet outside, and the door was open,” he explained in slurred speech. “Is your father at home? Or perhaps your brother?”
“I live here alone. I’m sorry, but the store is closed for the day. And you can let yourself out the same way you let yourself in.” She answered firmly, thinking he was another woman-predator, and trying to get him out.
“I assure you, I mean you no harm or disrespect. All I need is information: Do you know where I might find the nearest inn?” He considered just renting a room from the tenant, but seeing that the woman lived there alone, his staying the night would surely ruin her reputation, whatever it was.
The woman merely stared at him. He claims to only want information, but with all that blood on his tunic, he\'s lying. He\'s--
He interrupted her thoughts. “Begging your pardon, Miss—and I don’t mean to offend—but are you sure that it’s quite safe for you to be living here alone? This is the outskirts of Corus.” There was concern in his voice, and respect. The woman chuckled to herself, smiling a little. A noble. I should have guessed. No one else would put on such a show of concern for an apparently common and defenseless woman. Perhaps not a predator, but still, I must be careful.
“I can take care of myself, thank you,” she finally answered. “Much better than you can, from what I can see.” She smiled even more, trying to alleviate the pressure and calm him down some by pointing out the joke.
He accepted her teasing. He couldn’t not. Her voice was sweet to the ear, honeyed, seductive, but it didn’t appear that she was trying to seduce him. She was just standing there, looking him full in the face, and smiling as if the sun came from her eyes.
She was looking him full in the face, but she was also scrutinizing him. She looked him over, taking in every tear in his clothes, every mud stain, every twig, and every drop and smear of blood. Definitely not a predator; he was more like a wounded puppy than a hungry wolf. His face was pale, almost feverish. He was also sick with pneumonia.
“It’s raining outside, you’d best come in and warm yourself,” she gave in. “This storm won’t pass soon. I’ll start the fire and you can drape your cloak near it to dry. And please sit down while I get you something hot to drink, and tend to your horse.”
“Thank you. But that’s alright, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself over me. I’ll just go find an inn somewhere. Where did you say it was?” he said, already backing to the door.
“No, you won’t,” she said, starting up a fire. “You’ll stop right there, take off your coat, sit down, and wait here until I come back.” Her tone was one that tolerated no nonsense; the traveler, startled at her peremptory order, complied with her wishes. She disappeared into the back room, and returned shortly with the promised drink.
“Here. Drink this slowly—it’s hot. We wouldn’t want the little lordling to burn his tongue.” She started towards the front door—to fetch his horse to the stables out back, most likely.
“How did you know I was a noble?” the traveling noble asked, after choking on the strangely numbing, yet delicious, hot herbal tea. Perhaps there was peppermint in it. “I gave you no name; there is no insignia on my clothing, and I’m so travel-stained that even if I was wearing my house’s colors, you wouldn’t be able to tell through the mud.” He seemed to be thinking a little more clearly now. Perhaps it was the tea.
The woman was halfway out the door when she looked over her shoulder at him and answered. “Nobles have a way of carrying themselves, and of treating others. Some try to never give offense, while some go out of their way to give it. You’re one of the former. The words ‘rich, high-class noble’ are written all over your face, despite the mud and grit. Other than that, it’s the way you walk—and talk. With your nose up in the air, as if everyone below it doesn’t exist.” She faced forward again and continued on her way outside to tend to the lordling’s mount, leaving him in confusion.
It was a magnificent creature. A spirited painted mare, white mane and tail, beautiful red and white coat with white legs. The woman whispered compliments to the pinto as she walked it through the rain to her stables behind the forge. It was a small but well equipped stables, with only five stalls and two horses. It occasionally held more when there were customers from out of town, like tonight. The woman unsaddled and unbridled the mare, then picked up some straw and rubbed her down while she ate from the feeding trough that was there. That done, she led the mare into one of the stalls with extra hay, and inspected her hooves.
She had noticed a slight limp when walking the horse to the stables around back, and her worries were confirmed. The mare had sprained her left foreleg, and wouldn’t be up for any hard riding for at least a month. Unless she had anything to do about it.
After tending to the horse, and checking on her own two beauties—a large gelding and a dainty mare—the woman returned back to the store. The traveler had finished his tea and was studying the walls again. She went behind the desk at the back of the room and pulled out a knife and a polishing cloth. Neither spoke for a time; each were content to simply listen to the traveler\'s soft footfalls, and the woman\'s cloth running over silver metal. The man did not just study the wall, however. He studied her as well. She looked intent on her work—surprising that a common woman would find such joy in weapons cleaning. Or is she just trying to concentrate on her work so that I will ignore her? I must set her mind at ease.
“I’m sorry, but I think you’re misjudging me,” he said suddenly, completely dropping his perusal of the walls. Obviously he hadn\'t forgotten what she said before she tended to his mount. When she didn’t reply, or even look up from the knife that she was polishing, he walked closer and continued. “You don’t even know my name, my family, or where I’m from. Why do you expect me to be like everyone else?”
“Because every noble that I’ve met has been the same: stuck-up, stupid, proud, and a greedy predator,” she claimed before he could take a breath. “Why do you think I work in a shop that most nobles have never even heard of, much less entered?”
“Forgive me again, but not all nobles are the same. You said so yourself, there’s more than one kind. Yes, there are many who are idiots, but I am not one. My father is—.”
“I don’t need to know who your father is, or your mother,” she cut him off. “They’re nobles, and that’s all that matters. You do have a very fine animal, though.”
“Thank you. He was a gift from a very close friend of my father’s.” He paused. “You’re very prejudiced, did you know that?”
“Yes, my parents used to tell me that all the time.” Neither spoke. The woman’s tone of voice had hinted that they had come to a delicate or painful subject for her, and dropped the matter. He returned to perusing the walls, shelves, and tables.
He was amazed at their quality. Once he got a closer look at the merchandise, he admitted that their quality was better than that of Raven’s Armoury. At least they looked better.
“Excuse me, may I handle one of these swords?” he asked, his hands hovering over a particularly magnificent sword. “I’d just like to get the feel of one of them.”
A light had come into the woman’s eyes. Something about this shop excited her. “Of course,” she said. The man could hear her struggling to control her excitement. “Pick any one you like. Lift it, swing it around, do a few practice-steps. See how she handles, and tell me if she’s better than Raven’s.”
He could see that her eyes were intense, but she never looked up from her work. Not that he could tell. Again, he was surprised at her passion for weapons. He lifted the sword off of its hooks on the wall. It felt wonderful in his hands. Like it was made for him. He slid into defense, holding his sword low, with the tip just above his head. It felt so right! He moved to block an imaginary over-head attack, letting the invisible sword slide off the one in his hands. Quickly, he lunged at his invisible opponent, piercing his gut. Tearing the sword out, he turned to slash an on-coming opponent from the right. Cut in two! On to the next victim.
Trent watched from beneath her long eyelashes as she continued to polish the knife in her hands. He was magnificent! A squire at least! He had lifted the sword with experienced hands, run his fingers along its length with longing. His stance was perfect! He swung the sword with perfection, aim, and precision—as if he was fighting an opponent in real battle! He—
“Are you alright?” Trent leapt up from her seat, dropping knife and cloth in a clatter to the desk, forgotten, and ran around the desk to his side. He was in the middle of another lunge when his knees had given way and he collapsed.
“I’m fine. Just a little winded.” He tried to brush her off, but she persisted. Trent felt his brow, and drew it back with a hiss. Idiot! You saw earlier that he was sick, but you let your anger cloud your mind! Why didn’t you treat him right away? He’s almost dead now!
“You’re running a fever,” Trent said calmly so as not to alarm him. She put her hand under his shirt of his bloodier side, where it looked like he had tried to clean it out and failed. She felt something warm and wet start to leak from his side. She pressed a little to try to stop the small flow. He gasped and pressed his hand on top of hers. She hesitated, welcoming the warmth from his hands, but then pulled her hand out from under his. “And you’re bleeding. Lie back down.” After he had, she tore open his shirt to reveal the ugly gash in his side. It looked like he had tried to cauterize it with a hot knife. Badly. And it smelt of cheap wine or brandy. He must have stopped at an inn or a pub to buy some spirits and just splashed it on his side. It needed to be washed better before she could properly tend it. Well, he needed a bath anyway. It\'d be easier for him to wash, then for her to clean his side.
“Come with me,” she started to haul him back to his feet.
“The sword—.” He started to say. “I need to put it away.” He still held it in his hand. A warrior, Trent thought. Maybe he’s not like every other noble. Still, he’s just as stubbornly stupid!
“Leave her, lordling. She won’t run away, or have her feelings hurt if you put her down. Just let go.” She tried to pry his hand from the sword.
“You sound like my mother, or my Aunt Alanna,” the man chuckled weakly.
“Good. That means you’ll do exactly as I say, won’t you.” It was not a question. The lordling looked up into her serious, bright blue-green eyes. “Now let go.” They were captivating. Just looking into her eyes made him want to do anything that she asked of him. A strange feeling to be having when you’re blood is beginning to spill from your side.
“Yes, ma’am.” He dropped the sword.
“That’s a good little lordling.” She helped him to his feet, draped his arm over her shoulders and supported him with her arm about his waist, pressing his bleeding side, and led him through the back door into the forge. It was still hot inside. But who was the smith? She continued to lead him through the forge, past a small kitchen, to a flight of stairs. They took those twenty steps slowly and carefully. The man was practically dead on his feet! On the second floor was a hallway with doors on either side. She took him to the second door on the right, which was right above the shop. Inside was a large copper tub, with soap and shampoo on a stool beside. “Can you stand on your own?” He nodded. “Good, strip, and get in the tub. I’ll be back with towels and lots of water. Then I want you to wash, and be careful of your side. Understand?”
“Yes, mother.”
“That’s a good, little lordling,” she said again, almost fondly.

An hour later, the man limped out of the bath room feeling refreshed, but still weak. After filling the copper tub in the back room with hot water, she had left him to wash. But before he finished, she returned one last time to place a set of clothes on the stool for him. When he came out into the store, he found a platter of food and another hot drink n the table in the far corner with the fire place. But the woman was nowhere in sight.
The man sat down beside the table and ate voraciously. It seemed like he had never tasted food so delicious before in all his life! By the time he was half-way through his meal, a dark, cloaked figure entered through the front doors. He half stood up, ready to fight the intruder. But there was no need. It was the woman! Why had she gone out at this time of night, and in this storm?
“Good, you’ve almost finished eating. As soon as you’re done, I’ll stitch up your side properly,” she said as she removed her cloak and hung it by the door to drip-dry. She was carrying a small fishnet basket. She placed it on her desk, then went through the forge to the kitchen and returned with a mug of her own.
“How are you feeling?” She leaned forward and felt his forehead. It was still warm. Or maybe her hand was still cold from being outside in the rain. No, she had been holding a hot mug of cider. He still had a moderately high fever. “Hmm. You’re Just a little bit warm, now,” she lied. “And this storm is only getting worse. You’ll sleep here tonight after I dress your wound. Are you finished yet?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said, wiping his mouth. He had gone back to eating as soon as he had seen that it was her coming in. “Wait,” he said, suddenly remembering. “My horse was hurt in coming here. Something with her left or right front hoof. Do you know any doctor who—?”
“Your mare is fine. I saw to her while you were bathing and eating. I rubbed her down, treated her leg, and fed her. She’ll definitely last the night. Which is less than I can say for you, if you don’t take off that shirt and lie down on that mat over there. I still need to see to your wound.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He quietly got up and walked to the mat he had not seen when he first came in, blood- and mud-stained and weary. He removed his borrowed shirt as he walked, and lay down on the mat. Meanwhile, Trent walked over to her desk and opened the bottom drawer. Inside was a white box that was spelled for cleanliness and healing; she took it out and closed the drawer and locked it. Then she grabbed the fishnet bag off her desk. It had herbs and potions for healing as well. She brought it over to where the man was lying down, taking out needles, thread, cotton swabs, cleaning ointments, and a very small, unlabeled packet that contained an unknown powder. She set it all down on the ground beside the man and next fetched her own mug from the desk. She took one last long drink, then poured the contents of the small packet into the still-hot liquid. She swirled it around, then proffered it to the man. He looked at her questioningly, but drank it after being assured that it would help. Immediately, he felt as he had when he first entered the store: dizzy, out of sorts, and incoherent. “Wha—What was that?”
“Just something to numb you for a while. I have to re-open your wound—to clean it properly. Then I’ll stitch you back up. You won’t fall asleep, but you won’t feel any pain this way. So just relax.” She paused. “It helps if you fix your mind on something. Something that you can see usually works better than something in your mind, so take your pick.”
“Very well.” The man started to search the room with his eyes, but stopped, looking at the woman. “You have—beautiful eyes.” He said suddenly.
Trent gave him a small smile, and almost blushed. “Just focus on my eyes then. And you’ll be fine, my little lordling.”
Thirty minutes and many stitches later, Trent leaned back from the traveling noble, scrutinizing her work. It was a little bit last-minute quality, but it would do until he saw a proper healer at the palace. That is, if he would still need one then. He should be fine by morning. The fever should be gone, his color back, and his side half-healed at least. And the thread that she used to stitch him up should be ready to come out. “Can you sit up? I just need to wrap your middle to keep the bandage in place.”
The traveling noble sat up, and lifted his arms so Trent wouldn’t have to worry about tangling the cloth in his arms. His abdominals were solid muscles. His chest wasn’t much different. The only nobles that Trent had known to be this well-built were the ones that tried to bed her. “Ju—just rest your arm on my head. It won’t bother me, and it will ease your side.” His arms were strong too. This man looked heart-stopping without a shirt on. “How are you feeling?” she asked, trying to get her mind back to her work.
“I think whatever you put in that drink is still affecting me. I still don’t feel any pain, but I know I should. I’ve had stitches before, and honestly I lost count around fifteen or twenty. But the room is clearing up now—no more fuzzy.”
“That’s good. It will last for about five more minutes now. And when your feeling comes back, you’ll feel most of the pain from the re-opening and stitching. But only about half. That will still be a lot, though. Probably worse than when the sword actually sliced into you. So you better rest your arm on my head like I told you to, instead of stretching your already torn muscles.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The traveling noble rested his arm on Trent’s head as she finished wrapping his middle. She tied it off with a strong knot, and gently removed his arm. “I’ll get you some more tea for the pain. And this time it will help you sleep as well.” She hesitated. “You can put your shirt back on, if you’d like. I’ll set up a cot for you in one of the rooms upstairs. I won’t be far if you wake up in the middle of the night and it hurts, so you can just call me, and I’ll come.”
She started to stand up but he grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. “Wait,” he said. “You never told me your name.”
“And I never will.” With that, Trent got up and went about her work while the man put his borrowed shirt back on.