The smell of smoke and wood assaulted Silas' throat upon entering the workshop. The front room was completely dark except for the glow of dying embers in the fireplace, and a trickle of light coming from beyond a cracked door. Silas crossed the threshold silently, and tread carefully across the floor so no sharp tools would catch his foot. The smoke thickened by the opening, constricting his throat painfully, but he didn't cough. Instead, he knocked on the frame.
A large figure in a soot covered apron and fire mask answered.
Silas frowned. He hated when he was unable to read a face.
"Good morning, might you be Master Bright?" he asked.
The man nodded.
"Excellent."
Without waiting for an invitation, Silas strode past the man into a sweltering room despite it having an open porch. A kiln the size of the wall took up the most space, with hammers, molds and papers littering the counters.
He took a seat on the bench smoke wasn't blowing towards, and made himself comfortable. Artisan Bright still stood motionless in the entrance.
"I'd like to commission this from you."
Silas took a piece of parchment out of his breast pocket. The forger removed a glove, his hands large with tiny scars, and unfolded the paper slowly. For a long moment the artist studied the drawing. Time pressed urgently against his back as the artist continued to say nothing.
"It's a ritual athame," Silas explained. "I've provided the measurements for molding, but I'll be requiring an excruciating amount of detail for the design."
He lowered his head, and spoke gravely, "you do not want me to make this, Exorcist."
Silas hummed to conceal his laugh. "But I do."
Beyond his spectacles, Silas met the forge artist's gaze directly. Even behind the mask he could feel the judgment, the speculating questions, but Silas did not intend to offer any answers.
"I'll leave payment out front and be back to inspect the molding next week."
He left as quick as he came, dashing out into the dark morning and empty streets.
X
When Silas returned to the workshop, it was once again unlit. He left money on the table of the front room, prepared to approve of the casting mold and leave his material instructions before sunrise.
He knocked, then showed himself in. The kiln porch was still pleasantly cool from the night air. Master Bright was already in his fire clothing and loading coals into the stone belly from the closet.
"Good morning. Is my mold finished?"
Bright stopped to look his way. Silas assumed he hadn't heard his knock over shoveling, and so he repeated himself.
"My mold?"
Every move the man made was slow. From closing the closet door to crossing the small room to rummage through drawers, every action felt purposely delayed. Silas clenched his teeth together as precious moments ticked by. Finally, the artist found what he was looking for, but it wasn't his athame mold, it was his coin purse.
"Was my payment not sufficient?" he asked near seething.
Bright shook his head. "More than plenty, but I can't accept this commission."
Silas' eyebrows shot into his hairline. "You can't accept my commission?"
"I won't."
"On what grounds?"
His voice was lowering into anger, a heat along the front of his lungs compressing against his ribs.
The artist sat down on the bench, arms resting on his knees. He removed his gloves, and leaned forward just enough to help slide the fire mask off his shoulders and into his lap. A mane of blonde hair fell around a thick bearded, somber mouth.
"Any work of mine would put your life at risk, Exorcist. I am only trying to do what's right."
All of Silas' anger had nearly drained away when Bright looked at him with absolute honesty. He crossed his arms to hold onto the small amount of indignation he had left.
"I am aware of your familial history. I am here for your craft, and I am not concerned with anything else. You're the only one who can make a piece to my liking and you will accept my commission."
They both held their ground, but Silas never conceded. He didn't care if it took more money, or time, he came here for a reason.
Bright sank into himself. "If you're really serious, then come back tomorrow night. Then you'll have ample time to give me the details I need and it'll still be dark enough for no one to see you entering my shop."
Silas flashed a victorious smile, while internally wincing that his actions had been so obvious.
"I'll see you then."
X
Arriving anywhere in the dead of night was both suspicious and very noticeable should any stares float the wrong way. Which was why it was much easier for Silas to drift along the bustling shops as the sun was setting. No one would question if a choirman dove down an alley to avoid the drinking crowd.
He ended up at the back of the kiln porch, but was surprised to find it empty, the fire mask and apron laying on the bench like a shed lizard skin. The tools were put away and the door to the workshop was locked, too, making him wonder if he'd arrived too early. But then the latch clicked.
Bright was gleaming damp, but otherwise clean of soot and dirt. His tunic was sticking to his skin as if he'd just bathed, yet his hair was dry and pulled out his face with a loose ribbon at the base of his neck.
Silas assumed he'd caught the man half through his bath. Ready to excuse himself, he remembered he hadn't knocked on the door, and paused on what to say.
"Come in, I'll be with you in one moment."
"Hm."
For the first time, Silas saw the workshop in full light. The fireplace was roaring, a table half the size of the room in front of it, but all he could focus on was the sketches. In neat clusters were designs of pendants, statues, swords; the surrounding pieces of parchment containing notes and smaller details down to the pattern of wood grain. Each was a map, he realized, of a commission in progress.
Silas felt foolish for being dodgy on the process thus far, but then smirked. He then knew for certain that Bright was the only craftsman for him.
When Bright returned from a sideroom, his skin was still shining, but he held a crate in one arm and a bundle of parchment in the other.
"I apologize for the wait."
"Not a bother at all. I was admiring your work."
Bright set the crate and parchment down on the table. Silas realized he was about to be in the way as sheets were being laid out with diagrams. There were at least a dozen different categories. Unlike the day before where Silas was near pulling his hair out at the artist's sluggish pace, the man now flew around the table.
When he finally appeared settled, Silas sat on the bench to glance over the different papers while Bright pulled a pipe and jar off the mantle. He couldn't tell what it was being lit. By the time Bright turned around, he was already taking a slow breath in. Then he grabbed clean parchment and sat besides Silas on the bench.
"I have one condition for this commission," Bright said, his pipe hovering just past his lips.
Silas felt himself begin to ruffle. He didn't bargain, he paid. There was nothing his funds couldn't afford. He was used to the slum of the rotten and the skeeving games of Choir Leaders. There was no compromise in faith and there was no compromise in Silas' life. He'd have this commission.
He began reading Bright, the full picture of the man now sitting next to him. No longer hiding behind the heat resistant clothing, he was well built but withdrawn in presence. His face was rough with thick eyebrows and a handsome jaw, but his eyes told him everything Silas needed to know. Bright was a man who could be a terrifying shadow, but was in actuality a soft shade, like the peace found under a tree in summer.
Silas already knew he'd agree to the terms.
"You said this will be an athame," Bright continued.
He nodded.
"I'd like to see you perform the first ritual it's used for."
Well, that was not what I expected.
Baffled, and a little suspicious, Silas began trying to sooth out the artist's intentions.
"I don't think you would want to."
"I'm certain I would," Bright said in between puffs on his pipe.
Most were repulsed by his work. There was a large amount of respect within some Choirs for exorcism, because they realized the truth and necessity of the job. But the public hated the thought of him. His call was morbid, touched by rot, a nightmare best forgotten.
And yet he could tell Bright was entirely earnest in his request.
Silas plucked the pipe from the artist's hand and took a long, slow sip. Burning velvet curled down his throat before he released a white cloud into the air.
"I will show you the ritual, if you tell me why you want to see it."
Bright was now the one lost in perplextion. Silas wasn't sure if it was because of him knabbing the pipe or from him pulling on an uncomfortable root of desire. Either way, he could eat that thoughtful countenance right off the artist's face all night.
He offered the pipe back, Bright accepting it while staring down into the table for answers. The fire crackled hard, the smell of cedar resting in the heat of the room. Finally, Bright took another breath from his pipe, his answer falling out in a whisper of smoke.
"It might be the only magic left in this world."
Silas felt claws tear into his heart. Bright sat next to him with a lost expression that was as vulnerable as it was calculated. There was sorrow flooding between them, but when the pipe was offered to him, Silas sensed the string of fear tied to it. There was a deep pain within those threads.
All he could see was sorrow tying them together, and it was beautiful.
He took the pipe from Bright's hand.
"You should call me Silas, not Exorcist."
He inhaled the ripe smoke, a rich pleasure in his chest blooming from the burn.
"As long as you call me Ivor, then."
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