His father slicked the hair away from Merlin’s eyes and went back to stoke the forge. Moments later someone rapped at the open door, a large shadow framed by the morning sun.
Merlin hoped it wasn’t Mórganthu.
“Owain, my good, good friend!” the man’s voice boomed.
Merlin’s father set his poker down. “Come in, Kiff.”
Kifferow stepped into the smoky room. “Heard Merlin was whipped. The news is everywhere.”
“Just what I wanted to hear.” Owain sighed.
Kifferow went straight to the mead bucket, just as he always did, glugged some, and belched. “D’I interrupt sumtin’?”
“Just your drinking, eh?”
Kifferow took another swig. “First drop today.”
Merlin’s father walked over, yanked the pail from the big man, and whacked him in his bulging belly. “And the last from my bucket.”
“I’m not fat … Merlin, am I fat?” Kifferow stretched taller but not any thinner.
Merlin laughed. He remembered the last time he’d shaken Kifferow’s hands. Besides smelling of sawdust, the man’s fingers had been as thick as oat bannocks and his hands slippery with sweat, the right hand more calloused than the other. But Kiff’s round silhouette told all. “Let’s just say you swallowed the bucket too.”
Kifferow burped again. “Ahh, you can’t see me through them scratches.”
“My eyes see better’n a drunkard’s, Kiff. And well enough to know you’re the biggest blur in Bosventor.”
Why did Kifferow and so many others act as if Merlin couldn’t see at all? Sure, everything looked like colored smudges and shadows, but he could get around. Take care of himself. Even —
“Hey, Kiff,” his father said, “did you hear Merlin killed a wolf two nights ago?”
“A wolf? Really? Sure it wasn’t Muscarvel dressed up in a rug? Yesterday I heard he crept near the fortress and threatened ‘em with a rotten eel.”
“Yes, Kiff, a wolf. Right here in the smithy. Broke through that window.”
“Musta wanted a drop o’ your good mead, then.”
Merlin’s father pulled some iron from the forge and hammered it into shape on the anvil. “Well, then, take a lesson, Kiff, since the wolf swallowed Merlin’s blade for it.”
Kifferow picked up a heavy pouch and shook it. Recently forged nails clinked inside. “Enough here to begin fixin’ the roof for them monks. Got any more braces?”
Owain pulled a set of iron braces from a barrel and handed them over. “Five. But I’ve got to work on the wagon. You need more?”
Kifferow grunted as he tested the strength of one of the braces. “I’ll need three more by tomorrow. Double the nails too. Hey, you got plenty o’ coal now, I hear, thanks to that wagon thief.”
Merlin took his boot and threw it at Kifferow. “He’s my friend, Kiff.” The room spun, and pain exploded through Merlin’s head, making him regret his outburst.
His father spoke up. “Leave him alone, Kiff. Just take your stuff and go, all right?”
Kifferow dragged his feet toward the door. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. Keep yer mead bucket full, Owain.” And with a somber whistle, he walked out.
Owain set his hammer down and walked over to Merlin.
“By the way, I’ve got something for you.” He placed a leather-wrapped bundle in Merlin’s hands. The seams had been stitched tightly, and the parcel had a long carrying strap. At one end Merlin’s fingers found a buckle, clasped with a wooden peg.
“Where’d this come from? What is it?” he asked.
“You were sleeping when a certain someone dropped it off.” He lightly punched Merlin’s arm with the side of his fist.
Merlin winced and hoped his father didn’t notice.
“I almost sent her away before I understood. She said you can keep it. Anyway, there it is. And now I gotta get to work on that axle.”
Merlin sat in silence as his father pressed the bellows, pumping the coals into a hot orange glow. Could it have been Natalenya? After a moment Merlin found the wooden peg, loosened the buckle, and reached his hand inside the bundle. It was her practice harp.
He drew out the beautiful instrument and admired its workmanship. His fingers explored every nook and cranny, and when he touched the strings, they fairly sang on their own.
A rush of gladness swept over Merlin. Suddenly he looked forward to the hours of recovery stretching before him. He would learn to play.
Thank you, Natalenya.
CHAPTER 8
NOTHING TO HOLD ON TO
It’s been a week and a half since the trial, and you say Garth is still sulking?” Prontwon set his bone-handled quill down on the table and slid some smooth rocks around to hold the parchment flat. “How can we