Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

of metal mages, but had been the single heir with the gift. This whore was a Sylph, one born with talent for seduction; his offspring would be forced to follow that career unless someone like Sai fathered their child. Then, the child would grow up with options.
    Sai frowned in the darkness. "There's nothing in it for me."
    "There's the knowledge that when you are gone, your bloodline continues. There is no truer immortality." The whore looked down at him; his eyes glowed with something unsettling. Something frightening. The skin on Sai's arms prickled.
    "It is said that you fight with no regard to your life. Those who know you say you seek your man on the other side of the veil."
    Cursing, Sai rose from the bed. He stumbled, making his way to the small bath to relieve himself. Hopefully, when he finished, the troublesome whore would be gone.
    He wasn't. And he didn't miss a beat.
    "You ride out on a white horse, drawing the eye of the enemy. You fight like a madman. Every battle frightens your friends a little more. They fear that you will someday make yourself a target."
    Sai growled a bit, glaring at the man. It was barely dawn, but he was now awake, at the mercy of his thoughts and memories. He stared out the window, glaring at the darkened forge. He hadn't worked in weeks, hadn't created in years. Not since he'd lost Arick. He flexed his hands. They were still hard and tough though he hadn't been near the fire in months. Then he'd merely been overseeing the work of his nephews. The muscles were different, the skin like iron. From the moment he woke till he fell down into his bed at night, he worked the sword that Arick had left behind. It had been designed for the left hand and Sai favored his right. Years of focused training made him adept with that single, elegant blade. But his right hand was empty.
    Now the fire of creation was returning. His right hand ached for a blade of its own. That sabre he'd started long ago called to him. Suddenly, an idea was born.
    The moon was slowly falling from the sky and a breeze picked up, blowing dried weeds through his yards. Behind the canopy that hung over his darkened workspace, he heard the music of unfinished blades as they rattled together.
    Why should he give the Sylphs what they wanted? Sai would live on through his craft; his blades were durable and he had protégés with talent. The world brought him nothing but pain, and he wouldn't wish that on a child.
    When he turned, the whore was gone, leaving nothing but a cold, empty room.
    CHAPTER 3
    The forge was cold and barren.
    Sai rolled up the canopy, letting the wind flow into the smithy. Above him, dozens of unborn blades dangled point down, daring him to step within their lethal reach. They whispered to him, begging his attention, but Sai heard only one; the sword he'd started so long ago, and then set aside. It was long, much longer then the elegant curved scimitar that now rested on the workbench.
    Ignoring the sounds, Sai started the fire. It would take hours before the coals were ready. It didn't matter; he had time and patience.
    He sat as the fire caught hold and burned. He waited, sketching the blade's future form, occasionally throwing more hardened oak into the pit, glancing up into the sky as the sun rose. He was hungry, but didn't eat. He thirsted, but ignored his needs as sweat rose to his skin. Finally, he selected the long, heavy blade and laid it before him, rubbing a hand over the dull gleam of the metal.
    There was no beauty to his blade. It was elegant, yes. But this blade was a grim reflection of pain. Over the following hours, steel mated steel. Blood and sweat ran in rivulets down his arms. The blade went into the fire and came out again, hammered and heated until it was reborn as something new. Sparks and cinders settled on his skin, re-baptizing him to the fire. When Sai was too weary to work, he staggered to his house to sleep and heal, waking within hours to begin again.
    Days passed and this time, when the sword was born there were no spectators. The gates to his compound remained tightly shut. No client waited with their arm outstretched for the kiss of the blade.
    The sun was sinking and the moon rising when Sai lifted the sword that was his. The blade was fearsome. The grip was protected by sharp, piercing cross-guards that would maim any who tried to wrest the weapon from his hand. The weight of the massive sabre was alleviated by a fuller that ran its length, morphing into a rise at