Phoenix Reborn
Woodland Creek Series.
30 Authors. 30 Shifter Stories.
One Epic Release Day.
Copyright © 2015 by Carina Wilder
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
A
shling manipulated the melting shard of silver, drawing it into a long, thin thread. The searing heat radiating from her fingertips softened the metal under her touch, the silver’s shape adapting to her coaxing as it altered alongside the instructions of her quick, deft movements. Carefully she twisted it round several times, creating a small, narrowing spiral in her hand. She pulled at one end, shaping it into a sharp point.
The project was one that she’d begun with no goal in mind, but now as she stared at her creation she settled on the notion that she was crafting a unicorn’s horn. Something mythological, non-existent; a fantasy of someone’s creation.
Yes, this was an excellent plan. Things that didn’t actually exist were inherently indestructible. The horn was symbolic armour that she wished she could wear on her own body to protect against hurt, against people, against judgment. Against
everything.
Ever since that night so long ago, she’d wanted nothing more than to find a way to defend herself. Maybe the horn could be a talisman against pain.
But no — a sharp object, of course, wasn’t armour. It was a weapon. One which could penetrate those who wished her ill. It was aggressive and hostile. And the fact was that if she ever wore it around her neck it would more likely injure her than anyone else.
She let out a quiet laugh at her own expense before dropping it into the ceramic crucible meant to hold molten metal, allowing the silver to begin cooling once again. Her mind began to wander to more pleasant avenues as she peered into the container. Perhaps, she thought, a heart-shaped pendant would be more likely to sell; she should really make some of
those
for the shop.
Somehow, hostility and silver-smithing didn’t mix. This was a craft for those who enjoyed pretty things. If she’d wanted to make swords, she should have apprenticed for a blacksmith.
So she began again, this time moving slowly, her thoughts calculated as she used the silversmith’s torch to liquify the silver from underneath, as any normal human being would do. She slowed her mind and her movements to the pace she’d seen in Ranach’s crafting so many times over the years.
Where
was
he, anyhow? Normally he didn’t leave her alone for this long. He always seemed to sense when she was having problems and to show up in the nick of time to save her from a meltdown, whether figurative or literal.
“That’s looking good.”
And just like that, her question was answered. Ashling jumped, threatening to splash a little of the molten metal onto herself or worse, him. His footfalls were so quiet for a person with such a booming voice. “Yes, very good,” said the old man. “Except for the fact that it’s nebulous, shapeless and altogether quite useless. Now, perhaps it’s time to make something other than a blob. Come now, you’ve been down here for hours.”
She took her eyes off the metal for a moment to look up at him, her eyes flashing mock rage. As usual, Ranach’s long, white eyebrows and bushy hair seemed to stick out in every direction but the correct one, which always gave him the air of a mad professor. His messy appearance would have made him seem homeless but for the fact that he smelled clean, at least. Not to mention the intelligent look in his eye that always seemed to say, “I
could
dress nicely, but who has the time to bother with such frivolous business?”
Though some of Woodland Creek’s inhabitants found him a little too eccentric for their tastes, the general consensus had always seemed positive: he was a good, kind man and very helpful to anyone in need. So while dinner invitations were scarce, he certainly was well-liked, or at least well-tolerated. And no one questioned that he was brilliant. He was a master crafter. And Ashling, who knew how gifted he was, remained a mere student, and probably always would; or at least she told herself so on a regular basis.
“It’s only a blob because I started over,” she said, her voice sheepish as she eyed her small bowl of semi-molten silver. “It wasn’t working out.”
“Never give up. You can always find ways to change something unattractive into something beautiful,” he said. “Now, go ahead: do what I know you can.”
She began to pour the silver into a small round mould before he protested.
“No,” he said. “Do it
your
way.”
Ashling sighed and poured the remainder of the liquid into the palm of her left hand. It should have burned her, of course, but heat never had that effect. Instead, the silver began once again to cool as she sculpted it like putty, pulling it into thin strands.
“Access your mind’s eye,” Ranach said. “The first thing that springs into your field of vision is the very object that you should create.”
She closed her eyes and, blind to the world outside of her imagination, continued to manipulate the material, flattening, tugging this way and that. Her fingers seemed to know what to do, as though controlled by strings held by a master of puppetry. And so she let them go, steering the silver towards the shape that she’d seen; the creature who soared through her vision.
At last, she clasped a solid form between her fingers, delicate and thin. Opening her eyes, she anticipated seeing a mess of half-melted silver. But instead, she was greeted with the most beautiful object she’d ever managed to create.
“There,” Ranach said, backing away. “A lovely creature which transformed from nothing but your mind and fingertips.”
“I didn’t think I could make anything like this,” she said, staring in wonder at her own creation.
“You can if you’re inspired. Interesting, too, that you should have crafted a bird of flame. A Phoenix.”
“I don’t know why, even. It just sort of happened.”
“As I said, that is exactly the best way to create. This creature was somewhere deep inside you, waiting to burst forth, and now, in a sense, it has. And speaking of beautiful birds, do you know — I’ve heard that a rare Golden Eagle has been spotted in the skies above town. You should go out and look for him today. Go out and celebrate your success.”
“I don’t know. I have all sorts of work to do.”
“I’m your boss, if only in a very unofficial capacity. And I’m telling you that you have nothing of import to do. Come, if you won’t actually leave the house then let’s head upstairs. You spend far too many hours cooped up down here, young lady.”
“I like it down here,” she protested. “No one bothers me. Well, except for you, you old windbag.” Finally she laughed, realizing that there was no sense in resisting Ranach’s demands. He always won out in the end.
The old man let out a deep chuckle.
“Windbag. That I am,” he said, extending his hand to help pull her to her feet. “But how can you stand being enclosed in this prison for hours on end?”
“It feels safe,” Ashling replied with nothing but raw sincerity in her tone. “Not prison-like at all. Out there is the real prison. The people, the world judging me and condemning me.”
“They don’t judge nearly so much as you think, my dear girl. If only you knew how you are supported outside of these walls.”
He rarely spoke of it, of her trick of manipulating fire and heat. Of the fact that this was the only place where she felt at ease with her strange and uncontrolled ability. And yet Ranach had never seemed to hold it against her; he even managed to treat her as though it were simply a part of who she was, like the ability to whistle or do a cartwheel. How anyone could be sympathetic to a would-be arsonist, even an accidental one, was beyond the young woman. But she gladly accepted the kindness among all of his other generous gestures. Not the least of which was the fact that he’d taken her in as a child when her parents had disappeared.
The studio’s walls were concrete, as was its floor. Its ceiling was made of a fire-retardant tile, all of which had been a relief when Ashling had first spent time in the room. That was one appealing facet of the job: no risk of burning anything down. This was the one interior space in town in which a fire-starter could work without risk of arson. And no doubt the old man had taken that into consideration when he’d offered her the position of apprentice.
“I’m never going to be really good at this, you know,” Ashling said, looking at the firebird that she still held as her mentor towered over her. “I’m not talented like you are.”
“You have
many
talents. The only issue is that most of them are hidden, even from you,” said the man in the wise tone that occasionally convinced even Ashling that he must know whereof he spoke.
“Well, they’re not terribly useful talents then, are they?” she said. “I’m sure everyone has some sort of hidden skill that never rears its head, but they don’t do anyone any good if they remain concealed.”
“Yes, but
yours
may be useful one day, and in fact may save your life. You see your gifts as curses. But believe me, they are quite the opposite. One day you’ll understand.”
“What do you mean?”
Ranach looked at her from under his bushy brows and smiled, his eyes sympathetic.
“Nothing that can’t be saved for another day. But come, let’s leave this small hell and head upstairs. I want to be in the sunlight for a little, even if you don’t.”
He guided her out of their isolated bunker and up into the well-kept living room, which was filled with antiques that seemed to have come from every conceivable corner of the globe. A sunbeam poured through the window, highlighting particles of dust that flew up as the two proceeded up the staircase.
“By the way,” Ranach said, turning to her as his foot hit the Persian rug that sat in the centre of the floor. “In addition to soaring Eagles, I hear that an old friend of yours is in town.”
“Oh? And who would that be?” she replied, stretching her arms as she stepped into the bright living room. Friends were not exactly her forte.
“Hawke Turner.”