Legend

Tengri Agnijara’s Ruby Gem was as heavy as a stone from the bottom of a stream, and always warm, even when it lay out in the frost. Its setting coiled in spirals and leapt upward like tongues of flame.

That winter, in a village at the foot of the mountains, the forge went cold. The smith had burned himself at the hearth, and ever since, his hands shook at the mere sight of embers. People waited for horseshoes and ploughshares while he sat idle indoors.

Tengri came down from the peaks at dawn, when hoarfrost lay on the anvil.

“I’m afraid of the fire I live by,” said the smith. “My hands aren’t mine anymore.”

Tengri lit the hearth. Then she closed the ruby inside his left fist and put the hammer in his right.

“Hold on. And strike.”

The first blow went wide. The stone in his fist began to warm, a little more each time his fingers tightened. The second blow rang true. By the third, the smith had eyes only for the iron.

When he handed the gem back, it burned like a horseshoe fresh off the anvil.

“That heat doesn’t come from the hearth,” said Tengri. “It’s kindled by a hand that won’t let go.”

The Ruby Gem stayed with Tengri Agnijara. She held it clenched in her fist whenever she went where others turned back.