: Chapter 15

I hate how often my father is in the forge now.

It’s a bit ironic, because I spent months hating how much time he was spending facedown in a puddle of spirits. I was telling Callyn that it’s like he realized I was getting silver from somewhere, and now he doesn’t want to miss out. Our first payments are due to the tax collector tomorrow, but all that silver is safely stowed away in the bakery. If we do this for a few more weeks, we’ll be able to pay it all off.

It snowed overnight, so the ground outside the workshop is coated in a layer of white, though it’s turned to slush near the forge. Business is always a bit slower when it snows, and today is no different. My father seems irritated by that, but I can’t control the weather. When he vanished this morning. I was hopeful that he’d be gone until nightfall, but he reappeared a few hours later, reeking of ale and smoke. I’ve seen him nearly strike his hand three times.

Maybe he’ll grab onto the forge himself.

Good as new, right, Da?

I scowl and keep my head down. This would be the worst time to get into it with him, and I’m still a bit wary after everything that happened.

“This one coming has got money,” Da calls. “You be on your best behavior, boy.”

“Yes, Da.” In the midst of my hammering, I glance up at the lane, then do a double take. A bay mare with a stripe down her face.

Lord Tycho.

I miss the anvil entirely, and my hammer goes sailing into the dirt. The hinge I was working on isn’t long behind it. It lands with a loud clink.

My father swears, then heaves himself off his stool. “Do you have to make us look incompetent?”

I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I remember every word I said last week, the way I chased Lord Tycho out of Callyn’s bakery.

I don’t want him to see my father. I don’t want him to see me. My hand, the one he healed, clenches closed. I have half a mind to dash into the house, and my father’s warnings be damned. But he’s already in the courtyard, his mare blowing steam and kicking up slush.

I’m angry. I’m humiliated. I’m afraid. I don’t know what I am.

And he hasn’t even dismounted his horse yet.

My father clocks me on the back of the head. “Are you addled, boy?” he hisses. “Take his horse.”

I duck my head and grab my crutches. For the first time, I look at Lord Tycho the way I’d look at Lord Alek. Rich and powerful and someone who wouldn’t glance at me twice if he didn’t need something from me.

I take hold of the mare’s rein, but I keep my eyes on her shoulder, on his oddly scuffed boots, on anything but his face. “What can we offer?” I say woodenly.

He swings down from the saddle, and for a moment, he says absolutely nothing. The silence swells between us. I wait for him to cuff me on the ear or make a demand or worse—to tell my father what I said.

But Lord Tycho doesn’t do any of those things. “My mare’s hind shoes are loose.” His voice is cool and dispassionate. “I still have a few hours’ ride ahead of me. I wondered if you could replace them.”

My heart seems to pull free of the vise grip to start pounding. I nod. “Yes, my lord.” I tether Mercy to the post, and she presses her head to my chest, breathing warmth against my thighs. I want to hold tight, to press my forehead to her mane and let her strength hold me up, but I’m being ridiculous, and my father would knock me in the mud if I tried.

So I give her a gentle pat along the crest of her neck, then grab my tools.

Lord Tycho says nothing. I wait for him to say that I’ve shod his horse before, or that we know each other, but he stands there silently. I still haven’t fully looked at him. I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear and drop onto my stool.

“Work quick,” my father snaps, as if I’m one to dawdle.

The first shoe pulls loose and drops to the ground with a clink. Behind me, my father mutters instructions I don’t need, as if I haven’t been shoeing horses independently for the last few years. He’s trying to earn an extra coin or two, I can tell. The master blacksmith keeping a close eye on his “apprentice.” The whole time, Lord Tycho is silent while my father grows louder and harsher with his criticism, so I work fast and hard so this moment can end.

Eventually, it does. Mercy has two fresh shoes, and my father is charging him two silvers. I want to wince, because I know Lord Tycho is aware it’s not what we usually charge. But the lord hands over the coins, the metal sparking in the light, and my father eagerly pockets it.

I untether the mare, stroking a hand down the stripe on her face, wishing I had a cookie to feed her when she noses at my fingers. “Be good, sweet Mercy,” I murmur under my breath.

Then I hand the reins to Lord Tycho. When his fingers brush mine, a jolt goes through me, just like the day he fixed my hand. I wonder if it’s his magic. I hold my breath and let go.

I haven’t met his eyes since he arrived—and now he’s about to leave.

“Master Blacksmith,” Lord Tycho says to my father. “I left a carriage down the road toward town, and the springs have gone rusty. Can I borrow your”—he hesitates—“apprentice to assess whether it’s something you could repair before I’m due to leave tomorrow?”

My father inhales, and it sounds like he’s going to protest. I’m not sure if he’s going to say that Lord Tycho should bring the carriage here, or if he’s going to insist that he should go, as I’ll obviously take too much time. But the lord tosses him another silver, and says, “I’d be much obliged for the service.”

My father sounds like he’s choked on a rock. “Yes—yes, of course, my lord.”

Wonderful. Maybe I can trip over my crutch again.

Or … maybe Lord Tycho is getting me away from my father so he can beat the piss out of me for what I said in the bakery.

That’s a new thought that hasn’t occurred to me, and now that it’s entered my brain, it refuses to shake loose. It would explain his cool demeanor, the way he interacted with my father, the way he stood silently while I shod his horse. My fists are tight on my crutches as we make our way down the lane, away from the forge, and I brace myself. He’ll likely wait for the stretch of woods between my place and Callyn’s, where nothing will be seen. If I fight back, it’ll probably make it worse. It’s not like I can run. Could I play dead to get it over with more quickly? I feel like I could be rather convincing.

When his hand reaches out, I flinch, jerking left. Mercy throws her head up and snorts.

“Steady,” Lord Tycho says, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to the horse or to me. He’s quiet for a moment, and my heart gallops along in my chest. I chance a glance over, and he’s holding out a small cloth pouch. “Cal sent some apple tarts. Would you like one?”

It’s so far from what I was expecting that it’s like he’s speaking another language. This is the first time I’ve really looked at him since he arrived, and now I see that his pristine armor bears deep gouges, and he’s missing a few buckles. But Mercy is unharmed, and he’s still got all his weapons, so whoever he fought with, he didn’t lose.

His eyebrows go up, and I realize I didn’t answer his question. I have to clear my throat. “No. My lord.”

We walk on. He eats one of the apple tarts, and the smell is heavenly. I shouldn’t have refused. My emotions refuse to settle anywhere. We keep walking down the lane, past the turn to Cal’s house, heading south toward the miles of woods that lead out of Briarlock.

I stop short, and that lick of fear I felt a moment ago returns. “You said your carriage was on the way to town.”

His lip quirks. “I don’t have a carriage.”

“But—”

“You know who I am. You know what I do. What courier would take a carriage?”

His voice is easy, but I still don’t understand. I draw a long breath, letting the steam out through my teeth.

“I wasn’t tricking you,” he says carefully. “I was tricking your father.”

“I wasn’t worried about you tricking me,” I say darkly. “I thought you were dragging me out here to fill my back with arrows.”

“If I were going to shoot you, Jax, it wouldn’t be in the back.”

I still can’t tell if he’s angry with me or if I’m angry with him—or if we’re both just so different that we practically are speaking different languages. I stab my crutches into the snow again, and we keep walking.

“So where are we going?” I finally say.

“Anywhere you like,” he says. “I had no destination in mind.”

Now I round on him. This emotion is unmistakably anger. “If you don’t have a carriage and you aren’t dragging me out here to leave me for dead, then just let me go back to the forge.”

“Do you really want to go back?” he says, and the way he’s looking at me is piercing, like he knows every emotion I’m not voicing.

I inhale like I’m ready to breathe fire. I’m tempted to hit him with a crutch. I’m ready to snap at him that I’m busy, that I don’t need his pity, that I don’t need some stupid spoiled lord from the Crystal City to interfere with my life when I’m in the middle of trying to save the forge through unscrupulous means.

But then he says, “I wanted to apologize.” His voice is low, and quiet, and earnest, and it stamps out some of my fire. “I would have done it at your workshop, but …” He takes a breath. “Well. If I had to stand there and listen to him much longer, I would have held his hand in the forge.”

Warmth heats my cheeks, but I don’t look away. “You don’t owe me an apology,” I say. I swing my crutches forward and start walking again.

Lord Tycho falls into step beside me without missing a beat. “I do, actually.” He pauses. “I should have warned you about the magic. I shouldn’t have assumed. But you were so cavalier, so bold.” He cuts a glance my way. “It wasn’t until you began lecturing me on kindness and suffering that I realized I made a misstep.”

I was tripping over the words cavalier and bold, but this makes me flush. I’m the one who should be apologizing, truly, but I’m not sure what will come out of my mouth if I open it.

We walk in silence for a while, until we’ve traveled so far that I know I’m going to hate the walk back. I don’t often go farther than Callyn and Nora’s. But maybe that’s why I keep going.

“Did you really think I was dragging you out here to shoot you?” he finally says.

I keep my eyes on the snowy trail, but I nod. “Either that, or you’d beat me senseless.”

“Really!” He actually sounds shocked.

I glance at his scarred armor, at the weapons strapped to his body. “Yes, my lord,” I say dryly. “I realize such a thing could hardly be foreseen.”

“Hmm,” he says, and for such a simple word, the tone is interesting, weighted in a way I don’t expect.

Wind whistles through the trees, blowing snow from the branches overhead, and I shiver.

He holds out the little cloth bag of apple tarts again. “They’re still warm.”

I hesitate, then nod. When I take one from the pouch, I worry that I’m going to be forced to use crutches and eat at the same time, which is never a dignified experience. But Lord Tycho stops, and he feeds the horse one of the tarts, too.

“Callyn would have a fit,” I say.

He smiles. “Our secret.” He rubs the horse under her mane, then leans back against her shoulder. “Mercy won’t tell.”

Somewhere deep in the woods, a branch cracks, and I’m both surprised and not at how quickly he whirls, pulling a bow and arrow from behind the saddle. He doesn’t aim, but he’s alert, staring out between the trees. I look, too, but I don’t see anything. Snow whispers down through the trees to settle in his hair and along the shoulders of his cloak.

I wonder if I would have been like this, if I’d followed the path my father assumed lay ahead of me. If I hadn’t lost my foot, if I’d grown up to enlist and become a soldier. If I’d be wary of loud noises in the woods instead of ignoring them in favor of finishing an apple tart.

After a moment, I say, “Probably just a branch. From the weight of the snow.”

He nods. “Probably.” But he hangs the bow over his shoulder and leaves it there, then shoves the arrow under his sword belt.

“Are you worried about whoever you fought with?”

His eyes snap to mine. “What?”

I glance at his gouged armor. “Whoever did that.”

“Oh. No.” He doesn’t say anything else, which feels deliberate.

When he starts walking again, he’s quiet, and I wonder if he’s still worried about the noise in the woods. My crutches are loud, while he moves so silently that he could be a ghost, and I wonder if he’s regretting … whatever this is. Our random walk through the woods.

He finally says, “I have a history with Lord Alek. He resents the king, and he resents the presence of magic in Syhl Shallow. He’s made no secret of that. His House is one of the most influential, and he has many allies at court. He can’t openly attack the king or the queen … and truly, he shouldn’t attack me, either, but … well.” He hesitates, and I can tell there’s more he’s not saying. “Alek is very clever. He’s very good at claiming innocence.” He looks out at the snowy woods again. “Since I saw him in Briarlock, I’ve been wary.”

Absently, I rub at my neck. The wounds Lord Alek left have healed, but they’ll scar. I remember what Lord Tycho said about Alek being a dangerous man, and I don’t disagree—but I also know what Lady Karyl said about the king and his magic and the harm it brought. I know how Callyn’s mother died, and she wasn’t the only soldier from Briarlock to fall to the monster. Knowledge of the sealed letter in my pocket burns in my thoughts. I don’t know what to believe about anyone.

Either way, it’s another reminder that these men matter, and I … do not.

“You must spend a lot of time fighting,” I say.

“Less than you’d think.” He looks over. “Or maybe not. I’m not sure. Are you a fighter, Jax?”

The question wraps a dark band around my thoughts. I keep my eyes on the icy path and say, “No. I would have enlisted once I came of age, but …” I shrug and nod down at my leg. “So now I just make weapons. I don’t really know how to use them.”

He’s quiet for a while, and it’s a weird kind of silence that I’m not sure how to read. I remember that moment in Cal’s shop when he healed my hand, how he had something that we didn’t. Offering magic was a kindness, yes, but something about it still smarted. I don’t want pandering now either. I’ve heard all the comments. At least you’re a good blacksmith. You’re lucky you’ve still got the forge. As misfortune goes, yours isn’t too bad.

But Lord Tycho doesn’t say any of that.

Instead, he says, “Want to learn?”