Blade of Secrets (Bladesmith #1)(14)

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Another pause. Then Temra asks, “What do you think she will do to us if you fail?”

“I’d rather not think about it. I need to be alone for a bit. Today has been particularly rough.” I retreat back to the forge to get started on cleaning it.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Temra says to my back, “I think I’d prefer not to come in to work the day she returns. Not that I doubt your abilities or anything, but there’s no sense in both of us dying.”

“Very funny.”



* * *



Kymora did not kill Asel’s friends or maim them, but Temra says they won’t look in her direction.

“It’s not like before when they were shunning me,” she says. “Now, it’s as if they’re afraid. Like something really bad will happen if they look at me. They keep their distance, even run away if I enter the same room.”

“The warlord threatened them?” I guess.

“She must have. Oh, I wish I knew what she said!”

“If everyone is leaving you alone, then maybe we don’t have to flee the city anymore.”

Temra’s eyes widen. “No! It’s not the same as it was before. I’ve still lost friends, and Asel still complicates everything every chance he gets. We may not be dealing with his friends breaking in anymore, but we are not safe in this town. Especially if Asel aspires to go into politics one day. He can still make our lives miserable. Besides, I want to live on Kymora’s estate. I need to learn from this woman!”

She’s right, of course.

I don’t like change. I don’t like doing new things. But leaving is our best option. In fact, it’s likely our only option.

And if I work for Kymora, I bet Temra and I could retire to the north even sooner!

With that thought lending my heart strength, I throw myself into my work, determined to construct my best weapon yet.

Lirasu, our city, is pressed up against the Southern Mountains, and I pay the miners for a steady stream of iron ore, which I then turn into steel using a crucible.

Swords are one of the simpler weapons to make. Any weapon is certainly a lot of work, but a sword’s overall shape is straight and uniform, unlike a mace, for example, which requires many pieces coming together.

Shaping a sword requires endless hours of hammering. It starts out as a fire-heated glob of steel. It’s pounded and reheated again and again until it flattens out into the right shape. The trick is in keeping the steel the right temperature and pounding with just the right amount of force—enough to shape but not break it. The smithy I apprenticed under told me it takes decades to master this, so either I’m a prodigy or the magic has a hand in helping my instincts.

When the sword finally has its shape, I set my mind to the magic.

It’s tied to my senses. To the sound of my voice. The heat of my breath. The fervor in my eyes. The way I soothingly caress the metal or listen to what it has to say. It’s not something I’m fully conscious of most of the time, but what I have learned is fire-heated steel is not to be shouted at or reprimanded. It is to be coerced with gentle whispers and encouragement.

So far, I have not failed to make it do what I want. And occasionally, it surprises me by doing something wonderful that I hadn’t even anticipated.

I want you to treat my sword as though it is the weapon you’ve been practicing for your entire life. It is to be of immense power. Something that can defeat many opponents at a time. Something that could bring nations to their knees.

Suddenly feeling daunted by the task, I decide to procrastinate the magic and turn my attention instead to the hilt while I wait for inspiration to strike.

I chisel and shape and reheat. Reheat. Reheat.

I pour my strength into my work, knowing that I can’t fail. My sister and I have too much depending on this.

Yet no ideas are forthcoming every time I turn my attention to the magic.

Something that could bring nations to their knees.

I stare at the useless length of sharpened steel before thrusting it deep into the kiln to heat the metal. The magic will only set on heated steel. When it’s most malleable.

The warlord will return in two weeks’ time. I’ve reheated the sword more times than I can count, trying to will magic into the blade.

Nothing is taking, because I have no idea what I want the sword to do.

I have made daggers that shatter anything with which they come into contact, a mace that steals the breath from those surrounding it, a longsword that knocks nearby attackers off their feet when struck against the ground, a halberd that calls forth the power of the wind, blinding any enemies.

Countless weapons with countless magical properties—and then, when the most important client of my career comes to me?

Nothing.

I’m useless.

I pull the sword out with a pair of tongs and set it on the anvil. A breeze from the windows stirs the wisps of hair that have come free from my ponytail, and I close my eyes at the brief relief.

The fire-bright tip of the broadsword grows darker as the metal cools, and I wonder how many more times I’ll have to reheat it before inspiration strikes.

“Get out of the road!”

My eyes lift to the windows, where I see a man swerve around a horse-drawn cart. The shouting owner of the cart turns her voice down low to coo at the horses. Meanwhile the man turns to glare after her.