Blade of Secrets (Bladesmith #1)(2)

“Really? How else does a man cut his sword arm with his weapon? What were you doing? Practicing twirls? Throwing the weapon up in the air and trying to catch it? Was there a large audience to see you stumble?”

Garik sputters for a good minute as he tries to find his words, hinting that Temra’s guess is exactly what happened.

“Perhaps you should try acrobatics if you’re going to use your sword in such a manner instead of how it was intended,” Temra bites out.

“You stay out of this, you little heathen! I’m taking this up with the smithy. Or is she incapable of speaking for herself?”

That has me dropping my tools and giving the foul man my full attention. It’s one thing for him to come in here and attack me, but to call my sister names?

“Garik,” I say with confidence I don’t feel. “You will leave now before we bring the city guards into the matter. You are no longer welcome in the forge or the shop or anywhere near our land.”

“My arm—” he tries.

“Is not nearly as hurt as your pride, else you would be at a healer’s and not here.”

His face grows red as blood drips onto the ground.

I can’t look at him any longer. It’s too much. My eyes find the laces at his shirt instead and focus there. Maybe that was stupid. Did what I say even make sense? If I say something more, would I only be rambling?

I decide to add, “I would be happy to take a look at the weapon to ensure its effectiveness. Perhaps in front of all your friends? Though, by the excellent gash in your arm, it appears to be working just fine.”

That does it. He storms out the way he came, but not before taking a swipe at the worktable along the way and sending my tools cascading toward the ground.

Then he’s gone.

“Horrible man,” Temra says, and she goes to put the worktable to rights.

But I can’t really hear her. I’m looking at my tools, then back at the spot where Garik once stood. The entire ordeal is replaying in my mind over and over again, completely out of my control. He was here. In my forge. I had to speak. Had to question myself. Had to feel like I was going to boil from the inside. Logically, I know neither my sister nor I were in any real danger, that such confrontations don’t mean the end of the world is nigh, but that doesn’t mean my body is convinced.

I can’t breathe. Or maybe I’m breathing too fast.

“Ziva? Oh dear. Everything is okay.”

Everything is not okay. Temra tries to approach me, but I step backward, nearly falling over as I do so. My hands are shaking, and my body temperature goes from uncomfortably hot to unbearably so.

“Ziva, he’s gone. You’re safe. Look around the room. It’s just us. Here, hold your hammer.” She thrusts the instrument into my hand. “Now listen to my breathing and match it.” She exaggerates the sounds of her own breath, slowly dragging it in and out.

I fall to my knees in front of my anvil, my head level with the unfinished mace, my hammer held loosely in my hand.

You are no longer welcome.

I can’t believe the things I said. I insulted him. He’s going to tell other potential customers about the ordeal. Everyone will know that I said something stupid. They’ll all want to take their business elsewhere. I’ll be ruined. Humiliated.

Everyone will know there’s something wrong with me.

“Breathe. You’re safe. Breathe,” Temra says, cutting through my tangled thoughts.

“What if the sword was defective, and I just—”

Temra says, “The sword was perfect. Don’t think like that. Come on, Ziva. You’re amazing. Just breathe.”

Time falls away as I try to crawl out from under the weight of my own panic.

I’ve no sense of how long it takes before the attack recedes, before my mind can understand that there’s anything else besides impending doom. But it passes, easing out of me like a fruit being juiced.

I’ve always been a naturally anxious person, but being around people makes it so much worse. And sometimes these attacks happen—when it’s a particularly nasty encounter or if I’m simply feeling overwhelmed.

I’m tired and overstimulated, but I still welcome the hug my sister wraps me in. She lets me decide when to pull away.

“Thank you,” I say as I set my hammer back on one of the many worktables in the forge.

“I’m sorry, Ziva. I really did try to keep him from entering.”

“Trust me, I heard. But I hope you know that if anyone is acting dangerous, I insist you show them in. I don’t ever want you in harm’s way.”

She scoffs. “How can a man who injures himself with his own weapon be dangerous?”

We share a laugh, and I turn back to the unfinished mace, trying to decide whether to continue working or to rest for a bit.

Only … the weapon has already been magicked.

There’s no physical change that I can see, but I sense it. A slight pulsing of heat.

I pick up the mace by the metal handle and bring the head toward my face for inspection, careful of the single flange that is still cooling.

“Something happened,” I say.

“Did Garik ruin the weapon?”

“No, it’s already imbued with magic.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. I was welding the first flange on, and then Garik came in. I set it on the anvil, and then…”