Blade of Secrets (Bladesmith #1)(30)

“Go on,” he says. “Then what happened?”

“The forge was outdoors. I could see the smithy working on a scythe for a farmer. I remember seeing the shape of the tool and the heated metal just lying on the anvil. And I felt drawn to it inexplicably. I parted from the rest of the orphans, walked into the forge, and blew on the blade.”

“And?”

“And then the blacksmith, Mister Deseroy, yelled at me because I might have hurt myself. He sent me on my way, and the priestesses rushed me onward. But the next day, the smithy came to the orphanage. It was well-known in the city who my mother was and that she had left two daughters behind when she died. When the scythe showed magical properties—the ability to use the wind to separate the seed from the chaff—the smithy set out to find me, thinking perhaps I was Samika’s daughter.

“And then he and his wife offered to take me in. I said I wouldn’t go anywhere without my sister, so they brought her along, too. I spent my days in the forge, learning how to make steel and bend it to my will. Mister Deseroy had me start magicking his farming equipment, and he brought in quite the profit. It didn’t take long for me to outgrow him. Once I learned the basics, my gift filled in the rest of the gaps on its own. I was creative, and I immediately learned I loved weaponry. By the time I was twelve, Mister Deseroy was ready to retire on all the money I’d made him, and then Temra and I had outlived our usefulness.

“He was kind, though. He gave me some money and all the tools I’d need to get started. I bought back our parents’ land, and I started working.”

Kellyn is a patient listener. He takes it all in quietly. “That’s incredible. What you can do is incredible.”

I shrug. “It’s not really me. It’s the magic that makes me what I am. I can’t really take credit for that, can I?”

“Of course you can,” he says. “You observed and learned all the necessary tricks of your trade. You’re a prodigy. That doesn’t make you less talented. It makes you even more impressive, magic or no.”

I feel light at his words, like I could drift away if I’m not too careful, and a thrill buzzes beneath my skin.

And then the panic comes, because I have no idea what to say next, and the silence stretches on.

“I always knew I wanted to be a mercenary,” Kellyn says. “When I was little, one came through the village. He was so big, arms wider than a tree trunk. He let me hold his sword, before my mother saw, and though it was heavy, too much for my six-year-old hands, I remember how right it felt.”

“How did you learn to fight?” I find myself asking.

“There was a retired palace guard living in the village. I begged him to teach me after I finished my chores each day. Ma didn’t like it, but Da talked her into it. Said it was only a good thing if I knew how to defend myself. I love them both dearly, but I always wanted to see the world. I left as soon as I was old enough to take on work. I visit regularly, though. I can’t stay away too long. I get homesick.”

I’ve been gone from my forge just over a week and already I’m homesick. I feel this kinship with Kellyn. It’s nice to hear someone else admit they miss home.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say.

“Thank you for asking,” he says. He turns his golden gaze on me. “You’re all right, bladesmith. For a while, I thought you might be too uptight.”

“I thought you might be too unlikable.”

“I had a good night’s sleep,” he says, as though that explains anything. “And just so you know, I rarely drink. I was celebrating my birthday. Turned twenty.”

Well, doesn’t that just make me feel like a monster for abducting him on his birthday. “Happy late birthday.”

“Thank you. To be honest, I think I like how that day ended.” His eyes do a sweep of my body, from the top of my newly shorn hair to the base of my boots.

Everywhere his eyes touch, I feel like I’ve been lit on fire.

Why is he looking at me like that?

When Kellyn meets my eyes again, I don’t know what he sees there, likely the panic. He looks over his shoulder, notes that Temra and Petrik have fallen way behind.

“Pick up the pace, scholar!” he shouts. “And try not to trip on your dress.”

Petrik looks up with a familiar glare that seems to be reserved only for Kellyn. “I told you, these are robes! And you try not to fall over from the weight of your head.”

Kellyn laughs, and I join him.



* * *



When we break for camp, Petrik separates himself from Temra. He grabs what appears to be a notebook and quill from his pack before seating himself on the log I’ve occupied.

Dinner is cooking, some sort of stew that makes my mouth water. The mercenary is off doing who knows what, and Temra pouts in Petrik’s direction.

“I’ve noticed that your horse carries a bundle of weapons. Are they your making?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I say cautiously.

“May I ask what they do?”

“You took your time before approaching me with your questions.”

“I didn’t want to bombard you. You’re clearly hesitant to talk about your abilities.”

“I’m just hesitant about talking in general.”

“You spoke to the mercenary earlier.”