Blade of Secrets (Bladesmith #1)(32)

Temra gives me an encouraging nod.

Kellyn doesn’t so much as blink at the pain when a thin well of blood appears on the littlest finger of his nondominant hand. He must be used to all the injuries that come from his line of work.

“How does this work?” Kellyn asks. “Do you ask me a question and I answer? Does it compel me to be honest?”

“It doesn’t work like that,” I say, but I lose my train of thought as the mercenary’s voice floods my mind.

I’ve always wanted to go back to Thersa. It’s beautiful, full of waterfalls and warm weather. Really, it’s like these girls are paying me to take another vacation. They’ll be safe with me.

The bladesmith is so gentle and quiet at times. You really can’t help but feel like you want to protect her. The sister is feisty and pretty, to be sure, but this one has a more calm beauty, something I feel drawn to inexplicably.

I drop the sword and step away from it, as though it might say something else offensive.

Offensive? That’s not quite the right word.

Kellyn eyes me, and I feel my cheeks heat like the sun.

Uncomfortable. Awkward.

Yes, those fit better.

“What do you mean it doesn’t work like that?” he asks.

I can’t answer right away. “It reveals some of your thoughts. Usually the more relevant ones to whoever is holding the blade.”

Kellyn smirks. “And just what did it tell you, bladesmith?”

I start coughing for no reason. Probably to prolong my words for as long as possible. Temra sees right through this tactic, but I hope the mercenary doesn’t.

Finally I catch my breath and say, “You’re excited to go back to Thersa. You said we’re practically paying you to take a vacation.”

“True,” Kellyn says. “Was that all?”

“You said we’d be safe with you.”

“Also true. Anything else?”

“N-no.”

“Did you know you get a blush on your cheeks when you’re lying?” Kellyn asks.

I look to Temra for help.

“He’s right,” she says. “You do.”

Panicked, I say the first thing I can think of to get the attention off me. “He thinks you’re pretty and feisty.”

Temra lets out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Both are true, but you’re not my type, mercenary.”

Kellyn claps a hand over his heart in a mocking gesture. “Alas, most ladies just can’t handle a paramour who is better-looking than they are. These features”—he runs a hand over his face—“are a blessing and a curse.”

Temra laughs. “Whatever you tell yourself. Petrik, let’s check on that stew.”

Kellyn’s eyes land on me once more, and I look away hurriedly.

“Maybe one day you’ll tell me your secrets, bladesmith, now that you know some of mine.”



* * *



He thinks you’re a beauty.

He thinks you’re a beauty.

He thinks you’re a beauty.

The thought is on repeat in my head. It’s all I can think about while I try to sleep that night.

“I think there’s something wrong with him,” Temra says.

“The mercenary? Of course there is.”

“No, Petrik.”

This finally pulls me from my thoughts. “How do you mean?”

“I’m not getting anywhere with him.”

“You guys talked for hours today.”

“So? He hasn’t complimented me once! It’s like I don’t even exist. He just wants to talk about books and magic and how he grew up. Which, admittedly, I mostly find interesting, but he is showing absolutely no interest in me.”

“And that means something’s wrong with him?”

“Obviously.”

“Some people just aren’t attracted to other people in that way.”

“That’s not what I mean. I would be fine if that’s what it was! But he clearly said he wasn’t celibate.”

“Maybe he likes men.”

“He doesn’t. I already asked that.”

I have to cover my mouth with a hand, but my muffled laughter comes through anyway.

Something whacks my head, and I register it a moment later as Temra’s pillow. “How dare you laugh at me!”

I laugh outright now. “Poor Temra. Hordes of men fall at her feet, but she can’t get one scholar to adore her.”

“Oh, I will. He’s just making me work for it, is all.”

“Why do you care so much? Do you even like him? Do you even want him?”

“No, but it’s the principle of the thing! I don’t know how to handle a man who doesn’t want me.”

“Maybe you should set your sights on the mercenary instead.”

She retrieves her pillow from where it landed beside me. “I would never do that. He’s yours, Ziva.”

“He’s not mine.”

“Still, I’m not pursuing him.”

“That’s your choice.”

“Yes, it is, and I’ve already made it.”

A howl rips through the camp, and another howl answers it. We’ve heard a few coyote yips at night along the trip, but these are much different, much closer.