Blade of Secrets (Bladesmith #1)(7)

Either way, I’m trapped. As the guest of honor, I can’t escape without notice.

Even now I feel the eyes of those in attendance on me like lions tracking a herd of antelope. I clasp my hands together and fiddle with my fingers.

I will not panic.

I will not run.

I probably won’t die.

Has being social killed anyone in the history of the world? Surely not, but that does not seem to matter to the lead weight in my heart or the buzzing insects in my stomach. My whole body ripples with discomfort at so many eyes on me, at so many people surrounding me.

My sister—bless her!—materializes before me.

“What are you wearing?” Temra asks, eyeing me up and down before I can demand why she’s arrived so late.

“A dress,” I say with disgust. I pick at the fabric, missing the lightweight material of my typical loose tunic and trousers. They’re perfect for combating the heat in the forge, and right now I swear it’s hotter in the governor’s home than it’s ever been in my workspace.

People make me sweat.

Temra blinks slowly, as if to compose herself. “Why didn’t you put on something nicer? Where is that dress I bought you for last Sisters Remembrance Day?”

“It’s in my closet.” Buried somewhere deep, but there, nonetheless.

“It’s so lovely. Really brings out the blue of your eyes.”

I don’t recall the color of the dress, but I smile as though I remember it or care just how lovely it is. My current ensemble is a light tan. Nondescript. Lacking any fancy embellishments. Perfect for hiding.

Or so I thought.

“Ziva, all the other girls in attendance are in bright colors. You’re practically wearing your work clothes in dress form.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. My work clothes have stains,” I say, proud of myself, but as I scan the room, I realize she’s right. My bland dress no doubt makes me stick out like a lone weed in a flower garden.

It’s honestly been so long since I’ve been to a social gathering, I’m completely unaware of the latest styles in clothing. I probably look like I’m trying to snub the governor at his party.

Not that this was supposed to be a party at all.

So, really, who’s more in the wrong here: me or the governor?

I peer at my sister more closely. “Your hair is rumpled.”

Her hands fly to her curly locks, attempting to flatten the strays.

“You were with a boy,” I accuse.

Temra doesn’t embarrass easily. There’s no telltale reddening of her cheeks or sheepish eye lowering, but I know I’ve struck true all the same.

“The time got away from me, is all,” she says.

I want to press her further, but it’s awfully hard for me to be angry at her when I’m trying so hard to block out the stimulants around me.

I suspect the governor’s husband has a fondness for blue, for the whole room is spattered with it. Azure hand-stitched rugs cover the floor, the dining area is speckled with sapphire flowers I don’t have a name for, even the wax of the candles spread over the decorative tables has a cerulean sheen to it.

Beautiful marble columns hold up the ceiling at even intervals. On the far wall, a painting of the Sister Goddesses hangs proudly so they can watch over us all.

And there’s the happy couple, arm in arm, striding toward me, their faces upcast in delight.

I grip Temra’s arm in a vise. “Hide me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re going to thank our hosts and smile through this whole affair like you couldn’t be more delighted.”

“I can’t.”

“Then next time, don’t agree to a party.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be—”

I cut off once the pair is in hearing range and plaster a smile over my mouth that hopefully doesn’t look forced.

“Miss Tellion!” the governor says. “I’m so delighted to have you in our home!”

“We are most grateful for your generosity in hosting us!” Temra says. “I’m Temra Tellion, Ziva’s sister, and she’s simply been gushing about how honored she is to have forged a weapon for you.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. This is my husband, Reniver, and our son, Asel, is around here somewhere.”

“There he is,” Reniver says.

We follow his extended finger to where a man our age is surrounded by girls. He’s tall and muscular, with a symmetrical face that’s likely the reason he has so many admirers.

“He’s a very sociable boy,” the governor says, stepping in front of the scene to block my view of his son. “So popular.”

“Just like his father,” Temra says politely.

“Oh, well, thank you.”

A silence falls. Perhaps the couple is wondering why I haven’t said a word. Everyone wonders why I can’t make polite conversation. It’s just not one of my strengths.

But I try. “Governor, you mentioned the weapon was a gift for your husband when you commissioned it. How long have you trained for the mace, Reniver?”

There, that’s a normal question, right?

“Oh, I’m no mace bearer,” Reniver explains, “but the gift is everything I could have hoped for! We’re going to take the guests by to see it as soon as supper is over. And after a toast in your honor, of course!”