Blade of Secrets (Bladesmith #1)(74)

We’re so busy performing our tasks that we don’t notice at first when Kellyn’s father enters the house.

But when I see him, there’s no mistaking his relation to Kellyn. He’s even taller than his son, closer to seven feet than six. His hair is more red than Kellyn’s, but their facial features are so similar. He’s also a bit broader than Kellyn, with a little more at the waist. I can imagine Kellyn looking like this in thirty more years.

“Son,” Mr. Derinor says, and they pat each other firmly on the back while hugging. Kellyn then greets the oldest two children and makes the introductions again, but there are now too many children for me to keep them all straight.

Temra, Petrik, and I are crammed onto one end of the table together. Children are spread out on either side of us while Kellyn sits closer to his parents at the head of the table.

“So, how did you all meet?” Mrs. Derinor—Kahlia—wants to know.

Since we can barely hear the question over the noisy table, Kellyn answers. “I was in Lirasu in between jobs, hoping to commission a weapon from the magical blacksmith there. She was, unfortunately, far too busy to take on a new commission just then. I hope to catch her when she’s free another time.” Kellyn makes a pointed look my way. “Then I met these three. They paid me to take them to Thersa on business, but we became such good friends that we’re still traveling together. They have a job in the capital, so I thought we’d stop by on our way and visit for a bit.”

The lie is so smooth, but I think that’s mostly because it’s filled with truths or near truths, anyway.

“And what business are you in?” Mr. Derinor asks.

“Ziva is a smithy,” Temra says. “I’m her assistant. We’re traveling to the capital in search of work.” Technically not a lie.

Petrik wipes his lips on the back of one hand. “I’m a storyteller.”

Also not a lie, but definitely not the whole truth. We’re probably safe in this small town that rarely receives news of what’s happening outside of it. But if anyone in the village does hear about the warlord’s bounty and knows that a scholar of magic and a gifted blacksmith have arrived, they just might put it all together.

“How wonderful,” Kahlia says. “You must tell us a story before the children go to bed.”

Groans sound around the table. Not in regard to the story, but the bedtime, I think.

“Kellyn,” Kyren, the eleven-year-old, says, “did you kill any bandits on the road this time?”

“Kyren, that is not appropriate dinner conversation,” Mr. Derinor says.

“Nor is it appropriate conversation at all,” Kahlia adds.

“Quite right.”

Kellyn winks at the boy, a promise to tell him all about it later.

Kyren turns to the three of us at the end of the table. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a mercenary like my brother.”

“You most certainly will not,” Mrs. Derinor says. “It’s bad enough that I have to spend my days worrying over Kellyn. Horrid profession.”

I think Kellyn senses a lecture coming on, because he changes the subject, asking his da about the crops and farming.

We mostly keep silent during dinner. There’s too much to observe to bother with talking. At one point, a fight between two boys breaks out, but Mrs. Derinor stops it with a single look.

There are three bedrooms in the house. One for Mr. and Mrs. Derinor and the babies, one for the girls, and one for the boys.

Kellyn assures his parents we will be fine sleeping outside. In fact, the family has a few hammocks set up in the trees. I’ve never slept in one before, but I find it much more comfortable than the ground.

It isn’t until I’m wrapped in homespun blankets and staring at the branches above that I realize I didn’t feel panicked once today.

I felt safe.

Children don’t seem to spark my anxieties the way adults do, and Mr. and Mrs. Derinor were too kind for me to worry about them.

So many people in that house, and yet, it felt like home. It felt like safety.

I can’t imagine why Kellyn ever left.



* * *



I rise early to visit the local smithy the next morning.

He seems confused at first by my appearance and even more perplexed when I ask if I can have any leftover scraps of metal he has no use for. Used nails. Shavings. Tools that didn’t turn out right.

“You an apprentice?” he asks me. The man is clean-shaven, perhaps in his early forties, and he seems kind.

“Something like that. Would it also be all right if I borrowed your kiln?”

“What exactly are you making?”

“I’m not quite sure. But hopefully, something to keep us safe.”

He thinks me odd—I can tell by the rise of his brow and how he turns his face away—but he humors me.

I help tidy his workspace in exchange for his help and materials. This smithy works in iron alone—he hasn’t the supplies to fashion steel, but I don’t think that will be a problem.

So long as the magic decides to cooperate.

I alternate between days at the forge and days at the farm in the coming weeks. The Derinors need all the helping hands they can get, and I’d feel like a monster if I ate their food without helping with the chores.

Farming is hard yet satisfying work. We wake before the sun is quite up and go to the fields, where we pull weeds from the dirt, fill in gopher holes, and make sure the water supply gets to the end of the field. We shovel manure from the horses into the soil that’s soon to be planted, pluck fruit from the already ripened trees, help tend to the livestock.