Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(20)

I round on him. “I make weapons for people who want to defend themselves from bandits. I keep people safe while they’re traveling on Ghadra’s dangerous roads. You want to hurt them.”

Ravis is undaunted by my tone. “I do want to keep people safe, smithy. Safe from my father’s mistake. My siblings are running their territories into the ground. They should never have been entrusted with such responsibility.

“I’m the eldest,” he continues. “I was the only one trained to rule. Ghadra is my birthright. I’m taking it back. The world will thank me one day.”

This is worse than I feared. I thought Ravis wanted to invade Skiro to retrieve the healer, that perhaps he craved magic in a dangerous way. But he wants what Kymora wanted.

The world.

The irony of the situation is not lost on me. After King Arund sentenced his brother to death for a failed assassination attempt, he wanted to avoid future familial disputes over the land, so he split the realm into six territories, bequeathing one to each of his children.

But Ravis clearly feels cheated.

I gentle my voice into what I hope is a reasoning tone. I’m not gifted with words, but I try anyway. “I’ve been to several of the other territories. They are starting to find their feet after the split. Don’t hurt the people by changing everything again so soon.” Don’t hurt my friends and loved ones by bringing war to them.

Ravis pulls his long dagger out from the sheath at his waist, twirls the point lightly against the pointer finger of his left hand. “You do not command me, smithy. You know nothing of politics. You know steel. Why don’t we focus on what we’re good at, hmm?”

Ravis eyes one of the nearest workers. “You there. Bring that weapon over.”

A burly man takes his foot off the pedal working the grindstone and brings over the sword in his hand. It’s a bastard sword, though bulkier than the weapons the warlord’s men used.

The metalworker kneels on the ground dramatically and holds up the sword to his prince with a bowed head.

Ravis takes it and thrusts the weapon in my direction, hilt first.

I accept the sword, thoroughly confused. The guards around me straighten ever so slightly. Ready to pounce should I try anything.

“Magic it,” the prince orders.

“I can’t.”

“No? Do I need to send you another piece of that brutish mercenary locked up in my dungeons?”

Fear licks down my spine, but at least he confirmed Kellyn is alive. “I can only magic metal when it is hot. I must be part of the forging process. I cannot magic an already-finished weapon.”

A partial lie, but I force it out. Everything is happening so quickly, and I need all the time I can get.

“Then bring the smithy a hot weapon!”

“You misunderstand me. I have to make the weapon, Prince.” Another lie. I’m not really good at them, but hopefully Ravis doesn’t notice.

He rolls his eyes. “And just how long does it take you to make a weapon?”

“A couple months usually,” I answer truthfully.

“Then what bloody good are you? What am I supposed to do with a single weapon every other month? Wait a few years so there are enough for my generals?” Ravis starts swinging his dagger about again, twirling it in wide arcs at his side. Clearly a habit of his.

The smithy who knelt on the ground rises and steps toward his prince, whispering something to him.

“Ah, good point, yes. How long, lady smithy, will it take you to make a weapon if you have help? I have an entire legion of metalworkers who are here to assist. They can make dozens of weapons a week.”

“My name is Ziva.”

“I’ll call you whatever I like. Now answer the question.”

“I couldn’t say. I’ve … never had help before.”

Except Temra.

“Well, there’s a first for everything. Elany!”

A girl my age saunters over from the back of Ravis’s personal guards. I hadn’t spotted her before now. Her skin is the palest I’ve ever seen, hair a bright yellow, long enough to reach her waist. Her features are friendly, open, but if she works for Ravis, I’m not about to let that fool me.

“Ziva, meet Elany. Consider her your right-hand woman. You need something to assist you with making my weapons, you tell her. She is to be involved in every step of the smithing process. You don’t go anywhere in the forge without her. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now get to work.”

“But, Prince, you haven’t told me what you want!”

“What I want? I want weapons, girl! By the Twins, have you no brains?”

I chafe at the words but press on. “What kind of weapons? What do you want them to do? What do you want them to look like? What embellishments?”

Ravis tilts his head to one side, then the other, observing me like he’s never seen me before.

“I’m a specialty bladesmith,” I explain, uncomfortable at the scrutiny. “People come to me for one-of-a-kind weapons. No two are the same. They usually have specific requests. I don’t want to displease you.” Or, really, to cost Kellyn the other half of his ear. “I just need to know what you want.”

“This is war, lady smithy. I’m not looking for uniqueness. I’m looking for volume. I don’t care if all the weapons do the same thing! Just make me swords.” Ravis points to the head of his guard, Strax. I notice for the first time that the man has Kellyn’s longsword strapped to his back.