Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(22)

If the smithies think me odd, they say nothing. Ravis clearly has them well motivated to work. They haul iron ore into the forge for me. Light the kiln. Man the bellows. Begin the process of creating steel.

And I see right away how I’m in trouble. This is going to be over much too quickly.

“No, let me hold that,” I say to the woman filling the crucible with charcoal. I take it, finish the mixture myself, and then put it in the kiln, which is already raging from the man working the bellows.

Another group has already finished filling another crucible, and they hand it to me for inspection. When done, it’s added to the kiln. Then a third and fourth. Five total fit in the kiln at a time. Then Elany leads me to another forge, where I have a hand in carburizing more iron. Over and over again.

With every new crucible added to the kiln, a stone weight drops into my stomach.

The forge used to be my safe space. It was where I was most happy and comfortable.

Now it’s my prison.

Now it’s where I will craft the very weapons used to threaten everything I’ve ever known.





CHAPTER SEVEN


Every night I fall into bed sore from my efforts. It’s been too long since I’ve hammered at anything for a significant length of time. I love the burning in my arms. It means I’m growing stronger. But it also exhausts me, and my team of helpers insists on doing the hammering themselves once I can no longer do it myself.

On top of that, there’s the stress of constantly being surrounded by people. It’s an exhaustion of its own. It makes me want to stay up late at night just so I can be awake and alone for a time. Otherwise, I don’t have time to think. To regain my mental fortitude, such as it is.

They bring Kellyn to the forges every day, but they don’t hurt him. I don’t give them the chance. I’m hammering, shaping, heating, reheating the metal of the swords we’re furnishing. If Ravis is also fond of the bastard sword, then that’s what I’ll make for him.

We do not stop for meals. Workers from the kitchens bring food at even intervals to the metalworkers, and we take turns eating. The forges are never quiet. Someone is always doing something. There’s barely time to breathe.

By day six, my sore muscles are mostly a dull throb. I’ve learned the names of all the men and women in my crew, and I even occasionally forget they’re there. At times, when I’m lost in the sound of my hammer pounding on metal or gazing at the white-hot steel of a blistering sword tip, I can almost pretend I’m back home doing the work I love.

And then someone will ask me a question or a guard will bite out a threat toward Kellyn just for the fun of it.

Then I remember where I am and fear sets in.

When the pressure becomes too much, I look up, stare at the freshly replaced gauze at Kellyn’s head each day, and remind myself the cost of failing. It’s a terror that battles with my anger day after day. I don’t want anything bad to befall Kellyn, yet I want to beat on him myself for making me a slave to Ravis’s will.

Elany is never far behind me, observing everything I do, and she regularly attempts to strike up conversation with me.

“How long have you been magicking metal?”

“Do you magic with your will or your voice?”

“Does using your ability weaken you?”

I don’t know if she’s genuinely curious or if Ravis has put her up to the interrogation. Either way, I answer so the guards near Kellyn don’t get any ideas.

“Since I was nine.”

“Both.”

“Not really.”

Sometimes she brings a bit of mending to work on. Cloaks or shirts or dresses that she stitches up—but for the most part, she watches me, as though she could learn something. But my gift isn’t something that can be taught. Magic is there or it isn’t.

“Who are you?” I ask her one day. “Why does Ravis have you watching me?”

She shrugs. “He hopes I’ll learn a thing or two. And there aren’t enough guards to go around.”

At that, my gaze whips to her. “You’re a prisoner, too?”

“Not really. Ravis is my employer, but he doesn’t trust me entirely.”

“But he trusts you with me?”

“Guess so.”

“And what does he employ you to do?”

She rolls her lips under her teeth but doesn’t answer, and I’ve no choice but to let the subject drop.



* * *



While the newest batch of blades is cooling, we set to forming hilts for the swords. The steel process is started again, but this time we hammer the heated metal into a cross guard. That done, I set to shaping metal, chiseling at it while it’s still hot.

“What are you doing?” Elany asks.

“Shaping.”

“It’s already shaped like a hilt.”

“Embellishing, then,” I say, and I realize my mistake. When I look up, Elany is smiling at me gently.

“You’re an artist, Ziva, but Prince Ravis doesn’t want art. He wants practicality. As long as there’s a place for a soldier to grip the sword, no extra embellishments are required.”

I’d been preparing to add the designs of some of the local fruit I’ve tasted, adding what I think the blossoms of such trees might look like.