Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(30)

As if my thoughts have drawn his notice, Kellyn meets my gaze, and his eyes narrow, as if he knows I have a plan and if he can just stare at me long enough, perhaps he can figure out what it is.

I desperately wish I could talk to my sister, ask her thoughts. About Kellyn and me. About what I’m about to do. Would she think me irredeemable if I intentionally make another powerful sword? Will my mother look down on me in shame from one of the Sisters’ heavens?

“You’re remarkable, Ziva,” Elany says. “Whatever our differences, I hope you know that.”

I don’t believe her. “I need to focus,” I say gently.

“Of course,” she says, disappointed by my answer. I wonder for a moment if she hoped the two of us would be friends, but the notion is so ridiculous that I discard it immediately.

All right, this is it. This is the weapon that I will magic differently.

Ripe, tangible fear courses through me, as though infused in my veins. I can feel my heart pumping it out to every limb. My body feels hotter than the fire I approach to grab yet another sword.

I need to ground myself, or I’ll never be able to pull this off. Be present. Focus on what’s real and right in front of me. The bastard sword, also known as a hand-and-a-half sword, glows white. It’s an arm span in length, the blade the width of my four fingers pressed together. The hilt is long enough to be held in one or two hands, which is where its name comes from.

I feel the smooth metal under my fingers, loosen and tighten my grip on the hilt to focus on the friction. I smell the heated steel, a tangy yet earthy scent that is usually so comforting to me.

It’s time, Ziva. No more stalling. You have to do this. No one can save you but yourself.

The sword and I size each other up. I often talk to my weapons while working. They’re far more forgiving than people are in conversation.

I run a finger over the cross guard, let it hover over the heated blade as close as I can stand without getting burned.

I’m so, so tired. Too many nights with not enough sleep. On top of that, living with fear is exhausting. The two try to battle for dominance within my body.

Kellyn gives me an encouraging smile. His golden-brown eyes are too trusting. I’m likely going to butcher this for the both of us.

“We’re tired, aren’t we?” I whisper to the blade. “You’ve been beat about, and I’ve been overworked. Perhaps we could use that on our enemies, hmm?”

I resist the urge to look about me and see if anyone suspects anything. Sometimes a weapon takes longer to magic. It’s nothing unusual for me to take more time with a stubborn blade.

Keep going.

“I want you to take my fatigue and build it into something. Can you do that for me?”

I try to be as specific as possible. Going through the motions of what I want it to do, begging the blade with my will and words to be my salvation.

When I feel the magic take root in the weapon, I feel shockingly refreshed. I feel strong. Like the weapon has taken the weariness right out of me, infused it into the blade.

A small smile creeps onto my face.

“I hear another batch is ready to be magicked today,” a voice says.

My whole body grows cold as I turn to find the prince entering the forges with his retinue of guards, all of whom now have magic weapons.

“Ziva’s already begun,” Elany says in response.

“Any surprises today?”

“No extraordinary weapons so far.”

“Pity. Maybe someone should try to scare the smithy. The results seem to be better when she’s under duress.”

The men behind him laugh, and I feel myself shrink away from it.

“Don’t mock her,” Elany says. “She’s helping you win a kingdom. Show some respect.”

Ravis stops laughing and rounds on my overseer. “You remember your place. You do not command a king.”

“You’re not a king yet, and if it weren’t for me and Ziva, you’d never become one. I came to you, Prince, don’t forget that. We’re on the same side.”

Ravis scoffs. “Not that you’ve been much help.”

I hadn’t realized I’d been backing away slowly until Ravis’s dark eyes land on me, freezing me in place.

“What do you have there, smithy?” he asks.

My hands tighten on the hilt. “A sword I’m working on.”

“Bring it to me.”

My stomach sinks. I cannot hand this one over.

This very scenario right here is why I shouldn’t be allowed to have this gift.

I dart a look in Kellyn’s direction. The men around him have relaxed somewhat in their hold on him. He hasn’t tried to escape once, and he’s injured.

“Actually,” I say, “I was just going to duck out for a bit. Get some food. I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“I didn’t ask for chatter. I ordered you to bring the weapon to me.”

Another look at Kellyn from me. “Really, I’m just going to duck out for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

Kellyn cocks his head.

“I’m ducking out right now,” I snap.

And like the smart man he is, Kellyn’s eyes shoot up in realization at the same time he bends at the waist.

Right as I swing the sword in his direction.

I aim at the shoulders of the men surrounding Kellyn, swiping at them from a dozen feet away. They fall in heaps to the ground, chain mail clinking, weapons rolling out of sight.