Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(65)

He took something I love and made me afraid of it. He caused me to lose my confidence in my abilities. He temporarily made me lose my love of forging. He threatened Kellyn.

He made this war personal.

If Ravis is allowed to spread throughout Ghadra unchecked, he will make life a misery for me and any other magic users in the realms.

I want to stay to make a stand for my right to live how I wish.

I’m not running. I want to see Ravis’s supplies slowly dwindle and watch him flee with his tail tucked between his legs. I want to stay to build something. To help the world truly defeat tyranny. Maybe Temra is right and my presence will rally people to the cause. Maybe we can build an army large enough to stand up to him someday.

I won’t give up my decision not to make weapons for powerful people again, but I can still help. I can still forge. I can still be me.

I will fight for me.



* * *



There is much to be done to prepare for the imminent threat. Even when I’m not in the forge, I’m kept busy. The people need help bringing themselves and their livelihoods within the palace walls. We carry children on our shoulders, herd wayward sheep through the palace gates, lift baskets full of food and clothing into the outer courtyard.

Skiro opens the palace to the people. They cram into the servant wings. Servants cram into the empty wings of the nobility. Temra, Petrik, Kellyn, and I shove our belongings into one room to make way for others.

But not everyone will fit inside the palace. I help erect tents out in the courtyard. Cows, goats, and other animals wander aimlessly without any fences to keep them contained. Chickens scatter from the boots of guards running around the space. Skiro’s men carry weapons, shields, and anything else needed to the lookout points atop the wall.

Fear drips through the palace like rain, speeding and slowing at its own pace. The guards especially are ripe with it, but Skiro tries to assuage everyone’s fears. He leaves the palace daily to go and speak to his people. He offers encouragement, safety, food to all.

He makes pretty speeches, but they don’t calm my own worries. I try to cling to my newfound resolve instead as I watch day after day slip by.

I’m staying for me, becomes my new mantra.

Now that I’m seeing things Temra’s way, there’s only one thing for me to do.

Apologize.

“I’m sorry,” I say, catching her alone in the room. She’s staring at a tray of food like it’s offended her.

“What?” she asks, looking up.

“I said I’m sorry. You were right. We need to stay and make a stand. I shouldn’t have been mad at you. I’m sorry we fought.”

Temra grins brightly, as if nothing was ever rocky between us. “It’s a nice change when it’s you who apologizes. I’m usually the one who messes up.”

I let out a guffaw as I sit next to her on the bed. “I don’t think that’s true. I mess up almost as much as you do.

“Mm-hmm.” She punches me lightly on the shoulder.

“Why are we glaring at your dinner?” I ask when I finish laughing.

“It’s not the dinner. It’s the cake.”

“Cake?”

“Chocolate cake.”

“And what has your favorite dessert done to offend you?”

She smacks her lips together. “I suspect it’s from Petrik, since it’s obviously not from you.”

“Why isn’t it from me?”

“You can’t cook.”

“Neither can you!” I say defensively.

“The point is, I can’t accept the cake.”

“Why’s that?”

She gives me a look. “Because I hate Petrik.”

“So? That doesn’t mean you can’t eat his cake.”

She taps her thumb against her leg. “Paulia has her hands full in the kitchens cooking for everyone.”

“I don’t follow.”

“She didn’t make this for Petrik. He had to have made it himself.”

“And?”

“That makes it so much worse.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“He”—she searches for the right word—“labored. He made this while he was thinking of me, and I hate him, so I can’t eat it. Otherwise, it would be like forgiving him. I can’t accept it, because I don’t accept him.”

“You’ve put way too much thought into this.”

“I have to, Ziva. It’s cake.”

“He’s not going to know whether or not you eat it.”

She turns her head to stare me down. “You won’t tell him?”

“I would never.”

She thinks for a moment. “Maybe just a bite. It’s probably not even good. Maybe if I just sampled it … for more fuel for my anger…”

“That’s very wise,” I say, fighting a laugh.

She uses her fork to break off a section and brings it to her lips. “Ugh,” she says.

“It’s bad?”

“Worse. It’s really good.”

She pulls the tray close and eats the rest without a word.



* * *



My hammers stay hidden in the forge until I’m able to finish a new belt. It hangs low around my waist with perfectly measured holsters, one on each hip. The shafts slide into the holsters, so the hammers are positioned heads up. Their weight is evenly distributed, and I can now carry Echo and Agony with me effortlessly wherever I go.