Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(85)

“Why?” I blurt, certain that whatever is happening I should be embarrassed because I’m bungling it up.

He laughs. “Because I like you, and I want to get to know you better. Things have finally settled for a moment. I have time to think and pursue what I want for a change.”

“You like tall girls,” I say, then mentally kick myself for saying the words out loud as I remember them.

He laughs again. “I just thought we might get on well.”

“I’m with someone,” I say.

“Ah. That mercenary fellow.”

“Yes.”

“Is it serious?”

The herbs once again pulse from their hiding place in my pocket. “Very,” I manage to get out.

“Shame. Well, do let me know if that changes.” And then he leaves.

What. Just. Happened?

“Good talk?” Serutha asks when the prince is long gone and I still haven’t moved.

I shake myself out of it, but the space feels sweltering now.

“Fine, just fine,” I answer, then lower myself onto pillows on the floor.

Ashper still has his gaze locked on the wall, one hand holding a paint palette. His fingers are smeared with dried colors, and an unused brush is lodged behind one ear.

“Ziva, Ashper. Ashper, Ziva.”

The painter pauses long enough to look over and nod. “Good to meet you.”

“And you. We’re very lucky to have you.”

He shrugs. “I like to paint.” Then he sets down his tools, places the used paintbrush in a glass of water, and spins in place, giving us his full attention.

Well, me.

He’s looking very intently at me.

Makes my cheeks heat.

“You have high cheekbones,” Ashper remarks. “And your freckles! It would take me days to get every one just right. Oh, I should like to paint you sometime.”

I can’t find words.

“He means it as a compliment,” Petrik explains. “You’re not an oddity.”

“No, of course not,” Ashper says in agreement. “You’re a rarity. You’re so tall, I can’t even imagine how much paint I would go through to get all your height and details onto a canvas.”

“Thank you?” It comes out as a question.

“Ashper, you’re making her uncomfortable,” Serutha says.

“Sorry.” He turns back around to focus on his work. “I’ve never been good with people. I prefer paint.”

At that, I feel my discomfort lightening. “I know what you mean. Except, I prefer metal.”

Ashper grunts in response. He dabs his paintbrush into a few different colors before continuing his brushstrokes. It appears he’s starting the outline of each of the three remaining royals.

“Don’t you need to travel to the other territories to paint the portraits there, too?” I ask, now curious about his own magic.

“No, the portraits in Skiro’s castle were the only ones destroyed. The portraits in Verak, Lisady, and Orena are already there. I just have to duplicate them here, and the portals will work.”

“And they have to be completely identical?” I ask.

“Completely.”

“How do you remember all the details?”

“I have a mind that never forgets a single detail.”

“It’s really quite annoying,” Serutha supplies.

An involuntary shudder goes through me. I can’t imagine a mind that never forgets anything combined with the way I fixate.

“When I save our lives by getting us the help we need through these portals,” Ashper says, “we’ll see how annoying you find me then.”

Serutha smiles. “Your portals have already saved me twice, friend. I have no doubt they will do so again.”

Ashper grunts again.

“I have a feeling it will take all three of you to pull this off,” Petrik says.

“Pull what off?” I ask, wondering if there was an alternative motive for bringing me here. Did Petrik orchestrate this whole thing for a reason?

“Winning the war, of course.”

Ashper nods. “I can get us the aid we need with my portals.”

“And I can heal our wounded soldiers,” Serutha says.

They turn to me expectantly.

I look down, my fingers already twisting together. Though I’ve been doing my job as a perfectly normal smithy to aid the war efforts, I have a feeling that’s not what they want from me now. “I can’t give what you ask of me.”

“You make magical weapons, Ziva,” Serutha says. “Can’t you make our soldiers unbeatable in battle?”

But at what cost? I want to ask. What happens when one of those soldiers decides he wants to rule the world himself? What happens if those weapons land in the hands of the wrong person? A too-powerful person?

I fancifully think through the idea of weapons that would self-destruct after the battle is over. But it would be impossible to time such a thing.

“People get hurt by the things I make. My abilities aren’t like yours. Painting and healing don’t lead to world domination,” I try to explain.

I glare at Petrik. He knows this. Is he trying to bully me by making me a spectacle in front of other people? He wouldn’t, would he?