Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(89)

The shouting starts before I even reach the room.

“… stubborn idiot!” Skiro’s voice fills the halls, so I really hope the conversation isn’t meant to be private. “Imbecile. Useless wretch!”

“Verak always was Mother’s favorite,” Marossa says as I step through the door. “She babied him. Gave him a complex. He’s never been able to see danger with any real clarity.”

“He’ll see it when it’s on his doorstep.”

Princess Marossa cleans dirt from under her fingernails with the sharp end of a knife. “By then we’ll be dead, so you won’t be able to say I told you so.”

Skiro rounds on her. “Yes, that’s what I’m worrying about! Me missing my opportunity to be obnoxious! Could you take this seriously! We don’t have enough numbers.”

“Orena and Lisady are both sending troops through the portals.”

“Barely a hundred men each! What are we supposed to do with those?”

“I imagine we’ll send them to fight.”

“And when they die, our sisters will have no men left to guard their own lands. If only they would come. If only they would join us here to strategize and plan so we can present Kymora with some semblance of a united front! Instead, they’re content to hide in their own realms.”

Marossa turns over her hand to inspect her nails. “Don’t forget Verak, who’s just being a horse’s ass to spite us.”

“This is all Father’s fault. If he wouldn’t have divided the kingdoms. If he would have just given the whole damn thing to Ravis—”

Petrik steps forward. “You don’t mean that.”

“I certainly do! If Ravis ruled everything, I wouldn’t have so many people to protect. I’d be spending my days in the Great Library, meeting artists from around the globe.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

Skiro straightens, then shrugs off his blue robes as though he’s become overheated. “Explain.”

“If Ravis ruled, the rest of you would be dead or in captivity. He wouldn’t take any chances that any of you had ideas to usurp him. And before long, Kymora would likely have murdered him anyway. And then we wouldn’t be in a position to stop her.”

Marossa finally looks up from her nails, “I believe what Skiro is trying to say is that we’re not in a position to stop her now. He’s already convinced we’ll lose.”

“We’re not entirely hopeless this time,” Petrik says. “We will get to choose the battleground. We have more men this time if we are besieged again. Z—the smithy has magicked every soldier’s armor so it is impenetrable. The men are training. They will be in good physical condition, able to withstand a long battle, and Kymora’s men will be tired from their march.”

“Don’t forget my horses,” Marossa says.

“And we have a cavalry,” Petrik adds, “also protected by magicked armor.”

“It’s not enough,” Skiro whispers. “Five hundred cannot take two thousand. Just because our odds are better than last time doesn’t mean we will succeed. We need more. Don’t get me wrong, the magicked armor will certainly help.” Skiro tries to be stealthy when he glances at me, but I don’t know that he succeeds. “But armor doesn’t cover the entirety of the body. There are gaps. How long will it be before Kymora’s men utilize that?”

“Then perhaps you should have this smithy magic more than just armor for us!” Marossa says, finally looking as though she cares about the conversation. “We need weapons that can even out the numbers. Make each one of our soldiers able to counter ten of theirs. That would give us a real edge.”

Skiro frowns. “I already told you that wasn’t possible.”

“Isn’t it? It sounds more like you need a better handle on your subjects.”

“Technically, I’m your subject.” Though my voice fills the room, it doesn’t seem to come from me.

“Excuse me?” Marossa asks.

This is what happens when I think without speaking. I put myself on display. Forget the anxiety that creeps up as soon as the attention is on me.

I feel sick, but I say, “I was born in your territory. I’ve spent my life living in Lirasu. I’m your subject.”

“Fine,” the princess says, as though she doesn’t care one bit that my identity has finally been revealed to her. “Then I order you to make weapons for the war.”

Skiro scoffs. “And what are you going to do if she refuses?”

“She can’t refuse. It’s an order.”

“Orders are refused all the time!”

“Fine, then I’ll punish her. Algarow, do we have a stocks?”

“No, Princess.”

“No stocks? How about a work camp?”

“Afraid not.”

“A dungeon?” she asks, as though on her last nerve.

“I think we could lock one of the rooms in the palace from the outside.”

Marossa nods, pleased. “There. We’ll—”

“Stop it,” Skiro snaps at her. “We need to reward our people for their work. Not punish them.”

“Stop being so bossy. I’m your elder, Skiro.”