Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(96)

Skiro scoffs. “I wouldn’t dream of taking one of their beds.”

“You could stay with the governor,” Petrik suggests.

“No, no,” Skiro says. “This is fine. I want us to stay together. We have an early start tomorrow. We best bunker down now.”

The prince’s guards grab their bedrolls and blankets from their horses. They take up every inch of space on the floor of the kitchen and living room. I worried for a moment that we might have to stash some of them in the shop.

There’s never been more than one or two of Temra’s friends in the house at a time.

Now my living room is overrun with soldiers.

I know it’s necessary, but I can’t help but feel unsettled.



* * *



When I bought back my parents’ house, I claimed their old bedroom as my own. The closet is full of work clothes and aprons and the occasional nice outfit Temra purchased for me, hoping I would accompany her out in public now and then.

A portrait of my parents hangs on the wall, surrounded by metalwork. I shaped steel into swirling designs to give my room more character. None of it is magicked, just decorative. Things I thought would look nice.

On one wall is a full-length mirror Temra bought me one birthday. The bedside table is mostly empty. Two books that belonged to my mother sit atop it. Smithing books I’ve basically memorized. There’s an old empty glass that used to hold water next to them—in case I became thirsty in the night.

There are a few pamphlets from old city plays Temra starred in.

A soft blue rug takes up most of the floor.

And a single-person bed.

Looking at my room now, I’m almost embarrassed to have Kellyn seeing it.

He looks at the metalwork on the walls, the painting of my parents.

“I keep most of my stuff in the forge,” I say defensively, “because that’s where I spend most of my time.”

“I like it,” Kellyn says. “It’s simple. Easy to keep clean, I’d imagine.”

“I don’t really collect things—unless they’re forging tools.”

Kellyn runs his hands over the comforter I’ve already beaten free of dust. “This is a tiny bed.”

I laugh. “We’re used to sleeping in palaces now.”

“We’ve been spoiled,” he agrees. “But I like this.” He removes his scabbard and boots before lifting back the covers and sliding in. There’s less than a couple feet free to the side of him.

“Why’s that?”

“Means you’ll have to snuggle closer.”

I grin before joining him under the covers.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


Dawn comes much too soon, drawing us one day closer to Kymora’s arrival. It’s nice, at least, to dress in my own clothes.

Breakfast is a quiet affair. Petrik cooks a simple oatmeal for us all, spiced with cinnamon and sugar.

And then we head for the stadium, where the tournament is housed.

Strangely, traveling the city streets doesn’t hold the same kind of fear it once did. There’s still the discomfort of being surrounded by people, but it feels somehow less intense than it usually does. Have I changed? Or do I just have bigger problems at the moment?

Probably the latter.

It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that Kellyn’s arm is thrown over my shoulders.

The local tournament is the one event every year that I actually enjoy attending. It’s exhilarating to see my weapons pitted against each other in friendly sport. It fills me with pride. I even enjoy interacting with old customers. Asking how the weapons are handling. Hearing their stories on the road.

We won’t get that this year.

The stadium is empty when we arrive, naturally. The competition isn’t for another week at least. It’s odd to be here when everything is so dead.

But the fighting arena is full. The mercenaries are waiting for us. Some sit on the ground, bored and confused as to why they’ve been summoned. Others are picking friendly fights with each other. Testing out their weapons early.

I only count thirty-four in total, so some clearly haven’t arrived in town yet.

While Skiro and Governor Erinar greet each other again, I make a perusal of the weapons visible to me.

Twin shortswords that ignite in flames when commanded.

A halberd that allows the bearer to vault unnaturally high into the air.

A morningstar mace with the ability to catch the light no matter where the sun may be facing, and blind oncoming enemies.

Throwing knives that can be directed with hand motions, coaxed to hit exactly where the castor demands.

A double-headed ax that can hold an enemy at bay, simply by pointing in their direction.

On and on I see them, smiling at each one as I remember the forging process for them. The hours of my life spent in pure bliss. Creating.

And then my eyes land on a figure that leaves a bad taste in my mouth. He carries a flanged mace. One with the ability to steal the breath from those standing nearby.

Temra’s eyes catch sight of him, too. “What is he doing here?”

“It would appear he’s an entrant in the tournament,” I say through clenched teeth.

Temra bursts out into laughter. “Magic weapon or no, the mercenaries would have eaten him alive.”