Forging Silver into Stars
: Chapter 5

I can be quick on my crutches when the conditions are right. Generally that doesn’t include mud, snow, and the weight of the realization that I almost handed this man a message that would’ve sent me to the gallows.

The snow swirls around us as we walk, and our progress feels painfully slow—emphasized by the fact that the young lord is all but ambling to keep pace with me, while I’m about to sweat through my clothes trying to go as fast as I can. Even his horse has tugged at the reins a few times, almost leading Lord Tycho instead of the other way around. I’m used to making this short trek alone, and I hardly think about the distance. Right now, the forge feels like it’s ten miles away.

He hasn’t said much since we left the bakery, and my heart is thrumming in my chest as the silence stretches on, punctuated by the swish and clomp of every step I take. I wish I could tell what he was thinking. That other man, Lord Alek, called him the king’s pet, which definitely wasn’t a compliment, but it implies Lord Tycho knows the king. He looks to be near my age, maybe a bit older, but he’s clearly someone with money and status.

I’m worried this silence means he’s suspicious. Callyn was about as subtle as she was in the barn this morning, when she was ready to swing an ax at my head. And then I almost handed him the message.

Here, my lord. Would you like to drag me back to the palace for sentencing, or should you draw your sword and save everyone a lot of time?

The tightness around my chest refuses to loosen. I don’t have the mettle for this. I should have taken Lady Karyl’s parchment and flung it into the forge the instant she left.

And then Cal and I would be five silvers poorer.

The thought is sobering. Surprise lit Cal’s eyes when I slid the coins onto the table—surprise mixed with the smallest scrap of relief. Passing a message for the Truthbringers feels like the only option we have, especially since I’m walking beside a glaring reminder of everything that’s wrong with my life. I’m willing to bet this man has never spent a single moment wondering where his next meal was coming from, or whether his father lost all their coins at the dice table.

My right crutch finds a hole or a branch or something under the slush, because it twists sideways and skids. I swear and try to catch myself, but I’ve got no leverage. It doesn’t take much, not on that side, especially when I’m rushing. The ground is going to smack me square in the face, and I’ll be doubly humiliated.

Instead, a strong hand catches my arm, holding me upright. Despite his grip, I have to hop once or twice to find my balance. The crutch topples into the snow, landing with a wet squelch.

My breath is a loud rush in my ears, my pulse pounding with a mix of adrenaline and embarrassment.

“Steady?” he says.

“I’m fine.” I jerk free, and he lets me go so readily that I nearly fall down again.

He stoops to pick up my fallen crutch, then holds it out to me. Snow is collecting in his blond hair and along his shoulders. There’s an emblem or a crest stamped into his breastplate, over his heart, but just the edge peeks out from under the cloak, so I can’t make it out. He looks so bright and flawless, so fierce and worldly, that he could have said he was the king himself and I would’ve believed it.

Then he says, “Is it much farther?”

I grit my teeth and get my crutches under me again. “No, my lord,” I say tightly. “Forgive me for the delay.”

“That wasn’t a complaint,” he says easily. “I was worried Lord Alek might follow me. If it’s a long way, I would offer you mercy. If you like.”

I frown, turning that around in my head, and he adds, “My horse. Mercy.”

The mare blows a snort against his shoulder.

It’s a generous offer, and it takes me by surprise—but the last thing I need from him is pity. “No. I’m fine.” I thrust my crutches into the snow to prove it.

“As you say.”

He’s being kind. I should be grateful. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Anger and excitement are whirling in my gut, and I’m not quite sure where they’ll land. I’m not even sure why. I keep my eyes on the snow ahead.

“Jax, was it?” he says, and I startle and almost lose my crutch again.

“Yeah. Yes. My lord.”

“I’m Tycho.” He pauses. “You don’t have to be formal.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing.

He continues as if we’re in the midst of a conversation. “I’m being rude. Forgive me. I’ve been mostly on my own for days, with only Mercy for company. I sometimes forget how to have a conversation with another person.”

“Forgiven,” I say woodenly.

I’m not meaning to be funny, but the corner of his mouth turns up, just for a moment. “I didn’t expect to find Alek here. He’s from the north side of the Crystal City. His House mostly deals with fabrics and textiles. Does he visit Briarlock often?”

This, at least, I can answer honestly. “I’ve never seen him before.”

I’m sure I’ll see him later, though. The message feels like it’s burning a hole through my pocket.

“I’ve been in Emberfall for well over a month,” Lord Tycho says. “But his family has a history of … trouble. He doesn’t like me much.” He glances at me, and his voice takes on a heavier tone. “He’s a dangerous man when he wants to be. Take care when you do business with him. You should warn your friend as well.”

I find it interesting that a man armed to the teeth would call someone else dangerous, but I don’t say that. I saw the way Lord Tycho’s hand went to his sword when the other man came into the bakery. I’m desperately curious about who these men are, their relation to each other, and what’s on this secret parchment in my pocket. The curiosity puts a sour taste in my mouth, but I can’t shake it.

We come to the final bend in the lane, and I see my home up ahead, silent and dark. I added coal before I left so the forge would stay hot, and a thin trail of smoke floats into the sky.

I feel a momentary panic, thinking my father might have returned. I don’t know why it would matter, but everything feels awkward and uncertain now, and my father would only make that worse. I can see Da being drunkenly vulgar, demanding too much silver or vomiting on the lord’s polished boots. Lord Tycho is surely someone who wouldn’t tolerate it.

But no, there’s no motion, no sign of anyone. The vise grip on my chest loosens the tiniest bit.

“It’s just up ahead,” I say to him, nodding.

“Good.”

I can’t tell if that word means he’s impatient, or if he’s glad to have a reason to end this stilted conversation, but either way, I’m glad too.

I stoke the forge and light a lantern, because the sun is beginning to fall behind the trees. Now that I have a job to do, I can focus on the horse instead of the young lord who’s peering into my workshop. In addition to a few low stools and several iron handles I’ve bolted to the wall or the tables, I have a dozen ropes suspended from the ceiling, positioned anywhere I need to move quickly without my crutches. When my father is being particularly wicked, he cuts them down. But under Lord Tycho’s appraising gaze, I’m self-conscious, both about the workshop and my skills. I feel like I should grab a rag and wipe the place down. I teased Cal about the flour on her cheek, but there’s probably soot on my face from this morning.

I have to clear my throat, and I point to a post anchored in the ground. “You can tether her there. Did you find the shoe or was it lost?”

“I have it.” He ties the mare, then moves close to unbuckle a saddle bag. He pulls a bent shoe free and winces. “It’s not in the best shape. We’ve covered a lot of ground over the past six weeks.”

“I can make you a new one.” I glance at the other forehoof and hesitate. The shoe on that one won’t last long either. “For both fronts, if you like.”

“Whatever you think is best.”

I can’t tell if he’s being charitable or genuine, and it leaves me off balance. When Lady Karyl was looking for my father, it was easy to demand extra silver to carry her message. But with Lord Tycho, he’s too calm, too easygoing. It feels as though it must be an act, like he’s still suspicious. I drag one of my stools close to the horse and cast a glance his way, sure he’s going to be watching me, but he’s not.

Instead, he’s moved away, peering at the tools and gadgets hung from the walls.

I have a ceramic jar of raisin biscuits that Callyn brought me last week, and I feed one to the horse. “Is your master always like this?” I murmur to the mare.

She presses her face to my chest and blows warm breaths against my hip. I grab hold of a rope to keep my balance in case she butts her head at me, but she’s as gentle as a kitten.

I drop to sit on the stool and pull her foot into my lap—but then I see the scars.

She’s a bay, with deep-brown fur, a black mane and tail, and a narrow white stripe down her face. But long stretches of white fur make streaks just behind the saddle girth, unnatural coloring that can only be caused by scarring.

In a location that can only be caused by spurs.

It makes me scowl. Maybe this is what I’ve misread. Maybe Lord Tycho is worse than cruel to this horse. Maybe that’s why he seems so easygoing. Maybe he just doesn’t care.

My gut clenches at the thought, and I’m surprised to realize I don’t want him to be like that. So many people turn out to be a disappointment, and it’s discouraging to think this fresh-faced young nobleman will be the same. I reach for my clamps and file and cast a dark look across the workshop to where he’s meandered: the corner where we have a few forged weapons.

From here, I can’t tell if he’s wearing spurs.

He must sense my gaze, because he glances over, and I quickly look back at the horse.

If he noticed my staring, he doesn’t say so. “May I?”

I have to look back, and he’s gesturing to one of the swords.

“Yes.” I scrape at the mare’s hoof, creating a fresh surface for a new shoe. “They’re nowhere near as nice as yours,” I add roughly.

“I disagree.” He cuts a pattern through the air, spinning an agile half-turn in the narrow space, making his cloak flare. “Incredible balance.”

The praise makes me blush, and I’m not ready for it. The hoof is clean, so I grab hold of a rope to pull myself up so I can get to the forge, and I thrust a fresh shoe in. I’m glad this part takes my focus, so I don’t have to say anything.

It doesn’t stop him from talking, though. “Did you make this?”

I nod. “The swords are mine. My father made the daggers.” I put the horseshoe against the anvil and swing my hammer to spare me saying anything else. Sparks fly and glowing steel splinters away.

Lord Tycho is more patient than Lady Karyl. He waits for me to finish banging, then says, “You do better work than your father.”

I grunt and say nothing, returning to the horse. If my father heard that comment, he’d put his boot in my belly and it would hurt to sit up for a week. The hot shoe presses into the mare’s hoof, and smoke rises. I murmur a soft word but she’s steady as a rock.

Silence falls between us again, but I hear the moment he returns the sword to the rack along the wall. At first I’m tense, worried he’s going to ask more questions, but he says nothing, waiting at a distance as I measure and bang and hammer. After a few minutes, this hoof is done, and I drag my stool to her other side to begin again.

“Forgive me,” he says, and suddenly his voice is lower, quieter. “I know I interrupted you and your friend earlier.”

I blink and look up.

He’s leaning against the work table now. His eyes are intent, and he doesn’t look away. “I sense that I’ve made you uncomfortable in some way. I didn’t mean to.”

I shrug, then duck my face into my shoulder to push hair out of my eyes. “You didn’t.”

He says nothing, so I glance over in the midst of my filing. His cloak is tossed back over his shoulder now, and I can clearly see the insignia over his heart.

I raise my eyebrows and look back at the mare’s hoof. “You wear the crests of Syhl Shallow and Emberfall together.”

He glances down. “Oh. Yes. I carry messages between the Crystal Palace and Ironrose Castle. Between the king and queen and the prince and princess.”

My file goes still. “That makes you—”

“The King’s Courier. Well, that’s the official title in Emberfall. Here, I would be the Queen’s Envoy, though no one calls me that. But either way, I try not to make a spectacle of it. There are many who’d make me a target if they knew.”

Clouds above. And I nearly handed him a note from the Truthbringers. I may as well have handed it right to Queen Lia Mara herself.

At least that explains his accent, the tiny edge to his words. He must be from Emberfall originally, though his Syssalah is flawless. We’re close enough to the border that I know a handful of words in Emberish, mostly words to ask travelers what they need from the forge. I would’ve learned more if I’d been able to enlist as a soldier. The last queen of Syhl Shallow was known to say it was the height of ignorance to not understand what your enemies are saying. I suppose I can add that to the list of things that makes me feel like a failure.

Once this hoof is smooth and clean, I head for the forge again. “You don’t travel with …” I gesture around at the empty space. “Guards?”

“A lone man on a horse doesn’t seem worthy of much attention.” His mouth turns up in that slight smile. “A man trailed by Royal Guards generates a lot.”

My eyes skip over his attire again. Now I understand the weapons and armor.

His gaze narrows just the tiniest bit. He sees me looking.

I flush, but I wonder if this is typical for him, judging everyone he meets, worrying that he’s found himself in a risky position. It puts his silence on the walk in a new light. He’s not sharing secrets, but somehow, this feels like an extension of trust. For a spare second, I want to explain why I’ve been so wary and anxious. I don’t know if it’s his easygoing manner or the fact that we’re alone in the shop, but he doesn’t talk to me like a lord speaking to a lowly tradesman. He doesn’t speak to me like I’m lesser.

I’m such a fool. What even would I tell him?

I imagine confessing. A woman named Lady Karyl paid me to carry a message for the Truthbringers. I don’t know what it says, but I think Lord Alek is the intended recipient. She’s paying me twenty silvers, so it’s definitely something dangerous.

I’d be signing my own death warrant. Especially if Lady Karyl was right that nothing in the note could be traced back to her.

But I consider the man leaning against the work table. I would offer you mercy, he said.

He was talking about the horse, but just now, it feels like he was saying something different.

“What?” says Lord Tycho.

I blink, and my eyes skip away. I was staring.

I swallow. My father is right. My world is nothing but misfortune.

“Nothing.” I thrust a new shoe into the forge, then pull it out as quickly as possible so I won’t have to talk over the pounding of steel against steel.

I don’t have to worry. Lord Tycho says nothing more.

Minutes later, the mare is freshly shod, and I pull myself upright.

“You have my thanks,” he says. “How much?”

“Oh. Ah—ten coppers.”

He gives me a look and pulls two silvers from a pouch at his waist.

I don’t want to take them. It feels dishonest.

Which is laughable.

I take the coins from his palm. “Thank you, my lord.”

He takes the reins and draws them up over the mare’s neck. “Tycho.” He grabs a fistful of mane and swings into the saddle from the ground. “Be well, Jax.”

His feet slip into the stirrups. No spurs.

He clucks to the horse, and she springs into a trot, splashing through the slush.

“Be well,” I say, watching as the gently falling snow gradually turns them invisible. “Tycho.”

I drop onto the stool beside the forge and breathe a sigh. I slip the two coins into my pocket and pull the note from Lady Karyl free. Just looking at it makes my chest tighten again.

The forge is right here. I can end this right now and toss it into the fire. Wash my hands of the whole thing.

Hoofbeats sound in the lane again, and I startle, grabbing a rope to stand. I thrust the note back into my pocket. Is he coming back?

But no. It’s a tall chestnut gelding, coming from the opposite direction, being ridden too fast for the slippery conditions. The horse skids into the yard beside the forge, and the man dismounts before the horse has come to a full stop.

Lord Alek.

I grab my crutches. “My lord—”

He draws a sword and points it right at my throat. I backpedal too quickly, collide with my stool, and sit down hard in the dirt.

His sword follows me the whole way. I try to scramble backward, but I run into the work table.

That blade presses right into my neck, and it must break skin because I feel the sting. I’m afraid to swallow.

“Why were you talking to the King’s Courier?” he demands.

I want to be flippant, but it’s hard when I’m looking death in the face. “His—his horse—lost—lost a shoe.”

He stares down at me, and his blue eyes are narrow and dark in the shadows. The light from the forge nearly makes his red hair glow. He presses on the blade, and I try to shrink back.

“I’ve never—I’ve never seen him before. I didn’t know who he was.”

He regards me silently.

“I’m just a blacksmith,” I say. I shove a hand into my pocket and draw out the note. “Lady Karyl left this for you.”

“Did you tell him about it?”

“No. No! Nothing. No one knows.”

He takes the note. A moment later, he withdraws and sheathes his sword. “If you told him, we’ll know.”

I nod and press a hand to my neck. It comes away sticky with blood, and my breathing shakes.

Alek is a dangerous man.

Yes, Lord Tycho. I see that.

“I’ll be back in three days,” Alek says. “If you’re telling the truth, I’ll have another letter for you to hold. If you’re not …”

I hold up my blood-slick fingers. “I got the message.”

“Good.” He strides away.

My thoughts are so scrambled up that I almost forgot the promised payment. I hate myself, but this isn’t just about me. “Wait,” I call. “If you want my silence, you’re still going to need to pay for it.”

“Sure.” He swings onto the horse and throws a handful of silver into the slush. “Here are your coins.”

Then he’s off, leaving me on my hands and knees in the muddy snow, picking through for each one.

That’s exactly where my father finds me, too, when he comes stumbling into the yard. He’s bigger than Alek, and he might not be armed, but he has the capacity to be every bit as dangerous.

My breath catches. If he sees these coins, he’ll take them, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“What are you doing?” he says, and while he’s not fully slurring, it’s close.

“I dropped the can of nails,” I say. “I was just picking them up.”

He grunts and turns for the house. “Typical misfortune,” he says.

I look out into the darkness of the lane, where Lord Tycho first disappeared, and then Lord Alek. A bit of kindness chased by a bit of cruelty.

My father’s right. Typical.

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