Forging Silver into Stars

Lord Tycho is mocking me. Surely.

But he doesn’t look like it. He looks like he’s waiting for an answer. My eyes flick to the sword at his waist, to the knives at his wrists, and finally to the bow on his shoulder. I can’t use a sword—even I know the very basis is footwork—and I doubt I could hold my balance to shoot an arrow. My heart is beating at a rapid clip, but I narrow my eyes, ready to refuse.

Before I can, he jerks the bow off his shoulder and holds it out. “Here. Hold this.”

“I—yes, my lord.” My hand closes on the cold wood.

He cuts me a wry glance. “Tycho.” He tethers Mercy to a tree and feeds her another apple tart. Before he turns back, he unbuckles the quiver of arrows from behind the saddle and loops it over his shoulder.

I watch him dubiously. This would be a lot of effort for ridicule.

He pulls the arrow out of his sword belt and holds out a hand for the bow. “When Grey first taught me to fight,” he says, “one of the first things he did was ask what I was afraid of. It’s the worst question in the world, and he wouldn’t let me get away from it. I’ll never forget it.” He lowers his voice to imitate someone more stoic and unyielding. “ ‘No, Tycho, speak your fears. You cannot challenge them if you cannot even voice them.’ ” He rolls his eyes. “But he was right. He usually is.”

I’m staring at him. “Are you talking about the king?”

“Yes,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Here. Watch.” He lifts the bow, nocks an arrow, and draws back the string. “Keep your arm level. Draw back and release.” The arrow flies off the string and cracks into a tree thirty yards away.

Then he looks at me. “What are you afraid of, Jax?”

I’m afraid I’m about to make a fool of myself. My cheeks are already warm. “That is the worst question in the world.”

“Right?” He doesn’t make me answer, he just holds out the bow. My fingers tighten on my crutches uncertainly, but he shrugs and glances behind me. “Brace against a tree.”

This feels awkward, but I lever myself backward a few steps until I’m against a narrow trunk, snow trickling down my neck when my cloak tugs a bit loose. But I drop the crutches and take the bow. I’ve tried archery before, when I was a boy, my father explaining the movements. But it was years ago, long before I got hurt, and everything feels foreign. I try to mimic the movements, slipping an arrow onto the string and drawing it back, letting the shaft rest along the shelf.

“More,” he says. “Don’t be afraid to put some strength into it.”

I draw it back another inch. It’ll be a miracle if the arrow doesn’t fall off the string. “I’ll never be able to shoot as far as you did.”

“Why? I’ve seen you swing a hammer. You’re likely stronger than I am.”

I almost drop everything right there. “I doubt that.” But I draw the bow back another inch, and before I have a chance to hesitate—or even think about something like aim—I let go. The arrow shoots off the string with more power than I expect, and I’m glad for the tree at my back. But he was right: it soars past the tree he struck, going so far down the path that I have no idea where it lands.

Lord Tycho throws his hands up and whistles. “See? I told you.” He pulls another arrow from the quiver.

“I didn’t hit anything.” But there’s joy in his voice, so it lights a spark of joy in my chest, too.

“Who cares? Here.”

I take another arrow and nock it on the string again. I blow a lock of hair out of my eyes and try to aim this time, focusing on the same tree he hit. It’s a broad target, with a wide trunk. I take a breath and let it fly.

This arrow shears off some of the bark but sails past the tree.

“Even better.” He pulls another arrow out of the quiver. “Soon I’ll have to worry about you putting an arrow in my back.”

The praise stokes the warmth in my chest—but it’s a reminder of who he is and why he’s here. He’s this beautiful, strong, skilled nobleman, and I’m … well, I’m me. I frown. “My lord—I shouldn’t—”

“Silver hell, Jax.” He whacks me on the arm with the arrow. “Shut up. Shoot.”

“Ow. Fine.” This somehow feels like bickering with Cal.

But also not at all like bickering with Cal.

This time, the arrow cracks into the trunk six inches below the one he shot, just barely sticking. But it’s there. I’m a little breathless, staring.

Lord Tycho—no, just Tycho—grins. “Do it again.”

I should refuse. This isn’t right. I have duties—and so does he, I’m sure.

But this is also the first time I’ve felt a flare of … of challenge from someone, especially another young man. The first time in a long while that I’ve felt a glimmer of pride, too. Is this some kind of militaristic camaraderie? Is this what I’ve missed by not becoming a soldier?

Or is this more?

I shoot another—and then another, until the quiver is nearly empty. Many of my arrows flew past the tree, but some did not. At least half a dozen are buried in the trunk near the first one Tycho shot.

“Hold on,” Tycho says. “I’ll fetch them. At least the ones I can find.” Without waiting for an answer, he swings aboard Mercy and she lopes down the path.

I stare after him, bemused. And possibly a bit fascinated. I can’t tell if it’s him or if it’s … all of this. My fingers have gone a bit numb from the cold, and my leg is stiff from bracing against the tree for so long, but I’d stand here all night if it meant this feeling in my chest wouldn’t dissipate.

But I can’t, and it will. Ultimately, this won’t be a fond memory. It’ll serve as a reminder of everything I lack. The thought makes me frown. I get my crutches underneath me again and straighten.

Tycho is already loping back, the quiver mostly full again. When he sees that I’ve moved away from the tree, he looks startled. “I know you’re not bored of shooting.”

“No—but Da will grow suspicious if I don’t return soon.” I hesitate. “It’ll take me a while to make the walk back.”

His expression darkens, but he nods. “As you say.” He leaps down from the horse. “Here. You ride.”

I inhale to refuse, but there’s a note in his voice like the moment he smacked me in the arm with the arrow and challenged me to shoot.

What are you afraid of, Jax?

My heart is pounding. “Fine.”

“Grab the saddle. Bend your leg. I’ll boost you up there.”

I do what he says, but when I’m facing the horse, I say, “You do know I can’t ride.”

“Well, you couldn’t shoot an hour ago.” Then his hands are on my leg, and suddenly I’m in the air. By some miracle I grab hold of her mane and keep myself from sliding out of the saddle. I take a deep breath and hold it. I feel very high off the ground, and there’s nothing to keep me up here.

“Steady,” he says, and like before, I don’t know if that’s for me or for the mare. But he picks up my crutches, ties them behind the saddle where the quiver was, and takes up the reins. “Just let your legs hang. She won’t take a step wrong.”

I nod. I don’t trust my voice.

And then Mercy starts walking.

My breath catches and Tycho glances up, but I fix my eyes on the trail. I can’t decide if I’m afraid or exhilarated. Probably both. Like shooting the arrows, I’m dreading the moment this ends, because the memory will only be painful, when the experience itself is bringing joy.

It’s a pretty sedate pace, but judging by Tycho’s stride, we’re going twice as fast as I would on foot. As I relax into the rhythmic motion, I realize this is the closest I’m ever going to get to feeling this type of freedom. The thought makes my chest tighten, and I try to breathe around it. We’ve covered half the distance before I’m even aware that Tycho hasn’t said a word; he’s just striding beside the horse easily.

I thought healing the burn was a gift. Or showing me how to shoot arrows. Or the extra coins he paid for Mercy’s shoes.

But this is the gift. This.

I’m going to get emotional in a moment and then I’ll have to throw myself in the forge, so I force myself to talk.

“Were you a soldier?” I ask him. My voice is breathy, and I tell myself to knock it off. “Before you were the King’s Courier?”

“I was,” he says. “For a few years. I started as a recruit, and then a cadet, and then a cadet sergeant.”

He seems young to reach rank, but he doesn’t say this with pride. Just a statement of fact. “Did you like it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I love the drills, the weapons. I’d match blades and spar from sunup to sundown if I could.” He really would; I can hear it in his voice. He probably would have shot arrows till it was too dark to see.

Then he adds, “The actual soldiering …” Something in his voice darkens. “Not so much. After the Uprising, I was …” He hesitates. “I was glad to have an opportunity to do something else.”

I wonder what that means. Surely he wasn’t afraid. But then I think of Callyn’s father and what they saw, and I’m not sure what to say.

He glances up. “Do you like blacksmithing?”

The question is startling, which is ridiculous. I’m not sure if anyone has ever asked me that. I’ve never known anything else. “I love watching iron take shape. But some of it gets tedious.” I sigh. “I’m forever making nails.”

He smiles. “I never really thought about that.”

“I had a carpenter leave an entire jar of nails out in the rain and they all rusted. Of course he needed more immediately, so he stood over me the whole time, wanting to know why I couldn’t make them faster.” I roll my eyes and swear. “He’s lucky I didn’t nail his hand to the table.”

Tycho bursts out laughing. It feels like I’ve won a prize. I smile and look away—and my eyes find the forge in the distance.

The sight of it steals the joy from my chest. I’m home. This is over. At least there’s no rhythmic clanging, which must mean my father has given up on work and he’s taking the silvers he got from Tycho to the alehouse. I’ve been spared any further humiliation.

“Is it hard?” says Tycho, and I blink. I’ve completely lost the track of our conversation.

“What?” I say.

“Making nails?”

“Oh. No. Rather quick, actually.” I cut him a narrow glance, then offer half a smile as I mimic his faint accent. “Want to learn?”

My father must have been gone for a while, because the flames in the forge have cooled to nothing. I strike a match to light it, very aware of the way the shadows skip along the walls of the workshop, turning Tycho’s hair to gold and making his weapons gleam. I was mostly teasing with my offer, but now he’s leaning against the table, waiting, while I’m sitting on a stool, fidgeting with my tools.

Well—I was partly teasing.

I inwardly sigh. If I’m being honest with myself, I wasn’t teasing at all.

I glance over. “I’m sure you have duties you should be attending to.”

He winces a little. “I’ll return to the Crystal City by tonight. I carry nothing of urgency this time.” He pauses. “I’m sure news hasn’t made it to Briarlock, but the queen intends to host a competition with Emberfall.”

I nod without thinking. “I’ve heard a bit about that.”

His eyebrows go up. “Really. Then word has spread quickly.”

I almost freeze. I forgot that I heard about the Royal Challenge from Lady Karyl.

Tycho and I spent an hour in the woods shooting arrows, and somehow I forgot that he’s an attendant to the king and queen, and I’m a poor blacksmith holding a note of treason in his pocket.

I’m such a fool.

I swallow, then shrug and poke at the forge. “We see a lot of lost horseshoes and broken carriages this time of year. Travelers always want to talk.”

“I’m sure.” He says this lightly, without a hint of suspicion. I feel guilty anyway.

The forge has begun to glow, but it’s nowhere near red enough to heat iron, so I keep my eyes focused ahead and wish I had something to say. He’s quiet, too, but I can feel the weight of his gaze, and I’m suddenly self-conscious.

“I sense I’ve made you uncomfortable again,” he says.

“Oh, now?” I say. “Not when you were whacking me with an arrow?”

“Yes,” he says. “Now.”

I’m not sure what to say.

He’s studying me. “Is it the magic?”

I look up in surprise. “What? No.”

“Because it clearly unsettled your friend.”

I frown. “Callyn’s family has a bad history with magic.”

“And you?”

I shake my head. Maybe I’m being disloyal to Callyn, but it’s not the magic.

He frowns. “Do I make you nervous, Jax?”

Yes. For a thousand different reasons. But I don’t say that.

He kicks at a stool near me, beside the forge, and says, “May I sit?”

My heart will never settle. “Sure.”

He drops to sit beside me. “I spoke true earlier. When I came up the lane with Callyn’s apple tarts, I really was just going to apologize and leave the food.” He shrugs a little. “But … but then I saw your father.”

I go very still.

“No!” Tycho says sharply. “I’m not sitting here saying I pity you. Silver hell, Jax.” He makes a disgusted noise. “I should likely leave you in peace.”

“You were going to leave me in peace. I offered a lesson.”

That makes him smile, but only for a moment. His eyes are on the forge, and his expression is serious, firelight bouncing off his cheeks. “I wasn’t born to privilege,” he says slowly. “My father was a drunk who lost everything over a game of cards. My family suffered. Grey—Grey has been like a brother to me. A mentor. A friend. He taught me how to defend myself when …” He hesitates. “When I needed to know how. And I love Lia Mara like a sister. My friends in the palace are the only family I know, but—” He swears and breaks off. “Forget it. I’m not even sure what I’m hoping to say.”

I take my tongs and shove at the coals in the forge, then hold them his way. “Here,” I say quietly. “Take one of those ingots of iron and bury it in the fire.”

He does as I say, but I grab his wrist before he pulls the tongs out, leaving the bar there. “Don’t let it go. We need to watch the color.”

His wrist goes tense under my hand, which takes me by surprise. But he keeps hold of the tongs, and after a moment, he relaxes. I should probably let go of him.

But I don’t. I chance a glance up.

Instead of looking at the forge, he’s looking at me. This isn’t just militaristic camaraderie.

Ah, this memory is definitely going to hurt.

“I do have duties,” he says. “Responsibilities. Reasons for being here. But I’ve spent so much time as a soldier, so much time at court. I’ve done … so many things.” He hesitates, flexing his hand, making the firelight glint dully on his rings. “I have a bit of magic, and people fear it. I have a bit of silver, and people think I’m a spoiled noble. That day I healed your hand … I thought you and Callyn were up to something. I didn’t … I didn’t realize that I’d grown so far from who I once was. That I would be seen as the type of person who’d drag a blacksmith into the woods to beat him senseless over a few honestly spoken words.” He looks at me. “I didn’t realize that I almost forgot what it was like to just be … Tycho.”

My breath catches. I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure what I want to say.

Either way, I don’t get the chance, because Lord Alek chooses that exact moment to ride up the lane.