Forging Silver into Stars

Jax is sitting on the stool next to the table where I roll out pastry dough and knead my breads. He’s back to two crutches again, and they rest against the wall. Nora sits on the other side of the room, near the roaring hearth, painting frosting onto the sweetcakes while a pot of stew boils over the fire behind her. I have to keep a close eye on her or else half the frosting will end up in her mouth.

“So what do you think?” Jax says, keeping his voice low so Nora doesn’t overhear. He’s told me about Lady Karyl and the Truthbringers and the promised silvers. His knee is bouncing, and I can’t tell if it’s nervous energy or excited energy.

I sprinkle flour across the smooth wood. I don’t want to waste the stew, but I want to have a few meat pies ready on the off chance anyone comes ringing for supper. “I think you shouldn’t have left the forge if you’ve agreed to do this.”

“I left a note on the door telling this lord where to find me.” He glances at the window, where snow swirls in the air, probably guaranteeing we won’t see another customer today. “She said evening anyway, so I don’t expect him until dark.”

“Well, when I found you in the barn this morning, you said it was dawn when there were still stars in the sky, so—”

“Cal.”

I throw a mound of dough in the middle of the circle of flour, then look at him. That bruise on his jaw is darker—or maybe I can just see it better now. “You know what happened to Da,” I say. “I don’t want to see you at the end of a rope, Jax.”

He steals a bit of dough from the pile and twists it between his fingers. A shadow slides behind his eyes. “Your father didn’t hang.” He pauses. “You’d do this, too. I know you would.”

Yes. I would. I still have nightmares about what happened in the palace, the way the protestors stormed through the gates, dragging me and Nora up the steps. I can still hear the clap of thunder in the cloudless sky, the flare of light blazing through the palace windows. There are dark rumors that say there were Truthbringers among the Queen’s Army, allowing the insurrection to happen. I don’t like to consider my father’s role in the attack—but I don’t like to think of my mother being slaughtered by a magical creature either.

I frown and thrust my hands into the pile, then blow impatiently at a lock of hair that falls into my eyes. “You could be sent to the stone prison.”

“I’m not afraid. Rumor says they don’t even keep a torture master anymore.”

Those same rumors say there’s no need for one because the king’s magic can stop a man’s heart. I sigh and glance across the room just in time to see Nora licking a long band of frosting from a blade. “Nora!” I snap. “You’ll cut your tongue off.”

She makes a face at me and licks the other side.

“You might slice it down the middle and look like a snake,” says Jax. He makes a hissing noise, and she giggles, which makes him smile.

I wish he did that more. It brightens his whole face, stealing away some of his worries.

Nora gets a new knife, and I give her a warning look. She hisses at me, mimicking Jax.

I ignore her and tuck my loose hair behind my ear, then lower my voice again so she can’t eavesdrop. “I’m serious,” I say to him. “You need to be careful.”

“I’m just holding a note. Not launching an attack on the palace.” He takes another small twist of dough, but his knee is still bouncing.

Nervous energy for sure.

But for twenty silvers—I can see why he’s taking the risk. We’ve never seen magic here in Briarlock. The closest we ever came was the book of stories we read as children, about the winged scravers in Iishellasa who could control the wind and ice, or the powerful magesmiths who fled Syhl Shallow only to be eviscerated in Emberfall. The stories said that scravers and magesmiths worked together, their magic combining to create something more powerful. Our magesmith king was said to have kept a scraver on a chain once, but the creature either died or escaped during the final battles with Emberfall. I don’t know anyone who’s ever seen a real one.

Nora still loves those stories, even after what she witnessed during the Uprising. Maybe the scravers seem too otherworldly, too inhuman. She’ll trace the illustrations in our books with her finger. I remember doing the same as a child. They’re beautiful and terrifying, with a body like a human, but with claws and fangs and twilight-gray skin—and wide wings that allow them to take to the sky. “They look like women and men,” Nora will say, and I’ll sigh and reply that men and women don’t have claws and fangs—or wings.

Admittedly, I still find them rather fascinating myself. But it’s not like I’ll ever see one.

These thoughts feel a bit traitorous. A scraver didn’t kill Mother, but it was still a creature of magic summoned to help win a battle. I rub at the old pendant under my shirt.

Either way, the Truthbringers themselves feel like a far-off threat. Most people in Briarlock are doing their best to get through each day, worried about staying warm in the winter or putting enough food on the table. We hear about scandals in the palace, but I can’t summon any outrage about a noble lady losing a diamond during a carriage ride. Political intrigues just aren’t intriguing when I’m trying to make sure Nora has boots that will last through the winter.

But I know what the Truthbringers want: an end to magic in Syhl Shallow. I don’t disagree. And like Jax said, this is just a folded piece of parchment changing hands. It’s not like he’s an assassin.

I must be quiet too long, because Jax flicks a piece of dough at me. “Cal,” he says softly. “Talk to me.”

I flick it right back at him. “Did you get the coins up front?”

He nods. “Half. The person who shows up for the message will pay me the rest.” He thrusts a hand into his pocket. He unfolds his fingers and ten silvers glisten.

I swallow. I’m happy he has a chance at saving the forge—and equally terrified for me and Nora.

Then he drops five onto the wood and nudges them toward me.

I startle and stare at him. “Wait—no. Those are yours.”

“Ours, Cal.” His voice is low and rough, and his eyes hold mine. “You’re my best friend. I’m not going to save the forge and watch you lose your home.”

For a breath of time, this feels like the moment in the barn this morning, when we sat beside each other, sharing our sorrows.

You’re my best friend.

My chest tightens, and I thrust my hands into the dough again. “Thanks, Jax.”

He reaches out and rubs a warm thumb across my cheek, and my breath catches—but he only says, “Clouds above, Cal. You’re getting flour everywhere.”

My cheeks warm, and I have to jerk my eyes away. Nora is licking this knife too. “Nora!”

She rolls her eyes and hisses at me again.

“Girl, you’d think you were five years old.” I shove the pastry dough back into a pile, then stride across the room. I want to snap that we can’t afford to waste ingredients now, but I also don’t want to give her cause to worry. I’ll probably give this batch to Jax anyway, along with some eggs from the barn. I’ve heard the forge clanging into the night lately, and I’m sure that won’t change now that he needs every coin he can get. Guilt is chewing at my insides, and I want to slip the five silvers back into his pocket. Instead I jerk the knife out of Nora’s hand and take away the platter of sweetcakes.

A boot thumps on the step outside, and then the door creaks and sticks before being forced open. The rusted bell above the threshold lets out a reluctant jingle.

A man steps through the opening, and everything about him is so startling that I nearly drop the platter. He’s young, probably close in age to me and Jax, though the similarities end there. He’s dusting snow out of his blond hair, which is short, though not as close-cropped as a soldier. He could be one, though, considering the sword and dagger at his waist and the knife-lined bracers buckled around his forearms. He moves like a soldier, too, as if he’s very aware of the space he takes up in the world, and he’s in control of every inch. But I remember what my mother’s gear used to look like, and on this man, there’s too much fine leather, too many gleaming buckles, too much detailed stitching on the cloak clasped over his shoulder. He has to be a lord, maybe even from one of the Royal Houses. Even the grommets on his laced boots seem to be fashioned from hammered silver.

“Forgive me,” he says, and his voice is rich and cultured, with just the tiniest hint of an accent. He offers a slightly sheepish smile, and his eyes are a warm brown, though I see cunning intelligence in their depths. “I stopped at the tannery and they told me this was the way to the blacksmith, but I only seem to have found your bakery.”

It takes me a moment for all the words to register in my brain.

He’s a lord. Or something close.

Looking for the blacksmith.

Oh. OH.

I jerk my eyes over to Jax, who looks like he’s swallowed his tongue. His eyes are narrowed, his expression completely closed off. His fingers grip the edge of my pastry table so tightly that I can see white around his knuckles.

I wish I could somehow transmit my thoughts to him. Is he reconsidering his actions? It’s one thing to brazenly talk about helping the Truthbringers, but it’s entirely different when you’re looking treason right in the face.

“Jax is the blacksmith!” Nora pipes up cheerfully, and I watch said blacksmith’s fingers tighten even more on my table. “He can take you there,” she prattles on. “It’s right down the end of the lane. You look like a lord. Are you from the Crystal City? We have sweetcakes, too, if you’d like some. I was frosting them before Cal took away—”

“Enough, Nora,” I say. I have to clear my throat, and then I start rambling worse than she was. “I—yes. We do. He is. I mean—the blacksmith. Jax. The forge isn’t far.”

The man offers Nora a kind smile. “Perhaps I’ll take some sweetcakes before I go.” Definitely an accent. I wonder if he’s from Emberfall, though it’s rare for people over the border to be this fluent in Syssalah. When his eyes return to mine, they’ve gone from warm to a little more coolly assessing. Do I sound suspicious? I probably do. My heart is pounding. I suddenly hope Jax has the good sense to toss that note right into the fire and we can forget this whole thing.

“I’m the blacksmith.” Jax’s raspy voice speaks from behind me, and I hear his crutches clomp against the wooden floorboards. “You need something from the forge?”

The man hesitates, and I’m sure he’s seeing what everyone else sees. I wait for him to frown at Jax’s missing foot, or for his gaze to turn pitying, or, worst of all, for him to sneer, and I’m going to have to kick him in the shins.

But none of those things happen. “My horse threw a shoe a few miles outside town,” he says. “I still have a ways to go before nightfall.”

That … is not what I expected him to say. I wait for him to look pointedly at Jax, or ask for a letter, or … something.

Instead, we must look like we’re up to something, because his gaze narrows another fraction. “Have I interrupted—”

The door is thrust open behind him, snow swirling through the opening. Another man comes through so forcefully that the bells above the door seem to chime angrily. This man is taller than the blond lord in front of us, but not much older, with fiery red hair and piercing blue eyes. He’s dressed in fine clothing as well, with just as many weapons. Maybe more.

For an instant, something about him is familiar, but I can’t imagine where I would’ve seen him before. Briarlock doesn’t get a lot of travelers from the Crystal City, especially not nobles, not at this time of year. I’ve never had two lords in the bakery at the same time. I can’t remember the last time I had two in the same month. Their weapons alone would probably fetch enough money to save the bakery and the forge combined.

The new man stops short when he sees the first. A look flickers across his face, almost too quick to catch it. Shock and alarm—followed quickly by disdain.

“Look at that,” he says flatly, his voice full of contempt. “The king’s pet has finally returned.”

The first man looks equally stunned. “Lord Alek.”

“Lord Tycho.” Lord Alek mocks the title—or his accent. Maybe both. “Some of us were beginning to lay bets on whether that foolish prince would keep you in Emberfall.”

Lord Tycho has recovered from his surprise—and now has a hand on the hilt of his sword. “What are you doing here?”

Lord Alek’s eyes narrow, and any mockery drains out of his expression. His hands aren’t far from his weapons either. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Someone was shooting at me in the woods. Was that you?”

Lord Alek smiles, but there’s nothing kind about it. He takes a step forward. “Scared you a bit, did it?”

Tension in the shop doubles. Lord Tycho’s eyes flick to the door, to Jax, to the frosting knife that’s still in my hand. Assessing escape routes and potential casualties. He might not be a soldier, but he definitely trained as one.

I move so Nora is behind me, and I change my grip on the frosting knife. “If the two of you start a sword fight in my bakery, you’ll be scrubbing my pots for a month to make it up to me.”

They both look at me in surprise—but at least those swords stay in their sheaths.

Lord Alek’s eyes stay on my face for a moment too long, until I wonder if he’s going to start trouble with me over that comment.

But then his gaze shifts back to the other man, and he lifts one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Why would I have cause to shoot at you? I have business dealings here in Briarlock. I can’t help it if that forces my path to cross yours.” He gives the other man another disdainful look. “But you don’t have business here. Dallying in your duties?”

Lord Tycho glares at him, and his voice is low and even. “My horse threw a shoe on the way back to the Crystal City. I was looking for the forge.”

“What a happy coincidence! I’m looking for the forge myself. There was a note that I could find the blacksmith here at the bakery.” He glances at Jax. “Would that be you?”

Jax is frozen in place. So am I. I feel like I’ve learned too much and not enough, all at once.

“Yes,” Jax finally says. “My lord.” He glances between the men as if unsure how to proceed.

“Is no one going to buy a sweetcake?” says Nora, peering around my shoulder.

I want to hush her, but it breaks some of the tension. Lord Alek reaches out a hand to clap Lord Tycho on the shoulder. “You were here first. I’m sure the king wants you back quickly. He has enough problems, so I won’t delay you further. I’ll settle up with the blacksmith later.”

Jax swallows, but the man steps back out into the swirling snow.

Most of the tension goes with him, because Lord Tycho takes his hand off the hilt of his sword. “Forgive me,” he says. “I didn’t intend to cause trouble. He … took me by surprise.” He looks at Nora. “Let me go see about my horse, and I’ll return for sweetcakes. I promise.” His gaze shifts to me. “And some stew if you can spare some.”

“It’s for the meat pies,” Nora says. “Cally-cal makes the best.”

“Or stew,” I say hurriedly. “If you’d prefer.”

“I’m not particular. Just hungry.” His eyebrows go up. “Cally-cal?”

“Ah … Cal. Callyn. My lord.”

His eyes are intent on mine, and I’m either going to start blushing or I’m going to shove him out the door. He’s just too intense, too mysterious, too … too many things I don’t understand.

Now Jax is looking at me, and I can’t tell if he looks more amused or more irritated, but somehow it’s both.

“Come along, my lord,” he says dryly. “Let’s see to your horse.”