Forging Silver into Stars

Tycho was wrong. He’s been sleeping soundly for hours, his chest rising and falling with each breath. I feel rather certain I could grab hold of those knives and he’d have no idea.

Or maybe not. He surprised me before.

I don’t try. He has many days of travel ahead of him. He should rest.

I, on the other hand, have been awake all night. I’ve all but convinced myself that the instant I fall asleep, I’ll awaken to an empty room full of sunlight. Every time I begin to drift off, my thoughts remind me that he’s here, that he’s real, that I can inhale his scent and taste his skin and feel the beat of his heart.

It’s early, but not too early. The room is dark and cool, but I can see the bare start of light through my shutters. Any other morning, I’d be clanging away beside the forge already, getting a head start on the day’s projects.

Right now, there’s no way I’m moving.

Once day breaks, he’ll be gone. He’ll wake, buckle his armor in place, and ride off on his horse. This may as well have been a dream.

My gaze falls on his fingers, loosely curled against the blanket. I wonder what happened with the king. Tycho is always close-lipped when it comes to royalty, by virtue of his position, I’m sure. Last night was no different.

But he’s always spoken of the king with such devotion. I saw the shadows in his eyes when he confirmed his rings were gone.

Something happened. Especially since he’s returning to Emberfall so quickly. I truly didn’t expect to see him for another week, at least.

Tycho inhales deeply, and his eyes blink open.

For an instant, I’m frozen in place. My chest tightens before I’m ready for the emotion.

But his eyes find mine, and he presses his palm to my cheek. “Jax,” he says, and his voice is soft and low. There’s a tiny edge to his pronunciation of my name, as if his accent is stronger when he first wakes, which makes me smile. But then he says something I can’t understand at all, and I turn my head to kiss the inside of his wrist.

“Unless you need me to shoe a horse,” I say, “I can’t speak much Emberish.”

He startles, then smiles. His voice is rough and worn from sleep, and he rubs at his eyes. “Forgive me,” he says in Syssalah.

I was right: his accent is stronger. It’s silly, but it feels like a secret only I know, and it makes me shiver. “Tell me what you said.”

“I said …” He blushes. “Well.”

I shift closer, lifting up on my elbows to look down at him. “Tell me!”

“I said you’re incredibly demanding in the morning.” His hand finds my cheek again, his thumb tracing over my lip.

I lean closer. “Would you rather tell me what you said last night?”

His hand goes still. “What did I say last night?”

“I have no idea. An accounting of every weapon you carry? A list of all the royal secrets you know? I can say with certainty that shoeing horses never came up.” I trail a finger down his chest and whisper, “You may recall I was rather busy.”

He hisses a breath and catches my hand. His eyes are full of light, and I expect another playful response, but he kisses my fingers and speaks low. “I said you’re magnificent. Exquisite. Flawless. I thanked fate for leading me to your door.”

“Oh,” I say, and my voice catches. I’ve spent so many years hearing that I’m good for nothing more than misfortune, so my heart thumps hard in my chest. “Is that all?”

“Ah … let me think.” He gazes at the ceiling. “I said you’re unexpectedly talented—”

I give him a shove. “You’re a scoundrel.”

“With archery!”

That makes me laugh. I forgot how good it feels to laugh with someone, to share a moment with someone. My chest tightens again, and this time, my eyes feel damp. It’s not just about leaving, it’s about everything that’s happened over the last few months. I’ve been so alone—and I’m about to be again.

On that note, I need to get out of this bed before thoughts of his departure become truly brutal. I kiss his cheek and begin to extricate myself. “I’ll see to our breakfast, my lord.”

He catches me before I can get far. His hands are always so gentle that I forget how strong he is.

“Tycho,” he whispers. “Just Tycho.”

“Just Tycho,” I say dutifully.

His thumbs brush at the skin of my arms, and his voice is husky and low. “Stay.”

You stay.

But I can’t say it. It would hurt him; I know it would. It’s hurting me to think it.

“I’m not risking the queen’s anger for delaying her courier,” I say.

He frowns, thunderclouds rolling into his eyes. I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I try to shift free, and he lets me go. Out near the forge, I hear a light repetitive banging, and I force a smile.

“I think your horse is hungry, too,” I say, reaching for my shirt and my crutches. “I’ll see to Mercy first.”

The workshop is cool in the shadows, but Mercy pricks her ears and whickers to me when I come through the door. Tycho tethered her at the post under the overhang, and I’m not surprised to see he left her with a bucket of water. She paws at the bucket, splashing water everywhere.

“You’re making a mess,” I say lightly. I pull a measure of grain from the barrel we keep for ornery horses or needful travelers, then replace the water bucket. Mercy thrusts her face into the food, then presses her nose against my chest, trailing wet bits of grain down my shirtfront. I rub her neck anyway, peering at her feet, looking to see if the nails seem secure, if the shoes seem worn.

The instant I realize I’m trying to think of a reason to further delay him, I tell myself to knock it off. I turn back for the house.

But then I feel … something. A quick chill that seems to come from nowhere. The hair on the back of my neck stands up.

I turn and look out at the yard in the early morning silence. Shadows hang between the trees, and the grass glistens where dew clings to the blades, but nothing moves. I can’t hear anything over the sound of Mercy rooting for her grain, but I frown and wait.

Nothing.

I sigh and light the forge so it can begin warming for all the work I have waiting.

Once I return to the house, I can sense movement in the bedroom. Tycho must be dressing. Arming. Whatever.

I sigh again.

The cabinets yield biscuits and hard cheese, along with some dried beef. I’m almost hesitant to load them on a platter, because I remember the food we shared in the boarding house, and this seems like a paltry substitute.

There’s still water in the kettle, so I light the stove. When I turn away, he’s right there behind me, and I draw a sharp breath. “Clouds above, you move like an assassin—”

“Get used to it.” And then his lips are on mine, and it’s a good thing he’s not an assassin, because I can’t breathe, I can’t think. One of my crutches hits the floor, but Tycho has a grip on my waist, his hands strong and secure against me. He’s buckled into all of his gear, and again I find leather and steel and weapons in every place my hands seek skin and warmth. But none of that matters because I’m drowning in the taste of his mouth.

This will make it harder, more painful, but right this moment, I don’t care.

Especially when his teeth graze my neck and his hands slip under my shirt to find my waist. Heat has already pooled in my belly, and I’m clinging to his armor.

“Can you stand?” he whispers, and it nearly takes me a full minute to realize he’s asked a question.

“Yeah.” I swallow hard, my head nodding almost without me being aware of it. My heart is racing along in my chest, but I unwind my fingers from the buckles at his shoulder.

“Good,” he says, and then he drops to one knee.

I lose any sense of myself. I should stop him, but his fingers are so warm, and his mouth is so wicked. My fingers twist in his hair, but I have to grab hold of the table. There’s a good chance my knee will give out, but I’m more worried my heart will take flight. Tycho’s hands are firm against my waist, holding me upright, holding me close. My vision fills with stars, and when I cry out, my hands grip tight to his shoulders. He supports my weight like it’s nothing.

He eventually straightens, tugging my clothes back into order as he rises. His hands don’t let go of me, and I realize I dropped the other crutch at some point. My breathing is still shuddering, loud in the space between us. His brown eyes are so intent on mine, seeking, searching. Seeing. No one has ever looked at me like that. No one has ever made me feel like that. Like I’m a reward, not a hindrance.

I blink, and my eyes blur. My chest is tight again.

“Are you all right?” he says softly.

I nod, slowly.

He leans in to kiss me. Lightly, tentatively.

I don’t kiss him back. Instead, I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him tight.

I expect him to sigh, to pull away, to tell me that this was meant to be his goodbye. That he has obligations and he’s already delayed them long enough.

But he doesn’t. His arms are tight at my back, and he holds me for the longest time. He holds me for so long that I rest my cheek against his shoulder and think it would be acceptable for time to stop right this instant, for my world to shrink down to nothing more than this.

Eventually, he speaks, and his voice is very low, very soft, just for me. “I will do my very best to return before your father is released, but it may not be possible.”

I frown and sniff and begin to pull away, but his arms tighten. “Just listen,” he says, and I go still against him.

“I will leave you with silver,” he continues. “If I have not returned by the time he is released, it should be enough to pay for passage to Ironrose Castle—”

I snap my head up. “What?”

He grimaces. “Things are rather tense with the king right now, or I’d hire a carriage this very instant. But I don’t want to leave you with no escape—”

“I can’t—I can’t just come to Ironrose Castle—”

“Sure you could.”

“I don’t even speak the language!”

“Syssalah is much more prevalent in the castle than it ever was before. Prince Rhen himself has gotten rather good. You wouldn’t be at a disadvantage.” His eyes spark with mischief. “I wouldn’t lead off with how much you hate him, however.”

I can’t stop staring at him. I can’t believe we’re even discussing this.

The smile slips off his face. “If you’d like,” he says finally. “You don’t have to.”

“No! I just—I’ve never even left Briarlock.”

His eyebrows go up. “Really! Then I must return to make the journey with you. The mountains are rather spectacular from the other side. And the first events of the Royal Challenge will be quite entertaining.”

My heart is pounding so hard I don’t think it will ever stop.

“Promise you’ll take the silver. Promise you’ll leave if he returns.” He strokes a lock of hair back from my face. “I’ll worry for you while I’m gone.”

I swallow. “You’ll worry?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I’m sure you’ll cross my mind at least once.”

I blush. “I promise.”

He ducks to fetch my crutches, then kisses me. “If I could stay for another day, I would.” Out in the workshop, Mercy knocks at her bucket again, followed by a muffled whicker.

I smile, though it feels a bit watery. “Your horse is ready to leave.”

“Mercy is always impatient.” He takes a step back, and traces a finger down the length of my chin. “Be well, Jax.”

I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I don’t want to watch him leave. “Be well, Tycho.”

His boots barely make a sound on the wooden floor, but I know the sound of the creaking hinges, and my eyes snap open. But the kettle whistles, and I turn to take it off the heat. By the time I make it to the door with one crutch and a cup of tea, he’s gone.

I sigh and return to the forge, stoking the coals. Tycho has left a small bag of silver on top of my tongs, and I feel the weight of it, then sigh and shove it into my pocket. At least I don’t have to worry about my father stealing it.

Passage to Ironrose Castle.

I can’t even imagine.

It’s still early, so I feed an ingot of iron to the forge and wait for it to heat. I’ve been shooting in the mornings, but right now that would make me think too much of the man who just left, so I might as well work.

A foot scrapes on the path, and I look up in surprise.

Callyn.

My heart almost stops in my chest. I remember the last thing I said to her—but I also remember the last things she said to me. Is she coming to have it out with me again? To tell me how amazing the treacherous Lord Alek is?

My face must wear a warning because she stops a short distance away. It feels like a mile.

“Did Lord Tycho visit you last night?” she finally says.

“Yes.” I turn the iron in the forge. “Did Lord Alek visit you?”

I’m being sarcastic, but she nods. “Yes. He did.”

I snap my eyes to hers. “He did?”

“He was worried Tycho was here to cause trouble.”

I hate the spike of worry that’s going to be lodged in my heart until I see him again. “Lord Alek should be more worried about himself.”

“Maybe he’s not, but I am.”

I frown, trying to make sense of that.

She takes advantage of my silence to stride across the distance between us. “Look,” she says in a rush, “I don’t know if Alek is using me or if Tycho is using you—”

“He’s not using me, Cal.”

“—but we’re both wrapped up in whatever is going on, and I don’t think we should be on opposite sides. Alek isn’t telling me anything. Is Tycho telling you anything?”

“He’s not using me, Callyn!” I jerk the iron out of the fire and smack it against the anvil.

“That’s not what I asked you.”

I lift the hammer—then freeze. No, he’s not really telling me anything at all.

“He’s the King’s Courier,” I say. “He’s bound to secrecy, I’m sure.”

“Maybe so.” She pulls a folded slip of parchment out of her skirts. “But we’re not.”

It’s a message, held together with the same green-and-black seal I’ve seen half a dozen times already.

I don’t reach for it. “I don’t want any part of that anymore.”

“Oh! So high and mighty now!” She kicks dirt at me. “You’re the one who started this, Lord Jax.”

I cannot believe she just did that. I scoop up a handful of dirt and fling it at her like we’re six years old and arguing over the last sweetcake. “To save the forge! To save your bakery! I didn’t shove him under your skirts.”

She flushes.

Oh. I was teasing. I didn’t realize she’d actually done that.

I grimace. “Sorry, Cal. I didn’t know.”

“Forget it.” She turns away.

UGH.

“Stop,” I say. “Just … what do you want me to do with that? Do you need me to hold it?”

She stops, but for a moment, I don’t think she’s going to face me. Finally, an eternity later, she turns around. “No.”

“Then what?”

“Do you still think you can re-create the seal?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

She lifts the note. “I think it’s time we figure out what’s really going on.”