Forging Silver into Stars

I’m surprised Da didn’t shoot me with the crossbow. After he punched me, he reloaded the weapon and pointed it at me for a solid minute. I was so sure he was going to pull the trigger that I laid on the dirty floor of the dim workshop and peered across the piles of iron and half-finished projects to meet the pain-stricken eyes of the king.

“Forgive me,” I said to him. “I didn’t know—”

“Don’t ask him for forgiveness,” my father snapped. “Go in the house, if you can manage that much. Find the shackles under my bed.”

I didn’t move.

“Do it,” said the king, and his voice was strained. “Don’t give him cause to shoot me again.”

So now he’s chained to the forge, which is hot enough that sweat threads his hair. The arrows are still embedded in his skin, and he’s all but panting from the strain of it. The first rays of sunlight have broken over the mountain, and I can see that blood has soaked into his shirt and the leather of his armor. His weapons lie in a pile on the other side of the workshop, well out of reach, courtesy of my father. Swords and daggers and a bow like Tycho’s.

Da left five minutes ago. Presumably to tell whoever he’s working with, because I heard a cheer go up down the lane, near the bakery.

No matter what I think of my father, he’s no fool. He snapped my crutches before he left. “Guard him,” he said.

That’s a joke. I’ve offered the king water, which he refused. He doesn’t trust me. I can see it in his eyes.

I don’t blame him.

Tycho is gone, too. I was surprised how many soldiers seemed to be down the lane. I’m not sure what that means.

I do know Tycho can’t hold them all off. Not without his rings. Maybe not even with them.

And then there’s the matter of my friend. Have the Truthbringers done something to Callyn?

Or did she know all along?

The king shifts his weight and winces. I rise to my knees and move to approach him, but his eyes flash to mine, and I freeze.

Most of Syhl Shallow is afraid of this man, and I’ve heard all the rumors of what he’s capable of. I know there are many people who’d be relieved to see him chained to a forge, powerless. Many of them are apparently down the lane. But all I keep hearing in my head is Tycho saying, He is good and he is just and he will do everything in his power to protect Syhl Shallow and Emberfall. I keep hearing the king’s unyielding voice demanding answers—followed by the emotion in his tone when he asked about the queen and the princess. His wife and daughter.

King Grey might have terrifying magic, but he’s not the sum of all the stories that Callyn and I have heard.

He might be in pain, but his eyes are picking me apart. I wonder what he sees.

“Tycho swore to me that you were not plotting against the throne,” he finally says.

“I wasn’t,” I say. “It was just supposed to be messages. We’re so far from the Crystal City.” I have to fight not to look away. “We were so desperate.”

“You had to know your father was a part of this.”

“I didn’t. Truly.” I frown, though, remembering Lady Karyl. On the very first day, she was looking for Da, but I didn’t think he could be working with the Truthbringers. Not after what happened to Callyn’s father.

But maybe he and I were on opposite sides of the same coin: desperate for silver and not caring how we got it.

You should be grateful. I’ve figured out what you were doing. Who you were helping. I turned it around for us, boy.

Even when he captured King Grey, it had nothing to do with resentment for magic or protecting Syhl Shallow.

It had to do with money.

I should kill you both, he said. They’ll probably give me a reward.

“I should have known,” I say bitterly. The king winces and shifts his weight again, and I glance at his injuries. “Would it help if I pulled the arrows?”

He studies me for a long moment. “I don’t know.” He swallows, and even that looks painful. “I don’t know what power is bound into them. It might make it worse if I can’t heal.” He flexes his wrists, then winces. “Can you unchain me?”

“Da took the keys.” I hesitate. “The links are too thick to cut. I could try to melt the chain using the forge, but it wouldn’t be quick.”

“Do it.”

“It’ll hurt. And if he catches me—”

“Then do it now, before he returns.” His voice doesn’t rise, but there’s a command in his tone that makes me jump and scurry for my tools.

The leg of the forge isn’t close to the opening to the firebox, and the chain isn’t very long. The king has to lever himself backward a few inches, and I tug the chain until his shoulders are twisted to a near inhuman angle. He sounds like he’s breathing through his teeth.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry—”

“This isn’t making it faster, Jax.”

“Yes—yes, Your Majesty.” I manage to get the very edge of the chain over the lip of the forge. “It’s not long enough.”

He tries to rise onto one knee, but his leg won’t support him. Not with an arrow through his thigh. I wrench his arm back another inch, and he makes a sound—then quickly follows it with, “Don’t stop.”

I get a link into the fire, wedged there with my tongs so it’ll get hot enough. I’m so close to the heat that sweat slicks my forearms already, but I don’t dare let go. The pain is almost unbearable, and a gasp escapes my lips.

Then the king says, “When these soldiers come, who will you stand with?” He pauses. “Who will you fight for?”

I don’t know what to say. I never thought it would come to this.

But of course it did. I made a choice then. And I have a choice to make now. No one has ever asked me a question like that. Fear sits like a ball of lead in my stomach—but so does determination.

For the first time, I think I understand the note in Tycho’s voice when he said, The actual soldiering, not so much.

I do know one thing for sure. “I don’t stand with the Truthbringers,” I say. “I stand with Tycho. If he would fight for you, so will I.”

“Tycho risked his position at court for you,” the king says. “He risked his life for you.”

I inwardly flinch, then blink sweat out of my eyes. “I know.” I draw a shaky breath and watch blisters erupt on my fingers where they grip the chain. “I know.”

“Make it worth it.”

I nod. The chain begins to glow red.

“Almost,” I say. “Just another minute.”

“Do you have any soldier training?” the king says, sounding like he’s speaking through clenched teeth. “Can you fight, if it comes to that?”

I’d laugh if it weren’t all so serious. “No. None.” I hesitate. “Well …”

“Tell me.”

The chain turns yellow. I reach for my pincers. “I can shoot. Tycho taught me.” The chain gives, and the king’s arms pull free so quickly that he almost falls over.

My heart is pounding. If my father catches us, he might leave the king alive, but he’ll kill me.

I realize the sound of the cheering is growing louder.

“They’re coming back,” I say.

“Weapons, Jax.” He’s breathing heavily again, but his voice is strong. “Now.”

I have to crawl for them, and I start with the biggest blades. He quickly separates a dagger belt from the weapon, double wraps it around the thigh with the deeper arrow wound, and buckles it tight.

Without warning—without even a moment of hesitation—he jerks the arrow free and swears.

Blood flows down his leg. I stare. “You need—”

“I need more weapons. Throwing blades next.”

Again, I scurry. I carry as many as I can at a time, pinning them to my chest with one hand and crawling with the other.

“Can you heal it?” I say to him on my third pass.

“Not yet.” He looks like his skin has paled a shade. “The bow and arrows next.”

I tug the full quiver over my shoulder, then crawl with the bow in hand. When I hold it out for the king, he shakes his head.

“That,” he says, “is for you.”