Forging Silver into Stars

I don’t sleep at all. I stare at the ceiling for hours. Part of me wants to run down the lane to tell Callyn everything that happened.

Another part wants to keep all of it bottled up inside my chest, to turn each moment around from every angle. Not just the fight with Alek. Everything that happened before.

And everything that happened after.

I keep thinking of the space of time when Tycho’s thumb brushed the blood off my cheek. You risked your life.

But he was dazed and disoriented. Maybe it means nothing. I should’ve tried to keep him here. I’m not entirely sure how I would’ve done that, but there was so much blood. When he climbed aboard his horse, it wasn’t graceful and sure. I have no way of knowing if he made it safely back to the Crystal City. Would Lord Alek have gone after him?

But he was gone, and I can’t chase after a horse. I settled for kicking dirt over the blood in the workshop, then wiped Alek’s dagger clean and hid it under my mattress. I imagine I can feel it through the layers of linen, straw, and feathers. Maybe that’s what’s keeping me awake. This traitorous dagger poking at me with reminders of everything I’ve done wrong.

When my father lumbers into the house after midnight, I let my eyes fall closed. He must stop in my doorway, because I can hear his heavy breath. The scent of ale is thick in the air. I lie in tense silence, wondering if he’s going to wake me.

But no, his footsteps thump through the house, and eventually his door creaks closed.

I stare at the ceiling again and replay every moment.

I wasn’t tricking you. I was tricking your father.

You’re likely stronger than I am.

Silver hell, Jax. Shut up. Shoot. I can close my eyes and hear that one over and over again. I can see the challenge in his eyes.

After Alek stabbed him, I thought I was going to watch Tycho die in the dirt. But he used that magical ring, and then he rolled to his feet so quickly. He faced me with weapons in hand. That easy smile was gone, replaced by a vicious intensity. In an instant, he was a thousand times more terrifying than Lord Alek ever was.

You’re working for him.

I’m not. Not really.

Am I?

I don’t like this feeling. I want to reverse time. I want to gather every piece of silver I’ve “earned,” just so I can give it back.

But for as generous as Tycho was, he’s gone. He showed me how to shoot arrows. He let me ride his horse for a quarter hour. He can’t save the forge. He probably won’t return.

By the time the first spark of light glows at the horizon, I haven’t slept. Another long day of hammering steel beside the forge awaits me. I think of yesterday, shooting arrows in the woods, the air so cold that it made my fingers ache. I remember the first arrow I shot, how Tycho put his hands in the air and whistled like it was some kind of victory. I remember grabbing his wrist to hold the iron in the fire, or the way he touched my cheek, his fingers grazing my hair.

I press my hands into my eyes, then reach for my crutches. I was right. The memory is only going to bring pain.

The steel rim of the forge is ice cold this morning, and I blow on my fingers while I wait for the coals to burn. I head for the far side of the work table and pull my sketch of the seal out from under the pile of random scrap metal and mismatched planks of wood that we keep for minor repairs.

I scowl and crumple the paper. I’m going to throw it into the forge.

But then I notice a curved stretch of wood at the bottom of the pile, thick with years of dust, and I remember my father’s old bow, long since abandoned with the scraps. I move bars of iron and broken spades to get to the bottom, coughing when half of it crashes to the floor and sends a plume of dirt into my face.

It’s surely useless by now, after so long, but I dig through the mess until I can pull it free. The wood is tacky with dirt and grime, and the string is coiled around the shaft. I expect it to be brittle or chewed by mice, but it seems fairly solid.

I rub a thumb against the bow, and beneath the filth, I discover a deep-red stain on the wood. The leather on the grip is dry-rotted, but I have more leather. I glance at the warming forge, waiting for all the iron I’ll feed it today, then back down at the weapon in my hand.

I’m not even sure I remember how to string a bow. Or where the arrows are.

I shift a few more things below the workbench.

The arrows are there, though only four are usable. The others are snapped from the weight of everything we’ve piled on top of them over the years.

Four is better than nothing. Well—the arrowheads are rusted. At least that’s something I can replace, and easily.

I hardly want to think about what I’m doing. I cast a glance at the door that leads into the house, as if my father might appear at any moment. I don’t know what he’d say if he found me out here trying to string a bow. I don’t want to find out.

I fetch a rag and some oil, along with some scraps of leather.

In less than an hour, I have a questionably strung bow, four arrows, and a pounding heart.

It’s still early. Surely the forge can wait another half an hour.

I sling the bow over my shoulder, tuck the arrows under my belt, and take up my crutches.

I don’t go anywhere near as far as we went yesterday, just halfway down the lane toward the bakery. Out of sight from both. The woods have brightened with early sunlight, and my breath eases out of my mouth in a long stream. I try to remember every instruction Tycho offered, from nocking the arrow to drawing my arm back to finding my aim.

I have no idea if this will work. The string might snap, or the arrows might go sideways, or my father might catch me, break the bow in half, and demand that I get back to the forge.

But maybe I don’t want to settle for a pitiful memory.

What are you afraid of, Jax?

Less than I was yesterday.

I brace myself against a frozen tree, draw back the string, and shoot.