Forging Silver into Stars

Fine metalworking generally isn’t among my top skills. Farmers don’t ask for detailed designs along the blade of a sickle. Even the weapons we create are crafted to be practical, not beautiful. No one needs elegant etchings on a dagger for it to draw blood.

As before, re-creating this seal perfectly is something that requires a lot of practice.

There’s a part of me that just wants to rip the message open. Surely that’s what the recipient would do. They wouldn’t examine the seal too closely.

But if they’re plotting against the king … then maybe they would.

And the wax! Callyn walked into town to the stationers for a few cubes of colored wax, and she’s been trying to re-create the perfect swirls of green and black and silver. But no matter what she combines, the colors mix into sludge that doesn’t look similar at all.

All the while, time ticks away. Without my father here to handle some of the business, I work late into the night trying to keep up with everyone who needs something from the forge. I listen to travelers’ chatter whenever I can. The king will be traveling to Emberfall in a matter of days. The queen is ill and will remain behind with the young princess. The Royal Houses are openly distrustful of magic. The king and queen are at odds. There are whispers of a scandal involving the King’s Courier.

I swallow hard when I hear these words, but I keep my head down and work.

A scandal.

I wish he’d told me what was going on.

I’m sure you’d cross my mind at least once.

Only every waking moment. I think of that bag of silver he left. I imagine myself hiring a carriage to Ironrose Castle. Arriving with soot on my knuckles and a nail pinning my hair in a knot, bearing a potential letter of treason.

And what would happen to Callyn and little Nora? Could I take them with me? Is this enough silver to bring them along?

If we all left, would the Truthbringers come after us? Callyn said that Alek had people watching her. Surely they were watching me too.Are they still? Was it a threat—or was it true? Are they people in Briarlock, or people from the Crystal City?

There are too many questions.

Callyn comes down the lane every morning now, bringing me eggs and meat pies and a good dose of contrition that we both seem to feel. The air between us is still raw, but it helps to have a common goal.

I want to ask how she could trust a man like Alek—but she must not. Not fully. Not if she brought me this letter. Not if we’re doing this.

She probably wants to know how I could trust a man like Tycho, someone whose entire life requires secrecy, someone whose only opportunities to see me are when he happens to be crossing the mountain border on someone else’s command.

By the end of the fifth day, I have a workable replication of the seal itself. I use Callyn’s sludge-wax to practice, and the pattern of stars is identical, at least to my eye. When she arrives on the sixth morning, I show her my results.

She says nothing, just chews on the edge of her lip.

“I don’t think I can get any closer,” I say. “I had to build new tools to create the narrow lines and stars in the upper half. It’s so tiny that it kept getting too hot. I don’t have a small firebox like the fine forges have.”

She still says nothing.

“What?” I demand. “Do you not want to open it now?”

“No,” she says. She pulls the folded parchment from a pocket in her skirts. “I already did.”

The archery competition is on the second day.

Father will be on the fields to observe.

Use your best arrows, and do not miss your target.

“I can’t believe I’ve been burning my fingers for days over this. It’s not exactly an assassination plan.” The message surely isn’t meaningless—why would it be worth so much?—but it definitely doesn’t say anything we could run to the palace about. We couldn’t even take this to the magistrate.

I fold the parchment back together. There’s a dark spot where the wax sat. A clenching in my chest when I consider that we might be killed by Lord Alek or his people for daring to do this.

“What made you open it?” I say quietly.

“I kept trying to re-create the wax mixture, and it wasn’t working. I thought perhaps I could melt a bit of this one. I held it over a steaming pot, and it softened right up.” She pauses. “It might not be a plan, but it’s definitely a time, right? An opportunity?”

“Would Father be the king?”

“Maybe.” She bites at her lip, studying the letter. “Alek told me of a special steel from Iishellasa that can affect magic. Like the rings Lord Tycho wears.”

The ones he doesn’t wear anymore.

“He said the steel can work against magic, too,” she says. She tugs at the pendant under the neckline of her blouson, pulling it free. “He said this was made of the same steel.”

I reach out, running my fingers over the metal. It’s darker than the rings Tycho wears. “Like some kind of ward against it?”

She nods. “Maybe.” Her voice drops, and she closes her fingers around the pendant. “I’ve been wondering if perhaps it kept me and Nora safe during the attack on the palace.”

My eyes flick up to meet hers. “Do you really think that?”

“Maybe.” She reaches out to tap the letter. “Use your best arrows. I think they have weapons that will hurt the king.”

My chest clenches.

“They passed Briarlock a day ago,” Callyn continues. “Did you hear?”

“Who?”

“The king and everyone who’d travel with him.”

“No. I didn’t hear.” I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who I can take this to.

Tycho.

But that’s just as dangerous as it would’ve been when I wanted to take it to him sealed. I don’t even know if I’d be able to make it in time.

Cal sighs, then digs a hand into her pocket. “I brought the original wax. If you’ve made a seal, at least we can put it back together.”

“Yeah.” I stand, take the ball of swirled wax, and move to melt it over the heat of the forge.

But then I stop and unfold the paper against the table. I take a piece of wrapped kohl and rewrite the words on a new slip of parchment.

“What are you doing?” demands Cal.

“I want to make sure I have the exact words.” I hold the wax over the fire, and it begins to melt.

Almost immediately, the colors begin to blend.

“Too much!” Cal says. She pulls the spoon from my hand, then hastily pours it onto the juncture of parchment. It’s a wider splotch of wax than before, and only half bears the swirls of color, but I press the seal into it carefully.

Then we’re done. It’s resealed.

“Does it look close?” she whispers.

Yes. No. Maybe. “I don’t know how closely the nobility examines sealed letters,” I say.

She blows lightly on the wax to cool it, then nods at my scrawling. “What are you going to do with that?”

I hold my breath for a moment. I remember when we first started doing this. We were only planning to pay our taxes. We had no love or hate for the royal family—just a need for silver.

But I’m not naïve enough that I don’t think this is a message plotting to kill the king. It’s a time. A moment of opportunity. This has gone far beyond a few messages that will never affect us.

There’s so much at risk. I have no proof.

But I have a bag of silver next to my bed. A hidden dagger. A good bow and a quiver of arrows.

What are you afraid of?

I look at Cal. “I’m going to take it to Tycho.”

I fill a sack with a few supplies, but I keep it light, because it’s a long way into town to hire passage. I don’t have a dagger belt, so I bury the weapon at the bottom of my bag. The archery bracer buckles onto my forearm like an old friend. The satchel and quiver crisscross my chest securely, followed by the bow across my back.

I remember Tycho buckling into his armor. The way he taught me to break his hold.

I told you the army could use you.

Warmth crawls up my cheeks even though I’m alone. This is a bit of gear. A shred of confidence. I’m no soldier. It shouldn’t matter.

But … it does.

I tuck the silver into my bag with the note, then take hold of my crutches to head into the main room of the house. I’ll need to leave a note beside the forge, though Callyn said she’d try to look out for any customers while I’m gone. I’ll wrap up the meat pies she brought so I can take them with—

My father is sitting at the table.

I choke on my breath and stumble to a stop. I’m so shocked that I nearly drop the crutches.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

“What are you doing here?” I scrape out.

“I told the magistrate that my boy was a cripple and he’d starve without me here.” He takes one of the meat pies Callyn brought, holds it up to his face, and inhales deeply. “I suppose I was wrong.”

My heart is pounding so hard that it hurts. “They—they just let you go?”

“Aren’t you glad to see me?”

He’s sober—which is a relief.

His tone is low and dangerous, which is not.

He rises from the table, and I shove myself back a step involuntarily.

He smiles. “What are you up to, Jax?”

“I’m not up to anything,” I growl.

“You look like you’re going somewhere.”

I inhale to lie—but it’ll be obvious. I am clearly prepared to leave the workshop. “I was heading to town.” I grit my teeth. “I’ll be back soon.”

“What do you need in town?”

“Food.”

I say it quickly. Too quickly, because his eyes narrow. “There’s food here.” He takes a bite of the meat pie.

For an instant, the air hangs with tension between us. I can’t run. He knows I can’t run.

But now I’ve been quiet for too long. It’s too late to lie.

When he makes a move, I’m ready for it. The bow comes over my head, my fingers finding the string with practiced ease. I have an arrow nocked.

He tackles me just as I release the string. A sound bursts from his throat, surprise mixed with pain.

Then we hit the floor. He’s heavy, and he lands on top of me. The wind rushes out of my lungs.

He punches me right in the face. It’s so quick and unexpected that my head snaps to the side.

Maybe next time we should work on how to block a punch instead of shooting arrows. Ah, yes. Next time, Lord Tycho. Next time.

There’s blood on my tongue. My arms are up, but he doesn’t hit me again.

Instead, he’s tugging at my satchel.

It takes too long for the implications of that to catch up with me. “No,” I cry. “No.”

He finds the bag of silver, and his eyes go so wide they look like they’re going to fall out of his head. “Oh, Jax. What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

He grabs hold of the straps across my chest and lifts me slightly to slam me back against the floorboards. “What are you doing?”

I’m bleeding. Aching. Failing.

He finds the note next and swears. “What’s this?” He leans down close, until I can smell his breath. It’s bad enough that I miss the ale. “What kind of misfortune are you bringing to me this time?”

My own breathing is hitching. I don’t feel strong anymore. I was stupid to think I could be anything more than what I was.

“Nothing,” I whisper.

“You’re damned right it’s nothing.” He smacks me on the side of the head and gets up. He’s got the dagger now, too. I didn’t even see him unearth that from the bag. For an instant, I think this is it. He’ll cut my throat or stab me in the chest, and I’ll die right here on the floor.

“Get up,” he snaps. “I’ve been gone for days. There’s work to do.”