Forging Silver into Stars

When I was a little girl, I used to dream of magic. Jax and I would read Mother’s books and imagine we could conjure fire or bury our enemies alive. We’d imagine the winged scravers of Iishellasa and debate whether they’d be beautiful or terrifying. They were rumored to control the wind, and one of our favorite stories was about a scraver that called enough ice from the Frozen River to wall off the forest for a hundred years—the way the ice forests of Iishellasa got their name. I used to stare at the stars and wonder at that kind of power, what it would be like to have it at my fingertips.

These memories always feel like a betrayal to my parents. That kind of power only seems to bring pain.

Mother was never directly opposed to magic herself. It just wasn’t present in Syhl Shallow before the king arrived. Maybe in the past, years ago, but not in my lifetime. Our books talk about how the scravers were treaty bound to leave Syhl Shallow, and I’ve heard enough rumors about the one the king used to keep on a chain. Mother was all about serving the queen: being a good soldier, raising strong daughters. Da was all about serving his wife. He was a devoted husband and a doting father. But when Mother died, it seemed like all his devotion needed to find a new direction. He found it in the Truthbringers.

I keep peering at the door or out the window, hoping Jax will appear. It’s been three days since he handed the message to Lord Alek, three days since he came back down the snowy lane with enough blood soaking into the collar of his shirt that Nora went a bit pale when she saw him. The sound of steel against steel has been clanging in his forge from dawn until dusk since then, while Nora and I have been baking and stewing and bickering without any hope of a reprieve.

Until today. Nora hasn’t shut up since dawn, but the forge went mysteriously silent at midday.

Typically, the only time the forge is silent is when Jax is sitting here talking to me.

“Who do you keep looking for?” says Nora. We’re kneading dough together at the table because breads and rolls always sell a bit better in this dreary weather. Most of the snow has melted away, but the sky is overcast, trapping Briarlock in the grip of a damp chill that won’t leave for months. The courtyard looks like a muddy mess, and when I put May and the goats out into their little paddock, even the animals seemed a bit dubious about the weather.

I’ve started another pot of stew so I can have meat pies by dinnertime as well.

“Jax,” I say. “I haven’t heard the forge for hours.”

Lord Alek was due back today. I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve seen the man before. I can’t imagine where, however. I keep thinking of Jax’s wounds, and I wonder if the lord did worse this time.

I knew this was a mistake. I keep hearing Jax’s quiet voice saying, You’re my best friend.

Once I set these loaves to rise, I might need to head down the lane to check on him.

“He’s right there,” Nora chirps, and I snap my head up. She’s right. Outside the window, Jax is working his way down the lane, using only one crutch, which is unlike him. I shove my pile of dough aside and rush for the door.

“Are you all right?” I call.

“Help me in,” he says back, and that is more telling than anything else. Jax never asks for help.

I wipe my hands on my skirts and jog through the mud to his side. His arm goes across my shoulders. There’s soot on his cheeks, but sweat has formed tracks through it. Or tears, but that’s not like Jax at all.

“That feels a lot farther on one crutch,” he says, and his voice sounds more rough and worn than usual.

“What happened to the other one?” I say.

He hesitates. “I hurt my hand.”

I pause and try to peer at the hand hanging limply over my shoulder, but he gives me a tug. “Come on,” he says. “I need to sit down.”

When we get into the bakery, he drops onto a stool beside where Nora is kneading. Without ceremony, he sets his hand on the table and uncurls his fingers slowly.

“Augh!” Nora cries. “Give us some warning next time.”

I smack her on the arm. “Jax,” I breathe. He’s earned dozens of tiny scars from the forge, but nothing like this. The palm of his hand is a deep red, with blisters that are blackened at the edges. A few of his fingers are burned as well. “What happened?”

“Da and I were fighting. I grabbed hold of the forge by accident.” He looks a little pale. “You got that burn from the oven last year. I was hoping you’d have something to help.”

My burn from the oven was barely more than a stripe along the side of my wrist, from where I’d come too close to the roasting racks. It seemed to disappear in a day. Nothing like this.

“I have some salve,” I say decisively, because he’s come here for solutions and I don’t want to let him down. Otherwise, I’m going to go get my ax and go after his father. “I have some muslin, too. We should wrap it.”

He nods.

I fetch some supplies, along with a fresh bowl of cool water. When I try to put his hand in it, he grimaces and pulls away.

“You have to clean it,” I say. “Jax, you’ve got soot everywhere.”

I keep my hand wrapped around his wrist, and after a moment, he allows me to immerse it in the bowl. He swears and his eyes water, and I reevaluate those tracks on his cheeks.

“Nora,” I say. “We’ll need some fresh eggs for the next loaves. While I help Jax, can you see if you can gather any more from the coop?”

“The hens hate me! They always peck my wrists!”

That’s true, but they peck my wrists, too. I inhale to tell her so, but Jax looks at her.

“Please, Nora,” he says.

Maybe it’s because he’s not a sibling, or maybe she can hear the whisper of pain in his voice, but either way, she shuts her mouth and nods.

Once she’s gone, the bakery is so quiet that I can hear his breathing, just a little too fast, with a bit of a tremor to every exhale.

I tear a square of muslin and dip it in the water, then touch it to his face. His eyes lift to meet mine in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re a mess,” I say.

“Lord Alek returned,” he says softly.

I draw a sharp breath and glance at his hand. “Did he do this to you? I knew something must have—”

“No. I told you. I grabbed hold of the forge.”

I still find that hard to believe—but Jax has never lied to me. “Have you seen him before?”

“The day he came here,” he says, then winces.

“No—I mean before that.”

“No.” His eyes search mine. “Why?”

I hesitate. The answer feels like it’s on the edge of my consciousness, but I can’t place it. “I don’t know. Something about him seems familiar.”

“Not to me.” He pauses. “He agreed to pay fifty silvers this time.”

“Fifty!” There will be penalties for asking for that kind of money, and I know Jax is only asking for so much so he can help me as well. It makes me want to give him back the silver that he’s already given me.

Jax nods, then swallows. “I need you to keep it here.” His voice catches. “I had to ask for more. Da took the rest.”

I stroke another line of dirt off his cheek, but I hold his gaze. This feels risky in all the wrong ways. “What’s in these letters?”

“I don’t know.” Jax fishes the folded parchment out of his pocket and tosses it on the table between us. “Even if I could get it open, I’m not sure I could re-create the detail to seal it closed again.”

I study the broad circle of wax, with swirls of the green and black of Syhl Shallow. It features a horse head, a sword, and several deeper stars all entwined, encircled by delicate loops in silver. It’s so intricate that it must be a House sigil of some kind, but I have no idea which one. Or maybe it’s something exclusive to the Truthbringers? I just don’t know.

He sighs disgustedly. “If I had the use of this hand, I could try to forge something close, but now …” His voice trails off.

I dip the muslin in the water again. My eyes shy away from the damage to his hand, magnified by the water now.

“Do you want to know what it says?” I say softly.

“I want to know what’s worth fifty silvers just to hold it.” He pauses. “I accused him of treason, and he all but said he’s trying to protect the queen from magic—”

“You accused that man of treason?” I swear, he’s going to get his head cut off. My eyes skip to his throat, but there are only the marks from a few days ago.

“Yes. And Lord Alek told me that the king was involved with the monster that slaughtered the Syhl Shallow soldiers. That he stole his throne by magic. That the Truthbringers are trying to protect the queen.”

I freeze, but only for a moment. My mother was a part of that slaughter.

I look back at the folded parchment.

Then back at his hand.

Then back at his face.

His hazel eyes are full of shadows. No path seems like the right one. I lift the muslin to his cheek again.

Jax ducks away. “Stop. Cal. I’m fine.”

“Oh. Good. I thought maybe you were suffering.” I pull his mangled hand out of the water. He hisses a breath through his teeth, but I ignore him, tighten my grip on his wrist, and blot the water away.

“You’re a terrible friend,” he mutters.

There’s enough pain in his voice that I ease up. I open the jar of salve and study the wound. “How did this happen?”

“I grabbed hold—”

“I heard that part. What were you fighting about?”

He says nothing.

When I glance up, it’s like the shadows in his eyes have multiplied. His jaw is set.

“It was my own fault,” he says.

Sometimes I don’t know whether I ought to hug him or if he needs a good shake. He probably wouldn’t welcome either. I touch salve to the wound and his breathing hitches again. He’s so tense that the muscled tendons in his forearm are standing out.

“Do you believe what Lord Alek said?” I say quietly. “That the Truthbringers are trying to protect the queen?”

“I don’t know.” He uses his good hand to reach into his pocket, and a moment later a handful of coins jangle onto the table. “I believe we need that to save our homes. It’s not like the queen is going to show up and offer us a pardon.”

Jax’s eyes are intent on mine, and I nod.

The bakery door is thrust open, making the bells ring, and we both jump a mile. I nearly overturn the bowl of water. Half the coins rattle onto the floor.

“It’s all right,” Jax murmurs, but he’s already jamming the parchment back into his pocket. “It’s just Nora.”

She’s chattering away as she comes through the door with a basket over one arm. “The hens hate the cold, you know. They keep pecking my wrists. I could barely get three, if you can believe that.”

Honestly. “Enough about the hens, Nora—”

I break off and choke on my breath. She’s not talking to me. She’s talking to the young man following her through the door.

Lord Tycho.

Jax swears under his breath and begins sweeping coins into a pile. He must knock his injured hand because he sucks in a breath and swears again. A bloom of sweat breaks out on his forehead.

I quickly step in front of him to block Lord Tycho’s view. “My lord,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, but probably sounding like I’m about to commit a crime. “Welcome.”

“Cally-cal was about to make some meat pies,” Nora is chattering, heedless of the tension. “We made fresh pastry just this morning! She makes the best in Briarlock.”

His brown eyes flick to the floor, scattered with silver, and then back up to meet mine. “Is that so?” he says.

“Yes.” I nod like a fool—then shake my head when I realize what I’m agreeing to. “I mean—no. They’re not the best. You startled us. We were just tallying the day’s take.”

“Clouds above!” crows Nora. “Look at all that silver! We made that much today? I thought we only sold a few loaves this morning.”

“Some was left from yesterday.” I drop to a knee to gather the coins. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire. I need to calm down. “I’m not too sure how much.”

Several coins have fallen near Lord Tycho’s boots, and he stoops to pick them up. I hold my breath as he glances at the silver, as if he could possibly know where they came from. But he straightens, then extends a hand.

For an instant, I don’t move, as if I could absolve us both of guilt by refusing to touch them.

“Here,” he says. “They’re yours.”

I quickly swipe them from his palm. “Ah … thank you.” I slip the coins into a pocket of my apron.

Then I’m not sure what to say.

I need to do something. Offer him something. Ask him something. My mouth is as dry as a sack of flour. Of all the people who could walk into the bakery just now, he’s the most terrifying. Lord Alek might have threatened Jax, but Lord Tycho could send us straight to the gallows.

He glances between me and Jax, who’s leaning heavily against my work table, his injured hand clutched against his belly. His eyes narrow slightly. “I feel as though I’ve interrupted again.”

Jax tries to straighten. “No, my lord.” His tone is low and uncertain, undercut by pain. “We’re surprised to see you.”

“I’ve been sent back to Emberfall,” he says. “I stopped here in Briarlock to see if Lord Alek had remained.”

At least this I can answer honestly. My heart keeps pounding. “I haven’t seen him, my lord. Not since the day you both came looking for a blacksmith.”

Jax is silent for a moment, but he adds, “We don’t often see the nobility here.”

Lord Tycho gives him a longer look. “What happened to your arm?”

Jax clutches his hand more tightly against his body, but it must hurt, because a tiny gasp escapes his lips. “A burn from the forge.” He draws a breath through his teeth and glances at me. “Cal was about to tend it for me.”

“Yes!” I say, picking up the thread that Jax has offered. “Perhaps Nora could wrap up anything from the bakery for you, my lord. I can take Jax into the storeroom—”

“A bad burn?” Lord Tycho takes a step closer. “May I see?”

“It’s disgusting,” says Nora, and I pinch her on the arm.

“It is!” she cries.

Lord Tycho glances at her. “I can handle disgusting.” He looks back at Jax. “A burned hand won’t be the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jax stares back at him, and there’s a defiance in his gaze that usually means he’s going to get himself in trouble. A lock of hair has come loose from the knot at the back of his neck to fall across his face, and his eyes seem to have darkened a shade. But he swallows, then extends his hand.

It’s clean now, from the water, and it looks even worse. There’s no soot, but the burn stretches across his palm, all the way down into the muscle. The skin smells sickly sweet, and his fingertips are blistered. Two of his fingers are faintly purple now.

I don’t know how he’s not sitting here sobbing over it. I want to sob and I’m only looking at it.

“Who did this to you?” Lord Tycho says, and his voice has gone very quiet.

“It was an accident.” Jax hesitates. “I grabbed hold of the forge.”

The lord’s eyes flick up. “I’ve never known a blacksmith to grab hold of a forge.”

There’s something alarming in the way he says that. Like he knows there’s more that we’re not saying. My eyes flick to his weapons again, to the royal insignia over his heart.

I glance at Jax. I can’t help it. I don’t know if Alek really is behind this, or if his father was just as cruel as he always is, but I know Jax isn’t going to say a word about either.

But then Nora whispers, “His father did it.”

“Nora!” Jax and I snap at the same time.

Nora looks affronted. “It’s true! He’s horrible to Jax and everyone knows it. You yourself said—”

“Hush!” I reach out to pinch her again. “That’s not your business.”

“It was an accident,” Jax says again, and his voice is tight. “An argument. I lost my footing. That’s all.” He draws a shuddering breath. “So have a good look, my lord.”

He’s being flippant, but Lord Tycho reaches out and takes hold of his wrist anyway. Jax jolts as if stung.

“Steady,” Lord Tycho says, and his voice is low and quiet. “I won’t hurt you.” When Jax doesn’t pull away, he reaches out his free hand to uncurl the blistered fingers. Jax’s breath catches.

“It’s fine,” Jax says, but the tiniest tremor in his voice says it’s not fine. “Cal will wrap it.” A fresh bloom of sweat has broken out on his forehead.

“It will take weeks to heal,” Lord Tycho says. “Can you afford to not work for weeks?”

Jax bristles. “I’ll make do as I can,” he says. “We’re not all from a Royal House in the Crystal City, my lord.”

I feel like I need to pinch him, but Lord Tycho doesn’t look offended. The corner of his mouth turns up in half a smile. “Well, neither am I. Do you fear magic here?”

I automatically press a hand to the pendant hanging under my blouse. “Everyone fears magic,” I whisper.

Lord Tycho glances between me and Jax. “Would you fear it if I said I could heal your hand?”

He says it offhandedly, but I freeze in place. I don’t know if I should laugh in his face or drag Nora away from him.

Jax scoffs. “What difference does it make? There’s no magic here.”

I can’t tell if it’s bravado or belligerence in his tone, but a light sparks in Lord Tycho’s eyes like he’s been offered a dare. “Well,” he says. “There’s a little.”

Then he presses his fingers right into the center of the burn.

Jax swears and throws himself back, but the lord holds fast. Jax isn’t big, but working in the forge has clearly paid off in muscle. He nearly drags them both into the pastry table.

“Just wait,” Lord Tycho says, and his voice is tight with strain. “Just—give it—a moment—”

“Stop!” I shout. I don’t know if this is magic or assault, but I grab a knife from the block with one hand and a heavy steel pan with the other. “Let him go!”

Nora shrieks. “Cally-cal!”

Almost as suddenly, Jax stops fighting. “Stop, Cal. Stop.” He’s breathing hard, his eyes wide and panicked like a spooked horse, but Lord Tycho lets him go and steps back. Jax grips tight to the edge of my pastry table.

It leaves me standing there with a knife in one hand and a skillet in the other. I’m not ready to put them down. Not until I know what just happened. I look warily from Lord Tycho to Jax. “Are you all right?” I say roughly.

“Yes.” His voice is rough and wary, too. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

Lord Tycho is wearing enough weapons to eviscerate all three of us, but his hands lift. “Callyn,” he says evenly. “I didn’t hurt him.”

Nora darts forward to grab Jax’s wrist, examining the skin across his palm. “It’s gone!” she says, and there’s wild awe in her tone. “Jax, it’s gone.”

I glance over. I can’t help it. The injury is gone.

Magic. I feel like I can’t catch my breath.

“What else can you do?” says Nora, and her eyes are so wide and her voice so hushed that I can’t tell if she’s fascinated—or terrified. Maybe both. She lets go of Jax’s hand and takes a step forward. “Can you melt the skin off someone’s bones? Can you start a fire with your eyes? Can you—”

“Nora.” I need to stop my sister before she can get closer. “You’re a magesmith,” I snap at him.

“No,” he says. “The king is the only true magesmith. My rings are Iishellasan steel. They allow me to borrow his magic.”

His hands are still lifted, and I can see the rings, dark steel that encircles three of his fingers.

I don’t know what to do with this information. I remember our books carrying stories of magical artifacts from Iishellasa, but I never realized that meant anyone could wield magic. I had no idea such a thing was possible. “So you just do whatever you want with them?”

“Of course not.” He pauses. “Put the knife down.” Another pause. “Please.”

The please startles me. It’s a bare courtesy that seems to be at odds with the magic he just performed—a courtesy that makes my world seem to tilt on its axis a bit, because he sounds so calm and reasonable, while I’m standing here with a weapon and … and a skillet.

I swallow and slide the knife back into the block, but I can’t seem to convince my hand to let go of the baking pan.

“He healed Jax,” Nora protests, and there’s a note of hope in her voice. “He healed him, Cally-cal. He’s not like the king.”

Lord Tycho’s eyebrows flicker into a frown. “The king would have done the same.”

“The king doesn’t care about Briarlock,” Jax growls. He keeps hold of the pastry table to lever himself a hopping step closer. “You should have warned us.”

“I tried.”

Jax lets go of the table and shoves him right in the chest.

Lord Tycho falls back a step in surprise. His gaze darkens. His hands aren’t up now.

“Jax!” I drop the pan and grab my friend’s arm before he can do anything worse. “He is the King’s Courier,” I hiss. “You’re going to end up swinging from a rope.” I think of those rings, of what happened to my father. My heart thumps. “Or worse.”

But Lord Tycho surprises me. “Not by my order,” he says evenly. “Say what you mean to say.”

“I don’t need your pity,” Jax snaps. His arm is tense under my hand, almost straining against my hold.

“It’s not pity. You wouldn’t have been able to work for months. Maybe not ever.”

Jax flexes his hand, which bears no mark from the burn that existed there a few minutes ago. Even I can’t help the thread of wonder that winds through all my fear. I saw the blisters, the broken skin.

“Fine,” Jax says darkly. “It wasn’t pity. It was a rich lord riding through a small town, throwing some generosity to the poor folk of Briarlock. Maybe our taxes pay for a life of ease in the Crystal City, where you can borrow the king’s magic to solve all your problems, but here, all you’ve done is remind us of what we’ve suffered. Of what we lack.” His voice has grown sharp with disdain. “So forgive me, my lord. You have my thanks.”

Lord Tycho looks like Jax has slapped him. Even Nora is silent.

After a moment, the lord takes a step back. He nods to me and to my sister. “Callyn. Nora. I will have to take you up on the meat pies another time. I need to cross the mountain pass before nightfall.”

I’m frozen in place. Too much has happened. But after a moment of hesitation, Nora grabs hold of her skirt and glances at me before offering him a brief curtsy. “Goodbye, my lord.”

Jax’s arm is still tight under my grip, his eyes locked on Lord Tycho. His hands have curled into fists. He says nothing.

For one long, tense moment, I worry that he’s going to break free of my hold. That he’s going to pick a fight he won’t win.

But finally, Lord Tycho gives him a nod as well. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Be well, Jax.”

Then he turns on his heel and he’s through the door.