I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to settle in here. I’ve never doubted my skills as a blacksmith, but looking at the pristine conditions of the grounds is making me doubt everything. Tycho is waiting, so I hang the strap of the quiver across my chest and slip the crutches under my arms.
Tycho leads me up the steps and through the doorway, and suddenly we’re in a massive room with two long tables. At least a dozen men and women sit at each table, and two serving girls are carrying trays of meats and sliced fruit from another room on the opposite side. A boy of about twelve is feeding logs to a low fire in the hearth on the back wall. Everyone looks bright and clean and well-fed, and I want to walk right back out the door—especially when they spot us and the lively conversation dwindles into nudges and whispers.
My hair is a wild tangle from the journey here, and I want to twist it back into a knot, but I’ve got nothing to use. There’s probably blood and dirt on my face, too. It’s definitely on my hands and armor.
I glance at Tycho. He’s in the same condition, bloodstains and all, though he looks like a warrior returning from battle, while I surely look like . . . ?well, like a poor blacksmith dressed up like a soldier. Half a dozen pairs of eyes snap to my crutches, and then to my missing foot.
One of the serving girls sets down her platter and whispers behind her hand to a young woman seated at the table closest to her. My heart is pounding, and I jerk my eyes away before any warmth can crawl up my neck.
At the other table, a man rises from his seat to approach us. He’s broad-shouldered, taller than my father, with dark eyes set in deeply tanned skin, thick gray hair, and a trim beard. He’s not too far past middle age, but he still looks like the kind of man who could pull a treeout of the ground bare-handed. He’s in trousers and boots and a clean tunic, but his hands are heavily callused, and I recognize the tiny burn scars from working around a forge. This must be Master Garson.
“Tycho!” he cries, and I can immediately tell he’s someone who booms every word he says. He claps Tycho on the shoulder, then launches into a sentence full of words I can barely understand.
While Tycho smiles and responds in kind, I find myself automatically listening to see if Master Garson is slurring. Inhaling to see if he’s the kind of man to down a pint of ale before breakfast. Wondering if he’s going to hold my hand in the forge if he doesn’t trust me to—
As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I tell myself to stop.
This man isn’t my father. I’m not in Briarlock.
Before I can shake off the memories, Master Garson claps me on the shoulder like he did to Tycho, and it makes me jump. I’m glad I have a good grip on my crutches. My fingers tighten anyway.
“Master Jax,” he booms.
Master Jax.I’ve never been called that inanylanguage, and I’m not sure what to make of it. I have to clear my throat so I can speak the few words Idoknow. “Master Garson. Hello. I . . .” I’ve learned what to say when I meet someone, but I’m too tired and too rattled, because my brain goes blank. For a terrified moment, I think I’m going to repeat what Sephran said.
Eventually, I manage, “Thank you?”
Master Garson looks somewhat amused by this, but he nods. “Welcome.”
At my side, Tycho speaks to me in Syssalah. “I told Garson we had to ride hard through the night,” he says. “He knows you need to rest. He’ll have Molly—one of the serving girls—bring a platter of food to your rooms, along with some boiled water so you can wash. The tradesmen will be heading out soon, so it’ll be quiet. You can sleep.”
I wonder if Molly is the one who was whispering about me.Everyone is still staring, so I nod to Master Garson. “Thank you,” I say again, and he blinks, and I realize I’ve said it in Syssalah this time. I grimace and hastily repeat it in Emberish. Then I nod at the others and say it again.
A few nod back and murmur, “Welcome.”
A few look away and go back to eating.
A few exchange glances and mutter. I try to ignore it, but I remember the way the soldiers treated me. Uncertainty has already gathered in my gut.
Master Garson calls across the room to one of the serving girls, presumably Molly. Shewasthe one who whispered about me. I snap my eyes away, trying to keep a scowl off my face.
But she must like Tycho, because she offers him a bright smile and a curtsy, then loads a platter with food. We follow her down a short hallway, my crutches clacking with every step. She’s chattering away, but despite the whispering, her tone is upbeat and cheerful. I think she’s only talking to Tycho until I realize she’s saidMaster Jax, and we’ve stopped in front of a door.
“She says these are to be your rooms,” Tycho clarifies for me.
Rooms.I know boarding houses have long rooms with pallets for sleeping. Maybe this is like that. I wonder if other people are still here, if Tycho means to leave me among strangers.
Molly is staring at me expectantly.
“Sorry,” I say to her in Emberish. That band of panic around my heart goes nowhere. “Thank you?”
She smiles at me, which takes me by surprise. She’s a bit younger than Callyn, I think. Pretty, with fair skin and dark hair wrapped up in twin braids. She glances between us and says something. I expect Tycho to repeat it in Syssalah for me, but he doesn’t. He takes the tray of food and responds in kind, because she nods quickly, bobs a curtsy, and says, “Yes, my lord,” then dashes off.
I want to ask what she said, but Tycho pulls the latch on the door—and it’s not a room full of sleeping pallets at all.
The room beyond is large, with wood-paneled walls and a wide, multicolored tapestry hanging to my left. I immediately spot a small hearth set into the opposite wall, two plush chairs with a low bench between them, and a larger table in the corner. Another door is past the hearth, but it’s closed. Tycho steps past me to place the tray of food on the table, then drops my pack on one of the chairs beside it. I follow him in, and the door closes behind me, but I don’t move beyond that spot.
This space is larger than the main room of the house I left in Briarlock.
