Master Garson seems jovial enough, but he’s big and loud, and it makes me wary. The morning after Tycho leaves, he claps me on the shoulder and booms, “Master Jax! Are you well?”
I know what he’s asking, and I know how to respond, but I’m overwhelmed so the words don’t quickly come to mind. I nod brusquely and don’t say anything—and then I completely miss what he says next, because I’m too worried he’ll think I’m addled and incompetent and he’ll start treating me the way my father did.
Garson must be as flustered by the language barrier as I am, because his smile falters, and he simply gives me a nod in return and leaves me alone.
Molly and Lola aren’t unfriendly, but the dining room is often crowded and loud at mealtimes, and they don’t have time to struggle with my words. No one else seems willing to make an effort, and thereare just as many unfriendly glances as there are curious ones, so I keep to myself and eat whatever is put in front of me.
One morning Molly comes to the table with a serving platter full of small, glistening muffins that smell like lemons and honey. She places one beside each person, until she gets to me. Instead of one muffin, I get two, and she bumps my shoulder with her hip.
When I look up in surprise, she smiles. “Good . . . ?morning . . . ? Master . . . Jax.”
She said the words in Emberish very slowly, with gentle emphasis, so I say them back the same way, half teasing. “Good . . . ?morning . . . ?Molly.”
Her smile widens, and she says a word I don’t understand, then playfully swats me on the shoulder before she moves away.
I laugh under my breath, because it reminds me of Callyn, and I’m struck by an unexpected wave of homesickness. Across the table, one of the other forge workers says, “Hmph.” Another man glares at me from the other side of the room, and he mutters something to Molly when she approaches his table.
I lose the smile and eat a muffin.
At least I know how to work with horses. I brought my tools from Briarlock, so I carry them with me to the forge each morning. There are nicer ones here, but I can’t quite seem to let go of the few familiar things that aremine: tongs and pincers and a hammer I forged myself years ago, before Da was so terrible. I haven’t seen any of the guards or soldiers I know, but I quickly learn that there are always armored men and women waiting, their horses stamping at flies, ready for new shoes. Some are bored, some are impatient, few are friendly.
The air is different here, too, warm and more humid, making the heat near the forges less bearable than it was in Briarlock. It rains for days before the weather turns overcast, bringing a cloying heat that’s no better. The constant downpour turned everything to mud, pulling horseshoes and rusting old iron. I pin my hair in a knot like I used to,but strands stick to my neck until I really do have half a mind to cut it all off. It’s only late spring, so I dread what summer will bring. By midday each day, tempers are often short, and the armored women and men are always more terse.
The worst, however, are the soldiers who clearly hate Syhl Shallow.
At first, I can’t be sure of the animosity, mostly because I don’t understand what they’re saying. I know several Emberish terms from when Da and I used to help travelers. Words likelost nailorloose shoeorlame. I don’t know words liketrashortraitororscum.
I just recognize the tone.
Especially when they do things when my back is turned, like moving my crutches or knocking my tools into the dirt. Sometimes they goose the horses when I’m filing or hammering, and the animals will kick out or stumble sideways—and I’ll end up on the ground. Once I catch a hoof in the hip, and it hurts so much that I swear and tears burn in my eyes, but I’m not givinganyof these people the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
Tycho once told me about the prejudices he faced on the other side of the border.There are many who would hate the king, but they cannot do so openly. They can hatemewithout provocation.
Here in Emberfall, they can clearly hatemejust as much.
By the end of the fifth day, I’m hot and surly and muttering under my breath. The sun is finally shining, but every living creature is sweating and sticky, and biting flies seem to be everywhere. I’m also a lot slower at my tasks than I’m used to. Back in Briarlock, I had ropes and stools around the forge to make my life easier, but Master Garson doesn’t understand me, and I’ll set myself on fire before I ask the prince for anything. Everything seems to take twice as long as it should, and every muscle aches from compensating in ways I’m not used to. I’ve been so slow that I skip lunch each day to catch up, and hunger pulls at my belly on top of everything else.
It doesn’t help that the heavily armored soldiers leading horses through the forge are just as sullen and snappish. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were spoiling for a fight.
If I get one more shove in the arm or jab in the shoulder, they’re going to find one.
I finish shoeing a horse, and the soldier leading it spits at the dirt in front of me.
“Asshole,” I growl under my breath, making use of one of the words I’ve learned.
He whips around, and I have no idea what he says, but it’s clear he heard me saysomething. He’s twice my size and easily thirty years old, so I’m probably insane to be provoking him, but I don’t care anymore.
I tilt my head and look at him like I’m confused and stupid. “Be . . . ? well, sir?” I say in my heavily accented Emberish.
He glares at me for a long moment, but someone calls from outside the forge, and he snorts, then spits at the ground again.
I sigh and drop onto my anvil for a moment, then run a sweaty forearm across my face. It doesn’t make anything better. Surely there can’t be too many more horses.
Hoofbeats clop nearby, and I sigh again, hearing another soldier’s voice. Before I can attempt to translate, before I can evenlook up, an arrow pokes me right in the shoulder.
That’s it.My hand whips out to grab hold, and I jerk myself upright. My free hand forms a fist, ready to swing. “Enough!” I yell.
The horse shies, its hip colliding with a post and knocking a broom to the ground. The soldier has a tight grip on the reins, so the animal settles, blowing hard, pawing at the ground. Nearby blacksmiths look over. So do some of the guards. They might not know what I said, but my anger is clear.
