Nora gets a new knife, and I give her a warning look. She hisses at me, mimicking Jax.
I ignore her and tuck my loose hair behind my ear, then lower my voice again so she can’t eavesdrop. “I’m serious,” I say to him. “You need to be careful.”
“I’m just holding a note. Not launching an attack on the palace.” He takes another small twist of dough, but his knee is still bouncing.
Nervous energyfor sure.
But for twenty silvers—I can see why he’s taking the risk. We’ve never seen magic here in Briarlock. The closest we ever came was the book of stories we read as children, about the winged scravers in Iishellasa who could control the wind and ice, or the powerful magesmiths who fled Syhl Shallow only to be eviscerated in Emberfall. The stories said that scravers and magesmiths worked together, their magic combining to create something more powerful. Our magesmith king was said to have kept a scraver on a chain once, but the creature either died or escaped during the final battles with Emberfall. I don’t know anyone who’s ever seen a real one.
Nora still loves those stories, even after what she witnessed during the Uprising. Maybe the scravers seem too otherworldly, too inhuman. She’ll trace the illustrations in our books with her finger. I remember doing the same as a child. They’re beautiful and terrifying, with a body like a human, but with claws and fangs and twilight-gray skin—and wide wings that allow them to take to the sky. “They look like women and men,” Nora will say, and I’ll sigh and reply that men and women don’t have claws and fangs—orwings.
Admittedly, I still find them rather fascinating myself. But it’s not like I’ll ever see one.
These thoughts feel a bit traitorous. A scraver didn’t kill Mother, but it was still a creature of magic summoned to help win a battle. I rub at the old pendant under my shirt.
Either way, the Truthbringers themselves feel like a far-off threat. Most people in Briarlock are doing their best to get through each day, worried about staying warm in the winter or putting enough food on the table. We hear about scandals in the palace, but I can’t summon any outrage about a noble lady losing a diamond during a carriage ride. Political intrigues just aren’t intriguing when I’m trying to make sure Nora has boots that will last through the winter.
But I know what the Truthbringers want: an end to magic in Syhl Shallow. I don’t disagree. And like Jax said, this is just a folded piece of parchment changing hands. It’s not like he’s an assassin.
I must be quiet too long, because Jax flicks a piece of dough at me. “Cal,” he says softly. “Talk to me.”
I flick it right back at him. “Did you get the coins up front?”
He nods. “Half. The person who shows up for the message will pay me the rest.” He thrusts a hand into his pocket. He unfolds his fingers and ten silvers glisten.
I swallow. I’m happy he has a chance at saving the forge—and equally terrified for me and Nora.
Then he drops five onto the wood and nudges them toward me.
I startle and stare at him. “Wait—no. Those are yours.”
“Ours, Cal.” His voice is low and rough, and his eyes hold mine. “You’re my best friend. I’m not going to save the forge and watch you lose your home.”
For a breath of time, this feels like the moment in the barn this morning, when we sat beside each other, sharing our sorrows.
You’re my best friend.
My chest tightens, and I thrust my hands into the dough again. “Thanks, Jax.”
He reaches out and rubs a warm thumb across my cheek, and my breath catches—but he only says, “Clouds above, Cal. You’re getting flour everywhere.”
My cheeks warm, and I have to jerk my eyes away. Nora is licking this knife too. “Nora!”
She rolls her eyes and hisses at me again.
“Girl, you’d think you were five years old.” I shove the pastry dough back into a pile, then stride across the room. I want to snap that we can’t afford to waste ingredients now, but I also don’t want to give her cause to worry. I’ll probably give this batch to Jax anyway, along with some eggs from the barn. I’ve heard the forge clanging into the night lately, and I’m sure that won’t change now that he needs every coin he can get. Guilt is chewing at my insides, and I want to slip the five silvers back into his pocket. Instead I jerk the knife out of Nora’s hand and take away the platter of sweetcakes.
A boot thumps on the step outside, and then the door creaks and sticks before being forced open. The rusted bell above the threshold lets out a reluctant jingle.
A man steps through the opening, and everything about him is so startling that I nearly drop the platter. He’s young, probably close in age to me and Jax, though the similarities end there. He’s dusting snow out of his blond hair, which is short, though not as close-cropped as a soldier. He could be one, though, considering the sword and dagger at his waist and the knife-lined bracers buckled around his forearms. He moves like a soldier, too, as if he’s very aware of the space he takes up in the world, and he’s in control of every inch. But I remember what my mother’s gear used to look like, and on this man, there’s too much fine leather, too many gleaming buckles, too much detailed stitching on the cloak clasped over his shoulder. He has to be a lord, maybe even fromone of the Royal Houses. Even the grommets on his laced boots seem to be fashioned from hammered silver.
“Forgive me,” he says, and his voice is rich and cultured, with just the tiniest hint of an accent. He offers a slightly sheepish smile, and his eyes are a warm brown, though I see cunning intelligence in their depths. “I stopped at the tannery and they told me this was the way to the blacksmith, but I only seem to have found your bakery.”
It takes me a moment for all the words to register in my brain.
He’s a lord. Or something close.
Looking for the blacksmith.
