“Fine,” he says. “Half now. Lady Karyl will pay you the rest when she returns.”
I gingerly slide the message back into my pocket while he opens a purse at his waist and painstakingly counts out twenty-five silvers.
This time, it’s no surprise at all when he throws them on the ground.
CHAPTER 9
CALLYN
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 allabout 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 imaginewhere, 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, andthatis 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.
