“No—but Da will grow suspicious if I don’t return soon.” I hesitate. “It’ll take me a while to make the walk back.”
His expression darkens, but he nods. “As you say.” He leaps down from the horse. “Here. You ride.”
I inhale to refuse, but there’s a note in his voice like the moment he smacked me in the arm with the arrow and challenged me to shoot.
What are you afraid of, Jax?
My heart is pounding. “Fine.”
“Grab the saddle. Bend your leg. I’ll boost you up there.”
I do what he says, but when I’m facing the horse, I say, “You do know I can’t ride.”
“Well, you couldn’t shoot an hour ago.” Then his hands are on my leg, and suddenly I’m in the air. By some miracle I grab hold of hermane and keep myself from sliding out of the saddle. I take a deep breath and hold it. I feel very high off the ground, and there’s nothing to keep me up here.
“Steady,” he says, and like before, I don’t know if that’s for me or for the mare. But he picks up my crutches, ties them behind the saddle where the quiver was, and takes up the reins. “Just let your legs hang. She won’t take a step wrong.”
I nod. I don’t trust my voice.
And then Mercy starts walking.
My breath catches and Tycho glances up, but I fix my eyes on the trail. I can’t decide if I’m afraid or exhilarated. Probably both. Like shooting the arrows, I’m dreading the moment this ends, because the memory will only be painful, when the experience itself is bringing joy.
It’s a pretty sedate pace, but judging by Tycho’s stride, we’re going twice as fast as I would on foot. As I relax into the rhythmic motion, I realize this is the closest I’m ever going to get to feeling this type of freedom. The thought makes my chest tighten, and I try to breathe around it. We’ve covered half the distance before I’m even aware that Tycho hasn’t said a word; he’s just striding beside the horse easily.
I thought healing the burn was a gift. Or showing me how to shoot arrows. Or the extra coins he paid for Mercy’s shoes.
But this is the gift.This.
I’m going to get emotional in a moment and then I’ll have to throw myself in the forge, so I force myself to talk.
“Were you a soldier?” I ask him. My voice is breathy, and I tell myself to knock it off. “Before you were the King’s Courier?”
“I was,” he says. “For a few years. I started as a recruit, and then a cadet, and then a cadet sergeant.”
He seems young to reach rank, but he doesn’t say this with pride. Just a statement of fact. “Did you like it?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I love the drills, the weapons. I’d match blades and spar from sunup to sundown if I could.” He really would; I can hear it in his voice. He probably would have shot arrows till it was too dark to see.
Then he adds, “The actual soldiering …” Something in his voice darkens. “Not so much. After the Uprising, I was …” He hesitates. “I was glad to have an opportunity to do something else.”
I wonder what that means. Surely he wasn’t afraid. But then I think of Callyn’s father and what they saw, and I’m not sure what to say.
He glances up. “Do you like blacksmithing?”
The question is startling, which is ridiculous. I’m not sure if anyone has ever asked me that. I’ve never known anything else. “I love watching iron take shape. But some of it gets tedious.” I sigh. “I’mforevermaking nails.”
He smiles. “I never really thought about that.”
“I had a carpenter leave an entire jar of nails out in the rain and they all rusted. Of course he needed moreimmediately, so he stood over me the whole time, wanting to know why I couldn’t make them faster.” I roll my eyes and swear. “He’s lucky I didn’t nail his hand to the table.”
Tycho bursts out laughing. It feels like I’ve won a prize. I smile and look away—and my eyes find the forge in the distance.
The sight of it steals the joy from my chest. I’m home. This is over. At least there’s no rhythmic clanging, which must mean my father has given up on work and he’s taking the silvers he got from Tycho to the alehouse. I’ve been spared any further humiliation.
“Is it hard?” says Tycho, and I blink. I’ve completely lost the track of our conversation.
“What?” I say.
