I shook my head, my face still warm. “Well, that is, I can’t die. But I can get hurt.”
“Can’t die...” He processed that a moment. “What you need, then, is not to get hurt in the first place. The armory won’t have much to spare, but there’s a fella I know.”
Indeed, the armory was crowded as workers packed supplies here too. It could have been any room in the castle—flagstone floor, high ceilings, dim windows—save for worktables littered with leather-working tools. It was hot from all the activity and out the nearest door was a forge. The distant sound of metal on metal rang like the ticking of a clock.
Jerrald peeked in a barrel and I followed suit. There were scraps of leather in the bottom. “Already getting slim,” he noted.
I didn’t even know I needed armor five minutes ago, but now that Jerrald thought I did, I felt my hackles raise. I needed to get my hands on some before they ran out.
“Oi, Dunham!” Jerrald shouted. He dropped his voice and said, “That’s the master armorer.”
I turned to face a woman with a heart-shaped face. Her black hair was cut short around her ears in heavy layers, as if she’d gotten sick of it and hacked it off. She wore a fitted top that left her arms bare and she had a crate lifted onto one shoulder. Cords of subtle muscle stood out in that arm.
She only addressed Jerrald. “Did you bring that edge burnisher back?”
“No,” Jerrald admitted.
“Then fuck off.” She was already turning.
Jerrald darted around her. “I’ve got someone here who doesn’t have any armor, not a lick.”
Her face softened as her eyes met mine before guarding it again. “The same as many of these folks. The farmgirls and boys are pouring in, most of them with only a rusty scythe and a grandparent’s dented breastplate.”
“This is a special case,” Jerrald insisted. He leaned close. I tilted my head, trying to hear what he didn’t want others to. “She’s a witch. The queen’s own favored one. But her powers won’t protect her from a sharp blade in the stomach.”
The woman dropped the crate and I flinched at both the noise and Jerry’s comment.
“Well, then, a proper witch.” Dunham’s eyebrows went up and she crossed her arms as she appraised me. “Are you a soothsayer?”
I shook my head.
“A bog witch? A spellcaster? One of ‘em potion brewers?”
I shook my head to them all. “I’m actually a witch’s apprentice.”
“And what are your powers?”
I took a breath. “Knowledge of the future...and interdimensional traveling.”
Her eyes bugged slightly, which I hoped meant that she was impressed. “Amelia Dunham,” she said.
“Dottie of Mayfair.”
Jerrald was quick to jump in. “So, do you think you can do something for her?”
“Aye, maybe something small. We can’t have our magical folk at risk. Not when we’re up against a mage.”
“Amelia met a bog witch when she was a child,” Jerrald explained.
Amelia spun me around, taking in my maroon dress as she talked. “Gave me a ripe, red apple that fixed a festering wound. Been trying to make sure no one gets the same ever since.” She pulled the dagger from my side before I could stop her, then gave a hearty laugh. “What’s this wee little knife?” She grew interested in the make of it though, examining the fine details on the scroll that came across the middle of my hand.
Soon enough, Amelia was sizing material of all kinds against me and I thanked Jerrald again for his help.
He gave a small smile under his beard, a sly one. “You can thank me another time. It’s good to have a witch’s apprentice in one’s debt.” Before I could reply, he winked and left.
I would gladly do him a favor—I just hoped he wasn’t expecting me to give him a pendant of invisibility or something.
Handfuls of servants, a stray knight, and others out doing their own business stopped to watch Amelia work on me, providing free comment on the likelihood I’d meet my end on the battlefield.
