“What would be the point?” My fingers tightened around the stone in my hand. “By the time I was thinking clearly after Mother’s death, everyone in the village had turned against me. My friends looked at me in contempt. Widow Penniwell refused to talk to me about ordering a skillet like the one she envied at the tavern, even though I was the smith who had crafted that skillet. Any protest I uttered made them look at me like a child throwing a tantrum.”
“So, you did protest.”
“Not for long. It only made things worse.”
“What about visitors? Whatever is affecting the villagers, it didn’t touch me the first time I went to the smithy.”
“I don’t know. On the rare occasions a visitor has needed a blacksmith, they’ve always spoken to Powell.”
“Powell wasn’t in Skorsa.” Mina’s hand drifted up to press against her sternum. Then she looked at me with bright eyes. “How often does he visit the city?”
“Every three weeks or so.”
“It is a charm,” she said, bouncing up on the balls of her feet. “It must be. He would have to renew the power regularly.”
“What does that have to do with the fact that it didn’t affect you at first?”
“It wasn’t here. If Powell was renewing the charm in Haiwella, then it wasn’t in Skorsa. My thoughts weren’t impacted until he came back.” She frowned. “A charm like that would be highly illegal. Mind-benders are closely watched, but there are always people finding ways around the law.”
“A mind-bending charm?” I hadn’t even considered the possibility. Even suspecting that magic was at play, it sounded far-fetched. Mages who could alter people’s thoughts were rare. I wasn’t even sure if it was because the power naturally occurred less often than others, if they hid, or if various terrible incidents throughout history had led to a culling of that power in the populace. That Powell could find such a mage, and afford to buy a charm and renew it every few weeks over years, sounded impossible.
“It would explain why no one will even entertain the idea that you have any skill. The charm forces them to attribute your work to Powell. They can recognize the skill, just not that you are responsible. It all f—” Mina cut herself off, her gaze clouding. “You do all the blacksmithing for the village, right?”
“Powell hasn’t lifted a hammer in years.”
She pressed her lips together and glanced down at the ring on her finger. “And you are a skilled blacksmith? Not just an amazing goldsmith?”
She wasn’t doubting me, just seeking confirmation, but I almost wished she was. I was used to doubts. But her matter-of-fact assessment of my skill as a goldsmith left me floundering. She had said similar things before. Each time it was a shock, but I could almost ignore her words. This time, I had to respond. “I am competent. Why?”
The look she gave me said she didn’t believe me, and for a wonder I knew that was because she suspected false modesty. But she said nothing about my claim. “Sam told me to go to Master Kiels’s store this morning for a new belt knife. According to him, Powell’s knives don’t hold an edge. But if you made them, Sam should have considered the workmanship fine, even if he didn’t give you credit. It doesn’t fit the pattern.”
I frowned, trying to recall making a knife for Sam. As far as I remembered, I never had. Oh. Because I hadn’t. I laughed. Mina looked at me with the question clear in her eyes. I bit back the laughter enough to talk. “Four years or so ago, Sam bought himself a set of throwing daggers.”
Mina gaped. “Sam wanted throwing daggers?”
I grinned. “He was so excited about getting them he insisted on watching as they were made.”
She understood immediately. “Powell had to make them himself.”
I nodded. “Sam gave up on becoming a deadly assassin—or whatever he had intended—when he never managed to hit anything with them.”
Mina laughed, the sound bright and open. “Sam should have known better. Even if a smith is skilled, a throwing dagger requires the right balance. A blacksmith with no weapons experience would struggle.”
“That probably never occurred to him. He would have known someone in Skorsa had made a usable throwing dagger before, even if he wouldn’t give me the credit.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Why did you make a throwing dagger?”
“Because I was young and my friend wanted one. Sam probably got the idea from Cole, only years later.”
“Boys and knives. I suddenly have a strong suspicion that my brother owns throwing daggers, too.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who just ordered a new knife.”
Her hands landed on her hips, drawing my gaze to the slimness of her waist. “A common belt knife is hardly the same thing.”
Remembering the stone in my hand, I tossed it in the air, trying not to think about the shape of Mina’s body. I cleared my throat. “So. A charm.”
Her hands slid down until her arms were straight at her sides once more. “Yes. We need to report this. The mind-bender behind the charm needs to be stopped.”
