The evenings are mild, just cold enough to need a single blanket. Temra and I sleep under our own tent. Petrik has a tent. Kellyn prefers to sleep by the fire, the tall trees keeping the rain off him.
I’ve always been a poor sleeper. It often takes me hours to find oblivion, my mind unable to stop thinking about all the things that are troubling me. And now that I’m on the ground, with only a thin bedroll between me and the dirt, it’s even more difficult. I toss and turn, unable to get comfortable.
The nights are really getting to me, and this morning, a sleep-deprivation-induced headache pounds at my temples. All I want is my house. My bed. My forge. My blankets. My room.
But I can never return to any of it.
Temra and the mercenary appear perfectly rested. Petrik and I seem to be the only ones affected by sleeping outdoors.
“I could carry your pack for you today,” Temra offers to Petrik.
“No, thank you,” he says simply.
“What do you have in there anyway?”
“Aside from the necessary traveling supplies, books.”
“Those must be heavy.”
He hoists the pack higher on his shoulders. “They’re a comforting weight.”
She keeps up a steady stream of conversation. Occasionally, she throws in a comment about how smart he is or how strong he must be to carry so much over so long a distance. The flirtations are subtle, an art all their own.
The familiar well of envy takes me over, but I’m brought up short by Temra’s meaningful glance between me and the mercenary, who takes the lead of our party several feet ahead.
Go, she mouths.
I shoot her a dirty look in response, but she ignores that, going back to talking to Petrik. She’s holding Reya’s lead, which leaves me and my hands free.
I stare at the mercenary’s back, willing him to vanish into thin air.
Temra nudges me with her arms and mouths, Ogling.
She’s threatening me again.
My hands tighten into fists, and Temra shoves me a few feet ahead, nearly causing me to collide with Kellyn.
The mercenary turns his head in my direction, and I could strangle my sister as I now keep pace with him.
Oh, damn it all.
“Kellyn, tell me about yourself,” I say. As soon as the words are out, I feel goosebumps rise on my skin. My mind panics and my body sizzles like a lightning bolt has struck just under my skin.
This is horrible. Why is this happening? I hate her. I hate this. I hate everything.
After the initial surprise on his face, Kellyn says, “What do you want to know?”
“Where are you from?” I spit out, remembering the words Temra forced me to rehearse last night.
“A small village called Amanor in Prince Skiro’s Territory. I grew up on a farm with my family.”
Okay. I can do this. Follow-up questions. What do I want to know?
“Does your family still live there?”
“Yes, I am the oldest of my siblings, and the only one who is away from home. Everyone else still tends to the farm. Sometimes I return for the harvest to help out.”
Really? “Do you make them pay you?”
He laughs. “No. I’m a sellsword. That is all. Besides, you don’t charge family.”
Hmm. That’s a kind thing: helping family out. I hadn’t expected it of him.
“What did you do before you were a smithy?” He surprises me by asking a question of his own. Does he actually want to know? Or is he just being polite by continuing the conversation?
And then I can all but hear Temra’s voice in my head: You can fixate later. Just talk to him.
I want to growl in frustration. Instead, I paste a smile on my face. “Well, first I had to train. So before I was a smithy, I was an apprentice to one. My gift manifested when I was nine. Before that, Temra and I were at the orphanage in Lirasu.” My thoughts jumble together, and I don’t know where to start. I take a breath and try again. “One day the priestesses took all the orphans for a walk through the city to get some of the energy out of our legs. We passed by a smithy.”
I look up briefly to gauge Kellyn’s mood, but he seems perfectly interested in the conversation.
“Go on,” he says. “Then what happened?”
“The forge was outdoors. I could see the smithy working on a scythe for a farmer. I remember seeing the shape of the tool and the heated metal just lying on the anvil. And I felt drawn to it inexplicably. I parted from the rest of the orphans, walked into the forge, and blew on the blade.”
“And?”
“And then the blacksmith, Mister Deseroy, yelled at me because I might have hurt myself. He sent me on my way, and the priestesses rushed me onward. But the next day, the smithy came to the orphanage. It was well-known in the city who my mother was and that she had left two daughters behind when she died. When the scythe showed magical properties—the ability to use the wind to separate the seed from the chaff—the smithy set out to find me, thinking perhaps I was Samika’s daughter.
“And then he and his wife offered to take me in. I said I wouldn’t go anywhere without my sister, so they brought her along, too. I spent my days in the forge, learning how to make steel and bend it to my will. Mister Deseroy had me start magicking his farming equipment, and he brought in quite the profit. It didn’t take long for me to outgrow him. Once I learned the basics, my gift filled in the rest of the gaps on its own. I was creative, and I immediately learned I loved weaponry. By the time I was twelve, Mister Deseroy was ready to retire on all the money I’d made him, and then Temra and I had outlived our usefulness.
“He was kind, though. He gave me some money and all the tools I’d need to get started. I bought back our parents’ land, and I started working.”
Kellyn is a patient listener. He takes it all in quietly. “That’s incredible. What you can do is incredible.”
I shrug. “It’s not really me. It’s the magic that makes me what I am. I can’t really take credit for that, can I?”
“Of course you can,” he says. “You observed and learned all the necessary tricks of your trade. You’re a prodigy. That doesn’t make you less talented. It makes you even more impressive, magic or no.”
I feel light at his words, like I could drift away if I’m not too careful, and a thrill buzzes beneath my skin.
And then the panic comes, because I have no idea what to say next, and the silence stretches on.
“I always knew I wanted to be a mercenary,” Kellyn says. “When I was little, one came through the village. He was so big, arms wider than a tree trunk. He let me hold his sword, before my mother saw, and though it was heavy, too much for my six-year-old hands, I remember how right it felt.”
“How did you learn to fight?” I find myself asking.
“There was a retired palace guard living in the village. I begged him to teach me after I finished my chores each day. Ma didn’t like it, but Da talked her into it. Said it was only a good thing if I knew how to defend myself. I love them both dearly, but I always wanted to see the world. I left as soon as I was old enough to take on work. I visit regularly, though. I can’t stay away too long. I get homesick.”
I’ve been gone from my forge just over a week and already I’m homesick. I feel this kinship with Kellyn. It’s nice to hear someone else admit they miss home.
“Thank you for telling me,” I say.
“Thank you for asking,” he says. He turns his golden gaze on me. “You’re all right, bladesmith. For a while, I thought you might be too uptight.”
“I thought you might be too unlikable.”
“I had a good night’s sleep,” he says, as though that explains anything. “And just so you know, I rarely drink. I was celebrating my birthday. Turned twenty.”
Well, doesn’t that just make me feel like a monster for abducting him on his birthday. “Happy late birthday.”
“Thank you. To be honest, I think I like how that day ended.” His eyes do a sweep of my body, from the top of my newly shorn hair to the base of my boots.
Everywhere his eyes touch, I feel like I’ve been lit on fire.