“There has to be something in here we can use,” Petrik says. “Look around.”
The cell isn’t large, but when my hand comes into contact with something smooth on the ground, I raise it close to my eyes for inspection.
Then I shriek and jump backward.
“What is it?” Temra asks, coming to my aid.
“A bone!” I say.
“Looks like a human femur,” Petrik says after an emotionless examination.
“Charming. Someone died in this cell. And I thought things couldn’t get worse,” Kellyn says.
“At least they’re not recently dead,” Petrik says. “Smells and all that.”
“Give me that thing.” Kellyn grasps the femur, touching it with his bare hand, as though it were a flower or sword or something else distinctly not human remains, and paces over to the cell bars. He shoves the long bone between two of them and tries to pry them apart.
There’s a snap, but it isn’t from the bars.
Kellyn grunts in frustration and shakes the bars again for good measure.
Petrik retrieves one of the broken ends of the bone and tries to fit it into the opening of the lock on the opposite side of the door.
“What are you doing?” Temra asks.
“Seeing if we can pick the lock.”
“Do you know how to pick a lock?”
“No,” he mumbles.
Temra sits next to me on the cold floor and rests her elbows on her knees.
“Could we trick the guards somehow?” Petrik asks.
“Hey, guard! Guard!” Kellyn starts shouting, but after a minute, not a soul surfaces. “That would be a no.”
“So that’s it.” Petrik joins us on the ground.
Kellyn continues pacing, clearly unable to give up.
Hours trickle by at an agonizing pace, and we start to shiver from the chill. Kellyn keeps pacing and pacing; he’s worked himself into a sweat. He eventually strides up to the bars and yanks at them for all he’s worth.
“Will you sit down? Even you aren’t strong enough to move steel,” Petrik says.
“That’s iron,” I tell him automatically.
“That’s helpful,” Kellyn says sarcastically to me before rounding on Petrik. “I don’t see you coming up with any ideas. Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one? ‘I’m a renowned scholar from the Great Library,’” Kellyn says in a mimicry of Petrik’s voice. “‘I’m an expert. Look at the length of my robes.’”
Petrik scoffs at him. “I do not sound like that. And excuse me for not reading up more on instances of prison breaks!”
“What good are you? Why are you even here?”
Temra leaves me on the floor to stand between the two men. “Back off,” she says to Kellyn. “Petrik has been invaluable on this journey. He’s saved us almost as often as you have, and he’s a whole lot less volatile. So why don’t you check your temper and stop pretending like you’re more upset that we’re imprisoned rather than that the money is gone.”
Kellyn gives Temra the nastiest look I’ve seen from him yet. “I don’t like small spaces.” He turns his back to us in an opposite corner.
Ah, so he does have an irrational fear, but now is certainly not the time to poke at the bear.
I rub my hands over my arms in the quiet that ensues. From the other side of the cell, I can feel Secret Eater. The secrets it holds will forever be a part of it, and mine will always call out to me.
The blasted sword has landed me in a prison cell. I’m unsure if this is a new low or my last low. Because I’m quite certain we’re not getting out of this cell until someone uses the key the captain took with him.
I stare at those iron bars, and the irony hits me. I can magic iron, and yet I’m stuck behind it. Helpless without my forge or tools. Worthless by myself.
Iron needs heat to bend to my will.
I roll up on my feet suddenly, and Temra protests, nearly falling from where she’d been leaning against me. I don’t apologize. I’m too caught up in my foolhardy thoughts.
When I press my forehead to the bars, I can just see the faint pulsing lights in the room. One source from each side of the cell.
Torches on the walls, if I’m not mistaken.
I move to the far end of the cell, thrust my arm through the bars, and reach for the sconce. I can just barely touch the tip of the torch with a fingernail.
“What are you doing?” Kellyn asks.
“Use your gorilla arms to reach for the torch. I can’t get it.”
He raises a brow at the insult but does as I ask, trading places with me. It takes some finagling, but when he slides his arm back into the cell, he’s got the torch in hand.
“Oh, good,” Petrik says. “Now we might not freeze tonight.”
“Hold it against this bar,” I command, ignoring the scholar. “No, the tip. Press the fire to it. I need the metal to heat.”
“Ziva,” Temra says, realizing what I’m doing. “Is it enough?”
“I have no idea, but it’s worth a try.”
Temra and Petrik rise, standing just behind the mercenary and me. I can feel their stares over my shoulder as I concentrate on the metal the flame flickers against. The hairs on my neck prickle, and discomfort seizes my limbs.
“Will you two give me some space?” I ask. Petrik and Temra dutifully take a step back.
When the flame has licked the iron for some minutes, I stare at the red-gray metal. Red from rust, not heat. A torch’s light is not nearly enough heat to change the color, but is it enough to magic it?
“Break,” I say quietly, my gaze boring into the cell bar.
Absolutely nothing happens.
“Break,” I say again a little louder.
“Break!” I command.
“I thought you said the metal only responds when you whisper to it. Doesn’t it need gentle encouragement?” Petrik asks in his scholarly, know-it-all voice.
“You try being gentle when you know four lives rest in your hands!” I shriek back at him.
A hand settles against my shoulder, and since Kellyn still holds the torch to the bars, I know it belongs to my sister.
“You can do this,” she says. “I know you can. You’re my big sister, and you always save the day. Just try again.”
“I can’t do this with an audience. I forge alone. I’m uncomfortable. I’m stressed. It’s not going to work.”
“Some of your best work has happened when you least expected it,” she says. “You forged an air-sucking mace during one of your attacks. This little bar right here, it has nothing on you.”
Kellyn lowers his head so we’re eye to eye. “I believe in you. Your work is so powerful, people all over the world know who you are. If anyone can get us out of this mess, it’s you.”
“You’re a smithy. The master of iron,” Petrik says, not to be outdone. “You have to do this.”
I don’t know if their encouragement is helping or making my anxiety worse, but I take a deep breath and shut my eyes, thinking of the times I’ve magicked metal in the past. I remember the mace Temra mentioned. How I had an attack after an angry customer barged into my forge when he cut himself on his own blade. My hyperventilating gave it power.
I remember the time I broke one of my fingers. It was stupid. I agreed to a walk through town with Temra, and while I was worrying over all the people around me, I tripped and snapped the finger while trying to catch myself on the ground. The next day, when I went back to work, my less dominant hand throbbing, all I could think of was my carelessness the day before, the sound of my finger snapping. That was the day I magicked the daggers that shatter anything they come into contact with.
And then there’s Secret Eater. Forged because I was ridiculous enough to admire a boy through the window.
Accidents. These were all instances of accidents. Blades that were magicked when my feelings were overwrought or when I was experiencing something new.
Even at my worst, I can be strong.
When next I open my eyes, I lower my face to the bars, so close the torch almost burns my lips.
“Break,” I whisper, my breath brushing against the bar, sending the flame sputtering. I focus on my anger, on how Kymora broke my life and tore me away from almost everything I love.
The sound of metal snapping thunders through the prison. Kellyn jumps back from the bars and drops the torch, which flicks out instantly.