“Everything’s a risk,” she said. “Is it less risky for a woman to walk down any street in the city? Is it less risky to work the mines every day, laying charges and setting them off? If not for Riley, I’d be dead already.”
“That’s why every day is a gift from the Maker,” her father said. “Don’t waste them in a futile cause. It won’t bring Riley back.”
“I’m not just doing this for Riley. I’m doing this for me, for you, and for everyone who’s suffered at the hands of King Gerard. I don’t have time to worry about made-up demons when there’s a real one sitting on the throne.”
“Please, Jenna. At least stay out of the taverns.”
“I grew up in a tavern,” Jenna said, “and I learn a lot, spending time in taverns—information that can help save lives.”
“Why is that your job, girl?”
“The work I do is important, and I’m better at it than anyone else in town, least since Bowman got blown up. I’m not going to huddle in a garret while others do my fighting for me.”
“If you can’t stay hidden, maybe you should leave Delphi for a while,” her father said. “I have friends in Tamron Seat, at least I think they’re still there. I don’t want you going through this inspection, whatever it’s for.”
“You read the notice. The city gates are locked until the inspections are over. Anyone who wants to leave has to get approval. And the storms have started, and they say there are wolves already running outside of the town.” What she really meant, was: I’m not going to run away.
She remembered what she’d said to Riley four years ago. We are chosen, you and I, and we’re destined for great things. We’ll write our own story, you’ll see.
She’d never considered that it could be a short story with a sad ending. The fact was, she didn’t believe in destiny, or miracles, or magemarks—not anymore.
“I’ll be careful, Da,” she said. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”
Her father looked at her, chewing on his lower lip. “I have something to show you,” he said finally. He lay on the floor next to her bed and pulled out a small chest that was underneath. It had always been there, as long as Jenna could remember, and it was always kept locked. But this time, he drew a key out of his pocket and unlocked it. He opened it and lifted out a bundle wrapped in many layers of cloth. He unwound the cloth, and spread the contents on the bed.
Jenna’s hand went first to the dagger. It caught her eye, as shiny things always did. Its hilt was twin dragons, twined together, and layered with red stones—rubies and garnets, she guessed, though she’d never seen real ones up close.
With her free hand, she reached for the magemark under her hair, brushing her fingers over the stone that centered it. The magemark hummed with power.
“Yes,” her father said. “The stones are the same.”
When she withdrew it from its sheath, the blade was bright and razor-sharp, as if it had not lain under her bed for more than a decade. And along the blade, runes glowed red against bluish steel—letters in a language she didn’t know.
There was a fitted leather breastplate, also covered in runes, and clearly made to fit a woman, and a pair of finely made leather gloves. Not the kind meant to keep your hands warm—the kind that ladies wore to go riding. She pulled them on, and they fit perfectly, extending partway up her arms. She extended her hands, admiring them, then pulled the gloves off and laid them back on the bed. Not very practical for a coal miner in Delphi.
Finally, there was a broken pendant on a chain, a fragment of an instrument that reminded her of a spoked wheel, but not quite. It looked to be made of gold (likely brass) with markings all along the edge and a kind of spinner anchored at the center. It tingled a bit in her palm, meaning it was flashcraft.
When Jenna looked up at her father he said, “That’s part of a mariner’s astrolabe, or made to look like one, at least.” He took it from her and slipped the chain over her head so that it rested just below her collarbone. “It may help you find your way.”
Not if it’s broken, she thought. “Where did all this come from?”
“Your grandmother left it for you. The pendant was your birth father’s. I don’t know about the dagger and the rest. Maybe it was your birth mother’s.”
Jenna stroked the leather armor again. People said that northern women rode into battle shrieking like banshees. “Was she a—a warrior?”
“I don’t know,” her father said with a wistful smile. “A warrior. I suppose that suits you, in a way.”
No, Jenna thought. I’m the kind of warrior who slips down alleys and hides in the dark places. Not the kind who rides into battle.
Jenna scooped up the dagger again, turning it this way and that, so it caught the light. Her mother’s. It felt strangely balanced, like it belonged in her hand. She struck a pose, like she’d seen young mudback officers do with their swords. Of course, this wasn’t a sword. This was a weapon that was meant to be hidden and used on the sly.