Page 9 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame

Cahra blinked, stunned. He wanted her to dispense with titles? Bewilderment rippled through her, and she could only nod, speechless.

A comfortable hush settled between them, although she still had so many questions. His face shone with a curious warmth, and she wondered: did he have questions for her too? She’d never spent so much time with a high-born, especially a man who seemed so earnest. Cahra opened her mouth to speak, only to hear the Quadrant clock’s deep chimes strike ten. She groaned inwardly. Where had the time gone?

‘I have to go,’ she said, pushing back her chair, wood screeching on the floor as if equally reluctant to leave the pleasure of his company. She forced herself to stand.

Terryl’s expression faltered, yet his tone was light. ‘So soon?’

A half-smile flickered across her lips. ‘The morning may start late for you, milord, but mine begins before the sun rises.’ She lingered. ‘Oh, and your sword is ready to collect.’

‘So, I shall see you tomorrow, then?’ Again, Terryl’s voice was casual, but his eyes held hers in his thrall, as if searching for an answer to something left unsaid.

His was a simple question, but the flutter in her stomach said otherwise. ‘I – yes,’ Cahra said, stumbling over the word, then over her chair as she stepped away. ‘I’d better go,’ she repeated, backing through the teeming tavern, eventually tearing her gaze from his face. Then, spinning on her heel, she hurtled for the door.

At the threshold, she glanced over her shoulder one more time. Her mind raced as she replayed the night’s events: Terryl’s stories of the Wilds, his own kindness and the way his eyes lit up when he spoke of helping others, those outside the kingdom. Ordinary high-borns didn’t care about such things; they only cared for money, power and the Steward’s favour.

But one thing was becoming abundantly clear, Cahra thought, as she turned to leave.

There was nothing –nothing– ordinary about Lord Terryl at all.

CHAPTER 5

The next morning, Lumsden, head bent over his ledgers at the smithy’s metal front counter, murmured into his tea, ‘Apparently, Lord Terryl is on his way.’ Behind the old man, the young lord’s longsword hung proudly on display for passers-by to envy. Lumsden always said showing buyers Cahra’s work helped start fruitful conversations.

‘Mm-hmm,’ Cahra said absently, pacing. She’d awoken that morning feeling – strange, unsettled. Nervous. She dismissed the word her mind dared to suggest.Nervous? Ha!With a frown, she shoved the thought all the way down into her boots, scuffing them every now and then to channel her edginess. Her, nervous about a noble’s opinion?Never!

Lumsden cast her a sideways look, his eyebrows knitting as he noted her agitation. ‘You’ve outdone yourself,’ he assured her.

‘Thanks.’ She raked a hand through her hair, sighing at her sooty palm. She’d washed, but no amount of soap erased the signs of smithing.

‘Except?’ The old man probed in a patient voice.

She met his gaze, positive the tension seething in her gut was reflected on her face. She’d poured everything into that sword and it was her best work. But what if it didn’t meet Lord Terryl’s high-born expectations? A pang of apprehension struck her, an unexpected guest at what should have felt like a triumph.Seers, what if he hates it?

More to the point, why did she care what he thought, or felt?

Lumsden watched Cahra with an impenetrable expression, in that way he had that felt like she was hiding behind a pane of glass. ‘You’re afraid that he won’t like it.’

She blew out a breath. ‘He’s alord– who commissioned a weapon he’s never seen. It’s madness!’ She groaned, cradling her head in her hands. ‘Why did you let me do this?’

The old man chuckled, telling her, ‘Because you deserved the opportunity, Cahra. What’s madness is you doubting your craft.’ Lumsden took a slow sip from his mug of tea. ‘The weapons you create are masterworks. And the more the court talks of them…’

The more the Steward’s court talked of her work, the more commissions they’d see. Lord Terryl’s sword could prove quite lucrative for her and Lumsden.

She rolled her eyes, hiding a smile as she resumed pacing, the drag of her boots against the sand filling the silence.

Breaking the tension, Lumsden spoke. ‘Cahra, you’re scratching around like a hen. Why don’t you go and fetch our bread? It seems the bakehouse has forgotten again…’ The old man began grumbling to himself.

Cahra glanced outside. A walk might do her good, help her shake her frustration. ‘Okay, I’ll be back,’ she announced, snatching her overshirt against the brisk Kolyath breeze and hopping over the counter to hit the street’s stones with a thud.

It was close to midday and the Traders’ Quadrant was awash with the bustle of bodies, Cahra’s every sense heightened and assailing her. She’d lived on these streets her whole life, but her learned vigilance was overwhelming, a relentless undercurrent to everything she did. Drawing a fortifying breath, she slowed her steps, grasped the fresh loaf of bread and remembered what she’d taught herself to do when she was younger: tackle one sense at a time.

Focusing, she listened. Back in the direction of the bakehouse, a woodworker’s saw heaved and rasped in a steady chant, a metronome she gratefully latched onto.

At the road’s other end, she sniffed out the distinct tang of the tannery and the pungent odour of animal pelts steeped in vats of salt and acid.

Now, sight. Cahra raised her eyes to Kolyath’s uncharacteristically glass-blue sky, a rare reprieve from the kingdom’s usual overcast gloom. She turned her face to the sun’s rays, letting their warmth ground her, then lowered her gaze to the black Festival of Shadows ribbons that wound among the eaves and between the shops of the Quadrant’s main road.

She’d always loved Veil’s Eve, when Kolyath gathered during autumn’s blood moon to embrace the dark in a night-long vigil as people did in the time of old Hael’stromia, with no lanterns, no fires, just the night and stars, the sky and moon. All as Kolyath’s weak summers waned into a new season, the cold wending from the rocky coastline up and over the kingdom’s walls. It was also one of the more dangerous times, where history morphed into whispers of the fallen capital, the Seers, the prophecy and the weapon. Veil’s Eve wasn’t just a celebration, it was a subtle show of defiance against the Steward by the many, the low-borns of his kingdom. Savage demonstrations by the Kingdom Guards in the Red Square always followed.

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