Page 4 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame (Fated for Hael #1)

Cahra rubbed her arms as she wandered the Traders’ Quadrant, grateful for the chance to clear her restless mind. She needed a distraction. But with Lord Terryl’s longsword complete and no hammering left to occupy her, she’d gone out in search of ale.

Cahra dragged herself down the dark cobblestone road towards the Quadrant’s tavern.

Her muscles ached, and she wondered how she’d go lifting a tankard.

But after the last week, she sorely needed one.

Despite her happiness at helping the boy with the aquamarine eyes, what she’d done was incredibly dangerous.

Not because of the attempted theft, as mugging was common in Kolyath.

It was her goodwill; if the boy told anyone she’d helped a beggar, she’d be arrested by the Commander’s Kingdom Guards and promptly hanged.

The Steward didn’t believe in alms for the poor.

All he believed in was tyranny and taxing people to the bone over the stupid, pointless realmwide war.

But there was nothing to be done for it now. Nothing but ale.

Cahra breathed in the sickly-sweet air, dense sprigs of pale flowers creeping like a tomcat here and there, their scent undercut by the stink of filth on the streets as she walked.

Some alleys were subdued, people huddling in meagre homes, firewood and candles lit if they could afford them.

Others were busier than ever, as both the slums and opulent establishments came alive with drink, dancing and rampant debauchery.

She watched a group of friends slip into an underground pleasure den, their laughter echoing into the night.

But the boy’s face swam back into mind, and she faltered mid-step. Yes, she was here for celebration, for solace. Yet was that the only reason?

Or had she wondered, when she’d given the boy that sapphire, if he’d tried to rob her because he had friends who depended on him? Which begged the question: what friends did Cahra have?

She spied the swinging green signage of the Pedlar’s Pouch tavern and willed herself to shake off her strange mood.

She’d been here before, delivering a knife, a lock, a pan, whatever the tavern’s owner Jon had bartered Lumsden for, and she eyed the weather-beaten stone of its single-storey frontage, a ramshackle affair.

Behind it, the cramped, tacked-on rooms wound in a horseshoe shape around a courtyard, already alive with a bonfire and the strains of fiddlers’ music.

Reaching the door, she spotted the baker’s and tailor’s apprentices at a table with several other traders from the Quadrant, clinking tankards and laughing raucously.

But as she stood, hand on the door latch, Cahra suddenly felt out of place despite her Guild tattoo granting her entry.

Her shirt collar scratched at her throat, too tight, and the peppery smell of bodies permeating the room, layered with the yeasty reek of old, stale ale, made her want to gag.

She froze as she stared into the darkened tavern.

Breathe. Don’t think about the dungeons .

Cahra threw a hand out for the doorframe before her rising panic could overtake her, catching it and swinging herself about-face to lurch into the street.

But her ears were ringing, head swimming and her heart pounded so violently she feared it might explode.

She plonked down at the base of the steps, burying her head in her lap, waiting.

It would fade, it would all fade, she knew. She just needed to breathe .

Think about gemstones: garnet, onyx, sapphire. Just like she did when she relived Kolyath’s dungeons in her nightmares.

Her lips moving silently, Cahra started listing gems, holding her breath to slow the manic drumbeat of her heart, the terror skulking beneath her skin.

Slowly, she began forcing breath after jagged breath, over and over, until the air began to feel less leaden in her lungs and her legs stopped shaking, her fear ebbing like rainwater to the sea.

Eyes still shut, she felt a strong hand at her shoulder.

Expecting to see Jon, or maybe a fellow apprentice, she peeled her eyes open.

Instead, two blue goldstone orbs stared back at her, and she recoiled in horror as she realised it wasn’t some low-born perched beside her but Lord Terryl, his graceful brow furrowed.

‘What ails you?’ The lord’s gaze was incisive. Thank the Seers for the black of night, because the heat in her cheeks knew no bounds.

‘N-nothing,’ Cahra stammered. ‘I, erm, I… I was so busy today that I forgot to eat.’ Flashing Lord Terryl a smile, she leapt to her feet. Too fast; she nearly fell on her arse again, light-headed as she was. He caught her by the elbow.

‘Allow me to remedy that,’ the young lord said, his concern persisting.

‘Oh no, milord, you have people to attend to. I’m fine,’ she babbled.

‘Cahra,’ Lord Terryl said, apparently noting her disorientation and setting her gently on her feet. Her embarrassment grew, as her smith’s body made her heavy as a cart, and now he knew it. ‘Were you working on my sword today?’

She hesitated.

His lips twitched. ‘If you forging my sword is why you’re fainting in the street, it would be ungentlemanly of me to send you on your way.’

She opened her mouth to protest, but finally saw Jon. He had indeed spotted her and was carrying two ludicrously full tankards.

‘Lord Terryl,’ the giant, burly man hailed him, flashing Cahra a sidelong grin. She managed a weak nod.

‘Jon,’ the lord greeted in return. They knew each other? ‘What fortuitous timing. Miss Cahra needs a meal. What might you tempt us with, this evening?’

Jon, beaming ear to ear, presented the young lord with a tankard, before turning to Cahra with a roguish look. ‘Half-pint for you, missy? A full mug might knock you right out; I’ll be running for my life from Lumsden and his hammer if you end up on the floor!’

You mean my hammer, she thought, scowling. ‘Just give me the damn ale,’ she said, before recalling the company she kept and fighting the urge to shrink beneath the floorboards.

Jon chuckled heartily and led them to a table in the back, setting her tankard on it.

Cahra exhaled, taking a sip of the cloudy, malt-rich ale, and turned to Lord Terryl. Who was now sitting not across from her…

…but supportively by her side.

Ignoring the hammer of her heart against her ribcage, Cahra forced herself to study her surroundings.

The doorway she’d entered was one of two, the other’s crooked frame anchored to the opposite corner of the crowded room.

She watched a group of ruddy-faced men exit, sloshing ale all over the tacky floorboards.

A candelabra’s tapers flickered near them and she noted the low ceilings smudged with smoke from years of men’s pipes and scorched meat.

Scanning the room, she flinched as a loud crash , then voices, echoed from the kitchen.

She released the breath straining in her chest, hands balled into fists, her knuckles white.

Breathe . Her panicked turn still had her feeling anxious. But these were her people, in her Quadrant. She was safe here, Cahra told herself.

If only she believed it.

Lord Terryl looked at her, the hearth’s flames catching his dark hair and lighting it to match the gold flecks in his starry eyes. ‘What would you like to eat?’

Inhale. Exhale . ‘I appreciate it, but you don’t have to. I can pay my own way.’

‘I am sure that you can.’ He looked amused. ‘You do require sustenance, though, and I know just the dish. Tell me, do you like pork?’

‘Yes,’ Cahra heard herself reply. She supposed a full stomach would do her good. While it was true she’d hardly eaten, it was also normal. Lumsden tired so easily these days that she tried to save their modest food for him.

‘Excellent.’ Lord Terryl turned to Jon again, his words lost to the din of the tavern. The conversation ended with the two men belly-laughing.

Who was this young lord?

He settled back into his seat, face flushed. ‘I ordered a specialty Jon makes for me, after I have travelled and require a hearty meal,’ Lord Terryl said warmly.

‘Travelled?’ She frowned. He no doubt lived in the Nobles’ Quadrant of Kolyath near the Steward’s castle, but it was hardly a day-long hike from where they were.

He lowered his voice. ‘The Wilds,’ he said. ‘There are villages outside Kolyath that need wares but cannot enter the kingdom. I offer them trade.’

‘The Wilds?’ She gaped at him. ‘But the people of the Wilds are nomads, exiles.’ Nature worshippers, who had little but the clothes upon their backs, or so the rumours went.

‘And Lord Terryl, leaving the kingdom is banned!’ As was such worship – a death sentence, if it was discovered.

Only the prophecy’s magick existed for the Steward.

The thought of this young lord being discovered by their ruler…

It’s what made the Steward, and everything about Hael’stromia, so dread-inducing.

The entire kingdom knew Kolyath’s ruler would do whatever it took to get the prophecy’s weapon, and obliterate any and all obstacles in his way.

Those who’d vanished from the Quadrant because of whispers of the weapon were never seen again.

Not alive, anyway. Cahra gulped her ale.

‘It is, but some merchants incur exceptions,’ Lord Terryl said.

‘Oh?’ She’d just assumed he was an everyday noble. A merchant lord was strange, but what did she know about high-borns? Lord Terryl having met Jon at least made sense now.

‘I supply ore and minerals to Kolyath,’ he explained. ‘However, outside the kingdom, I also trade in everyday items with the people of the Wilds, depending on what they request.’ The lord gauged her reaction. ‘You are wondering why I aid them.’

Cahra couldn’t help herself, shrugging. ‘Maybe.’

Hael won’t help us.