Page 5 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame (Fated for Hael #1)

‘The people of the Wilds are just that – people. They need things, things that the Wilds cannot provide. Tools. Medicines stronger than herbs of the forest floor. Weapons for hunting. The alternative is venturing beyond these lands and, as you know, the other sister kingdoms are not exactly welcoming alternatives.’

Cahra watched him and the way he moved, sounded, as he spoke. She was practised at pinpointing verbal sleights of hand, but he didn’t seem to be lying to her. So she didn’t either. ‘In Kolyath, it’s rare to be so kind,’ she said slowly.

‘Especially for someone in my position,’ he said, voicing the words she hadn’t. ‘There was a time when I, too, was like my peers. But as I came of age, I learned something.’ Lord Terryl returned her gaze. ‘There is value in helping others.’

Cahra didn’t know what to say, firstly to the idea of a helpful high-born, and secondly to the fact that one was apparently sitting next to her. So she said, ‘Right,’ and peered at him. ‘Why would you tell me any of this?’

‘I believe that you might understand,’ the lord said simply. Again, she found herself scanning his posture, his chest and shoulders open and relaxed. What did those words mean? Her life had taught her to be cynical, but unnervingly, something in her felt he was sincere.

Before she could decide how to reply, he moved on.

‘May I ask, how did you become a blacksmith?’ Lord Terryl asked, a welcome segue. ‘Your weaponry is much desired at court.’

At the mention of the Steward’s castle, Cahra pressed the tankard to her lower lip. Where to start?

Maybe not with the dungeons.

‘I met Lumsden when I was small. He helped me escape… a difficult situation, then offered to train me as his apprentice. So I said yes. Ever since, I’ve learned as much as I possibly can about blacksmithing: steel-making, forging, grinding, heat-treating, engraving, gemstones, scabbards, the lot.

The harder I work, the more I repay Lumsden for his kindness.

’ She hadn’t thought about it before, but it was the truth.

Nothing she did could ever match Lumsden saving her from the Steward and that cell. But that’s why she was here. Hers was a life debt, and for him, she would pay the cost.

‘Honourable,’ Lord Terryl replied, his fine shirt rustling as he leaned in. ‘Was it difficult, learning the various skills?’ He looked at her intently.

For an instant, Cahra felt the familiar sting of shame. Men were always surprised, confronted, by her physical strength. Only, when she met his gaze, he didn’t seem to be judging her physique or making fun of her.

Gripping her ale between both hands, she said, ‘Practice, I guess. It’s been nearly ten years now.

’ She thought about all the things she’d pushed herself to learn.

‘But I suppose it is unusual,’ she admitted.

‘The Military Quadrant’s smithy is ten times our size as it arms Kolyath’s soldiers.

At ours, it’s just me and Lumsden. But we only make weapons for court, not war.

’ Cahra squirmed, drinking deep from her ale.

She’d never talked so much about herself before.

‘Ah, yes.’ A shadow flitted across Lord Terryl’s face, and she surprised herself by wondering what he was thinking.

‘Have you seen it? The war,’ she said softly. Here was someone who’d been outside the kingdom’s walls, and though she knew she shouldn’t ask, she had to know.

Their eyes met. ‘You might say that,’ Lord Terryl said, voice low, then stopped again. ‘However, such talk is not for…’

‘Ladies?’ Cahra finished, giving him a pointed look. ‘I’m not exactly one of those.’ She gestured at her mug for emphasis, tapping a finger on the time-worn table, as she asked, ‘What about Hael, then? Surely if you’ve travelled, you’ve seen Hael’stromia.’

‘Such questions.’ A hint of amusement softened his features.

‘It’s the metal of Kolyath’s gate,’ Cahra mused. ‘It drives me mad. What is it? All we know is that it’s the capital’s Haellium, but I’ve never seen anything like it, anywhere.’

She recalled the first time she’d spied the gate, where the Farming and Military Quadrants met at their southernmost tip.

The ‘gate to Hael’ that led into the Wilds was black and brutal, so dark it seemed to swallow all the sunlight, with spikes and thorns sharp enough to lop a leg clean off.

Every kingdom had a gate, it was said, and Hael’stromia had several.

The lord gazed at her for a long moment, Cahra realising the ale was loosening her up too fast on an empty stomach. She hastily replaced her mug. Where is that food?

Then Lord Terryl spoke. ‘I have seen Hael’stromia.’

Cahra sat up, her eyes wide. ‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘The first thing you see is the black tri-cornered pyramid, its summit piercing the murky clouds. Then the capital, girded by its soaring defences, with bars thrice as high as Kolyath’s gate.

Catch a glimpse between them, and the city, entombed by its own shattered walls and crumbling buildings, lies bare. It is quite a sight.’

Cahra lifted her eyes to Lord Terryl’s and asked the one question burning in her mind. ‘Did you go in?’

He smiled, brief and brittle. ‘No. The rumours are correct, the capital is impenetrable. I was simply passing on my western travels.’

There were tales, of those who reached one of its gates, only to meet some tragic end. Her eyes slid to the young lord’s. ‘Probably for the best.’

Talk of Hael’stromia dwindled as their dishes arrived. She inspected the white meat in soup with potatoes, carrots and a splash of something green.

Meanwhile, Lord Terryl was transformed as he inhaled the fragrant steam wafting from the table, a hum of contentment on his lips. ‘The pork is seared and boiled in water, then the succulent meat is served with it as broth. Exquisite!’

His pleasant air caught her off guard after his sober words about Hael’stromia. Cahra raised a spoonful to her lips, then another, and had to agree with him as she demolished her bowl. When was the last time she’d eaten so well? She honestly didn’t know.

Satiated, Cahra rested her head against the wall, thoughts drifting, untethered, as she gazed at her unexpected dining companion. Her bout outside the tavern was all but forgotten as the heady buzz of alcohol teased away the last of her nerves.

Lord Terryl caught her looking at him. ‘Do you feel much improved?’

‘I do.’ As much as she disliked expressing gratitude to high-borns, she made herself say the words and meet his eyes. ‘Thank you, Lord Terryl.’

‘My pleasure,’ he said, face bright. ‘And please, call me Terryl.’

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.