Page 6 of A Kiss of Hammer and Flame (Fated for Hael #1)

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 a lord – 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.

For now, Cahra concentrated on the decorations, the black sheen of a ribbon’s tail flapping farewell over her shoulder. Anchored to her senses and flowing with the crowd, she cradled her loaf of bread and navigated back to the smithy.

Until Commander Jarett’s furious bellow rent the Traders’ Quadrant, the man’s words tolling like an ominous bell:

‘Who is the owner of this sword?’

Cahra tucked her hair beneath her vest, popping a chunk of bread into her mouth and strolling past the smithy, her old life and the instincts it had borne already surging back. Turning a corner, she passed the shops trailing like straggling children from the main street.

As soon as she’d vanished from view, she broke into a sprint.

Racing along the first backstreet parallel to the main road, she leapt over a tumble of weeds and flung herself headlong into the gap between a wall and canvas sheet – her wall – landing on the hammock in her corner of the smithy.

Glued to the shadows, Cahra dropped and slunk behind the sleeping forge, barely drawing breath as she listened.

‘Lumsden.’ Commander Jarett had lowered his voice but the result was chilling, a bloodhound about to strike and make its kill.

‘I will not ask again.’ She watched him lean towards the old man on the other side of the curtain that hung for privacy when brokering, between the counter and the workshop.

It was the only thing separating them from her. ‘Where is she?’

Lumsden said, ‘And what if I crafted the longsword?’ Cahra’s eyes flew to where Lord Terryl’s blade had hung, awaiting the young noble. The only complete work in the smithy.

‘That ostentatious hilt? I think not. This is her work,’ Jarett spat. ‘And if you do not hand over that brat, I will make short work of you .’ Cahra’s heart thundered in her chest. ‘Who was this weapon commissioned for?’

Lumsden was silent. ‘Of course, he could have instructed her in such a symbol…’ Symbol? What was the old man talking about? He knew Lord Terryl had done no such thing.

What is happening?

‘He?’ Jarett thumped the counter, his meaty fist a boulder.

Lumsden didn’t spook easily, but then, he already knew the horror of the dungeons. ‘Terryl, the merchant lord,’ Lumsden told the Commander. ‘It’s his sword.’

‘And your apprentice? Where, pray, is she?’

‘At the fishmonger’s, picking up our supper.’

Cahra saw Jarett’s silhouette whirl from the counter and bark, ‘To the fishmonger’s!

And send guards to apprehend Lord Terryl!

’ Jarett returned to Lumsden. ‘I will find one, then the other. We will get to the bottom of this odd phenomenon. Do not hinder me, old man.’ Jarett’s profile faded in full, leaving six guards in his wake.

Cahra was shaking. What in Hael have I done?

Lumsden appeared from behind the curtain, Lord Terryl’s longsword in hand. Rounding the forge, he caught sight of Cahra, his eyes flickering towards the back. She ducked into the safety of the smithy’s rear. No one on the street would see them now.

‘Cahra. Lord Terryl’s sword, the sigil on the pommel. Where did you get it?’ Lumsden whispered, his face ashen.

‘What do you mean? I made it up, like I always do. It’s just geometry,’ she said.

The old man shook his head. ‘No. The pattern you created…’ His voice was hoarse.

In that moment, Lumsden looked so frail.

‘It’s the Sigil of the Seers, Hael’stromia’s Oracles.

According to the Commander, it’s the first time it’s been seen outside the castle in centuries.

’ He took a steadying breath. ‘Jarett thinks your sword is the first omen of the prophecy.’

‘What?!’ Cahra choked, staring at Lumsden in dizzy disbelief. ‘He can’t be serious.’

Jarett speaking of the prophecy and its omens to a low-born only meant one thing: he thought they knew something about the weapon. An ingrained fear burned in Cahra’s chest at every macabre Red Square death she’d seen, victims whimpering, screaming, for their lives—

She clenched her fists, trying to shut the grisly memories out. The blood…

Lumsden closed his eyes. ‘Cahra, he’s on his way to the fishmonger’s, and when he doesn’t find you there, he’ll come straight back.’ The old man clasped her hands. ‘For you .’ His eyes shone. ‘My girl, you need to run.’

‘ No .’ The vehemence in her word came out a snarl. ‘I won’t leave you.’

Lumsden looked into her fearful eyes. All she saw was smoky quartz and amethyst, and all she wanted to do was sob.

‘I won’t have you in the dungeons, never to be seen again.

You don’t know what you’re facing. It’s the prophecy, the weapon .

They’ll never let you go. And if Atriposte learns that it was you all those years ago… ’

‘I won’t leave you,’ she told him again, her voice trembling.

‘My dear girl, I fear that if you don’t, we’re both as good as dead.’

NO.

Breathe , Cahra told herself, sucking in air and trying to deaden her rush of panic.

She could make it on the streets, she’d done it before.

She could outrun this, scrape together some kind of life in the alleys of Kolyath again.

But when her gaze fell to the old man, defeat hit her like a sledgehammer to the ribcage.

Lumsden wouldn’t last one winter, let alone survive the gnawing hunger, the biting cold, the never-ending cruelty of life as a homeless beggar.

She seized the edge of the workbench, her knuckles white.

She needed to think, find a way out that kept them both safe, alive. Think. THINK!

‘Cahra.’ Lumsden’s words were soft. ‘Please don’t fight me. We haven’t much time, and you know that I’m too old to flee.’ His words, but they were confirmation. And it hurt.

There was only one thing for it, if Lumsden was to live. If she was going to save him. It was her turn, after all, Cahra thought numbly.

He couldn’t lose everything, his life, because of her.

‘Tell Jarett and the Kingdom Guards I did it,’ she said, inhaling as she straightened. ‘And that I acted alone.’ Cahra’s eyes caught a glimpse of Lord Terryl’s longsword, her seemingly perfect blade. ‘Why didn’t he take the sword?’

Lumsden’s gaze fell to the weapon he was holding. ‘Because he underestimates me.’ He lifted his eyes to Cahra. ‘And because what they really want is the omen-bringer.’

She nodded, swallowing, then ran back to her corner, throwing on her coat. This was the only way, she thought, to keep Lumsden safe. She yanked her pouch of off-cut gemstones and what little coin she had from her hiding spot. The old man grasped a satchel, tears welling.

‘You have to harden yourself against them all, you hear me?’ She gripped Lumsden. ‘You know the Commander and his guards, what they do to people. Give them nothing at all, nothing but me. Your allegiance to the Steward, his favour, will keep you alive. Okay?’

The old man’s voice shook as he asked, ‘What will keep you alive?’

Cahra smiled fleetingly at him, knowing the expression would never meet her eyes. ‘Experience.’ She slung the satchel over her shoulder. Jarett would be on his way back now.

Then she noted the bag’s weight, frowning.

‘The bread,’ Lumsden told her.

‘No, you need it—’ She opened the bag. The old man stayed her hand.

‘And a few essentials.’ He smiled, his words hanging in the air.

Realisation struck Cahra in the chest, piercing the walls she’d built around her heart. This was it. This was goodbye. When would she see the old man again? This kind soul who’d plucked her from the dungeon’s brink of death?

With a shaking hand, she extended her small fortune, the collection of gems and coins she’d scrimped and saved, placing them in Lumsden’s wrinkled palms. ‘Take it,’ she urged.

But he shook his head. Instead, he gave her Lord Terryl’s sword, squeezing her hands as he set them on the weapon’s hilt. ‘In case the Commander does have want of it, after all,’ he explained, eyes trailing across the corner of the smithy that was no longer hers.

It crushed her, all the things she’d never said to him. She’d never get the chance now. Without another thought, Cahra wrapped her arms around the little master blacksmith and held on tight, her tears threatening to spill. She didn’t want to let him go.

But Commander Jarett was coming for her.

‘Thank you,’ Cahra whispered to Lumsden. ‘For finding me that night. For giving me a second chance at life. I’ll never, ever forget you.’ She hugged him, crying in earnest now.

Lumsden’s response was a soft laugh, Cahra committing the familiar gravelly timbre of his voice to memory.

‘It was an honour to serve,’ he told her, dabbing his moist eyes. ‘Now be safe. Don’t waste your chance worrying about one as old as me.’ He looked down. ‘Go now, my girl,’ he murmured, as Cahra released him, clutching the longsword.

Before the old man could look up again, she had.

With nimble, dexterous movements, Cahra shifted the bulging satchel, concealing Lord Terryl’s sword under an oily rag.

As she pressed the weapon against her leg, a wave of self-loathing crashed into her.

Leaving Lumsden, relying on his sacrifice yet again…

She swallowed her disgust like the bitter herb it was.

But she clung to the knowledge it was the best way to keep him safe.

He could say she’d overpowered him, stolen the blade and ran.

Ran where?

She dashed between the rotting piles of refuse on the maze-like backstreets, shaking her head at the angst and fear splintering her focus, as her heart pummelled her heaving chest.

Down the street, turn at the next alley and then what?

Seers, help me!

That was when Cahra spotted Terryl.