Page 23

JAX

I expected my first days in the forge to be hard, but they’re not.

They’re nearly impossible.

Master Garson seems jovial enough, but he’s big and loud, and it makes me wary. The morning after Tycho leaves, he claps me on the shoulder and booms, “Master Jax! Are you well?”

I know what he’s asking, and I know how to respond, but I’m overwhelmed so the words don’t quickly come to mind. I nod brusquely and don’t say anything—and then I completely miss what he says next, because I’m too worried he’ll think I’m addled and incompetent and he’ll start treating me the way my father did.

Garson must be as flustered by the language barrier as I am, because his smile falters, and he simply gives me a nod in return and leaves me alone.

Molly and Lola aren’t unfriendly, but the dining room is often crowded and loud at mealtimes, and they don’t have time to struggle with my words. No one else seems willing to make an effort, and there are just as many unfriendly glances as there are curious ones, so I keep to myself and eat whatever is put in front of me.

One morning Molly comes to the table with a serving platter full of small, glistening muffins that smell like lemons and honey. She places one beside each person, until she gets to me. Instead of one muffin, I get two, and she bumps my shoulder with her hip.

When I look up in surprise, she smiles. “Good . . . ?morning . . . ? Master . . . Jax.”

She said the words in Emberish very slowly, with gentle emphasis, so I say them back the same way, half teasing. “Good . . . ?morning . . . ?Molly.”

Her smile widens, and she says a word I don’t understand, then playfully swats me on the shoulder before she moves away.

I laugh under my breath, because it reminds me of Callyn, and I’m struck by an unexpected wave of homesickness. Across the table, one of the other forge workers says, “ Hmph. ” Another man glares at me from the other side of the room, and he mutters something to Molly when she approaches his table.

I lose the smile and eat a muffin.

At least I know how to work with horses. I brought my tools from Briarlock, so I carry them with me to the forge each morning. There are nicer ones here, but I can’t quite seem to let go of the few familiar things that are mine : tongs and pincers and a hammer I forged myself years ago, before Da was so terrible. I haven’t seen any of the guards or soldiers I know, but I quickly learn that there are always armored men and women waiting, their horses stamping at flies, ready for new shoes. Some are bored, some are impatient, few are friendly.

The air is different here, too, warm and more humid, making the heat near the forges less bearable than it was in Briarlock. It rains for days before the weather turns overcast, bringing a cloying heat that’s no better. The constant downpour turned everything to mud, pulling horseshoes and rusting old iron. I pin my hair in a knot like I used to, but strands stick to my neck until I really do have half a mind to cut it all off. It’s only late spring, so I dread what summer will bring. By midday each day, tempers are often short, and the armored women and men are always more terse.

The worst, however, are the soldiers who clearly hate Syhl Shallow.

At first, I can’t be sure of the animosity, mostly because I don’t understand what they’re saying. I know several Emberish terms from when Da and I used to help travelers. Words like lost nail or loose shoe or lame . I don’t know words like trash or traitor or scum .

I just recognize the tone.

Especially when they do things when my back is turned, like moving my crutches or knocking my tools into the dirt. Sometimes they goose the horses when I’m filing or hammering, and the animals will kick out or stumble sideways—and I’ll end up on the ground. Once I catch a hoof in the hip, and it hurts so much that I swear and tears burn in my eyes, but I’m not giving any of these people the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

Tycho once told me about the prejudices he faced on the other side of the border. There are many who would hate the king, but they cannot do so openly. They can hate me without provocation.

Here in Emberfall, they can clearly hate me just as much.

By the end of the fifth day, I’m hot and surly and muttering under my breath. The sun is finally shining, but every living creature is sweating and sticky, and biting flies seem to be everywhere. I’m also a lot slower at my tasks than I’m used to. Back in Briarlock, I had ropes and stools around the forge to make my life easier, but Master Garson doesn’t understand me, and I’ll set myself on fire before I ask the prince for anything. Everything seems to take twice as long as it should, and every muscle aches from compensating in ways I’m not used to. I’ve been so slow that I skip lunch each day to catch up, and hunger pulls at my belly on top of everything else.

It doesn’t help that the heavily armored soldiers leading horses through the forge are just as sullen and snappish. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were spoiling for a fight.

If I get one more shove in the arm or jab in the shoulder, they’re going to find one.

I finish shoeing a horse, and the soldier leading it spits at the dirt in front of me.

“Asshole,” I growl under my breath, making use of one of the words I’ve learned.

He whips around, and I have no idea what he says, but it’s clear he heard me say something . He’s twice my size and easily thirty years old, so I’m probably insane to be provoking him, but I don’t care anymore.

I tilt my head and look at him like I’m confused and stupid. “Be . . . ? well, sir?” I say in my heavily accented Emberish.

He glares at me for a long moment, but someone calls from outside the forge, and he snorts, then spits at the ground again.

I sigh and drop onto my anvil for a moment, then run a sweaty forearm across my face. It doesn’t make anything better. Surely there can’t be too many more horses.

Hoofbeats clop nearby, and I sigh again, hearing another soldier’s voice. Before I can attempt to translate, before I can even look up , an arrow pokes me right in the shoulder.

That’s it. My hand whips out to grab hold, and I jerk myself upright. My free hand forms a fist, ready to swing. “Enough!” I yell.

The horse shies, its hip colliding with a post and knocking a broom to the ground. The soldier has a tight grip on the reins, so the animal settles, blowing hard, pawing at the ground. Nearby blacksmiths look over. So do some of the guards. They might not know what I said, but my anger is clear.

The freckled soldier standing there looks like he was smiling kindly, but his expression is settling into a frown. He lets go of the arrow and puts a hand up, his blue eyes wary. “Jax?”

Oh. My hand unclenches a little. “Sephran.”

We’re getting some curious glances—and some that aren’t so curious. A few of the soldiers look ready for trouble, and I remember that everyone has been primed for a fight all day. Through the haze of the forge, I can see we’ve attracted Master Garson’s attention as well, and my heart gives a little jolt.

Sephran evaluates my expression, then looks around at the others. When he speaks, his voice is easy, and he gives a self-deprecating laugh. Whatever he says disperses most of the tension. The other blacksmiths return to work, and the other guards and soldiers return to looking hot and irate.

Sephran’s gaze goes to the arrow that’s still clutched in my fist. He hesitates, then reaches out to take it. Sheepishly, I let go.

He taps me in the shoulder with the arrow, just like he did when he arrived. “Hello, Archer,” he says slowly.

That’s what he said the first time. I was just too worked up to realize it.

I flush and look away. “Sorry,” I manage.

He inhales as if to speak, then says, “More Emberish yet?”

“A little.” I grimace and point at myself. “Slow.”

He smiles. “We need Malin.”

“He is with Tycho,” I say, and there’s a little tug in my heart when I say his name.

Sephran nods. “I know.”

Of course he does. I wonder if he’s heard anything about their journey, but like so many other things, I have no way to ask. This is already the longest conversation I’ve had in days—and what’s truly pathetic is that there’s a part of me that wants to beg him to stand here for an hour just because he was friendly for one minute.

But that’s ridiculous. Like everyone else, he’s just here with a horse that needs tending. I look down at his gelding’s hooves. At least these are words I have.

“Lame?” I say, though I can already tell the nail holes look worn. “Or new shoes?”

“New shoes,” he says.

I nod and reach for my tools. Sweat trickles into my eyes, and I try to ignore the persistent ache in my side. I would give anything for a stool, even one, to give me some leverage when I need to keep my balance.

I finish with one hoof, then set it down. I glance up, but Sephran is gone, and I’m alone with his horse.

I frown. None of the soldiers have ever left me alone with their horse, and a sour pinch of worry pulls at my thoughts. Maybe he’s mad that I snapped. Maybe he’s complaining to Garson.

Whatever. I have a job to do. I pick up the next hoof, and Sephran still doesn’t return. That sour pinch of worry turns into a tug that won’t leave me alone.

When I’m finishing with the third hoof, something lands in the dirt beside me with a thunk , and I jump, inhaling sharply. But it’s just a bench, maybe four feet long, less than two feet high.

Sephran is a little breathless, his freckled cheeks red. “Do you need this?”

I stare at him, shocked. I don’t know what to say.

He misunderstands my silence, because he points at the bench, then me. “You,” he says more slowly. “Need? Want?”

I shake myself. “Yes. Please. Yes. I need.” I don’t know if I want to cry or if I want to hug him, but both options would be equally humiliating—and I feel the urge to do them all the same. I don’t even know how he knew . “Thank you.” I pause. “How?”

“From the stables,” he says, which I understand, and he adds, “By the horses?”

That means he carried it a good distance. But it’s not what I meant. I shake my head. “How . . . ?how to know?”

“How did I know?”

“Yes.”

Sephran thinks about this for a moment, and I realize that even though I figured out how to ask the question, there’s a good chance I won’t understand his answer. It’s easy to point at objects and ask people what they’re called. I can’t point at things like thoughts and memories and feelings and all the nuances that actually make up human conversation.

I have no idea how Tycho managed this when he came to Syhl Shallow.

But Sephran speaks slowly and says, “You fixed horseshoes during our ride. When we camped.”

He watches me puzzle out these sentences, and I get most of it, so I nod. He points at the bench again. “You needed a bench at camp.” He taps his temple. “I remember.”

This is a new word, but I repeat it. “Remember.” I tap my temple like he did, and search for the right words. “Think . . . ?of before?”

His eyes light up. “Yes! Good!”

That makes me feel like I’m six years old and I’ve learned to tie bootlaces for the first time, but in my heart, I’m pleased. I smile and scoff. “No need Malin.”

Sephran grins. “No need Malin,” he agrees.

The bells signaling the end of the day begin to ring, and I still have one hoof left. I swear under my breath and drag the bench closer to the horse. The nearby blacksmiths begin putting up their tools. There will be a mad dash to the dining room, and I’m sure the soldier mess hall is no different.

“Sorry,” I say again.

Sephran shakes his head, unworried. “I have leave,” he says.

Leave. I remember this word from Tycho. “Free?”

“Yes.”

Still, I don’t want to delay him, especially when he’s been so kind. Now that I have a bench, I rasp and file and finish this hoof twice as quickly as the others. Every time I think of his simple act of kindness, my throat tightens with memories of home and longing for friendship and missing the only person I know here, and I have to tell myself to knock it off.

Then the job is done and I’m setting my tools on the ledge, and Sephran is untethering his horse.

“Thank you,” I say to him, and a bit of my emotion slips into my voice.

He must notice, because he looks up, and his eyes hold mine for a moment too long. The forge is mostly empty. He’s the only soldier left.

“Are you done now?” he says. “You . . . ?free?”

I nod. “Yes.”

He pulls an arrow from his quiver again, and he holds it up. “Do you want to come shoot?” He waits to make sure I understand, then adds, “With me and Kutter?”

I’m exhausted and starving and I should probably soak in that bathtub in the Shield House for a solid hour before spending time in anyone’s company. I have no idea where they’re shooting, or how we’ll get there. Do I need to fetch Teddy? I remember how far the archery fields are, and traveling on my crutches is never quick. It seems like a lot of conversation will need to happen, and it took us forever just to answer one question about a bench.

But none of that matters. I’m lonely and homesick and my head is already nodding. “Yes, Sephran. I want.”