Page 5

JAX

The gardens in front of the Shield House are just as lush and well tended as everywhere else on the castle grounds, roses and peonies in full bloom. The cobblestones are freshly swept, and there’s not one single spot of chipped paint or rotted wood anywhere. When we dismount to tether the horses, I can smell baked bread and cooking meat, which should be appetizing, but my stomach is churning.

Breakfast with my father was always simple: just the two of us, him usually reeking of ale or sweat or both. We’d eat boiled eggs or dry pastries that Callyn had left over from the bakery, along with some weak tea because Da never liked it too strong. Even with the soldiers, breakfast was quiet in the early morning darkness, just hard bread and dried strips of beef that were passed out while everyone took care of their horses.

From the sound of clattering dishes and the low rumble of conversations, breakfast in the Shield House will not be simple or quiet.

Beside me, Tycho is unbuckling my pack, which means I’ve been staring too long. He tugs it over his shoulder, then holds out my bow and quiver. “I’m sure you’re hungry. Let’s go find Master Garson. I’ll take the horses to the stables when we’re done, so you can take your time settling in.”

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to settle in here. I’ve never doubted my skills as a blacksmith, but looking at the pristine conditions of the grounds is making me doubt everything. Tycho is waiting, so I hang the strap of the quiver across my chest and slip the crutches under my arms.

Tycho leads me up the steps and through the doorway, and suddenly we’re in a massive room with two long tables. At least a dozen men and women sit at each table, and two serving girls are carrying trays of meats and sliced fruit from another room on the opposite side. A boy of about twelve is feeding logs to a low fire in the hearth on the back wall. Everyone looks bright and clean and well-fed, and I want to walk right back out the door—especially when they spot us and the lively conversation dwindles into nudges and whispers.

My hair is a wild tangle from the journey here, and I want to twist it back into a knot, but I’ve got nothing to use. There’s probably blood and dirt on my face, too. It’s definitely on my hands and armor.

I glance at Tycho. He’s in the same condition, bloodstains and all, though he looks like a warrior returning from battle, while I surely look like . . . ?well, like a poor blacksmith dressed up like a soldier. Half a dozen pairs of eyes snap to my crutches, and then to my missing foot.

One of the serving girls sets down her platter and whispers behind her hand to a young woman seated at the table closest to her. My heart is pounding, and I jerk my eyes away before any warmth can crawl up my neck.

At the other table, a man rises from his seat to approach us. He’s broad-shouldered, taller than my father, with dark eyes set in deeply tanned skin, thick gray hair, and a trim beard. He’s not too far past middle age, but he still looks like the kind of man who could pull a tree out of the ground bare-handed. He’s in trousers and boots and a clean tunic, but his hands are heavily callused, and I recognize the tiny burn scars from working around a forge. This must be Master Garson.

“Tycho!” he cries, and I can immediately tell he’s someone who booms every word he says. He claps Tycho on the shoulder, then launches into a sentence full of words I can barely understand.

While Tycho smiles and responds in kind, I find myself automatically listening to see if Master Garson is slurring. Inhaling to see if he’s the kind of man to down a pint of ale before breakfast. Wondering if he’s going to hold my hand in the forge if he doesn’t trust me to—-

As soon as I realize what I’m doing, I tell myself to stop.

This man isn’t my father. I’m not in Briarlock.

Before I can shake off the memories, Master Garson claps me on the shoulder like he did to Tycho, and it makes me jump. I’m glad I have a good grip on my crutches. My fingers tighten anyway.

“Master Jax,” he booms.

Master Jax. I’ve never been called that in any language, and I’m not sure what to make of it. I have to clear my throat so I can speak the few words I do know. “Master Garson. Hello. I . . .” I’ve learned what to say when I meet someone, but I’m too tired and too rattled, because my brain goes blank. For a terrified moment, I think I’m going to repeat what Sephran said.

Eventually, I manage, “Thank you?”

Master Garson looks somewhat amused by this, but he nods. “Welcome.”

At my side, Tycho speaks to me in Syssalah. “I told Garson we had to ride hard through the night,” he says. “He knows you need to rest. He’ll have Molly—one of the serving girls—bring a platter of food to your rooms, along with some boiled water so you can wash. The tradesmen will be heading out soon, so it’ll be quiet. You can sleep.”

I wonder if Molly is the one who was whispering about me. Everyone is still staring, so I nod to Master Garson. “Thank you,” I say again, and he blinks, and I realize I’ve said it in Syssalah this time. I grimace and hastily repeat it in Emberish. Then I nod at the others and say it again.

A few nod back and murmur, “ Welcome. ”

A few look away and go back to eating.

A few exchange glances and mutter. I try to ignore it, but I remember the way the soldiers treated me. Uncertainty has already gathered in my gut.

Master Garson calls across the room to one of the serving girls, presumably Molly. She was the one who whispered about me. I snap my eyes away, trying to keep a scowl off my face.

But she must like Tycho, because she offers him a bright smile and a curtsy, then loads a platter with food. We follow her down a short hallway, my crutches clacking with every step. She’s chattering away, but despite the whispering, her tone is upbeat and cheerful. I think she’s only talking to Tycho until I realize she’s said Master Jax , and we’ve stopped in front of a door.

“She says these are to be your rooms,” Tycho clarifies for me.

Rooms. I know boarding houses have long rooms with pallets for sleeping. Maybe this is like that. I wonder if other people are still here, if Tycho means to leave me among strangers.

Molly is staring at me expectantly.

“Sorry,” I say to her in Emberish. That band of panic around my heart goes nowhere. “Thank you?”

She smiles at me, which takes me by surprise. She’s a bit younger than Callyn, I think. Pretty, with fair skin and dark hair wrapped up in twin braids. She glances between us and says something. I expect Tycho to repeat it in Syssalah for me, but he doesn’t. He takes the tray of food and responds in kind, because she nods quickly, bobs a curtsy, and says, “Yes, my lord,” then dashes off.

I want to ask what she said, but Tycho pulls the latch on the door—and it’s not a room full of sleeping pallets at all.

The room beyond is large, with wood-paneled walls and a wide, multicolored tapestry hanging to my left. I immediately spot a small hearth set into the opposite wall, two plush chairs with a low bench between them, and a larger table in the corner. Another door is past the hearth, but it’s closed. Tycho steps past me to place the tray of food on the table, then drops my pack on one of the chairs beside it. I follow him in, and the door closes behind me, but I don’t move beyond that spot.

This space is larger than the main room of the house I left in Briarlock.

I glance at Tycho and then at the closed door near the hearth. “Who else shares this?” I whisper.

He follows my gaze. “No one.” He frowns a little, then opens the other door, and I see the edge of a bed beyond. “These are your rooms, Jax.”

I fall back a step, and my shoulders hit the door.

There’s no possible way I’ve been given this space to live in. It’s too big, too grand. My eyes travel over the walls again, scanning the hearth—which I can see now has a grate on the other side that allows it to heat the bedroom as well. Through the doorway, the bed seems larger than I could ever imagine needing, and I think there’s a wardrobe as well.

The door is pressing into my back now, which hurts a little bit from what happened with the scraver—but I can’t move. I don’t deserve any of this. This is a room for a skilled craftsman, not a village blacksmith.

“I thought . . . ?I thought I’d have a cot in the forge,” I say, and my voice is rough.

Tycho comes to stand in front of me, his eyes searching mine. “Prince Rhen wouldn’t offer you a position and leave you without lodging , Jax.”

That makes me frown. I don’t know what to say.

“Do you want to explore?”

I shake my head briskly, because I’m content to stand here against the door until my heart stops pounding.

Tycho tsks , then reaches out to take hold of the bow across my chest. He gently gives it an upward tug. “Up and over,” he says, like I’m a toddler learning to dress for the first time.

It makes me feel sheepish, and I smile.

Tycho feigns a gasp as he pulls the bow over my head, mindful of my crutches. “A smile ?” He reaches for the quiver strap next. “That was easier than I thought.”

My eyes flick to the room—the rooms —at his back. “This . . . this is too much,” I say, and the words come out like a secret.

“It’s not,” he says, but his words are just as weighted. He tugs at the quiver strap.

I let go of a crutch to pull the quiver over my head myself. “You don’t need to disarm me.”

“Well, someone needs to. You can’t stand here barring the door all day. I do need to report to the castle at some point.”

His eyes are shadowed with exhaustion, but his tone is light, and I can’t tell if he’s teasing or being serious. A little of both, I think.

When I don’t move to disarm any further, Tycho reaches out, his fingers hooking under a strap of the breastplate that sits by my rib cage. I’m tense and ticklish, so I draw a sharp breath and bat his hand away.

To my surprise, he bats me right back. Like his tone, I can’t entirely tell if we’re playing. The movement is a little too aggressive, a little too belligerent. When I shove at him, he catches my wrist, and we scuffle.

Then my back hits the door, his weight pinning me there, and it draws a different kind of gasp from my lips.

His fingers go still, one hand keeping hold of my wrist. The room is so quiet that I can hear him breathing, and I suddenly can’t tell if he’s pinning me or if he’s holding me.

His thumb brushes against the base of my hand, and it sends a bolt of warmth through my body. There’s nothing aggressive in the air now. Tycho is close enough that I forget this massive room that I don’t deserve, I forget the fact that we’re on the grounds of Ironrose Castle. My world has centered on nothing more than the warmth of his brown eyes and the weight of him trapping me against the door.

Tycho reaches up with his free hand to push a lock of hair out of my eyes. My breath catches when his fingers tug at the strands, tracing along my cheek to tuck the hair behind my ear.

“Jax,” he says roughly. “What you said. When we were riding. I’m—”

A sharp knock sounds at the door at my back, and I jump a mile .

He swears under his breath and draws back. A girl speaks in Emberish from the other side of the door, and Tycho responds in kind, then looks at me.

“Molly has delivered boiled water for your bath,” he says. The spell is broken, and any roughness has vanished from his voice. He ducks to fetch the crutch I dropped, then holds it out for me. “I’ll bring it in. You really should disarm and eat. I’ll stoke the fire in your washroom so the water won’t go too cold.”

I’ve moved aside so he can open the door, but my thoughts are still tangled up in the feeling of his thumb against my hand, and I’m barely processing what he’s saying.

Tycho keeps talking as he carries steaming buckets past me. “I know you’ve picked up some common words from the soldiers, but I’ll leave a list with the kitchen girls that might be helpful. You’ll find clothes in the wardrobe, too. Master Garson will show you to the forge tomorrow. He’ll have you start with horses, because Prince Rhen sent word that you worked with the soldiers when they were in Briarlock. I’ve heard you around the camp. You know a bit of Emberish when it comes to shoeing horses, right?”

His voice has grown more faint, so I move into the second room. The bed coverlet is softer than anything I’ve ever touched, even softer than the downy feathers on the baby chicks that Callyn has in the barnyard every spring. The fabric is a faint blue that matches the morning sky outside the window. I was going to open the wardrobe to see what clothes I might find, but a mirror is bolted to the wall beside the archway into the washroom, and I catch a glimpse of myself.

I almost do a double take. Specks of blood and dirt everywhere. My hair is a wild mess of tangles.

I do not belong in this room.

“Jax.”

I blink and look over. “Yeah.”

“Do you mind if Master Garson asks you to start with horses?”

“No. Yes. Horses are fine.”

I must sound unsettled, because he stops in front of me again. “You’ll feel better once you’ve had time to rest. You need to eat, too.” He leans in, and for a breathless moment, I think he’ll finish whatever we started against the door—but he inhales and whispers, “And take a bath.”

I grin and shove him away.

I half expect him to tussle again, but he doesn’t. He takes a step back and stops by the table where he left the food. He hesitates, and his expression turns the tiniest bit uncertain. “And . . . ?if it pleases you, I’ll return before sundown to fetch you for dinner.”

He sounds so formal. As if I’d say no. As if I won’t be counting the minutes until he returns.

But I match his tone and nod sagely. “Why, yes of course, Lord Tycho. But only if it pleases you similarly.”

For the first time, a hint of a blush finds his cheeks, and he frowns, glancing away. I can feel his unease, his distress. I want to tackle him and beg him to stay, to let his demons settle and go quiet. I want to wrap my arms around his neck and not let go.

But I think of what he said about needing to report to the castle. I think about what he said about discretion , and how people will talk . We’ve probably been alone in here long enough.

Regardless, he’s already moving toward the door. He pauses there, looking back at me. “Be well, Jax.”

I have to force myself to remain still. “Be well, Tycho.”

And then he’s gone.