Page 35 of Quicksilver

He'd turned around. Was walking away. I listened to his boots striking the cold stone beneath his feet, each step ringing in my ears. “An Oshellith is a type of butterfly,” he called as he went. “Osha for short. They hatch, live, and die all in one day. The cold kills themveryfast. Isn’t that right, Renfis?”

Ren scowled at Kingfisher’s back, though he didn’t answer him. “Ignore him. Will you come, Saeris?”

I was stuck between the two of them, being asked to make a decision I was in no way qualified to make. Everlayne had been kind to me. Taken care of me. Made sure I was comfortable here. Renfis was full of laughter and seemed solid and good. Kingfisher was a miserable, grouchy bastard without a kind word for anyone. The way he called me that—Oshellith—like it was a dirty word, made me want to smash my fist right through his gorgeous face. But hewasoffering me the truth, even if it wasfrightening. The quickest way out of this nightmare was through Kingfisher.

I winced at Ren. “Sorry. Can we do the library later? I...I just...”

“Told you so!” Kingfisher called out in a singsong voice.

Renfis just nodded, his mouth drawing into a flat line. “Of course. I understand. I'll come and get you in a couple of hours.”

Unlike all of the other doors in the palace, this one was of a normal height. Plain. Simple. No ornate carvings or embellishments. It was just a wooden door. And it was locked.

I risked a sidelong glance at Kingfisher out of the corner of my eye. “Should we, uh...knock?”

An arrogant smile curled up at the corner of his mouth. “Sure,” he said, as if this was a charming suggestion made by a single-brain-celled idiot. A second later, he slammed the sole of his boot against the wood, and then the door was on the ground in pieces. “Knock knock.” He stepped to one side, holding his hand out in a mockery of manners, gesturing for me to go ahead of him. “I don't think anyone's home.”

“I'm not going first. What if it's warded by, I don't know...bymagic, or something?”

Kingfisher waggled his fingers, his eyes going wide. “Oh no, notmagic!”

“Ass.”

“Coward,” he volleyed back. “I knew it wasn't warded.”

“How?”

“BecauseI'mmagic.”

“What aboutyouis magic?”

“Everything,” he said, entering the room. “My looks. My sword skills. My personality—”

“Your personality is trash.” The quip was out before I had a chance to bite my tongue. Ever since I was little, I got mouthy when I was nervous, and I was really nervous right now. Literally nothing about this male screamed,'Bait me and see what happens.’I clenched my jaw, cursing myself for my own stupidity as I followed behind Kingfisher, studiously staring at the ground.

Kingfisher said nothing.

I looked up and—

Holy hells.

Maybe this place had been a forge once, but now it was nothing of the sort. The rough stone walls were slick with frost. The workbenches were covered in vines that were such a dark green they were almost black. Pale blue, purple, and pink flowers dotted their stems like tiny, upturned daggers, their shape strange and unusual. A variety of other flowers, creeping vines, and plant life exploded up the wall on the far side of the cavernous space, crowding around a large window, hungry for a spot in the light.

The thickest of the vines actually climbedoutof the window, the glass having been smashed out. The rest of the uneven stone floor was carpeted with broken glass. Vials, beakers, bulbs, and flasks. Shattered equipment lay strewn around the room, as if someone had flown into a rage and destroyed the place.

Rust had been busy eating away at all of the tongs, pliers, and hammers. Clearly, it hadn't satisfied its voracious appetite because the anvil next to the cracked enamel water bath was so pitted that the iron was sloughing off in great orange flakes. And the forge itself. Gods, the forge. The open-sided hearth was nice and large, there was no denying that. Big enough for a wholefamily of furry animals to have made a den in it, by the looks of things, though its occupants were either out and about their business or had bolted when Kingfisher kicked the door down. It was vented, too, thanks to the yawning hole in the roof directly above it.

Kingfisher sifted through a pile of decaying wood with the toe of his boot, scowling darkly. “I see why Clements has guarded this place so fiercely now.”

“Who's Clements?”

“The King's Royal archivist. He’s been receiving a royal stipend for the past two hundred years or so, charged with figuring out how the Alchemists used to activate the quicksilver. A handsome stipend if I recall correctly. Looks to me like he pissed it all up a wall, though, ’cause this place is a fucking disaster.”

He was right. This was no working forge. The hearth hadn't been fired here in a long time. The place smelled of dust, age, and animal musk.

“I'm going to kick his teeth down his throat,” Kingfisher announced.

“How about you help me instead of threatening violence?” I countered.