Secret of Dehlyn (The Unclaimed Book 2)

by Kathrin Hutson

  “Only the one night,” Kherron replied. “The Honalei leaves in the morning, and I’ll be on it.”

  “Honalei.”

  “What?” Kherron frowned.

  “Just Honalei,” the leatherworker repeated with a smirk. “Uishen calls her by name, and he won’t appreciate you calling her an it, either.” Then he laughed at Kherron’s apparent confusion. “It’s only advice. It may be that nothing else matters to him, but the man’s a stickler for details when it comes to his Honalei. A little knowledge in this will go a long way with him. Especially when you’ll be spending so much time together in such a small space.”

  Kherron thought Uishen’s barge was anything but small. It towered over the other vessels he’d seen on the wharves, and he couldn’t imagine what the leatherworker thought of the far more limited space on the sleeker fishing boats with sails, three of which could fit inside the Honalei with room to spare. But there was no point in trying to discern why the barge’s owner did anything, so Kherron merely nodded. “Understood.”

  Loro nodded, still smiling to himself, then scratched his head. “I’ve got an order to finish tonight. I’ll already be up working until after sunrise, or I’d show you through Vereling Town myself to find you a bed. You could try The Bootstrap.”

  “That place hasn’t changed their pallets in years,” Eian murmured. “And they’ve got rats.” Both Kherron and Loro looked at him, surprised by the fact that he’d willingly steered Kherron away from such a miserable experience after the things he’d said earlier.

  Then the leatherworker chuckled. “That so?” Eian shrugged. “I haven’t needed a good inn in years. The roof over my own head is barely big enough for me,” he said to Kherron, “or I’d offer—”

  “You can stay with me.” Eian drained the last of his ale, then fixed Kherron with a blank stare. Loro hummed in surprise and tilted his head in acknowledgement. Kherron didn’t know whether or not he wanted to accept the invitation, and apparently, he took too long to decide. “It’s only one night,” Eian added, his words filled more with defensive reluctance than open acceptance. “If you miss your passage in the morning, don’t expect me to suggest it again.”

  Kherron nodded warily. “Fine.” The arrangement could very well have made him more uncomfortable than Eian seemed to be—though the man tried to hide it—but he didn’t think he could bring himself to thank his former mentor until he knew exactly what the man intended. Not just yet.

  “Well that’s settled,” Loro said, then stood from his chair and ran a hand over his frizzing hair. “Safe travels,” he told Kherron, then turned and slinked through the tavern, his thin frame rising nearly a foot above the other patrons.

  Kherron turned to Eian and studied the man’s deadpan expression. “You have your own quarters?” he asked casually, trying not to sound too curious. Perhaps, despite the man still apprenticing to pay off the rest of his bond, Eian had fallen into better fortune than Kherron had expected.

  “No,” the blacksmith replied, standing from the table as well. “I sleep in the forge.”

  Chapter 8

  They left the overcrowded tavern, the name of which Kherron had never learned, and moved back through Vereling Town along the main road. With a clear night sky above them and a breeze blowing through the high stone buildings, the walk would have been pleasant had there not existed such a tense lack of conversation. Eian strode across the cobblestones without hesitation, though he neither stepped too quickly nor seemed to want to avoid walking beside Kherron. They passed a few other souls finishing their business for the day, but no one greeted them, and the streets were silent.

  Before they reached the twin towers and the wooden gates between them—which had been closed after dark—Eian took them down an alley wider than those in the center of town. On the other side, they came to an open square between Vereling Town’s outer wall and the tall buildings lining the main street. There, set away from the other structures as though this quarter of the town had been built around it, was the forge. It was far more welcoming than the cloistered, stifling boxes in which the Iron Pit had set them to laboring, and to Kherron, it looked more like someone’s home.

  Eian walked directly to the door, unlocked it with an iron key he’d produced from the pocket of his trousers, and stepped inside. He did not invite Kherron in, but neither did he close the door behind him. Kherron followed, walking into darkness just as Eian lit a lamp on the broad workbench. It provided little light, but it was enough for Kherron to identify the things he’d never expected to see again. He’d recognize the outline of a hearth and bellows anywhere, though the Iron Pit had boasted much larger versions. Even still, he would have preferred a lifetime of working here than one day in that prison of servitude.

  The place was organized and tidy, kept with a level of care far more effective than the fear that had motivated the bonded boys to strive for some semblance of order. A line of tongs hung from hooks at the side of the cooling trough, arranged by size. The lantern sat nearly alone upon the workbench, joined only by a few neatly stacked rolls of parchment and pairs of well-worn, leather gloves. Three leather aprons hung tacked to the wall above a wooden rack of finished and nearly finished workpieces. When Kherron stepped farther inside, he did not feel the familiar scrape and crunch of scraps and dust beneath his boots. Should he have entered during the day, he doubted he would have found a hint of ash upon the lip of the hearth.

  This was a forge the way it was meant to be, and the sight of it, even in the lantern’s yellow light, brought the same wave of longing and anxiety he’d felt when he’d entered Vereling Town. He realized then that the pounding of hammer on steel, ringing through the stone buildings and across the road as he’d stepped into the city, had most likely been the sounds of Eian himself at work. And if not, the man had been here anyways; this was still his life, and apparently, his home.

  He turned to see Eian crouched at the far wall in front of a cot. From beneath it, the man slid out a straw pallet and unrolled it at his feet. Then he stood, wiped the straw from his hands, and unfolded a second woolen blanket from the corner. The apprentice looked slowly from the cot to the pallet on the floor, seemingly undecided as to which he’d offer his unexpected guest. Kherron made the decision for him before Eian had the chance to sacrifice what was, quite rightfully, his own bed.

  Joining the other man at the far wall, he dropped his pack to the floor, unfastened his cloak, and dropped that on the pallet, claiming his space. Then he looked up at Eian, acutely aware of the man’s hesitation, and said, “Thank you.” Eian only nodded, then sat on the cot. “I’ll be gone before sunrise,” Kherron added, more than ready to leave the tension for the weightlessness of sleep.

  With a roof over his head and a locked door behind him, he removed his boots and unbuckled his belt before realizing his mistake. The Sky Metal dagger fell to the pallet, bounced, and clattered onto the floor. He cursed and made to retrieve it, but Eian had already stooped from the cot and lifted it slowly in his hands. Kherron stood there, dumbfounded by his own stupidity; how could he possibly have let himself forget such a weapon strapped carelessly to his person? With gritted teeth, he painstakingly lifted his gaze to find the other man cradling the weapon in his work-worn hands, eyes wide and gleaming.

  “Where did you get this?” Eian whispered, running a hand over the darkening waves within the folded metal. Then he looked up at Kherron. “You didn’t make it.”

  The statement didn’t offend Kherron in the least; the blade’s craftmanship extended far beyond the skills either man had acquired through years of labor. He shook his head. “Its previous owner left it behind.”

  “Who would abandon a piece like this?” Eian asked, his prior restraint now replaced by awe and something akin to envy.

  Kherron’s jaw clenched at the memory of the blond amarach who had tried to murder him with this self-same dagger; this also reminded him of what he had done with the fire and the trees to stay alive, and his resolve renewed.
“Someone who left in a hurry.”

  The appraising stare the other man gave him threw Kherron completely off guard. There remained no trace of the vehement scowl Eian had nursed at the tavern, nor did the man’s eyes maintain the carefully produced blankness of forced apathy. Since they’d met again that night after two years, only now did Kherron feel as though his former teacher actually saw him. And Eian seemed to realize then that Kherron had not revealed the entirety of his burden.

  “What did Torrahs really want in exchange for your freedom?” he asked, and the simple phrasing of the question carried with it Eian’s acknowledgment that he had been wrong in what he’d said at the tavern.

  With a sigh, Kherron squatted to sit on the pallet, and Eian offered him the hilt of the Sky Metal dagger. Accepting its return and setting the weapon in his lap, Kherron replied, “We made no agreement. He never explained anything to me, but he knew I’d do whatever he asked after such a... favor.” He hated referring to his freedom in this way, and the fact that he’d once believed Torrahs had given it willingly with no other intention made his stomach sink. “He introduced me to someone”—mentioning Dehlyn made him wince, though he tried unsuccessfully to hide it—“and it turned out all he wanted was to use me to get to her.” Eian’s eyes widened, and Kherron found it nearly impossible to find the words he wanted. He’d never shared this much about how he felt—about Dehlyn and Torrahs’ betrayal and how foolish he’d been for his part in it—but he found himself wanting to reveal more. The history he shared with the other blacksmith—the agony of their existence in the Iron Pit—might have earned Eian the right to know. But Kherron could say no more without endangering them both.

  Eian frowned and studied the cleanly swept stone floor at his feet. “You’re not going to Eran’s Crossing for work, are you?” Kherron could only meet the other man’s concerned gaze, his jaw working in hesitation and shame. In that moment, it felt as if his obligation to hide the truth weighed more than everything he’d done and what he knew he must still do. “When I saw you in the tavern, I thought you’d come to gloat. That you’d somehow worked off your bond before me or had found a master who paid you well. Your cloak, your clothes. You look... you look like a free man.”

  Kherron smirked, though his frown darkened whatever humor it might have held. “I’ve had some luck.”

  “Perhaps.” Eian raised his brows. “But now, I don’t think I’d want to take your place.”

  With a small, bitter laugh, Kherron added, “I wouldn’t either if I were you.”

  This brought a chuckle of wry amusement from the other man, and after a moment of silence, he took a deep breath. “Well, whatever... whoever who seek across the river, I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Kherron held the man’s gaze, the shadows of Eian’s face elongated and flickering slightly in the lantern light. He nodded once, and when Eian returned the gesture, his eyes returned to the curved blade in his guest’s lap as if they could not fight the attraction it held.

  With the vulnerable moment of honesty behind them, the old tension returned. Though he’d secured passage in the morning and would soon be on his way again, Kherron still found himself caring very little for his current position. He had not wanted a reunion with past ghosts from the Iron Pit. He had not wanted to sit here, confessing slivers of his cumbersome responsibilities when he really wished to forget them, to focus on nothing more than moving forward. He had not wanted to flaunt the rare dagger now in his lap, however accidentally it had happened. Now, in the semi-darkness and the strained silence, he felt like a fool for once again letting himself be caught up in the tide of circumstances, to be carried further toward his own indiscretion. His mouth ran uncomfortably dry, and a powerful longing for the blackness of sleep—where time passed quickly and unexperienced—overwhelmed him.

  As soon as he acknowledged this, the lantern’s flame winked out of its own accord. And he knew, as he’d come to understand, that it had done so on his behalf.

  Eian huffed in confusion. “I just filled the oil two days ago.”

  Kherron reached a tentative hand into his lap to rest upon the Sky Metal blade; he did not need it moving on its own, as it was wont to do, in the other man’s presence. But it seemed only the flame had responded to his silent wish.

  The cot let out a muffled groan beneath Eian’s shifting weight. “I’ll check the—”

  “It’s fine,” Kherron interrupted, grateful for the sudden and—for the other man—inexplicable end to their conversation. “I’m tired.” He heard Eian’s consenting exhale, followed by another series of the cot’s protests as the man stretched out along it and shifted into comfort. Kherron did the same upon the pallet, which offered no such objections, and covered himself with both the extra woolen blanket and his cloak. With his grip around the dagger’s handle, he pulled the weapon toward the curve of his body, unwilling to leave it on the floor.

  It seemed the rhythm of the other man’s breathing, diverging from his own and filling the space in the dark silence of the forge, would keep Kherron awake all night. Apparently, Eian felt the same.

  “It took me a long time to sleep well on my own,” he mumbled. “Without the noise of twenty other bodies on the floor. Now I think I’ve grown used to it.”

  Kherron rolled onto his back and placed his arm behind his head. “I know.”

  HE DID NOT SLEEP WELL, fearing he would not wake in time and would miss the Honalei’s departure. He couldn’t stomach the prospect of Uishen making off with half his coin, calling it a fair bargain even with no one to ferry to Eran’s Crossing. Kherron shifted uncomfortably through the hours, drifting in and out of consciousness and waking to check for pre-dawn light between the slats of the closed shutters. When the black of night finally lifted into grey, he rolled from the straw pallet, donned his things, and slipped quietly through the front door.

  He was grateful for the fact that making his way back to the wharves did not require complicated instructions. Very few people moved along the main road at this hour, though he spotted a few figures flitting down the alleyways. A stray cat darted across the cobblestones in front of him, reminding him of Siobhas, but the animal gave him nothing more than a wary, fleeting glance before moving on; it was only a cat.

  The sun had not yet risen when he stepped out onto the wharves and headed upriver toward the Honalei. The sight of that absurd purple barge towering above the other boats, still moored where he’d last seen it, relieved him more than he’d expected. The river rippled with the rising tide, setting each vessel along the docks to swaying with its rhythm. Kherron found the sight immensely calming amidst the silence of the quays. He passed a handful of men readying their nets and boarding their own boats to begin the day’s work, but they too remained silent, focused on their tasks.

  He thought he was alone when he stood before the Honalei, staring at the yellow door and finding no sign yet of Uishen. Then someone cleared their throat behind him, making him jolt in surprise, and he turned to see Loro smiling at him.

  The man sat upon a stack of wooden crates just off the dock, and he slid his booted feet to the ground before unfolding his lanky body into standing. “Morning,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the twilight. Kherron nodded in greeting, unable to help himself from glancing back at the Honalei. “He’s in there,” Loro assured with a chuckle, readjusting the strap of a leather shoulder bag across his chest. “And he’ll do as he promised.”

  “You’re here to make sure of it?” Kherron smirked, but he didn’t understand why the leatherworker had met him here so early; beyond the few moments of encouragement and curious advice the night before, the man had had no part in Kherron’s agreement with Uishen.

  Though Loro’s shock of untamed hair remained unchanged, he looked as if he’d slept less than Kherron. His eyelids drooped heavily, and the dark circles beneath them demanded more attention in the grey twilight now sifting into blue. “No,” he replied, stepping slowly toward Kherron. Fatigue tinged hi
s smile, but it was no less friendly than it had been when they’d met. “The man carries a streak of idiocy, but he doesn’t need a keeper. I came to tell you you’ve forgotten something.”

  “What do you mean?” Kherron asked, raising his brows.

  “Some things don’t change on the other side of the Sylthurst,” Loro said. “An unprotected blade makes accidental castration just as humiliating.”

  Heat rose up the back of Kherron’s neck, and beneath his cloak, he rested his hand upon the cool hilt of the Sky Metal blade. He stared at the man, unable to think of a reply that wouldn’t make him sound even more foolish.

  Loro laughed. “I’m sure you meant to hide it better. Still, my conscience would not leave me be.” He reached into the shoulder bag and produced an item of black leather.

  It took Kherron a moment to realize the man held a sheath, finely cut and shaped to the exact curve of the dagger at his hip. Speechless still, he glanced up again to meet the leatherworker’s gaze. “I can’t accept this,” he said, his eyes pulled back down to the two buckled straps and the tiny eyelets along the scabbard’s seam, cut and threaded with precision.

  “You will accept it,” Loro said, lowering his head to look at Kherron over the bridge of his nose. “Refusing would defeat the purpose. Whatever you’re about to face, that blade will serve you loyally and well. It would be a shame not to return the sentiment.”

  With a hesitant nod, Kherron took the unexpected gift and ran his hands over the leather’s polished grain. Choosing to ignore his embarrassment at withdrawing a naked blade from his belt, he slid the Sky Metal dagger effortlessly into the scabbard. His heart skipped when the hilt fit snugly at the sheath’s outer lip. “It’s perfect,” he whispered.

  “Of course it is.” Loro passed a hand over his unruly hair. “I don’t have much skill in wielding weapons, but I’ve weighed and measured enough of them to know what each one needs. And to recognize when I’ve seen a rare metal for the first time.” He nodded at the now-covered dagger. “That must have been hard to come by.”