by M. L. Greye
Not a minute after Emry sat down, the woman returned with two glasses – the water and juice she’d ordered – along with a new tablemate for them. Emry thanked the woman for her glasses as the man sat down beside her.
When the woman moved on to take the new guest’s order, Emry realized he was the man from outside – the one who had watched her. She held in a wince.
Their server walked away, and the man nodded at the two other males in greeting, who responded in kind. To Emry, though, he gave a long, assessing smile and leaned back in his chair – his left forearm draped over the table.
“What brings someone as lovely and delicate as yourself to Pragge?” The man asked. The question could have been charming on someone else. On him, it was a direct question, driven purely by curiosity.
She blinked in surprise, while the other two men pretended they hadn’t heard in polite Mid fashion – even though they’d probably spread the word as soon as they left the table. The two blades strapped to her legs beneath her gown – both sheaths presents from Trezim – didn’t make her feel very delicate. Nor did the stickiness she still felt down her back from her hike into town.
The man was waiting, watching her expectantly. She said, “I have business in Pragge.”
“And what business might that be?” He quirked up a manicured chestnut brown brow as the server dropped off a steaming dark mug of what smelled like coffee in front of him. “A celebration of a certain engagement, perhaps?”
“Actually,” Emry took a sip of her water, “I have come in search of a blacksmith.”
“Are there no blacksmiths in your own town?” The man inquired with mild surprise.
“Of course.” Emry plastered on a nervous grin – too wide and thin at the same time. Let him think her young and inexperienced. It could work to her advantage. “But mine are not known for their craftsmanship. I wish to commission a special sword for my beloved’s birthday. He recently joined Enn’s army, you see.” She rambled on purpose – gave too many useless details as she’d seen some of the younger ladies in Court do before they were silenced by their mammas.
The man frowned and then turned to the other two men. “Leave us now and your meals are on the house.”
To Emry’s shock, both rose simultaneously to their feet without a second glance at their plates. She stared at the gentleman beside her. “Is this your establishment?”
“Yes.” He watched their tablemates walk away. So much for her notion that the place was run by Browns. This man had lavender eyes, which he once again turned on her. “Try again.”
“Excuse me?” She blurted.
“I can detect lies,” he replied bluntly. “You’re not here for a man.”
“You can do what?” Emry breathed out the words. She’d never heard of such an ability. Not in any of those books her mother had forced upon her. Could he actually tell when someone was lying? That would be incredibly useful.
He ignored her question and repeated his own. “What brings you to Pragge alone?”
“Who said I was alone?” This time Emry took a drink of her juice.
The man only eyed her with those intent eyes – he had gray veins through them. She wondered which color gave him the unique ability. She doubted it was the gray. All purple-eyed, no matter the shade, dealt with death or autumn. To detect lies had to have come from the purple. Gray was strictly weather.
She realized they both were staring at each other. She set down her glass and decided to be up front with the man. “I’m looking for Lord Smith.”
He rapped two knuckles on the table. “Yvonne Lordsmith?”
“Oh.” Lordsmith was a last name, not a title. Emry frowned. “Is she a blacksmith here?”
“She is.”
“Then, yes.”
“What sort of work do you have for Yvonne?” He brought his mug to his mouth.
Emry bit the tip of her tongue. He was interrogating her. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“I was merely curious,” he replied.
She believed him. He did not seem like the sort of man to make small talk. And why would he when he could have his curiosity answered with a few well-crafted questions? He would know if his victims were telling him the truth or not. What a remarkable talent to have. She wondered if it made him hate telling lies of his own – when so many around him lied every day.
“I was told this Yvonne Lordsmith knew how to craft a rare type of weapon,” Emry ventured. “Sun blades. Do you know if it’s true? Can she create sun blades?”
His brow drew together. “A Silver in search of a sun blade?”
“One of my closest friends is a Gold. We both are wondering if she can make them.” Not a lie. Trez was just as interested as she was, albeit not for commissioning any blades himself.
“I believe she can.” The man returned his coffee to the table.
Emry pressed her lips together to keep herself from grinning. This was a good first step. Now, if Yvonne knew someone who made shadow blades, this whole trip would be a success.
Just then, the server returned with Emry’s food. She set it down in front of her. The eggs smelled delicious – garlic and turmeric and ginger. Emry dropped her gaze to the quiche-like dish in front of her, startled at such a wide use of spices here in this smaller town. In the Midlands. Bland and boring Midlands.
She took a bite and moaned out loud. It was highly unladylike of her, but the food was just as flavorful and savory as Heerth food. This was why this extremely understated pub was as busy as it was. The food drew them in. She couldn’t wait to try the plate of sweet bread.
The man beside her chuckled softly. “I’m glad to see you like my chef’s cooking.”
“My compliments.” She inclined her head.
He watched her with an amused gleam in his eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Emry.” Another truth, but didn’t fully reveal her identity. “And yours?”
“Warks,” he answered. “Eddvert Warks.”
“A pleasure to meet you.” She meant it. He’d helped her.
Warks rose to his feet and gave her a small bow. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Emry. Please enjoy your food. It’s on me.”
She shook her head. “Oh, no, I-”
He lifted a hand, silencing her. “When you’re finished, if you head to the west, you’ll come across the smithy you need.”
“Thank you.” She nodded.
Warks smiled. “Good luck.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Emry shut her bedroom’s door, practically closing it on the faces of her guards, and flung herself into the space’s only cushioned seat. Tonight had been painful – long, exhausting, boring, and unsettling. Very different from earlier. This afternoon, she had left Warks’s pub and followed his directions to Yvonne Lordsmith, who did indeed craft sun blades.
Yvonne was a tall, honey-skinned woman with gold base eyes and veins of both silver and black. Her eyes were probably the prettiest set Emry had ever seen, and Yvonne had to be the most talented blacksmith Emry had ever met. Not only could she make sun blades, but also shadow blades. Emry might had whimpered a little in relief at finally finding someone capable of making her a set of blades all her own – crafted for her own hands. Good, straight, serrated blades in Quirl and Enlennd fashion. Yvonne understood Emry’s complaints that the curved Perth blades were tedious and easily caught on straight blades. Yvonne had explained the Perth blades were designed for sailors and the jungle – like the habitat of their island. On the continent, though, they had no use for curves.
It was a glorious couple of hours spent with the blacksmith – measuring her hand width, testing various weights and sizes of shadow blades, discussing the advantages to straight, serrated blades. They would have made Trezim cringe. He preferred his Heerth smooth edges. Poor fool that he was.
Following her trip to Yvonne’s, Emry had headed back to Bella’s estate. Yvonne said it’d take about three weeks to complete Emry’s order of four swords �
�� two for each hand – because apparently her hands were comfortable with slightly different blades. Yvonne had already planned to make a trip to Breccan for an order around that time anyway. They’d agreed to meet there in Breccan. Yvonne was not aware of Emry’s title, and that was how she planned to keep it. She was merely Emry. It felt good.
She’d slipped past her guards again, who still stood outside her door even though it was nearly evening by the time she returned. She’d changed quickly, calling for Fanny, and had hurried out to the engagement party on the estate’s front yard in typical Mid fashion.
Emry’s position of royalty had put her at the head table and her hosts – Lady Bella’s parents – were clearly nervous she was there. They were probably horrified their daughter had invited a princess of Enlennd to their home. Through most of the dinner, they’d sat there stoically on either side of Emry. At least it had allowed Emry the chance to eat and dream about her new blades uninterrupted. It was the most peace she had all night.
Immediately after dinner was the dancing. Contra dance after contra dance. And Emry, the idiot she was, had forgotten as the highest-ranking member at a formal occasion, she was required to dance once with a member of each noble family present. A purely Mid tradition – one she was grateful Enn did not enforce. However, here in the Midlands, Emry endured dance after dance, partner after partner. Hopping about like a rabbit with men she’d never met before. Old ones. Young ones. Bald ones. Short ones. Men who might have never bathed by the smell of them. Yet, Emry kept a smile plastered on, practicing her polite Court face. She only had herself to blame.
She kept telling herself it was worth it. That those blades would be worth it. All through the night, she feigned interest in topics as dull as local farming techniques or the recent tax on rice in Perth.
That particular subject had been a favorite of the Mister Eddvert Warks. The helpful pub-owner had approached her halfway through the night. At the sight of him, Emry had nearly panicked. There was no way he didn’t recognize her. Changing her hair color didn’t change her face. She expected another interrogation – this one regarding why a princess of Enlennd was in the market for some sun blades from a blacksmith in Pragge. Yet, all he’d discussed was how Perth had begun taxing its rice exports. Inconvenient of them, he’d said.
He’d acted as if their dance was the first time he’d encountered her. Until the end, when he bent to kiss the air above her fingers. He gave her a knowing smile and commented that he hoped she’d found Pragge to her liking. Unfortunately, that had been the most interesting conversation of the night. The rest of her dances with the Pragge royals all blended together.
Now, it was long past midnight, and Emry’s feet ached. Her shoulders were stiff, and she could feel the sheen of sweat coating her body. All she wanted was to strip down and take a shower, but Bella’s family estate was older and not equipped with the luxury of a Blue or Orange servant. They had to run pipes to the local bathhouse, which meant they only had hot water during certain times of the day. It currently being the middle of the night, Emry would have to either wait until morning or call up a bucket of warm water from the kitchens.
A sponge bath did not sound worth the hassle, so Emry would be waiting. She could have called for Fanny, but the woman was most likely asleep, and Emry could undress herself. As she unfastened the buttons down her back, Emry glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the rounded set of drawers beside her bed.
On impulse, Emry drained out the black from her hair. It was like calling in shadows. Ashy blonde spread throughout her head. Emry smiled a little at the transformation.
Other than today, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d made herself blonde. Had it been back in Anexia? Was it the night Ewan had died? She honestly wasn’t sure.
The thought made her sad. She used to shift between colors every few weeks – ever since the ability manifested shortly before she turned thirteen. Once she moved to Enn, though, she had to do it in private. Her father forced her to wear her natural color of black, like her sister, in Court. For that reason, during her entire stay in Anexia with Ewan, she’d kept her hair blonde. But after he died…
It felt nice to see herself as blonde again. Refreshing. Emry tossed her dress over a chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle on the floor in a pile. She threw herself another glance and decided tonight would be a blonde night.
Maybe she’d startle Fanny in the morning. It was unlikely as hardly anything seemed to phase the woman, but still, she’d give it a try.
Emry smiled as she slid into the bed.
:::::
Everything hurt. After two excruciating days of regrowing the skin on his chest and back in the infirmity tent, while feverish and weak, Kearns threw him back onto the rounds with Semrez and that staff. He’d ripped open the thin, fresh new skin and spent another day in the infirmity tent, only to be tossed out to run laps around the camp over and over again until he threw up his guts. Until he nearly passed out. But because he didn’t open up his skin again, Kearns gave him just enough time to almost catch his breath before sending him running again.
That was three days ago. He’d been spending his nights back out by the little bush on the ground. This time without his coat. In the cold. Kearns had taken it from him when he’d disobeyed her.
The temperature had dropped significantly during his time healing. In his weakened exhausted state, he’d fall right asleep only to wake shivering uncontrollably a few hours later. In the mornings, not feeling rested at all, he’d rise with a fever that a Ruby would hastily patch up on his way to another couple hours of running laps. It had become a pattern.
This morning, though, Kearns had deemed him well enough to fight Semrez again. At least Declan didn’t bleed this time, but he did gain so many bruises over his chest, back, legs, and arms that he’d lost count. He felt as though he’d cracked some ribs and fractured bones, but the Ruby who inspected him following the duel had cleared him of injury.
Declan felt like he was dying. No, dying actually might have felt better. He was depleted and damaged and cold. Kearns had made it her personal vendetta to destroy him – to mold him into whatever puppet she had in mind. She was his Main.
That was a term he’d discovered while in the infirmary. Every prisoner of the camp was subject to follow the whims of the Backwards Rubys. Yet, they all had one Main – someone who was personally responsible for their “training.” Kearns was his. Lucky him.
He hadn’t seen the Brown he’d refused to hit, and he had no friends to ask what had happened to her. Kearns hadn’t told him and there was no way he was going to ask. Declan was beginning to wonder if the girl was dead. If his lack of abuse toward her had led to her death. He wondered if he should have just hit her.
Declan winced as he limped out to the edge of the camp – to his sad, squat bush. He was already freezing. Another night out in the frigid air filled him with dread. Would he wake with another fever or would he not wake at all?
As he passed by the last of the tents, he couldn’t stop the sharp stab of envy for those inside. Just to have some sort of covering from the elements would be a relief.
“It’s a cold night, isn’t it, Teal?”
His head snapped up. A wiry Orange with dull blonde hair hanging limp around her chin stood at the entrance to the tent he was passing. She held back the flap with one hand and was watching him with a curious, borderline coy look. He frowned, but didn’t say anything.
She jerked her head toward the interior of her tent. “Why don’t you come keep me warm tonight?”
He knew what she was asking – what sort of favors would be required of him as payment. Declan paused. His face burned – from what she suggested and his own humiliation for considering her offer. Yet … He was just so cold.
His skin felt as though it’d frosted over. And he was so deeply and thoroughly tired – all the way down to his bones, to the marrow even. He already felt broken and battered. What was a couple hours at the disposal of the Ora
nge for a night out of the elements? He could possibly even get some real rest before Kearns dug her nails into him again in the morning. He could spend a night warm and–
No.
The word clanged through him. Declan fell back a step and shook his head, trying to clear it. No. He wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.
He may not have much control over his life at the moment, but he could at least have a say in this. He survived last night. He could do it again. He could survive one more night. Just one. He’d take it one night at a time.
The Orange shrugged as if his inner turmoil wasn’t written on his face. As if his hands weren’t shaking. “Let me know if you change your mind.”
Her tent flap dropped, and she disappeared inside. Declan grimaced and trudged on – even slower than before.
Shame filled him with each step – shame at even considering selling himself for a few hours of warmth. His dignity may have been shattered days ago, but had he lost all self-respect as well?
This place was destroying him. Both physically and emotionally.
Enervated, that was what he was. Ruined and drained. He honestly wasn’t sure how much more of this he could tolerate.
The little bush appeared between the last two tents, on the edge of the camp. He halted beside it and collapsed onto the frozen, packed soil. He was already shivering, and the sun had barely set. Slowly, Declan pulled his knees up into his chest, curling into a ball.
His jealousy over the tents had faded away, leaving him empty and dark and hollow. He was miserable and alone. He felt mangled and small and helpless and imprisoned in this frozen, muddy nightmare.
He missed his parents – his mother. The safety of his home. The camaraderie of his sisters’ banter. His village. His job. His life.
He missed his life.
This place – this filthy, dark cesspool of misery – had stolen his life from him. And he hated it. Loathed it all with his every breath.