He’s taking me to the smithy.
Those sounds keep pecking,pecking …until we come to a massive room that’s carved into the cliff face. Flaming kilns line the walls, workbenches packing the space, each occupied by hunched-over men dripping sweat down their temples, banging away at their various projects, most of them swords from what I can see at first glance.
The open wall at the far end, windowing an empty wooden pier glazed in moonlight, exposes the space to the elements, though it does nothing to alleviate the dense humidity.
“Get out!” Cainon bellows, and the shrill racket is sponged in an instant, followed by a symphony of clattering tools that makes me wince.
Boots scuff against stone as the men leave, their heads down and gazes cast on the sooty floor. Cainon seems to pick a workbench at random, drops my wrist, and reaches out his hand.
I dig through my bag, throat clenching at the sight of the tiny, blunted crystal bloom tumbling around in the bottom. Retrieving my cupla and the piece of gold that broke off, I hand them over.
He studies them, eyes cast down. “How did it break?”
“I knocked it against something,” I lie, and his eyes flick up, down again.
“Our gold is very soft because it’s such high quality. I’ll replace the latch with an iron one.”
“Iron?”
“A type of metal. Not so commonly used anymore, but it’s hardy.”
He gets to work, melting, tipping, pinching things with long pliers, then dipping them in a bucket of water that boils instantly. Then he’s banging—making sharptinkingsounds with every determined strike, concentration knotting his brow.
I pull a deep breath and blow it out, teeth gritted as I force myself to maintain my composure, picturing myself cross-legged in a grassy glen with soil between my fingers.
My gaze wanders across the bench, landing on a vicious-looking chisel with a bulbous wooden handle, the flat metal length honed to a squared tip.
That looks handy …
Cainon turns to the forge behind him, the glow of the flames licking at his bronze, sweat-dappled skin, and I blindly reach for the tool, pluck it up, and tuck it in my bag.
He turns, eyes narrowed on a small, dull piece of metal pinched between a pair of blackened pliers. More sharp taps with a small hammer, and then he holds up my cupla, looking at it from all angles. “Much better,” he murmurs, gesturing for me to reach my hand across the wooden table dusted with shards of metal and marred with messy black divots.
He threads it onto my wrist, and clips the dull gray latch into place. “I know they’re uncomfortable sometimes, but they’re not supposed to be unclipped,” he says, looking up at me with a knowing glint in his eyes. “It weakens the latch.”
I stare at him, heart pounding so hard I can hear it.
Does he know I’ve been taking it off?
“Perhaps it was loose?” he asks, a single brow raised. “Did the latch ever unclip on its own?”
“Yes,” I blurt, locking onto the offering like the lifeline it is. “That happened a couple of times. Very frustrating.”
I meet his gaze, daring him to challenge the lie.
He nods and plants his fists on the table, broad shoulders bulging, flashing me a friendly smile. “How about we use a little solder? That way you never have to worry about it coming off again. Ever.”
The words hit like stones to my chest, planting seeds of wild panic that root around my ribs.
No.
I don’t want this.
The voice screams at me, over and over again as I twist the conversation, look at it from all angles, and realize there’s no way for me to free myself from the crushing jaws of this verbal trap.
His brows lift. “Orlaith?”
“Yes,” I whisper, then clear my throat. “That’s a good idea.”
