Sheen looks as though he’d like to summon every current of air he can muster and blast me into the middle of next week.
A few of the other villagers are listening now, forming a circle around us.
‘Flint,’ Spinner mutters under her breath.
I hold up my hands. ‘Fine. If there’s nowhere for us to eat, or sleep, or in some casesnot sleep–’ I wink, which really doesn’t go down as well as anticipated – ‘then what I want is one of those weapons you’re all carrying. I’ve never seen such fine craftsmanship.’
A stream of murmurs ripples through the crowd.
‘What’re you doing?’ Sheen hisses.
I shrug. ‘I want a new bow.’
The man considers me for a moment, then turns to a woman holding a mace. ‘What d’you think? He doesn’t strike me as one of them.’
I glance at Spinner and Sheen. Is he talking about Etheri? I wedge my hands firmly into my pockets, grateful for the thin leather gloves covering my brandmark. It no longer glows, of course. Not since I lost the third trial. But if these heavily armed villagers are looking for an Etheri, the triple flame of the Ignitia branded into the back of my right hand is still aprettybig giveaway. Then again, if they are questioning whether or not we’re Fidra, wouldn’t it be a whole lot simpler to just ask us to prove it?
‘You’re right, Glen,’ the woman replies. ‘Not with that accent.’
Myaccent? Etheri can be found in almost every province across Ostacre. Apart from carrying the faint lilt of the Firelands, my accent reveals little else.
‘They could be spies,’ muses another, tapping her fingers along the hilt of her sword.
Spies?Spies for whom, exactly? Who on earth would care about the goings-on in this dump?
‘No,’ says the boy next to her, sizing us up. ‘They’re too clean.’
Too clean?I’m positively filthy. I’d sell a kidney for a hot bath. Are they under the impression that Etheri don’t wash?
The man, Glen, sucks his teeth. ‘All right,’ he says eventually, and I allow myself a small exhale of relief. ‘You can have your bow. But I warn you, it won’t come cheap.’
‘I should hope not,’ I tell him genially. ‘I have very expensive taste.’
Glen jerks his head, signalling for us to follow him.
We’re led past a barn, its doors barricaded by a thick piece of wood. What are they protecting themselves from? Are they afraid the spirits haunting the Greenwood are going to emerge from the treeline and charge up the hill to attack? Though even if this were the case, I doubt such defences would do much to deter them.
‘This way,’ says Glen.
Heathcross isn’t particularly big, and we soon come to a stop outside a rundown little workshop. The chimney belches out smoke, and the walls are carved with Fidran runes.
Glen knocks on the door – four sharp raps. There’s a scuffle from inside followed by a faint clattering. After a minute or so, the door swings open to reveal a woman wearing a dress made entirely from chainmail. She has on thick gloves that stretch almost up to her elbows, and there’s a streak of coal dust on the tip of her nose.
‘This is my wife,’ says Glen. ‘Iris, meet your new customers.’
Iris looks me up and down. ‘You got coin?’
I reach my hand into my satchel and pull out a handful of silver. ‘Will this suffice?’
She raises an eyebrow, then moves back to let us enter.
The forge is cramped and cluttered. Weapons litter every available surface – delicately crafted axes scattered across workbenches, gleaming longswords hanging from the walls. The air is hot and heavy, thick with the tang of metal. Various tools are laid out on the table in front of us, and in the corner a fire burns brightly. My stomachtightens. Forcing myself to sit round the campfire Spinner begrudgingly builds every night is bad enough, but at least then it’s out in the open. Here, it’s too close. I’m hemmed in, just like I was in the throne room at Fire Mountain when Ember lit the pyre, setting Aunt Yvainne’s body alight.
A familiar tremor ripples through my hands and I clasp them behind my back, leaning against the far wall, the handle of a mace digging into my spine.
I begin to count – knives, hammers, marks on the table.
‘So,’ says Iris, tying back her corn-gold hair with a scrap of cloth before picking up a long pair of tongs. ‘What can I do for you?’
