Page 83 of Heart of the Desert

Keera’s breath hitched. “I do not think many would consider me a daughter of Clan Padra—just of the desert.”

The sword smith’s lips twitched. “I thought I recognized you. Those eyes are hard to forget.”

“It was a long time ago, I’m surprised you remembered,” she murmured.

“I have a sharp memory. I remember every sword I’ve ever forged. It would be an honor to make one for you. Clan Padra has always made the finest blades in the clans, even since the days of Kelvar and Alyx.” He ushered us over to his workbench as he spoke. “You know, the smith who taught my master’s master was actually the reason for Kelvar and Alyx’s meeting. The Lord of Clan Katal had planned to ransom Alyx back to her father, the Lord of Clan Padra, in exchange for their smith. He envied the weapons Clan Padra’s riders carried.”

He laid half the sword on the bench and motioned for me to lay the other piece beside it. Then he reached for Keera’s wrist. She let him take it, and he twisted it to look at her right hand from every angle. “Let’s see what kind of grip would suit you,” he mused.

Keera cleared her throat. “If you remember me… do you know Lera and Kyren?”

I had never heard the names before, but with a sinking feeling, I realized about whom Keera likely asked. His face twitched in a way that made my stomach twist, but then it smoothed itself out. “I knew them. They were lost to a sandstorm three years past.”

Keera tensed, and I waited for a rush of tangled emotions down our tether—I squeezed my fists as I braced for a swell of magic, ready to rein it in before it could hurt this well-meaning man. But it never came. Instead, Keera’s face remained oddly blank. Her eyes widened slightly too, as if she were surprised by her own reaction.

“Oh. Well.”

The smith looked at her with raised brows for just a second before looking back at her hand. “You have long fingers. A thicker grip would suit you—and perhaps a decorative pommel befitting of a high lord.”

From there, the conversation was limited to the blade, and several minutes later, we strode away. Kelvar’s broken sword still lay on his bench, but I had hope now that it would serve both of us well again. Still, I barely thought of it, instead focusing on the slight frown creasing Keera’s brow. I wanted to reach out and smooth it. Or perhaps I wanted to drag her parents back from the dead so I could kill them again myself.

We stopped, looking out at the riders who had transitioned from rote drills to sparring while we talked to the smith. The clash was loud enough that it was almost difficult to hear Keera’s words, but I felt them in my chest.

“Is it horrible that I feel nothing?”

I brushed the back of my hand against hers, hooking our pinky fingers. “No.”

Her frown only deepened. “You raged at your parents until you eventually forgave them. And even when you hadn’t yet, you still mourned your mother’s death in your own way. I can’t bring myself to be angry or sad—even if I would only be sad at the opportunity to prove them wrong.”

“My parents were not yours,” I admitted truthfully. “And you care so deeply about so many people… You do not owe those feelings to the dead.”

She looked at me, and one corner of her lips quirked up. Her eyes were still pensive, but the expression made the knot of worry in my chest loosen a touch. “I still think I might like to hit something,” she mused.

“That is not unusual for you. Although I’m not sure these riders deserve it.”

“No, but it will prepare them—and me—for what is to come.”

So, I followed behind her as we drifted into the training field and joined the other lords and their riders in their training.

The atmosphere in the camp was strangely quiet for how many people it housed. Under Lord Alasdar, Clan Katal’s encampment was often tense, but rarely quiet. While he would regularly whip his followers into a fanatic frenzy against their shared enemy, leaving the threat of coming violence hanging in the air, the nervousness in the camp now was different.

After days of training with the riders and warning them of the coming battle, an uneasy quiet lay over the camp like a blanket. General Warrick had brought his men to join in the training and spoke with the warriors about the machines that Calix would have constructed: Catapults that would launch flaming rocks and massive mechanical bows that would fire arrows impossible distances.

It had left the riders tense and unsure. Often clan encampments would buzz with excitement before battle—the desert craved blood and the riders itched to spill it—but the presence of foreigners and an unknown enemy made the looming war heavier.

The broken Heart still in my pocket did not lighten the weight of apprehension.

Dhara broke the silence among the lords where we were gathered around the central fire. “I’ve been to funeral’s livelier than the camp tonight.”

“The people need rest,” Izumi observed. “The journey back and the coming battle will be trying. They do not need to exhaust themselves with laka and singing.”

“Worrying about the battles to come is not particularly restful,” Keera pointed out beside me. “And it is hard to rest easy when camped next to those you don’t trust.”

“There is not much we can do to make the rider’s trust the men from Doran,” Izumi argued. “We can agree to an alliance, but we can’t force the riders to have faith in their loyalty.”

“The clans did not trust each other at first, but we made it work.” Dhara folded her arms. “A healthy game of kaman let them beat the lingering doubts out of each other.”

“The men from Doran do not play kaman,” Izumi said.