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The wheels start turning in my head.
Ravis wanted me to make an impression on his nobles. I wonder what would happen if they were to know I was suddenly gone…
CHAPTER NINE
If Elany notices that I’m fidgeting more than usual, she doesn’t say anything.
Two separate needs clash within me. On the one hand, there’s survival. If I’m caught trying to escape, I don’t know what Ravis will do to me or Kellyn. I’m absolutely petrified that something will go wrong. There are a thousand ways it could.
But on the other hand is the desperate desire for freedom. The need to see what’s become of my sister. Kellyn and I must warn our friends that war is coming.
I’m going to execute my plan today.
My hands shake as I pull weapons from the kiln and begin magicking them one by one. Every time Elany opens her mouth, I startle, convinced she’s going to call me out on what I’m planning—as I try to work up the nerve to magic another too-powerful weapon.
“What are you thinking about when you use your magic?” she wants to know this time.
I steady my breathing before answering, “The people I careabout usually. It helps to focus me. I have to coax the metal gently. Usually, I have to… give of myself, in a way. But it’s different every time.”
Did any of that even make sense?
“Give of yourself? What do you mean by that?”
“Sometimes it’s physical. The metal needs the wind of my breath or the touch of my skin.” My blood and sweat have landed on weapons before. “Sometimes I just share my thoughts and feelings with the weapon, whether I verbalize them or not.”
And the more I give, the more powerful the weapon—I hadn’t noticed until Petrik made the observation while questioning me for his book.
Another pang of longing fills my breast. I miss my friend. His sharp wit and open way of looking at the world. He would have come up with a much more clever plan for escape and executed it more quickly, too.
As self-doubt sets in, I lose my resolve and magic the weapon I’m currently holding to do the same as the others that have come before. Return to the wielder’s hand when disarmed. I hand it off to a waiting smithy, who stacks it with the others before retrieving another bastard sword from the kiln.
Kellyn looks much improved after several weeks spent healing from his sliced ear. The color has returned to his face, and he doesn’t scratch about the bandages the way he used to. He’s also growing more restless, and I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. As a mercenary, Kellyn is used to movement. Traveling from place to place, swinging his sword. He likes to be active, so he can’t be happy standing around the forge day in and day out. Being captured has been worse for him than it has for me.
Good, the selfish part of me thinks. If he didn’t want to suffer, maybe he should have kept his big mouth shut.
It was that or die, the nice Ziva argues, surfacing now, perhaps,because the hope of escape is before her.He saved you by revealing your abilities.
At what cost? He saved himself. And, yes, me. But in exchange for the lives of an entire kingdom if Ravis gets his war.
As if my thoughts have drawn his notice, Kellyn meets my gaze, and his eyes narrow, as if he knows I have a plan and if he can just stare at me long enough, perhaps he can figure out what it is.
I desperately wish I could talk to my sister, ask her thoughts. About Kellyn and me. About what I’m about to do. Would she think me irredeemable if I intentionally make another powerful sword? Will my mother look down on me in shame from one of the Sisters’ heavens?
“You’re remarkable, Ziva,” Elany says. “Whatever our differences, I hope you know that.”
I don’t believe her. “I need to focus,” I say gently.
“Of course,” she says, disappointed by my answer. I wonder for a moment if she hoped the two of us would be friends, but the notion is so ridiculous that I discard it immediately.
All right, this is it. This is the weapon that I will magic differently.
Ripe, tangible fear courses through me, as though infused in my veins. I can feel my heart pumping it out to every limb. My body feels hotter than the fire I approach to grab yet another sword.
I need to ground myself, or I’ll never be able to pull this off. Be present. Focus on what’s real and right in front of me. The bastard sword, also known as a hand-and-a-half sword, glows white. It’s an arm span in length, the blade the width of my four fingers pressed together. The hilt is long enough to be held in one or two hands, which is where its name comes from.
I feel the smooth metal under my fingers, loosen andtighten my grip on the hilt to focus on the friction. I smell the heated steel, a tangy yet earthy scent that is usually so comforting to me.
It’s time, Ziva. No more stalling. You have to do this. No one can save you but yourself.
