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“Yes, but why do you want to give it to me?”
“Because I want you to stay, of course. Join your sister hereat the palace. When this business with my brother is settled, you will have your own permanent rooms within the palace, should you wish them.”
“Do you expect me to make weapons for you?”
His brow furrows. “No, did you want to?”
“No.”
“All right, then.”
I’m still so confused.
Skiro continues, “You make glorious works of art, Ziva, and if I can just look upon them from time to time, that will be more than enough payment. Besides, you’ve brought me the traitor Kymora, unearthed not one but two plots for world domination, and saved my brother’s skin when he was foolish enough to tag along after you. As far as I’m concerned, you deserve whatever you want until the end of time.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Would you release my sister?”
“Release her?”
“From her oath of loyalty. From the guard?”
Skiro brings a napkin to his lips. “She begged me to take her on, and she’s welcome to leave at any time. Oaths of loyalty are simply a tradition of the past. I wouldn’t want anyone to serve me and this territory who didn’t want to. That doesn’t sound pleasant for anyone. Why? Has she asked to leave? Maybe I didn’t make myself clear during our last conversation.”
I wish I could lie, but that will do neither of us any good. “She has no wish to leave.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Please make yourself comfortable in the castle forge. Do let me know if there’s anything else you require.”
“Okay. Bye, then.”
Why is saying goodbye always such an awkward affair? I exit as quickly as I entered, my cheeks heating.
Where Ravis had dozens of forges and hundreds of workers, Skiro’s palace has one large smithy on the palace grounds. It’s not quite as big as mine back home, but close. Just the sight of it fills me with fear and dread, and I curse my body’s reaction.
You’re walking in there of your own free will, and you can leave as soon as you’d like.
I flood my mind with good memories of the forge. Of halberds and throwing stars and swords and spears. Items I crafted on my own. Weapons I carefully designed and lovingly brought to life. I think of Temra sitting on one of the worktables chatting at me while I hammer. The time I saw Kellyn walk by my windows.
There is far more good than bad in my memories of forges. I just have to hold on to them, and make new memories, too.
So I put one foot in front of the other, determined to see this through.
Inside, I find a grizzled old woman, with hair out of control and arms too long for her torso.
“What do you want?” she asks when I enter.
Her tone isn’t encouraging, but I push aside my nerves as I remember Serutha’s words. I need to reclaim this for myself. Iwillmake the forge a safe space for me once more.
“To help,” I say. “What are you working on?”
“Whataren’tI working on? Broken shields. Bent armor. Snapped spears!”
“Do you have a spare work apron?” I ask.
“Do I bloody look like I have the time to teach you anything? Skiro expects me to work a miracle, and he thinks—”
I roll up my sleeves, exposing my biceps. I step up to thenearest anvil, take note of what the smithy’s working on, and grip the tongs she’d discarded when I entered.
“I hold, you hammer?” I ask.
