Forging Silver into Stars

Snow falls again overnight, making the morning trudge to the barn a true delight. Nora is snoring away, so I leave her to it, wrapping myself up in a cloak to go milk Muddy May. The chickens are excited when I scatter grain, and May is lowing for her own breakfast. I scoop grain into a bucket for her, too, then grab the milking stool. The morning air is quiet, but I don’t mind. Sunlight breaks through the cracks of the barn door, a wide stripe of light shining through the area where it hangs crooked.

This morning, I’m glad for the quiet, for the task. It gives me time to think.

I’ve heard a dozen stories about the monster that killed my mother. The soldiers that returned from Emberfall were broken and battered, soaked in blood, some with dried viscera caked to their armor. Their eyes were dark and haunted, and they all had stories about a large white creature that sailed out of the sky, bringing terror and death. Some talked about the glistening scales and fangs like a dragon, some said it was more like a winged horse, others talked about the talons that plucked soldiers off horses to tear them in two.

I don’t know if that’s what happened to my mother. Maybe she survived the monster to fall to the army in Emberfall. Maybe it was both.

I know it terrified my father. He was such a kind, thoughtful man before she died. That didn’t quite change after she was gone—but maybe that thoughtfulness went awry. Maybe he couldn’t stop thinking about the magic and what it had done to Mother. That’s why he got tangled up with the Truthbringers—and why he’s dead now. I know he didn’t expect the protest to swell into the palace the way it did.

I know he didn’t expect the king to turn his magic on our people. I rub at Mother’s pendant under my shirt.

I keep thinking about these messages. I’ve begun to wonder how my mother would feel about our activities.

I wish we knew what was in these notes.

Jax has gotten pretty close to the design, but he’s not there yet. What’s more concerning is the wax. It’s a complicated swirl of green and black, with flecks of silver. I walked to town last week, but there’s nothing available at the stationers with so much detail. When we melt green and black wax together, we don’t get pretty swirls—we get a darker green. It might be nothing anyone would notice—or it might be the most important thing of all. We might get a dozen opportunities to read these letters if we get the mixture right, but I’m pretty sure we’d only have one shot if we get it wrong. Then our blood would be swirling in the dirt.

I finish milking May and set the bucket by the door, then turn her loose in the small paddock so I can muck out the barn. Nora should be awake by now, but she likely saw me doing the barn chores and decided to start the dough for bread. Hopefully.

When I go to dump the wheelbarrow on the muck heap, something in the woods draws my notice. I’m not sure if it was a bit of sound or a bit of movement, but I hesitate, looking out through the ice-laden trees. A bitter wind tears through the barnyard, and somewhere out in the woods, an animal shrieks. I shiver.

I want to ignore it, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m suddenly not alone.

I finish dumping the wheelbarrow, then turn back for the barn. That feeling won’t shake loose. I wish for the ax.

“Jax?” I call.

No response. I can hear the forge distantly clanging anyway.

“Nora?” I say. “Nora, if you’re fixing to trick me, I’ll make you fetch the eggs for a month.”

Nothing. Some of the hens wander through the open door out into the yard. Muddy May looks over from her pile of hay.

I put my tools away, fighting the urge to hurry out of sight. When I go to slide the crooked door closed, it protests with a loud creak—then stops altogether. The gap is a foot wide now. I sigh.

I jerk at the door, but it’s frozen in place. Now it won’t open or close in either direction. No amount of swearing or pulling or kicking will get the door to move. Sweat begins to gather under my cloak.

“May I help?”

I startle and whirl. Lord Tycho stands there in the snow.

I stumble back a few feet before I stop myself. “Oh. Hello. Ah … my lord.” I feel flushed and uncertain. I can’t stop thinking of the magic he bears.

Magic that helped Jax.

The same magic that’s caused so much harm.

His eyes are shadowed, and a day’s worth of beard growth covers his jaw this morning. Even his armor seems scratched up. There’s definitely a slice through the emblems of Syhl Shallow and Emberfall.

“Forgive me.” He pauses. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

His voice is kind, and it sounds as if he’s apologizing for more than just this moment. My heart is still pounding, and I wish it would stop. I wish I could reconcile the kindness of his actions with the terrible power he bears.

Has he been here awhile? I wonder if he was waiting on the other side of the bakery, where the door is locked. Maybe it was his horse that I heard.

Then I remember what he said when he came through town before. “I don’t—the meat pies aren’t ready yet—”

“I didn’t expect them to be. I’m earlier to Briarlock than I expected.” He nods at the barn. “I heard you battling with the door. May I help?”

I frown. Knowing he’s at my side makes me even more aware of the peeling paint, the weathered wood, the bent hinges and crooked track.

He’s stepped up to my side, and I shiver, but he only points. “Your door has slipped off the track a bit.”

He’s right. Jax warned me about it a month ago, saying he could fix it, but I didn’t have the coins to pay for a new track, and I wasn’t going to beg him for steel. He already does enough for me.

“I’ve been hoping it would hold through the winter,” I admit—then worry he’s going to offer magic to fix it somehow, and I won’t know what to do.

“Almost,” he says encouragingly. “Do you have a ladder? I can lift it back into place.”

I stare at him.

“Or you can,” he says. “If you’d rather.”

His eyes are bright and guileless. I don’t know if I should be afraid of him or grateful to him or something else entirely.

But Lord Tycho is looking at me expectantly, and I have no idea how to chase him out of here when he’s being so … so harmless. My heart keeps pounding against my ribs, but I drag the ladder out of the barn, set it against the wall, and—despite his offer—I begin to climb.

I see what he means about the track: it’s weathered and worn and the wheel has come a bit loose. But when he lifts from the bottom, I try to maneuver it back into place.

While I’m huffing and puffing and trying to shift the wood, I hear the back door of the bakery creak open. “Cally-cal!” Nora calls. “I think Lord Tycho is nearby. I know we’re supposed to hate magic, but he did heal Jax. Don’t you think he’s handsome? I think I might fancy him. If he didn’t have magic, I think you would fancy—”

“Nora!” I shout. My cheeks are on fire, and I don’t dare look down at Lord Tycho. If anyone could turn my fear of magic into exasperated mortification, it would be my little sister. “I’m fixing the barn door.”

“I saw his horse tethered out front! I fed her one of the apples for the tarts.” She must be crossing the barnyard. In an instant, she’ll see him. That’s a good thing because if she keeps going, I’ll fall off this ladder. “I think he’s very kind. For a lord. Don’t you think he’s very— Oh, hello, Lord Tycho!”

“Hello, Nora,” he says genially. “I’m certain Mercy offers her thanks for the apple.” He’s a little bit breathless, straining with the weight of the door. It’s probably better that he’s down there and I’m up here. I fight to get it fully on the track.

“Your horse’s name is Mercy?” I hear her chirp. “She’s very gentle.”

“She can be,” he says.

“Clouds above, Nora,” I snap. “Leave the poor man al—ouch!” The door slings back onto the track, but my fingers pinch under the metal before I can get them out of the way. Blood appears on my fingertips, and I shake my hand as if that’ll get rid of the sting.

“Cally-cal!” shouts Nora.

“I’m fine,” I say. “Just foolish.” I give the door a shove, and it slides perfectly now. My fingers leave bloody spots on the wood.

When I climb back down, Nora sees the spots of blood on my fingers and blinks wide eyes up at Lord Tycho. “Will you do the magic again, my lord?” Her smile is bright. “Please?”

That brisk wind tears through the barnyard again. “Nora,” I hiss. “You can’t ask—”

“I don’t mind.” Lord Tycho puts out a hand.

I jerk back without meaning to, and he frowns.

I swipe the blood on my skirts and take a step back. “It’s … it’s not bad enough for all that.”

He studies me for a long moment, then nods and lowers his hand. “As you say.”

I can’t read his expression, and I’m worried I’ve offended him. My heart keeps up its brisk pace, but he did just help me fix the barn door. He did heal Jax’s hand. I’m the one who drew a knife. Jax is the one who hit him.

It feels wrong to invite magic into my home, but Lord Tycho isn’t a monster. He’s not a winged creature out of a storybook.

He’s not even the man who set the palace ablaze and killed my father.

I swallow. “I know it’s early for meat pies, but I have the dough ready for apple tarts.” I hesitate. “If you have time today, my lord.”

“I do,” he says, but now there’s an odd silence between us.

I have to turn away. “Well,” I say. “Come along.”

The bakery is warm from the fire, and probably for the first time in my life, I’m glad for Nora’s chattering, because it spares me the need to say anything at all. I trim dough and lay apples and ignore my stinging fingers—all while she rambles about nothing for twenty straight minutes and the bakery swells with the scent of cinnamon and sugar.

“A woman was through two days ago,” says Nora, “and she said the queen is expecting another baby. Is that true?”

“It is,” he says. Lord Tycho has taken a seat on the bench by the window, leaning back against the wall. The sunlight gleams in his hair. Nora was right—he is very handsome. There’s a hint of weariness to his frame, though, and now I can see that one side of his armor is barely held together by crudely tied strips of leather. I wonder who he fought with, and why.

“Do you think she’ll have another girl?” says Nora. “Two daughters are supposed to be very lucky.”

He smiles. “So I’ve heard.”

“I’m so excited,” she squeals. “I love babies.”

I roll my eyes. As if she’ll be meeting this one personally.

“Maybe she’ll be a magical princess.” She sighs. “I’m sure people will have a lot to say about that.”

Lord Tycho’s eyes meet mine, and I think of that moment in the barnyard when I refused his magic. “What do you think they’ll say?” he asks her, but his eyes are still on me.

“Everyone is worried that Princess Sinna might be a magesmith like the king. Do you think so, Lord Tycho?”

“I think Princess Sinna is fairly determined to be whatever she wants to be.” He pauses. “They needn’t worry. The king and queen are fair and just, and they’re raising their daughter to be the same.”

I’m not sure my parents would agree, but I don’t know what to say. I certainly can’t tell him that my father was part of the attack on the castle six months ago. My cheeks are warm, so I thrust my hands into a fresh ball of dough and say nothing.

Nora, however, has no hesitation. “But even if she doesn’t, she could get rings like yours, right?” she’s asking with awe in her voice. “Do many people have them?”

He’s been very patient with her prattling, and I’m curious about this one myself, so I keep my eyes on the tarts while I wait for his answer.

“Very few,” he says. “They’re made of special steel from the ice forests in Iishellasa.” He flexes his hand, and they catch the light. “It takes the king quite a bit of time and effort to make them.”

That must mean that the king chooses who gets to wear them. Something about the idea twists up inside of me. Why should one person get to choose?

“Can you heal anything with them?” Nora is asking.

“Not anything,” he says. “I’m nowhere near as fast as the king would be. It’s borrowed magic. Like … like a pair of boots that don’t fit quite right. I can’t summon it as quickly as he can, so if an injury is bad enough, I can’t stop it. It’s … it’s very draining, too.”

I glance over when he says that. I wonder if he was harmed in battle, if that’s why he looks so worn and tired. If he were badly injured and then healed the wounds, it would match the damage to his armor.

“Magic won’t undo healing,” Tycho is saying. “So once it sets in, I can’t reverse whatever damage has been left behind. The king can’t either. But he saved a pregnant woman once, who’d taken a dagger to the belly.” He pauses, gesturing to his face. “He even saved a man’s eye after it had been gouged out. It simply started re-forming in his head—”

“Ugh!” cries Nora.

“Ah … forgive me.” Lord Tycho looks abashed. “Sometimes I forget my audience. Too many days with no one but Mercy for company.”

“She deserves it for being so nosy.” I cast a wicked glance at my sister, but in my head I’m thinking of everything he said. Surely if magic can heal a wound, it could cause one just as easily.

Nora makes a face at me. “What do your other rings do?” she asks him.

“Nora!” I snap. “Quit badgering the man.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “I have a friend who always says that a little knowledge can make the mysterious less frightening. I’ve heard many of the rumors about magic. Most of them are untrue.” He hesitates. “I can seek things, like water or food. Or a person, if they’re not too far off. I can start a fire if I need to.”

Nora loses the smile. “The king’s magic started a fire.”

I go still. “Nora,” I say quietly. “That’s enough about magic.” I glance at the apple tarts. They’ve browned nicely around the edges, so I use thick woolen mitts to pull the pan out of the oven. The entire bakery smells like apples and crisp pastry. Tycho joins me by the table as I slide the tarts off the pan.

“Don’t steal one,” Nora warns. “She’ll break your knuckles.”

That startles a smile out of him. “I’ve been warned.”

I glance up. When my eyes meet his, the expression fades away.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I frightened you with the magic. That wasn’t my intent.”

“I’m not afraid.” I pause, and I can feel my heart pounding again. Maybe it’s the mention of the king’s magic, but I am afraid. For a heartbeat of time, I want to pull away, because I’m sure Tycho is going to force me, to show me how harmless it is. I hold my breath, waiting.

But he doesn’t.

I touch a hand to Mother’s pendant and let the breath ease out. “I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have pulled a knife on you.”

“You were defending your friend. It’s admirable. You shouldn’t apologize for that.”

“You’re welcome to take one,” I say without looking up. “I’m sure we’ve delayed you long enough, my lord.”

“I’m not delayed,” he says. “And please. Call me Tycho.”

I shake my head. “It wouldn’t be right.”

“I wasn’t born to the nobility,” he says quietly. “It wouldn’t be wrong.”

That makes me stop and look up at him. His eyes are warm and intent on mine. There’s no smile on his lips now.

“What were you born?” says Nora.

It jolts me out of my staring. “Nora!” My sister, I swear.

But Tycho doesn’t hesitate. “My mother was a seamstress. My father was a … well.” He shrugs, but there’s a weight to his voice now. “He wasn’t much of anything, as it turns out.” He casts a glance at Nora. “But I remember what it was like to have a little sister. Two, in fact.”

“You were so lucky,” I tease, trying to take some of the sudden weight out of the moment.

He smiles, but there’s a shadow in his gaze all of a sudden. An uncertainty that reminds me a lot of how I felt a moment ago.

I’m not sure what this conversation has triggered in him, whether it’s sadness or nostalgia or something else entirely, but I do know my sister doesn’t need to keep butting her nose into his business. I fetch two small bags of muslin and begin to lay the apple tarts in each of them. “Nora, I want you to run up the lane and take a pouch of these to Jax.”

“Jax,” Tycho says, and a spark of dark intrigue slides into his voice. “How is Jax?”

I bite at the edge of my lip, chagrined. “Well, it’s been several days since he last yelled at the King’s Courier, so …”

“So perhaps I’m due?”

“No!” My eyes flare wide. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“I know.” He smiles, then gestures for the pouch. “Allow me.”

Dumbfounded, I hand it to him. “I just—he won’t—I didn’t—”

“I insist.” Tycho bows to my sister, teasing with great flourish, and she giggles. “My lady Nora,” he says, “I will save you the trip.”