note of us.
Jorge nodded and kept on pounding. “Sent word,
didn’t I?”
We waited several more minutes. Magnus finally
shifted on his feet and headed toward Jorge, but I grabbed his arm. “I’ve
waited this long to hold a sword. I can wait until he finishes.”
Magnus gave me a look but stepped back. Jorge
must have heard what I said, as he pushed the half-formed shoe into the glowing
coals of the forge and smiled, his teeth perfect white against his dark skin.
“I like you,” he said, pointing at me with the end of his hammer. “That hilt
for you, little lady?”
“It is.” I returned the smile. “And I thank you.”
“I like working jobs for the ladies.” Jorge put
the hammer down and wiped his hands on his apron. I pitied the person who had
to clean the light tan smock. Black handprints streaked it from chest to hip on
both sides. “The ladies appreciate what I do here. They say thank you.”
“Make no mistake, Jorge, we all appreciate what
you’ve done for her,” Jarl said. “May we see it?”
“Hold your horses, Aldi. Give me a minute.
Things like this can’t be rushed.” Jorge walked to the back of his shop and
plucked something small and dark from a crooked and stained wooden shelf.
He walked back to me, his eyes holding mine. He
slowly opened his massive hand to reveal the hilt hidden within.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Except
for the color of the guard and pommel, it resembled Silverlight’s hilt. An
exact replica of the closed fist of my scarred right hand, cast from a blend of
metals to give it strength.
“Open up, little lady,” Jorge said.
I hesitated, terrified it would fit, terrified
it wouldn’t. I attempted to spread my fingers and failed.
Jorge laid the hilt against my upper wrist and
thumb. “Going to have to be open wider than that.”
I finally had to resort to prying my fingers
open with my left hand. Jorge slid the grip into my palm and closed my fingers
over it.
It was so snug I barely felt it. I lifted my
hand to show Magnus and Jarl. “Look at this. It fits.”
“Like it was made for you,” said Jorge. “And it
was. Jarl said you were brilliant with a sword, but someone you trusted hurt
you real bad. So I did my best work for you, little lady. Hope you like it.”
I turned to him, nearly breathless. “Oh, Jorge,
it’s perfect.”
“Does it hurt?” Magnus asked.
“No. Not at all.” I allowed myself to feel the
hilt, its weight and size, and tried to put my thoughts into words. It was the first
time since Tariq cut me that I’d held such a thing. How does one describe the
sensation of racing across the plains on the back of a wild horse? Or how it
feels to jump off a cliff and suddenly realize you’re able to fly?
“Swing it,” Jarl said.
I took a few steps and made a figure eight in
the air, as we’d been taught in academy. The weight was off without the blade,
but the hilt didn’t shift in my hand.
Not once.
18: MAGNUS
S ilverlight, Kymber’s lost sword, was short and
light as swords go. I hadn’t seen it in years, but I remembered it well.
The grip was carved from the thighbone of a
qhina, a flesh-eating creature halfway between a horse and a deer that had
thankfully gone extinct thousands of years prior. Their bones were white and
strong, highly prized, capable of taking a polish like no metal I’d ever seen.
In fact, a secondary black market for qhina bones had sprung up in Calari. I
often passed by fields full of people digging for them.
Silverlight’s guard and pommel were a carefully
controlled blend of Torani gold and rose plaorion. The result was an
unbreakable metal with a pale pink matte finish. Kymber’s father had offered to
have the oval scrolls adorning the guard embedded with precious gems, as many
were, but she’d refused. “It need not be fancy, Father. It just needs to be
sharp.”
No, she didn’t care for jewels, but she did ask
her father to have it engraved with a combined sigil. It
Jorge nodded and kept on pounding. “Sent word,
didn’t I?”
We waited several more minutes. Magnus finally
shifted on his feet and headed toward Jorge, but I grabbed his arm. “I’ve
waited this long to hold a sword. I can wait until he finishes.”
Magnus gave me a look but stepped back. Jorge
must have heard what I said, as he pushed the half-formed shoe into the glowing
coals of the forge and smiled, his teeth perfect white against his dark skin.
“I like you,” he said, pointing at me with the end of his hammer. “That hilt
for you, little lady?”
“It is.” I returned the smile. “And I thank you.”
“I like working jobs for the ladies.” Jorge put
the hammer down and wiped his hands on his apron. I pitied the person who had
to clean the light tan smock. Black handprints streaked it from chest to hip on
both sides. “The ladies appreciate what I do here. They say thank you.”
“Make no mistake, Jorge, we all appreciate what
you’ve done for her,” Jarl said. “May we see it?”
“Hold your horses, Aldi. Give me a minute.
Things like this can’t be rushed.” Jorge walked to the back of his shop and
plucked something small and dark from a crooked and stained wooden shelf.
He walked back to me, his eyes holding mine. He
slowly opened his massive hand to reveal the hilt hidden within.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis. Except
for the color of the guard and pommel, it resembled Silverlight’s hilt. An
exact replica of the closed fist of my scarred right hand, cast from a blend of
metals to give it strength.
“Open up, little lady,” Jorge said.
I hesitated, terrified it would fit, terrified
it wouldn’t. I attempted to spread my fingers and failed.
Jorge laid the hilt against my upper wrist and
thumb. “Going to have to be open wider than that.”
I finally had to resort to prying my fingers
open with my left hand. Jorge slid the grip into my palm and closed my fingers
over it.
It was so snug I barely felt it. I lifted my
hand to show Magnus and Jarl. “Look at this. It fits.”
“Like it was made for you,” said Jorge. “And it
was. Jarl said you were brilliant with a sword, but someone you trusted hurt
you real bad. So I did my best work for you, little lady. Hope you like it.”
I turned to him, nearly breathless. “Oh, Jorge,
it’s perfect.”
“Does it hurt?” Magnus asked.
“No. Not at all.” I allowed myself to feel the
hilt, its weight and size, and tried to put my thoughts into words. It was the first
time since Tariq cut me that I’d held such a thing. How does one describe the
sensation of racing across the plains on the back of a wild horse? Or how it
feels to jump off a cliff and suddenly realize you’re able to fly?
“Swing it,” Jarl said.
I took a few steps and made a figure eight in
the air, as we’d been taught in academy. The weight was off without the blade,
but the hilt didn’t shift in my hand.
Not once.
18: MAGNUS
S ilverlight, Kymber’s lost sword, was short and
light as swords go. I hadn’t seen it in years, but I remembered it well.
The grip was carved from the thighbone of a
qhina, a flesh-eating creature halfway between a horse and a deer that had
thankfully gone extinct thousands of years prior. Their bones were white and
strong, highly prized, capable of taking a polish like no metal I’d ever seen.
In fact, a secondary black market for qhina bones had sprung up in Calari. I
often passed by fields full of people digging for them.
Silverlight’s guard and pommel were a carefully
controlled blend of Torani gold and rose plaorion. The result was an
unbreakable metal with a pale pink matte finish. Kymber’s father had offered to
have the oval scrolls adorning the guard embedded with precious gems, as many
were, but she’d refused. “It need not be fancy, Father. It just needs to be
sharp.”
No, she didn’t care for jewels, but she did ask
her father to have it engraved with a combined sigil. It
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