Page 56 of The Kingdom Cursed By Iron

I slow my pace, realizing we’re heading the wrong way if I want to test my theory.

“I need to visit the orchard,” I say to Halima. “There’s something there I need to work out.”

“Very well,” she says, but I can hear the reluctance in her voice. I guess the idea of going near all that iron is less than welcoming.

“You don’t need to come with me,” I say. “I know it won’t exactly be a pleasant visit for you.”

Halima shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter how it will make me feel. If I’m needed, I will be there.”

The sentiment reminds me of the battlefield—even with the horror and the grief, I still felt a loyalty so strong it couldn’t be swayed by any power. Not even magic or death.

“That’s what your mother thought,” I say quietly. “In the valley, I felt her determination to keep going, despite everything. You and she share that, I think.”

Halima straightens. “I consider that the highest of compliments.”

“You should,” I say. “I can tell she was very brave. But this isn’t a matter of bravery, Halima, it’s just practical. There will be lots of people there. I’ll be safe enough, and there’s no point in you suffering for no reason.”

“All right,” she says, tapping the pommel of her sword in what I think is a self-soothing gesture. “But I will inform Ruskin of your whereabouts.”

I’m about to say something about not needing my every move reported on, but then think about how he compromised after our argument yesterday, and how he sent Halima to train rather than watch me.

“Okay,” I say, and we part ways.

The orchard is a mess. The mossy ground is all churned up and trees are on their side with half their roots still exposed. Low Fae are everywhere, their heads bobbing up and down above the top of deep furrows they’ve carved into the earth. I see they’ve created channels around the stumps of iron where they protrude from the ground. I also notice that most of the miners have the same shell-like skin as Kaline, but where I’d imagine that normally they’d have light green or pink complexions, they all look gray and washed out today.

Worry twists in my gut at the sight, and I can’t help but open my mouth.

“Excuse me, sorry to interrupt, but how long have you been working in here?” I ask the nearest fae.

“Me, personally?” he asks. When he looks up at me I can see his left arm is shaking, making it harder for him to hold the shovel he’s using.

“Yes, how long is your shift?”

“I’ve been here two hours and I have another hour to go,” he says warily, seeming unsure why a human would be questioning like this. He must assume I’m some nosy servant, I realize.

Three-hour shifts? Hadeus and his High Fae lackeys were feeling sick after five minutes in here.

I look around, taking more in. Some of the fae are moving quickly, throwing up dirt and clearing the area around the iron at an incredible rate. I understand why Hadeus spoke so highly of their capability—but if they’re so skilled, then why not treat them with more care? I look back to the fae I spoke to. I suspect he was moving as fast as the others two hours ago, but now his movements are sluggish and clumsy.

I step around the piles of earth, through the orchard, getting the full scope of the work. The more I see, the sicker I feel. I knew Hadeus wasn’t to be trusted, and feel disgusted with myself when I think how I accepted the idea that the Low Fae should be used like this, even knowing they would suffer for it.

A pair of fae heave a large hacksaw between them, trying to cut through one of the smaller shoots of iron. Leather gloves are the only thing protecting them from the substance and as I watch, one suddenly bends over to vomit, making the other slip. His arm slides up against the iron and he lets out a yowl of pain as it sears him, the smell of burnt flesh filling the air.

It reminds me too much of the battlefield and, like a coward, I turn to find the exit. As I go, I remind myself that I can at least find someone to call healers for the workers. That would do more good than standing by and idly watching these people suffer anymore.

As I near the entrance of the orchard, I see Ruskin, surveying the scene with unreadable eyes, and my breath catches. He hasn’t spotted me yet and it gives me an opportunity to take him in—the sharp cut of his jaw and cheekbones, the curve of his shoulders and chest, shrouded in perfectly tailored black, hugging every muscle.

He really is beautiful, and it makes the distance between us all the more painful.

Then he turns his head and his eyes lock onto mine. I don’t think I imagine the way his eyes darken, and I self-consciously brush a lock of hair behind my ear. Ruskin approaches me.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“Halima was supposed to tell you where I was,” I say.

“She did, but that doesn’t answer my question,” he says slyly. “How did training go?”

“It was…interesting.” I’m unsure how else to sum up the chaotic day I’ve had.

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