Page 1 of A Court of Ash and Midnight
Chapter One
Within the glowingcoals and flickering light of the blacksmith’s forge, I watch as the length of metal bends to my will. My hammer strikes again and again, and the object before me begins to take the shape of a sword. A sword I am giving life to, that will one dayendlife. Beginnings and endings, all wrought in heat and in ash.
Footsteps approach from the bustling street a dozen feet beyond where my forge lies in the shadowy alcove of the barn. I tense, a reflex I’ve never been able to shake. Not since that night.
A figure stops a few feet away, and I can feel eyes sweep my body, even though I don’t lift my gaze.
“Boy, where can I find your master?”
My shoulders relax.Boy.
“He’s gone to fetch more wood. He’ll be back in a couple hours, give or take.”
The stranger snorts, then asks in his raspy voice, “Shouldn’t the apprentice run such errands?”
I suppress my own noise of derision. My “master” is no doubt three pints deep at the tavern down the street. I’d carefully picked an employer who had little interest in actually overseeing his business. The less he was around, the better.
“I don’t make the rules,” I respond with a shrug. “I suggest you come back tomorrow. Before noon.”
The stranger visibly bristles at my suggestion, and as he turns to leave, he throws an insult over his shoulder. “Scrawniest blacksmith I’ve ever seen…”
When he’s gone, I turn my focus back to my work, the ring of my hammer satisfying, drowning out the noise of the city beyond. The stranger isn’t wrong. I’m shorter and skinnier than most blacksmiths. I don’t have the huge, bulging muscles of most of the men in this line of work. Or the broad shoulders or the thick mustaches.
Of course, that’s because I’mnota man.
But I keep my hair short, to my shoulders, and tied back out of the way when I’m at the forge. I wear pants and boots and loose tunics over a bound chest. My face stays smudged in soot from the forge, and I wear leather goggles, which hide part of my face. If anyone looked closely, they’d be able to tell I’m not a man, but assumption is a powerful thing: it never even occurs to anyone that I could be a woman, because women don’t do metallurgy.
I look up briefly as a couple people duck into the stable and begin browsing the completed metal works hanging from the walls near the entrance. They leave just as quickly, merging back into the flow of wagons and foot traffic outside. In the distance, church bells clang, marking the final hour before dinner. The smell of sizzling meat and baking bread waft from one of the food stalls next door, mixing with the scent of woodsmoke and metal that linger around me. My hair constantly smellsof smoke. Sometimes I think no amount of bathing will ever cleanse me of it, but I don’t mind.
After another hour, I begin closing up shop, dousing the coals with buckets of water that send a sharp hiss into the air, cleaning and putting away my tools: hammer, anvil, tongs. It’s autumn, and the sky has begun to darken earlier and earlier. There’s still a couple hours of light left in this day, but it’s deepened to a golden haze, which lingers over the city. Voices call, merchants announcing final sales or wives calling husbands in for the evening meal. Others gravitate to the taverns, as there’s a change of the guard. The activities of the day switch to the revelries of night. Businesses like mine close up, others open their doors, inviting people in to listen to music, warm themselves by a fire, cozy up to a stranger.
I pull the double front doors of the barn closed and lock them with a thick metal bar, then head out the small door in the back, locking it with a rusty old key, which I then slide into my pocket. Even in the alley behind the barn there’s business afoot; people smoking pipes, dumping dishwater, exchanging packages with furtive gestures, shadows passing in the night. I let my eyes slide over all of it, taking in every detail but not lingering on anything long enough to draw attention.
I’d long ago perfected my air of disinterest in my surroundings. I’d also learned long ago that bigger cities like this were the best to hide in. So many people, so much activity. Everyone out to get theirs, to survive, to look out for themselves. Blending in was easy in a place like this. No one cares enough about anyone else to notice the young man striding quietly down the alleyway, never making eye contact.
It’s the small towns that are easy to get trapped in. People know everything about everybody. They ask far too many questions. They’re naturally suspicious of outsiders, and they’re far too observant. I’d thought once, years ago when I first wenton the run, that somewhere remote would be the perfect place to hide. Somewhere far off the beaten path, somewhere no one would think to look. But the problem with those places is there’s nowhere to hide if you’re found. No crowd to merge into, no maze of alleys.
Over the years, I’ve become very, very good at staying hidden.
But even still, I don’t stay any one place more than a few weeks.
I don’t have far to travel. The place I call home is another kind of barn, but one that holds horses rather than a giant forge. I pause, as I always do, outside the back entrance and listen. Once I’m sure no one’s inside, all of the stable hands gone for the night, I slide a couple of loose boards out of place and squeeze through the resulting crack in the wall. I’m greeted by several snorts and a soft nicker. Another perk of equine roommates… they, unlike people, notice newcomers, and will alert you.
Soft shadows cloak me as I slip between the horse stalls to the water trough at the back of the barn. I lean forward and scoop the cool water to splash my face, wiping away the soot and grime of the day. I rinse my forearms as well, my gray-coated skin slowly returning to its normal pale tone, except for the brown freckles that I can’t wash off. When I’m reasonably clean, I climb the ladder to the hayloft above, and I change out of my dirty clothes into slightly cleaner ones. Pants that aren’t black from soot and smoke. A brown tunic that is more or less respectable.
I’m half-tempted to fall into the hay right then and there. My muscles are already tightening, now that I’m away from the heat of the forge and the constant movement that keeps my pain at bay. A pain I’ve lived with ever since that fateful day eight years ago, a pain that haunts my muscles and joints anytime I’m not working. Exhaustion tugs at me, but my stomach has another opinion. Pounding scraps of metal all day has a way of whetting the appetite.
I don a hooded cloak, make sure my daggers are still in my boots, one on each side, and climb back down the ladder. Then I travel back up the aisleway of the barn, and creep through my secret entrance into the alley beyond. Here, in the busiest part of the city, the taverns charge a pretty penny for a bowl of stew and a loaf of bread, plus I don’t care for the crowds. I make my way through the alleys, avoiding the busy streets, until I reach a quieter part of town a mile or so away. Around here, I can find a meal for a reasonable price, though my dinner companions are slightly seedier.
Or a lot seedier. Thus, the daggers.
Kyrn sits along the southern coast of Tervanne, so the air always carries the scent of salt and longing. Everyone here wants to escape, to be borne by the waves and the dark current offshore to some far-off place, somewhere life will be different. Better. I’ve been to all the big cities in Tervanne, and have even crossed the border into Eldare or Kierevale once or twice. It’s not better anywhere else. It’s all the same jobs, same types of people, same streets, same crimes. Though, if I were in a mood to admit it, there is some sort of charm to the ocean…
I pass by the Golden Serpent the first time, my gaze darting in through the windows as I move, taking stock of the scene inside before circling back and entering the side door. The door hinges protest and threaten to give out as I step inside. I’m greeted by the sound of a poorly-played lyre and the low hum of drunken slurs. But freshly-bake bread lingers on the air, too, and the smell of something hearty that makes my mouth water.
My feet carry me to a small booth in the back corner, across from the door, and I slide into the worn wooden seat. I wait for nearly fifteen minutes before a serving girl notices me. She slides a pint of ale across the table toward me, but I shake my head. “Just food, thanks.” This earns a sour look, but she nods andstrides off. You’d think after all these weeks she’d remember. Or maybe she’s determined to wear me down one of these days.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy a pint. It’s that I can’t afford to dull my senses.
