Chapter 28
Alek
The smell of the forges taints the air even half a mile away. Memories come flooding over me with it: the nights when I tucked myself away in the attic so my parents wouldn’t notice how late I stayed up reading, the ache in my muscles on the days when Dad insisted I take a turn with the hammer and anvil as if that might wake up some love of weaponry in me.
The disapproving glowers when not even a flicker of interest ever lit.
As I ride on toward our family’s sprawling shop at the edge of the small city, the breeze washes over my face. The air is starting to warm with the first hints of spring, but I’m starkly aware of the currents catching on the ridges of scar on my face.
I’ve thought about my deformity less and less over the past few months since I first started removing my mask. Even the stares of the nobles we’re allying ourselves with barely matter anymore when I can simply look at Ivy and have her beam adoration at me.
But my family already has a picture of me in their heads, and I don’t fit it anymore. I haven’t been home since I was expelled from the temple school.
They may have heard some of the details of my teenage disgrace, but that’s different from seeing it in front of them.
I can already picture my mother wincing in horror, my father’s lip curling with disgust. They’ll probably blame my ruined face on my strange inclinations toward books and scholarship, as if my studies warped my morals.
I glance down at the small bag attached to my saddle. I brought a mask with me in case I decided it was best to cover the consequences of my long-ago crime.
My fingers itch to reach for it, to shield my face from judgment like I did for so long.
But what difference will it make, really? They’ll imagine something terrible lies behind it regardless.
It isn’t as if my family is unfamiliar with how ravaged a human body can become. I remember plenty of scarred figures crossing the shop’s doorstep.
The difference is those figures earned their scars in battle as badges of honor.
I suppose I received mine in a battle of a different sort—one with my personal flaws. As much as the shame of my actions might have marked me, I did win in the end.
I’ve come a long way from the boy I was.
So when I reach the hitching post down the street from the shop, I leave the mask in my saddlebag. I walk over to the shop through the thickening smells of smoldering coals and hot metal with all the confidence I can bring to my stride.
The clang of a hammer striking steel rings through the doorway. I know before I reach the threshold where to look for my father.
He still has his personal forge and anvil in the same corner of the workshop. He hefts the hammer and brings it down on the blade he’s working, presumably a private commission for a particularly moneyed client.
The rest of the front room is dedicated to displaying the results of his craft and other pieces of weapons and armor he’s carrying in his inventory. Most of the arms he and my mother deal in he doesn’t make himself. He oversees multiple apprentices in one of the back rooms and sources more from other blacksmiths who don’t have quite the same business sense.
He has his back to me, his broad shoulders flexing as he lowers the hammer to examine the sword. It seems like as good a time as any to make my presence known.
I clear my throat. “Dad.”
My voice peels out louder than I expected over the warble of the forge’s fire. Dad startles and whirls around, my name already on his lips. “Aleks?—”
The last syllable dies as his gaze jars on my face. He doesn’t quite flinch, but his jaw tics as if he’s restrained one.
And there’s that curl of the lip.
I step farther into the shop and continue before he can say anything else. “I won’t be staying long. There’s something important I need to talk to you about.”
Mom’s surprised voice carries from the large warehouse room at the back of the shop. “Is that Aleksi?”
She comes hustling out with wide eyes and a hesitant smile. When her gaze finds me, her eyes widen even more—and the smile vanishes.
“Hello, Mom,” I say through the constricting of my throat. Imagining their reactions wasn’t a tenth as painful as experiencing them firsthand.
She doesn’t even bother to return my greeting. “What happened to you?”
I’m not going to lie. “I made some bad decisions—but I learned from them. It was years ago. I’ve put it behind me.”
My father finally manages to sputter a response. “It’s right here in front of us. This is what you let happen to you at that useless school? This is the face you show the world now?”
My hackles come up in an instant. Just like old times.
“It’s the face I have,” I grit out. “And the school wasn’t useless.”
Mom moves tentatively toward me, her arms crossing in front of her. She shakes her head. “I knew there wasn’t anything good to come of surrounding yourself with people who’d rather think about words than what’s real. But you were so stubborn.”
“It was still the right choice. Everything I studied was real. What I look like doesn’t matter in?—”
Dad cuts me off with a dismissive snort. “Tell that to anyone you need to barter with while you’re showing them that mug. What are you doing here? Did you finally get tired of those stuck-up scholars?”
Another sharp retort prickles up my throat. In the same moment, my hand clenches by my hip—and my fingers brush the lump in my pocket that’s my most vital cargo.
That object is the reason I’m here at all. It has nothing to do with my career choices or my parents’ opinion of them.
The mission I’m on is so much bigger than all the bitter past behind us that I’ve nearly stumbled right back into.
I’m not the boy they knew. I have the ear of the future queen. The love of a riven sorcerer.
I’m not someone for a couple of weapons merchants to sneer at—I deserve their respect.
Gods above, would I ever have stooped so low in the first place if I hadn’t been so desperate for respect back then? If I’d gotten even a smidgeon of support from the people who raised me?
My scars are marks of my shame, but I had a childhood of rejection and disdain to bring me to that point. Everything I’ve earned since then, all the things I’ve accomplished are completely thanks to my own strength, rising above the foundation these two people built for me.
I draw my stance up straighter and swallow down my rancor.
I won’t speak to them like their disappointing son. I’m here as Queen Petra’s representative.
My tone evens out, both harder and steadier than before. “I didn’t come to discuss my schooling or what happened to my face. There are more pressing matters to address. Have you been doing business with the Order of the Wild?”
Dad’s momentary shock at my change in tone shifts into a disgruntled expression at my last words. “Crazed rabblerousers, throwing the whole country into chaos,” he grumbles, setting his hammer down on the forge. “What business is there anyone can do with them? They don’t think they should have to pay for anything. Marched in here not long after King Konram’s death was announced and took half our inventory.”
As he says King Konram’s name, he taps his fingers down his front in the gesture of the divinities, honoring our former ruler. The hope that brought me here expands in my chest.
Mom lets out a huff and then lowers her voice as if afraid she might be overheard. “They’re meddlers, is what they are. Want to take over everything. Seems like every other day they send someone in here wanting to know what orders we’ve gotten and from who.”
“Trying to dress themselves up as some sort of salvation when they’re nothing but murdering traitors.” Dad grimaces. Then he gives me an abruptly wary look. “You haven’t fallen in with that lot now, have you?”
I have to swallow a slightly hysterical laugh. I’m not sure what’s more insulting—that they think so little of me it didn’t occur to them that I could be a threat when I first asked the question or that they don’t realize I’d reject everything the Order stands for even more vehemently than they do.
But the fact that he stopped to ask—and looks nervous about it—only confirms his loyalties. He wasn’t spouting off insults because he thought I’d want to hear them but because he wasn’t filtering his true opinions at all.
“Absolutely not,” I say. “They’re a menace to this country. And that’s why I’m here. What would you say if I offered you the opportunity to oust those traitors—and win the esteem of the royal family?”
Dad knits his brow. “I’d say all those books have finally addled your brain beyond repair.”
I do let myself chuckle then and take another step toward my parents. “Not at all. It turns out all my book-learning has actually been useful to your future queen. You must have heard that the Melchiorek heirs escaped the murder plot and have been speaking out against the Order of the Wild as much as they can. I’ve come on behalf of the legitimate Queen Petra to make you an offer.”
The skepticism hasn’t left my parents’ expressions, but Mom’s eyes have lit up a little all the same. “What kind of offer?”
“If you supply our resistance efforts against the Order of the Wild with weapons and armor—as much as you can manage—you’ll become the official arms supplier for the royal family.”
Dad goes rigid, his lips parting with an eagerness he can’t suppress even as he grapples with his doubts. He’s probably picturing the new sign he’d get to add to the front of the shop once he earned that honor.
“You,” he says uncertainly. “The queen— How?—”
“It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt. “Our paths crossed, and I earned her trust. Enough that she believed me when I said there was a good chance you’d support her. She’s laid out her terms in this letter.”
I draw the folded paper from my pocket, holding it out with the Melchiorek family seal showing in the wax that seals the missive.
Dad takes the letter gingerly, as if he’s afraid he might damage it. As he unsticks the seal, my mother hustles over to join him so she can read too.
It isn’t a long letter. Their eyes skim over the words a few times in the space of a minute.
Then Dad looks up at me again. “She says the condition of being named the royal arms supplier is dependent on…”
He can’t quite bring himself to say it?
I allow myself a thin smile. “On my judging that you’ve served her well. I know what our family is capable of. She knows I can confirm that you’ve contributed all you can.”
“Oh.” Mom lowers her hands to clasp them in front of her before combing one back through her hair as if she’s afraid I’ll be judging her looks. “Oh, that’s— You really have found a place for yourself, haven’t you?”
I’ve heard that fawning note in her voice before—when chatting up potential customers of high status. Somehow it isn’t remotely gratifying.
Because it has nothing to do with who I am, only what she thinks I can do for them.
Dad claps me on the shoulder, a smile springing to his lips but a slightly panicked gleam in his eyes. “Of course we’ll do whatever we can to see the rightful queen on the throne where she belongs. You know what I said before—it builds character to have to defend your passions—you’ve always had impressive dedication.”
What they moments ago referred to as stubbornness instead.
He nudges me toward the doorway into the adjoining home. “We should have taken this into the house in the first place. I’ll pour you a drink, and we can discuss specifics man to man.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I say, with only a trace of irony creeping into my tone. The last of the unsettled nerves that gripped me melt away.
I craved these people’s approval for so long… but it’s absolutely hollow, isn’t it? Focused only on their narrow and frequently superficial priorities.
I don’t require their pride or their blessing. I only need their cooperation so that I can serve Petra the way she deserves, and I’ve got that. I’ve earned my own pride.
Now it’s time to get down to the business of overthrowing an uprising.