“Are you her? Ziva, the blacksmith?”
I don’t know if I can take being social for one second longer. I manage a nod, before sinking further into the chair.
“I saw the governor’s distasteful little brat running from the room. Good for you,” she says. “Whatever you did, I can promise he deserved it.”
I manage to breathe out a sound similar to a laugh. “Who are you?”
“Warlord Kymora Avedin,” she says, approaching the mantel to get a better look at the mace. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
A warlord? I’ve never met one of those before. But I’ve heard of her. She served under the late king before he split the kingdom into territories. Kymora is smaller than I would have thought someone with such a title would be, but at my height, most girls seems short to me. She wears her tan hair pulled back into a bun, with one lock twisted into a braid and pinned to the side of her head. A scar runs from the center of her right cheek to her ear, but it was well tended to, the line smooth and white, rather than puckered and pink. A broadsword hangs at her side, but by the slight bulges in her clothing, I gather it is not the only weapon on her person. I place her at about forty years of age, though it’s hard to tell, as she’s certainly taken great care with her physical health.
“Exquisite work,” she says, reaching out to touch one of the flanges. “Such a shame it’s being wasted on a wall. Utterly ridiculous for such a fine piece.” She takes a sip of her drink.
I like her. She’s so upfront, dismissing with any formalities. It puts me at ease immediately.
“Thank you. That’s exactly what I was just saying.”
“I’m in town to commission a piece from you,” she says without any more preamble. “Something to wear at my side, not dangle in front of guests, I assure you. I’ll be stopping by the forge later this week.”
“I’d very much like to make something for you,” I say, and I mean it.
“Excellent. I’ll see you later, then. Think nothing more on this,” she says, indicating the mace. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and someone will rob the place.”
I’ve a wide grin on my face as she leaves the room just as casually as she entered it.
I wonder how much longer I can hide up here.
I give it a few more minutes before forcing myself back down the stairs to the main room. I assure myself that I’m only imagining everyone’s stares. No one is looking at me. No one knows about the embarrassing situation with Asel. No one cares that my dress is brown. Someone laughs nearby, and I have to tell myself it’s not at my expense.
I can survive the rest of the night. I’ll be cool and collected like Warlord Kymora. Exuding power and unaffected by anyone else’s opinions. I can’t wait for her to visit the shop. I start thinking of all the intricate metalwork I could do on the hilt of a broadsword.
Temra finds me, and I link my arm through hers before realizing the look of panic on her face.
“We need to go,” she says. “Now.”
That’s usually what I say. “Are you all right? Did something happen?”
“Ziva, just trust me.”
“Okay,” I say, letting her lead me toward the exit—secretly delighted that I’m getting out of the party early.
Then bodies block our path.
Asel is at the front of them with his fathers, his arms crossed in front of his body in an imitation of the threatening posture I just displayed to him upstairs.
“Ziva,” the governor says. “It’s come to my attention that you’ve insulted my son after we’ve welcomed you into our home.”
“Erinar,” Reniver says, gently tapping his husband on the arm. “Perhaps this isn’t the best place.”
“I want this settled now. What do you have to say for yourself, blacksmith?”
“Um…” The whole receiving hall is watching. A hundred bodies stop their conversations to stare at the scene before them, and I seem to have forgotten every word I’ve ever learned.
“Did you or did you not strike my son?”
That brings me up short. “Why should I have reason to do that?”
“Asel says you were furious at the mace’s placement on the mantel. You then became enraged and attacked him.”
“I did what?”
“Governor,” Temra says, “my sister doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. I’m sure Asel is mistaken.”
“I am not,” Asel says.