Sterling Forge's Arc

Chapter 2 of 31

Linny didn't lower the blade the rest of the way. She held it steady between them, the lantern shaking a little in her other hand. The library smelled like old paper and cold stone. Somewhere above, wind pushed at the tower windows. "You almost died out there," Sterling said. "Your sister carried you back half dead. And you're going again." "I'm going again." "Then you're stupid." The word landed. She blinked once. The blade did not move. "Say it again," she said. "Stupid. You heard me. You chase a place three dead painters drew, and you think a map will save you. A map didn't save you last time. Nell saved you. A witch saved you. I forged the knife in your hand." "This time is different." "That's what people say before they don't come back." "I have the old routes now." She tilted her chin at the shelf. "The ones they locked away. I'll know where the ridge breaks. I'll know where the creek turns. I won't walk blind." "You'll walk bleeding. The fae have your scent. You told me that yourself." "Lena can make another band." "You think she’d let you go? I’m guessing she doesn’t even know you’re here. Stealing. Again." Her mouth tightened. She set the lantern on a low shelf so she could keep the blade up with both hands steady. Her coat sleeves were streaked with dried paint. Her hat sat crooked from the climb through the window. "I worried," he said. It came out rougher than he meant. "The whole time you were out there. I couldn't work. I drew swords I couldn't forge and I waited for someone to knock on my door and tell me they found your coat." "Then don't wait this time." "Linny." "Go home, Forge." "I'm not going to stand here and watch you get yourself killed." "Then don't watch." He stared at her. She stared back. Her eyes were wet but her hand was not. She meant it. She would go tonight or tomorrow or the night after. She would go with the map or without it. Nothing he said would sit her down. He stepped back. His boot found the loose board again. He let it creak. "Fine," he said. "Get killed. I'm done caring, waiting around for some sense to smack you across the head." He turned before she could answer. He walked out the side door and did not close it softly. The cold hit his face in the alley. His hands were shaking. He shoved them in his apron. He crossed the square toward the smithery and did not look back. The forge was still warm when he pushed the door open. The four warped blades lay in the scrap pile where he'd left them. He stood over the anvil a long time. Then he picked up the least ruined blade, the one with the cherry tip and the sulking middle, and turned it in his hands. With a hard set jaw he set it down. He stoked the coals with purpose.