“It’s the Malchains, General Scorcha!” one of the Forgers said. “Anvil and Aquila!”
The Forger removed her helmet to reveal a woman about Anvil’s age, with platinum-white hair cropped to just below her chin. Her face was pointed and small, like a cat’s, but her arms were as muscled as Anvil’s.
“Apologies,” the general said. “It’s been a long time since Fyrton has had the pleasure of your axes—” She broke off, and her eyes narrowed. “Where are your axes?”
Worry flickered through Claire. She knew that Anvil was famous for wielding a double-headed ax with the blades shaped like bat wings, and she’d never seen Aquila without her two smaller axes crossed over her back. Claire had thought they would be able to buy some replacements in Fyrton before anyone noticed. She swallowed hard, hoping to keep the fear out of Aquila’s voice. “Our axes were … What I’m trying to say is—”
“We were attacked,” Thorn cut in with Anvil’s deep baritone. “Ambushed by Queen Estelle.”
His simple words set off an explosion. One of the Forgers slammed his metal-clad fist against a stationary chimera, while angry shouts rose from the others. Only General Scorcha seemed to remain calm, but even she let out a long, low hiss.
“We need to see Grandmaster Bolt,” Thorn said. “He needs to send a warning to the other towns and grandmasters.”
“You’ll find all the Forger grandmasters taking their midday meal at Alkaline’s Kettle,” Scorcha said. “It’s easiest to declare the War Council’s decisions at that gossip house.”
Thorn frowned. “A War Council’s been called?”
“Yes.” The general nodded. “As of last night, the Forger guild is officially at war against the fake Gemmer queen and all those who support her.” Her eyes flicked to Claire. “We’ve already sent troops to Constellation Range. While everyone is at Hilltop Palace for Starfell, we will lay siege to Starscrape Citadel and cut off the Gemmers before they can rule again.”
Claire bit her lip. The Citadel had its own protections, but there were so few Gemmers left! Only two hundred or so, and they would be up against thousands of Forgers. A metallic taste filled Claire’s mouth. What would happen to Zuli and Lapis? To Carnelian? And friendly Scholar Pumus?
“All the more reason to talk to the grandmasters,” Claire choked out.
General Scorcha nodded and gestured to Claire’s Forger. He pulled out a bright-green flag and waved it in the direction of Fyrton’s gates. A moment later, an answering green flag waved back. Scorcha stepped aside, holding back the tall yellow grass to clear a path for Thorn and Claire—or, more accurately, Anvil and Aquila.
“Welcome back,” the general said. “Welcome home.”
Fyrton was different than Claire remembered.
Last time, the city had been alive with the cheerful chink of hammers and the singsong of school bells. Now it echoed with the sound of marching boots. She watched wide-eyed as a squadron of men and women stalked by, shields on their forearms and swords gleaming at their hips. But not only swords. There were hammers, and maces, and spears, and strange curved knives.
The Forgers were preparing for war.
“Stop that,” Thorn murmured to Claire, his voice a deep rumble.
“Stop what?” Claire asked. All she was doing was walking.
“Your eyes are all big,” he said. “From what you told me about Aquila, there’s nothing that would surprise her—especially in Fyrton.”
Thorn led the way, easily guiding them past the great walls of Phlogiston Academy, its hundred bell towers looming above them like judgmental lords. The great doors to the school were left open as apprentices hurried in and out, carrying bundles of kindling and buckets of water. Claire assumed that with war imminent, classes had been canceled. All hands would need to be free to keep the battle forges burning.
War. Battle. They were such short words, but the enormity of meaning behind them began to weigh on Claire: sorrow, sacrifice, and pain. Death. She just had to convince the Forgers to give Nadia their tine.
“Let’s go faster,” Claire whispered, and Thorn picked up the pace.
Steam billowed out from the hundreds of smithies and forges, making all the streets misty, even in the midmorning light. Figures carrying armloads of metal rods and pulling carts full of jangling helmets would appear from the haze and then vanish just as quickly. Suddenly, a shout came from somewhere down the hazy street: “Help!” A moment later, Claire could make out the drumbeat of hooves against cobblestones.
“Help!” the voice called again. “I need healers!”
Pedestrians scattered to the edges as the rider finally became visible. She galloped her horse down the middle of the street, all while balancing a large sack of flour slung across the saddle in front of her. Yanking on the reins, the woman flung herself off the horse’s back before it had even come to a complete stop. The door of a nearby building slammed open, and Claire had just enough time to move out of the way as three healers rushed toward the horse and carefully pulled down the bag of flour.
Except …
It wasn’t a bag of flour.
It was a man.
A boy, really, only a little bit older than Thorn. His dark-brown hair looked like a seaweed mop against the gray of his skin. Strange splotches clustered across his arms and face. It almost appeared as though someone had covered their hands in ash and then pressed their fingertips against his skin. He looked terrible, but the boy wasn’t dead. He shivered violently as the healers bundled him up in a thick quilt. They slung him onto a stretcher and ran past Claire and Thorn and into the dark of the healers’ building, but not before Claire caught a glimpse of the boy’s eyes.
His eyes. She wrapped Aquila’s arms around herself, trying to stop the cold that had suddenly shuddered through her. They’d had no spark to them. It was as though a wall of ice had been built between his thoughts and the world. He’d seemed trapped within himself. The passersby murmured to one another as they stepped back onto the street and resumed their business, but Claire couldn’t get her feet to move.
“What—what happened to him?” Claire whispered. She hadn’t been screaming, but for some reason, her throat felt raw.
“Wraith attack,” Thorn said, his voice flat. “That’s what untreated wraith-burn looks like.”
Now Claire understood why the boy had been shivering. She’d faced wraiths before. Their long limbs and sticky shadows were what nightmares were carved from, and Claire had felt their cold seep into the pit of her stomach, wrinkles of her brain, and holes of her heart. Each time, though, she’d managed to get away from their grasp. Each time, Sophie had saved her. If Sophie hadn’t been there … Now it was Claire who was violently shivering. She might have ended up like that boy. Or Nett’s parents.
“She’s sending a message,” Thorn said. “If they don’t give her the Hammer Tine, the wraiths will continue to attack.” There was no need to say who the she was.
“The grandmasters,” Claire said. “We need to talk to them. Now.”
Thorn nodded and broke into a jog.
Alkaline’s Kettle was at the far edge of town, where Fyrton’s buildings butted up against Mount Rouge. Like the rest of the shops and taverns, it, too, had a hanging sign, this one a wrought-iron teakettle, with a swooping A in the center.
“Ready?” Thorn asked, and when Claire nodded, he pushed open the swinging doors.
Claire’s first impression was of a hunting lodge. Vaulted wooden beams arched over several round tables, and servers bustled from table to table, taking orders and carrying silver platters piled high with tankards and steaming bowls. Large iron lanterns dangled from the ceiling, casting the diners in an orange glow, which was further emphasized by the reddish rock of the farthest wall. Half of Alkaline’s Kettle was actually carved into the mountain, making use of its sturdy base.
Claire and Thorn slunk into rickety wooden chairs and pulled up to a small table. A single tin lantern with pinprick holes outlining the galloping shapes of un
icorns sat at its center.
“Do you see any grandmasters?” Thorn asked, craning his neck to look around at the rest of the tavern’s visitors. Claire, too, glanced around, trying to take note of people’s sleeves. Guild members on the job had their rank sewn onto their clothes. A single ring on the left sleeve indicated an apprentice, while a single ring on both sleeves meant the wearer was a journeyman. Grandmaster Iris of Greenwood had had two white rings on each sleeve of her emerald robes, marking her as the most accomplished Tiller in Greenwood Village. But as Claire let her gaze slide from table to table, she didn’t see anyone who wore the right rings. There was, however, an empty table on a dais, with settings placed for five.
“I don’t think they’re here yet,” Claire said, careful to keep her voice low even though she didn’t think that anyone could actually overhear them in the clamor of the tavern.
“Maybe they’ll arrive soon,” Thorn said, nodding toward the high table. He shifted uncomfortably. The small chair wasn’t really made for someone of Anvil’s bulk. “It’s not quite lunchtime yet—”
“Order!” A small man with an elegantly waxed mustache and bulging triceps had suddenly appeared over Anvil’s shoulder.
“Sorry?” Claire asked.
“Order. What’s your order, ma’am?” the man barked. “There are mouths to feed, and it’s not like meals are going to make themselves. Cornucopia Cauldrons are things of the past.”
“The day’s special,” Thorn said quickly. “Two, please.”
The server nodded briskly, plunked two copper mugs of water onto the table, and hurried off.
“Thor—I mean, Anvil,” Claire said, leaning forward to resume their conversation. “That boy we saw, will he be all right?”
“I don’t know.” Thorn shook his head. “Sometimes people survive, and other times, they just kind of … succumb.”
Claire lowered her gaze to the table, where the lantern projected unicorns on the wooden surface. If Estelle wore the united Crown of Arden and Claire failed to make Nadia a queen, then more people would fall victim to the wraiths. More people would die.
“Hey, don’t worry,” Thorn said as he patted her shoulder in a clumsy attempt at comfort. “One of the reasons historians think the wraiths increased so much after the Guild War is because there were no more unicorns to sweep them away. But remember! There is a unicorn out there now—and Estelle hasn’t gotten it yet.” He smiled, but Claire couldn’t smile back.
A tiny, treacherous voice whispered in her mind: If Sophie transforms completely into a unicorn, maybe she can protect everyone.
No, Claire thought back stubbornly. Sophie’s useful even as a girl. I’ll crown Nadia and Nadia will defeat Estelle. Problem solved, without any transformations … right?
“There could be other ways to fight them,” Claire said, looking up. “Something more than just sunlight and unicorns.”
Thorn, who’d been taking a sip of water, made a face. “Maybe.”
He placed the mug back down and scratched his chin. “We don’t really know much about wraiths or how they came to be. They weren’t always in Arden.” He shrugged. “They might be like Spydens. A magical experiment gone very, very wrong.”
Claire turned over his words. Magic was definitely beautiful, but it had its risks. Sena’s parents, a Tiller and a Forger, had been experimenting with the seams of the world, and they had vanished without a trace.
“Cinders and smoke,” a man’s voice said from behind them. “I didn’t believe what they’re saying on the streets, but here you are: Anvil and Aquila Malchain.”
Claire looked up to see a man who was roughly the size and shape of a boulder standing behind them. He wore a leather apron over what could have been a gray shirt, or a white shirt covered in soot. Wrapped around his considerable girth was a thick belt from which hung a handful of hammers as well as some clinking keys that were just as shiny as his bald head.
Claire recognized this man. The last she’d seen him, he’d locked her and her friends up for trespassing on his secret supply of black-market items. But—what was his name? The blank expression in Anvil’s eyes told her that Thorn didn’t remember, either. She thought it had been on the sign of his shop. Something’s Silverorium … She had it!
“Scythe!” Claire said too loudly in her eagerness to spit it out. “How—how are you?”
“No need to be so formal with an old friend,” Scythe said, pulling up an unused chair to squash himself between Thorn and Claire. “Edgar will be just fine. And I must say, it is good to see you, Aquila, considering that you swore never to return to Fyrton.”
“Hmm,” Claire said, stalling for something Aquila-like to say. She hadn’t realized that it would be a surprise that Aquila had returned to Fyrton. In fact, there were a lot of things she didn’t know about Aquila: her middle name, who her friends were—she didn’t even know how old Aquila was! Just … old.
“Times … they change,” Claire said feebly.
“What are you doing back?” Scythe asked, reaching for Claire’s untouched tankard of water. The smell of smoke lingered on his shirtsleeve.
“We’re waiting to speak to the grandmasters,” Thorn said truthfully.
Scythe snorted into the tankard. “You’ll be waiting awhile; didn’t you hear who arrived at dawn? Axel.”
A loud gasp erupted from Thorn, and Claire glared at him. Thorn quickly changed his gasp into a yawn.
“Pardon,” he mumbled, and Claire was treated to a sight she thought she’d never see: Anvil’s ears turning pink. Scythe stared at him quizzically as Thorn continued to ramble. “I’m just tired. Axel,” he said with a pointed look at Claire, “is a Grand friend. One who writes letters.”
Claire nodded ever so slightly to show she understood: Axel was a Royalist and a messenger. But why was the council of Forger grandmasters agreeing to meet with him if they had already decided to war against the queen?
Panic squeezed Claire’s insides. Estelle already had the Gemmers’ Stone Tine and the promise of the Oak Leaf Tine. Estelle might, for all Claire knew, even have the real Love Knot Tine. Perhaps Estelle had ordered her Royalists to replace the real one with a decoy, in order to doubly ensure someone like Claire couldn’t foil her plans. And if Estelle hadn’t, then who was the thief? And where had the stolen piece of crown gone? And— Wait a second.
Claire backtracked through her questions. Because if anyone would know where a stolen treasure had gone, it would be …
“Scythe, er, Edgar,” Claire said, interrupting a rather uncomfortable interrogation as the silversmith probed Thorn for more information about what Anvil had been up to the last two months. “Has anything, I don’t know, regal come across your shop recently?”
Claire held her breath. Scythe was the head of a thriving black market of dangerous, jumbled, or sometimes stolen magical artifacts, but she knew she was taking a risk mentioning his secret establishment. Scythe’s expression, however, remained calm as he studied her.
“Interesting you should ask,” he said, making Claire’s heart leap. He knew something—she was sure of it! And her certainty only grew sharper as he pushed back his chair and said, “Perhaps this is a discussion that should happen someplace more private?”
After plunking down a few silver coins next to the lantern, Claire and Thorn followed Scythe out of Alkaline’s Kettle and back into the maze of Fyrton. Claire wondered what the other Forgers thought when they saw the three of them—Scythe, Anvil, and Aquila—walking together. She knew they must make a formidable picture, so long as the Make-a-Face was still holding. Her fingers darted up to her chin, and she was relieved to feel it was still just a bit too round.
Soon they reached the familiar, enchanting quarter of Fyrton known as Silver Way. The silversmiths were hard at work, and the steam muted the bright reds and oranges of their forges so that everything, even the fires, seemed to be gilded in silver. But even the haze couldn’t obscure Claire’s growing excitement. The Love Knot Tine could be just a
few yards away. She might be able to hold it in the next five minutes, and after that, they would convince the Forgers to support Nadia. By evening, she might have half the Crown of Arden—and Starfell was still two nights away!
When they reached the Silverorium, they waited a moment while Scythe fished the right key from his belt, and Claire had to sink her heels into the stoop to stop herself from bouncing up and down with impatience. Somehow, she didn’t think Aquila would approve.
There was a click. Scythe pushed the door open and waved them inside his workshop. It was just as Claire remembered. Haphazard heaps of silver objects rose up to the ceiling. It was hard to tell how many objects were in his shop, exactly, because each polished item threw back a reflection of another polished treasure. Claire knew that somewhere in this forest of silver, there was a wardrobe that hid a secret room.
“Please remove your shoes and hats,” Scythe said, coming in after them and pulling the door shut. Claire made to remove her shoes, but suddenly, she paused. Thorn had already noticed the problem.
“We’re not wearing any hats,” he rumbled in Anvil’s deep voice.
“Really, now,” Scythe said, and Claire turned to see the man’s great bulk filling the entire doorframe. In one fist, he held a giant hammer, which he’d unhooked and now raised above his head. “You know my line of business. You were fools to think I wouldn’t recognize illegal jumbled magic. Reveal yourselves, and I might let you live.”
CHAPTER
16
Claire stood frozen as Scythe’s hammer reflected a thousand times in the silver stacks, its blunt head gleaming in platters, helmets, flutes, and goblets. There was a grunt beside her, and in the next second, a new reflection joined the hammer: Anvil, struggling to tug the ax free from the strap on his back. Struggling in a way the real Anvil never would.
“I’d put that away if I were you,” Scythe warned as Thorn, with one final grunt, freed the weapon from its holster and pulled it around to his chest. Thorn held it awkwardly, the entire ax trembling in his grip as though it were a twig in a wind and offering just about the same amount of protection. For one second, Claire thought she saw Scythe hesitate, but then he shook his head … and swung.
Fire in the Star Page 13
