“Lina-smith,” a bright voice called from the doorway.
Lina shook herself from the memories and turned around, a practiced smile covering her thoughts. “Seelah,” she greeted with false cheer. “How are you this evening? How’s the newest grandchild?”
“Delightful, of course,” Seelah said, beaming as she bustled in. She dropped her basket on a table and eased herself onto a stool. “Oh, but don’t let me stop you”—she gestured for Lina to keep working—“I’m just here to have a little rest.”
Lina chuckled to herself and stoked the fire again, enjoying the distraction; a “little rest” meant Seelah had gossip to share.
“You’ll never guess what I heard today,” Seelah began, pausing to speak between the clangs of Lina’s hammer. “Jinnel was arguing with her husband—well, you know that’s nothing new—but she brought up her great-aunt, and she threatened to head off there and stay with her for good. And then he . . .”
Lina let the stream of words wash over her, Seelah’s voice a soothing reminder of the peace that Lina had fought and killed and sacrificed to protect.
“. . . So I thought I would drop by some soup tomorrow and just check in on her. Would you care to join me?”
Lina snapped out of her thoughts again. “Oh, um, yes. Always glad to lend a hand,” she replied. “Come by tomorrow at dusk?”
Seelah agreed but lingered, waiting.
In answer to the unspoken question, Lina smiled wanly. “I’d invite you over tonight for tea, but I’m exhausted. It’s straight to bed for me.” She looked toward the open doors. “Must be the cold weather coming, always makes me sleepy.”
Seelah picked up her basket to go. “Another time, then. I do enjoy our chats by the fire.”
“I do too,” Lina said, and she meant it.
Maybe it was time to move on, though. She’d been living in Solime for years, getting too comfortable in her role, playing the friendly grandmother maybe a little too well. She was bound to accidentally reveal something true about herself, make a mistake she couldn’t afford.
Or maybe she was just getting old; her hair was more gray than black now, and though smithing had kept her strong, it was getting harder to creak out of bed in the mornings. Maybe it was just natural that she was restless and thought more about the war these days, as she was drawing near to leaving everything behind for good. She’d played her part for as long as she could, but she couldn’t avoid the end forever.
Lina stepped back from the forge and surveyed her smithy—a few small worktables, stacks and buckets of scrap metal, projects and tools hanging from the ceiling and lining the walls. A good place. A place to forget and be forgotten.
She stripped the heavy leather gloves from her fingers and stretched her hands, easing their tired muscles and massaging the scars that crossed her palms. She’d amassed more burns and cuts than she could count. She rolled her shoulders to release the strain of hours bent over her work. A cold breeze blew in through the doors, and she welcomed the chill. She was right—the weather was cooling. There would be snow soon.
She raked the coals from the fire, set them to cooling, and made sure her tools were put away for the night. With everything in its place, Lina closed the shutters over her window and took one of her smaller hammers down from the wall; being a blacksmith meant that no one thought it odd for her to walk around with weaponry. She latched the door shut, dropping a small nail in the dirt so it leaned carelessly against the door. The actions had become automatic, almost meaningless, but there was comfort in the familiar.
The path home was short, her little cottage nestled in the space just behind the smithy. As she approached, she slowed and eyed her surroundings. Nothing disturbed. A particular pebble lying on her porch was in the same spot as usual. She stepped over it, slipped inside, and set her hammer by the front door.
She twitched her rug to the side, checking that the entrance to her hidden room was undisturbed, and glanced toward the brick in the hearth that covered a store of coins. Everything was in its place. She could rest, banish the clash of weapons still echoing in her mind. For now at least. She closed her eyes and listened to the stillness with a smile. Tomorrow, maybe, she’d think about moving on.
Lina startled awake, her eyes wide and staring, her heart pounding. She’d been dreaming, of course—of Mollen. Her dearest friend, her brother-in-arms, her once-upon-a-time hope for the future. In her dream, she watched him fight, just as she had so many times in life. He was grace and beauty, the swing of the sword, all dance and brilliance. Watching him, it was easy to forget, for the moment, the devastation of war.
Then the sunlight had flashed against the torque around his neck, and the dream became a nightmare, a memory.
But that wasn’t what woke her now, in the gray hours before dawn. There had been a noise. She listened, her body tense.
Then she heard it again. Outside and very near. A grunt of pain. A sound almost as familiar as ringing iron.
She pulled on her overdress, picked up her hammer, and crept out to investigate, every sense alive to danger. Though dawn was near, the space behind her smithy was swallowed in darkness. Lina listened again, raising the hammer, as her eyes darted from shadow to shadow.
In one of the deeper shadows, Lina saw it. Something, anyway. A huddled form, large enough to be a grown adult, curled up against the wall where the heat from the forge warmed the bricks. It didn’t move. It didn’t belong.
Maybe this would be the moment when danger finally caught up with her. Maybe she would find out if she could still fight. Her blood pumped with vigor, her heart answering the possibility for battle. She stole forward.
A whimper and a few muttered words emerged from under what she could now see was a torn, stained cloak. “Hurts . . . stop . . . can’t . . .” The voice was deep enough to be male, though human or fae she didn’t know.
Lina breathed deeply once for calm. “Hello?”
He writhed and moaned but didn’t respond. Lina peered more closely, almost feeling the waves of panic rolling off him. She adjusted her grip on the hammer’s wooden handle. His face was hidden, and he wrapped his arms protectively around himself under the cloak. She studied him, warrior and grandmother battling inside her. She could help him. It could be a trick. She should protect him. She should watch her back.
After a moment of indecision, the grandmother took over. She crouched and set her hammer beside her. If anything was amiss, there was always the dagger concealed in her skirts.
“I’m going to help you,” she whispered soothingly, the way she would talk to a terrified child. She got a hand under his arm, pulling him to his feet. He was frail, lighter than she’d expected, even as he leaned heavily on her, one hand now reaching up to rub against his neck. She shuffled him forward, bearing most of his weight and still scanning for danger, until they reached her cottage.
With a bit of maneuvering—and a brief, regretful glance at her clean blanket—Lina settled the man in a heap on her bed. She locked the door and checked that her window shutters were tightly closed, then started a hearth fire going. She kept one eye on the stranger.
Now that he was stretched out in the glow of her fire, she had her first clear view of his clothing and cloak, both of fine wool but ragged beyond hope of repair. His hair, a dirty brown, hung lank and tangled, and he had maybe a week’s growth of beard. Whatever he was running from, he’d been running awhile.
He started to mumble again, tears slowly streaking his face. “Need help . . . Can’t think . . . Hide.” He reached his arms toward her, then yanked them back and tugged his tattered cloak more tightly around his neck. “No.” He convulsed. “Yes.” He shook his head.