The blacksmith stopped hammering and looked up with a vexed expression, his bushy eyebrows crinkling.
He shook his head.
“And on sparring day, of all days,” he said. “And not just any sparring day.” He stuffed the blade into the glowing coals in the furnace and wiped his dripping brow with the sleeve of his tunic. “Today, the royals will spar with the combatlords. The king has hand-picked twelve royals to train for the Killings. Three will go on to participate.”
She understood his worry. It was his responsibility to provide the weapon-keepers, and if he didn’t, his job was on the line. Hundreds of blacksmiths would be eager to take his position.
“The king won’t be happy if we are one weapon-keeper short,” she said.
He leaned his hands on his thick thighs and shook his head. Just then, two Empire soldiers entered.
“We are here to retrieve the weapons,” one said, scowling toward Ceres.
Even though it wasn’t forbidden, she knew it was frowned upon for girls to work in weaponry – a man’s field. Yet she had grown accustomed to snide remarks and hateful glares most every time she made deliveries to the palace.
The blacksmith stood up and walked over to three wooden buckets filled with weapons, all ready for the sparring match.
“You will find here the remainder of the weapons the king requested for today,” the blacksmith said to the Empire soldiers.
“And the weapon-keeper?” the Empire soldier demanded.
Just as the blacksmith opened his mouth to speak, Ceres had an idea.
“It is me,” she said, excitement rising in her chest. “I am the stand-in today and until Bartholomew returns.”
The Empire soldiers looked at her for a moment, startled.
Ceres pinched her lips together and took a step forward.
“I have been working with my father and with the palace my entire life, crafting swords, shields, and all manner of weapons,” she said.
She didn’t know where her courage came from, but she stood tall and stared the soldiers in the eye.
“Ceres…” the blacksmith said, giving her a look of pity.
“Try me,” she said, strengthening her resolve, wanting them to test her abilities. “There isn’t anyone who can take Bartholomew’s place but me. And if you lack a weapon-keeper today, wouldn’t that make the king rather upset?”
She wasn’t certain, but she figured the Empire soldiers and the blacksmith would do almost anything to keep the king happy. Especially today.
The Empire soldiers looked at the blacksmith, and the blacksmith back at them. The blacksmith thought for a moment. And then another. Finally, he nodded. He laid a plethora of weapons onto the table, after which he gestured to her to proceed.
“Show us, then, Ceres,” the blacksmith said, a twinkle in his eye. “Knowing your father, he probably taught you everything you are not supposed to know.”
“And more,” Ceres said, smiling inside.
She went over each weapon, explaining in great detail their uses and advantages, how one might be better in certain types of battles than others.
When she was finished, the Empire soldiers looked to the blacksmith.
“I suppose it is better to have a girl weapon-keeper than no weapon-keeper,” the blacksmith said. “Let us go and speak to the king. Perhaps he will allow it, seeing there is no other.”
Ceres was so excited she almost threw her arms around the blacksmith as he winked at her. The soldiers still seemed reluctant, but with no other apparent option, they agreed to take her along.
She followed the Empire soldiers out the back door and entered the palace training ground. Ceres was used to the sound of swords colliding, of the combatlords grunting as they sparred, and of the smell of sweat mixed with leather and metal filling the air. But what was quite unique was seeing the royals practicing in the center of the yard, wearing their fancy polished armor, looking as if they needed a lesson – or a hundred – in swordsmanship. Ceres didn’t feel they belonged here. No, it disgusted her to see them on the training ground, all the underlords, counts, and dignitaries watching as they ate from mounds of food and drank from golden goblets. They should go back to their lavish parties, she thought. Not feign courage and honor.
One of the royals, though, stood out from the rest: Thanos. Watching him spar, she noticed how he moved with speed, grace, and agility. To her surprise, he appeared almost as skilled as Brennius; and he wore no armor like the other royals. His hair was different from his royal peers’, too; not neat and pulled back into a low ponytail, but curly, unruly dark hair flying about his face with each move.
Ceres frowned. Perhaps he knew a thing or two about combat, but he was the haughtiest of the royals, always glowering at something or someone, never seeming to want to be a part of anything.
The guards led her to the throne, and when the blacksmith presented Ceres to the king as a stand-in weapon-keeper, the king paused, and then chuckled a bit as he glanced at his advisors on either side. Ceres didn’t like how he looked at her as if she were an annoyance to be rid of. But in an instant, the king’s expression changed, and his face lit up as if he just had the most brilliant idea.
“Not having anyone else, I see that this must be as you say,” the king said to the blacksmith. “Ceres, you shall assist Prince Thanos.”
The king said it in a way that made Ceres think it was a punishment or a means to shame Prince Thanos, but she didn’t care. Even though she wasn’t particularly happy to be Thanos’s weapon-keeper, she had been assigned, and now she could show her skills in the royal court. It was more than any girl could ever expect.
She bowed toward the king and glanced at the blacksmith as she passed him. The blacksmith nodded, an almost prideful expression on his face, and then he walked back to the chalet.
The Empire soldier escorted Ceres over to Thanos, who stood by a table, and when Thanos glanced at Ceres, his scowl intensified.
“Very well,” he muttered, staring at his uncle across the yard as if daggers were shooting from his eyes. The king gave Thanos a devious smirk, affirming to Ceres that her assignment to Thanos was indeed some form of a punishment.
Thanos stepped in front of Ceres, and she noticed how the neck of his shirt was open, revealing small amounts of curly, dark hair on his muscular chest. Her breath hitched. He looked at her, and when their eyes met, she found his gaze intense – irises darker than the blackest soot. Yet, he didn’t intimidate her. In fact, his bottomless eyes drew her to him, making it impossible to look away.
Once he broke eye contact, Ceres was able to take a breath and think clearly; she again resolved to show him she knew what she was doing.
“I suppose I should trust you if the blacksmith speaks so highly of you,” Thanos said as she laid out the weapons one by one onto the wooden table.
Even though she was a girl, and even though Thanos was undoubtedly smart enough to figure out that what his uncle had done was more of a cruel joke than anything, it surprised her that he gave her the benefit of the doubt.
“I will do my best, sire,” she said, placing a sword onto the wood.
He glanced at her, his smoldering eyes studying her too intimately for her to feel comfortable.
“There is no need for such formalities here. Thanos will do,” he said.
Again, she was surprised by his casual approach. Had she read him wrong? Was he not the arrogant, self-righteous, ungrateful young man she assumed he was?
Once she had laid out all the weapons, an Empire soldier reviewed the rules of combat. First, they watched a few of the combatlords spar, and then it was the royals’ turn. The Empire soldier called upon Lucious, a blond, muscular, but somewhat lanky young man, who stepped up to a combatlord. Thanos leaned over.
“I doubt Lucious will last very long,” he whispered.
“Why do you say that?” Ceres asked, wondering why he would say something like that to her – a stranger – about a fellow royal.