Page 35 of Reign

“To-Tom, Tom Angove,” he stammered, fiddling with the fraying cuff of his sleeve.

“All right, Tom. You need to temper the blade,” I instructed, holding the iron steady in the flames. “Wait till it glows, then quench it.”

Carefully, I carried the glowing blade to the trough, dunking it into the cold water. Thick plumes of smoke filled the tent as the metal hissed and cooled.

“Tempering the blade will improve the integrity of the sword,” I explained, withdrawing it from the water. “Next, you need to reheat it—not hotter than a poker, just warm, like a loaf of bread fresh from the oven.”

I passed him the handle, guiding his shaky hands to position the blade within the outer edges of the flame.

“See? You can do it,” I reassured him. “Take pride in your craft. It’ll give you purpose during this bleak war.”

Tom gave me a half smile. “Thanks,” he mumbled—shyness muffling his words.

As I turned, cringing at how much I sounded like my father, I realized the men had stopped working to watch my lesson.

Red marched over, his hearty cackle filling the tent as his face flushed redder than his fiery hair. He raised his hand, and I braced for a scolding—certain he was about to strike me for speaking out of turn. But instead, his open palm gently clapped my back.

“You’re just like your father,” Red said, his voice filled with fondness. “Thank the gods—we finally have some capable hands around here.”

The men returned to their labor, and Red dismissed us new recruits for the rest of the day to settle in.

Outside, the biting chill was a refreshing change from the stifling humidity inside the tent.

“I’m so sorry about your sister,” Bash said, kicking at the sticky soil. “If you need to talk to someone, I’m here. I know how it feels—”

“Thank you for your condolences,” I interrupted, feeling uneasy discussing my “missing” sister.

Bash nodded. “Shall we find the food and ale we were promised many miles ago?” he asked, offering me a kind smile.

“Please,” I replied.

* * *

I drank my first tankard quickly, the second went down as easily, and by the third a warm glow radiated from inside me. Although the pints were flowing, I didn’t have the stomach to eat. Sitting on the damp earth alongside hundreds of other soldiers, I found myself musing on a troubling question: Should I be fighting to further oppress magic if I was a witch?

Arthur emerged from one of the pitiful tents, the gleam off his balding head almost blinding me. Trailing close behind was Fletcher—his cap sitting low on his brow, and a packsack slung over one shoulder.

“We’ve been looking for you,” Arthur said, nodding toward one of the weathered tents. “We’ve claimed sleeping space. For all of us,” he added, giving me a quick glance.

I was grateful I wouldn’t have to sleep beneath a blanket of stars. Yet envy simmered within me as I pictured Fitzroy retiring for the night on his soft bedstead. Even amid the chaos of war, the feudal system was strictly implemented.

I sighed, resting my chin on my fist as the dull sting of my bruised cheek pulsed across my face. “I don’t have any bedding,” I muttered, the pain reminding me of yesterday’s robbery.

Fletcher smirked as he held out the packsack. “Here you go, Smith,” he said, thrusting it into my chest. “Oh, and Bash told me you needed another coat. It’s secondhand—it might still be warm, but it’s all yours.”

Fletcher swung a long, black coat before him, a glint in his eye revealing the pride he felt for what he had pilfered for me.

“Thank you,” I replied, accepting my new garment.

Guilt twisted my gut for the poor sod left shivering without it, yet relief overshadowed the remorse—I was glad it wasn’t me.

Magic.

Almost a week had passed, and we soldiers did little more than wait. We waited for the rain to stop so we could sit outside; then we waited for the pot on the bonfire to boil so we could cook potatoes; and finally, we waited for daylight to fade, retreating to our barracks to wait for sleep. I knew that once we were trained and thrust onto the battlefield, I would yearn for days this mundane. Yet, as Arthur retold the same story—how he could have been a great jouster if not for an injury sustained climbing a flagpole—I found myself begging for war to begin.

On the sixth night at Cambas, I awoke to darkness, trembling from the cold. The warming alcohol from supper had worn off, leaving the night as bitter as the last dregs of ale I’d drunk. I quivered, wide awake and desperate for the warmth of daylight. The straw sack I called my bedstead did nothing to soften the hard earth beneath my bony back, and the linen sheet provided was thinner than a handkerchief.

Though the night was pitch-black, I sensed someone stirring beside me.