Page 60 of Fae Trials

The ogre slung a pig carcass over each shoulder and headed in the direction of the blacksmith stalls, while her companion ambled toward the auction block.

Helen shooed me away. “Don’t leave the blacksmiths. I’ll come and find you later.”

“Alright.” I hurried along the ogre’s side, using her larger body as cover, and prayed to whoever was listening that Prince Rory would be too distracted by the crowd of admirers to notice me scurrying away.

“What are you doing?” asked a deep voice.

My head snapped up, and my gaze met the ogre’s watery eye. “Um…” The last thing I wanted to tell her was the truth. Ogres tolerated humans as long as you kept out of their way. My wings fluttered behind my back, reminding me that I had the appearance of a high faerie. Channeling my inner Fated Lady, I said, “What business is it of yours?”

The ogre sniffed and glanced away, leaving me slumping with relief. A few moments later, she stopped at a store that sold vats of fire, and I hurried toward the nearest tent.

As soon as I stepped through the flaps, dry heat engulfed my senses, and I squeezed my eyes shut. The tent flapped closed at my back, the fabric swishing against my calves. I exhaled a long breath and opened my eyes.

“May I help you?” A dwarf, the size of a ten-year-old, sat on a wooden trunk. About a dozen braids hung from his beard onto his apron-covered potbelly.

“Yes, please.” My gaze darted from left to right around the empty, round space. “Are you a blacksmith? I was expecting a forge.”

He hopped off his trunk and flipped open its lid. White-hot light flared out, making me squint. When my vision cleared, I cracked my eyes open to find a phoenix hovering in the air dripping liquid fire.

“Good enough for you?” asked the dwarf.

Placing a hand in my pocket, I stepped away from the phoenix’s radiant heat. “How much iron will you take to forge me some weapons?”

The dwarf raised a bushy eyebrow. “Money beads only.”

My shoulders slumped. “But—”

“Phoenix-forged weapons cost beads, not barter,” he snapped. “If you’ve already spent all your money, try someone hard-up for clients like the halfling four doors down.”

“Thanks anyway.” I turned on my heel and trudged out of the empty forge into the cool air. Keeping my head down and my face out of sight, I hurried down the row of tents to the fourth, which was about a quarter of the others’ size.

The moist heat of burning coal fanned my face as I entered the darkened space, and my ears rang with the clink of metal hitting metal. A little furnace about the size of our stove illuminated a thin, shirtless man whose skin glistened with sweat.

Sparks flew from the dagger he hammered into shape. He glanced up from his work, looking perfectly human, even down to his jet-black hair. I straightened, waiting for the right moment to interrupt his work.

The blacksmith picked up the molten dagger-shaped metal with a pair of tongs and dipped it into the water, filling the air with steam and sizzle. “Yes?”

“I have about two pounds of iron.” I placed a hand over the bulge in my blazer pocket. “How much would it cost to make some weapons?”

He placed the dagger to one side, stepped away from his forge, and rubbed his chin. “Dangerous stuff, iron is. Can you handle it?”

I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes and thank him for the mansplaining—a term I had learned from my DVDs—and instead nodded.

“Let’s have a look,” he said.

I extracted the chain and held it out in my palm.

He stepped back and whistled. “How are you able to touch that without gloves?”

“I’m a half-blood, and iron doesn’t affect me.”

The blacksmith stared at it for several moments, seeming to consider whether he wanted to work with iron. I shallowed my breaths and blanked my mind to stay calm. If this guy didn’t accept iron in payment for forging the weapons, I’d have to try someone else.

“Have you asked the dwarves?” he asked. “Some of them have phoenixes who can mold it to whatever you wish while you wait.”

I raised a shoulder. “Apparently, they only take money beads.”

“Same here,” he muttered.