Chapter 3

Tara

It's been a few days since my embarrassing moment with Edna. I'm not sure if she's told anyone about it yet, but that's the least of my problems. Today is a really important day. And I'm absolutely terrified about what's going to happen, based on my terrible handle on my magic.

Which is why, even though my mom banned me from seeing the blacksmith while she's gone, I'd come here anyway. I desperately needed someone to talk to before I went crazy.

"Princess Tara, what's got you so down?" Baldemar, the blacksmith, asks as I lean against the wall, kicking the same rock back and forth with my foot. He's clutching molten hot metal with his forging tongs, putting it back on the anvil and hammering the crap out of it every few seconds before studying it again.

He's got that intense look in his eyes, the one he always gets when he's working. I study him, trying not to notice that he's aging and frail. His gray hair seems to be thinning on a daily basis, but he's got it trimmed nearly down to his scalp, so it's only noticeable in the front. Every time he strikes the sword on the anvil, the muscles on his huge arms strain and a vein in his neck leaps, speaking of his many years working hard as a blacksmith. Everything about him is familiar and comfortable, like my father, even though he's changed so much from when I was a young child.

"Princess Tara?" he repeats, stopping his work and staring back at me.

I sigh, remembering his question. "I just sometimes wish I could figure out the key to making my magic work. To being someone… useful to my people."

Baldemar holds up the metal, and nods to me. He's a human, incapable of any magic, so when he makes special blades, I'm the only one who can help. I guess the other witches could try Metal Magic, but they wouldn't stoop that low.

Speak to me, metal.

Every muscle is relaxed as I reach my hands out, focusing on the yellow glowing metal. I instinctually stretch one of my hands out, shaping the sword in the air into the length and size it's supposed to be. I slash two fingers upward and sharpen one end of the sword, then do it again for the other side.

What do you wish to be, metal? You can be anything.I pause and listen for a moment. The blade whispers to me in a soft voice. It's not quite words, and yet, I know exactly what it's saying. A picture forms in my mind of a powerful sword meant for strong hands. A sword destined to be used in battle. Then, my fingers move in a flurry, engraving the sword with symbols and designs.

For a moment, the symbols glow with golden and silver light, shining brighter than the forge. My chest swells as I sense the blade's pride. This is it. This is what it was meant to be.

My hand drops. I smile.

Baldemar gazes at the sword I just made, rotating the blade to make the letters shimmer more brightly, marveling at the artwork etched into the metal. "What will it do?"

The whispers weave through my thoughts. "This blade will make the user feel brave whenever they hold it. The kind of brave that will make a man or woman unstoppable."

He dips the sword into the water. The loud sizzle of the heat hitting the water jolts me back to reality, back to this world. I'd been lost in the quiet whispers of the sword, something that seemed to happen to me every time I used my Metal Magic.

I sigh and replay what happened at the lake in my mind, wincing as I recall what Edna called me. Usually, I'm pretty good at keeping a positive outlook, no matter how much shit I step in. Baldemar once told me that he'd never seen a kid fall so many times when trying to learn how to walk, but I got up every time. And after realizing no one was going to pick me up when I cried, I stopped crying too. Yet with my mother returning, I'm having a hard time not letting my nerves and my disappointing handle on magic get me down.

Everyone is right. I suck.I bite my bottom lip and think about what it would be like if I could wield my magic the way everyone else can. Would that change how my mother sees me or how she treats me? Or would someone always be better than me? I'm sure she wishes Edna was her heir instead of me.

"Your magic isn't any worse or better than it was before. What brought you to feeling like this?" Baldemar asks, drinking from his glass and studying me with his dark, intelligent eyes.

Might as well just tell him.

"I fucked up magic again recently. With an audience." I cringe as the scene plays again and again in my mind.

The embarrassment of not being able to master magic like everyone else washes over me again as I remember Edna towering over me with a smug expression on her face. It's almost like something is blocking my magic - like there's an invisible barrier between myself and my powers. But the healers have tested me for any curses or abnormalities, and I was given a clean bill of health.

So, what's wrong with me?

"Not every witch is good at every magic. I'm sure not even the Queen is perfect at all of them." His eyes are gentle as they find mine, and he gives a little smile that warms my heart. "Besides, you're the best there is with metal and weapons. The best I've seen in all my years as a blacksmith."

Yeah, freaking wonderful.

I snort. "So, I'm good at the only magic that does our coven no good? Witches don't need weapons. They have magic. Weapons are for humans and shifters. My ‘gift' is useless."

Baldemar shakes his head and places the sword I made on the nearby table. "Don't say that, Princess. Magic isn't the only force in this world. Weapons are a part of life too, and they can be used to protect those who need them the most. I mean, think about the human men who stand by the witches while they cast spells. They use weapons to ensure the witches don't get hurt. That's useful!"

"Maybe." Or maybe he's the only one who feels that way.

He lifts up the sword I made and spins it, so I can take it in. "You created this sword with your magic, not only to be something beautiful, but also to be a tool to defend the user. That's a worthy kind of magic."

Not to my people.

"My mother is a Warrior Witch," I say, emphasizing each word. "She expected me to be one too."

He smiles at me reassuringly, tracing his fingers over the symbols my magic engraved. "You should never think you're any less than anyone else because of your magic and what you can or can't do with it. You have power within you even if others don't see it yet."

My body relaxes a bit at his words. He's right, but I don't live in his world, and he doesn"t live in mine. As a man, he has no idea of the hierarchy in place in our coven. He doesn"t understand that being good at Metal Magic is like being really good at catching stars, when stars have no purpose. He doesn't understand that as the daughter to a powerful woman, I'm expected to be powerful too. The fact that I'm not is shameful, and no one wants to be associated with someone like me.

He takes another drink from his glass. I don't blame him. It's sweltering in here. Sweat drips down my back and pools uncomfortably in every crease and crevice of my body. I don't know how he works here each day without falling over.

Going to a bucket of water, he fills up his cup again and goes to have another drink.

"Wait!" I hurry over to him. "Cold," I whisper and touch the glass. It immediately turns frosty.

Of course, it works. Now. My magic usually works well with the blacksmith, for reasons I don't understand. If only they could work this well with the other witches…

He grins, drawing my gaze back to him. "Thanks!" Then downs the whole glass in a few gulps. He heads back to his forge and pulls out another long piece of metal that's now glowing yellow, then takes his hammer to it.

When he's done, he holds the sword out to me. Again, I stretch and shape it as the blade whispers. Pictures form in my mind of symbols and designs. The blade's request. I respond, moving quickly to bring the image to life.

"The wielder of this sword will heal quickly and come back even stronger," I tell Baldemar as I inscribe the sword with a flourish of my hand.

But when I'm done, that aching feeling is back in my chest. My mom will be back tonight. The ceremony will take place, and my fate will be sealed. What the hell am I supposed to do?

Baldemar cools the sword in water, then admires it, smiling. He turns to me, his smile morphing into a concerned look as he takes me in. "Are you just nervous about tonight?"

He doesn't say what tonight is. Everyone knows. Tonight is the coven's ceremony where each young witch is assigned her role in the community. I don't get to make the choice for myself based on what I like or what I'm good at. I have to accept whatever role the Queen assigns me.

Nerves flutter in my stomach. If I'm given a crappy role, I can never escape it, or my shame, again. If I'm given a good role, I won't be able to do it properly, and I'll spend my life as an embarrassment. Is there any way this will end well for me? I just need to know, so I can prepare myself emotionally.

"If I had any clue what role I might be assigned, I wouldn't mind as much, but my mother has been away, bargaining with the shifters to come up with a peace agreement. She won't be back until right before the ceremony, so I can't ask her about it."

"Maybe there will be some time beforehand though," he suggests helpfully.

"Maybe." Doubtfully.

He grins. "Either way, witches are given the roles they're meant to have, right? So, you'll be okay."

Yeah, right."And what if my role is something new and unheard of, like Cleaner of Toilets?"

He laughs.

"Or Cutter of Pubic Hair."

His nose wrinkles.

"Oh! Which reminds me, what's a dildo and why does it go in your ass?"

He stares.

I stare.

"Because I thought things were supposed to leave your ass, not the other way around."

"U-uf." He says nothing else, just makes some weird sound.

I put my hands on my hips. "Because the other witches said I'm like a dildo in the ass without lube."

He does that thing a lot of people do with me. He looks to the heavens like they might be able to help him. But when I just keep staring, he eventually sighs and rubs his hand awkwardly over his head. "Let's just say they were saying you were unpleasant to be around."

I think about it, wishing he'd tell me more, but just nod. "That's not exactly a surprise. But then, things aren't supposed to go in your ass at all, right?"

His face goes crimson. "Sometimes, on some occasions, things might, but, uh, you don't have to worry about that, Princess."

"Fair enough," I say, deciding that's enough pushing for today.

He clears his throat. "So, uh, a peace agreement would be monumental."

It would be, but he understands war in a way I don't, since he's much older than I am, and has seen actual warfare. As a squire on the battlefield for the witches against the shifters, he's held witches as they died in his arms. So he, in a way I can never understand, values the idea of peace between the two kingdoms.

"I can't imagine what life would be like if my mom came back with an actual agreement."

He seems to relax a bit, leaning against his work table. "The shifters and witches have been fighting for as long as the books go back. Peace would change our lives forever." He sounds wistful for a minute before continuing. "But if I were a betting man, I wouldn't bet on any deal lasting for long."

The shifters are nearly as bloodthirsty and violent as actual monsters. If most of the Crystal Realm, the Witch Kingdom, wasn't surrounded by mountains, I'm sure all they'd do is attack us. The assholes have nothing better to do between eating their young, beating their women, and fighting us.

"Maybe they're tired of fighting," I say, shrugging.

The truth is, I have no idea what their people are really like. The mountains act as a barrier, but they don"t keep the most ruthless and hungry shifters out of the Witch Kingdom. Those bastards come through the passage and attack, keeping us constantly at war.

"I once saw a shifter tear a witch's limbs right off in one motion," he says, shaking his head.

"That's horrible," I say, unable to fathom witnessing such an act of violence.

"Oh, war is much worse than that. It's a collection of terrible moments that either pull you under, or you learn to detach yourself from. As unlikely as I think a treaty would be, I'm hoping it does happen. Anything to make sure future generations don't have to suffer the way all the others have."

"Agreed."

"As for you," he changes the subject and his face brightens, "just remember that everything will turn out the way it's supposed to. All witches are happy with their assignments, and I'm sure you will be too."

How can you be so sure when I'm not?

I force a bright smile onto my face. "Thank you."

He means well. He's the main person I turn to for advice or to vent to, but he's never stepped foot into that ballroom. He's never seen that look of pained disappointment on my mother's face. And he surely hasn't ever seen me fail as epically at magic as I do on a daily basis. When I'm in his shop, I am at my best.

The clock chimes in the clocktower and I stiffen.

He looks at me, lifting a brow. "Time to get ready?"

My hands curl into fists. "Time to get ready."