The Amulet Of Nicmir (The Scripts Of Neptune, Book 1)

Chapter 8

Crynia pulled the horse to a jerking halt outside of her father's blacksmith shop. It was a small, one-story building constructed of rough stone blocks, tucked between the butcher's shop and the mapmaker's shack, off in a corner of the city. A quaint little structure with a sagging cap of a roof and a chimney leading up through it from the forge, it had a surprising amount of frequent customers.

Crynia knew her father wouldn't be there today. He'd most likely been in the square, wanting to see his daughter one last time before she was lost. Crynia didn't understand people like that. Why watch your loved one die? It only made the heartache worse in the end.

She knew from experience.

Sliding from the saddle after the boy, she gripped the reigns and tethered the horse to a pole off the street a ways. Gently pushing the old, crooked door open, she stepped into the familiar place.

"What are we doing here?" the boy questioned.

Her answer was blunt: "I'm out of hairpins, and you need those shackles off."

The shop hadn't changed a bit since she'd last been there. Rough, unshaped iron was still piled in a large barrel against the wall. The smell of hot metal still tickled her nose when she stepped inside. It was as warm as a summer day in the little hut, hitting and enveloping her like a welcoming hug. Tools still hung haphazardly around the room, balanced on a nail driven between the bricks here or an old coat hook there. The disorganization had driven Crynia's mother nearly out of her head.

A forge claimed the far wall, a great stone pit of searingly hot coals and embers in the wall. It was lit, crackling and snapping sharply in its fiery bed, which seemed odd. Crynia had thought her father would have let off work today.

"Crynia?" She froze the instant she heard her father's soft, deep voice say her name. No. He couldn't be here. Roddin would flog him again for associating with a convicted criminal. And this time, she might not be able to save him.

She turned on her heel and made contact with his soft grey eyes. Those eyes, so very different from her own chocolatey irises. Gentle, beautiful; full of love, even now. They'd watched her grow into the woman she was today, the rebellious young thing that took reckless chances and nearly got herself killed on a daily basis. And yet, here he was, his lips pulled into an affectionate smile, his expression knowing and acceptant.

"You knew I'd escape." The disbelieving words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"Aye," her father replied, his smile never faltering. If anything, it widened, pulling at his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes, threatening to show his teeth. The laugh lines around his mouth and forehead deepened with his smile, shadowed by the firelight from the forge. "I know you, Raindrop. You don't give up." Crynia felt a lump in her throat at his nickname. It'd been given when she was three or four, when she'd danced in the rain as a storm cried on the city. She vaguely recalled her father whispering that name in her ear as he held her in his lap afterwards, trying to warm her in a blanket.

"Dad..." she began. But confound it, she could feel her voice failing her. She didn't know what to say.

"He'll need those off if you plan to escape the city alive," her father commented, nodding at the boy, who stood awkwardly in the corner. He still looked a bit lost, and Crynia almost snickered. Almost.

"This is my father, Karlon," she explained simply. His gaze shifted to the heavyset man standing in the doorway.

"I'd offer a hand in greeting, but, well..." He shook the shackles behind him lightly. Karlon chuckled, stroking his chin thoughtfully.