Slave, Warrior, Queen. Morgan Rice

there anyone there?” her mother asked.

      “Um… no,” Sartes said, his eyes filling with tears as they connected with Ceres’s.

      Ceres mouthed a “thank you,” and Sartes gestured with his hand for her to leave.

      She nodded, and with a heavy heart, she stole toward the field as the back door to the shed slammed shut. She would come back for her sword later.

*

      Ceres stopped at the palace gates sweating, famished, and exhausted, swords in hand. The Empire soldiers standing guard, clearly recognizing her as the girl who delivered her father’s swords, let her pass without questioning her.

      She hurried through the cobblestone courtyard and then turned for the blacksmith’s stone cottage behind one of the four towers. She entered.

      Standing by the anvil in front of the crackling furnace, the blacksmith hammered away at a glowing blade, the leather apron protecting his clothing from the flying sparks. The concerned expression on his face made Ceres wonder what was wrong. A jovial middle-aged man full of energy, he was rarely worried.

      His bald, sweaty head greeted her before he noticed she had entered.

      “Good morrow,” he said when he saw her, nodding for her to place the swords on the worktable.

      She strode across the hot smoky room and set them down, the metal rattling against a surface of burnt, tattered wood.

      He shook his head, clearly troubled.

      “What is it?” she asked.

      He looked up, concern in his eyes.

      “Of all the days to fall ill,” he murmured.

      “Bartholomew?” she asked, seeing that the young weapon-keeper of the combatlords wasn’t here as he usually was, frantically preparing the last few weapons before sparring practice.

      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.