The Blacksmith Queen (The Scarred Earth Saga, #1) - G.A Aiken Page 0,15
talking to him.
Maybe she wasn’t.
He looked around at the others. Laila was chatting up the nun, trying to find out what she was doing here. He knew his sister’s way of thinking and in Laila’s mind it would seem strange that the nun should suddenly appear when she’d been gone for so long. But Caid also got the feeling the nun was chatting up Laila in the hopes of finding out what they were doing here. Unlike Keeley, though, he didn’t think this one or the cousin knew what they were.
He glanced behind him and there were Farlan and Cadell. For some unknown reason, Keeley had suddenly handed them each a sword from her shop. “I just finished these yesterday,” she’d said before they began to walk through town. “They’re a bit nicer than what you have and will serve you both well.”
She’d been right too. The swords she’d given them were definitely superior to what they had, which was why they were both busy examining their new weapons and discussing them rather than chatting with the blacksmith who’d created them.
And then there was Keran. The cousin. She was bringing up the rear . . . and seemed to be talking to herself because no one was around her. Whatever conversation she was having, though, she seemed to be enjoying it.
So what did all that mean?
He glanced down and to his left. Aye. Keeley was talking to him.
“What are your thoughts?” she asked, a baby lamb draped over her neck like a fur cape.
“I . . . I honestly don’t know because I didn’t know you were talking to me.”
“Who else would I be talking to?”
“Anyone?” Caid gestured to the world around them. “Literally anyone.”
“But I like talking to you.”
“I haven’t been listening.”
She shrugged. “That’s never stopped me before.” She studied him a moment before asking, “Does no one talk to you?”
“Not willingly.”
“Why? You’re very pleasant.”
“No,” he insisted. “I’m not. Ask anyone. My own sister will tell you . . . not pleasant.”
“Are you not pleasant on purpose?”
“If I’m pleasant, people will talk to me.” He leaned in a bit. “Understand?”
“Of course! Some people . . . they never know when to shut up. But what can you do?” she went on. “Life is full of talkers. People who can’t help themselves. As a blacksmith, though, I have to talk.”
“Do you?”
“Oh, yes. I need to know exactly what people want, when they want it, how they want it. And often they won’t say unless you ask them specific questions.”
“Sooooo, you’re saying there’s no way to get you to stop talking to me?”
“Well . . . I’m not speaking to my sister. Ever. Again,” she emphasized. “And when Keran talks to herself, that’s not a conversation you ever want to interrupt. But you’re here, so . . . No. There’s not.”
Suddenly, and without warning, she linked her arm with his and leaned into his side as they continued to walk to her parents’ farm. The baby lamb even rested its head against Caid’s shoulder, like it belonged there.
“But isn’t this lovely?” she asked.
“Is it?”
“It’s been a beautiful day and it’s turning into a beautiful evening. You’ll get a hot meal and some good wine and a roof over your head for the night. What could there possibly be for you to complain about?”
“You talking to me?”
“You might as well get used to it, Amichai. Because if you think I talk a lot . . . wait until you meet me da.”
* * *
Keeley handed the baby lamb off to Keran and then threw herself into her father’s outstretched arms, letting him lift her off her feet in a big hug. She knew at some time he would become too old to do that, but until that time came, she was going to enjoy the way her father welcomed her home.
“How was your day, my little Keeley?”
“Interesting.” She leaned in and whispered in her father’s ear, “Amichais, Da.”
“What?” He quickly lowered her and turned to face the Amichais standing behind them. “By the gods,” her father sighed. “True Amichais. It’s been decades.”
Grinning, her father grabbed each Amichai’s hand and shook it. The Amichais didn’t shake hands, so they only seemed confused and slightly offended.
“True Amichais on my farm! What a blessing from the gods! Names,” he ordered. “Names.”
“I’m Laila.” She pointed at her brother. “Caid. Farlan. Cadell.”
“Nice to meet ya, lads. I’m Angus.”
“Good morrow, Uncle!” Keran greeted in passing as she headed toward the house with the baby lamb over her shoulder.