“So you are a blacksmith.” Her gaze dropped to his feet and slowly traveled up the entire length of him.

Ronan’s frown deepened. He didn’t like her scrutiny or the judgment that was obvious in her eyes. “There is nothing for you to do here, healer. As you said, he is dead. You may go,” he said when her gaze settled on his face. She slanted a glance back to the guard.

“So you may do away with this man and keep the sword?”

“I have no reason to keep the damned sword,” Ronan snapped. “It has proven more burden than privilege. His last words were that it was my responsibility to take the sword to Merisgale. I cannot complete his request. I have work here that must be done.”

“He made you a guard?” Arien said with shock. “You are a royal guard?”

“I am a blacksmith,” Ronan corrected.

“You cannot reject a summons of service,” the witch argued. “If you do, you won’t be much of a smith when you are thrown into a prison for the rest of your life.” She looked at him as if he was stupid and it irritated him.

“Why are you still here?” Ronan snapped.

“My interest is in the new king. If that sword falls into the wrong hands or is used by the wrong person, it could damn us all to the will of the dark forces.” She glanced at the boy, then back at Ronan. “If you are taking this sword anywhere, I’m coming with you.”

“Besides,” she added when he opened his mouth to argue, “I have a feeling I will be needed.”

“Maybe, she’s right.” Arien touched Ronan’s arm. “She did say she had a gift of knowing those kinds of things. And maybe she knows the way to Merisgale.”

“I do not,” the witch answered.

“Nor do I.” Ronan ran a large hand over his face, and then scratched at his beard. “Surely if we wait long enough, they will send someone else to collect it.” The hopefulness in his voice sounded silly even to him. He felt like a child trying to think his way out of an unfavorable chore.