Forged in Frost

Sidie, 17th of Imber, 278 AN

It’s been an impossibly long and difficult day. A day of work, of course, but everything seemed to go wrong. The worst was when the broom slipped from my hands this morning as I swept the stairwell. The stupid thing tumbled down and knocked over an end table, breaking a planter and dumping a pitcher of water all over the floor. When Grogar saw it, he stormed over and broke my broom over his knee.

“You’re a walking disaster, Stitches,” he said, once he finished screaming his obscenities. He threw the brush half of the broken broom at me. “Now clean up this mess. And fetch more water. Refill all the pitchers while you’re at it.”

I did. And he made me finish sweeping with that broken piece of broom. Needless to say, my knees are very sore now.

It was exciting to meet the new general from Tarreth. I thought he looked young for a war general, but I’m sure the count and countess know what they’re doing. They’ll begin recruiting any day now...

What kind of changes will come about when the war finally unfolds? Krea told me that Lockmire was under siege for four months during the last war. Shipments couldn’t come in, and the entire city went into starvation. Could that happen again? Perhaps we should increase our own stocks of food in case of such an event.

Sometimes I wonder why I’m inside polishing planters and mending tapestries when war is brewing in the region. Shouldn’t I be doing something important to the cause? What if battle comes to our gates? Will I cower in the back with the other servants while someone holds a sword to Countess Ilvara’s throat?

I don’t like to think about the past, but that does not erase what Ilvara has done for me. I am alive because of her. Is my thanks to be nothing more than a made bed or a clean chamber pot?

Doing chores outside was not so bad. The sunshine was lovely. We’ve overcome the nasty winter snow, and by the end of Tabeo, the sun was shining every day. Spring really has come; the first buds were blooming in the garden. I so anticipate the rains of Imber. How lovely everything will be after a little moisture! While I was busy with the kitchen mats, I spotted a swallow above me, carrying dry grass to his new home. I was tempted to sing with it as I worked. But I do not wish to fill this entry with ramblings of my love for spring. The night is growing long, and my eyes are tired. Until the morrow.

Evelyn sets down her quill. She scans the entry as she waits for the ink to dry. When she shuts the journal, she shuts away the thoughts of the day. They have been recorded, so there is no longer a need to ponder them. She brings her journal with the candle to her bedside table, securing the journal in her drawer.

This room, though windowless, is enough. Her pay, though meagre, is enough. She’s fed and clothed. Protected, for the most part. But life has been very much the same for six years. Wake, do castle chores, write in journal, sleep. Break bread with the other servants. Avoid Grogar whenever possible.

One blow across the flame sends the room into darkness. Evelyn shifts onto her side under her coverlets, snuggling deep beneath them. Try as she might, she cannot take her mind off the coming war. But it is not fear she feels, not exactly. It’s a strange kind of readiness, as if to prepare for something big. She finds, in time, that she cannot fall asleep thinking about this. So, instead, she pictures the clear blue sky, the twittering of treetop birds, and the gentle breeze light with the smell of green things.

✽✽✽

Earlier that day…

Astride his horse, General Asher Xerxes approaches the gates of Lockmire, followed by a Tarreth carriage. He notifies the guards at the front gate of his business, feeling his face heat when they recognize him—no longer an ambitious six-year-old miscreant, but a general—and welcome him in with reverence. The wide gates groan as they open.

He trots into the small city, his armour gleaming in the spring sunlight. Lockmire is as charming as it was when he was a boy. Quaint, simple, and very unlike Tarreth. Everyone looks so small from the height of his stallion. Father said he should sit inside the carriage, get a feel for the luxury of his position. To be honest, Asher took his horse because the luxury of his position was more potent from this height. Added to that, the carriage is full of his possessions and supplies he’ll need for the coming months.

Before him lays the main street, dotted with houses and buildings on either side. He takes the guards’ directions to the castle, where he is to promptly speak with Count Hadrian, while the carriage bumbles along behind him. The meeting is a preliminary one—establishing goals, rules, and fundamentals. In a few days, they’ll discuss recruitment and battle plans.

The path leads over a small bridge that spans the width of a skinny brook. This town is cozy and unremarkable. While Tarreth’s streets are paved stone, lit with metal street lamps, lined with grand buildings, homes, and shops, Lockmire’s streets are cobbled, even just packed dirt in some spots. He must veer around a hole near the bakery. The houses are stone, wood, thatched. Simple. Torch baskets mark occasional spots, but it must not be very bright at night. For the main city of this region, it’s quainter than he imagined.

Still, the future seems bright, but that hope does not ease away the knot in his stomach. Hamish Bertrand gave him a long talk before he left about the responsibility of leading an army, then Father chimed in with a monologue of his own. From these conversations and Asher’s own extensive training, he has gathered that it is more than plans and meetings. It is blood, tears, and pain. It is putting the benefit of the whole above the individual. Even if that means Asher himself must suffer.

Mother cried when he left. With a kiss on his cheek, she told him to be careful and to return home once the war was over. Asher almost laughed at that. Of course he would return to Tarreth. As charming as Lockmire is, being General is the highest rank he can achieve. In Tarreth, he can be the Captain of the Guard. But this is an important stepping stone.

After rounding a bend and clopping up a few steps, he finds another pair of wide, guarded doors. These guards don’t question him. Asher, however, can’t help but notice their slight smiles of anticipation as he nods to them both. Inside, guards patrol the wall-walks above the courtyard, but Asher only has eyes for the door to the main hall.

Will Count Hadrian be hesitant when he finds out how young I am? Will he think me too inexperienced to lead this army? He dismounts and waits for the stable boy. The carriage halts near a back door, ready to unload his possessions. He runs a sweaty hand down the horse’s neck.

And then he sees her.

She is a thin, delicately curved thing with long, braided hair the colour of the summer sun, almost unnaturally golden. It is a colour he has rarely seen on hair before, even in Tarreth. Her path leads her from the well in the far-right corner of the courtyard to a door tucked into a nook in the castle wall.

Surely, she cannot be a maid. How could anyone so lovely be employed as a simple servant?

In Tarreth, a woman of her unique beauty might be a bard or even a concubine. He can’t help watching her graceful body as it is strained with the weight of a large bucket that she grips in one hand. Her alabaster cheek is smeared with dirt or coal. She disappears through a door, never having seen him.

Asher shakes his head, laughing to himself. The stable boy who arrives to take his steed stares in wonder at his shiny Tarreth armour all the while. But Asher’s head is still filled with that woman. Turning his mind back to the meeting, he enters the castle.

It is a simple place compared to Chancellor Meeves’ Gallery in Tarreth, but like the rest of the town, it’s cozy, a strange sensation for a great hall. The long room is decorated with shelves of silver dishes and desks of green and grey pottery. Thick woollen drapes—streaked with gold and silver thread that shimmers in the torchlight—hang along the walls. The vaulted ceiling is lit with iron chandeliers. The air is warm and fresh with spring scents, unlike the massive, chilly rooms in Chancellor Meeves’ Gallery.

Two simple, wooden thrones sit at the end of the hall, adorned with a crimson cloth strip down the back and seat. They’re empty. The count and countess must be absent. Asher slants his mouth as he walks hesitantly forward, unsure of whom he can ask for their whereabouts. He is halfway to the thrones when the woman appears again.

She enters through a doorway to his left, briefly glances at him, and sets down her water bucket. Upon approaching her, Asher realizes with a chill why she is not a bard or concubine. Every inch of visible skin is etched with scars—cuts, irregular shaped marks, some that look like burn wounds. Places on her arms and legs where tiny, light hairs will never grow. Patches of long-healed gashes peeking out of the neckline of her dress. The streak of what he thought was dirt on her cheek is actually a darkening bruise.

She has been not only beaten, but tortured.

As she kneels to polish a planter, Asher clears his throat to get her attention. She looks up at him, and in her sapphire eyes that he can only describe as completely enchanting, Asher falls, and falls deep.

“Can I help you?” she asks in a soft, even voice.

He wants to ask about her scars. He wants to ask where she got them and who he must prosecute to avenge them. He wants to demand the name of every person who has been cruel to her. How could anyone damage such a beautiful face?

But he doesn’t. Instead, he asks, “Where may I find the count or countess?”

She tells him as if reciting a verse by heart. “They are at the chapel and will return in an hour.”

He bobs his head. “Thank you.”

And all at once, he is standing awkwardly in the courtyard, wondering if he should find the count and countess, or return to the main hall to wait for them.

Next to the girl with the golden hair.