Heart of Flame: The Revealed World

By K. Olsen

Everyone knows that rebellion ends in fire. Dissatisfied with her life, Sorne Thayer finds an escape in the training offered by an orc locked away in the depths of Mauléon's dungeons. When she is seized for an act of silence, Duke Aldana's brutal punishment sparks a flame that cannot be contained. With a darkness growing in the west and answers to be found in the north, Sorne must leave everything she has ever known behind. Finding a new home with the orcish hordes, war-loving giants, and the companionship of a dragon is hardly easy, but as the drums of Ash Kordh beat for battle, Sorne hears of smoke on the wind. The end of the world is coming and she has to be ready.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K. Olsen
• Release date: Jan 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201415877

Book preview

1 – The Beast

Fire scarred the walls of Mauléon, the marks of a rebellion snuffed as easily as a candle’s flame. Sorne’s first memory was seeing them extinguished, their bodies drawn and quartered before being given over to the blaze. Even as a little girl, they pushed her close enough to smell the blood, bile, and smoke. This is what happens to those with ideas above their caste. Duke Aldana and his hounds were firm in the message.

It stung like salt in a wounded pride as she scrubbed the keep’s floors in the small hours of the morning after hearing the dreams of the rebels whispered in hidden corners. A servant had to be awake well before dawn to keep everything running smoothly. The higher castes preferred not to even see their retainers where avoidable and certainly didn’t like them bustling about the place, making noise or offending with their presence.

Sorne scrubbed the brush over the next flagstone on the kitchen floor, sweeping blonde hair back out of her face. Her reflection looked back at her as she bent over the bucket to wet the scrub-brush again, gray eyes already faintly irritated. She had fairer skin than the other servants here in Genev, courtesy of the Talinese mother she had never known.

It was almost enough to make her look like she belonged in a higher caste, but her hands, rough from work, readily revealed her true nature. She was more handsome than pretty, with a firm jaw and a nose slightly crooked at the bridge from a hard beating. She was certainly not some castle beauty sheltered from sun and hard labor.

There was only the barest hint of false dawn visible out the windows and already her knees ached from being pressed into bare stone. Her arms and shoulders were strong enough from this kind of work that she didn’t feel it yet, but by the end of the day, she would be so tired she couldn’t think. Her life was constant motion, a ceaseless parade of dirty and meaningless work. Luken pontificated endlessly on the value of a servant, how appreciated the work was, and what pride they could take at doing their various chores well.

It was utter nonsense to Sorne’s mind, coming from a pompous, cruel twit. The nobles only cared when something went wrong. Even then, they punished almost arbitrarily. Whoever was closest felt the lash or was turned out, whether or not they had any responsibility for the offense. Servants were...lesser. They shined the silver, cooked the food, and carried out the countless tasks necessary to keep life at the top comfortable.

None of that, however, meant that they would ever benefit themselves. A servant could eat leftovers, make their own clothes, sleep beneath the stairs, and exist in the cracks—all for the privilege of being treated as parasites by the upper castes. It was a better life than out in the villages, farming in the dirt beneath the scorching sun and the constant fear of attack by orcish raiders or Talinese cutthroats, but not by much.

She looked up when she heard the patter of panicked feet. It was Danel, one of the younger pages. He was about eight years old, just more than half her age. There’s an orc! Danel skidded to a halt, almost slipping and landing on his behind on the sudsy floor.

Sorne raised an eyebrow. An orc?

His Grace and his men caught it when they beat back the raid on Ziriano. It’s in the dungeons. He went a little pale and gulped. They want me to feed it.

Sorne frowned. Feed it? Why aren’t they killing it? She didn’t wish the beast ill, but it was a surprise that Aldana had anything else in mind for it. Then again, the Duke seemed to take a certain amount of pleasure in breaking animals to his will. His riding horses were once wild rather than raised from foals, though he brought his warhorses up properly. Perhaps he wanted a tamed orc to impress the southern nobles with. It was something not even the King could claim to have.

I don’t know. Danel’s brow still furrowed with worry. Do you think it’ll try to eat me?

The servant girl smiled a little despite herself. As tempting as it was to mess with him, she knew full well that antagonizing or terrifying a member of a higher caste could get her a vicious punishment. A little fun wasn’t worth it. If she was going to get a serious beating, it would be over something she wanted to bite and claw for. You wouldn’t even be a mouthful, Danel. Be brave.

Feed it for me, Sorne. He tried to sound commanding, but it didn’t work with his wide eyes and trembling lip. When he saw he was unlikely to gain traction that way, he changed his tone. Please?

Sorne sighed. It was an extra duty, but it would break the monotony. Alright.

He brightened up. Thank you! Every day, every meal. His Grace said it can have a hound’s share.

I’d best get to feeding it. Sorne saw the muddy tracks that Danel had left on her clean floor as he scampered off and almost groaned. Luken was going to have her hide if she left the floor as it was. She knelt down again and scrubbed the floor until there was no trace of the young page. It took a few minutes, but the orc could wait that long.

A hound’s share was just the leavings of the night before, a cold shoulder of meat that the animals could gnaw on. Sorne took some and put it on one of the rough wooden plates used by the servants. The servant wasn’t certain how orcs ate—or anything about them, as she’d never seen one—but if she had to wager a guess, they didn’t use the good porcelain. She passed by the fresh fruit as she went and picked up an apple. The girl also palmed a knife. Sorne had no combat training to speak of, but she had a survivor’s instincts. That meant being prepared. Orcs were dangerous. Whether or not they ate people, they would kill a human if given the opportunity.

She made her way down to the dungeons. There were guards on the outer door, but they mostly left inside to its own. No one had ever broken out of the deep cells with their massive iron bars. They also chained most prisoners to a collar that was linked to a spike built into the wall, preventing them from moving out of the cell. She had seen the thick bands of scar tissue or sores around the necks of criminals as guards led them to the various trials of justice.

The dungeons were dark and dismal, musty straw scattered on the filthy stone floors. A definite relief struck her at the knowledge cleaning it wasn’t her task. Then again, judging by the smell, it was no one’s task. At the moment, the cells except for the orc’s were empty. They had sent the last thief on his way, lesser by one hand, and crime was not rampant in Mauléon. It was more of a large town than a small city, though Aldana also held a good number of outlying villages and towns. He was an important lord, one of the few responsible for securing Genev’s northern border.

Sorne gave her eyes a minute to adjust to the low light before advancing towards the last cell. It was larger than the others, but not by much, maybe twelve feet deep and ten feet wide. There was no furniture, but the straw on the floor was thicker in one corner, heaped in a mattress-like mound. There was no window, just blank stone. A cage, a hole, a prison in every sense of the word. A future locked in this place would be one unimaginably bleak.

Whatever Sorne had pictured when she’d been told of orcs, whatever monsters they were in the stories, what she saw was more imposing. The creature stood as she approached, rising to well over two feet taller than her. She couldn’t make out much of its features in the dark, just a blocky face with a heavy brow and a jutting jaw, a tusk at each corner of its mouth. Eyes reflected the faint light like a cat’s as it prowled forward. She could see red whorls and dots painted across a body that was almost more scarred than flesh. It looked more like a man than she had been expecting, but there was something feral in the way it moved.

I have your food, Sorne said as she approached.

It didn’t speak, but then again, she wasn’t sure if they could. It smelled different from the rest of the dungeon, like wood-smoke and earth. There was the tang of blood in the air from the ugly gash that she could see across its face. The orc watched her as she approached, its body tense.

She needed to move into its reach to hand over the plate, which meant it could kill her. She kept the knife in her other hand, pressed against the back of her thigh so it wasn’t visible. Hopefully that would save her if it came to that, but she didn’t want to hurt the beast. The creature had done her no wound or offense. Sorne squared her shoulders and then reached through the bars, holding out its plate.

The orc inhaled in a hiss, sniffing the air. One large, human-like hand took the plate. The stories always said they had claws, but she noted that this wasn’t the case. Its eyes never left her, studying her posture. She felt transparent under its gaze, as if it knew that the knife was there. It was an uncomfortable feeling, enough that she frowned at the creature.

You are warrior? Its voice was rough, a heavy accent on its syllables. Ever watchful, its eyes never left her.

Sorne shook her head, waiting for it to pounce on that admission of weakness. No. I’m not.

The creature cocked its head, processing that information. If she had to guess at its thoughts, surprise seemed the most obvious read.

Did you think so? She couldn’t help the hint of amusement in her tone. She stepped back out of its reach and relaxed. Her native curiosity was rearing its head. All the others ever talked about was castle gossip and town rumors, which left little room for knowledge of anywhere beyond Mauléon. What she heard was so wildly exaggerated that she doubted even a quarter of it was true. This was a glimpse of more.

It gestured towards the hand she had behind herself. Knife.

So it knew. This? I thought that if I was going to die, I would make it harder for you.

The creature chuckled deep in its broad, powerful chest. That is warrior talk.

Genevais are far too civilized for women warriors. It would have been a lie to say she’d never thought about it. She watched the men-at-arms and knights drill, always preparing for war. They had such a purpose when they moved. She envied them that and envied them the chance to leave Mauléon for adventure even more. Besides, I’m not even near the warrior caste.

The orc grunted. Their loss. It eyed her again, though she couldn’t read its expression in the dim light to gauge its thoughts. I am Nagar Iron-Heart.

Sorne leaned against a barrel of stale water, the cleanest thing in the area. It felt good to stand after spending an hour or two kneeling on hard stone and scrubbing. My name is Sorne.

Sorne? The orc seemed to test the shape of the word, giving it accented emphasis. It chuckled again. Good sound. It seemed to grow more serious. When do they sharpen ax?

She assumed it meant the executioner’s ax. There wasn’t much harm in telling it what little she knew, she supposed. I don’t know. No one’s said anything about an execution.

A death in a hole. The orc snorted. Typical humans.

The servant girl would have glared, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Besides, she supposed the orc wasn’t wrong. Orcish women fight? The nobles always say war is no place for a woman.

The orc let out a full laugh, a deep bark of amusement. Men flee from orc njoshari. Sorne stands. It stepped forward, into the light, looking at her with its feral eyes. There was an unmistakable gleam of intelligence along with ferocity. The shamans say: strike a woman, you strike a rock.

Sorne smiled. She liked the sound of that, orcish or not. I have to get back before I’m missed. I’ll be back later with more food.

The orc lifted its plate in a gesture of gratitude. Thank you, Sorne.

She held out the apple, just within the creature’s reach. The orc took it without attempting to do her harm. She could feel it watching her as she left. Whatever was happening in the keep with Aldana and the other higher castes, life had just become a bit more interesting. She looked forward to lunch for the first time in a long time. While Sorne didn’t trust the orc, maybe it—no, he—could carry on a better conversation than that of the other girls.

2 – The Lady’s Mistake

Y ou ought to be married by now, Sorne. It’s lovely, it is, Irune said. She was one of those people so pleasant that she seemed to bubble with good intentions and generosity at all times.

Sorne was doing her best to be diplomatic and maintain a polite silence as she sliced up a carrot. She was no cook, but she was trying to give the dungeon’s newest resident something other than cold meat. He must have enjoyed the apple, because she hadn’t seen a trace of it when she went down with his lunch. Nagar had been with them a week now. His grasp of Genev’s tongue wasn’t excellent, but he was nothing but polite to Sorne. He talked little, but he seemed to appreciate having something to do other than pace and stare at a wall.

Irune flicked her arm. Are you even listening?

Yes. Sorne fought down the urge to roll her eyes or snap. What could she say to Irune? That she didn’t want to be married? The woman would be aghast and then every person from the keep to the capital would know her highest aspiration was to be some kind of miserable spinster. Besides, she was watching the pikemen drill outside the window as much as she could while keeping her fingers intact. Irune, it’s not up to me. It’s up to Luken.

There were few things in the world that Sorne hated more than the fact that the steward would decide her future. If she had her way, the man would burn in a very special hell. Part of it was her own fault: Luken didn’t appreciate lip from the lower servants, particularly not some fifteen-year-old girl. He seemed to enjoy the punishments he meted out altogether too much for her to forgive him. Most of it was petty cruelty, but it was still cruelty. If Sorne was anything, she was hot-tempered. Her position, however, made survival contingent upon her ability to keep it in. It left her seething more often than not.

Ooh, maybe Josu. He likes you. You know, the stable hand?

Sorne could feel her jaw tightening. Irune, I know who Josu is. Like I said, it’s not up to me.

Irune seemed to take an impish pleasure in that response. So you do like him.

I certainly like silence when I’m allowed it, Sorne said with a waspish sting. She huffed and dropped the carrot pieces onto the plate. There was some bread, half an apple, some cold shoulder, and now a carrot. Don’t you have something better to do than nettle at me?

Irune seemed impervious to the snipe. What are you doing, anyway?

Lunch. It was better not to say whose lunch it was, lest the secret slip out. Sorne was about to shoo Irune away when she heard the other girl’s name being called by Hilargi, the Lady’s maid.

Irune scampered off that way, leaving Sorne alone. She slipped out of the bustling kitchen and headed for the dungeon, tucking the small knife into her apron pocket as she went. It was habit now, though now and again she questioned whether she needed it. Nagar had been polite every time she’d come down, probably because she was his sole source of food and company that wasn’t the houndmaster trying to ‘tame’ him.

The orc was waiting at the bars when she made it down there. He seemed to have a good sense for when she was coming, as his hearing and sense of smell were keener than a man’s. Sorne, he rumbled in greeting.

She put a hand on the knife as she passed into his reach, but she didn’t hesitate. She watched him even as he took the plate, however. I’d ask you how life is, but I can’t imagine the answer would be good.

The orc chuckled. Been better. What is weather?

Sorne stepped back. Clear, though there’s a westerly breeze. We’ll have a storm roll in from the coast in the next few days.

Nagar nodded. Blue sky?

Very. Sorne felt a twinge in the center of her chest. It wasn’t pity, but it was something close to sorrow. She couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be caged the way Nagar was. Just being in the keep was stifling, and she had the freedom to roam. I’m sorry you can’t see it from down here.

He shrugged. I see in my mind’s eye. He leaned against the bars, stretching out his back and testing the limit of his collar. Why do you serve?

It’s my caste. The words were bitter in her mouth. She hated it, every second. She would serve, and then she would marry and serve more. If she were ‘fortunate’, she would have children and then they would serve until long after she was dead and buried—until they were dead and buried.

But you could fight. Nagar’s eyes took on a gleam. If you want, you could fight. That is best in life: struggle, test, grow stronger. If you want, you bleed, you sweat, you break.

Her lips curved into a sarcastic smile. I’m certain His Grace would love to teach a serving girl how to swing a sword.

The orc chuckled. Aldana does not need to know. I will teach...if you will learn.

Sorne’s mouth went dry. Now fear tingled at her fingertips, and not of the orc. It wasn’t Aldana’s wrath that made her nervous, either. Who would she be if not her caste? I will be myself, she told herself, a faint smile growing. And where would we start?

At beginning, the orc said. Movement.

I’ve seen the men-at-arms drilling, Sorne said.

Nagar made a noise of derision. They move in lines. True power moves in angles, in curves, in spirals. They trudge in their armor. We race like flame. A warrior is a dancer. Here, watch as I do. Then you do. He scraped lines on the floor, forming a cross and then an X over the top, like a compass on one of the Duke’s maps. This is Kanak-Ral, warrior’s star. Move slow, move smooth. Like this.

Sorne watched as Nagar followed the lines in angles, then moved from one to the other in curves. His steps were careful and slow, but precise. It looked very much like a dance. He kept his hands in constant motion as he stepped, in a way that made it look like he was wielding an invisible staff. What are you doing?

He chuckled. Spear is my weapon, so I move the star with one. You may not like spear, so we will start with knife. He pointed at the floor in front of her. Make Kanak-Ral, then you try.

She marked the lines in the dirt on the floor. She followed his instructions as closely as she could, but it was hard not to feel self-conscious as she did. Each step was cautious and measured, almost uncomfortable. It wasn’t foreign, not really, as she had danced before in her life. However, this required a great deal of deliberation because she didn’t want to do it wrong and have Nagar abandon his promise to teach her.

Nagar seemed to notice. Relax, he said patiently. There is only me and the dark. Remember: you are woman, you are rock.

I’m a serving girl, she muttered as she tried to follow the step.

He made a sharp sound of disapproval. You are what you do. Then you are serving girl. Now you are warrior.

Sorne took a deep breath and nodded, relaxing a bit. For a while, at least, she could escape her caste. She moved on the star until she felt like she had it, then a few more times until Nagar seemed pleased. It was hard to read his expression, but his nod was approving. I think I understand.

He chuckled. I do not, and I am warrior. Do it every day, as long as you can. Then longer. Always be in flow. Flowing is power, flowing is life. Dead things stand still.

That much Sorne understood. She spent most of her day moving. Maybe she could incorporate some movements Nagar was teaching her once she had a better grasp on them. I will do my best.

Yes, and then you do better. The orc picked up his plate. He popped a piece of carrot into his mouth and chewed it up with some crunching. Good.

Glad to hear it, Sorne said with a quick smile before hurrying upstairs. She passed through the garden without incident, skirting along the edge of the duck pond. The ducks followed her, hoping for food, but they scattered when she almost collided with Irune. The other girl was white-faced and looked panicked. What’s wrong?

Hilargi—Her Ladyship—you have to come! Irune grabbed Sorne by the arm and pulled her bodily towards the kitchen. Sorne broke into a run with her fellow servant. She didn’t hate Irune, even if they didn’t get along well. If Sorne’s fellow servant was this upset, something was seriously wrong.

Hilargi met them at the door to the kitchens, her ruddy face stern. The Lady’s maid was a stately woman in her own right, matronly and a decade past the half-century mark. She had looked after Lady Aldana since the woman was a girl. Instead of pulling them into the kitchens, which sounded like they were in an uproar, Hilargi stepped out into the gardens. Sorne knew it was serious when Hilargi didn’t bother to ask where she’d been. You need to go to the witch, the older servant said, pushing a basket of bread into her arms. Her Ladyship is sick.

Sick with what? When Hilargi’s eyes narrowed, Sorne said, If I don’t know what she has, how can I—

Irune, go inside, Hilargi ordered. Make sure nobody comes to that door.

The young woman looked too frightened to argue. She ducked inside and closed the door behind herself, shutting them into the privacy of the gardens.

Hilargi stepped in close and lowered her voice. She took a poison. Not enough to kill, but enough to sicken fierce.

Why? Sorne asked. What kind of poison?

The Lady’s maid let out a hiss. The kind that stops a child from growing. Don’t you ever tell anyone a word about it, my girl. Now go to that creature, or I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.

Sorne knew she’d gone pale too, but she nodded. If Aldana ever found out, his wife would wish desperately that the poison had taken her life as well. That could have been a potential son. Aldana had a daughter already, promised to some noble in the south, but he was still waiting on a boy. He’d gotten rid of a wife for failing to do that already. No doubt Hilargi was—rightly—terrified of him doing worse to her mistress. She gripped the basket tightly and took off running towards the far eastern edge of town.

It was a warm afternoon, so she had to dodge through traffic on the narrow cobblestone roads. Mauléon was a town of half-timbered buildings with grey stone foundations and thatched roofs, surrounded by a great stone wall. Climbing ivy followed the lines of some buildings, though servants had pruned it away from the keep itself and the town wall. The wind picked up, bringing with it a chill that seemed almost unseasonable for mid-spring, tossing about the boughs of the elms that grew up throughout the town as splashes of green amidst the grey stone. They were a relief from the heat of the sun on long summer days, casting pools of dappled shade on the streets below. Everything was in bloom now, the honeysuckle and roses fragrant in the wind. Sorne darted behind a carriage and slipped out of the old east gate, following the rutted country lane out towards the Wood.

The Wood itself wasn’t large. A day’s walk could cross it on a good path, but the problem was that there were no good paths. The paths lay tangled and wild, as if given spiteful intelligence by the elves that had once called the Wood home. Long ago, the men of Genev had driven the fey off with iron and fire, but their magic still lingered in the place, people said. A wrong turn could spell death, or perhaps some curse worse than that. Maybe that was why the witch had found a home there.

No one was certain who Amets was or even what Amets was. Legend had it the witch could change shape and gender, but was always at least human in appearance. Stories of Amets went back centuries, or at least that was what people said. Sorne was one of the few who would approach the old, weathered hut among the dark pines without fear, though she never came without a reason. She was alone on the path, but it wasn’t night and so she moved forward with little caution. The birds were still singing, a good omen. Thorns cut and pulled at her, slowing her progress, but she wove her way through the familiar brambles along a path that was little more than a game trail. Far more animals used it than people.

Amets’s home was on a hill, its thatched roof lost in the branches of the pine forest. It was a large wattle and daub hut with a stone chimney. The overgrown path wound around the base of the hill, so there was no way that Amets wouldn’t know she was coming. She was not moving gracefully or quietly at the moment, flailing through some stinging nettles as she stumbled over a rock and cursed. She kept hold of her basket, at least. Sorne ignored the discomfort and kept running, her breath coming in sharp pants as she reached the door. She went to knock, and it opened on its own, so she spilled in through the doorway. Amets! I need help!

The inside of the hut was dark, but it smelled like flowers and roots. There were drying plants everywhere in the little hut, and she almost banged her head on the horseshoe nailed inside the threshold, even though it had been there as long as she could remember. Perhaps she was more rattled than she would have liked to admit.

Ah, it is Sorne from the keep. Amets’s voice was smooth like silk, right in the range where it could be a high man’s voice or a low woman’s voice. Its androgynous quality matched that of Amets’s body. A hunched, withered thing moved up out of the rocking chair by the sole window, draped in cloth and dry grass.

Sorne wondered sometimes if it was all an act, or if she was contending with a spirit of the Wood itself. Yes. I have food for you.

So she wishes to trade. The figure hobbled closer and extended a gnarled hand disguised by cloth bandages. More wrapping hid the face, revealing only dark eyes and dry lips. Amets always smelled of death, of nightshade flowers and aconite, of disease. Either a god or a demon had cursed with corruption the witch, so the story went. Some said it was that curse which made Amets immortal. Tell Amets what troubles her, child.

Lady Aldana is sick, poisoned. Hilargi didn’t say it, but she’s worried that the woman will die, Sorne said, holding out the basket of food. She wasn’t certain what Amets ate when a villager didn’t come by, but she was certain that it was something that crawled or scuttled. Maybe spiders. She didn’t want a child. But I imagine you knew that already.

Hah! She thinks the herbs came from Amets? Amets is no fool. His Grace is a cruel foe. No, Sorne from the keep must turn her gaze to the traveling herbalist who passed through here not a fortnight ago. Amets took the basket and sniffed the bread before cooing in delight. Fresh! Yes, Amets can help Her Ladyship. The witch set the basket down on the table and started bustling about with the herbs.

Why would she do it? Sorne asked.

A sly glance from those dark eyes was her answer. Perhaps a young man, a handsome man, smiled at Her Ladyship. A kind man with a soft heart and gentle hands, not like His Grace. Perhaps she tumbled through the Wood with him a time or two.

That did not sound good. Sorne narrowed her eyes. You heard something. If some fool’s been swanning about town saying things like that...

The witch shrugged. Perhaps this young man came to Amets for advice. Amets offers oracles. Who can say? Amets finished forming a bundle. Steep this as tea until it looks like honey. Three spoonfuls, no more, no less. Careful, what cures may also kill, as in all things. A few days, all will be well. It is old, old medicine. Amets stopped and studied Sorne. Shall Amets tell Sorne’s future too?

More of the same, I expect.

The charms around Amets’s neck rattled when the witch chuckled. Fool, to think that anything in the world is constant. Amets sees change in all things. Even in Sorne’s future. Slow change, sudden change, violent change. Perhaps Sorne will not be of the keep forever. The witch’s eyes took on a far-away look. There is a peace for the ages coming, and then there will be an enemy so great they can make the stars plunge from the sky, a war to end a world.

Sorne felt a sudden chill, as if the temperature in the room had dropped. Amets, what are you talking about?

Amets reached out, handing Sorne the bundle of herbs. Sorne will see one day, if she is fortunate...or perhaps, if she is unfortunate. Go now. Her Ladyship is in peril.

The serving girl felt the chill linger in her body even after she exited the hut. It was as though someone had walked over her grave. She didn’t know what to think. If Amets could give an oracle, that did not sound like a pleasant one. Sorne had caught her breath during the conversation, so she ran back towards the town, ignoring the stitch in her side and the stinging at her shins as best she could. Pain was not a stranger to her, which made it easier. It didn’t take long for the chill to fade amidst the exercise.

Her thoughts wandered a little as she went. If she was going to be a warrior, she needed to grow stronger and faster. That would mean work. She had seen the exercises the men-at-arms did: push-ups, pull-ups, and more. They liked to flex their muscles in front of the prettier women in town. Sorne had seen enough that she could start that, not that carrying buckets, scrubbing, or running errands like this didn’t build muscle or speed. If she was going to be a warrior, she was going to be a good one. Bad ones didn’t make it long.

People watched her as she darted back through town towards the keep, their eyes curious. Mauléon was small enough that every resident considered everyone else’s business to be their business too. In this duty, she couldn’t afford to be delayed and so she paid it no mind. A part of her wondered what had been passing through Lady Aldana’s head.

The woman wasn’t wicked. She was simple, pretty, and weak: the perfect Genevais noblewoman. Her husband had browbeaten her into timidity, if she hadn’t been born that way. For her to dare to find some other company was an act of brashness that Sorne would have thought beyond her. A stupid move of colossal proportion, of course. If Amets was telling the truth, there was a definite reason for her to want to get rid of any child, particularly if it didn’t look like her husband. Self-preservation was a powerful force.

Hilargi was waiting at the gate, relief flitting across her features when she saw the bundle. Did Amets help?

Sorne nodded, holding out the bundle. Three spoonfuls, steeped like tea until it’s the color of honey. No more, no less. She panted for breath. She needed to run more, because she felt horribly out of shape. The oracle that Amets had given would mean nothing to Hilargi, so Sorne didn’t bring it up. She also decided not to mention the unnamed man. Let the Lady’s maid think what she willed.

Did the witch say anything else? Hilargi’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.

What cures may also kill, so be careful. It will take a few days to work too. The stinging on her shins was driving her mad. May I be excused, ma’am? I hit a patch of nettles. It never hurt to be polite with Hilargi, doubly so when she was a nervous wreck.

Hilargi nodded, pacified. Remember, not a word. She scurried off with the bundle, leaving Sorne alone.

Sorne headed for the servants’ quarters. There was no privacy down there when it was nighttime, the lot of them packed in so close that each bed only had a foot or so of space on either side. Everyone else was hard at work and soon she would have to rejoin them.

In the meantime, she used a basin to wash off her shins, easing most of the sting. It was now tolerable, which meant she could work without distraction. At least her various chores never required a lot of thought. It was more that inattention could get her hit with a hot pan or a knife if she was in the kitchen, where she spent most