Forged in Frost

Girl with Golden Hair

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 a small 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?

Beating the rugs 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.