Discovery

CHAPTER ONE

Hannah paused from her morning duties and allowed her mind to drift. The kitchen gossipers intensified their whispered stories; the rumors of the Old Mage, and how he had once rested for a few days during his travels through Casselberry. Almost a year later she was born to an unwed mother. Those who remembered the Old Mage’s last visit said she looked like him.

Of course, they said a lot of things. . . and that’s why they were gossips. Still, over the years Hannah had developed a mental shell hard enough to disregard the spurns, the nasty looks, the harsh whispers behind her back, and the assignment of the least desirable duties about the palace. Until her mother’s death over five years ago, her mother had managed to shield Hannah from the worst of them. Now the rumors intensified daily, especially in the last few days.

“Daydreaming, Hannah?”

The friendly question pulled her back from the idle thoughts. The owner of the voice leaned closer and winked in good humor, although the scars of the burned face still frightened Hannah, no matter how kindly the washerwoman treated her. Hannah sighed, “I’m just a little sleepy today.”

“No wonder. I’ve always said the Overseer should put someone older in your job, dear. Little girls your age need their sleep; not being woken before dawn to light the stoves. What are you, twelve?”

“Eleven.”

“Even worse. It’s a shame the way they treat you.”

Hannah smiled her thanks and loaded another piece of firewood into the nearest oven. The washerwoman usually had a friendly word when she delivered clean aprons and towels. Hannah remembered five years ago when she’d first taken over the fire duties in the breakfast kitchen. The job was simple: have the three brick ovens warmed and ready for cooking before the first cooks and bakers arrived near dawn.

The older boys felled hardwood trees in the Dark Forest, transported the hefty logs, and split them into firewood, then stacked it against the south wall of the kitchen in neat cords. The cedar, the best wood for kindling, came from higher up on the mountain slopes, where the boys harvested tall trees and piled that wood near the rear door of the kitchen.

“Stoke this one again, too,” a nasty-tempered woman with a sharp tongue snarled, pointing to the fire in her stove. “Getting too cold to use.” The thin woman stood aside waiting, hands on hips. She fried hard-bread for the servants in three separate shallow pans. They were small, flat, cakes with hard shells that servants ate while performing their morning duties, and they were standard morning meal for servants. People dunked them in milk, cream, or anything liquid to soften the bread enough to chew. Cooking hard-bread required a hotter fire than the other stoves. Hanna grabbed two pieces of firewood and stirred the coals until both pieces would fit through the black iron door. The fire instantly flamed higher, and she backed off from the heat.

“’Bout time you did that, worthless little beggar,” the woman growled, pushing Hannah aside with her hip. “You know I need a hot fire.”

Hannah smiled at her sweetly, and in a voice sure to carry throughout the kitchen to the other cooks said, “Maybe someday you can teach me to burn dough on a stove and call it hard-bread. It shouldn’t take long. Any fool can do it.”

“Watch yer mouth, girl.”

Hannah giggled as she moved out of reach. She ducked out the rear kitchen door where the small ax waited on the chopping block. Cedar rounds waited for splitting. Under her ax, each chunk of cedar turned into twenty or thirty smaller sticks of kindling. She followed the same routine each day, month after month. In the morning, the kindling went into the cold ovens on top of twigs she used to start the fires. A few scrapes of her fire starter usually produced enough sparks to light it. After the tinder had caught, she loaded cedar, and then the hardwood on top, and stood back while the ovens warmed the entire kitchen until the lazy morning cooks showed up.

Her thoughts returned to her past, as they had more and more, lately. The daily drudgery usually sedated her thinking enough she only needed to determine which of the three stoves needed more wood and when; a mindless task. But if she stood and idly watched the fires, someone always gave her another task. During slack times she’d learned to leave the kitchen and pretend to split kindling or other work. Quick peeks into the kitchen told her how the fires burned, and the cooks were quick enough to let her know if any burned low.

The whispers and rumors she usually ignored had caught her attention this morning. She spent more time inside, listening without showing interest. Today’s rumors said the Old Mage was arriving for a visit.

“A dozen years since his last time passing through here,” one gnarled old Cook confirmed the rumor.

Another glanced at Hannah making sure she heard, then replied, louder than necessary so all would hear, “Easy to know how long since he’d been here. Just look at how tall Hannah is and you know.”

The nasty one who made hard-bread glanced at Hannah and flashed an almost toothless smile, and said, “I wonder what he’ll leave behind for us this time? A sister or brother for Hannah?”

The poorly concealed whispers were always loud enough for Hannah’s ears, but not the Overseer who wandered about his rounds often. Today a nervous edge came with the remarks of the news that made the cooks irritable. But no matter, she wanted to hear it all. Within the harsh words were kernels of truth. Since her mother’s death, there was nobody else to ask and get the truth. But if it were true, what they said about the Old Mage and her mother, Hannah decided that the Old Mage might arrive at the palace and sweep her away in his carriage to a life of luxury and wealth. That daydream had been constant for over a year.

She also daydreamed that she was the lost daughter of a foreign prince, the offspring of a wealthy silk merchant, or the youngest daughter of a breeder of majestic dancing horses. She heard of people riding on the backs of dragons and defeating armies of trolls with flashing swords, too. But the rumors and tales of the Old Mage and her mother persisted, and now he was coming to the castle. She would manage to get a good look at him and decide for herself if they looked alike, one way or another. Of course, he was older. At least the rumors said he was old, and she would have to adjust her opinion of his looks by his age as she tried to imagine him at her age.

For the last five years, only a younger Mage-in-training had visited the Earl’s Palace and met with him for the magical needs of the castle and surrounding farms. The Young Mage handled the routine feats of magic needed to keep the vermin from the grain storage, the illnesses from the drinking water, and insects from the crops. He provided rain in summer for the crops, but not too much. Younger mages sometimes called down a deluge and could not stop the water. She’d seen him arrogantly strolling about the grounds in his black silk robe several times, a thin boy of perhaps twenty-five years, but still a boy from all appearances, youthful, pale, and weak looking. Even his beard struggled to grow.

“Wot can be so fascinating on that little ax yer looking at?” The orphan boy known as ‘Cleanup’ asked her, standing a few steps away. He leaned on his flat-bladed shovel handle. Cleanup was near her age, worked in the horse stalls, but any horse apples or spills into the streets of the palace were his concern. That job gave him the freedom to roam the entire palace yards, roads, and squares at will. As long as he carried his ‘cleanup’ bucket and shovel nobody questioned or detained him.

“Just thinking.”

“’Bout what?” he asked, chewing on a piece of yellow straw.

She lowered her voice, “Have you heard the Old Mage is coming?”

“Your father?” he responded, not mincing words and obviously surprised at the question. “Nope hadn’t heard, but it’s about time a full Mage came around if you ask me.”

A cook popped her head out the door, and her eyes found Hannah. “More wood.”

“Right away,” Hannah said without turning her head to see which Cook it had been. “They say he’s coming today, but who knows?”

“Did you ever have another father?” Cleanup asked.

“I said, more wood.” The cook repeated her demand louder and spun on her heel. She entered the kitchen without waiting to see if Hannah followed.

Hannah shook her head, “Never had one that lived with us, so it has to be him.”

“Just because you were born in the spring after the Mage left the summer before don’t mean nothing. There're two hundred more men that live here in this castle, and any one of them can be your father from what I hear.”

She stiffened. “My mother was a Lady, a friend of the Earl’s wife, the Countess.”

“So you always remind us, but even ladies get lonely. Your mother died more than five years ago, but that was a long time ago. Maybe it’s time you thought of other things, huh?”

Hannah grabbed three chunks of firewood and headed inside. Cleanup was right. Her mother had promised to tell her who her father was on the day she turned twelve years old. Then she died well before. Without a mother or father, or even a Royal sponsor, Hannah found herself appointed a kitchen fire-tender at age seven. No one was going to tell her the real story about her past, so she relied on the rumors.

She wanted to know the truth. Was that too much to ask? The only one who could tell her the whole truth was her father. If he was a mage, so be it. If she managed to meet with him and identify herself, he might be persuaded to speak to her.

Her mother had been a lady, from a minor Royal family and the last of her line. She spent nearly every day instructing Hannah also to be a lady, and telling her tales of far off lands in other kingdoms, and of how to serve Royalty of higher status. She taught her letters and the basics of reading, but Hannah remembered very little of it.

Instead of playing with the other children of the castle, she had spent her days listening to her mother teach her until she became ill. Death swiftly followed, and without parents, Hannah found herself unwanted by Royalty and despised by jealous servants.

The idea of identifying herself to the Old Mage in itself was almost a joke and a childhood fantasy at best. Fire-tenders for morning kitchens do not speak to Royalty, and certainly, do not talk to important mages, let alone to elder mages so important they dealt directly with kings and earls. She knew it for what it was, yet couldn’t get the idea out of her stubborn head. Everyone said she was single-minded.

Hannah stoked the fires and when satisfied with the results, peeked outside to the rear courtyard, but Cleanup had already left to gather more horse apples. She split more kindling to have something to do and placed it beside each stove for the morning. The kindling piles were larger than normal, but she worked hard to quell a nervous energy that had overtaken her. A food server playfully slapped the back of her head as she waltzed by, and then pretended she didn’t know what happened, to the amusement of the rest of the staff. Hannah took note of her, and the thin slippers she wore. The next load of firewood she dropped from her struggling arms would land on those pretty slippers.

Falcon, the overseer for all of the kitchens, stormed into the breakfast kitchen and made his daily inspection as he passed by each stove, sometimes sampling the food. He stopped at the doorway and turned, holding up his arms to draw the attention of everyone. “All right, if they haven’t eaten by now, they’ll make do with mid-day dinner and go hungry until then. Get this place cleaned up and don’t take all day to do it. We require your help at the supper kitchens today. All of you.”

“That means you too, Missy Hannah,” a thin woman who usually burned the meat for any meal, hissed from the side of her mouth as if she was in charge. The woman had a habit of disappearing between working the morning kitchen and the supper preparation, and thought herself better than other cooks.

Never trust a skinny cook. Her mother had told her often. Hannah raised her voice so the Overseer would hear. “To make sure I don’t get lost along the way, I’m going to follow you, Darla. I’ll do my best to stay very close.”

The Overseer hid his smile behind the back of his hand. Hannah had just taken over part of his duties. He had once told her in private he appreciated her quick tongue because it often made his job easier, especially if she was not addressing him. But the thin woman called Darla cast her a scowl, and one of the other cooks flinched at the evilness it contained.

But, if the woman had left her alone, Hannah would have remained silent. Lately, she had observed a measured increase in the respect others paid to her. Word was getting around. Mess with Hannah and you could expect retaliation.

Falcon started to leave by the rear door, but turned again, as if he had forgotten to tell them something. His eyes slipped past Hannah as if she was not there. “Today the whole staff will work late into the evening to prepare for the banquet. We are cooking a feast for a welcoming meal this evening.” He paused to allow the groans to die out, or at least, diminish. Again, his eyes refused to notice Hannah, looking over her head, as if he intentionally refused to acknowledge her obvious presence. “The King’s Mage has arrived, and there will be a celebration and feast.”

Hannah’s heart beat faster as she drew in a breath. The rumors were true. She felt all eyes shift to her, and heard a few whispers. But she held her face passive, waiting for the rude comments to begin. She didn’t have to wait long. As soon as Falcon stepped out of the doorway and away from earshot, they started, not even having the decency to whisper.

“So you’re gonna see your father tonight, are you?”

“Are you going to eat dinner with him? Sit at his table?”

“Too bad your mother isn’t here to bed him again. I heard he always wished for a son.”

There were more taunts she didn’t hear in the murmured drone. Hannah closed her ears and allowed her mind to ask herself many of the same questions. While the gossip flowers were in full bloom, as if they were spring tulips, she would see the man at the center of her shame and hurt, the one who threw her away to work the kitchens. She didn’t know if she should kiss the Mage or plunge a dagger into his heart if she met him. He deserved the latter if he was her father. Not because of the mistreatment of her, but because of all the vicious remarks that had been directed at her mother. However, like her mother, Hannah held her tongue, refusing to be baited by the cruel remarks. Her gut told her that some day, she would even the score.

She went outside and stood in the shade beside the chopping block, drawing in the cooler air and calming herself while she split another pile of kindling large enough to last for days. Revenge didn’t fit into her plans. No, she had another, more direct path to take, if she mustered the nerve. That was because she had a secret beyond guessing who her father might be. She already knew who it was.

The smile touched the edge of her lips as she remembered the first time she knew. After being assigned to the fire starting duties more than five years ago, there came a cold, wet storm last winter. The dampness had penetrated everywhere and everything. Even the cold kitchen at night absorbed the clammy air. The tinder had become wet, and no amount of sparks would light it, no matter how many times she struck the iron to flint. Not having a morning fire ready for the cooks would have cost her a severe beating and more.

She had scrounged the kitchen for anything that might burn, found little, and tried the tinder again. But the sparks wouldn’t set the fire. She struck the flint harder, creating more and more intense sparks. Nothing worked. She wished she had a few leftover red coals or even a flame from a candle. Her tiny room was across the open courtyard and up stone stairs, but there were no candles there, not even discarded stubs, but her mind pictured a candle flame.

There were some in the main eating hall, but she was not allowed to go there or use them, let alone try to light one with sparks. Candles light others, or they light from existing fires in stoves or fireplaces. They are for people of higher rank, and those with money.

Scared and alone, she had heard the clop, clop of the wooden heels approaching, and she wished intensely for fire. She struck a new barrage of sparks from her flint. She needed fire desperately, and she needed it before the footsteps arrived. She looked around in near panic, searching for anything that might help. The footsteps moved closer as they echoed down the long hallway.

A dim glow in the morning gloom drew her attention. She looked down, thinking a spark had finally ignited the tinder. Instead, a tiny flame existed at the end of her index finger. It was smaller than a candle flame but burned steadily. Her finger was burning! She shook the finger to put the fire out before it hurt her, but she realized when it didn’t go out with the violent shaking that it was not hurting. Hannah quickly moved the damp tinder she held in her other hand above the flame. It caught, and she fanned it into a larger fire as the little finger-fire extinguished itself.

As the first cook arrived, Hannah had already placed the tinder under the kindling and was watching the fire grow around the cedar. She removed a few sticks of the burning kindling and placed them in the next stove, ignoring the cook as Hannah blew the next fire to life and repeated the process on the third oven. The cook used a brand from Hannah’s fire to light a candle stub she carried. But she was the Head Cook of the morning kitchen and awarded such privileges. She glared at the meager fires, not mentioning how late they were.

Hannah tried to look innocent and busy while ignoring the cook, as the cook ignored her as was her norm. But inside, Hannah could hardly breathe, and she kept looking at her cold, trembling finger where the fire had been. Not a blister or red mark on it. Only a Mage can create fire. She knew that. Everyone knew that.

They also knew that only men could be a Mage. Women, a very few special women called sorceresses, performed healings, or predictions, or other magical processes that dealt directly with people, spells, and incantations, but no woman had ever made fire from nothing. Women dealt with the living. Mages transformed elements, changing the physical properties of the world.

Hannah’s confused mind would not release the subject. She inserted another split of wood into each oven and stood aside, thinking. Women do not deal with the basic elements or transform an object from a solid to heat, like wood burning and becoming hot air. Transformations from one form to another are the sole property of top-level mages. Some mages cannot even make fire with their finger; not even the Mage-in-training, she had heard.

When all was said and done, Hannah, a girl, had made fire by using her finger and mind. At least, she believed she had. A simple kitchen girl, not even a woman or sorceress, had made fire. She tried making the flame on her finger the following morning and failed. Each day after that she tried again and again until she believed it had been a dream--and then one cold morning the flame reappeared by its own accord while she started to light the tinder. She snuffed it out and tried again. The tip of her finger sprang to light. On. Off. She repeated it over and over. The finger did not feel the heat, but afterward, it felt cold.

Since then she had done it a hundred times on a hundred different mornings. The act became second nature. Hannah didn’t have to pause and concentrate as she had in the beginning. Instead, the opposite was true; hiding the fire that sometimes appeared on her finger unexpectantly.

However, The Old Mage, who might be her father, had arrived at the palace after several years absence. That changed all things and spurred Hannah to develop a vague plan. She would manage to work her way near him tonight. She didn’t know the method or the outcome of her audacious act, but she would be there at his side, her index finger ready to display fire.