Soul of the Fire

Chapter 13

Knowing better than to stand and wait for the cart to make it the rest of the way up the avenue to the lane to the kitchen yard, Fitch hurriedly gathered up an armload of apple wood and lugged it inside. In his haste to be back outside, he heaved it all into the bin without thinking, but over the people talking and calling out, the sounds of myriad foods sizzling in pans, the crackle of the fires, the rapping of spoons in bowls, the grinding of pestles in mortars, the rasp of brushes, and the general clatter of everyone working, no one heard his wood carelessly thunking home. Some spilled out, and he was going to leave it, but when he spied Master Drummond not far off, he dropped to his knees and quickly stacked the wood in the bin.

When he rushed back out, his heart hammering, his breath caught up short when he saw who’d brought the butcher’s cart.

It was her.

Fitch wrung his hands as he watched her leading Brownie into the turn round. His hand-wringing twisted the splinter lying under his flesh, making him grimace. He cursed under his breath, then snapped his mouth shut, hoping she hadn’t heard. He trotted over to the cart, shaking the stinging hand to dispel the pain.

“Good day, Beata.”

She only glanced up. “Fitch.”

He groped for something to say, but couldn’t think of anything meaningful. He stood mute as she clucked her tongue, urging Brownie to back up. One hand held the trace chain as her other hand stroked the horse’s chest, guiding, reassuring, as he clopped backward. What Fitch wouldn’t give to have that hand touch him in such a gentle manner.

Her short red hair, so soft, so lustrous, so fetching the way its fullness tapered to turn in and caress the nape of her neck, ruffled in the warm spring breeze.

Fitch waited beside the cart, fearing to say something stupid and have Beata think him a fool. Even though he thought about her often, he figured thoughts about him probably never passed through her mind. That was one thing, but to have her think him a fool would be unbearable. He wished he knew some interesting bit of news, or something to make her have pleasant thoughts about him.

Expressionless, Beata gestured as she walked back to the cart where he stood. “What’s wrong with your hand?”

The shape of her, so close, paralyzed him. The dusky blue dress swept up from the top of the flare of the long skirt, hugging her ribs, swelling over her bosom in a way that made him have to swallow to get his breath. Worn wooden buttons marched up the front. A pin with a simple spiral head held the collar closed at her throat.

It was an old dress; she was, after all, a Haken, like him, and not deserving of better. Edges of the blue fabric were frayed here and there, and it faded a little at the shoulders, but Beata made it look somehow majestic.

With an impatient sigh, she snatched up his hand to look for herself.

“It’s nothing . . . it’s a splinter,” he stammered.

She turned his hand over, laying it palm up in her other as she pinched up the skin to inspect the splinter’s depth. He was stunned by the unexpected warm touch of her hand holding his. He was horrified to see that his hands, from being in the hot soapy water cleaning pots and cauldrons, were cleaner than her hands. He feared she would think he did no work.

“I was washing pots,” he explained. “Then I had to bring in oak. Lots of heavy oak. That’s why I’m sweating.”

Without a word, Beata pulled the pin from the top of her dress. The neckline fell open a few inches, revealing the hollow at the base of her neck. His jaw went slack at seeing so much of her, so much she ordinarily kept hidden. He wasn’t worthy of her help, much less to look upon the flesh at her throat she meant to be kept hidden. He made himself look away.

Fitch yelped when he felt the sharp pin probe. Frowning in concentration, she absently muttered an apology as she dug at the splinter. Trying not to contort his face with pain, he instead curled his toes against the dirt as he waited.

He felt a deep, sharp, painful tug. She briefly inspected the long, needle-like oak splinter she’d pulled out, and then tossed it aside. She closed her collar and secured it once again with the pin.

“There you go,” she said, turning to the cart.

“Thank you, Beata.” She nodded. “That was very kind.” He followed in her steps. “Uh, I’m to help you take in the load.”

He dragged a huge hind section of beef to the end of the cart and ducked under to hoist it onto his shoulder. The weight nearly buckled his knees. When he managed to get it wheeled around, he saw Beata already going up the path with a fat net full of pullets in one hand, and a section of mutton ribs balanced on the other shoulder, so she didn’t see his mighty effort.

Inside, Judith, the pantler, told him to get a list of everything the butcher had sent. He bowed and promised he would, but inwardly, he cringed.

When they returned to the cart, Beata ticked off the cargo for him, slapping a hand to each item as she called it out. She knew he couldn’t read and so had to commit the list to memory. She took care to make each item clear. There was pork, mutton, ox, beaver, and beef, three crocks of marrow, eight fat skins of fresh blood, a half-barrel of pig stomachs for stuffing, two dozen geese, a basket of doves, and three nets of pullets, counting the one she had already taken in.

“I know I put . . .” Beata pulled over a net of the pullets, looking for something. “Here it is,” she said. “I feared for a moment I didn’t have them.” She dragged it free. “And a sack of sparrows. The Minister of Culture always wants sparrows for his feasts.”

Fitch could feel the heat of his face going red. Everyone knew sparrows, and sparrow eggs, were consumed to stimulate lust—although he couldn’t fathom why; lust hardly seemed to him in need of any more stirring. When Beata looked up into his eyes to see if he’d added it to his mental list, he felt the overwhelming need to say something—anything—to change the subject.

“Beata, do you think we’ll ever be absolved of our ancestral crimes, and be as pure of heart as the Ander people?”

Her smooth brow twitched. “We are Haken. We can never be as good as the Ander; our souls are corrupt and unable to be pure; their souls are pure, and unable to be corrupt. We cannot ever be completely cleansed; we can only hope to control our vile nature.”

Fitch knew the answer as well as she. Asking probably made her think him hopelessly ignorant. He was never any good at explaining his thoughts in a way that spoke what he really meant.

He wanted to pay his debt—gain absolution—and earn a sir name. Not many Hakens ever achieved that privilege. He could never do as he wished until he could do that much. He hung his head as he sought to amend his question.

“But, I mean . . . after all this time, haven’t we learned the errors of our ancestors’ ways? Don’t you want to have more of a say in your own life?”

“I am Haken. I am not worthy of deciding my destiny. You should know that down that path lies wickedness.”

He picked at the torn flesh where she’d taken out the splinter. “But some Hakens serve in ways that go toward absolution. You said once that you might join the army. I’d like to join, too.”

“You are male Haken. You are not allowed to touch weapons. You should know that, too, Fitch.”

“I didn’t mean to say . . . I know I can’t. I just meant—I don’t know.” He shoved his hands in his back pockets. “I just meant that I wish I could, that’s all, so that I could do good—prove myself. Help those who we’ve made to suffer.”

“I understand.” She gestured to the windows on the upper floors. “It is the Minister of Culture himself who passed the law allowing Haken women to serve in the army, along with the Ander women. That law also says all must show respect to those Haken women. The Minister is compassionate to all people. The Haken women owe him a great debt.”

Fitch knew he wasn’t getting across what he really meant. “But don’t you want to marry and—”

“He also passed the law that Haken women must be given work so that we might feed ourselves without having to marry and be slaves to the Haken men, for it is their nature to enslave, and given the chance through marriage, they will even do it with their own kind. Minister Chanboor is a hero to all Haken women.

“He should be a hero to Haken men, too, because he brings culture to you, so that you may give over your warlike ways and come into the community of peaceful people. I may decide to join because serving in the army is a means by which Haken women may earn respect. It is the law. Minister Chanboor’s law.”

Fitch felt as if he were at penance. “I respect you, Beata, even though you aren’t in the army. I know you will do good for people whether or not you join the army. You are a good person.”

Beata’s heat faltered. She lifted one shoulder in a little shrug. The edge in her voice softened. “The main reason I might one day join the army is like you say—to help people and do good. I, too, want to do good.”

Fitch envied her. In the army she would be able to help communities facing difficulties with everything from floods to famine. The army helped needy people. People in the army were respected.

And, it wasn’t like the past, when being in the army could be dangerous. Not with the Dominie Dirtch. If the Dominie Dirtch were ever unleashed, it could school any opponent into submission without those in the army having to do battle. Thankfully, the Anders were in charge of the Dominie Dirtch, now, and they would only use such a weapon to keep peace—never to intentionally bring harm.

The Dominie Dirtch was the one thing Haken that the Anders used. The Ander people could never have conceived such a thing themselves—they were not capable of even thinking the vile thoughts that must have been required to conceive such a weapon. Only Hakens could have created a weapon of such outright evil.

“Or I might hope to be sent here to work, like you were,” Beata added.

Fitch looked up. She was staring at the windows on the third floor. He almost said something, but instead closed his mouth. She stared up at the windows as she went on.

“He walked into Inger’s place once, and I actually saw him. Bertrand—I mean Minister Chanboor—is much more attractive to look upon than Inger the butcher.”

Fitch didn’t know how to judge such things in a man, not with the way women fussed over men Fitch thought unattractive. Minister Chanboor was tall and perhaps had once been good-looking, but he was starting to get wisps of gray in his dark Ander hair. Women in the kitchen all giggled to each other over the man. When he came into the room, some reddened and had to fan then: faces as they sighed. He seemed repulsively old to Fitch.

“Everyone says the Minister is a very charming man. Do you ever see him? Or talk with him? I heard that he even speaks with Hakens, just like regular folks. Everyone speaks so highly of him.

“I’ve heard Ander people say that one day he will likely be the Sovereign.”

Fitch sank back against the cart. “I’ve seen him a couple of times.” He didn’t bother to tell her that Minister Chanboor had once cuffed him when he’d dropped a dull butter knife right near the Minister’s foot. He’d deserved the smack.

He glanced back at her. She was still looking up at the windows. Fitch gazed down at the ruts in the damp dirt. “Everyone likes and respects the Minister of Culture. I am joyous to be able to work for such a fine man, even though I am unworthy. It is a mark of his noble heart that he would give Hakens work so that we won’t starve.”

Beata suddenly glanced around self-consciously as she brushed her hands clean on her skirts. He sought once more to try to make her see his worthwhile intentions.

“I hope someday to do good. To contribute to the community. To help people.”

Beata nodded approvingly. He felt emboldened by that approval. Fitch lifted his chin.

“I hope one day to have my debt paid and earn my sir name, and then to travel to Aydindril, to the Wizard’s Keep, to ask the wizards to name me the Seeker of Truth, and present me with the Sword of Truth so that I might return to protect the Ander people and do good.”

Beata blinked at him. And then she laughed.

“You don’t even know where Aydindril is, or how far it is.” She shook her head between her fits of laughter.

He did too know where Aydindril was. “North and east,” he mumbled.

“The Sword of Truth is said to be a thing of magic. Magic is vile and dirty and evil. What do you know about magic?”

“Well . . . nothing, I guess—”

“You don’t know the first thing about magic. Or swords. You’d probably cut off your foot.” She bent to the cart, hoisted the basket of doves and another net of pullets as she chuckled, and then headed for the kitchens.

Fitch wanted to die. He’d told her his secret dream, and she’d laughed. His chin sunk to his chest. She was right. He was Haken. He could never hope to prove his worth.

He kept his eyes down and didn’t say anything else as they unloaded the cart. He felt a fool. With every step, he silently rebuked himself. He wished he’d kept his dreams to himself. He wished he could take back the words.

Before they pulled the last of it from the cart, Beata caught his arm and cleared her throat, as if she intended to say more. Fitch again cast his gaze down, resigned to hear what else she would have to say about his foolishness.

“I’m sorry, Fitch. My corrupt Haken nature caused me to slip and be cruel. It was wrong of me to say such cruel things.”

He shook his head. “You were right to laugh.”

“Look, Fitch . . . we all have impossible dreams. That too is just part of our corrupt nature. We must learn to be better than our base dreams.”

He wiped hair off his forehead as he peered up at her gray-green eyes. “You have dreams, too, Beata? Real dreams? Something you wish?”

“You mean like your foolish dream to be the Seeker of Truth?” He nodded. She at last looked away from his eyes. “I suppose it’s only fair, so that you can laugh at me in turn.”

“I wouldn’t laugh,” he whispered, but she was staring off at small puffs of white clouds drifting across the bright blue sky and didn’t seem to hear him.

“I wish I could learn to read.”

She stole a look to see if he was going to laugh. He didn’t.

“I’ve dreamed that, too.” He checked to see if anyone was watching. No one was about. He hunched over the back of the cart and with a finger made marks in the dirt there.

Her curiosity overcame her disapproval. “Is that writing?”

“It’s a word. I learned it. It’s the only one I know, but it’s a word and I can read it. I heard a man at a feast say it’s on the hilt of the Sword of Truth.” Fitch drew a line under the word in the dirt. “The man cut it into the top of the butter, to show a woman there at the feast. It’s the word ‘Truth.’

“He told her it used to be that the one named Seeker was a person of great repute, meant to do good, but now Seekers were no more than common criminals at best and cutthroats at worst. Like our ancestors.”

“Like all Hakens,” she corrected. “Like us.”

He didn’t argue, because he knew she was right. “That’s another reason I’d like to be Seeker: I would restore the good name to the post of Seeker, the way it used to be, so people could trust in truth again. I’d like to show people that a Haken could serve honorably. That would be doing good, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t that help balance our crimes?”

She rubbed her upper arms briskly as she glanced about, checking. “Dreaming of being the Seeker is childish and silly.” Her voice lowered with import. “Learning to read would be a crime. You had better not try to learn any more.”

He sighed. “I know, but don’t you ever—”

“And magic is vile. To touch a thing of magic would be as bad as a crime.”

She stole a glance at the brick facade over her shoulder. With a quick swipe, Beata wiped the word from the floor of the cart. He opened his mouth to protest, but she spoke first, cutting him off.

“We’d better get finished.”

With a flick of her eyes, she indicated the upper windows. Fitch looked up and felt icy tingling terror skitter up his spine. The Minister of Culture himself was at a window watching them.

Fitch hefted a rack of mutton and made for the kitchen larder. Beata followed with a noose of geese in one hand and the sack of sparrows in the other. Both finished lugging in the load in silence. Fitch wished he hadn’t said so much, and that she had said more.

When they’d finished, he intended to walk with her back out to the cart, to pretend to check to see if they’d gotten everything, but Master Drummond asked and Beata told him they had it all in. With a stiff finger, he jabbed Fitch’s chest, ordering him back to his scrubbing. Fitch rubbed at the stinging poke as he scuffed his feet along the smooth, unfinished wooden floor on his way to the tubs of soapy water. He glanced back over his shoulder to watch Beata leave, hoping she would look back at him so he could give her a departing smile, at least.

Minister Chanboor’s aide, Dalton Campbell, was in the kitchen. Fitch had never met Dalton Campbell—he would have no occasion to—but he thought favorably about the man because he never seemed to cause anyone any trouble, as far as Fitch had heard, anyway.

New to the post of aide to the Minister, Dalton Campbell was an agreeable-enough-looking Ander, with the typical Ander straight nose, dark eyes and hair, and strong chin. Women, especially Haken women, seemed to find that sort of thing appealing. Dalton Campbell did look noble in his dark blue quilted jerkin over a like-colored doublet, both offset with pewter buttons.

A silver-wrought scabbard hung from a finely detailed double-wrapped belt. Dark reddish brown leather covered the hilt of the handsome weapon. Fitch dearly wished he could carry such a fine sword. He was sure girls were drawn to men carrying swords.

Before Beata had a chance to look over at Fitch, or to leave, Dalton Campbell quickly closed the distance to her and grabbed her under an arm. Her face paled. Fitch, too, felt sudden terror grip his gut. He knew instinctively that this was potentially big trouble. He feared he knew the cause. If the Minister, when he’d been looking down, saw Fitch writing the word in the dirt . . .

Dalton Campbell smiled, speaking soft assurance. As her shoulders slowly relaxed, so did the knot in Fitch’s belly. Fitch couldn’t hear most of the words, but he heard Dalton Campbell say something about Minister Chanboor as he tilted his head toward the stairway on the far side of the kitchen. Her eyes widened. Rosy color bloomed on her cheeks.

Beata beamed incandescently.

Dalton Campbell in turn smiled his invitation at her all the way to the stairwell, pulling her along by the arm, although she looked not to need the encouragement—she looked as if she was nearly floating through the air. She never looked back as she disappeared through the doorway and up the stairs.

Master Drummond suddenly swatted the back of Fitch’s head.

“Why are you standing there like a stump? Get to those fry pans.”