Chapter One

Fern watched as the embers from the forge turned the longsword a deep, angry orange. When it became almost too bright to look at, she pulled it from the ashes and planted it on the anvil. She took a deep breath before striking the blade with her hammer. Sparks flew all around as she pummelled the sword and flattened out the middle of the blade. She held it up and closing one eye judged the width.

“It’s too wide, you’ve over done it.” Barked a guard who was watching her from the other side of the room.

“Prince Lestian likes a broader blade than most. That’s why I always make him a falchion.” She shouldn’t have spoken back to him, but she had learned which guards were more human than others. Guard Tremmel, while stern, was not unnecessarily violent.

“A what?” Tremmel walked over to Fern and looked at the sword.

“It is a sword that is only sharp on one end of the blade. If you have the strength, it delivers a much more powerful blow. You can cleave a man clean in half with one good strike.”

He took the now cooling sword from her and played with it in his hand.

“Is that so? Should we be equipping all the guards with these?”

Fern opened her hand and waited for Tremmel to give the sword back to her.

“It is a sword for battle, not guarding sick and frail prisoners.”

Tremmel smirked and handed her back the blade.

“Point taken. Just be sure you don’t go around talking to Herron like that, or else you’ll be forging with black eyes and broken bones.” Tremmel went back to his post, looking completely disinterested. While mouthy, Fern was a model prisoner. She did as she was told and kept to herself. Tremmel had no doubt if he fell asleep, she would be in the same position when he woke up. Truth be told, he had nodded of a few times, only to be woken by Fern at the end of her shift.

Fern cooled the blade completely in a bath of cold oil. It sizzled and spat as it entered the viscous liquid. She sighed, picking up a filthy rag. Fern did not work in the main forge, but a smaller one that had been made specifically for weapons for nobility.

“Have they been using the oil bath again?”

“What?” Tremmel said, shaking himself out of a daze.

“The other workers? My oil rags are filthy, have they been in here?”

“Ah yes, their bath cracked last night and they needed it. It’s all patched up now.”

“Well tell them to clean up after themselves.” Fern grumbled as she retrieved a clean rag and wiped the oil from the blade. “I’m not their maid.”

Tremmel ignored her.

She sat herself down at the grinding wheel and began to pump the pedal. It spun quickly and soon the room was filled with sparks. Sharpening a sword was Fern’s favourite part of making any blade. This is where she could just sit and think and every so often run her thumb over the edge of the blade to check how sharp it was. Her right thumb was completely numb and scarred all over, but she had developed an innate sense of knowing when to stop.

This particular blade, Prince Lestian’s ceremonial sword had no need to be sharp, but he was a proud and arrogant man, and would consider it a slight if it was left dull. He had her make a Winter Festival blade for him every season. He had no need for them, but he did it to remind her. To taunt her. A long time ago it used to make Fern’s blood run hot with fury, but now she just did as she was told.

When she came to the Demoth’s prison camp over a decade ago, she swore she would escape and avenge her father, start an uprising in the camp and free her fellow prisoners. But those were the ideas of a spirited adolescent, and now, as a pragmatic adult, she understood and accepted her fate. She had it a lot better than most of the prisoners and she used her status to help others. That was enough for her now. She checked Lestian’s blade once more, and deciding it was complete, she took it to Tremmel.

“I will engrave the blade and set the jewels on the hilt tomorrow. May I leave for the night?”

Tremmel took the blade and looked it over and she could tell by the movement of his right brow he was impressed.

“Such an odd thing, a woman being such a good sword-smith, but I tell you, I would rather go into battle with a blade of yours than one of the pieces of rubbish that muck make.”

It was the closest thing she ever got to a compliment in the camp.

“Thank you, Guard Tremmel.”

He nodded and gave an imperceptible smile.

“Go on then. It is early, but the jewels are locked up in the barracks and they’ll not thank me for waking them in the middle of the night to retrieve them.

Fern had to walk past the main forge on her way to the mess hall. It was roaring with the clanking sound of metal on metal, quenching and grunting men. She stood in the doorway next to another guard who disregarded her presence. The main forge was much hotter than the little one she worked in. Dozens of sweating men, roaring open fires and the smell was not pleasant either. She spotted Jous in the corner, watching several blades in the forge. He waved when he caught her eye and she walked over to him.

“Finished early again? You should be so lucky.”

He wiped some sweat as it beaded down his face and went to pull one of the blades from the forge. Fern grabbed his hand.

“Wait. It needs a few moments more.”

“It’s the orange you told me to look out for.”

“It’s slightly darker. If you take it out now you will be making extra work for yourself.” She stayed his hand, holding off his urge to remove the blade and when she saw the glow, she let him go.

“Now.”

“It’s exactly the same colour.” He grumbled as he took it to the anvil.

Fern followed and stood over him. Taking his mallet, he struck the blade hard and chuckled.

“How did you do that? How did you know?”

“I saw that colour before I learned to talk. Next time, when you want to take it out, leave it for a minute longer. That minute brings out a malleability that cuts your forging time by a fifth. That’s a lot of time when you make as many swords are you do.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

A guard appeared behind Fern and she squeezed Jous’s shoulder.

“That’s my exit. I will see you at the mess tent.” She gestured her intentions to the guard and he made a few grunts as she walked away.

One of the few good things about working the night shift was how quiet the mess hall was. No one was rowdy at 4am - the only prisoners there were the ones who were exhausted from a just finished shift, or the depressed few who were just about to go on shift. It was quiet, and that it how Fern liked it. She took a bowl and stood in the short line. It was a simple process. The cook ladled in an ambiguous looking slop then dumped a piece of bread on top. Morning and evening meals consisted of this routine. When it got to Fern’s turn the old woman took her bowl.

“Out early again? They must like you at the forge.”

“Continuing work would have involved waking up the barrack master and Guard Tremmel wasn’t exactly keen.”

“Well I don’t blame him.” She took Fern’s bowl, but before filling it with stew she dropped a piece of bread in the bottom, filled it up and then dropped another piece on top. “I wouldn’t want to wake up Captain Hirst either.”

“No, I can’t imagine it’s something anyone would enjoy.” Fern took her bowl with no mention of the extra bread. “See you at the lake this afternoon?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.” Erna said with a chuckle.

Fern sat at the back of the mess hall and began eating her stew. It wasn’t so much bad, as watery and tasteless, but it was food, and that is what mattered. It was true they were all prisoners, but they were still fed and housed. She put the extra bread in her pocket and dug her own piece out. Sometimes if the bread was a few days old it didn’t instantly turn to mush, this morning however was not one of those mornings. She winced as she ate the soggy bread, almost gagging at the consistency. But again, it was food and bread was not something you didn’t eat. Bread was the difference between being sick in winter and surviving another one. A decade in the camp had taught Fern some harsh lessons.

Jous plonked himself opposite Fern.

“Phew, lucky you saved me a seat, it is crammed in here.”

Jous, like many of the prisoners used humour to survive. He dunked his bread into his stew. “I know, I know, sometimes I even amaze myself.” Fern watched as he enjoyed his bread, slightly jealous. When he got halfway through, he offered it to her.

“No, it’s fine, I got an extra piece for Avanne already. You eat it, you need it.”

“Not as much as her.”

“Just as much.” Fern corrected him.

He gobbled down the rest of it, not needing to be told twice. “How is she? It can’t be easy for the tailors at this time of year?”

“She’s coping. This year she was lucky enough to only be in charge of making the gowns for Commander Beltan’s daughters. She’s got a reputation as a fine dress-maker so she is given more desirable duties.”

“And how did the other tailors take that?” Jous asked, wincing.

“About as well as you would expect. I had to go down there and tell them if there was any trouble they would have me to deal with. That seemed to put them off.”

“Oh…it seamed…to put them off…” as Jous said ‘seamed’ he mimicked sewing some cloth.

“I am in awe of your greatness. Truly.”

They both laughed lightly. While Fern enjoyed her quiet time, it was nice to have a friend her own age.

“How’s the sword coming?” Some stew flew from Jous’s mouth – he had never quite mastered the art of not talking while eating.

Fern flicked the bit of half-chewed beef off her hand.

“It’s nearly done. I just need to set the jewels and engrave the blade.”

“What’s the engraving this year? Something just as humble as last year I suppose?”

“I have no idea. They only ever give it to me on the day I start engraving. But yes, I imagine it will be just as arrogant as the last ten.”

“It can’t be worse than last years. The Sword is only as Great as He Who Wields it. I couldn’t believe it when you told me.” Jous shovelled in more of his stew.

Fern thought to tell him to keep his voice down, but most of the guards were sitting at a table near the entrance, chatting.

“Did I ever tell you what was written on King Ciiran’s blade? His actual blade. The one he went to war with?”

Jous shook his head, still shovelling.

“To Rule is a Gift - A Gift that must be shared with the People.”

“I don’t understand how he and Queen Venali had such a monstrous son. My mother met her once, Queen Venali. Said she was the kindest woman she had ever known. Doesn’t seem fair they were cursed with someone like Lestian. What sort of man kills his own sister?”

“The kind of man who wanted power.”

“He had power. He ruled half of Karranya.”

“And now he rules all of it.” Fern said matter-of-factly.

Fern didn’t stay long at the mess hall after finishing her breakfast. Using a well-learned shortcut, she cut across the hundreds of prisoners’ tents, making sure to jump over Old Todd, who always slept outside. Thankfully, Missy, his wife was not out early this morning so Fern didn’t have to dodge her too. While she was the dearest of old ladies, she did like to ramble and Fern really needed a good sleep to ensure her engraving was flawless for Prince Lestian’s sword. The few guards that saw her weaving in and out of the tents paid her no mind. She has spent years being innocuous and now they left her alone. Fern made a slight detour towards the lake before going to her tent. The sun was just starting to rise as she reached the edge of the water and she could see a flock of Sweet birds waking up. They stretched out their long wings and began fussing, making splashes at each other. One took off when it spotted an insect buzzing past, causing several others to follow suit. Fern crouched down at the water’s edge and pulled a cloth from her pocket. The water had wafer-thin sheets of ice floating over it. In a few more weeks it would be frozen over. She soaked the cloth and jumped up. He abruptness caused some of the Sweets to scatter and give her scathing looks.

“Sorry, need to get back to my tent before this freezes.”

Once she reached the tent, she took a few breaths and then tip-toed in. Avanne was dead to the world -mouth open, snoring loudly. It was just as well Fern had the night shift, that snoring would have driven her mad. Avanne’s uniform was in its usual place, folded neatly at the foot of her cot. Fern’s was almost always strewn about the place and filthy. She took out the spare piece of bread from her pocket and tucked it between the folds of Avanne’s uniform. Despite being blisteringly cold outside, the tent wasn’t too bad. Fern had learned a lot of tricks over the years. Stitching wool to the underside of their blankets and the tent, using mud and hay to patch up any holes in the fabric of the tent, weights held down the flaps of the tent and an extra flap had been added to flop over the open seam of the door flaps. It was still cold, but it was enough to keep the freezing ice air out, the type of air that killed a lot of prisoners in the winter.

Despite Avanne being a deep sleeper, Fern did not want to wake her. Being a tailor this close to the Winter Festival was hard, exhausting work and every extra minute of sleep counted. Fern stripped down to her underwear and used the now almost frozen cloth to clean herself. She would brave the icy waters of the lake in the afternoon for a proper wash. Growing up with the harsh winters of Royan was a blessing. Prisoners who came from the north often didn’t survive their first winter in the camp. Once as clean as she was going to get with such a tiny cloth, Fern tossed her clothes to the side and slid into her cot. It was cold, but that didn’t stop her from falling to sleep within minutes of her head hitting her make-shift, straw pillow.

“Move aside! I’ll not have anymore of this nonsense.” A guard roared from outside.

Fern sighed. Normally she slept through the morning commotion, but this particular morning something was obviously causing a stir.

“We need to get her out of here before she starts to smell. No one wants the stink of a dead woman hanging around.” The guard said, still shouting.

Fern sat up and in her hazy state tried to ascertain what was happening.

“Starts to smell?” Fern muttered to herself and she traced over her teeth with her tongue, aware of her need to brush them. The arguing continued.

“Please, you have to help me, I can’t lift her on my own.” A cracking voice choked out.

“Get out of the way and we’ll take her to the field. You know better than to disobey a guard’s orders.”

“No no…please. Let me bury her, I just need some help to move her. Please. By the lake.”

“Move aside you old fool, you can barely walk, you can’t bury a body.”

“No! Please! Please!”

Now fully awake, Fern realised what was happening. She grabbed her clothes and darted from the tent. There was a crowd gathering.

“Fern.” One woman said as she approached the crowd, “it’s Milly, she died in the night and Todd won’t let the guards take her body.”

Fern used her elbows to shove people out of the way and made her way to the front. Todd was draped over Milly’s body and shaking uncontrollably. She edged past the guards who eyed her suspiciously.

“Just let me talk to him.” She pleaded.

Glaring, they let her go.

Tharn slowly walked over to Todd.

“Todd.”

Todd looked up at Fern, his face was swollen and caked in dirt.

“Fern-Fern, you have to help me. She’s dead.”

Fern kneeled next to him. “I know, it’s ok, it’s going to be ok.”

“No no, they are going to take her to the field. She didn’t want to go to the field. Please, don’t let them take her.”

A guard walked towards them and went to grab Todd who resisted.

“This is ridiculous! If you keep at it, you’ll go to the gallows!”

“Wait.” Fern stood and put her hands up. “Just wait. I will help bury her.”

“You can’t lift a body, and neither can he. Now get out of the way!” The guard grabbed Fern hard on her upper arm. She instinctively pulled out of his grasp.

Fern moved in front of the guard.

“You better be sure of your next move.” He said as he pulled a baton from his belt.

“I can lift her.” Fern’s hands were up in a defensive position. “I can. Just let me take her to the lake.”

The guard stayed his hand and took a small step back.

“You get one chance. You lift her first try or she goes to the field with all the others. He ends up at the gallows and you end up bruised all over.”

Fern nodded and crouched next to the body. The guard turned to the still growing crowd.

“And don’t any of you even think about helping her.”

It wasn’t going to be dignified, but it was better than ending up rotting in the field. Kneeling she pulled the body up and over her shoulder. Years of living in the prison had left Milly withered and frail, but it was still a dead weight. Once the body was secure, she braced herself and began to stand. She stumbled and the crowed made a collective gasp. The body was heavier than Fern had anticipated and she struggled to get upright, but after a few stumbles she stood tall and straightened herself up to the guard. The guard folded his arms.

“You’re stronger than you look. Just get here the hell out of here, she’s starting to rot.” He spat on the ground by her foot, turned and walked away.

They buried her in a shallow grave near the lake, a mile from the camp. After a hundred yards or so the walk had been excruciating, but Fern carried on, determined to help. They dug the grave with their hands, the ice and mud stinging their fingers. Todd cried the entire time, blessing Fern between mourning his loss. After they had covered her body with the frozen, soggy soil they both began to make the trek back to the camp. As they walked Fern could have sworn she saw a figure in the distance watching them. Todd stumbled and when Fern looked forward once more, the figure was gone.