I gathered a bundle of small sticks, holding them tightly. The forest held its breath, eerily silent but for the rustle of wind in the treetops. Although I knew no one ever came here, I still looked around furtively, my heart beating thickly in my ears. Closing my eyes, I searched for the little wisp of flame I’d found earlier. The sticks grew hot in my hands.
The wind changed direction, barreling in from the north and carrying the dregs of a wet winter storm. I shivered and clutched the sticks tighter, struggling against the cold seeping into my pores and leaching the heat from my body.
Suddenly, the distant sounds of footsteps echoed through the woods.
I dropped the sticks and clambered onto a rock, knocking snow from it in heavy clumps. To the northwest, the path veered down into a gulley, where an overhang protected it from snow. In a few seconds, I would see whoever approached without being seen myself.
First a hood came into view; then a metal helm flashing between tree trunks washed gray under a steel sky. The blue of the men’s tunics shot startling color into the starkly white scene.
Soldiers, breaking the quiet with their heavy, crackling steps and ringing voices.
Blood rushed to my heart, fear blossoming into heat.
I’d been warned a thousand times about the king’s soldiers, but I’d always told myself we were too high in the mountains, too insignificant to warrant their search for Firebloods. I hoped they were just passing through on their way from the barren North. But our hut was right along the path they were following. They could easily stop to raid our larder or use our hut for the night. We couldn’t risk them getting too near me, feeling the heat of my skin.
I slid off the rock and shot toward home, my shuddering breaths whisper-quiet as I scraped past trees and bushes, using undergrowth and my knowledge of the bend of the land as cover.
When I reached our hut, Mother was sitting by the fire, her long braid hanging over the back of the woven-bark chair.
“Soldiers,” I said, rushing to grab her thick cloak, still drying by the fire, and shoving it at her. “In the woods. If they stop here…”
Mother gaped at me for a moment before launching into action. She grabbed a rag and packed up some dry cheese and bread, then stumbled to the scarred wooden table, where healing plants dried in the warmth of the fire. We’d spent hours gathering the precious herbs, and neither of us could bear to leave them. We packed them as quickly as we could, folding them into scraps of fabric tied with frantic fingers.
The herbs were swept from the table by the wind as the door crashed against the wall. Two men emerged from the snowy darkness, their blue vests each emblazoned with a white arrow.
“Where’s the Fireblood?” The soldier’s small eyes moved from Mother to me.
“We’re healers.” Hearing the tremble of fear under Mother’s bravado made my legs weak.
With long strides, one of the men cornered me and grabbed my arms. My throat convulsed at the sharp reek of old sweat and foul breath. His cold hand slid to my neck. I wanted to turn my head and bite his wrist, hit him, rake him with my nails, anything to get his hand off me, but the sword at his side held me still.
“Her skin is burning hot,” he said with a curl of his lip.
“She has a fever,” Mother said, her voice desperate.
I took a deep, shuddering breath. Hide your heat. Push it down. Calm yourself.
“You’ll catch my fever,” I said, trying to keep the tremble out of my voice.
“I can’t catch what’s wrong with you.” He pulled me toward the door, his hand tight on my arm. I struggled wildly, trying to twist out of his grasp and kicked over a bucket of red berries I had gathered before the recent snow. They spilled across the floor like drops of blood, crushed under his boots as he pulled me out into the moonlight.
Pressure grew in my chest. It was as if the fire in the hearth had crawled into my rib cage and wanted out. Grandmother had described the sensation, but I’d never felt it like this. It stung and burned and pressed against my ribs from the inside. It made me want to rip off my skin just to let it free.
The ache grew until I thought it might kill me. I screamed and a swathe of stinging hot air surrounded me, covering my attacker. He let go and fell to the ground, howling in pain.
I scrambled into the hut where Mother struggled with the other soldier as he pulled her toward the door. I grabbed a log from the woodpile and brought it down hard on the back of his head. He pitched to the side and lay still.
I took Mother’s hand, and we stumbled out the door and into the night. The soldier I had burned was still on his hands and knees, pressing snow to his face.
We moved as fast as we could through the thick drifts, away from our hut, away from the place that had always been warmth and safety, a riot of fear and confusion making my mind as numb as my fingers. I had to get Mother away, keep her safe. At a fork in the path, I pulled right, toward the forest, where we could lose ourselves in the pines that grew so thick snow didn’t reach the ground.
“Too cold,” Mother panted, pulling against my hand. “No shelter there. The village.”
We pounded past farms and the shadows of houses until Mother’s steps slowed, and I half pulled, half dragged her through the worst of the drifts, which had poured like frozen waves over the path. As we slogged through the shadows next to the blacksmith’s shop, I saw orange lights bobbing in the village square.
“Torches,” I whispered, pulling back on my mother’s hand.
It didn’t seem real. I had come to the village at least once a week for as long as I could remember, not just to buy food and supplies, but to get away from the solitude of our tiny hut, to exchange nods and smiles with people, to smell baking bread and the occasional waft of rosewater from the shopkeepers’ wives and daughters. Although I couldn’t truly call anyone my friend, there were people who always answered when I greeted them, who were glad to take my mother’s cordials for a sick father or sister or child.