Chapter 1

NORTHBORN YEAR 0: WINTER

The little boy approached her, holding out a fragment of hard yellow fruit in a grubby hand. She could see it was half rotten, but the snow was only now off the ground, new crops hadn’t yet come in, and any food was better than none. The skinny kid looked like he desperately needed it too, but warmth was critical for surviving the night: more important than food.

The girl reached out and accepted the fruit. Then the boy handed her a stone, which she took in her other hand. He waited, shivering, as she closed her eyes and concentrated. A minute later she handed it back; the stone was almost hot enough to burn. Without a word of thanks the boy turned and scampered off.

Night was falling. By her count, all the children that lived in the abandoned shack had returned. Most had bought heat stones from her, and she had a little collection of food in payment. It was poor stuff, but it would keep her alive. As silently as possible, she ate everything but the worst of the rot. Hunger more or less assuaged, she crawled into her own corner to sleep in the moldy hay under tattered blankets.

The other children slept together in a ball of unwashed bodies and rags, sharing the warmth of the heat stones. Even though the children survived because she made heat for them, they didn’t invite her to join them. She was seen as different, and she didn’t give away the heat for free. Making each heat stone took energy. If they wanted one, they could pay or do without. It hadn’t earned her their love, but it did mean she didn’t have to scrounge for food in winter, and in summer food was easy enough to find.

The girl curled herself up in her corner and spent a few minutes heating up the stone floor she lay on. It would radiate back the heat the rest of the night. That took up most of her remaining energy, and she fell into a heavy sleep.

***

NORTHBORN YEAR 1: SUMMER

Summer was a time of plenty, even for beggar children. They could bathe without freezing and people were more willing to give them food, or even old, threadbare blankets and clothing too worthless to go in the ragbag. Layer enough ragged blankets and actual warmth could be achieved. Likewise, layer enough tattered clothing and it almost equaled a real set of clothes.

The girl who could heat up rocks, however, had put on a growth spurt. She was no longer so cute and helplessly tiny. People were more likely to suspect her of being a thief. They weren’t always wrong. She also offered to do work in exchange for food—many of the children did. Because she was older, she sometimes got it, too, but there were other consequences to growing up.

***

The girl awoke in the middle of the night with twisting pain in her insides. That wasn’t unusual, considering all the questionable food the beggar children ate, but this felt different: lower and deeper. Then she felt something furry brush past her leg and she kicked out. She heard rats scatter.

Rats were her roommates, but they usually kept their distance, going instead to the refuse piles. Some of the children were even known to catch rats and attempt to eat them, but that was an act of desperation, as eating rats often made a kid sicker than being aching hungry.

The girl sat up and noted sticky wetness on her legs and ragged smock. She touched it, smelled it: blood. Her heartbeat kicked up. Why was there blood? She couldn’t feel a wound and didn’t remember getting hurt. She would have felt it if the rat had bitten her. Rather she guessed the rat had been attracted to the mysterious blood. Was it related to the pain in her belly? She snatched up the nearest pebble and spelled it for light.

Dim though it was, she could see the blood spots clearly now, staining her smock near her—she gulped. It was all near her groin, and in fact—investigation revealed that it seemed to be coming out of her. She’d never seen anyone get sick like this. Her abdomen clenched, twisted, and she gasped. Her heart beat faster with mounting fear. All she could think was that this was something serious.

“I need a healer,” she breathed between clenched jaws.

There was a curfew in the city. No one was allowed outside between dusk and dawn without a permit. Certain people were granted permits—like the lamp fillers and the deliverymen who brought coal to houses in the wee hours of the morning. There were soldiers in the street, patrolling to make sure people without permits stayed inside.

The girl shuddered with unfamiliar pain and stared at the red blood on her fingers. She’d had scrapes and little cuts before, but never something like this: never so much blood. It was like during the war, when people were bleeding, when—

“I’ll die,” she whispered. “I have to go.”

There were a few different sorts of healers in the city. She knew where the one who served the poorest people lived. Sometimes the old woman would treat the beggar children for free, although she wasn’t always good at making them well. A few had even died from sicknesses the healer couldn’t cure.

It was a long way: a walk of several minutes. The girl would have to try to get there, and hope she didn’t encounter any soldiers. There were rumors that drakes watched the streets, too, but she didn’t really think that was true. She thought the soldiers just said that to try to make people obey the curfew.

The girl shoved to her feet, trying not to double over with the pain in her belly. She belted her smock tighter, thinking that might help, but it didn’t seem to. With the light pebble in a pocket in case she needed it, she staggered to the doorway and slipped between the crossed boards that were supposed to indicate the shack was abandoned and unsafe.

The street looked empty. It was rutted but dried out now in the summer heat, the ridges of mud hardened into tripping hazards not yet beaten down into dust. The healer’s house was in the direction of the center of the city—although still nowhere near it. The poor lived around the edges. The poorer the people were, the further from the center they lived.

There were no soldiers in sight, and the nearest lamp was far down the road where it forked. The girl headed that way, bare feet silent on the dirt, until she reached the intersection and turned towards the city center. The houses were crumbling wattle and daub or ramshackle wooden structures half falling over, with more holes than actual walls, draped with worn curtains. She could hear snoring from inside some of them, and an occasional crying baby.

She made it to the next lamp, and the next. The road turned to packed dirt so hard it almost felt like stone, and the ruts were fewer. The houses became straighter, taller, with solid walls that didn’t look like the next gust of wind would knock them over. There was a market area ahead where the beggar children often got food.

The girl stepped around the corner, feeling more confident now—the healer’s house was close, only a few more turns—and ran right into a patrol of soldiers. She bounced off the lead man. Her head had been down, as she scuttled along bent over and clutching her belly, and she hadn’t even seen them.

“Ho, now, what’s this?” the man exclaimed. He grabbed her arm in a sharp grip. “You’re in violation of curfew.”

The girl looked up at him. He was handsome, with thick blonde hair and a wide, strong jaw.

“Please sir,” she tried, “I’m sick. I’m trying to get to the healer.”

“It’s just a street urchin,” one of the other soldiers said.

“The law applies to all citizens,” the first man affirmed. He shook her a little. “Wandering about looking for something to steal, are you?”

They didn’t understand. She plucked at her smock, showing the blood stains and the blood running down her legs.

“Please, I’m bleeding, let me go to the healer,” she tried again.

For a second the men seemed confused. Then one, the one that hadn’t spoken yet, laughed.

“Blimey, it’s a girl,” the first man declared. “Or rather, a woman now. You never had a mother to tell you about womanly bleeding?”

What was he talking about? She tried to pull out of his grip. “Please, sir, let me go. I might be dying.”

Two of the men laughed.

“You’re not dying, little lady,” the first man chortled.

He yanked her closer and trapped her in his arms. He swung her around so he faced his two companions.

“Well, a thieving street urchin we would have fed to the drakes for being out past curfew,” he said, “but there’s another use for a woman.”

“Let her go,” the third man urged. He had a neat brown beard and wore an expression of concern. “She’s not doing any harm.”

“Criminals have to pay,” the first man argued. “She’ll pay me right now.”

He grabbed the front of her smock and tore it from her. She yelped with shock.

“She’s filthy,” the second man, who looked like something had taken a bite out of his nose, winced. “Are you sure?”

“A little blood and dirt never hurt anyone,” her captor shrugged.

“Stop it,” Brown-beard objected. “The Lords declared, no more messing with the women. We’ll get in trouble.”

The girl struggled, trying to get loose, but the blonde man’s arms were too strong.

“We won’t get in trouble unless someone tells,” he emphasized.

“No one listens to a street urchin,” Bit-nose agreed.

Brown-beard took a step forward, but Bit-nose shoved him back.

“Let him have his fun, and she’ll think twice about breaking curfew again,” Bit-nose said.

“You want to go second?” the first man asked. “We can all share.”

The girl thrashed, tearing at his arms with her grubby nails and trying to kick with her heels. She didn’t know what they were talking about, but somehow she knew it was bad.

“Hey, cut that out,” her captor ordered.

“Need me to hold her for you?” Bit-nose offered, laughing.

Her heel caught her captor’s knee from the side and he stumbled, his grip loosening. She wriggled out, but he still had her arm in a tight grip. As soon as he caught his feet, his free hand came swinging, slapping her hard enough across the face to make her vision go white and then black for a moment.

“Little gutter bitch, learn your place,” he growled.

“Stop that,” Brown-beard demanded.

“Easy,” Bit-nose cajoled, halting Brown-beard with another shove. “He isn’t going to hit her anymore, right? And no one’s going to know unless you blab about it.”

The first soldier snatched at the remains of the girl’s smock, ripping it out from under her twine belt and leaving her naked. Still holding her arm with one hand, he fumbled with his own belt with the other.

“This isn’t happening,” Brown-beard declared.

He tried to push forward again, but Bit-nose countered him, and soon they were struggling with each other. The girl writhed: instinctively fighting to escape. She tried to kick, punch with her free arm, and even tried to bite, which only got her another slap in the face. Against the big man’s strength, she had no chance. He twisted her arm up behind her back until she cried with the pain of it and went still, though her heart thundered on.

“That’s better,” the handsome one grunted, gripping her hip hard enough to bruise.

Her body was immobilized, but something within continued to struggle. It bubbled and boiled up from her core, rose to her skin, barely contained by that thin, taut barrier. The girl could hardly breathe, terrified and battered, but she sucked in a breath and screamed from deep in her belly as the soldier pulled her back against him.

Her talent broke free.

The man shoved her away so she skidded and tumbled across the hard packed dirt, screaming himself almost as high pitched as she had.

“Argh, my privies! She’s done roasted my privies, the gutter witch-bitch,” he howled.

The girl had landed in a heap, and almost managed to turn over when she felt a hand sink into her matted hair, and she was yanked vertical, scrambling to get her own feet under her.

“She’s a witch, a witch,” the handsome man was snarling.

He dragged her towards him with one hand still in her matted hair, and drew back his other—fisted. The girl, feeling a chance at fighting back, matched his snarl. As he punched her across the face, she let loose again, this time beyond the surface of her skin: out, out at him.

The burning man was rolling on the ground now, trying to smother the flames. Bit-nose was hovering over him anxiously. Brown-beard, however, had started to draw near the girl. He held her ripped and stained smock out to her, but she couldn’t lift a hand to take it.

“I won’t touch you,” Brown-beard said. “I’m sorry this happened.” Carefully, he covered her with the garment, and glanced back at his companions. “At least Gurek got what he deserved.”

“I’m dying,” the girl told him breathlessly, now more sure of it than ever.

“You were going to a healer? I’ll carry you there, if you want.”

Bit-nose strode angrily up behind Brown-beard. The girl opened her mouth, wanting to warn him, but he seemed to read her expression, and turned before Bit-nose could strike him. This seemed to put Bit-nose off balance; he’d clearly been expecting an easy hit.

“Gurek’s burned bad,” Bit-nose glowered. “It’s this rat’s fault. Take her and let’s go back to headquarters.”

“I’m taking her to a healer,” Brown-beard said. “And Gurek’s injuries are his own fault. Maybe it’ll teach him not to mess with people, even defenseless children.”

Bit-nose bared his teeth. “You’re to blame for this, too, Makelat.”

“I am,” Brown-beard nodded. “I’m to blame for not fighting harder to protect this child from you and Gurek.”

The girl huddled under her ruined smock, shivering even as she felt her skin heating again, this time with fever. She hardly reacted as the two men fought briefly but half-heartedly. Bit-nose gave up after only a few swings.

“Fine then,” he scoffed. “We’ll see how this works out for you.”

Bit-nose retreated to pick up the lantern he’d set down at the beginning of the confrontation, and then went to help Gurek up, leaving the girl and Brown-beard in only the faint glow from the nearest lamp. The girl managed to fumble in her pocket and knock out the pebble she’d spelled for light. Brown-beard’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything.

Then came the distant sound of cantering horse hooves. Brown-beard stepped in front of the girl, as if to guard her, and within moments a horse and rider came hurrying down the road, straight towards them. Gurek and Bit-nose were still hobbling off, but the mounted man stuck his hand out at them.

“Halt,” he commanded.

He reined in only a few paces away from Brown-beard. The other two men had stopped as though they suddenly couldn’t move. The mounted man turned to stare at Brown-beard.

“You. What has happened here?” he demanded. “Speak, man.”

Brown-beard drew himself up to attention and recited. The girl listened with only half an ear. Her head hurt so badly she feared it was splitting open, and her belly wasn’t much better. She did get a hazy look at the man on the horse. He was lean, with wild, fluffy black hair. He wore more brightly colored clothing than she’d ever seen. Even in the dim light, it almost glowed.

Brown-beard finished his recitation. The mounted man looked over at the two other soldiers, who were still comically frozen in place. After a moment, both the men jerked into motion, almost falling, and hobbled away together out of sight.

“Pick her up,” the mounted man ordered.

Brown-beard hesitated. “She’ll not hurt me?”

Vaguely, the girl sensed the regard of the mounted man fall over her. Her headache spiked for a moment, like when a bruise got poked, and she whimpered.

“She is too exhausted to do more tonight,” the mounted man said, “even if she wanted to.”

“She is a witch then?”

“She’s a mage,” the mounted man corrected, “or will be, with a bit of training. Now fetch her.”

“Please pardon me,” Brown-beard said as he approached and carefully gathered the girl into his arms.

She could hardly struggle, but since she was dying, supposed it didn’t really matter. The man did his best to keep her covered with the smock, and tucked her head against his shoulder so it wouldn’t loll and hurt her neck.

“This way,” the mounted man gestured.

Brown-beard started walking after the horse, but the girl never saw the journey they took. She fell unconscious long before they reached the destination.