she was also now part of the Veris and helping them plan their escape?
CHAPTER THREE
I
The fire seemed hungry, Orsin thought. It chomped greedily on the kindling in the hearth, filling the hall with snaps and crackles as it leapt to life. The flames flowed over the large log in the centre like an orange cloak billowing in the wind. He watched as the log gradually caught light, the bark splintering and turning black, the odd leaf still attached to the twig on the top curling and then turning to ash.
How odd that it seemed alive. Fire had enchanted him for as long as he could remember, and he could vividly recall the beating he had received from the steward who found him playing with a tinderbox in the barn. The straw had caught alight and the barn had nearly burned down, but luckily he had escaped untouched, only to have his backside whipped. Now he understood why he had been beaten, but at the time he had seethed with resentment, angry that the steward had not appreciated his fascination for the flame – that he had felt compelled to light it, enticed by the way he could bring a living thing to life and cultivate it, make it grow.
His fascination had continued through his early teens and twice he had been punished for a fire that had got out of hand. Over the past few years, other things had occupied his mind, his brain and body tiring in physical training at which he excelled, and in women, of whom he had also become something of an expert.
Lately, however, some of his fascination had returned. He had never spoken of it to anyone, aware that his absorption was unusual and that others did not feel the same way. He could not understand how they were not captivated by it. He watched the flame lick over the log, sensual in its caress, like a passionate lover, consuming and obsessive. A hunger grew within him, and he shifted in his chair. He would visit the tavern later after finishing the evening meal. Find a woman there to cool his blood.
“Orsin!”
His head snapped up. His mother was glaring at him, and Julen’s lips were twisted in a wry smile. “What?” he said defensively.
“I do swear you are selectively deaf,” said his mother. “And just as stupid, sometimes. Have you not heard a word I have said?”
He propped his feet on the chair next to him. “I heard you. I just did not care.”
Horada, sitting at the end of the table a little away from them, bit her lip to stifle a smile. Procella continued to glare at him. Orsin finished off his ale, used to his mother’s wrath. She had always been stern, but since his father had died she had become even more short-tempered. He put down his tankard and softened a little as Julen raised his eyebrows at him. His brother had told him of her worry about Horada. And he did love and admire his mother, in spite of her sometimes shrewish nature.
“You said you both had another dream last night,” he relayed. “About Heartwood.”
“Yes.” Procella’s face etched with worry as she glanced at her daughter. “She asked me again this morning to take her there. I refused of course. Now she is ignoring me.”
Horada, who could quite obviously hear every word being said, continued to pick at the strawberries on her plate, not looking up.
Orsin shrugged and turned his gaze back to his mother. “Perhaps you should let her go. Find out what the Arbor wants with her.”
Procella banged her goblet on the table and leaned forward. “And let the same thing happen to her that happened to my husband? My family has given enough to the tree. It will not have my daughter as well.”
Horada’s hand stilled for a moment, tightening into a fist. But she kept her eyes downcast, and went on to pour herself another goblet of wine.
Orsin helped himself to one of the pastries on the plate. “She is seventeen,” he reminded his mother. “Some would say she is old enough to make up her own mind.”
To his surprise, instead of arguing the point further, Procella leaned
CHAPTER THREE
I
The fire seemed hungry, Orsin thought. It chomped greedily on the kindling in the hearth, filling the hall with snaps and crackles as it leapt to life. The flames flowed over the large log in the centre like an orange cloak billowing in the wind. He watched as the log gradually caught light, the bark splintering and turning black, the odd leaf still attached to the twig on the top curling and then turning to ash.
How odd that it seemed alive. Fire had enchanted him for as long as he could remember, and he could vividly recall the beating he had received from the steward who found him playing with a tinderbox in the barn. The straw had caught alight and the barn had nearly burned down, but luckily he had escaped untouched, only to have his backside whipped. Now he understood why he had been beaten, but at the time he had seethed with resentment, angry that the steward had not appreciated his fascination for the flame – that he had felt compelled to light it, enticed by the way he could bring a living thing to life and cultivate it, make it grow.
His fascination had continued through his early teens and twice he had been punished for a fire that had got out of hand. Over the past few years, other things had occupied his mind, his brain and body tiring in physical training at which he excelled, and in women, of whom he had also become something of an expert.
Lately, however, some of his fascination had returned. He had never spoken of it to anyone, aware that his absorption was unusual and that others did not feel the same way. He could not understand how they were not captivated by it. He watched the flame lick over the log, sensual in its caress, like a passionate lover, consuming and obsessive. A hunger grew within him, and he shifted in his chair. He would visit the tavern later after finishing the evening meal. Find a woman there to cool his blood.
“Orsin!”
His head snapped up. His mother was glaring at him, and Julen’s lips were twisted in a wry smile. “What?” he said defensively.
“I do swear you are selectively deaf,” said his mother. “And just as stupid, sometimes. Have you not heard a word I have said?”
He propped his feet on the chair next to him. “I heard you. I just did not care.”
Horada, sitting at the end of the table a little away from them, bit her lip to stifle a smile. Procella continued to glare at him. Orsin finished off his ale, used to his mother’s wrath. She had always been stern, but since his father had died she had become even more short-tempered. He put down his tankard and softened a little as Julen raised his eyebrows at him. His brother had told him of her worry about Horada. And he did love and admire his mother, in spite of her sometimes shrewish nature.
“You said you both had another dream last night,” he relayed. “About Heartwood.”
“Yes.” Procella’s face etched with worry as she glanced at her daughter. “She asked me again this morning to take her there. I refused of course. Now she is ignoring me.”
Horada, who could quite obviously hear every word being said, continued to pick at the strawberries on her plate, not looking up.
Orsin shrugged and turned his gaze back to his mother. “Perhaps you should let her go. Find out what the Arbor wants with her.”
Procella banged her goblet on the table and leaned forward. “And let the same thing happen to her that happened to my husband? My family has given enough to the tree. It will not have my daughter as well.”
Horada’s hand stilled for a moment, tightening into a fist. But she kept her eyes downcast, and went on to pour herself another goblet of wine.
Orsin helped himself to one of the pastries on the plate. “She is seventeen,” he reminded his mother. “Some would say she is old enough to make up her own mind.”
To his surprise, instead of arguing the point further, Procella leaned
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