Chapter 4

I found a secluded house deep within the city and settled myself there.

The coin my father had pressed into my hands was enough to live on without worry, but I had no intention of idly draining my purse until it lay empty. I needed to put down roots.

I began to venture out, learning the shape and rhythm of the city.

The people of Frostgard wore a weathered resolve upon their faces, carved there by years of biting wind and bitter frost.

They were nothing like the folk of Valdrada, who loved to linger over talk of romance and verse.

Here, conversations turned upon the price of grain, the latest skirmishes along the border, and which victory General Hawthorne had lately claimed.

Alexander's name was spoken with something close to reverence, honoured almost as a god's name. He was the pillar upon which all of Frostgard leaned, the source of their faith and their fortitude.

I listened to a storyteller at the tavern weave his tales, spinning vivid accounts of the general's legendary deeds.

Three years ago, when two hundred thousand enemy soldiers had marched upon the border, he had ridden out with only three thousand cavalry.

He laid an ambush along the Blackwater River. And in a single night, he cut down tens of thousands, sending the enemy commander fleeing in naked terror.

Two years ago, when a withering drought fell upon Vastmarch and the harvest shrivelled to nothing, he threw open the granaries and distributed grain with his own hands.

He even led an expedition himself to channel water down from the snow-capped mountains a hundred miles distant, delivering an entire city from ruin.

It was whispered that Alexander was never seen without his signature silver mask, and that no living soul had ever glimpsed the face beneath it.

They said he cut men down without blinking, that his methods were brutal, and that his name alone was enough to send enemy soldiers scrambling for their lives.

They said he was as cold as midwinter iron, utterly untouched by romance, with not a single mistress or concubine in his entire household.

The more I heard, the firmer my resolve grew.

This was the sort of man I wished to meet. A true champion, someone who could shoulder the fate of a people and hold an entire land against its enemies.

I didn't want the weak-willed sort who hid behind a woman's skirts, making vows he never kept, unable even to remember the date of his own wedding.

I began to plot how I might cross Alexander's path.

Marching straight up to General Hawthorne's manor would accomplish nothing but making a fool of myself.

I needed an opening, a way to catch his notice.

I shed the velvets and embroidered gowns of Valdrada and dressed instead in the rough, sturdy wool and linen the northern women wore.

I put away every piece of gold and silver, every string of pearls, and bound up my hair with nothing more than a simple leather cord.

I was no longer Charlotte, daughter of the Royal Preceptor.

I was only another face in Frostgard, an ordinary woman, as unremarkable as any other.

I took possession of a small, narrow shopfront on Herbalist's Row in the west quarter of the city and made plans to open a healing house.

My father was the Royal Preceptor, but he had also mastered the healing arts. Growing up at his side, I had absorbed much of what he knew.

In Valdrada, my skill with simples and tinctures would have counted for nothing.

But here in Vastmarch, where physicians and medicines were scarce, perhaps my knowledge might truly be of use.

On the day my healing house opened its doors, snowflakes drifted softly from a pale grey sky. It was bitterly cold.

I stood in the doorway, watching the crowds pass along the street, yet deep within my chest a fire burned steadily and warmly.

I told myself that from this day forward, I must stand on my own two feet. I must become someone worthy of holding my head high.

*****

I named the little shop The Healing Hearth.

I hoped that every soul who stepped through its doors might find safety and smooth paths ahead, and that perhaps, in some small measure, I might find a measure of peace for myself.

At first, hardly anyone came.

The people of Frostgard placed their trust in old healers whose families had practised the craft for generations.

To them, I was an outsider, far too young to inspire confidence, and they regarded me with open suspicion.

I did not allow myself to grow impatient. Each day, I sat quietly within The Healing Hearth, reading and blending herbs.

I reviewed the medical texts I had studied under my father's tutelage, refreshing my knowledge page by page.

The fierce cold of Vastmarch and years of ceaseless warfare meant that aching joints and all manner of old wounds plagued most soldiers.

And so I adjusted several formulas to suit the northern climate and the herbs I could gather locally.

I brewed a medicinal wine for rheumatism and prepared a salve for cuts and deep bruises.

I placed these at the very front of the shop and set the price as low as I could afford.

At last, my first customer walked through the door. He was an old veteran with a pronounced limp.

He had taken a wound in battle years before, and whenever the weather turned raw, the ache sank clear to the bone.

He bought a bottle of my medicinal wine, reckoning it could do no harm to try.

I instructed him to warm the wine and apply it to his leg each night before sleep, and told him he should feel some improvement within a fortnight.

He limped out, still wearing a look of doubt.

A fortnight later, he returned to The Healing Hearth.

And this time, he did not come alone. A cluster of other veterans, still wearing the faded remnants of their old uniforms, trailed in behind him.

The moment he stepped inside, he bowed low before me. "My lady, this remedy of yours is a wonder!

"My leg has pained me for more than ten years, and this is the first time it has ever felt truly at ease."

That day, every bottle of medicinal wine I possessed was snatched up in a rush, gone before I could draw breath.

And like that, the name of The Healing Hearth began to spread through the streets of Frostgard.

As word travelled, more people began to appear at my door, most of them from military families or old soldiers long retired.

They were plain-spoken and cheerful, always settling their fees without delay and never causing the slightest trouble.

Sometimes they would bring me small homemade offerings, a round of coarse bread, a wedge of hard cheese, or a handful of wild mushrooms gathered from the hills.

Here, I felt a genuine, unadorned warmth, a sense of belonging I had never once known in Valdrada.

There was no hollow flattery, no hidden motives or murmured intrigues. There were only simple, honest souls who gave their warmth freely and asked nothing in return.