Page 25 of Hellbound

“All the plants were trimmings from the court physician’s collection. Learn to pick with gloves or bleed like a fool, as I learned,” Varka tossed lazily over her shoulder.

Then they came upon a copse of twisted trees, almost at the edge of the wilderness. A soft and misty drizzle had picked up, smelling of wet stone, roses, and fresh pine.

“Perfect weather, isn’t it?” Varka looked about herself, producing a small tin canister. Ksenia could smell the coffee grounds before she opened it.

“I want a cup of coffee—start a fire.”

Ksenia gaped at her. “Start a fire? With what? Wet kindling?”

“Figure it out.” Varka settled onto an iron bench at the edge of a covered canopy of trees. “I’m waiting.”

Ksenia huffed, trudging through the sopping underbrush for a fire starter. As a smith, her instincts led her to search for dry, resin-rich woods that could catch easily. She found nothing of the sort.

Ksenia’s palms were rubbed raw from trying to strike a fire between her chosen spindle: a pitiful, waterlogged branch from a nearby tree, and her hearth: a rotted piece of bark she pried from the same trunk. The black lake next to her funneled icy wind across its smooth surface, halting all her progress the moment steam began to rise.

Ksenia huffed, sweat dripping down her neck.

“Well, it looks like you won’t be having any coffee—pity because you’ll need the energy to survive the rest of the day,” Varka drawled as she tore the sticks from Ksenia’s hand, earning her a glare that she overlooked. “You have the right idea, but the wrong materials. Watch me, and do it again.”

Varka retrieved a branch, scraped some bark, and removed a bit of mossy lichen from the trees. She peered around, searching for something before finding a flattened rock anchored into the ground. Plopping her materials down, she began shaping her spindle, straight as an arrow, and got to work with her back to the wind. She patiently spun the spindle in her hands, and at the sign of smoke, added the lichen to the tinder nest, blowing gently to coax a small flame to life.

She transferred the new flame to a bed of moss and leaves at the base of the rock, sheltered from the wind, and brushed her hands clean.

“Not so hard, is it?”

She brewed a single cup of coffee as Ksenia glowered nearby, begrudgingly grateful for the warmth of the fire.

“I used a hollowroot tuber as the spindle along with pine bark, since they tend to burn smokeless. Great for cooking undetected.”

Varka pointed out functional materials hiding in plain sight. The crimson moss that liked to grow on the south side of trees bled a red sap that burned exceptionally well but produced a tremendous amount of smoke—ideal for signaling. The thin leaves of a silvery fern were ideal for compacting into a tinder nest, creating a compact, warm bonfire that burned for an extended period.

Ksenia hadn’t expected this noblewoman to be so capable and willing to get her hands dirty.

By the time they returned to the manor, it was afternoon, and Ksenia was fading fast.

But something caught her eye in the courtyard and she brightened instantly.

“Is that a forge?” She pointed at a smokestack chimney leading down to a squat structure, partially sheltered by a moss-covered overhang off to the side of the manor. It was made of blackened riverstone and timber stained with resin and soot. The apron-style front door was half open, and within, Ksenia could see hammers, aprons, tools, and an anvil.

Varka studied her, debating whether to indulge her. “So you are a smith. I suspected as much with that blade you’re always carrying.” Her eyes dropped to Ksenia’s hip.

Ksenia nodded, carefully. After all, being a blacksmith wasn’t a crime. In fact, it was a profitable line of work.

“If it pleases you and makes you feel more welcome, you can use that forge.”

Ksenia beamed, eager to explore.

“Hold on—you can only use it during your off time.” Varka’s forearm blocked her from going further. Ksenia hadn’t even noticed herself drifting toward the apron doors of the forge.

“Will I even get a day off? With your regimen and the upcoming trials, this feels like the last time I’ll ever be able to lay hands on a hammer. If I’m lucky,” Ksenia grumbled.

Varka ignored the crux of her question. “Luck is only part of it. We’re going to be smarter and more ruthless than your competition.”

Ksenia bit her tongue as she followed Varka toward the manor.

Inside, lunch was being assembled. Ksenia’s keen sense of smell could detect a blackberry reduction, roasted goose, and bitter, charred vegetables. She spied a baker, his stomach distended beneath his apron as he balanced a wooden board of breads and cheeses, making his way into the dining room. Ksenia swallowed thickly: she had to find a way to get food.

She studied the scene and— there, tied through the apron loops at the baker’s waist, was a single skeleton key.