Vera Pallick's Arc

Chapter 1 of 2

For three days Vera Pallick stood at the edge of the frozen field and watched the house. Her white parka hid her against the snow. Inside that house, someone held her daughter. Vera had seen the small shape once at a window, a hand pressed to the glass. She had not moved since. She could not walk closer. The men inside watched the field. If they saw her staring, they would take the child somewhere she could never find. So she stayed still and made herself part of the landscape. But stillness was not a plan. Every hour, the light shifted and the house stared back. At dusk, a warrior crossed the field toward her. He wore dented armor and a red scar cut down one cheek. He carried an axe loose in his hand. Vera knew him. Garrick Ironhelm had fought beside her husband, before her husband died and the child was stolen. He stopped an arm's length away and did not look at the house. "Three days," Garrick said. "You'll freeze before you free her." "If I move, they hide her," Vera said. Her voice cracked from disuse. "They watch the field." Garrick spat into the snow. "Then give them something else to watch." He raised two fingers and whistled, low and sharp. Above the treeline, a fire bird answered. Ember Ashwing dropped from the gray sky, wings burning orange against the cold. The heat rolled off her in waves. Snow hissed to water where sparks fell. Vera had heard of the fire birds. She had never stood beneath one. "She'll draw their eyes," Garrick said. "Every man in that house will run to the roof to save it from burning. You go in through the back." Vera's chest tightened. "And if they carry her out while they run?" "Then you'll be close enough to follow. Not stuck in a field like a fence post." It was the hard choice she had refused for three days. Stay hidden and safe and useless, or move and risk everything at once. She looked at the window where the small hand had pressed the glass. She chose. "Do it," she said. Garrick loosed a second whistle. Ember Ashwing folded her wings and dove. She skimmed the roof and set the thatch alight. Fire climbed fast. Inside the house, men shouted. The front door burst open. Four of them ran out, buckets swinging, faces turned up at the flames. Vera did not watch the fire. She ran. Bent low, she crossed the open snow while every eye pointed at the sky. She reached the back wall and pressed against the cold stone, breathing hard. No shout came. No one had seen her. Through a narrow window she saw a single lamp. Beneath it, a woman held her daughter tight, backing toward an inner door. The child saw Vera's face and opened her mouth to cry out. Vera had crossed the field. Now only one wall and one guard stood between her and her child.