First Ordinance, Tome 1 : Finder

Chapter 1

My voice didn't come until I was nine. With everything I'd heard and witnessed by that time, I knew better than to speak. Orphaned at the age of two and foisted onto the kitchen and housekeeping staff of the palace in Lironis, I mostly kept to myself as I cleaned ashes and soot out of fireplaces every morning. Afterward, I was expected to spend the rest of my day in the kitchen, scrubbing and cleaning.

Early on, they'd called me girl. I have few memories before the age of four, when I was put to work cleaning dishes. I had to stand on a roughly fashioned stool at that age to reach the counter and the wooden tub set upon it, filled with hot, soapy water. Wolter and Irdith hadn't been kind, either, hitting me with long, wooden spoons or ladles if I didn't clean something thoroughly. I learned to do my job quickly and well.

Later, I was set to cleaning hearths, in addition to my other duties. Nine was the age for other things, too—things certainly not pleasant to remember. I began growing what the palace physician called bone spurs on my shoulder blades, and he ordered them cut away using the same nipping tool the smiths used to trim horses' hooves. The procedure is quite painful, leaving my back sore for weeks.

My hair, shaggy as always, was also cut away at the same time, with shears used to cut a horse's mane or tail. My hair is not unmanageably thick, but I did not own a comb at the time. My locks were chopped away each time until I had only three fingers' width of hair left.

What hair remained resembled a wheat field after a storm, with slender stems going in every direction. The unevenness of it never goes unnoticed by the servant boys and the kitchen staff, all of whom tease and ridicule. Each year since I turned nine, the same ritual is performed. My bone spurs (which continue to grow) are cut away every spring, as is my hair.

I can also read and write, although I've never been taught. I've never been given a proper room in the servants' quarters, either. Happily, my ability to read and write coincided directly with my tiny sleeping space. Located inside a nearly forgotten storage room, it was cluttered floor to ceiling, almost, with bits and pieces of things unneeded and long forgotten.

Most of those bits and pieces were books, many of which had empty spaces where pages had been callously ripped away, leaving ragged, gaping holes in my knowledge of history and geography. What was certain, though, was that troubled times had come to Fyris, and few recognized or understood them.

The King, too, had withdrawn any support for the education of Fyris' children, announcing in a decree during my early childhood that Fyrisians could educate their children at home. Grumbling had begun in the kitchen; after all, who would have time to sit with their children and teach them letters after a long day at work?

It didn't matter, eventually. Babies and children began dying a handful of turns later. Physicians were at a loss to explain the deaths—there was no known disease they could readily identify as the underlying cause—the children were either stillborn or sickened and died soon after.

In the midst of Fyris' uncertainty, my miraculous ability to read had not been reported and went unnoticed by those around me, who thought me a mute imbecile much of the time. That ability was also not the one responsible for giving me my name.

My name eventually came from another talent, and once it had been reported, I'd have given anything to take the knowledge of it back.

* * *

When I was six, a minor noble's maid swept into the palace kitchen, frantic and wiping tears away. Her lady had lost a brooch, she'd wept. If she failed to find it, the lady would have her right hand cut away for stealing.

She hadn't stolen the jewelry; I could see that plainly enough. The usual, rough stool was beneath my bare soles while my arms were completely submerged in dishwater as I cleaned pots after breakfast that morning. The maidservant continued to weep and pour out her grief to any who would listen. Every servant inside the kitchen stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfolding before them.

Carefully drying my hands and arms, I hopped down from my stool and went to the distraught maid, tugging on her sleeve. Removing the hands that covered her eyes as she wept, she stared at me. I'd never been so forward with anyone, but the thought of a hand being chopped off revolted my innocent sensibilities. Angrily, she shoved me away.

Unwilling to be deterred from saving a hand, I went back, tugged on her sleeve again and motioned for her to follow me. At first, she said ugly things to me and pointed me back to my place at the dish tub. Refusing to back away from my offer, I beckoned to her again. Eventually she tossed her hands in the air, spouted more insults in my direction (which made the kitchen staff chuckle), and followed me.

Once we'd reached the lady's suite, I pulled the maid, under the watchful eye of her lady and her lady's husband, toward the edge of the bed where we knelt down. Hidden behind the thick, polished wood post at the head of that massive bed lay the missing brooch. It had fallen off the bedside table and rolled behind the leg, where nobody thought to look. The girl squealed with delight and handed it to the lady, who thanked her absently while staring at me. Her husband, taller and standing behind her, stared as well.

I was called Finder after that, and I was visited often by members of the staff and anyone else who couldn't find something, until tragedy struck and Wolter intervened.

* * *