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knew how sharp a brain — and tongue — were hidden behind that deceptively sweet visage. Blackmoore softened slightly and patted her fair head.
    “Of course, child. But take them straight over, understood?”
    “Indeed, sir. Thank you, sir.” She seemed to try to curtsy, thought better of it, and left.
    Tammis closed the door behind her. Taretha turned to him, her large eyes shining. “Oh, Da!” she breathed, her voice soft so it would not carry. “I’m going to get to see him!”
    Tammis’s heart sank. He had hoped she was over this disturbing interest in the orc’s welfare. “No,Taretha. You’re just to hand the books to the guards, is all.”
    Her face fell, and she turned away sadly. “It’s just . . . since Faralyn died . . . he’s the only little brother I have.”
    “He’s not your brother, he’s an orc. An animal, fit only for camps or gladiator battles. Remember that.” Tammis hated disappointing his daughter in anything, but it was for the child’s own good. She mustn’t be noticed having an interest in Thrall. Only ill would come from that if Blackmoore ever found out.
    Thrall was sound asleep, worn out from the excitement of the day’s practice, when the door to his cell slammed open. He blinked sleepily, then got to his feet as one of the guards entered carrying a large sack.
    “Lieutenant says these are for you. He wants you to finish them all and be able to talk with him about them,” said the guard. There was a hint of contempt in his voice, but Thrall thought nothing of it. The guards always spoke to him with contempt.
    The door was pulled closed and locked. Thrall looked at the sack. With a delicacy that belied his huge frame, he untied the knot and reached inside. His fingers closed on something rectangular and firm, but that gave slightly.
    It couldn’t be. He remembered the feel. . . .
    Hardly daring to hope, he pulled it forth into the dim light of his cell and stared at it. It was, indeed, abook. He read the title, sounding it aloud: “The History of the Alliance of Lor-lordaeron.” Eagerly he grabbed a second book, and a third. They were all military history books. As he flipped one open, something fluttered to the straw-covered floor of his cell. It was a small, tightly folded piece of parchment.
    Curious, he unfolded it, taking his time with his large fingers. It was a note. His lips worked, but he did not speak aloud:
Dear Thrall ,
    Master B. has ordered that you have these books I am so excited for you. I did not know he had let you learn how to read. He let me learn how to read too and I love reading. I miss you and hope you are well. It looks like what they are making you do in the courtyard hurts I hope you are all right. I would like to keep talking with you do you want to? If yes, write me a note on the back of this paper and fold it back up in the book I put it in. I will try to come and see you if not keep looking for me Im the little girl who waved at you that one time. I hope you write back!!!!!
    Love Taretha
    P.S. Dont tell anyone about the note we will get in BIG TROUBLE!!!
    Thrall sat down heavily. He could not believe what he had just read. He remembered the small femalechild, and had wondered why she had waved at him. Clearly, she knew him and . . . and thought well of him. How could this be? Who was she?
    He extended a forefinger and gazed at the blunted, clipped nail. It would have to do. On his left arm, a scratch was healing. Thrall jabbed as deeply as he could and after several tries managed to tear the small wound open again. A sluggish trickle of crimson rewarded his efforts. Using his nail as a stylus, he carefully wrote on the back of the note a single word:
    YES.

FOUR
    T hrall was twelve years old when he saw his first orc.
    He was training outside the fortress grounds. Once he had won his first battle at the tender age of eight, Blackmoore had agreed with Sergeant’s plan to give the orc more freedom — at least in training. He still had a