Spark the Fire

by Melissa McShane

  She heard running footsteps less than a beat before something slammed into her flank, sending a jolt of pain through her leg. “What—” she said, turning. One of Harshod’s companions darted back, brandishing a club with a chunk of jasper bound to its tip by long strands of copper wire. She turned back just as Harshod flung himself between her legs, grabbing the sapphire.

  She kicked the other male in the stomach, flinging him away, and then Harshod was clinging to her arm and scrabbling his way up to her shoulder. She tried to grab him, but the pain in her leg dulled her reflexes, and in the space of two beats he was perched in the notch where Rokshan rode. More pain exploded at the back of her head, but it was not as terrible as before, and after a moment’s blindness she realized she was still upright and could move.

  “That’s it,” she snarled, and took to the sky.

  She sped upward for a dozen beats, with Harshod clinging to her and pressing the sapphire into her vulnerable spot. The pain grew so intense she was afraid of blacking out again, of falling out of the sky and smashing both of them. But that was unacceptable. She swallowed the urge to vomit and dove, nearly vertically, faster and faster. She pulled up at the last possible moment and rose, again nearly vertically. The sapphire fell away from her neck as Harshod gripped her ruff with both hands. Lamprophyre snarled at him. This was only the beginning.

  Half-blind, she leveled off twenty dragonlengths above the ground and flew away from Tanajital, faster and faster until she heard Harshod groan with the effort of holding on. Then she banked sideways and rolled. Harshod’s weight slipped, one of his hands let go her ruff, and he dangled helplessly from her neck. Lamprophyre shrugged her shoulders, but he clung to her as if he’d bound himself there. Frustrated, Lamprophyre rolled again, and for the briefest moment felt his other hand reach up to grab hold. Then he was gone.

  Dizzy from her aerial maneuvers, at first his absence meant nothing to her addled brain. Then she came to herself with a jolt and dove after him. She still couldn’t see clearly, and to her Harshod was an oblong shape falling faster than she could fly in that state. She heard him cry out once before hitting the ground, and it struck her to the heart. Slowing her pace, she landed beside him, swaying once before collapsing.

  “Help…”

  She sat up, astonished. He was still alive? Blood pooled beneath his body, his bones were clearly shattered, but his lips were moving in a soundless plea.

  Fury rushed through her. He had tried to kill her and Rokshan both, had attacked her more than once—and he had the nerve to beg her for his life. She pushed herself to her feet. “No,” she said in the firmest voice she could manage. “Sparing you would make a mockery of everyone who’s suffered for your actions. And you’d never stop trying to hurt me and my people. You don’t deserve my pity.”

  Harshod’s eyes met hers. Then the light drained from them, and he sagged, limp and motionless. Lamprophyre closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to control the dizziness. Then she looked around. She’d flown far from Tanajital, far from the cultivated fields, but she needed to leave this place before anyone saw her with Harshod’s body. Explaining why his death was earned would be virtually impossible.

  The two who’d been with Harshod were gone when she returned, as were the other artifacts. She felt too tired and sick to care about tracking them down. She flew in slow circles, low to the ground, sniffing for the sapphire, and found it some dozen dragonlengths from Harshod’s body in a patch of grass whose sweetness clashed horribly with the odor of the sapphire. Gingerly, using just two claws, she picked it up. Nothing happened. Maybe it was designed specifically to affect that strange sensitive spot at the back of her head. She dropped it in the middle of the Green River anyway. It was not a weapon she wanted to hand over to any adept.

  Flying slowly helped clear her head, and once she was past the river, she accelerated until she was flying at full speed over the roofs of Tanajital. She needed to find Rokshan, to wake him up. If a healer could make him unconscious, a healer could rouse him. Then they would convince Ekanath not to go to war. However afraid and angry the king was, surely he wasn’t stupid as well.

  She approached the palace and flew around it, circling the training grounds. No soldiers filled the space, and Lamprophyre’s hopes rose. Rokshan had woken on his own and told everyone the truth. There would be no war. She clung to that as she finished her circle and landed outside the palace’s enormous front entrance.

  The grand doors were shut, and no human was visible anywhere. Lamprophyre felt the wood all over, looking for a way to open the doors. In the embassy, the back doors had handles that let you pull the doors open when you were on the inside. These doors were flat and blank, and she couldn’t tell which direction they were made to open. Aside from smelling faintly of a spicy wood she didn’t recognize, they were completely uninteresting and very bland compared to the bright gilt of the palace.

  She ran her hands down the center and found a grain too regular and straight to be natural. She sniffed it. This was familiar; it was the place where the two halves of the door joined. Interesting, but not useful to her since she couldn’t figure out how to open it.

  She pounded on the door with her fist. “Somebody open this door!” she shouted. “I need to see Prince Rokshan. Please, someone help!”

  No one answered. She listened, but didn’t hear any thoughts nearby. The possibility that the palace was empty passed through her mind, and she dismissed it. The palace was large enough to hold many humans, and there was no way they’d all left it at once. They were just hiding from her. Frustrated, she drummed on the door with both hands and shouted, “I don’t want to break this thing down, but I really need to see Prince Rokshan! Let me in!”

  Still nothing. The door rattled on its hinges, bouncing slightly and revealing the crack where the doors met. Lamprophyre regarded it more closely. She pushed hard on one half of the door, and the crack appeared again. Carefully, she fitted her claws into the crack and pulled, not very hard so she wouldn’t simply tear through the wood. The door moved slightly, then stopped. It felt as if it were caught on something.

  Lamprophyre looked farther down. She could barely see past the wider crack, not big enough for her to fit her hand inside, but there was something there, a piece of wood lying perpendicular to the crack. That didn’t make sense. If it were there to stop someone opening the door—

  Lamprophyre felt stupid. These doors opened inward, not outward, and the thing the door was caught on was its own hinge. She pulled on the door again, once more exposing the inner beam, and slid her claws through the gap. With a slash, she cut a deep groove into the beam, not quite enough to cut it in half, but enough to weaken it. She removed her hand, took a deep breath, and shoved the door as hard as she could. The door burst open, snapping the beam with a loud crack and making Lamprophyre stumble from the sudden lack of opposition. She was in.

  The door was easily wide enough to admit her, and the cave—the hall—beyond was even wider. Her toe claws clicked across the hard, flat stones whose glossy surface didn’t smell like real stone, and she had to duck her head to avoid a metal web gleaming with fire that lit the hall dimly, as if the king depended on fireflies to provide him light. Staircases wide enough to admit her, if the steps had been deep enough to fit her feet, stood to the left and right, ascending to a couple of doors much too small for her. Another arched entrance lay straight ahead between the staircases. She might be able to fit inside that entrance if she crouched low and kept her wings furled tight. Aside from that, she saw no way for her to exit and no humans to tell her where Rokshan was.

  “Hello?” she called out. “Someone? Please, I need to speak with Prince Rokshan.”

  Distantly, she heard thoughts, mostly terrified ones. Entering the palace was a bad idea if she wanted the humans to trust her, but she was certain they’d brought Rokshan here, and without him, she had no chance of stopping the war. But there were other minds, thinking invasion and no idea what she was thi
nking and Rokshan dying, and that last one filled her with desperation. “Help me, please!” she shouted.

  A female with long black hair appeared at the top of the left-hand staircase. “Calm down,” Anchala said. “You can’t help him if you scare everyone.”

  “I’m not trying to scare anyone,” Lamprophyre said, frustration taking the place of desperation. “Where’s Rokshan? Is he—he’s not badly hurt, is he?”

  “He’s alive, but not much more than that. What burned him?”

  “An erythronite ring. It’s an artifact. A Fanishkorite wanted to make it look like I burned Rokshan so Gonjiri would attack the dragons and leave itself open to Fanishkorite attack.” Now it sounded so obvious she felt incredibly stupid.

  Anchala looked at Lamprophyre without approaching. “And you’re here to stop that happening.”

  “Yes.” Lamprophyre didn’t like the sound of Anchala’s voice, flat and emotionless to match her tired, grieving thoughts.

  “It’s too late,” Anchala said. “The Army’s troops crossed the border into dragon territory two hours ago.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “But I’ve only been gone a few hundred beats!” Lamprophyre said, and realized it had been quite a bit longer than that, however long human hours were. “I have to stop them.”

  “How?” Anchala said. “My father believes you attacked Rokshan. He sent word to the troops on the border that they were to attack the dragons. If you try to reach them to convince them otherwise, they’ll attack you.”

  “I have an artifact.” Lamprophyre tapped the topaz, making a little tink noise with her claw. “It protected me against a pyrite blast.”

  Anchala was shaking her head. “You haven’t seen the weapons the Army has,” she said. “The pyrite artifacts are huge, easily three feet across and covered in crystals. They were developed to use against Fanishkor, but I’m sure the Army will take advantage of the coincidence.”

  “But Rokshan said they were intended to attack a human. That they were small.”

  “He might have believed so, but he’s not involved with the weapons development branch of the Army, and I doubt he’s aware of the large versions they created. Maybe a blast from those won’t kill a dragon outright, but they will certainly incapacitate one. Even an artifact won’t be enough.”

  “Stones,” Lamprophyre swore. “Then it will be a real battle when they come up against my people.”

  “It will. And…” Anchala’s gaze drifted sideways. “Even Rokshan telling Father the truth might not be good enough. I think Father fears dragons so much he might want an excuse to get rid of them.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We have to try. Can’t anyone wake Rokshan?”

  “He was badly burned and his lungs were damaged. If the healer wakes him, it will interrupt the healing process.”

  Lamprophyre cursed again. “How long will it take?”

  “I don’t—wait here.” Anchala disappeared through the doorway.

  Lamprophyre settled on her haunches and waited, thrumming her fingers on the strange not-stone slabs covering the floor. If she’d known the Army had such large versions of the pyrite weapon, she could have demanded they be removed from where they could threaten dragons. Having them so close to the mountains wasn’t the act of an ally. She could even have flown north and destroyed them—but it wouldn’t have mattered, would it, because she couldn’t destroy the knowledge of how to make them, and if they were enemies, eventually humans would use them against dragons no matter what she did.

  The sound of many humans approaching from outside roused her from a doze she’d fallen into despite her anxiety, weariness overcoming fear. Soldiers. Of course she should have expected soldiers. As far as they were concerned, she’d attacked the palace and intended to finish off Rokshan or kill the king or some other horrible, stupid act of violence. She turned around and shoved the doors closed, then scooted back so her body’s weight kept them shut. That was better than a flimsy wooden bar.

  A quiver shuddered through the wood as something thumped on it. Despite her fear and exhaustion, she smiled at the image of dozens of soldiers pounding on the door with their ineffectual fists. It would be less funny if they had a pyrite artifact like Anchala had described, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was that they didn’t break through and attack her until Rokshan had stopped this whole nightmare.

  Eventually, she heard Anchala returning with a companion. The human male who entered beside her was nervous, but not terrified, and his thoughts of completely believe something her size could burn a man nearly to death were emotionless, as if he were calculating how many cows he would need to serve fifty guests. She suppressed her urge to set him straight about what had happened and asked, “Is he the healer?”

  “I am,” the male said. “You have some nerve coming here after what you did to the prince.”

  “I didn’t,” Lamprophyre exclaimed. “Rokshan is my friend. I would never hurt him. What is wrong with all of you humans that you can’t understand friendship?”

  “I told you, Ishay, it was a Fanishkorite plot,” Anchala said. “Lamprophyre needs to know Rokshan’s condition. He’s the only one who can stop Gonjiri going to war against the dragons.”

  “Fanishkorite…” Ishay said. He scratched his head. “I suppose that makes sense, in a terrible way. What proof do you have?”

  “Does that really matter now?” Lamprophyre demanded. “I need to know how long it will be before Rokshan is healed. If the Army was on the border, we don’t have long before it reaches the mountains.” She wished she had a better sense for how fast the Army could move, how far it was in human distances to the mountains—she knew so little, and her lack of knowledge might get people killed.

  “Oh, it will be weeks before he’s fully healed,” Ishay said.

  “That means at least fourteen days,” Anchala said, seeing Lamprophyre’s confusion.

  “That’s too long.” Lamprophyre let out an impatient burst of smoke. “Can’t you do anything to make it faster?”

  “His lungs are healed, so I can wake him at any time,” Ishay said, “but the longer he’s unconscious, the less the scarring will be. I can’t let him be disfigured just because you’re impatient.”

  “I’m impatient,” Lamprophyre said through gritted teeth, “because without him, Gonjiri will fight the dragons, be weakened, and be overrun by a Fanishkorite invasion. I think Rokshan would care more about stopping that than how he looks.”

  “Even so, that’s not a decision any of us can make for him. I’m sorry.”

  She was going to stab him through the heart and she wouldn’t even regret it, except he was still the one caring for Rokshan. “Then let’s ask him,” she said. “You can wake him long enough to find out what he wants to do, and then if he chooses to continue healing, you can make him unconscious again. Right?”

  “I suppose…” Ishay didn’t sound convinced.

  “Of course you can,” Anchala said. “Let’s go, Ishay.”

  “But I want to be there,” Lamprophyre protested. “And I barely fit inside this hall.”

  “You’ll just have to wait,” Ishay said, conviction returning to his voice. “If you’re right, Prince Rokshan can make this decision without your prodding him and exerting undue influence.”

  “It’s all right, Lamprophyre, I’ll tell him the details,” Anchala said. “Go back to the embassy and someone will come for you when the decision’s been made.” It will be Rokshan. We both know it, she thought.

  “But—” Another thump, a harder one, rattled the wood and echoed dully off the walls. “I can’t leave,” she said triumphantly. “The soldiers will attack me if I do.”

  Anchala looked past Lamprophyre at the doors. “Damn,” she said. “They’re going to break that door down.”

  “Not with me sitting in front of it. Go, get Rokshan. He’ll convince the king, and the soldiers will stand down if the king tells them to.” Lamprophyre settled herself more firmly against the do
ors.

  Ishay was already gone. Anchala gave the doors one last look, then followed him.

  The thumping was more regular now. Lamprophyre listened to the soldiers’ thoughts. There were enough of them that they should have been incomprehensible, but the nearest ones, at least, were so focused on what they were doing that they all thought the same: lift, rush, SLAM, down, lift, rush, SLAM. She wondered what they’d found to beat on the door, because even a hundred soldiers all hitting it with their fists at once couldn’t produce such a pounding.

  A sharper crack sounded above the dull thump, and the left-hand door moved enough that Lamprophyre felt it. She looked over her shoulder, but saw no sign that the door had been damaged. As she watched, the soldiers struck the doors again, and for just a moment, she saw a line of light between the halves of the door. Her earlier confidence faded. She didn’t know what she would do if they managed to break through. She certainly couldn’t attack them, and they couldn’t hurt her. Maybe they would sit in this room staring at each other until Rokshan arrived.

  She heard rapid footsteps, and she had just sat up and extended herself to listen to the person’s thoughts when Rokshan ran in, his clothes and hair in disarray, his feet bare. “Hurry,” he said. “If we—”

  “Rokshan!” she shrieked, and leaped to her feet, hurrying toward the stairs. She grabbed him around the waist and hugged him the way humans hugged each other, her embrace swallowing him up. “You look—”

  “I don’t want to know,” Rokshan said. “I wouldn’t let them give me a mirror.”

  “But can’t they resume healing you when this is done?”

  Rokshan shrugged. “The longer I wait after the injury…” His voice trailed off, and he stepped away from her. “Time enough to worry about my vanity when we’ve stopped a war.”

  Lamprophyre nodded and swallowed around the sudden lump in her throat. She wasn’t human, to judge human beauty or ugliness, and to her, it didn’t look bad. Streaks of livid burn scars extended from the neck of his shirt up his throat to his chin and along one cheek, and if there was more than that—and there almost certainly was—it was hidden by his clothes, fresh and unburned and smelling of linen rather than charred flesh. But she realized his disorderly hair was as much because parts of it were burned off, and the back of his right hand bore more scars, and she finally understood why humans wept for tragedy, because he would never look the same again.