Child of Flame

by Kate Elliott

  “They’re going to wrap up the line of march one legion at a time, from the rear.” Heribert was white in the face, breathing hard, as he grabbed Blessing’s arm and tugged her up to the top of the knoll.

  “Won’t go!” cried Blessing, waving her wooden sword, which she had managed to salvage from the overturned wagon. “I have to fight, too!”

  Anna slapped her on the rump. That got her going.

  All across the clearing, Quman continued to upset and loot the captured baggage. The leader, now on a new mount, began organizing the attack against the knoll. Riders spread out in a circle around the knoll and moved in. Near the top Heribert found an old oak with a bit of a hollow burned out, where some traveler had once hidden out from a storm. Anna shoved Blessing in against her protests and stood with her own body blocking the opening.

  The eight slaves had brought Bayan’s mother, discreetly concealed in her litter, to the top of the knoll. Now they crouched around her.

  Anna smelled rain, approaching fast.

  Quman riders closed. Because their arrows came from all directions, it was impossible to find a tree that could protect on all sides. Some lord’s concubine, a woman with beautiful blonde hair now fallen free over her shoulders, began to curse and throw stones at them—until she was shot dead through the chest.

  Lewenhardt and the other archers made them pay dearly. Every arrow Lewenhardt loosed struck human, or horse flesh. The Quman were no fools. Every person on the knoll who picked up a bow was quickly dropped by a hail of arrows. Many of them aimed specifically for the young archer, but he had a way of shifting, almost like a twitch, that moved whatever part of his body was endangered out of the path of the incoming arrow. Still, he bled from a dozen scratches on his thighs and arms. A young boy, a carter’s son, wounded in the leg, scrabbled about gathering spent arrows and placing them at Lewenhardt’s feet.

  But even with the wagon redoubt, gaps loomed. Even with a strong cohort of Lions and various stragglers, the Quman outnumbered them, and as far as Anna could tell, their enemies had no shortage of arrows.

  Five Quman riders made a sortie for one of the gaps, where Thiadbold himself with a brace of Lions held the opening with shields raised. The enemy fired at the men’s feet, all they could see except the tips of their helms.

  “At them!” shouted Captain Thiadbold, leaping forward with an arrow quivering in the sole of his boot. He hurled his spear, taking one of the Quman in the throat as his men surged forward with him. Well-placed ax blows caught arms or legs, and Lions dragged three of the riders down to the ground, where they died in a flurry of blows. The last one fought his horse round, thinking to flee, but old Gotfrid had readied his throwing ax, and he threw it with all his might. The rider slumped forward with the handle of the ax sticking out from between the wings and the blade embedded through split plates of lamellar armor.

  To the right, another group of Lions tried a similar sally, but as they lurched forward, their leader was caught in the eye by an arrow. Dismayed, his companions scrambled back for cover.

  The arrows kept coming. It seemed like between one breath and the next, fully a third of the Lions lay dead or dying and most of the others were wounded several times over. But they would never surrender. They endured the storms of arrows, waiting for that moment when their spears and axes could bite. But there were so many gaps now, too many to hold.

  “Look,” said Heribert, but Anna had already seen it.

  Rain swept toward them over the treetops.

  “Let me see!” shrieked Blessing, her voice muffled within the oak hollow. Her small fists pummeled the back of Anna’s legs as she fought to get out.

  The Quman riders pressed in. Some grabbed the carts and dragged them back while others attacked. Old Gotfrid dropped his shield so that he could concentrate solely on his spear work. His spear point snapped Quman faceplates and caught men in their vulnerable throats. He did not hesitate to strike horse or rider. He was a veteran who did not waste his energy. He did not throw half the blows of the younger Lions, but each one counted. Gotfrid’s companions defended him with their shields, well aware of the damage he would do if they could keep him alive.

  The eagle rider bore down on Thiadbold’s group, which held a gap between a wagon and a cart. The ox which had once filled much of that space lay dying from numerous arrow wounds. The horse had been cut free and had bolted away. As the Quman leaped the ox carcass, the eagle rider struck at Thiadbold. Thiadbold caught the blow on his shield and pressed in, driving his sword deep into the horse’s belly. The rider kicked him in the head as the horse collapsed. Another Quman thrust, striking Thiadbold in the side. Thiemo struck the spear haft down with his sword, splintering it, as Matto, Surly, and Everwin waded in with their swords. They traded a fierce exchange of blows, but Everwin staggered back, his face covered in blood. Den, who still had an arrow protruding from his side, joined the fight, as did Johannes, and Chustaffus with his one good arm.

  Then it was hard to see, or maybe that was only tears in her eyes. Was it starting to rain?

  The remaining Lions gave ground step by hard fought step. Captain Thiadbold was back up, accounting himself well; his mail had saved him. Anna whispered a prayer, brushing her hand in the remembered gesture, a circle drawn around her Circle of Unity.

  Remembering that day long ago in the cathedral in Gent, when the Eika prince had let them go. Remembering the way her voice had choked in her throat when, in Steleshame, she had heard Count Lavastine’s heir tell her that he had once given a wooden Circle, such as hers, such as the one the Eika prince had worn at his throat, to an Eika prince. But she had not spoken; she had not asked, to see if it were the same prince. She had not closed the Circle.

  That was why God had punished her.

  In ten more steps, the remaining Lions would close in on her position, and then they would have no farther to retreat. Heribert raised his staff, making ready to fight, with the most desolate look on his face that Anna could imagine. He looked brave enough, but it was obvious from his stance that he would be no threat to his attackers. He glanced at her. “Try if you can to be taken prisoner, with the princess,” he said in a low voice. “If you ever see him again, tell the prince I died fighting.”

  Raindrops spit on her face. Out in the clearing it had begun to rain harder, but Quman riders continued their looting undisturbed.

  So far away, as in a dream, she heard the ring of Wendish horns calling a retreat.

  The Quman were going to kill them all.

  Not even the Kerayit princess’ weather magic could save them now.

  The tip of the wooden sword poked out between Anna’s calves. Blessing wriggled and shoved forward as Anna staggered; the little girl thrust out her head, blinking as she surveyed the gruesome scene, as the wave of sound, grunts, cries, sobs, calm commands, and the screams of wounded horses, swept over her, as raindrops slipped down her little cheeks.

  “Don’t worry, Anna,” she said in her self-assured voice. “My Daddy is coming to save us.”

  2

  THE gatekeeper who guarded the narrow entrance to the sphere of Aturna looked remarkably like Wolfhere.

  “Liath!” The gatekeeper held his spear across the open portal to bar her way. Black storm clouds swirled beyond; she could distinguish no landmarks on the other side. “Where are you? I have been looking for you!”

  “What do you want from me, Wolfhere? Who is my mother? Tell me the truth!” As she stepped forward, the tip of the arrow she held in her right hand brushed through him, and he dissolved as does an image reflected in water when it is disturbed. Had it really been Wolfhere, seeking her with Eagle’s sight, or only a phantom sent to tease her, or test her? Frowning, she passed through the gate.

  Storm winds bit into her naked skin. Blades of ice stung her as she pressed forward, leaning into the howling gale. It was so bitterly cold. Gusts of icy wind boomed and roared. Her hair streamed out behind her, and she had to shelter her eyes with an arm, raised up before
her face. In her left hand she held Seeker of Hearts and in her right her last arrow, fletched with the gold feather Eldest Uncle had given her. These alone remained of all the things she had started with. These alone, but for her own self.

  The cold winds numbed her. Her lips cracked, became so stiff that she could not even speak to call out, to see if any creature lived in these harsh realms that might rescue her. Shivering, aching, battered by the freezing gale, she could only battle forward as her fingers went dead, as the pain of cold seeped all the way down to her bones.

  It was so cold, a vale of ice.

  She was going to die out here. Not this night, but another one, tomorrow perhaps. There weren’t even the pigs to keep her warm. She was going to die, or she was going to turn around and walk back into the chamber where Hugh was waiting for her, just as she had done that winter night in Heart’s Rest when she was only sixteen. Just as she had done that awful night, when she had given in to him because it was the only way to save her own life.

  But it hadn’t been the only way. Da had hidden her power from her in order to conceal her from Anne, who was hunting her. Da had never taught her how to fight, only how to hide and how to run. Hugh had understood that better than she ever had.

  She wasn’t a powerless girl any longer, frightened and helpless.

  She called fire, and the cold blast of icy air split around her. The clouds melted away like fog under the sun.

  Aturna’s realm dazzled her. She walked along the floor of a vast ravine, its distant walls so far away that their height was lost in a haze. Waterfalls spilled down on either side, flashing, blinding, as light sparkled off the falling waters. Daimones danced within the brilliant waters, too bright to see except for one with salamander eyes. Ahead, a pair of huge gold wheels thrummed around and around, the source of the wind.

  In the vale of Aturna, home to the sage of wisdom, nothing was hidden from her, who could now look long and deeply within herself into the cold darkness that weighed her down.

  She had relied on the strength of others for too long: Da and Hanna, Wolfhere and Sanglant, even Anne, who had made promises and never kept them. Even Jerna, whom she had ripped out of the world and back into the sphere of Erekes when she had needed her help to cross the poisonous sea. In the end, she could never reach out fully to others: not to Hanna and Ivar, who had befriended her with honest hearts; not to Sister Rosvita, who had sensed a kindred soul; not to Thiadbold and the Lions who had offered her comradeship; not to Alain, who had given her unconditional trust. Not even to her beloved Sanglant and her precious Blessing. She could not trust them until she trusted herself.

  Almost as if that last thought brought it into existence, a staircase came into view, hewn of marble and rising up between the golden wheels. Tendrils of mist played around its base, and its height was lost in a bright blaze of fire, like a ring of flaming swords: the entrance, she knew at once, to the realm of the fixed stars.

  Home.

  The unexpected thought made her stumble to a halt. Her heart hammered alarmingly. She thought she would keel over and die right there, because she could not catch her breath. Flushed and sweating with exhilaration and astonishment, hope, and dismay all at once, she crouched to steady herself, resting her fist on the ground.

  A white-haired figure sat with head bowed on the first step. He was dressed in a plain cleric’s tunic. As she caught her breath, rose, and stepped forward, he raised his head.

  It was Wolfhere.

  Nay, not Wolfhere. That was only the guise she saw, the man with secrets who knew more than he let on.

  “You are the guardian of this sphere,” she said. “I would ascend the steps.”

  “You have come a long way,” he agreed, “but I warn you, you have only one arrow left. Use it more wisely than you did your others. There is one close to you whom you can save, if you can learn to see with your wits rather than act on your fears.”

  He moved aside.

  She hesitated. Was it a trick? A test? But she had to ascend to reach her goal. No other way was open to her now.

  She set her foot on the first step. “I thank you,” she said to the guardian, but he was already gone.

  The steps felt smooth and easy beneath her bare feet. As she climbed, sparks and flashes like lightning shot off the thrumming wheels that spun high in the air on either side of the stairs. The brilliant light of the wheels grew more intense as she climbed. Through clouds of gold drifting above she saw into a chamber of infinite size. Nests of blue-white stars glowed hotly, the birthplace of angels. Thick clots of dust made strange and tangled shapes where they billowed across an expanse of blackness. A faint wheel of stars, like an echo of the golden wheels on either side of her, spun with aching slowness. Beyond all this lay silence, deep, endless, unfathomable.

  A flash of blue fire caught her gaze: the crossroads between spheres and worlds. Its flames shuddered and flared, bright one instant and then fading as if that fire pulsed in time to the heart of the universe. In flashes she saw through the distant crossroads into other worlds, other times, other places, glimpses half seen and quickly gone:

  a girl standing with her arms full of flowers; a woman seated at a desk, writing with a strange sort of quill on sheets of paper, not vellum, her black hair pulled back in a ponytail and her dark coat cut in a style Liath has never seen; Count Lavastine’s effigy in stone, with two stone hounds in faithful attendance; an egg cracking as a barbed claw pokes through from inside the shell; the slow trail of molten rivers of fire as they shift course; a centaur woman galloping across the steppe, expression alive to the beauty of speed and power; a woman dressed only in a corded skirt, suckling twin infants; Emperor Taillefer himself, proud and strong, at the height of his power, as he watches his favorite daughter invested as biscop.

  Inside a pavilion, Ironhead’s concubine, the pretty one with black hair, smooths Lord John’s hair back from the crown of his head in a gentle gesture as he sleeps. Then she takes a stake and, with a hammer blow, drives it through his temple so hard that the point of the stake cleaves his skull to pierce the carpet below. Blood pools, changing color as it snakes out in a stream along the ground, drawing her gaze along its twisting length until Liath sees the man watching from a shadowed corner in the tent.

  Hugh.

  He lifts his head, as if he has sensed her. She bolts down another branch of the crossroads, forward in time.

  Longships ghost out of the fog wreathing the Temes River. With heartless efficiency, silent and almost invisible, they beach along the strand below the walled city of Hefenfelthe. The great hall built by the Alban queens rises like the prow of a vast ship beyond the wall, long considered impregnable. Because of the power of the queens and their tree sorcerers, Hefenfelthe has never been taken by fighting. Eika warriors swarm from the ships as mist binds the river, concealing them. A torch flares by the river gate. The chain rumbles, and as the vanguard races up to the walls, the gate swings open. What cannot be gained by force can be gained by treachery. Stronghand pauses as three men dressed in the rich garb of merchants scurry out of the gate, signaling frantically as they hurry forward to welcome the army they betrayed their own queen for. His lead warriors cut down the traitors. No man can serve two masters. If they would betray their own people for mere coin, then they can never be trusted. His army pours past the bodies, although dogs pause to feed on the corpses and have to be driven forward. He waits on the shore as the sun rises, still obscured by mist. The first alarms sound from inside the city, but it is already too late. Threads of smoke begin to twist upward into the heavens, blending and melding.…

  She paused, aware again that she stood far up the stairs, the sphere of Aturna glittering below, beyond the golden wheels, and the universe opening beyond her.

  A silver belt twisted through the gulf, marking the path of the country of the Aoi, now drawn inexorably back toward Earth. It was impossible to tell one side of the ribboned surface from the other or if it even had two sides at all but only
one infinite gleaming surface. With her gaze she followed it down past the spheres descending below, each gateway a gem cut into a sphere’s bright curve, all the way down to where Earth lay exposed below her, too broad to encompass with her outstretched arms here at the height of the spheres. Its curve, too, was evident where the line of advancing dawn receded to the west and night rose in the east. Taillefer’s crown gleamed, spread out across the land, seven crowns each with seven points, the great wheel set across many realms and uncounted leagues: the vast loom of magic.

  She saw:

  Far below a battle rages. On a knoll a child brandishes a useless wooden sword while all around her Lions fight and die under the assault of winged riders, the Quman. Is that Thiadbold, calling out commands? The Lions fight bravely, but their numbers thin as the winged riders attack again, and again. It is only a matter of time.

  As though struck by lightning, she recognized that dark-haired girl. She plunged down into the world below the moon, bow in hand.

  How has Blessing come to be so old, four years of age at least? Ai, Lady! Has so much time passed? Has the child grown, knowing nothing of her mother? Will she die likewise, motherless and abandoned?

  Liath sets her arrow to the bow, makes ready to draw.

  But whom shall she shoot? There are fifty, or a hundred, or two hundred Quman riders swarming around the knoll and, farther away, another equally large group attacks and routs the rear of a legion of Wendish soldiers. She recognizes the banner of Saony, but this is only a minor distraction.

  She must save her child.

  Yet against so many, one arrow will not be enough to save her.

  To shoot now is to waste the only weapon she has left.

  Ai, Lord. Where is Sanglant?

  They had at last gained a good view of the plain and the Quman army set in battle order not far beyond when one of Bayan’s Ungrians came galloping up.

  “My lord prince!” The captain had served in several embassies and spoke Wendish well. “Prince Sanglant! Prince Bayan commands you to turn your line about—”