Bursts of Fire

by Susan Forest

  He shrugged amiably and lifted his mug, his face flushed and his collar open. “I have a bottle of mead to keep me warm.” He repositioned the poles, straightening the cases and blankets that formed its roof and walls, dividing his supply of bedding between the shanty and the wagon.

  Janat plucked at Meg’s sleeve. “I don’t trust those men,” she said under her voice.

  “You want to take the road? With wolves and orums?” Meg whispered back. “You’re too sick to walk all night, and Rennikala certainly can’t. We’ll freeze in the snow.”

  “Then why don’t we just turn ourselves over to the king’s men? By the Gods, Meghra, they’ll take care of us. We can live in Holderford Castle with our cousins.” She fought to keep back tears of frustration. “I don’t think I can take any more of this. We weren’t meant to sleep in the snow and eat garbage. We weren’t.”

  “Haven’t you heard a thing anyone’s said?” Meg hissed.

  “I’ve heard it all,” said Janat. “But it isn’t true. It can’t be true.”

  The simple fact was that Meg didn’t understand. Janat had been listening to the men, not just tonight, but whenever men talked big about fighting and getting back their—what? Common men didn’t have lands or rights or freedoms. So Janat had no idea what it was they were trying to get back. She suspected they didn’t, either.

  But Meg was just a bully. She thought Janat couldn’t have a brain in her head. Meg couldn’t see that the men were divided among themselves. They had no plans, no leader to bring them together, no weapons. And certainly, no hope against an army.

  Meg said she was taking them to Coldridge, to Mama’s brother, but that had been weeks ago, and they were still high in the Orumon valley, with no way of knowing how far it was to Coldridge, or how to get there. They were starving, and their desperation was pointless.

  Besides, Janat had met King Artem. He could seem stern, sitting with King Ean at the head of the table, but she’d heard him laugh. He had a deep, infectious laugh.

  Janat eased herself out of the shanty without waking Meg or Rennika.

  In the back of the cart, the long, blanketed lump that was Sulwyn snored softly in the silence of falling flakes. Snow in the air all around shimmered in the dark, settling gently on the drifts.

  The hamlet of Spruce Falls could not have consisted of more than fifty shops and homes, most of which were laid out along the road that had brought them from Carn Archwood, and along a scatter of winding lanes. It would not be difficult to find King Artem’s men.

  Shivering, Janat pulled her rags more tightly about her and followed the road uphill toward the center of the village. Since she’d emptied her stomach, she felt better, if exhausted. She passed the place where the rebels had discussed their plans earlier. A smudge of charcoal stained the snow. The village square was deserted now, though light and music seeped from the tavern windows.

  Further on, up the hill, a spark of firelight lit the road and reflected off the buildings nearby. A sentinel stood guard before the reeve’s house.

  “Who’s there?” The sentinel drew his sword, scanning the terrain in their immediate vicinity. He wore Arcan colors.

  “Friend,” Janat called, halting well away from the light of the fire.

  “Identify yourself.”

  “Janatelle Falkyn, daughter of Talanda Falkyn, of Orumon.” Meg would be mad, but Janat would send for her and Rennika once she was safe.

  The man straightened. “Magiel,” he muttered. He sheathed his sword. “Welcome, Janatelle Falkyn,” he called, but there was a squeak in his voice, and she wondered how old he was. “It is an honor to serve you.”

  She hesitated. The fire crackled merrily, and the soldier was welcoming and subservient—as so he should be. But— “Where are the rest of the soldiers?”

  “My captain is at the tavern just now, but I can help you. He will wish to greet you as soon as I inform him you are here.”

  Soft beds. Food. A place in the court of Holderford.

  “Janatelle!”

  Janat turned.

  Down the road, slipping on the icy cobbles, Meg ran, scowling with fury. “What are you doing?”

  “What we should’ve done weeks ago.” Janat turned and hurried toward the sentinel.

  “Janatelle!” Meg screeched.

  In that instant, Janat reached him and his fingers fastened about her wrist. Startled, she pulled back. But the firm grip held her.

  “Let go of her!” Meg ran up behind Janat as the sentinel drew his sword again.

  His grip slipped momentarily and he cried out as Janat yanked back. Meg was biting his wrist.

  Janat squirmed, shock and fear exploding in her heart. “That’s not how you treat a magiel!”

  He walloped her across the cheek.

  Pain erupted from her mouth, flashing across her jaw and head and she stumbled, almost blinded.

  No! This man would not do this to her.

  He shoved Meg back and there was an instant of confusion. The sentinel seemed unprepared to use the awkwardly long weapon on her.

  What could she—magic.

  His foot. She grasped his arm, felt the shape of his body from within, found a time when his foot was in a different position. Moved it to that time—

  Footsteps resounded on the cobbles behind her. Another soldier?

  Her attacker’s foot slipped and he toppled—she intensified the speed of his fall and he cracked his head. His sword clattered to the ground. She whirled to face whoever—

  Sulwyn Cordal.

  He kicked the sentinel’s sword away, knelt and took his dirk. He cast a quick glance around the street. Empty. “The captain is in his cups, and his men not much better. We have a bit of time. But—” He shook his head. “—how in the Gods’ names are we going to explain this?”

  Janat sank back, her chest tightening, a pain in the back of her throat.

  Meg chewed her lip. “A spell of forgetting?”

  But she had no ingredients. “Do you know the cast?” Janat whispered.

  “There’s one in my book.” Meg shrugged. “I read it once.”

  Her book. In Castle Archwood.

  “I...could...” Sulwyn looked down at the soldier’s dirk in his hand. “I could...cut his throat.” His face was pale and sick in the dark. “And we could leave tonight.”

  Meg drilled him with shocked eyes.

  Dread sank through Janat’s stomach. Her folly might cost this soldier—boy—his life.

  “They’d hunt for us anyway,” Meg said.

  Janat couldn’t implicate this stranger, Sulwyn. She shouldn’t have drawn in Meg. Gods, what had she...

  Sulwyn swallowed and gave a jerk of his head. “Go. Get the cart ready. We’ll deal with soldiers when they come.”

  “No.” Janat stilled his hand.

  Meg flashed a look of anger at her.

  “It’s my fault.” Her breath became tight, and her words choked. “There was a struggle.” She pointed to the prints in the snow. “He was robbed of his purse. He fell, hit his head. He can’t speak.”

  Meg’s scowl dissolved.

  Janat’s mouth dried. “I’ll do it.”

  “What?” Sulwyn asked.

  “Dislodge a nerve. In his tongue.”

  Sulwyn’s wagon creaked and bumped over the ruts and rocks of the King’s Road. They’d thrown everything into the cart and driven through the night. The sun had risen and, so far, there was no sign of pursuit. Finn had offered to mislead the captain, tell him there’d been too many thieves in Orumon since the war displaced people.

  Meg held onto Janat for warmth, Rennika between them, asleep. Sulwyn’s blankets covered them to the chin. They owed this stranger much, but he’d made light of the difficulties. He was happy to annoy foreign soldiers, he said.

  But...Cordal. Meg had heard the name before. When?

  She shook her head. It would come. She hoped the merchant would be able to untangle the faint path through nameless villages and lonesome farms that
made up the King’s Road. These past weeks, Meg had been hard pressed to know when she was following a path to the next town, and when she was leading her sisters on a winding game trail with no destination. Last summer, Mama’s retinue had brought them all down the valley in a coach, but the trip had been slow and uncomfortable and she’d paid no attention to how their guides distinguished the King’s Road from any of the other forest tracks.

  She shifted a bit of blanket more firmly under Janat’s head against the jolt of the cart. The sound of the running river rushing endlessly on their left had finally soothed her sister to sleep. Janat’s weeping and bruises had torn at Meg’s heart as much as the girl’s foolishness had angered and frightened her.

  Fifteen. Too young for the brutality of this world.

  Overhead, the inky branches of trees blotted out all but glimpses of the almost-black sky, and the occasional snowflake still drifted down to melt on her cheek. The air tasted cold and sharp. Sulwyn slumped on the front seat, more a reminder to his pony to keep walking than a guide.

  Cordal. Nanna had said the name. That’s where Meg had heard it. When they were fleeing the castle. A merchant, one they were supposed to find in the lower city. One who would bring them to safety.

  Meg scrutinized his back in the dark, swaying with the rolling of the wagon. He was from up valley. But from a village, he’d said. Not Archwood. If he’d been in Archwood the night of the attack, he’d still be there, she was sure.

  She adjusted her position, settling back against the bump and jolt of the grain sacks. She must learn more about him. What he knew of Mama’s plan.

  They needed some form of protection. Mama had taught Meg a few spells, using the magical properties of everyday objects like kitten livers, newts’ eyes, and snowmelt collected under the stars of Kyaju, as well as rudimentary magiel magic, the manipulation of time. But not enough. And they couldn’t depend on strangers, like Sulwyn, rescuing them every time they did something stupid.

  Janat’s eyes were open.

  “You should rest,” Meg whispered.

  Janat gave her a piercing look, then scrutinized the night around them. “Is this Sieur Cordal’s cart?” she whispered through swollen lips.

  Meg stared at her. “You know it is. We just ran—”

  “Leaving Archwood,” Janat murmured. “Heading for Coldridge.”

  Meg wasn’t sure if this was a question or if Janat spoke to herself. “Yes.”

  “I used magic that night.” Janat’s attention riveted on her. “I haven’t got long. What do you need to know?”

  Meg was taken aback. This was not the Janat she knew.

  “Listen.” Janat nodded to confirm her thought. “I can help you.” She spoke clearly through her mangled mouth. “But only for a few minutes.”

  “Yes. I was just...” Meg stared. “I—I need a tutor. In magic.”

  Instantly, her sister understood. “You won’t find one in Coldridge.” Janat riveted on her. “Along the road to Silvermeadow. Gweddien’s mother. She taught us. Remember that name, Gweddien Barcley.”

  This Janat had come from someday, elsewhere in her life. From her future.

  “You might think Rennika’s too young, but teach her, too. Everything you can. You have to be strong, Meg. You have to. For her—and for me. You might not think it, but I’ll need you. Do you...” Janat’s eyes flickered, and she fell silent, staring at the wagon as it bumped its way through the woods.

  The moment of time travel had passed. But if she came from the future, she still lived. When? How long in the future?

  Meg tucked the blanket under Janat’s chin where it had slipped. Janat had been older, that was sure. So there was hope. Wasn’t there?

  A weight descended on her shoulders. Be strong? Wasn’t that what she was doing? By Kyaju—and Janat ran off to give herself up to the king’s guard with some story she’s a magiel princess—or near enough—in need of protection? That Artem Delarcan would take her into his care? How stupid, how utterly—and now it was up to Meg to patch things up. Be strong. Hah!

  Janat blinked and shook her head, frowning at the woods in bewilderment. “Why did you wake me?” she whimpered through cracked lips. “I was having the loveliest dream.” She thought her travels to other parts of her life had been a sleep fantasy. She was still so young and confused, the tenderness of childhood rounding her cheeks. Starvation had not yet stolen all her softness.

  Janat looked away, a thought creasing her brow.

  Meg took Janat’s hands. “Janat. You can’t think of that soldier.”

  Janat tried to pull away. “He was no older than you, Meg. And I took... He’ll never talk to anyone again.”

  “And he would have thrown you into a prison, or worse.”

  Rennika woke and sat up.

  “We have to survive,” Meg pressed. “Not run to others for help. Take care of ourselves. Do you understand?”

  Janat nodded, but her eyes were unconvinced.

  Rennika cocked her head. “What happened?” She’d barely woken last night when they transferred her into the wagon.

  “We have to hide who we are.”

  “How?” Janat asked. “What have we ever been trained to do?”

  Meg reflected. “Well. For one thing, we can change our names.”

  “Change our names?” Rennika perked up, interested.

  Meg considered her. Dirty, disheveled and dressed in rags, she hardly looked a princess. The name Rennikala struck Meg suddenly as absurd for this waif. “Aristocrats and magiels usually have long names. What if we call you...Rennika? And for a last name...Falconer.”

  “Rennika. Rennikala. Rennika.” Rennika savored the word on her tongue. “It sounds funny.”

  “Janatelle can be Janat,” Meg said.

  Janat gave a slight shrug. “And Meghra?”

  “Just Meg,” Meg said, rocking with the heaving of the cart. “And we can learn the commoners’ accent. Sieur Cordal can teach us.”

  “Can we have our names back after we go to the tarn?” asked Rennika.

  “Yes.” Meg tucked her cloak closer about her shoulders. “And once we’ve righted the world, you can have whatever you want to eat.”

  “Raspberries,” Rennika said. “Raspberries with yoghurt. And honey.”

  “And cakes made from wheat flour from Midell,” Janat whispered, gazing up the valley toward the mountains. “Apples from Midell, and wine all the way from Arcan. And furs! And a wool robe made in Highglen, so I’m never cold again, dyed with scarletberry and indigo and marigold. And—dresses made of brocade from the looms of Fairdell and silks from the valley of Aadi.” She smiled, but her smile was sadder, now, touched with the knowledge that such things would never come to pass. “But the world’s changed, hasn’t it? We’ll never go home.”

  Meg had no answer to this. Her sisters fell silent, each wrapped in her own thoughts. Feasts and dancing at court. Candelabras lighting the palace like day. The musicians and the parquet floors and the paintings on the walls and the children playing amongst the fountains and gardens. That had been their life. But it was a fantasy now; a fantasy far away. “Tell me your dream, Janat,” Meg said softly.

  Janat’s frown faded into thoughtfulness. “I was with Rennikala.”

  “Rennika. Remember.”

  “Rennika,” she corrected herself. “Just the two of us. We were in some shabby room, but we’d cooked a chicken for supper and some vegetables I’ve never seen before.” She smiled at Rennika. “You were laughing at something, Rennika. We ate with our fingers, and the meat was juicy and dripping with grease, and, oh, Meghra, so delicious.” Janat shrugged, but her cheeks glistened. “That’s all.”

  There was a future, then. And in it, there was food, and there was joy.

  CHAPTER 10

  In the lower valley, the road to Coldridge cut a wide swath through forest, field, and river flats, its mud rutted by army supply wagons and churned by the hooves of hundreds of King Artem’s horses. Had the clay not been frozen, i
t would have been impassable. As it was, Sulwyn gave his plodding mare slack and she picked her way through the grooves and clumps. Meg trudged from frozen clod to frozen clod when the chill and the jouncing of the cart became too much for her, and rode when her legs were tired of walking. Crystal blue skies ruled the cold, clear days, and stars glittered in the vast firmament at night.

  Meg saw an orum from far off, heading south, as they crossed a snow-drifted gravel flat beside the River Archwood. “Rennika! Get in the cart!” She reached over the back of the box and held out her hand.

  Rennika ran through the snow. “It’s too far away. It won’t—”

  “Get in!” Meg said impatiently, sitting on a sack of grain. “You don’t know what an orum will see or hear. Remember your death token.”

  Rennika scrambled across Meg’s knees as Sulwyn urged the pony forward toward the protection of a copse of spruce trees.

  “Halt in the name of King Artem Delarcan!” A voice rose behind them in the distance, barely audible above the clatter of the cart wheels and the rush of the open water. Meg peered out of the back of the jouncing wagon to see two men on horses, some distance back, pursuing them.

  Green cloaks.

  And beyond, the orum wheeled. It turned toward them. She touched the hard, round coin sewn into the collar at her neck.

  ”Sieur Cordal!” Janat cried.

  Sulwyn turned in his seat.

  The men on horseback gained on them. But the orum in the distance drove its wings with terrible power, all three heads trained in their direction.

  The pony neighed in terror and plunged into the forest, overturning the cart and jamming it in springy willows, gripping the vehicle fast. Sulwyn leapt out, lifting Rennika to the snow as Meg and Janat scrambled for safety.

  Meg ploughed through the willows, trying to keep her feet, trying to keep Rennika upright. Ahead, the pony snorted, struggling against its traces. Sulwyn set it free from the cart. Behind them, the pounding of hooves and terrified neighing told her the soldiers’ beasts had scented the orum.