Bursts of Fire

by Susan Forest

  He held her, rocking, deep into the night.

  The tutor, soon to be reassigned, opened one eye and mumbled something unintelligible as Huwen, dismissing his guard, crept through the man’s room and into his own. Anwen had finally fallen asleep; and well before the winter sun touched the eastern sky, he left her bed. Today, he left his mother, the women and children, and the cloying protection of Uncle Avin, to finally meet with Father and learn what it was to rule. He would ride for Coldridge and then to the siege at Archwood, the last of Shangril’s seven countries to reconcile its differences with Arcan.

  As he eased the bolt into its place behind him, a gray shape shifted on his bed.

  “It’s me,” the shape said before Huwen could reach for his knife or call out.

  He peered between the open bed curtains. Eamon. Fully dressed. Waiting.

  “What are you doing here?” Huwen breathed.

  Eamon sat up and leaned back against the headboard. “Nothing.”

  A lie, obviously, but one Huwen knew he would not expose by arguing. He was too exhausted, too drained by excitement and heartbreak. He slipped out of his breeches, stockings, and jerkin, and, nudging his brother aside, slipped under his sheets in his shirt and small clothes.

  “Were you with Anwen?” Eamon’s words came from the darkness.

  “Yes.”

  “A farewell,” he murmured, quietly, almost to himself. “Until you return.”

  The romance of his younger brother’s words rankled. “Not ‘until I return,’” Huwen snapped. “Forever. She’s only an estate holder’s daughter.”

  “And you hold that against her?”

  “No!” Huwen took a calming breath. “I won’t be allowed to choose my bride. Be happy if you’re able to choose yours.”

  There was a long silence, and Huwen began to grow sleepy. Just a few candlemarks, and he and Eamon would be called to ready themselves to ride.

  “I won’t be able to choose my bride,” Eamon said softly.

  “No?” Huwen left his eyes closed. Eamon was too young to know his heart. “Why not?”

  “The one I’ve chosen won’t have me.”

  This made Huwen open his eyes. “Who?”

  Again, there was a long silence, and Huwen began to doubt that Eamon would answer.

  Then his brother’s voice drifted out of the lessening dark. “She’s beautiful. Royal. Of an age. Virtuous.”

  “Sounds like I should marry her,” Huwen mumbled, sleep tripping his words.

  Again, no reply.

  “I was joking,” Huwen said. “You know I love Anwen. How do you know this girl won’t have you? Have you asked Uncle Avin to speak to her father?”

  “No.”

  “Then how do you know? What has she said?”

  “Nothing.”

  Huwen was getting tired of the riddles. He was about to send his brother back to his room, when he spoke again.

  “I’ve kept my promise to you, Huwen. I don’t cut myself anymore. The thought of her keeps me alive.”

  Huwen was wide awake, now. “How do you keep such an—intense—love secret?”

  This time the silence was filled with waiting. “She doesn’t know I’ve been thinking of her.”

  “Never—” This was bizarre. Huwen had to clarify. “You mean you love a girl you’ve never been with? Not even to talk to?”

  Eamon’s weight lifted from the bed and in the soft light Huwen could make out his shape approach their connecting door. “You’re not the only one leaving his love behind.”

  On the far side of a wide, swift river, Carn Coldridge was visible for some distance, perched on the edge of a sweeping upland. As Sulwyn’s pony picked its way down from the ridge on a winding road, Rennika and her sisters crowded forward in the cart for their first glimpse of the city. They were in Teshe now, not Orumon, but Rennika was not sure when they had crossed into the new country.

  The city, if she could call it that, was on top of a small, flat hill, its edges disappearing into farmland, so different from Archwood’s high walls among the peaks. Squashed mountains fell away north of the carn, disappearing into a band of flat snow clouds. To the east lay an endless land of forests and hills under a morning sky so huge it seemed to Rennika to press down on her like a giant hand. Like Archwood, swathes of trees near the town had been cleared for farmland, and the fields were hidden now under a blanket of white. Huddled against the wind outside a crumbling city wall, a pleasingly careless array of shops and houses stood along crooked streets. On a high point within the city, a second, higher wall surrounded a castle, but the castle seemed plain and stark.

  Meg and Janat pulled their hoods over their faces as Sieur Cordal—Sulwyn—guided his pony over the icy wooden bridge, across the fields, and up the hill. Soldiers in King Artem’s colors stood at the city gate.

  Apprehension crept into Rennika’s stomach. Why weren’t King Larin’s guards here? These men watched carefully as the carts and farmers passed under the gate’s open arch but didn’t stop them or question them.

  They halted on a side street next to a wide square with a boisterous market and Rennika craned to take in everything at once. She was glad she didn’t have to cover her face: there was so much to see, and everything was noisy and colorful and fascinating.

  She’d been to the market in Archwood only twice in her life, and this market was different—filled with music and smells and noise. On a corner, a pair of wrestlers grappled one another as a frantic crowd waved purses in the air. Further down, a long area had been fenced off for archery competitions. Everywhere, shoppers and dawdlers wound past one another in the crush as traders called out their wares, and an inordinate number of Arcan soldiers kept watch.

  Janat huddled, if possible, even more deeply into her corner of the cart, her eyes never leaving Sulwyn, but Meg peered out from under her hood with interest. Even Sulwyn tried to look everywhere, mouth gaping at the strangeness of it. Rennika wondered if even he had never seen a town like this before.

  Sulwyn nodded down the main avenue to the town square and castle gate where the soldiers in green and gold patrolled. He ran his hands over his pony’s back and legs. “Stay here. I’ll ask about King Larin and his magiel.” He loosened the pony’s harness.

  Meg looked curiously into the market. “It’s cold enough. I could keep my hood up. I could go with you.”

  “We should stay here,” Janat said.

  Sulwyn agreed. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Rennika peered around the back of the cart as Meg slid to the ground. The scent of roasting mutton drifted on the breeze. Janat sidled into a niche between two buildings where she could watch the alley from beneath her hood without being seen.

  Rennika took in what she could of the market from the alley. It was confusing and exciting all at once. Farmers with carts of strange vegetables and carrots and sacks of unmilled grain beckoned to passersby. Shop doors stood open, and some vendors even displayed their wares on tables or on blankets over the ice and mud. In the midst of the endless flow of people, groups huddled about braziers, and the smell of soup and spice mingled with scented candles and incense, and the stink of offal and unwashed bodies. Hawkers shouted over the squabbles of hagglers.

  Sulwyn was true to his word, returning only a short time later, bearing a loaf of flat bread and a block of cheese, his water skin filled with ale. He broke off chunks of bread for each of them. “Teshe capitulated even before King Artem marched on Orumon.” He seemed to be speaking to Meg, but he kept looking at Janat. “King Larin keeps his throne, but the men in King Artem’s colors are everywhere, not just about the castle.”

  Janat’s fingers reached for the death token collar at her neck. “King Larin would give us to Artem?”

  “Seems likely.” Sulwyn shrugged. “Maybe your magiel uncle could still help you.”

  Rennika stuffed bread and cheese into her mouth, her eye on the crust that Janat didn’t seem to want.

  Meg slumped against the wall of the buil
ding. “We could try another city. Maybe the king of Gramarye will take us in.”

  King Gramaret. Rennika remembered him from their trip with Mama last summer.

  Meg gave Sulwyn a tentative look. “Gramarye—is it—is it far? Or Midell?”

  “I don’t know.” Sulwyn wiped his hands on his pants and passed around the water skin, and then produced blankets and a water jar from his cart. He gave the blankets to Janat.

  Janat took the gifts with an air of surprise.

  “Well.” Sulwyn stood awkwardly in the street holding the jar. “Keep well,” he said finally.

  “Are you going?” Janat shuffled a little, looking sick with apprehension.

  “I have my work.” He spoke as though he apologized to Janat. “I have the name of a man to contact.”

  “Thank you,” Meg said. “For all your help.”

  Janat bit her lip. “I...You’ve been very—good. To all of us. I appreciate it.” She lowered her eyes. “We all appreciate it.”

  Sulwyn bobbed his head, his eyes never leaving Janat’s face. “I’ve seen people here who hail from other cities. Some are hazy-skinned. They could be magiels or at least mixed. With so many displaced, you should be able to find crowds to blend into.” He let out a puff of breath and looked around, as though he didn’t want to leave. “Well. I better go now.”

  Janat attempted a smile of thanks. “It’s...” Janat licked her lips. “It’s good work that you do.”

  Meg shot her a look of surprise.

  Sulwyn puffed out another breath of air and glanced at the market. “Yes. Well. Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” Janat said.

  He hesitated for a moment, then placed the water jar in Meg’s hands and climbed into the cart. Taking the reins, he prodded the pony into the street.

  Rennika shook her head. That was strange.

  CHAPTER 12

  For the first few nights in Coldridge, Janat and her sisters shivered in a rickety shanty they built from sticks and the blankets Sulwyn had given them, a shelter which afforded no protection from thieves or worse. But Meg came back from a foray into the streets, saying a group of refugees was squatting in a vacant mill and at least it had a roof. The place was crowded, and some resented the three newcomers who were not family to anyone already there, but most took no notice of them.

  A place to stay out of the snow was an immense luxury. But they still needed food. Money.

  Now Janat watched, her hood shielding her face, as a woman with skin that rippled faintly in time, sat on a blanket in the market, trading small phials for money. Some patrons gave the woman one, two, even five chetra for a single small container.

  Janat could make potions. Of course she could. Even worldlings could make potions, but a magiel could make strong, effective potions. If only she knew the recipes. If only she knew which ingredients to blend, which spell words to chant, which constellation to cast under, which of the Many Gods presided over each prayer. Janat had the ability; she merely lacked the knowledge.This mercurial-skinned woman must have the knowledge.

  She needed to approach the woman in private.

  After a time, Janat’s patience was rewarded. A crone took the woman’s place, and the woman left the market. Janat caught up to her as she reached an unobtrusive doorway along a narrow side street. “Excuse me.”

  The woman turned. She measured Janat in a glance and seemed to find her wanting.

  “You’re a magiel,” Janat said. “You cast for your local village?”

  The woman’s eyes hooded. “I cast for four villages,” she retorted. “And my wares are good enough for the merchants and tradespeople of Coldridge.”

  Even better.

  “I’m a magiel. I’d like to learn some spells.”

  Distain crept into the corners of the woman’s eyes. “You’re half-talented at most.”

  She meant the almost-still cast to Janat’s skin. “No, I’m full magiel. My mother conceived me to have steadier skin.”

  The woman snorted.

  “She did.”

  “Then, why didn’t she teach you your spells?”

  “She was teaching me.” But Janat had lessons in reading and writing, history, politics, and religion. She’d rarely needed to cast spells for every day, useful things, and when she did she could look the procedures up in a book.

  The woman turned to enter the house. “I have all the apprentices I need.”

  “Well, could I just copy out a few spells from your book?”

  The woman spun back, a frown of incredulity on her face. “I have no book,” she scoffed. “And if I did, I’d hardly give my secrets to some fraud talking like a toff, to steal my customers.”

  Steal—

  The door slammed, and the woman was gone.

  “There’s going to be an execution!” A girl rushed into the mill where Meg and Janat sat on the mill stone with the women, trying to sew.

  Most of the fugitives left the mill during the day and Rennika had gone with them to watch the beggars and pickpurses. Rennika was a little too old to apprentice to begging, but her soft, vulnerable look masked a surprising willingness to hold her own in a tussle, spawning a grudging respect among the children. She was catching on to their accents, and the little beggars had begun to let her follow them and try her hand. She’d already brought in a few chetra, from which Meg was able to buy two steel sewing needles. She owed the sharp-eyed woman beside her for the thread and fabric, though.

  “That’s not news,” one of the refugees remarked.

  But all heads lifted at the girl’s interruption.

  “Come to the square, right now!” She urged. “King Artem’s going to destroy the Amethyst!”

  “That’s lunacy,” an old woman cried.

  Tasks forgotten, the refugees scrambled to their feet.

  “I swear it.” The girl ran to the door, shouting over her shoulder. “The crier’s announcing it in the street, right now.”

  Meg hurried with the rest of them down the narrow steps, Janat just behind.

  The street was awash in rabble, all heading in the direction of the great square before the castle gate, all talking and shouting at once.

  At first, Meg could see nothing over the throng filling the plaza. Soon, though, a military rhythm of boots announced a procession of soldiers. Ahead, a file of steel-helmeted men, apparently on some type of raised platform, formed a line. They knelt, revealing an array of royalty on tiers behind them. And there he stood, behind a line of armed knights. King Artem, in full steel plate armor, staring down his nose at Teshe’s people. Behind him, Meg recognized two young men—boys—as the princes, Huwen and Eamon. Taller and older since she’d seen them...only last summer?

  “Hear ye, citizens of Teshe!” a herald called out from the front edge of the platform, and the talk and rustling of the crowd died.

  This was it. Meg had been wracking her brain, trying to think of some way to get into the castle, to let her uncle know they were here.

  And, this was a distraction. While everyone was watching the spectacle, Meg could ease her way toward the open gates behind the platform, in case the opportunity presented itself for her to slip inside.

  She touched Janat’s arm. “I’ll see you back at the mill.”

  Janat frowned but nodded.

  If only Meg could find a way to have a moment alone with Uncle Chirles, or even King Larin, she could let him know what’d happened in Orumon. Surely, her uncle could find safety for her and her sisters, if not in Coldridge, then perhaps in one of the king’s country houses.

  “By order of His High Majesty, King Artem Delarcan,” the herald said, his voice carrying over the gathering, “the people of Teshe are hereby informed that the One God is acknowledged as the only and true God of all of Shangril.”

  There was a hush of indrawn breath through the crowd, as Meg wormed her way toward the back of the platform.

  “And, that the worship of any lesser God or Goddess is forbidden.”

  A murmur
of unrest erupted.

  Anger boiled around Meg, and the same anger rose in her own chest. It was not up to a man, even a king, to deny his people worship of the Gods.

  The herald had to call out for his words to carry. “Such worship is the worship of demons.”

  The mob shifted forward and Meg was carried momentarily from her path. By Kyaju’s devotion, how could King Artem, of his own will, take an entire people’s religion from them in a stroke?

  “And as a consequence,” the herald shouted, his words barely audible over the bleats of the assembly, “the prayer stones to the false demons are hereby abolished.”

  The mass pressed forward, and Meg was wedged, unable to move, watching the spectacle.

  And...a blur in the corner of her eye...

  No. She looked along the platform. Nothing.

  Not nothing. There was another. Nothing she could pinpoint, just a place where for an instant, a corner of her vision shifted as though she looked through a glass, or through water, at something distorted. Then the illusion was gone. Was she losing her sight?

  Then, Uncle Chirles, in the plain homespun of a magiel, stepped forward, barely visible above the heads of those around her. His two sons, mere children, stood on the platform behind him. His inconstant skin paled as he removed the Amethyst from about his neck and held it up for all to see. The jewel’s facets glinted a deep violet in the cold afternoon light, its golden setting gleaming in the slanting sun like a nest of writhing snakes.

  Trembling, he laid the jewel on something out of sight beyond the crowd. A slab of granite, no doubt, in the center of the platform. The flickers of distortion around the edges of Meg’s vision multiplied.

  Meg stilled, her gaze fixed on the drama before her, and her fingers crept to the death token at her neck.

  A black-hooded axman stepped forward, this time wielding no ax, but instead, a sledgehammer. He measured his stroke with an eye and then, raising the hammer in a single fluid motion, brought it down with a resounding crunch.

  The crowd flinched back as shards flew in every direction, splinters lancing those closest, drawing blood.