Ember and Ash

by Pamela Freeman

  “No.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Ash reassured him. “If I could make it, you will too.”

  Tern clung to the trunk and looked down. He was shaking.

  “You could have fallen,” he said. His voice squeaked and fell, but he didn’t notice. “You could have fallen.”

  Ash glanced down at the drop. He always felt an urge to jump when he was in a high place, but he’d learned to ignore that, the way he ignored his dreams about flying once he’d woken up.

  “I’ll catch you,” he said soothingly.

  Tern just shook his head and kept shaking it, clutching the bark.

  “I can’t,” he whispered.

  “Don’t look down,” Ash said.

  “Too late.” His face collapsed and he suddenly looked very young. “I have to go back down!” he wailed. “I have to!”

  No chance. Ash had seen panic like that before, when his little sisters found themselves out of their depth in the river and screamed for him to save them. He couldn’t save Tern.

  “Slowly!” Ash warned. “Go slowly, and only look at the trunk.”

  Very slowly, still shaking, Tern edged his feet down to the next branch, and the next one. After the third, he clung, sobbing, to the trunk.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “Sit down and wait for me,” Ash said. “I’ll get Curlew as fast as I can and we’ll bring you down together.”

  The thought of Curlew seemed to strengthen Tern. He looked up and nodded, but he didn’t sit. He couldn’t seem to let go of the tree. Well, he was safe enough where he was if he didn’t get dizzy.

  Ash finally turned around, his curiosity sparking. What kind of people made these eyries? How did they live?

  He edged around the partition and found more and less than he expected. There were no people, and no furniture—but the room was alive with color. Feathers in every shade of blue were tucked into the woven walls, with no attempt at pattern. He took a step inside, eyes wide. He saw kingfisher blue, the pale gray-blue of heron, jay’s tail feathers, others he didn’t know. It was like being in a speckled blue bowl. Hidden in the feathers, hanging from twigs stuck into the wall were objects, some familiar, some strange. A cup of carved wood was easy enough to recognize, but what was the long wooden stick for, its tip carefully curved just a little? There was a shallow bowl, a mirror the size of his palm (which was worth a warlord’s bounty), some beads on strings—blue, all of them.

  “Curlew?” he called. Nothing but wind in reply.

  He walked gingerly across the room, but the uneven floor seemed to bear his weight well enough, although it creaked unnervingly beneath him. On the opposite wall there was a gap, through which he could glimpse the far trees and the edge of another wall, curving around.

  He put his head through the gap. Another room, open to the sky like the last, but this one had feathers of black and white: magpie, crow, plover. He had a plover’s feather in his pouch. Hesitantly, he pulled it out and smoothed the crisp barbs down, then found a spot on the wall which seemed bare and tucked his feather in amongst the others.

  It looked good.

  “Curlew?” he called again, and stayed still, listening. He wondered how many platforms, how many rooms, he would have to search, and whether Tern would have the patience—or the strength—to wait until he was done.

  “Your friend is some way from here,” a woman’s voice said.

  He whirled around.

  In the gap he had come through, a young woman stood. As tall as he was, dark-headed, she was dressed in a long straight gray gown with a black border which swept the floor. Her hair was plaited and piled on the top of her head in intricate folds. Her eyes were hard to see: pale and clear. They appraised him, lingering on his hand, which was still touching the plover feather.

  He felt a little dizzy, but there was one thought sharp in his mind: there had been no way onto that platform except the one he had taken. So how had she got there?

  “Greetings,” he said, and bowed. “I am Ash, son of Mabry and Elva, from the Hidden Valley.”

  The formality surprised her, but she seemed pleased, bowing back far more gracefully.

  “Greetings,” she said. Her voice was not musical, but it had a timbre he had never heard before; a depth like a hunting horn. “I am Grus.”

  “My friend?” he prompted.

  “He is several trees away,” she said. “Will you fly?”

  She asked it as simply as a woman at a farm might have asked, “Will you ride?”

  “No,” he said, regret in his voice.

  “Then you must climb,” Grus said, not at all put out. “Come.”

  He followed her through another doorgap, to the far edge of the platform. She pointed to a tree on the very highest part of the ridge.

  “He is there, your friend.”

  “Can we call him? Can he meet us halfway?”

  A ghost of a smile flickered on her lips. “I think he is not able to come.”

  “Is he all right?” Ash’s tone was sharp.

  “He is not hurt,” Grus said consideringly. “But he is like your other friend—the air lets him fall.”

  Tern? Was Curlew simply afraid of the height? Only one way to find out.

  “How do I get there?” Ash asked.

  “Follow me.” Grus led him to where two living vines grew across to another tree, one at floor level, one at shoulder height. What were they doing here? It was the sort of vine that grew in the moist valleys of the south. Part of Elgir’s enchantments? They looked barely able to support the weight of their leaves, but Grus took hold of the upper vine and simply walked across on the other, moving her hands along the top vine for balance. The vine dipped under her, but it held. Ash had heard of rope-walkers performing in the cities of the coast, but he had never seen one. It looked far too easy to actually be easy.

  He waited until Grus turned and looked at him, waiting, then he took firm hold of the upper vine, a liana as thick as his wrist, and put his foot on the lower one. It dipped immediately, far lower than it had for Grus, but he could balance, just. Just. He put another tentative foot in front of him and was standing wholly on the vine, feeling it swing a little in the free air.

  “It is easier if you go fast,” Grus said, smiling slightly.

  Easier. He swallowed fear and made sure he didn’t look down. Faster. One foot, then another, then another, gradually he made himself go faster, until he felt as he’d felt running along the branch before he leaped—the air rushing to his head, the risk making his nerves tingle. He was supposed to be the staid big brother, he thought out of nowhere. When did he get to like taking risks?

  Sometime, obviously. He laughed as he stepped lightly from the vine to the platform floor, and Grus smiled at him, her pale eyes lighting with approval.

  “Come,” she said. She turned and ran across the platform, through rooms of yellow feathers, of teal green, of robin red. They burst onto his sight and vanished as he ran after Grus. At the edge of the red room there were more vines, and Grus did not slow, running out along the lower vine with barely a finger touching the upper one. Ash laughed and followed, gripping more firmly but moving as fast as he dared, as fast as he could. It was like flying, running a tower’s height above the ground, and his heart soared, unafraid.

  On the opposite platform he seemed to see shapes out of the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t tell if they were human or something else. They disappeared behind the wall screen as he turned to look.

  Two more platforms, room after room of color, even one as orange as a sunset sky, and twice more they ran out over nothing with only a narrow vine as pathway, faster each time.

  Then there was a room of gray feathers, pale and dark and calm, and against the wall, as far from the edge as he could get, Curlew sat, chin to knees, arms wrapped around his head, blocking all sight. Around him the latticework was patchy with damp, and his clothes showed damp stains as well.

  Ash knelt in a dry space next to him and put a ha
nd on his shoulder. The flesh shuddered under his touch and kept quivering, as waves of shivering went through him.

  “Curlew?” he asked gently. “It’s Ash. I’ve come to get you.”

  Curlew’s body stilled, slowly.

  “It’s Ash, Curlew. The others are nearby. Ember and Cedar and Tern. All of us came to get you.”

  The tightly clenched fists dropped a little and Curlew raised his head. His eyes were red and exhausted, as though he had been through weeks without sleep.

  “Did you fly?” he whispered hoarsely. His eyes flicked quick glances at Grus but flicked away again immediately, frightened. Ash looked up at her. Her face was calm, slightly interested perhaps. Not threatening.

  “They fly, here,” Curlew whispered. “They made me fly. Did they make you?”

  “No,” Ash said gently. “I climbed up. Just like anyone else.”

  “I flew,” Curlew said. He vomited suddenly, but only water came up.

  “You won’t have to fly again,” Ash said. “We’ll climb down.”

  Curlew shook his head and kept shaking it. “Can’t. I tried. No way. No way but wings.” He clutched Ash’s sleeve. “Don’t fly. Gods protect you, boy, don’t fly.”

  He buried his head in his arms again. Ash felt anger straining against his chest. He stood and confronted Grus.

  “What did you do to him?”

  She stayed calm, but she turned her head so she was looking at him from the side. “He went through the gate. All who go through the gate without leave are brought here for the lord’s punishment.”

  “What punishment?”

  “He has not yet received it,” she said, surprised. “But he had too much Earth in him to fly easily. His soul rejected it.”

  “How did he fly?” Ash needed to know. This was the answer, surely, to the yearning he’d felt all his life. If Curlew could fly, he could too, couldn’t he? But Grus merely shrugged.

  “The same way anyone does,” she said.

  He put aside his frustration as Curlew moaned. Elgir would know—it was his spell. He went back to Curlew and helped him up, ignoring the man’s groans.

  “Come on, lad,” he said, talking as if to his own younger brother, Gorse. “Come along and we’ll have you safe.”

  But looking around, he could see that there was no way off this platform except the thin vine bridge he and Grus had used. Curlew was not capable of walking over that height. Even with Ash’s support, he couldn’t bear to look at the edge of the platform.

  “Forgive me: I am going to wreck your floor,” Ash said to Grus. She kept that half-smile on her face, but her head tilted as if in curiosity, and she looked sideways at him, at the floor, at Curlew, then shrugged.

  “If you can,” she said. “It is strong.”

  It was strong. But not stronger than he was, or his belt knife. The wattles and reed lashings that bound the longer branches in place gave way under his blade, and once they were gone he could use brute strength to wrench the branches up and away. It took time, but after the first few moments Curlew became involved, eager to destroy his prison. The first small hole brought a little crow of triumph from him, and his energy grew as the gap widened. But when it became large enough to see down, down the long drop to the ground, he turned pale and sat back on his heels, shaking.

  “Can’t fly,” he said.

  “Don’t have to, man,” Ash said heartily. He went to the edge of the platform and used all his weight and strength to pull the vine loose from its moorings opposite. Then he cut the near end through, although it almost blunted his knife.

  He tied the vine around his own waist, then around Curlew’s. Curlew stood bewildered, like a granfer mazed by age.

  “I won’t let you fall,” Ash said. “We will climb together, you and I, like boys in a wood at home.”

  “Home,” Curlew echoed.

  “Remember being a boy and climbing trees?” Curlew nodded slightly. “That’s us, man. Come along.”

  He led Curlew to the gap in the floor and only then looked at Grus. The sun was westering and it gave her black hair a cap of red, warmed her skin and showed the delicate outline of her figure through the long dress. She was beautiful, that was certain.

  “Your lord will answer for this,” he said.

  “I have no lord,” she said. “I answer only to the same Lady as you.”

  He frowned, completely puzzled.

  “Ember?”

  Now Grus looked puzzled. “My Lady bears me up,” she said, “as She does you.”

  He didn’t have time to work this out. Curlew was beginning to shake, staring down at the gap.

  “Don’t look there, man,” he said briskly. “You watch my hands, that’s what you look at.”

  He had made the gap twice as wide as his own body so they could go down to the first branch together, and he was thankful for it. Curlew froze a dozen times, shaking and sweating, before he maneuvered the two of them onto a firm foothold on the branch below. He tilted his head back—Grus was just visible, staring down at him with bright, clear eyes.

  “Next time we meet,” she said, “perhaps we will fly together.”

  His heart contracted at the thought, pierced by a longing so sharp it was almost sweet. He almost climbed back up, but he didn’t. He couldn’t leave Curlew. Not now. He had to get Curlew to the ground and then go back up and bring Tern down. And there was Ember, waiting for him. But it was a near thing. It was a very near thing.

  Starkling

  Now,” Elgir said, “let us discuss your marriage.”

  “My marriage?” Ember said slowly. Her heart was jumping and the scar around her wrist flamed suddenly, searing her. Her other hand cupped it. Memory overwhelmed her. Osfrid’s face, screaming silently. The ashes… the face of Fire…

  Reluctantly, Ember came away from the sapling and sat near Elgir, Cedar beside her. She stayed still, shaking, trying to seem calm.

  “Has your father planned your marriage?” Elgir asked. His tone was courteous, the polite chitchat tone of the warlord’s court. He was asking the question one asked of a young woman, as though she could have no greater concern than her wedding. She almost slapped his face. And then she thought, shame-faced, that a month ago he would have been right.

  “A marriage was planned,” she said carefully. “I was betrothed to Osfrid, Merroc’s son.” She paused, her mind turning over all the possibilities. What would her father recommend? Truth, evasion, misdirection? There had never been enmity between the Last and Northern Mountains domains… but they had never been allies, either.

  “It was… interrupted,” she said. Ash didn’t like her to lie. He thought it was unlucky. She glanced at Cedar, belatedly remembering he was there. He shrugged a little. “My—Osfrid was killed.”

  Elgir stared at her. “Killed?”

  Some chances had to be taken, her father had told her. To find the truth of an ally, you had to risk trust.

  “By Fire.”

  The dark head bent over his hands, his hair swinging forward to hide his face. She could hear a whispering, but couldn’t make out words. Then he straightened and faced her, and there was suppressed excitement in his eyes.

  “That was the Power I saw in you,” he said. “You carry Fire with you.”

  “Not by choice,” she said. “He has laid a task on me, and my people’s lives depend on it.”

  “What task?” He sat forward, half on his knees, keen for her answer.

  “To go to Fire Mountain and steal some of His fire.”

  “Like Mim,” he said. “The great firestealer. His first worshipper.”

  “I do not worship Him!” she snarled. “He killed Osfrid. He—He has torn my life apart!”

  “Power does that,” Elgir said. He seemed calmer now, and thoughtful. “Why, I wonder?” he mused. “Why now?”

  “What?”

  “The Great Powers have made no move in human affairs for many years, and they have never interfered in the lives of Acton’s people.”

>   “My mother is of the old blood,” Ember said.

  “As all the world knows,” Elgir answered courteously. “But Osfrid was not.” He rose and walked around the glade. “When a Power intervenes in the world, it is wise to look at anything unusual, in case they are acting again. There is something happening here I have never seen before, and now I wonder… is one of the Great Ones involved? Come, I will show you.”

  He pointed down the slope. She looked at Cedar and stood up, slowly. Ash would not want her to go. But it would be a great breach of protocol to refuse…

  “He means you no harm,” Cedar said. “I have Seen it.” His head lifted to the huge branches above them. “Tern needs me,” he said. “Go with Lord Elgir, and I will aid him.”

  Ember had never heard Cedar speak so formally. He reminded her of an older man, one versed in courts and etiquette. Perhaps that was Sight speaking for him. She had lived with it all her life, and she recognized it in his eyes now, so she got up and brushed off her skirts.

  “Lead the way, my lord,” she said. “Show me this anomaly.”

  The tree houses which had been deserted were alive now. She could see shapes move in the tower rooms, people looking out at them. Oddly shaped, some of them—one man had a small pair of antlers, she was sure. A woman with hair as blue as a jay’s peeked out from behind a branch that curved into a staircase. A child whose legs were surely too long for its body jumped lightly to the ground, and ran, laughing, across their path. Elgir regarded it with amusement. Court life taught how to ignore what one was not supposed to see, so she pretended to have noticed nothing unusual. Elgir glanced at her, his eyes unreadable.

  Elgir led her down to a stream, and they followed a thin path along its bank. The water swirled deep and brown over stones, and mosses edged it. On the opposite bank, there were holes: water voles, she thought, or otters, but when a face peered out at her from one of them, it had human eyes and the mischievous grin of a child. She almost exclaimed, but was glad she hadn’t when Elgir said sternly, “Sar, leave those poor otter cubs alone!”

  The face disappeared in alarm and Elgir turned to her apologetically. “The burrows connect all over this area,” he said, “and it’s hard to keep the little ones out.”