Girl of Fire

by Gabrielle Mathieu

  If it was fear of the Intercessor that made her so intense, that was a bad sign. There were far worse things than Intercessors.

  * * *

  It was near sunset when Shandon spotted a farmstead where they could stop and rest. It was getting too late to ascend the steep pass, with its loose and treacherous shale. He told Berona to wait with their mounts.

  A woman was outside, stirring cornmeal in a big iron kettle over an open fire. She had added some meat; it smelled delicious. She squinted at his Yellow Robe but didn’t make the sign of the evil eye.

  “Merry meet,” he said.

  “You’re a Mannite.” Her tone was flat.

  “I mean no harm. I am escorting a girl to the province of Nuya. We are both tired, and our mounts need hay.”

  “You’re an outlaw.” There was a ghost of a smile.

  “No one need know you sheltered us. I’ll sleep in the barn. Perhaps you have space for my companion by your hearth?” He was an older man traveling with a nubile girl. They had no way of knowing that she was perfectly safe with Shandon. He reached into his purse, took a few coppers from his meager remaining stash. “I’ll be glad to help out with chores once our mounts are seen to.”

  “No need. We’re done for the day. Just me and my husband now.” She paused, took the coppers from him, and adjusted her goodwife cap. “One of the Green Robes helped my daughter once, when she was expecting. Brought more than the Intercessor’s prayers, I reckon, and cost less.” She looked around cautiously, as if expecting a Chosen to be lurking in the bushes.

  Then she jerked her head at the watering trough, fed by a hollowed log from the nearby stream. “You can get washed up. We’ll eat at the table outside.”

  * * *

  Berona half-fell off the mare. Shandon put out a steadying arm. “Easy.”

  She groaned and wobbled toward the water to wash up, ignoring the pail. Shandon followed her. “First we tend to the beater and the horse. Can’t you see how worn out they are?”

  She filled the pail and joined him. The beater blew air, and Shandon clucked gently in return as he rubbed the sweaty flanks with a rag. He picked up the mare’s hoof to inspect the small rocks embedded in the horseshoe. “These have to come out. The last thing we need is a lame horse. Not now that we’re fleeing the Chosen.”

  Her eyes sparked at him. “Once you get me to that castle with the female warrior and your wise council, we’ll have shelter.”

  He had to look away. He hadn’t meant to deceive her

  Kendall would probably laugh in his face when he asked her to train Berona, after the disaster with Delphine. The Council was not all that wise. Tovalen was a cynic; one of the twins only said “yes, yes, yes”; and Soa was a braggart. The sixth member, their founder Krossos Mannine, was corporeally dead and heard from infrequently.

  Not to mention that one of the Council members could be the traitor the prophecy alluded to. He couldn’t trust anyone with the secret. Still, Yassin would be the best place for Berona.

  Even if she turned out not to be the one, a girl with her spirit would do better as a Mannite than as a goodwife. He’d try to make sure she never regretted her choice.

  * * *

  They took a seat at the outdoor table, a slab of granite balanced on four posts of logs driven into the ground. The wife spooned lukewarm cornmeal into two wooden bowls, poured acrid cups of red wine, and left them to eat and talk. Perhaps her husband had decided it was best not to share a meal with a Mannite.

  Berona picked up her cup and drank with gusto, though she made a face at the taste. “Father’s wine is better.”

  “Things from home always seem sweeter once one has left.”

  She blinked at him. “I didn’t want to leave. I had to.”

  Familiar words. He’d thought that himself, when he was not much older than she was now. Others had suffered for his choice. Shandon rubbed his temples. Pressure was building in his head, unease about the Intercessor. He had seen the shadow of death on the man. Perhaps it was the ague?

  The girl kept chattering. “The farmer doesn’t seem to mind your Yellow Robe.”

  “They’re mountain folk. Not so much under the control of the Intercessors.” He refrained from pointing out that the farmer and his wife were eating well away from them, on the back steps of their house.

  She shifted topics like an inconsistent flickering of flames. “You wouldn’t fight until I forced you. I thought you planned to give us up.”

  “You’re disappointed I didn’t draw my weapons right away?”

  “You’re a good fighter. Even if you don’t do much magic. You could start teaching me. Even tonight.”

  The girl made him tired. What did she want now? He’d never asked for this. He would have preferred…well, to have some time to get to know Bolin. They never talked about what happened, even when they woke up together. Shandon shifted topics.

  “I don’t like fighting. I’m not a bandit or a mercenary who lives by the sword. I’m a Mannite. Should the Priest-King wish it, he could send a legion of the Chosen to exterminate us, though we have some defenses. But six hundred years ago, we did Trea—not just Trea, the entire Heartland—a service. Because of that, our presence is tolerated. Barely.”

  Her cheeks were turning pink, her eyes sparkling even more than usual. Shandon wondered if she’d been allowed to drink wine at her parents’ house. “Slow down,” he cautioned as she made a stealth grab for his cup.

  She laughed. “You’re not at all what I thought a Mannite would be like. I’m not scared of you one bit.”

  “Mannites aren’t like anything. That’s what made me want to join. I’m accepted for myself.” Even as he said that, Shandon wondered at his words. If he felt that way, why had he kept to himself, nosing about in his scrolls day and night till the prophecy dropped into his palm like a bolt of lightning, changing his life.

  If it hadn’t been for the prophecy, he would have never met Bolin or known that other men like himself existed. And such a man. One who could look through the eyes of birds, who could thrive on what he gathered and grew, make a cave more welcoming and warm than the bleak huge castle that Shandon grew up in.

  She was chattering again. “You don’t like to do magic, but that Council? They must have amazing powers. They could probably face down an army of demons.” She smiled at him hopefully.

  Fire always brought out Shandon’s own water resonance. He looked down at his plate, chewing steadily.

  “Shandon.” She was not smiling anymore. Her wine was pushed to the side. “Tell me everything you know about demons.”

  Really? Where to start. He thought of pushing himself away from the table, going to sleep next to his beater. Her eyes implored him. She was smart enough not to say anything. Why did she vex him so?

  In a flash it came to him. She was beautiful, her unusual eyes large, her lips full, the curves of her face exquisite. He admired it as he would a well-made painting, a perfect rose. It meant nothing to him. And he despised himself for that.

  That was not her fault.

  He poured himself another glass and her as well. “Demons are a complex subject. I will start with the story of the original one, the Water Demon.”

  CHAPTER 9

  The Story of the Demon

  Before the beginning of time, there was space. Though it was luminous, it was cold, so when the Divine breathed on it, it folded over on itself to capture her warmth. The folds became the lands of our world, and right in the middle, there was our Heartland, the center of the world, where the country of Trea lies.

  Not a plant grew, not a creature stirred, because it was before time. The Divine desired to look at her creation, and so she formed two eyes. Her left eye was the moon, and her right eye was the sun. She gazed down upon our quiet world for many bright days and starry nights.

  There was land, ocher and expansive, and there were the seas, blue and green, ebbing and flowing under her watchful moon eye. But other than the currents of air that swi
rled, and the waves rippling across the ocean, there was no change, and she began to tire of her creation.

  The Divine stroked the sky with her right palm and felt the caress of moving air against her skin. She spoke. “I name you Wind.” She trailed the fingers of her left hand through the shifting emerald of the great water and brought her fingers to her lips. She tasted the cleansing bitterness of salt. “You will be called Sea.”

  The Divine addressed Wind and Sea and asked them what they could offer her, now that she had given them the gift of names. Wind was from space, and he huffed and puffed, and some sand blew about, and some rocks fell from the mountain crags, but soon the Divine tired of his show.

  “Is this all you can do?”

  Wind wished for favor from the Divine. He chased himself around the beaches of Sarsara, the mountains of Trea, and the plains of the Western Wilderness before he realized: he was motion. If one began at one spot, and one ended at the other, a change had taken place. Time.

  He offered the notion of time to the Divine, and she was pleased. For thousands of years she watched the spinnings of the stars in the great canopy overhead, the soughing of the tides in Sea, and the passing of seasons which her other eye, the sun, steered: spring, summer, late summer, autumn, and winter.

  But then she felt lonely. Was there no one else to share her wonder at the eternal show, the cycles of the seasons, the orbits of the stars, the tides of the turquoise and green ocean?

  Wind had done his part. She turned to Sea, sharing her wish for company.

  Sea conceived of life. Life would unfold within time, ebbing and flowing, raging and quieting—still, until it sprang up again.

  But how to make life? Things had to stand in opposition, tensions must arise, forces must triangulate. Sea took what was at hand: the rock of the mountains, the fire of the sun, the liquid of her own being, the undulating waves of brown soil that covered the Heartland. From those four forces she created trees.

  It was spring when woods came into being. The saplings shot up, rooted in the soil, nourished by the water, yearning toward the light of the sun. Tree followed tree, grasses swept over the rippling lands, flowers opened their sweet faces to the spring. Scent filled the air, and the blossoms filled the bare branches.

  Then came early summer. The alchemy of the sun opened the blossoms and buds. The world filled with color, and the power of fire swept down with the sunlight, coloring a blossom red here, and a fruit scarlet there. Sea sent rain and the heat was gentled, under the warmth and moisture the bounty ripened. The fruit became plump and juicy; the grasses drooped heavy under their seeds. Fire played in the sunshine, dancing, and earth energy rose from the ground, drawn by the warmth.

  From the mingling of earth and fire came the harvest of late summer. Creatures were needed to enjoy the feast. The Sea formed the four-legged ones from clay, filling her new creations with her own salty water, adding hearts and bellies. Those were animals, furred and feathered, eager to fill up on the bounty, so they could create offspring in turn.

  The Divine was pleased with Sea. The multitude of her children replaced the former emptiness of her existence. She overflowed with love for her new little companions.

  But Wind had been supplanted, and now, as summer gave way to autumn, he manifested his grief. What is created must meet its end; such are the laws of time. The first death came to the Heartland. As the cold winds blew, the fruit withered on the vines, and the leaves tumbled from the trees. The animals sought shelter in caves and burrows.

  The Divine wept at the deaths, her tears becoming crystals as they fell down to the cold and now barren earth. Metal energy formed around the crystals, hard, sharp, dry. Yet there was beauty in the sorrow, and poetry in the lament. Despite the pain of loss, the Divine did not cease loving Sea’s creation. Wind again felt himself supplanted.

  Wind was lonely and bitter. He sharpened a mountain crystal into a knife. He slew Sea’s favorite creature, a beautiful stallion.

  It was the first murder. After Sea overcame her shock, she became angry. She would show the Wind that she was stronger. She reached down deep, into depths that were as dark as the reaches of space. A winged spirit arose. The Water Demon was created as an immortal, but she possessed a material, indestructible body.

  When Sea saw the dark creature her rage had formed, she quailed, but it was too late. The Water Demon had the shape of a woman, while Sea was mutable. The Demon could appear as a caring mother, a passionate lover, an enticing witch, while Sea was merely a fluid shimmer and shine.

  As each new season arrived, the Demon lapped at the shifting days, tasting the emergent energy, shaping the whirling patterns of color, temperature, and scent into something coherent enough to communicate with. When the year had passed and fall gave way to winter again, there were five powers, whom she named just as the Divine had named Sea and Wind.

  The five were Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water. She promised them bodies with which to experience life. No longer would they be only forces; they would be able to interact with the world: stroke the resilient saplings, inhale the fragrance of the sweet flowers, taste and feel the clean refreshing water. She would care for their incarnations and make them homes.

  They chose to be birthed through her, to live as clusters of embodied immortals, enjoying the gift of the senses.

  She began with her favorite: water, winter born as she was. She plucked icicles and animated them with her breath, bringing the Elementals to life. In the spring, she wove the budding shoots into bodies, and as she wove, the shuttling of her fingers sparked the Wood Elementals into being. In summer she scooped up the moist earth and formed her Earth Elementals. When the sun reached its full heat she gathered wood and called down the lightning; the Fire Elementals came forth. The cooling winds of fall forged the Metal Elementals from fire’s molten streams.

  In those days, the beginning of time, the Elementals looked quite different from one another. It was only when the manlike races came into being that the Demon cloaked their true natures in dense bodies of hardened scales, to protect them as she promised.

  The manlike creatures—the Elder Race, the Kijari, and humans—were her descendants, but she had not set out to make them. No one now knows how we came to be created from her lineage. It is rumored it was the Wind’s meddling; he sucked the energy of an Elemental out, broke the strands of its essence, and reformed it into a chaos of energies. In any event, our races were not part of her intention, and as such we are a hated and despised intrusion.

  Beware the Demon. Her hatred is adamantine, piercing, and poisonous.

  * * *

  Shandon finished his narrative, pleased with himself. He was not a loquacious man, but as Master of the Scrolls, he should be capable of telling a decent tale. Only then did he notice Berona’s earlier ebullience had vanished. She was hunched down as if cold, staring into her empty cup. It had cost her to leave her family. He hadn’t missed the bruise on her face, though.

  It was hard for Shandon, a man who protected himself through his silence, to ask others intrusive questions, but Berona was his responsibility now.

  He folded his hands, steeled himself. “Why this interest in demons? Did your father threaten you? Tell you the Goddess rejected you?”

  CHAPTER 10

  Berona

  I reached for the wine bottle, buying time. It was empty. Like my head. What should I say? Should I throw myself on his mercy, tell him the truth? That had not served me well last time. I touched the place on my cheek, still sore. It might always hurt when I touched it.

  “Father was frustrated with me,” I admitted.

  Shandon’s face was soft and gentle now. “Was he the one who hit you?”

  “Yes, but he was trying to help me.”

  “That’s what my younger brother said too. He would pummel me, try to toughen me up. I did become a good fighter. I never was brutal enough for his taste, though. He felt I should push the men more.”

  I was surprised by how bitter S
handon sounded. Perhaps I could get him to talk more about himself. Stop him from asking me questions.

  “Push the men?”

  “Our liegemen. The ones who pledged their swords to my father.” He lapsed into a sullen silence.

  I shifted. “Shall we take the plates in and retire? It’s getting chilly.”

  He gave me a shrewd look. “We were talking about you.”

  “That was a frightening story about the Demon. Thank Amur the Priest-King killed her.”

  “He didn’t kill her. She was held captive.”

  Goosebumps rose on my arms, and I found the knife I’d eaten with clenched in my hand. Could it be? My Demon had stayed in the water, unable to give chase. Was she the Water Demon?

  I stared at Shandon, too stunned to speak, my head whirling. More than ever, I wanted to know what I had done? The oldest creature on Earth, and she came looking for me?

  Shandon’s face told me he was holding back, waiting for me to speak. He knew more. He might reject me if he heard the truth, but at least my family had fled with gold in its pockets.

  My throat felt like a hot summer day, in a month without a drop of rain. “So the Water Demon is imprisoned?”

  “Is she?”

  The moment stretched out between us. A cricket chirped by my ear, startling me. I realized then that he already knew. The Demon was not the only one to seek me out. He had too.

  “What is…” I stopped. I had wanted to ask what was so special about me, but it seemed a strange question for a girl who demanded six gold coins in exchange for her company.