Girl of Fire

by Gabrielle Mathieu

  Prairie grass had swallowed the graves, and swallows darted in the soft autumn air. There was no sign of the Elders, only a far-off forest that glowed in luminescent shades of amber, lemon, and sunset orange. Once they had lived there. Shandon spared the forest a curious glance, reminded of the Elder prophecy that fell into his hand one fateful day. He had stared down at the foreign script, flowing like the movement of snails in the mud and the tracks of birds in the sand, like filaments of rose and apple blossoms, blown up in a gentle wind and then allowed to settle at random. The parchment was beautiful and mysterious.

  Then he read it.

  It changed his life. He hoped Berona was safe at Yassin.

  Hirschi interrupted his thoughts. “Here’s the secret door. We can pass through the mountains and we’ll arrive close to the prison. It should be dusk by then.” He began unsaddling the beaters, which would not tolerate the narrow tunnel. He sounded as calm as ever, but Shandon noted how every muscle in his neck was taut. He was frightened too.

  * * *

  As Hirschi predicted, it was dusk when they emerged. An unwholesome miasma met them. The air stank like a charnel house and dank mist wreathed the sparse thorny shrubs. Shandon thought he saw a forest in the distance. “What’s that wood doing there?”

  Hirschi frowned. “It’s not on the map. It would be a good place to take cover, though.”

  “Which way is the prison?”

  “I think it’s that way as well.” Hirschi pointed south, past the sparse wood. “Look, there’s the building.” The obsidian of the prison gleamed wetly at them in the distance.

  There was a muffled loud sound in the fog, not far from where they stood. Shandon pulled his sword. “What was that?”

  Hirschi might be the famous Sidewinder, the best at hand-to-hand combat, but he liked his weapons. His hand came up with his throwing spear, the other patted his knife, one of three he wore belted around his tunic. “It came from over there.”

  Now there were definite crashing sounds. It was either a herd of the fabled Xandrian elephants, or something much worse. Sweat trickled down Shandon’s back. Hirschi’s face was grim. “Maybe it’s some of the Plainsmen?” Shandon suggested.

  “They don’t come to this side of the mountain range.”

  “It could be a caravan.”

  “Could be.” Both men stood alert, as if waiting for an executioner.

  Crash. Boom.

  “Whoever it is isn’t trying to stay hidden,” Shandon said.

  Hirschi didn’t give an answer. He stared ahead, immobile. It was the way he got when he expected combat.

  Five weeks. The Demon had been free only five weeks. How had she found them so quickly? The Elders had assured the Mannites the prison was cloaked by spells. But no one knew what happened to the Elders.

  Maybe the Demon was just lucky.

  “If we stay here, we have the tunnel at our back. We could turn and run if needed,” Shandon said.

  There was no question of fighting the Elementals, if they were out there. Without knowing which kind you faced, it was hopeless. Touch a Wood Elemental with a wooden staff and its power would increase. Try to run a Metal through with a sword and your weapon turned and skewered you instead. Only Shandon’s magical sword was the exception, since it was directed by the mind of its master.

  “We’ll stay and see what comes. If it’s a group of Elementals, we’ll know it’s useless to try to secure the prison.”

  Shandon nodded and was about to say something, but the roar of cascading rocks drowned out his words. A landslide. He was forced to jump forward, pulling Hirschi with him.

  They got up, Shandon rubbing a sore knee and Hirschi minus a knife. There was only one explanation for a sudden landslide in the absence of a storm or snow—Metal Elementals in the vicinity.

  The boulders against their back were still better than being exposed. Neither man made a move toward the crashing sounds.

  “When they get here, run for cover. I’ll keep them busy,” Hirschi said.

  “The hell you will.”

  “Shandon, you promised to help Berona. You’ve got to get back to Yassin. You can tell the Council what happened.”

  “I’m not leaving you, Hirschi.”

  “Berona’s depending on you. She’s your warrior now.” Hirschi had played the trump card. He knew how deep the guilt over what happened to his former men cut Shandon. When he’d ceded the title, his brother inherited the men Shandon trained from boyhood on. His brother had then spent their lives as they were a pile of coppers in a card game.

  Shandon sighed. He wasn’t sure he’d make it out of this alive, even if he fled into the sheltering woods.

  Hirschi smiled grimly. “This may be our last talk, brother. Anything you regret? Besides the fate of your former men?”

  Shandon fought to find words for what he felt. “I never told him how much I care.”

  “Who?” Hirschi said.

  “I…I’ve gotten close to Bolin.”

  “Your lover? If I survive, and you perish, shall I give him a message?”

  “You know?” Shandon said, deeply shocked. He’d been so careful.

  Hirsch punched him gently on the arm “You dolt. Why do you think you’re my closest friend? You’re the only one who won’t take Kendall to your bed. Don’t let her teasing fool you. She knows too. We don’t judge you.”

  “Father would have. That’s why I left. It would have broken his heart. It was better just to disappear.”

  “Then he’s not the father you deserve,” Hirschi said.

  Yet Father had been Shandon’s shining hero when he was little, and Shandon never ceased to admire him. He changed the subject. “And you? You say you trust me with Kendall. Why not just tell her how her affairs hurt you?”

  “I’m the one who set her on the path. Teasing her for being a virgin when she first lay with me. How I wish…”

  Now the first attacker loomed into view, its bulk casting no shadow in the gloom. Shandon had never seen an Elemental, but there was no doubt in his mind this was one. It moved with a supernatural power, as if it was formed from the stuff of life itself. Its face was blunt, jaw huge, eyes small but glowing. More followed, eyes a poisonous green gleam in their brutal faces, feet thudding on the ground as they moved closer. They needed only a prolonged contact to kill: suffocation, incineration, drowning under a sheet of ice…

  Hirschi laid his metal weapons on the ground and took up his stance. No creatures were immune to the impact of flesh and bone, even Elementals.

  His last word to Shandon were, “Run to the woods. Make my sacrifice worthwhile.”

  * * *

  Shandon was lost. He hadn’t felt so lost since that long-ago day he’d left the assembly hall of Angur, the polished walnut walls shining in the late afternoon sun that slanted through the high-set windows.

  The disappointment made the hall dark in his memory. He’d turned his back on it all—the languorous sloe-eyed bride his father chose for him, hoping her voluptuousness would change Shandon’s aversion to marriage. His younger brother, lips pursed in a disapproving line, though he stood to benefit by Shandon’s abdication. Perhaps the worst was the fighting men who’d served under Shandon, who stared at him as he strode through the yard to the stable, followed by a servant carrying his personal goods. If they guessed Shandon’s shameful secret—that he felt no lust for women—they didn’t care. Shandon was fair. Shandon was a peacekeeper who trained his men hard but tried diplomacy before war.

  Shandon’s brother would lead them now. And Shandon’s brother was a man’s man, who cursed, spat, tussled, and thought it was weak to back off from a fight.

  What was a man anyway?

  By Krossos, Shandon was tired. Tired in his bones, in his belly, like he’d never been before. He’d run toward shelter while the fog stung his lungs and numbed his brain. The shelter had revealed itself to be this cursed wood.

  It was a forest of bones.

  Endure.

 
Shandon had water resonance; he was patient, capable of conserving his resources to reach a goal. But right now, fear chilled him to the bone. He forced his legs to keep going through sheer effort of will. He couldn’t go back; the Elementals were behind him. Even these woods would have an end.

  Then he saw the first light, and everything changed. His weariness was replaced by a sweet rush of confidence through his veins. Everything was going to be fine. Why had he worried?

  * * *

  The light was the first of many. It hung like a great globe from the bone tree, suspended by slender filaments. The fruit of the tree, he now saw. The lights were soft greenish circles against the stark gray of the twisted trunks. He began wandering with a childish delight toward one that drew him. He was startled to pass a slumped man under one of the other lights. The body was covered with the filaments from the globe, which hovered close to the man’s face. The ashen pallor of the skin suggested death, but the closed eyes still flickered, as if he dreamt.

  Shandon stopped short, rubbed his citrine amulet, and recited a warding spell. Horror crept over him as his mind cleared. This had the Demon’s touch—the deft interspersion of a skewed reality, which threw you off course. You would end in trackless vast waters, where all you believed in was gone. A moment ago he’d thought all was well, although he wandered lost in this forest of bones, surrounded by rot and corruption.

  He had to be very careful. The lights were all around him. If he looked away from the dead man, he might see his own light again. He had a sense of the things shifting and aligning behind him. He sent out a mental probe. Yes. They responded to his thoughts.

  “Creature of evil, return to whence you came,” he commanded in the original language, the one that wove enchantment. He had used this spell once to chase off a ghost.

  He still did not dare look up, but pressure built around him. If anything, they crowded closer. Something was feeding them.

  He looked down at the corpse, now no more than a tangle of threads. Till now, Shandon had always believed the essence of a man was eternal and immutable. It wouldn’t be like that for this poor bastard. No rebirth. No red door he could enter to take on a new baby’s form.

  The threads had drained him of everything.

  Shandon’s power ebbed as thick air choked him and the sick pull on his mind intensified. He took a chance and used part of his waning magic to sign a spell of uncloaking with his hands. What do I face?

  The answer came: soul snares, made from the fallen star and the Demon’s bile.

  Shandon fell to his knees, choking on the foul air. He pulled his sword. Perhaps he could damage his soul snare. He could not stay on the ground, looking at the puddle of slime where the man had been. He had to fight. Get back to Berona. Warn the Council.

  He climbed heavily to his feet and took a few steps. He stopped. Was he walking deeper into the woods?

  Just go.

  He had others depending on him. He had others who, he dared believe, loved him. Perhaps Father never would. But in Bolin, Shandon had found a man of quality.

  He took a few steps more. Something soft smacked into him. Of course he looked.

  How could you not look?

  His vision blurred, and then cleared. All he could see was the globe.

  It was so dark and this light was so warm. Shandon felt like he had as a child, when he’d discovered where Cook kept the pastries. He knew what he was doing was wrong. But it felt good. He was tired. He could rest, just a bit. Couldn’t he?

  * * *

  As he sat, the light moved even closer; he felt the feather tingling as its energy registered him. There was something…not…

  I have something to show you, the light suggested. Shandon felt lightheaded and giddy. He had to be careful. His lips shaped meaningless words. “Berona. Bolin.”

  Yes. Just look for a moment. A peek won’t hurt you. It’s nice. Just for you.

  Some part of Shandon registered peril. He spit up some bile, dug his fingernails in his palms. No. He had to get away.

  Look, Shandon.

  His head turned up against his will; his eyes received the delusion.

  * * *

  He stood at the door. The great hall of Angur lay before him. Behind him crowded lean, toughened men, their once blood-streaked swords wiped clean and sheathed. His men. Every one of them safe and sound.

  Father sat on the throne, a great smile of approval on his face.

  “My prodigal son. Returned.”

  “It almost came to war, Father. But I was able to convince the Duke of Ducat to sign a new treaty.”

  “I’m growing old now. You are the new Lord of Angur.”

  “What of my brother?”

  “That hothead. He joined a group of mercenaries.”

  The sweetness swaddled his aching heart; he had missed the men of Angur, his solid, proud father most of all. There was just one thing he needed, one more thing.

  “We know,” his father said, “he’s here.”

  His love was at the head of the banquet table, still wearing the Yellow Robe.

  “We’ve given Bolin the seat of honor. Our hearts are gladdened to know you’ve found such a noble companion,” Father said.

  Shandon let the dream take him. He could smell the corruption, feel the green light feeding off him, reflecting back images as it sucked his memories, transformed his soul into dust. But he didn’t care anymore. He deserved to be happy.

  CHAPTER 15

  Luca

  Luca was on his way to visit Mak when Leyla waylaid him in the hall.

  “Lulu,” she called out softly. Luca’s shoulders stiffened. The name had not offended him when he was a child. That was before he realized how his birth had robbed his sister of being Prime, how every word out of her mouth was edged with a taunt. You’re a boy but no better than me.

  Though she stooped with fatigue, her eyes shone. “I’ve done something terribly dangerous and exciting.”

  Sometimes he wondered if Leyla was in possession of all her wits. It must be that witchcraft. The rest of his family was sensible, perhaps in Vasio’s case even too sensible.

  “I’m on my way to see Mak,” he reminded her. Each Prime studied an artisan craft or a branch of science. Luca’s love was metallurgy. He felt at home with the hiss of the fire, the blaze of the molten metals, the old plain tunic he wore down in the workshop, smelling bitter like scorch and smoke.

  “You’re going to like this, though. You haven’t stopped thinking about that Demon, have you?”

  Could she even spy on his nightmares? He’d had another last night, waking to find the sweat-drenched sheets wrapped around him like manacles.

  “The Mannite Master of the Horse made answer. He advised me to wait in readiness, until he could find out more.” The letter had awoken an itchy impatience in Luca. The Mannites would find her, spy on her. He’d have to hear about this astonishing, evil creature secondhand. If she could change the course of a meteorite, what else was she capable of?

  Leyla smiled. “Well, I’ve met someone who knows all about her. He wants to talk to you, though.”

  “My schedule is full. Ask Samu to find an appointment time. He’ll have to strike someone else, but he’ll know what can be shifted.”

  “I can’t bring him to you. You have to go to him.”

  “What game are you playing at?”

  “Do you remember how the Mannites can do sendings?”

  A sending was a wordless communion the Mannites reportedly used to far-speak. “Tell me more,” Luca said.

  “Vulla and I have met with some success.”

  “You can far-speak now?” Luca asked, astounded.

  “Well, no. I would need a partner to do that. To far-speak with each other, Mannites send their essence to an overworld, one populated by incorporeal entities. It’s called the Shadow Plain. I learned how to get there. I hoped to speak with their founder, Krossos Mannine. I met someone else.”

  There was something overheated about her
, as if she were a pot simmering and about to boil over.

  “That sounds reckless and dangerous,” Luca said severely. “I would have thought Vulla had more sense than to give you free rein.”

  “At least someone has balls,” she shot back.

  “I don’t need to prove myself to you.” He pushed past her.

  “Wait. Luca, I’m sorry. You really should meet him. He calls himself the Ally. He’s made promises that would interest you.”

  “Like what?”

  “The trade wind. The Ally would give Vulla and me the spell to call the trade wind. We’re your loyal subjects. We would use it for the good of Vendrisi. He only asks for a meeting with you.”

  Luca hesitated. “I’m no warlock. How do you propose to get me to this Shadow Plain?”

  “Come to us tonight. We’ll show you.” It sounded dangerous—and exciting.

  After dinner, Luca was supposed to review this month’s profit on the cotton trade with Samu. Luca loathed the click of the abacus, the man’s plump white fingers wheedling their way through the rows of the wooden beads while a secretary called out the rows of figures.

  Oh hell. Let Vasio do it.

  * * *

  After dinner, he took the corridor over to the west wing of his palace, where several rooms were set aside for the Ministry of Magic. Vulla’s attendant unlocked the door of the inner sanctum and led him to the Room of Space, so called because it was empty except for the carved wooden chaise, heaped with cushions, that stood in the center of the room. There were no windows and once inside, there was no other exit. The room was lit with a hundred beeswax candles, nestled into niches. The pleasant sound of a small mechanical fountain broke the otherwise deep silence.