Instead of reluctant allies, continuing on in the face of danger and death.
CHARACTERS & CALENDAR
CHARACTERS
Berona: The Girl of Fire
Villagers
Soal: Berona’s father
Dedi: Berona’s sister
Meila: Berona’s mother
The Mannites of Trea
The Founder: Krossos Mannine, deceased, but present
Council of Purple Robes
Soa: Oberin’s uncle
Tovalen and Umritz: Council members
Okane and Olane: Celebrated twins, supporters of Shandon
The Yellow Robes
Shandon: Former Lord of Angur, Master of the Scrolls
Oberin: Nephew of Council Member Soa
Hirschi: Master of the Horse
Bolin: Shandon’s closest friend, a hermit
Biruac: Kendall’s cousin
The Red Robes
Kendall: Leader of the Mannite warriors
The Green Robes
Namur: Rheyna’s instructor
Georsi: Demoted Council member
The Acolytes
Moab: Red, adopted by Shandon
Kea: Yellow, son of Shandon’s friend
Rheyna: Green, from Berona’s village
Kilgad: Red
Ilse: Yellow, a Finder
Alse: Yellow, Ilse’s brother
Delphine: Red, recruited by Shandon
Vendrisi
The Royal House
Luca: The Prime. Sailor, scientist, and scoundrel
Calio: Luca’s oldest brother
Vasio: Luca’s middle brother
Leyla: Luca’s sister, who would have been Prime if she had been a boy
Luca’s Lovers
Zaida: Princess of Farzia
Illenn: Princess of East Sarsara
Advisors
Vulla: Minister of Magic
Mak: Minster of Innovation
Samu: Mercantile Advisor
Yuvio: Scientist who becomes Mak’s lover
The Elder Race
Neyva: Princess of the Elder Race
King Gale: Consort of the Queen of the Elder Race
The Elementals
Ziggaret: Metal Elemental
Meshabera: Wood Elemental
CALENDAR
The year is divided into twelve months of thirty days each. The three null days of winter occur at the time of the winter solstice, and the two null days of summer mark the summer solstice.
Month of Long Sleeps: January
Month of Frosts: February
Month of Snow Bells: March
Month of Spring Winds: April
Month of Amur: May
Month of Berries: June
Month of Null Days: July
Month of the River Crossings: August
Month of Grapes: September
Month of Cider: October
Month of Hunts: November
Month of Darkness: December
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes a village.
I started this book when I was fourteen. It may have been called The Water Dragon then. The hiss of the steam iron while my mother did her household chores served as the background to my early recitations. She made time to listen and praised my imagination.
Decades later, a man I was dating, Bruce, typed my longhand manuscript. In the early 2000s, my friend Jan read a version and noted that the stilted language made it less accessible than it could be. My sister Stephanie, a published author, pointed out that a word count of 150,000 is over the limit, even for epic fantasy. My conservative and quiet brother-in-law, Murry, lobbied for a less tame version, much to my surprise.
So much input. So many years. “Thank you” to more people than I can name.
Girl of Fire owes much to my latest round of beta readers—Sue Tingey, Martin Owton, and especially Sharon Reamer, whose caustic yet funny comments pierced the fog around my head and helped things come together. Ariadne Apostolou of Five Directions Press helped me understand the need to simplify, and our cover designer, author Courtney J. Hall, outdid herself for these books. Joan Schweighardt, another member of our press, was available for moral support and friendly chat. Spouse Jerry cooked dinners and refilled my prosecco, giving me time to write.
A special thanks goes out to C. P. Lesley, who after scanning others’ comments, provided chapter by chapter guidance on how to integrate the advice from my beta readers, as well as typesetting the manuscript and writing the cover blurb, along with Courtney. I couldn’t have done it without any of you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gabrielle Mathieu is the author of the Berona’s Quest YA fantasy series, which begins with Girl of Fire. Her previous novels include the historical fantasy Falcon series, about the misadventures of a young chemist who discovers a new and feral aspect of herself after she’s poisoned with a potent hallucinogen.
She hosts New Books in Fantasy and Adventure, a podcast channel on the New Books Network, and is always on the lookout for original, professionally published new works to feature.
Gabrielle has a master’s degree in Traditional Chinese Medicine. She lives in Switzerland where she maintains an acupuncture practice, tries to save her seedlings from ravenous slugs, and hikes over mountain passes for fun. Check her out on YouTube, where she does book comparisons and spoken word pieces as Gabrielle Mathieu. She’s also on Twitter as @AuthorGabrielle and on Facebook as @GabrielleMathieuauthor.
EXCERPTS
ALSO FROM FIVE DIRECTIONS PRESS
The Golden Lynx
C. P. LESLEY
Kasimov, Sha’ban 940 A.H. / February 1534
The lynx found Nasan just before the ambush. She glimpsed its tufted ears through the tangled branches of the birch tree, then lost sight of it when her brother launched his attack. Alerted by his joyous shriek, she jumped sideways and stuck out a foot, sending him somersaulting over the blizzard-kissed ground. She pelted him with snowballs, taunting him. “You forgot again, silly. How can you take me by surprise if you yell like that?”
He lurched to his feet, grumbling, and she laughed. Girei tried, but too often he forgot to save his war cries for battle.
He soon recovered. Most of the snowballs bounced off Nasan’s quilted overcoat or hit the birch trees that bounded the clearing they had chosen as their private playground. But a few better-aimed missiles sent icy shivers across her cheeks, reddened by the cold. One smacked her on the forehead, knocking her hat to one side.
She pushed the sheepskin cap into place and aimed another snowball at Girei, who yelped when it broke over his neck. While he scooped ice from inside his coat, she leaped in celebration, bending her legs almost double behind her and shouting, “Hurrah!”
Her moment of exultation cost her. Girei darted toward her, grabbed her round the waist, and tossed her into a drift. The impact jarred loose an entire branch’s load, covering her in snow. “Yow,” she said. “I’m going to get you for that.”
Girei grinned. “You didn’t hear me coming, though.”
She shook her head, giggling. “No, I didn’t. Truce?”
He nodded. Nasan kept a wary eye on him as she wriggled free of her drift. A few months ago, he couldn’t have picked her up with such ease. But these days he seemed to grow taller with each passing hour; for him manhood lay just around the corner. Sha’ban led into Ramadan, and the ending of the fast marked his fifteenth birthday. Within weeks, he would ride off to join the army with their father and older brother. He couldn’t wait to go.
A pair of fingers snapped before her face. “Are you dreaming?” Girei asked. “Wake up.”
She rubbed her gloved fist against his forehead, where the unruly hair refused to accept the confinement of his hat. “A nightmare, more like. You off to the army, and I to supervise the kitchens. Is that justice?”
“Oh, sister,” he said, “if only you could join me.”
“I wish,” she told him, not for the first time. “But I c
an hear Ana’s voice now. ‘You must marry, Nasan. Bear children for the clan.’ She’s told me nothing else since the day I turned fourteen. Two years!”
“A hard life you have, sister.” Girei scrunched his nose, as if he could imagine no worse fate for himself. “I’ll take Father’s shouting any day.”
“And no doubt I’ll be in trouble again when I go home.” She stared gloomily at a tree. “Where are those warrior heroines from my book? They must have vanished with our ancestors.” Except in her sleep, when the grandmother spirits whispered their promise: life offered so much more than marriage and children.
As if inspired by the thought, she grabbed snow and bombarded her brother. Girei would leave soon, no matter what. Already a faint mustache showed on his upper lip. Each day his resemblance to their father grew—both short and sturdy, with dark hair and black eyes. Genghis Khan might lie buried in the eastern steppe, his grave marked only by the spirit banners where his soul perched between flights, but his illustrious lineage survived in the rulers of Khankirmän, which the Russians called Kasimov.
“Enough of this.” Girei ran for his pony, vaulting into the saddle. “Bet you can’t catch me.”
Traitor! Set on revenge, Nasan leaped for her horse’s back. Girei had a good head start, but she rode better than he did. Her sure-footed steppe pony dashed along the flattened snow that formed the road—the frozen Oka River on one side, unbroken forest on the other. The horses galloped nose to tail by the time a dozen men burst from among the trees and grabbed the Tatars’ reins.
Russians.
No doubt about that. Many Tatars had European features, but none looked like the leader of this group. A platinum-haired giant, he towered over his men.
Too late, Nasan remembered her mother’s warning that more lurked in the woods than screech owls and lynxes.
A man with brown hair and rotting teeth dragged her off her pony as if she weighed no more than the last snowball she’d tossed at Girei. His grip around her waist forced her to gasp for breath.
But Nasan had spent much of her childhood wrestling her way into boys’ games. Small as she was, she had learned a few tricks. She drummed her heels against her captor’s shins until, swearing, he released her and grabbed his leg.
As she pulled away, hard fingers clamped down on her shoulder. Another soldier materialized in front of her. Although shorter than his comrade, he made up for it in girth, and the slap he dealt her hurt. The man she’d kicked clenched his fists. She cowered, hoping to prevent a beating.
Her plan worked. The man grabbed her above the elbow. With both arms secured, Nasan faked acquiescence. Nothing to do but pray that the grandmothers would show her an exit. Pray and watch: the more she learned about their captors, the better her chances of saving herself and her brother.
Meanwhile, Girei fought the two men who held him, excoriating them as the offspring of rabid dogs and whores. The soldiers stood, stolid as the trees around them, immune to insults delivered in a foreign tongue. After a while, the leader walked over, tipped back Girei’s head, and looked at him. “Bulat’s son, I vow. Boy looks just like him.”
He said the words in Russian. Nasan puzzled them out, one by one, wishing she had paid more attention to the language. She had learned Arabic, Persian, and Turkic, but her Russian came from eavesdropping on her brothers’ lessons. Custom required her to marry a Muslim; she didn’t need Russian. Everyone said so.
Everyone was wrong. Tomorrow she would insist on learning Russian.
The leader examined Nasan as he had her brother. Determined not to show fear, she stared into his frosty eyes and tugged at the unyielding arms that held her. Branches encased in ice refracted the sun’s glare in sparkling patterns and cast shadows that shifted with each passing breeze. Bleached by the effect of sunshine on snow, the Russian resembled an ice man. His brows met in the center, like the tufts of a screech owl. A scar, pale with age, bracketed tight, cruel lips.
“Not sure about this one,” he said. “Let’s not take chances.” He tipped his head, considering. Sunshine danced across his face, highlighting an eyebrow, his hooked nose, the whorls of his ear. The hollows of his cheeks remained in shadow, dark as the empty sockets of a skull.
Why had he captured them? He wore the armor of a nobleman, not the rags of a thief. And he couldn’t hope to profit from robbery or murder. Even in these troubled times, the khans of Kasimov protected their own.
The man waved his free hand. “We came to avenge my kinsman. No more, no less.”
She gasped. Kinsman?
Three months ago, a Russian had killed one of Nasan’s cousins in a drunken brawl. The victim’s brothers slew the killer and left his companions unscathed—as honor required. Even Russians understood the code of the steppe: a life for a life, and there the matter ended.
Not this Russian, though. The blood drained from her face, leaving her light-headed. This Russian meant death.
They had to get away. On their own, because no one would search for them at this early hour. Ana had ordered them not to leave the palace. Ana did not expect defiance.
But how could Nasan have guessed Russians were hiding in the woods today? She had rubbed the spirit dolls’ lips with grease and asked for their blessing, as she did every morning. No hint of regret or warning had crossed her mind.
She must not have listened carefully. Remorse burned her throat.
Ice Man studied her, more monster than man. Nasan shuddered. He liked that, she saw—that he inspired fear. He held her chin a moment longer, then turned back to Girei.
Plans darted through her brain, never settling. Had she not yearned to prove herself in battle? Every heroine, sooner or later, must stand alone against the foe.
The ancestors were testing her. Here, when she least expected it. Spirits often prodded and teased, forcing growth as farmers force a plant. But they helped, too, if asked.
Grandmothers, show me the way!
Her mind cleared, as if an outside force had swept uncertainty from her head. She saw what she must do, laid out before her in miniatures like the ones that adorned her book of epic tales. Princess Chichek drawing her bow, her arrow whistling toward the target. Princess Saljan, wielding her saber against six hundred soldiers.
The two men gripped her arms. Obedient to the images in her head, she went limp. Her collapse caught her captors off-guard. Using a move she’d learned from her older brother, Nasan kicked the man on her right in the groin and dragged her arm away from him as he doubled over.
The man on her left stumbled. She fell backward, dragging him with her and using his greater weight against him, then twisted away and ran into the forest, shouting, “To me, Girei, to me!” To help him free himself, she dragged a pair of rocks from beneath the snow and hurled one at each of his captors. They staggered.
“The horses!” Girei raced toward her.
Nasan spun on the balls of her feet. Frightened animals surrounded her, bucking and weaving, upset by her shouting. Their hooves trampled the snow. She yelled louder and waved her arms, smacking a few on the rump to increase their frenzy. They spread into an incomplete circle, knocking into one another and their owners.
She hesitated. Horses she understood. Even these horses: the Russians bought theirs from the Tatars. But these beasts had not learned her voice or her smell. Did she have the skills to capture and mount one, let alone keep her seat if she did?
Girei shouted her name in warning. Feet crashing through shrubbery pushed her into a decision. Better to risk a throw from a panicked horse than whatever the Russians planned for her. Amid floundering men and distracted beasts, Nasan vaulted onto the nearest saddle. The animal reared. She clung to its mane with both hands and whispered into its ear.
Mashallah, the horse had spent its babyhood among her people. The familiar sounds of Tatar calmed it. It stopped bucking. She patted its neck in encouragement.
A quick glance over her shoulder revealed Girei heading her way—still on foot, but close enough that sh
e watched him reach for a dangling rein. With a wave of acknowledgment she sent the gelding hurtling toward the river road, sure Girei was right behind her. In the pandemonium they’d left behind, she doubted anyone would see which direction they took.
At the edge of the trees, she pulled up. No sounds of pursuit disturbed the wintry scene. Exultant, she punched the air. Success, despite the odds! She had overcome the fears of a frightened animal, then ridden it to safety. A few more yards, and she and Girei would find their ponies. They would free the horses they rode and head for home.
Her horse skittered, its hooves slipping on the packed snow, its ears pricked. Swiftly she leaned over its neck, murmuring soothing words and offering a carrot from her pocket. Silence surrounded her.
Then the truth hit home, and she pulled herself upright in the saddle. Her eyes fixed on the woods, and she held her breath, listening for the smallest noise.
No one had followed her—including Girei.
What happened? He was inches from escaping!
The forest remained silent: no horses, no people. She waited, reluctant to breathe in case the Russians heard her, but Girei did not appear. Closer to the palace stood their ponies, digging grass from beneath the packed snow and chewing it. She nudged the captured Russian gelding with her knees, walking it toward
the ponies. Her otherworldly calm vanished, leaving her cramped and lost, horrified that her clever plan had saved herself but not her brother.
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