Fire Games (Pyforial Mage Trilogy: Book 1)

by B. T. Narro

  “So men started jumping also?”

  “For many years, no, only women. There were many who believed the two gods only wanted women, because that had appeased them thus far. But too many men wanted to be the sacrifice, and eventually one was chosen. When the year went by without a drought or a flood, it was decided men could be sacrificed as well.”

  “People actually wanted to jump to their death?”

  “You should know by now that some people can believe something so strongly that it’s no longer a belief to them; it’s the truth. They thought by giving their lives, not only were they saving Sumar, but they would spend their afterlife in eternal bliss.”

  “Eternal bliss doesn’t seem worth it to me. Sitting there doing nothing but feeling good would get old.”

  Shara laughed. “That’s not what’s meant by eternal bliss.”

  Last year, she continued, a sacrifice went to the volcano and one to the waterfall just like every other year, only this time something happened and nobody was aware of it until too late. The trek through Eppon to the volcano was just as long as the trek through Quosae to the waterfall. Even on horseback, it took the priest escorting the sacrifice a few months to return. But when a red priest didn’t return after four months, they figured something had happened to him.

  There were no drastic changes to the weather, so it was assumed the sacrifice had jumped in and the priest became ill or hurt on the way back. They wanted to send people along the path to the volcano to search for the priest, but they could send only other priests devoted enough to cross into the hallowed land without angering the god of death. This made their search party small.

  More months went by. The weather was no different from any other year. The search team never found the priest, but they did find the sacrifice—alive. He’d been living off the land in Eppon, and he refused to say anything until he was taken to the king of the south, now our enemy, Marteph Mallen. By the time the human sacrifice came in front of the king, nearly a year had passed.

  He revealed that on the way to the volcano, he’d decided he didn’t want to sacrifice himself. He and the priest had argued and eventually fought. The sacrifice claimed the priest intended to beat him unconscious, tie him up, and throw him in the volcano, but the sacrifice fought back, killing the priest in the process.

  “When this news reached our king up north, he didn’t want to sacrifice another person,” Shara explained. “Some of his priests urged him to continue the sacrifices, but he refused, claiming they’re barbaric and the unchanging weather was proof they’re unnecessary. Then threats started coming from King Marteph. We in the north have always been responsible for the sacrifice to the god of life. Sumar is too vast for priests from the south to make it there and back every year, and our king forbade them from trying.”

  “So King Marteph went to war over that?” I was incredulous.

  “There are other reasons, some no more than rumors, some as good as facts. But the sacrifices are the primary cause.”

  “So why are they burning our cities?”

  “You heard that tall priest in red, didn’t you?”

  He was warning us, I remembered. “What were the words he used?”

  “Until your king starts sacrificing to the gods, nowhere will be safe.” Shara shook her head. “They want all of us in the north to put pressure on our king to recommence the sacrifices. It might work. Instill enough fear and it’ll cause panic, which then feeds upon itself. It’ll spread faster than any army can sweep through the towns.”

  We’re being used like pieces in a game. “Do you think he’s actually right, that nowhere is safe?”

  “I think Glaine is safe. The capital has always been the most protected of any city or town.”

  I felt the urge to look behind me. There were others riding north like us, but not very many. If the enemy army chose to follow our path, it looked like we at least were a day’s ride ahead of them.

  “Could there be other enemy forces already farther north of here?”

  “Yes. King Marteph was the one who declared war. He must’ve known in advance and had time to send soldiers wherever he wanted them. There could be villages all around us that already have been taken. The land is changing each day. There’s no way to know what we might be riding into.”

  “At least we know what we’re riding away from,” I said, hoping never to see the red priest again unless I could catch him alone.

  “Right. We’d better ride hard every day we can.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  We rode the whole next day. My knee bothered me every time I dismounted. Shara noticed and took it upon herself to collect water while I sat and looked on. She seemed to know where every lake existed, even without a map. If she hadn’t told me she’d never been out of Lanhine before, I would’ve continued to believe she was a seasoned traveler.

  I asked her how she knew what she did, because a map can only show so much.

  “Yes,” she agreed, “but hundreds of maps say a lot. Sometimes their differences even tell a story. I’ve studied for years in case I ever needed to travel without one.” She made two fists and grunted. “That Tyree. I’ve never been so mad at someone so young. Do you know what the worst part is about what he did?”

  “What could be worse than him taking everything?”

  “He made it hard for me to trust another person in need of help.”

  My heart felt heavy. I knew the feeling all too well. “Thieves who prey on generosity do far more damage to the world than they realize. Not only are they hurting their victim, they’re making it so the victim is less likely to help others in need. The less people help each other, the more that type of behavior becomes normal. It’s an ongoing process like the panic the red priest and his army are causing.”

  Shara had a sweet look for me, as if she wanted to embrace me. “I’m so sorry about Swenn.”

  “Please, I hate pity.”

  She gave her fist one good shake. “You’re right! Pity has the power to turn all our words against us, making us look weak when we aren’t. I apologize, Neeko. You haven’t pitied me, so I will show you the same respect. Whenever I’ve made mention of being passed between capricious parents like a fruit—everyone taking a bite before I get too old and ripe—everything I say about my past after that turns into a plea for pity. Sometimes I just want to mention something without looking back at sympathetic eyes. It’s made it even more difficult for me to speak about my past.”

  I saw some of myself in Shara, and perhaps that’s why it had been easier to trust her compared to most people. But there was also so much about her that wasn’t at all like me. Her pain was different. Mine was sharp, directed like a dagger at the sources of my guilt: Swenn and myself. Her pain was dull, spread out like the face of a mallet. So many people had forsaken her.

  “Your father was abusive?” she asked.

  “He tended to throw things when he was drunk and angry. Sometimes I’d have to wrestle something out of his hands, but he never struck me.”

  “How often was he drunk and angry?”

  “Drunk? All the time. Angry? Not too often.”

  “How did he die?” Shara asked gently.

  “There was an argument between him and Callyn. He came home drunk, and she told him to be quiet. It escalated. He attacked her, and she shot him with a fireball.”

  Shara gasped. “And I was teasing you about flirting with Callyn. I’m sorry! That was…two hells, I’m so embarrassed.”

  “It’s all right.” Both were dead now, I thought, unsure why I’d almost said it aloud. Death was like that, I suppose. It could strike quickly, fall into the past, then resurface in our thoughts hard and sudden, like biting into a chunk of bone hidden within meat.

  “Did you love him?” Shara asked. “Your father.”

  “Of course. He was my father.”

  “What did you love about him?”

  When I couldn’t think of the right answer, a small panic stirred in my chest. The
sun had dipped beneath the eastern hills, night fast approaching. I almost used this as a reason not to answer her question, but I stopped myself. There was an answer. I just had to find it.

  As the silence went on, I said the first thing that came to mind. “He told jokes.”

  She forced a smile. “Any good ones?”

  A small laugh came out. “Some good ones.”

  “Like what?” Shara sat forward in her saddle.

  I tried to remember which joke I liked the best, but soon I realized I never laughed at any of them. “Actually, none were very funny.”

  “Oh.”

  Why was it so difficult to speak highly of my father? He wasn’t all bad.

  “He had good pans for cooking,” I said.

  “Good hands?” Shara asked. “He was a good cook?”

  “Good pans. He never cooked.”

  “Oh.”

  The silence went on, making me feel like an even worse son than I knew myself to be. I’d abandoned my mother, and now I couldn’t even provide one reason why I loved my father.

  Shara began to sing. “Poor Neeko, his father wasn’t lovable—”

  “Gods, please don’t.”

  She ignored me. “But he does sound quite colorful.”

  “I suppose he was,” I muttered as she sang on.

  “He had pans, which were of quality high. He grabbed things with his hands, which he made fly.”

  “Not that often.”

  “He once bought a horse, which he later sold for beer.”

  “Probably.”

  “Self-discipline he didn’t enforce, an improper lesson and austere. How can a child trust his parent, when right and wrong is not inherent? I turned to books. History, fantasy, all had hooks. They pulled me in, made me weep and grin. But Neeko, what about you? What did you turn to when life was hard to chew?”

  I thought for a while and then realized it was training with pyforial energy. I enjoyed the feeling of increasing my skill. Many of my sleepless nights were spent wondering what else I could do with it that I hadn’t yet figured out. Using the transparent energy form was a game on its own, like wrestling. There was an art to it.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I kept myself as busy as I could.” In an attempt to shift the focus back to her, I asked, “Why do you sing?”

  She shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Unnecessary effort.”

  “Why do boys throw rocks, then?”

  I was guilty of that when I was younger. When Eizle and I weren’t trying to make the rocks float, we enjoyed throwing them into the water or against the trees.

  “I see your point,” I said.

  “I suppose my need to sing is physical, an urge really. When my thoughts are jumbled, sometimes I get pressure in my throat that calls to be relieved.”

  “Then why don’t you just hum a tune of a known song? Why make up your own?”

  “Because usually I have something to say when I want to sing, so why not do both at once?”

  “So it’s not entirely this feeling in your throat.”

  She pursed her lips. “I suppose not completely. Singing helps me relax. With my lungs, it’s important to feel in control.” Her face went serious. “Sometimes they start up when I’m overwhelmed. The first mother I can remember worked in a whorehouse. She kept me in the basement, out of sight of the patrons, where everything had a film of dust so thick that each time the door opened the air turned gray.” She shuddered then coughed. “It didn’t take long before I was wheezing constantly.”

  I knew she wasn’t looking for pity, but it was too difficult to hold in my words. “That’s terrible.”

  “It’s fine. She became bored of me soon anyway. Then she started asking the gentlemen she met if they wanted to adopt a little girl. Eventually, she started offering a free night in return for signing the papers. My new father told me this when he took me home with him. Then I was his responsibility.”

  Gods. “Are you angry with your birth mother?”

  “I feel frustration but not anger. I can’t be angry at someone I know nothing about. If I had one detail about her, the way she looked, her name…something, then I could focus my rage. But as it is now, it’s the same way I feel about my house being destroyed because of this war. You must know what I mean.”

  “I do.”

  “I used to fantasize a rich married couple would visit Lanhine and take me away. I’m glad to finally leave. I just wish I had some money to show for all my hard work. I was going to save up until I had a dalion, then travel north and visit all the cities, finding the best one to live in.”

  We fell silent as I thought of what I could say.

  “It feels strange to share so much about myself,” Shara mused. “It’s getting dark. Let’s make camp. Tomorrow is going to be the first of two long days.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Did you notice the hills ahead of us before it became too dark to see them?”

  “I did, looked like two humps of dirt.”

  “They mark the southern end of Talmor Desert.”

  “Quicksand?” I wondered.

  “No such thing. But have you heard of a terrislak?

  “No.”

  “Are you prone to nightmares?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ll wait until tomorrow to tell you about them.”

  “If you leave it up to my imagination, I’ll probably have a worse dream.” I was half teasing, but the face she made caused my smile to flatten.

  “There are two rules to dreams: We never feel something in a dream that we haven’t felt before; and we never see something that we haven’t already seen or imagined. Dreams are a distorted mirror into our lives, sometimes so clear it’s as if we’re looking through a window into another world, other times so confusing we wake up feeling like we’ve just endured the reading of an epic poem by Harold Danmaw.” She cringed. “Before we dream, we must live and we must feel. Those blind from birth don’t see in their dreams. Those deaf from birth don’t hear in their dreams. And right now you’re both blind and deaf to terrislaks. It’s better if you enjoy this last night.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  If Shara only knew the dread she caused, she wouldn’t have said anything. Usually I didn’t sleep more than a few hours, but now I couldn’t even get to sleep. I stirred, continually trying to find a comfortable position, but I simply couldn’t. It was like I was already out in the desert, running from a monster I couldn’t quite see no matter how hard I tried.

  I heard grunts coming from our horses. I sat up and checked on Shara. She was a mound of shadow among a sea of darkness. I couldn’t see where her blanket ended and she began. I’d lent her one of my two blankets, making the cold another reason I found it difficult to sleep.

  As I made my way over to our horses, my stomach complained and my shoulders sagged. We had some bread left from what I’d bought in Cessri, but it wasn’t much. Tomorrow we’d need to hunt. Shara made this sound easy, but I wondered how much she really knew about it. I could clean a kill and cook it just fine because I bought carcasses at the market all the time, but I had no experience hunting.

  Both mounts were on their feet, but only mine was awake. “Can’t sleep, Vkar?” I whispered.

  He neighed as I started to pet him, causing me to snatch back my hand. I waited a moment and tried again. He made no sound this time. I couldn’t tell if he wanted to be touched or not. Shara would know. I wondered if one of her parents had worked with horses.

  Every time I started to forget about the terrislak, it came right back to the forefront of my thoughts. I should’ve asked Shara how many extra days it would take to go around the desert, then I could have spent this wasted time making a decision. Why hadn’t she at least suggested the idea? She didn’t seem worried.

  I could feel myself relaxing as I stroked Vkar’s mane. I was about ready to try sleeping once again when I heard Shara rustling. I looked to find her sitting up. The silhouette of her wild hair
was all that identified her against the backdrop of the night.

  “Something wrong with the horses?” she asked.

  “No.” I returned to her, sat on my blanket, and pulled it up over my shoulders. “Will they always sleep standing?”

  “Probably. Horses’ sleep habits are different than ours. They sleep a little at a time, often taking naps when they have the opportunity. Sometimes they lie down depending on the terrain and weather, but most of the time they stay standing. Their legs lock in a way that requires no effort to maintain balance.”

  “Is there anything you know nothing about?” I teased.

  “Yes, why you aren’t ever asleep when I wake up during the night.” She paused. “Is it me?”

  “No, I’ve been like this for years.”

  “You should think about something comforting, something you know well that’s just complicated enough to distract you.”

  “What do you think about?”

  “When I can’t sleep, I go over the path north in my mind. I imagine the land—the grass, the hills, the lakes. I think of sneaking past the terrislak and befriending a forest diyma. I see myself reaching the capital and meeting the king. It makes me feel at peace.”

  “How could sneaking past a terrislak bring you peace?”

  “Because it’s easy when you know how to do it.” She giggled. “Did I frighten you and that’s why you can’t sleep?”

  “No.” I’m not sure why I lied, but it felt better than telling the truth.

  “Well, we should rest while we can. Pleasant thoughts, Neeko. Pleasant thoughts.” She nestled into her blanket, and her silhouette of hair disappeared.

  As I lay my head down, I thought of food. A steaming plate of braised pork and potatoes, glistening with butter. A shaker of salt nearby and a mug of water.

  My stomach got all too into the idea and called loudly for the plate. This was more likely to keep me awake than help me sleep. I needed something else.