Firethorn

by Sarah Micklem

  One man stayed away and that was Sire Rodela. He couldn’t keep from grinning. He looked my way sometimes and I took care not to look back, but I saw just the same.

  The Crux took Galan’s arm and spoke in his ear. Galan inclined his head, for he was the taller by a palm’s breadth, and they turned and went together to the Crux’s tent, and all the while Galan’s tongue was locked behind his teeth, and not one word, not one sound escaped.

  Spiller was loud where Galan was silent; he cursed enough for three men, as if the clan of Ardor cared what he thought of them. It was Rowney who put us all to work—Galan’s men, even his foot soldiers, and me—taking up the burned canvas to see what, if anything, might be salvaged under it. Soon we were all smeared crown to heel with soot and ash.

  Spiller said, “No wonder Noggin isn’t here, for he’s always missing when there’s work to be done,” and Rowney sent a boy to fetch him. By the time the boy came back, Noggin had been found.

  He looked like a charred branch. The wall of the tent had fallen over him in tattered folds, and he lay under it with his knees drawn up to his chin. His skin was blackened and most of his hair had burned away. His lips were drawn back, showing a mouthful of teeth unsullied by the fire. They looked as big and yellow as horses’teeth in the ruins of his face. It had to be Noggin, it could be no other.

  I hoped he’d slept through his death, that the smoke drowned him before the fire got to him. For certain, I’d not heard a sound from him, nor known he was there. But where else would he be but on his flea—ridden pallet behind the meal sacks? And what else would he be doing but sleeping?

  Spiller said he was too lazy to live. Sunup began to sob. Hers were the only tears shed for Noggin, unless his mother wept when she heard the news. Daft Noggin, my shadow. There was little malice in him. He loved to laugh when others laughed, even when the wit buzzed high above his head, even when it stung him.

  Rowney and I wrapped him in a piece of canvas and laid him beside Consort Vulpeja. Fuel was scarce, so they’d share a pyre. It would burn hot enough to consume everything but a few handfuls of bone and grit and ash, and the priests would grind those in a mortar until there was no remnant a shade could recognize of the body left behind.

  Consort Vulpeja wouldn’t have chosen Noggin as an attendant, but no She wouldn’t be troubled with him long. There are no drudges to serve the dead, no companions on that road.

  Mai came to bring Sunup home, came near as quick as rumor ran through the Marchfield. She gathered up her daughter in her ample arms and Sunup cried again, this time for her own pains, as if only her mother could console her.

  We’d borrowed Sunup and I had no claim on her now that Consort Vulpeja was gone. Better she should go home, I knew, but I’d grown fond of her and her ways. It was in her nature to watch and wonder much and ask little, to see where she was needed and serve without stinting. Yet she could also be giddy as any child when she felt at ease. She’d never been so merry with us, in Galan’s uneasy household.

  Mai made soothing sounds, but her eyes, meeting mine above Sunup’s head, were small and stony in the folds of her thick eyelids. I pointed to the bruises across my throat, to let her know I was mute. But she did not need me to tell her of the fire and who had set it; rumor was beforehand.

  “They killed her after all,” she said. “May canker blister them and dry up their sacs, and may their wives go barren.” She made a gesture as if she were scattering seeds or ashes.

  A curse from Mai might well be as potent as a king’s. I made an avert sign to ward it off, for fear it would fall on us as well as the clan of Ardor.

  Sunup hung around her mother’s neck until Mai set her down, saying the girl had grown too heavy, we’d fed her too well. But when Sunup’s feet touched the ground, she began to cry again. She sat down, saying it hurt to stand.

  I knew how she suffered. I hadn’t felt my burns as much when they first happened. Then came heat and pain, and now a cold fire that leached warmth from every part of me and left me shivering.

  I knelt beside her. The soles of her feet were black with a crust of charred skin and ash. Under the blackness was an angry red. Her feet must have dragged through the fires on the floor when I carried her out of the tent. She had other lesser burns as well, on her cheek, her back, and her limbs. I knew better than to apply soothing ointments or heavy bandages—though I had none, they’d all burned—or even to wash her wounds with water, cold or hot. Such measures would only keep the fire trapped in her body. The Wildfire was still burning inside her, inside both of us, and must be put out.

  In our village there’d been a woman who could draw fire from burns. When she was done small burns healed without scars, and even large ones healed smooth, almost like new skin, but shiny. People said she made no sort of fuss at all when she healed; it came easily to her, they said, because her father died before she was born. Fatherless people have that gift, whether or not they ever learn to use it.

  I’d learned to douse another sort of fire, since I’d cured Catnep’s firepiss. I’d been called to the bedsides of many women ridden with fever. If the fever was mild, I let it be, to serve as a cleansing fire to burn away the dross of other ailments. But when a woman’s skin was hot as embers, when she was so parched her blood turned thick and dark and she wandered in fever dreams, I’d sing a prayer and warm my hands on her and then let the heat go. It was a simple matter, when the gods permitted it. If not, I could do nothing.

  I squatted back on my heels and looked to Mai. She nodded, and with a groan she settled herself on the ground beside Sunup and took her hand. I touched Sunup’s heels lightly with my fingers. She winced, though she made no outcry. I held my palms before her soles without touching her, as if she were a brazier. I felt no warmth, but I knew the fire was there, burning inward toward the thin bones of her feet.

  It was strange to ask Ardor for help now, when Ardor Wildfi re had of late seemed so hungry for my death. There had been something gleeful in the flames reaching for me, and no notion of mercy.

  But if Wildfire had meant to kill me, I would have died.

  I had no voice to sing so I whistled to the wayward flame that burned in Sunup, as one might whistle to a dog: a scrap of a tune, a few notes of the firethorn song that had served me well as a healing prayer. But the Wildfire in her was more wolf than dog, and wouldn’t heed me.

  I leaned closer and blew on the soles of Sunup’s feet to put out the flame, but my breath only made it leap higher. Sunup whimpered at the pain of it. I could sense the fire now, though it gave off neither heat nor light. When I looked sideways it was almost there, a dark flickering in the corner of my eye. It was all through Sunup: it had entered her bellows when she’d breathed the smoke and it had burrowed under her skin and now it was licking the length of her bones. As I breathed in I felt the fire advance toward me, as if it were curious. Every time I inhaled it came closer, and so I coaxed it breath by breath until I took a deep breath and it followed that wind right into me. The fire flared up as it left Sunup and she screamed. And suddenly I was in the burning tent again, breathing sparks.

  I must have pulled too much heat from Sunup. I was seared inside. I didn’t know what to do with the fire, how to let it out of me. I lay on my side, gasping, and Sunup quivered and cried so hard she ran out of breath. Her face was blanched, where it wasn’t streaked with soot and tears.

  But the soles of her feet were no longer such an angry red under the blackened skin. I knew that she’d heal and never have a scar.

  In a while I mastered myself. Mai heaved herself to her feet and helped me stand. She took my face between her hands and gave me a hearty kiss on the lips. “For Sunup,” she said, “I’ll give you anything.

  I shook my head, still unable to speak.

  “Let me give you my shawl. You can’t refuse me—even a harlot hides her wares better.” And it was true: my dress was so burned about the back and shoulders that nothing but rags and thread held the sleeves to the bodice.

>   Even a slight weight against my burns was painful, but I bore it to let her know I was grateful. Pinch took Sunup on his back, and she lifted her face on her slender stalk of a neck to kiss me when we parted.

  I didn’t know how to heal myself. To this day I wear the mark of Ardor Wildfire, a constellation of shiny scars on my back where the burns were slow to heal, and there’s fire in my joints at every change in the weather. I’m sure that when I go to my pyre, they’ll find my bones are charred already.

  After Mai left I folded the shawl and set it aside to keep it from the grime, and rejoined Galan’s men, searching amidst the ruins of the tent for anything Wildfire might have scorned. It was better to stoop and grub than to think of my pains.

  Spiller had been jealous of this duty and disinclined to share it. He chased away Galan’s foot soldiers, claiming they’d steal what little was left and he had only two eyes to watch them and none in the back of his head. He showed unaccustomed diligence, digging in the corner where Noggin used to sleep until the ground was all pocked with holes (for even the poorest drudge has something precious and a place to hide it). Rowney chided him for wasting time and Spiller showed him his back and went on digging. I hope he was disappointed; Noggin’s hoard was more likely to be shells and shiny pebbles than coins.

  Rowney and Flykiller and Uly and I gleaned from the ashes braziers and buckles, pots and lamps, spoons and knives, and a few pearls and beads of garnet, jet, and jade from Galan’s clothes. There was little left of cloth and leather and wood, though the fire had been capricious, sparing such things as should by reason have burned: an oak cask full of wine, sacks of meal, Semental’s harness and barding, which had been packed away in cloth and straw. Consort Vulpeja’s linen chest was merely scorched, the garments inside smoked and stained. They would burn nevertheless, with her. I kept one piece of cloth from the pyre, for she’d barely touched it: the length of embroidered white lawn Dame Hartura had given her just two days before. Sunup should have it. I didn’t think the concubine would grudge her this consideration, though she would have grudged me.

  The fire had mutilated Galan’s splendid plate armor, which had lain unused in the tent since he’d been forbidden to ride. The silver inlay had melted, the blued iron had blackened, and the velvet lining had burned away, along with the leather laces and straps. It might be mended, but how to afford the armorer?

  We found the metal fittings of Galan’s strongbox as well as the money he’d locked away in it, still in a leather purse; of the strongbox itself, nothing remained but charcoal. The purse had been light already, most of the coins paid to Ardor for Consort Vulpeja. We counted what was left, Spiller and Rowney and I, keeping an eye on each other. We had cause to want to know whether our master was penniless. He was, near enough—seven gold coins and a few lesser ones might see a village through a bad harvest, but he’d started with a hundred times as many (so Spiller claimed).

  The fire had taken less from me, for I had less to take. I crouched and raked through a heap of burned twigs and bits of sacking, all that remained of Galan’s pallet, and found a few precious things: my knife, the copper fire flask, my awl, a needle, and the finger bones of the Dame and Na. There was just enough color left to tell one bone from the other.

  I’d buried my valuables elsewhere, underfoot in Consort Vulpeja’s chamber where the other drudges, save Sunup, seldom entered. I dug up the purse of coins I’d earned from my dealings among the women of the Marchfield. Under it I’d buried plants too dangerous to be left where anyone could find them: what was left of the dwale, the berries in a gourd gnawed by the damp, the roots in a sack. And under that, in a packet of oiled vellum wrapped with red cord, the firethorn berries I’d carried all the way from the Kingswood. They had nearly killed me once—or saved my life, it was hard to say. I opened the packet and found the berries shriveled and dark under a bloom of mold. I wondered if they kept their potency. No matter, I wouldn’t cast them away. Amidst the black ashes and the stench I was suddenly reminded of the Kingswood, of orange berries among smooth gray thorns and of the blue flowers of tread—me—down pushing up through fallen leaves; the smell of a spring thaw.

  I kept the berries, both the dwale and the firethorn, twisting them into my headcloth and tucking it well in. The purse was heavy—it weighed more than Galan’s—but I was gladder to see the dwale than my money; the money would not stretch far in the Marchfield, but the poison would suffice. I did not need much.

  I rolled my belongings in a scrap of unburned canvas and tied the bundle to a belt made of rope, which I hung under my skirts, out of reach of pickpockets. Now I was wearing all I had left—except my cloak, which I’d lent to Consort Vulpeja until she would no longer need it. I was richer than I’d been in the Kingswood, by a knife and a purseful of coins, the dwale and two finger bones. But I felt poorer, being robbed; even the slippers Galan had given me, which had pinched my feet, were dear now that they were gone.

  The loss that cut deepest was my belt with herbs. Wildfire had chewed it and spat out the buckle and a scrap of twisted leather. When I had my voice again, ask Mai for some childbane. I prayed she’d saved some for the higher price she could fetch later; I prayed I’d need it, that my tides would come soon. If not the childbane, there were other plants I’d heard could put an end to the unborn, if taken before the quickening.

  Galan went to see King Thyrse in the king’s hall, as he was bid to do. He was gone so long the other cataphracts had time to doff their armor and don their clothes and eat their supper too. By the time he came back, the Sun was low over the sea, hidden behind the cliffs. The light had gone from gold to ruddy and now it was turning blue; the wind that skirled between the tents, east from where the darkness rose, brought a chill.

  He found me sitting where his tent used to be, with his horse soldiers. We sat beside two heaps, one much larger than the other. The small one was all we’d salvaged of his goods; the large one was a muck and welter of ash and soot and charcoal, slag, charred leather, remnants of cloth, potsherds—the useless. A little warmth still came from it. This had been Galan’s place and we had no other, so we stayed there, despite the stench of smoke, eating food Cook had brought us after the Blood had supped: bread and oil, colewort stewed with a bit of ham. Such a hunger beset me when I saw the food that I couldn’t eat fast enough to quell it. Every swallow scraped its way down my raw throat and, for my pains, called for a swallow of ale after it. The ale might have been water; the more I drank, the more sober I felt.

  I stood and Galan embraced me hard. Rowney hunched his shoulders and attended to sopping his bread in the colewort juice. Spiller opened his mouth and shut it again upon a wiser thought.

  Galan stayed silent, his cheek against my temple, his arms tight around my ribs. I held him just as tightly and felt as much as heard how his breathing was choked and shallow, how in a while it came easier. He smelled of sweat, without the taint of smoke. We had no shelter from other eyes now, no shelter except the dusk that had followed on the heels of the Sun. But his fellows granted him the grace of a little time with his household—what was left of it. They looked elsewhere. I doubt it was from courtesy. More likely they feared contagion; King Thyrse had sent Galan back to us unharmed, but he was shrouded in the king’s displeasure.

  I’d covered myself again with Mai’s shawl. It slid from one shoulder and Galan said, “You’ve been burned, your back is raw! Why haven’t you tended to this?

  I shrugged. The burns, inside and out, would heal as Ardor willed it, or not at all. I had other pains as well, which Sire Rodela had given me, and all insistent.

  Galan sighed. “You’ve taken more wounds in my service than any of my men.

  I found my voice for the first time that day, but it was no louder than a rustle. I said, “Not so. Weren’t you told? Your bagboy is dead, burned in the fire.”

  “I hadn’t heard,” he said.

  Speaking made me cough and Galan loosened his grip until the fit passed. Though he was gentle with m
e, I felt him stiffen with anger. Noggin was another loss for which he would hold Ardor accountable.

  I hid my face against Galan’s brigandine. There was little comfort in it, for the green canvas was studded all over with rivets that held the metal scales inside the vest. It was a fine time to weep but my eyes were dry. I whispered, “You said once I brought you luck, but if I did it was bad luck. You’ve lost everything.”

  “No,” he said, with such certainty I looked up to see what was in his face, and found a smile tucked in the corners of his lips. “Not everything. “He kissed me on the eyebrow and the bridge of my nose, but it was the smile I wanted, and I found it tasted as sweet as I expected. I touched his cheek and throat and the back of his neck, for I wanted the comfort of his flesh and everywhere else he was armored.

  Then Galan raised his head and began to laugh. This laugh stung me. It was too sudden and too mocking. He said, “How can you call me unlucky? Hazard favored me today, surely, for I gave all my jewels to the priests, before the fire, to cure the concubine, and now there’s no need. I’m richer than when I left you this morning.”

  I said it was nothing to jest about, and he said it was the kind of jape the gods play on mortals—and shouldn’t we learn to laugh with them?—else we’d spend all our days weeping.

  This strange mood of his, this bitter mirth—it galled me. Na used to say: “The more you laugh, the more you’ll end by crying.” She always had an apt saying at the ready, and when had I ever listened? She’d also told me: “If you make your bed of brambles, you’ll get pricked.”

  I took my arms from around his neck and stepped back, but he kept a hand on the small of my back and I did not get far.

  Galan said, “Why so silent? Your looks scold, but you say nothing.”

  “Surely the king has scolded you enough for one day.”