Voices of Blaze

by H. O. Charles

  As she tied her tabard across her chest, she felt it catch upon something on her elbow. Artemi lifted it to examine in the mirror, and saw a bony protrusion poking out of it. A thin flap of skin extended from it, all the way back to her chest. When she lifted it higher, she saw that the light from the windows shone through it. “Follocks!” Why now?! Wings meant maturity, and maturity meant fighting. Stupid, constant fighting!

  She would have to hide it. Artemi shrugged into the only sleeved jacket she owned, grimacing at the discomfort it brought her, and tied it up tightly at the front. Kid-coats, the mraki called these, since anything with wings could not wear them. Once ready, she spied a half-eaten pintrata bone on a plate on the floor. She was hungry, she thought, and picked it up to take a couple of bites. Nothing was able to sate her belly-hunger after taking taqqa as pintrata meat could. Nothing.

  With her stomach no longer gurgling, she hopped out of her chamber and jogged directly to Ravendasor’s house.

  “I need more,” she said when she reached his room.

  Rav peered at her through crumpled eyelids. “It’s early, Emmi. Really, very early.”

  “I need it.” She grabbed him by the collar and pushed him back into his room. If aggression was the only thing he understood, then aggression was what he would have. “Now.” She shoved him hard to emphasise her point, and he staggered back into his room. His eyes were open and glittering suddenly. “Emmi…” he said with a broad smile on his stained lips.

  But she rushed at him again before he had time to react, and succeeded in wrestling him to the floor. Rav regarded her in a manner that was unmistakable – a manner that reminded Artemi that she had been in much the same position with Morghiad in recent years. Blazes! That dream.

  She clambered off him rapidly and retreated to a corner.

  “Why did you stop?” Rav asked.

  “I… I just came for the taqqa.” And for the light and fire she missed so deeply.

  He shuffled toward her on his bony joints. “You are growing tough as the mountains above us, and hard as the stones below.” His unwebbed fingers traced the outline of her face. “Do not withdraw from me, strong one.”

  “I’m married.”

  Ravendasor appeared thoughtful for a moment, and then shook his head. “I see no husband to guard you.”

  “I do not need guarding!”

  A grin spread across his gnarled features. “No, no, you do not. I’ll get your taqqa for you, strong one.” He departed with graceful movements, and Artemi was left to consider her situation. She would never betray her Morghiad as the Artemi in her dream had done. This twisted creature was not worth her husband’s hurt, and she did not desire any sort of intimacy with such a beast besides. She had not lost her judgement yet!

  “Are you ready?” he asked, carrying a new, highly polished box under his wing.

  “Of course.” Artemi rolled up her sleeve and lay back against the chill stone in preparation.

  There was a moment where no conversation passed between them as Ravendasor fiddled about with the apparatus. Eventually he lifted the cuff to wrap about her arm, but hesitated. “Is that-”

  Blazes!

  He looked intently at the protrusion on her elbow, and the thin membrane of skin that now extended from it. “You’re ready,” he said quietly.

  “No!”

  “If anyone had seen that challenge on me, Emmi…”

  “Well, no one did!” Artemi hissed.

  He exhaled through his nose as he tightened the cuff. “You should try for leadership. You could command this place.”

  No. She was not going to end up like that shadow of a woman in her dream! “I can’t even fly with this!”

  Rav shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Learkin will beat me one day. I’d rather it was you.”

  “Then you are a fool.”

  He turned to look at her from the sides of his dark, pit-like eyes. “No more today after this, yes?”

  Artemi nodded, and willed him to press down on the lever as soon as possible. He did, and the temperature of the room plummeted. The light of the candles turned to blackness, and the dampness of the air frosted around her nostrils. Oh, blazed light! Was this a bad batch? Or poison? Perhaps Rav had wanted to do away with her!

  She braced herself for pain and for death, but neither came. Instead, she could hear breathing close by.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s just me, Tem,”

  Artemi sought out the source of the voice. It had come from behind her, and it had sounded so familiar - like an old, beloved friend.

  “Ah! Bloody, follocking snow and its blazed melting… arse!” hissed the voice.

  “Silar?”

  “It’s all down the back of my breech-” He paused. “What?”

  Artemi sighed with relief. This was not a bad dose of taqqa, but another walk through a moment lost to time. She tried to place it in her memories… snow… darkness… Silar…

  Kemen!

  “We’re in the Kemeni mountains.”

  “Yeeess, Artemi.” His hand landed on her arm. “Keep it together. We’ll find him out here somewhere. I’ve seen it.”

  That was right; they were stuck on the western end of the mountains, searching for Morghiad and the rest of the army after that damnable ice floe had broken apart and separated them. She had been away from him for three full weeks, and blazes, did she miss his company! He was still there though: a winding river of emotion and desire that coursed through her mind - a river that flowed more forcefully the closer she drew to him.

  “He’s this way,” Artemi said, following the stream.

  “Tem, wait.” Silar’s grip tightened. “You do realise this is the last opportunity you will have to kiss me whilst we’re out here. No second chances.”

  She rolled her eyes in the darkness. There was no moon to light the snow on this night, and the clouds were so thick that even the stars were blinded. “No kisses. You must be able to see that they won’t happen, and you know Morghiad would be able to feel it through me. He’d have you buried upside-down in a block of ice before you knew it. And both your feet would be cut off.”

  “That is a Sunidaran punishment.”

  “He’s half-Sunidaran. Maybe he’d just take one of your feet.”

  “Suit yourself,” Silar said. “But I foresaw you agreeing to kiss me, so you might as well agree now and get it over with.”

  “No, you didn’t foresee anything.”

  “You used to be fun.”

  Artemi laughed aloud as she began battling through the drifts. There were three more men behind them, men who had also been separated from the rest of the army by the ice floe on that vast river. She would have been dead if it had not been for their bravery. Two had watched their arms turn black with frostbite as they sought to fish her out of the glacier melt on that day, and Artemi knew too well that any good soldier would have preferred to die for his queen than endure that torture.

  The third man had once been a Kemeni antiroyalist, but he had experienced a change of heart when he decided to release them all from prison. Artemi had to admit, if grudgingly, that she owed him her life too. He may have been persuaded to release them by Silar’s words, but she had been too badly injured by the cold to have survived another day in there, or indeed to have released them all herself.

  Artemi pelted up the mountainside as fast as she could, given the stickiness of the snow and the cumbersome nature of her boots, but soon she saw the warm glow of the camp hovering above them. Silar let go at that moment, and Artemi raced ahead with all her strength. She could feel Morghiad striding out of his tent to come and meet her. His walk was barely contained and his teeth clamped together; his calves burned and his thighs ached to break into a sprint toward her, but he could not afford to do so in front of a camp full of soldiers. If he had, Artemi knew, he would be followed by a dozen agitated guards and then everyone would be stirred into unnecessary frenzy.

  A king could not run here and there li
ke a little boy when he led so many hearts.

  Artemi, however, had the freedom to tear about however she damn well pleased. She launched herself past the wide eyes of the perimeter guards, hopped over guy-ropes and dodged slumbering mercenaries. She was panting hard at the exertion, but hardly noticed it. All she could think of was her goal, her husband. And then she saw him, tall and fine and as strong as the spirewood of Sokiri, standing in the snow as if he commanded the skies above and the rock beneath. Artemi threw herself against him and inhaled every smell of leather and fur and soap that came from him. She clung to him as fiercely as her hands, feeble from the cold, would permit; and they kissed.

  How she had missed that fire! That perfect, pure heat!

  Morghiad’s arms tightened around her until she felt as if she could barely breathe, and he lifted her feet from the ground. It provided an excellent opportunity for her to wrap her legs about his waist, and burn anyone who thought it unqueenly of her!

  “Go in your blazed tent for that!” a soldier shouted from some distance away, and Artemi finally ceased her kisses. A grin was still plastered across her face.

  “I’ve missed you,” Morghiad said.

  “I’ve missed you,” Artemi replied. Tears were running down her cheeks now, mixing with the melted snowflakes that had settled and expired there. “Are the children here?”

  Her husband nodded. “Asleep. Come with me.” He glanced down at the point where their bodies met. “I would like to carry you all the way like this, but I fear it would be inappropriate.”

  Artemi was feeling playful enough to be entirely inappropriate everywhere, but decided to uphold her husband’s appearance of dignity this once. She slid from his hips onto the hard-packed snow, and soon he was leading her through the camp to its centre. Already the canvases and banners had become dirtied by the rigours of travel and weather, a sure sign that they had marched hard to battle and back. “How’s the revolution going for Valizia?” Artemi asked, though she knew the answer.

  “Battle’s won. Kemen has its queen, and now I have mine.”

  Artemi squeezed his hand. “She will be a useful friend in the years to come.”

  “I hope so.” Morghiad stopped at a small, unremarkable tent and ushered Artemi inside it. The first thing immediately visible was a huge mound of furs and blankets, but it moved with the rhythm of breathing. Danner lay curled up alongside it, nose beneath tail. He opened his eyes only briefly to acknowledge their presence, before returning to his deep slumber. Beyond him lay two children, neither of whom could have been older than five.

  “They’re so small,” Artemi whispered.

  “They had to come with us, my heart. It is our way.”

  Many times she had wished it was not, but all Calidellian soldiers travelled to battle with their families in tow. Royal blood offered no cause for exception. The children looked so innocent as they lay there, even if they had seen far more of the world than many others their age. And Tallyn… Oh, fires… Artemi’s hand reached out to touch him, but Morghiad caught it before she could.

  “Don’t wake him,” he whispered, “This night is for us.” They regarded one another for a moment, and then stole back to a tent of their own. Morghiad lost no time in tearing the cloak and coat from her body, and hurriedly set about unbuckling the straps that tied her swords to her back. He cut through her bodice, kissed her softly on her neck and chest, hauled off his own shirt and –

  “Sire.” A guard stepped through the tent flaps. “Oh, ah… There are soldiers on the northern slopes…”

  No! It was not fair! Why wasn’t she permitted more time with him? Just a little bit more time! Just an hour or two!

  She leapt at the guard to force him out, to push him away, but as she did, the glow inside the tent began to fade. Morghiad’s fine body dwindled to a shadow in the darkness, and he was gone.

  Come back! Please!

  “You certainly had some fun with that one,” Rav said with his curling smile and narrow eyes.

  “Send me back, send me back! I need more.” Artemi reached forward to the box to press down on the lever again, but Rav blocked it.

  “No more today. You agreed, and you’re spending too much time in the passive dream state. We need to work on your active state. You must learn to project images on others, like this.”

  The chamber suddenly dipped to perfect, pitch black, and then became filled with grey sky. Rolling, ireful clouds smouldered in it as if stuffed full of hot coals, and below them swayed a lifeless sea of drab waves and half-hearted ripples. Nothing could have lived in that ocean of melancholy. Artemi tried to walk toward it, but her foot hit something. It was a rock, cut into a perfect cube. Artemi picked it up to examine. “Who made this?”

  “Good question,” Rav said as he drew up beside her. “In the normal world it would be a thing of nature, but here I am the Father of Storms and the Winds of Chance. So I suppose you could say that I made it in this instance.”

  Artemi regarded him from beneath her brows. “You have rocks like this in the waking world – perfectly square stones that are formed by the winds and seas?”

  “Of course. Why not?”

  She frowned. “It’s a cube, like a will-die piece. It’s too complex not to have been designed by someone.”

  Ravendasor chuckled loudly. “Designed objects are always the simplest. Square things happen in nature. Didn’t you know that?”

  She shook her head. This made no sense at all, though she really ought to have expected such curious beliefs among a people who did not know the beauty of the fires. Of course he would think his cube was a product of wind and ice when no one had taught him any better!

  “But this is the first lesson.” He placed his fingers on the top part of the cube. “Changing what someone sees requires a certain ability to design a scene, and unfortunately, our minds are only capable of painting relatively simplistic ones.”

  “This seems complex enough.”

  Ravendasor cocked his head and smiled thinly. “It has its faults, but you must learn how to replicate it. Imagine this rock as I would see it – visualise it from my point of view. The farther I stand from you, the easier you will find it.” He began to shuffle backwards along the beach. “Try it!”

  “Why are you trying to teach me this?!” she called back to him as he moved away.

  “Because you it’ll help you get home!”

  Chapter 8

  The mating bond had taken an age to complete, and she had closed her eyes and wished herself elsewhere while it lasted, but she was finally free of his foul, sweating body. Oslond had slid back to whatever dank cave he had crawled out of, leaving Celysane to the privacy of her chambers once more. She looked into the mirror, where a woman with a tear-streaked face and a torn dress stood, framed by the most ornate gilt filigree. No emotion would come to her at that moment, only cold, hard thoughts. First, she needed to wash. Second, she would write to her husband. And third, she would begin laying the foundation stones of her revenge.

  Celysane pulled one of the great water cauldrons down from its hooks above the fireplace and emptied it into her shining brass bath as fast as she could. The fire had remained unlit for two days and the water would be cold, but she hardly cared about that. The second cauldron was larger, and something of a struggle, but she succeeded in hefting it to the side of the bath. When there was enough water to soak in, Celysane tore off the tatters of her fine silk dress, threw it in the grate and stepped quietly into her bath. She wanted to scrub herself clean of that man as quickly as possible, but did not wish to wake her son with the noise.

  The scents of the honeyflower and spear-root in the soap did well to cover up the stench Oslond’s body had left on her, and she made sure to scrub every part of herself three times over. Once for his breath, twice for his touch, and three times for his bond. Celysane tried to remove any trace of his foetid seed from inside her, though she knew that doing so completely would be impossible. She thought of Rafhiad, and longed for th
e comfort his embrace would have brought her then. He had always been so kind to her; so very kind.

  I will not cry. I will not honour the bastard who did this to me with more tears!

  Celysane rinsed her skin clean one more time, clambered out of the bath and threw on her dressing gown. She paused as she approached her desk. Beyond it lay her two blood-covered daggers. How was it that he had not even felt them pierce his flesh?

  Celysane fetched a blanket and wrapped the blades up to clean later. She did not wish to touch any object that had come into contact with him more than she had to, and certainly not now. Taking up her quill, she set about writing.

  My Darling Rafhiad,

  I beg you, please do not be concerned about me. Something happened this night, and it is

  But she could not finish. The moment her husband read the letter, he would come riding to Cadra and her rescue, demanding that she and Silar return home to him immediately. As kind as Rafa was, he would never give her a choice in this; not if he believed there remained even the smallest chance that other men might take liberties with his wife. Worse still, Rafhiad would try to have his retribution against Oslond, and likely end up dead in the process. And if any of those things happened, Silar’s education would be cut short. He would not meet the people he needed to meet, or properly develop his singular talent, and risked losing his father too. Celysane could think of nothing she wanted more than to return to the Forllan estate at that moment, but for Silar it would have been a disaster.

  This would have to remain a secret.

  She took up the half-written letter, tossed it onto the remains of her dress in the fireplace and dug out the tinderbox. Within seconds, the pile was alight, and Celysane warmed her hands in front of it. She could see the old parchment Zandra had given her resting amongst the documents on her shelf, but she did not need that now. She had her own weapons for this, and she would have to plan - plan carefully.