Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

  Paither’s previous life did not leave him as unprepared as Samalas feared. From an early age he had taken a lead in the running of Nichos’s sprawling and successful estate, keeping a cool eye on their complex operations and firm control of their many workers. Because he had been fair and known what he was about, the workers had been glad to follow him. This promised to be much the same, if only on a far greater – and more dangerous – scale.

  He had still to win them over, he knew. They had accepted his authority because they had accepted his lineage, but they were waiting, some apprehensively, to see what kind of ruler he would be. In his mind he already classified the different schools of thought. There were the Worshippers, who looked at him with soulful eyes and jumped eagerly, trembling, when he spoke; there were the Suspicious, who doubted if a horse breeder could be a proper leader in their fight; there were Samalas’s Own, who found it hard to transfer their fervent allegiance; and in the greatest number were the Baffled, who didn’t know what to make of him or of themselves.

  Three or four Worshippers had volunteered to form a Royal Bodyguard for him; no one was quite sure if the Lindahne palace had truly had such a tradition, but he had given a gracious assent. He was of course used to servants; being waited on by the nobleborn was disconcerting but useful. Onlookers were reminded of his standing.

  My standing, Paither sometimes thought ruefully. As he accepted, with gratitude, the healing of his once-divided soul and the joy of knowing himself in truth, the challenge of his new role was still daunting. He did not feel uncertain – that’s for the first time, he thought almost with amusement – but he was used to answering only to his own doubts, not to other people’s expectations. They were giving him power – Mother Nialia was giving him power – before he had thought of coveting it. Nevertheless, with it in his hand, he was willing to wield it.

  His first clash with Samalas came within days. He learned there were still a handful of Defiers encamped in the foothills, able to strike on passing Mendale caravans if they wished. Since the Tribune’s abduction Samalas had given little thought to any possible raids this group might carry out; that sort of small vengeance was clearly, to his mind, last year’s business, but if they were able to lay hands on any known Mendale tyrant they were free to go ahead. Paither shook his head. Without close direction, the raiders would get sloppy; Samalas admitted they had only one junior officer with them; what if they picked an innocent target by mistake? Paither remembered his uncle Temhas saying over his ale, “Soon you’ll kill not just in necessity but when it’s convenient. Then you’ll kill in anger.”

  He ordered an end to the strikes. “We’ve larger things to think about, they’re not serving a purpose,” he argued. He called for a runner to take the message. Samalas was annoyed, then angry. Paither said crisply, “There will be no discussion,” and repeated the order. Samalas went white and was silenced.

  And he offered no protest when Paither-relas reunited Tribune Nichos with his wife, had both moved to a comfortable tent without guards and gave them the freedom of the camp. He for one considered the Tribune as much a prisoner as ever; if Paither had shown signs of releasing him to the Mendales a full battle would have raged between them, but this seemed not to have occurred to him. Samalas was willing to let well enough alone.

  While they waited for news from the capital, Paither encouraged hard weapons practice. The makeshift training grounds were crowded every afternoon. Samalas, who was considered a skilled swordsman, suggested an engagement. Paither was willing. They walked over to the ground together. The Defiers on the field, busily practicing, watched sidelong.

  Samalas began easily, not bothering to take real precautions; soon he put his guard up. The watchers around them gave each other little nods of satisfaction. Samalas thrust and Paither blocked him again. Their blades rang together. “You’ve had good training, relas,” Samalas panted.

  “My father,” Paither began, and pushed off another thrust with his shield. “My father even saw to it that I know how to wield a Mendale grahl.”

  He came up too fast on the side; Samalas had to dodge clumsily away. “You’d do well, relas, to stop calling a Mendale Tribune your father.” Yes, the relas knew how to handle himself in the field, and it was clear he was no coward. All to the good. Yet Samalas, who knew his own increasing jealousy was base and unworthy, was determined to knock him down.

  Their weapons crashed together again. Under the vibrating impact of the blows the loose holding strap of Paither’s shield opened and split. He lost his grip.

  “Got to keep your equipment in order,” Samalas barked like a training master. He was the relas’s elder by a decade, and could not forget it. They paused, and stood panting under the grey overcast sky.

  At the far end of the grounds Mejalna detached herself from a whispering group of archers and headed towards them. Paither, aware of her movement, fussed with the ragged holding strap.

  “It’s going to rain,” she offered. Neither man took the opener. “Well,” she said. She drifted away. Just beyond earshot Tribune Nichos stood half-hidden in the shadows of the trees.

  They began again. Samalas pushed hard but Paither, just beginning to break another sweat, held him off. Then he countered with a rain of hard fast blows. Samalas was strong but not fast on his feet. His boot snagged on a depression in the earth. His ankle turned just as Paither aimed another hit, and he fell backwards, holding his shield awkwardly before him. “This one’s yours,” he said in a grudging voice from the ground.

  Paither said, “You tripped, that’s all.”

  “If you were the enemy, it would have cost me my life.”

  “Practice your footwork, then. We can’t afford to lose you.” He returned his sword to its belt and tossed away the shield. One of the new Bodyguards, who had been standing off respectfully, rushed in to take it for him. Paither smiled down at Samalas and helped him to his feet. A little sigh went through the watchers. They returned to their own practices. Paither went to join the dark brooding man in the tree shadows. They walked off, talking quietly.

  As new duties were rising up, demanding his attention, Paither was pushing from his mind the final fact: he and Nichos were now irrevocably severed. They were no longer father and son, no longer of shared blood. Nichos, overwhelmed, perceived it sharply, but Paither was nearly happy. He was lit up with energy and plans. A glow still warmed his chest, knowing that he had finally been of use to Nichos. He had never mentioned his release because he felt nothing strange in Nichos’s presence in the camp. The Baffled, seeing him treat this Mendale as blood kin, were more confused than ever.

  Squad leader Mejalna, who had found this strange royal miracle and brought him here, was of no help. No one, not even Renasi, could get sense out of her on the subject. Like Samalas, she was often seen in attendance on the relas, striding about the camp with him, discussing and explaining.

  Occasionally they passed the shack where the Mendale archer was still under lock. The relas was too busy as yet to look in on her.

  Scayna sniffed with disinterest at her breakfast, a meaty broth ill-suited to the early hour. The meals were ranfox and rabbit, squirrel and more rabbit, over and over again. The Defiers had seemed to have access to good bread foods, at least, but even that had stopped recently. She set the bowl away from her. Since the Tribune had been mysteriously removed from the hut, the solitude had intensified her boredom. The guards wouldn’t say where or why he was gone.

  They hadn’t let her bathe for days. She glanced down at her fingers and saw rings of dirt on her wrists. She rubbed at them, and succeeded in smudging black further up her arm.

  It was unusually quiet this morning. Carefully she stood on tiptoe on her cot to peer through a tiny round gap in the wall slats. The view consisted of half a tree and wet ground beyond, with the occasional flash of a passing Defier. The winter was ebbing; it rained often. Her guard was at the other side posted before the door. There was nothing to see. There was nothing to do.


  She had thought she knew confinement. Her mother and father and all their complaints. Then the army. Chilhi Bhanay hovering. The walls of the Assemblage House. But this! I’m not even free in my own mind, the darks keep pounding at me. I wonder if the lin queen feels like this... if the lins all feel like this under the Oversettle. If they do, no wonder they turn to murder.

  She stepped down. After a few aimless steps about the room she flung herself again on the bedclothes. Insects hummed in the quiet. She fell back asleep.

  Voices?

  She stirred, eyes still closed, half-dreaming. It was nearly highsun. The guards outside were changing shifts. The new arrival was excited, and his words had carried into the hut and into her sleep. “– to wear the royal blue, Mistress Mejalna said, but Master Samalas thought it was too dangerous.”

  “Lower your voice. We’ve got a Mendale in here.”

  “We’ve got a Tribune walking about wherever he wants, too. They say the relas doesn’t hold him back at all.”

  “Will you hush?”

  Scayna sat up, groggy.

  “He keeps calling the Tribune his fa –”

  “By Proseras and Wintern, be quiet! She’ll hear you!’

  Their voices suddenly reduced to a sharp hissing. Her heavy breath, slow with sleep, was the loudest sound in the room. Her mind caught at phrases. The Tribune?... to do with him... so they hadn’t decided. She passed a hand over her face. Blue, she thought in bewilderment. Why are these lins so concerned about colors? As if colors meant anything. Re... re-something. Relas?

  The word meant nothing to her. With a stifled yawn, she fell back into dreams.

  Force Commander Dirrl was the head of the Mendale army, currently stationed in MenDas. She had white skin and rich black hair, which she wore tightly wrapped to the back of her head. Her black uniform was crossed with grey stripes, sign of her rank. She spread out her scroll, revealing the detailed map for the Tribunes’ benefit.

  “According to the scout reports, this is the approximate location of the rebel camp.” Dirrl pointed. Her dark gold command ring glittered. “For a single horseman on a flighter, it’s a three-day ride for MenDas. For full companies including foot soldiers, as many as we’ll need to take the camp, I’d say five days.”

  “Can we surround them?” Tribune Haol asked.

  “We don’t know the full boundaries of the camp as yet. I’ll send out scouts as we get closer, and judge from the reports. Personally,” she added, “I’m not convinced this is the one and only Defier camp. We’ve no proof of that at all. You’re aware we’ve already discovered a small abandoned camp practically on our doorstep. There may be others. Now here we have a few villages, and you can see there’s a certain amount of surrounding farmland. But here we have scattered woods, and this area,” she added, gesturing, “is nearly empty. These old farms are abandoned. It seems to me it’s possible other Defiers camps could be hidden in these areas.”

  “If we can find one, we can find the others,” Tribune Rhonna said. She was annoyed. In the assembly, Haol was basking in glory: his watchers had found the Defiers. “Besides, there can’t be that many of these criminals in Mendale.”

  “I suppose that’s true, Tribune.”

  “In any case,” Haol put in, “I’m confident this is their headquarters. I take it, Commander, you see no problems in seizing it.”

  “Certainly not. We’re professionals, after all. These Defiers are children dressed up as soldiers. And we’ll have surprise with us. Our chief difficulty will be in securing the safety of Tribune Nichos. We’ll have to strike and get in quickly. I don’t want them to have the time to move him or hide him – or kill him.”

  “Do what you have to,” Haol said easily.

  “I’ll need to discuss arrangements for captives with you –”

  Rhonna said, “Don’t waste any Mendale lives rounding up prisoners, Dirrl. I don’t care if we wipe the whole camp out.”

  “How soon can you start, Commander?”

  “We can be ready in two days’ time, Tribune. You’ve only to give the word.”

  “Go,” Haol said.

  Scayna was reading peacefully when the commotion began. A sentry had taken pity on her solitude and given her one scroll from the only work he possessed, the Book of the Gods. Fascinated and bemused, she was deep into a second reading of a tale of Reulas when an alarm suddenly went up.

  Feet pounded outside. Swords rattled out of scabbards. Her own guard, forced to hold his position, roared, “What is it? What is it?”

  She fumbled along the floor, searching for her boots. The shouting moved closer and changed to screaming. Men and women were calling questions, answers, orders. Officers were demanding obedience.

  “What’s happened?” her guard shouted.“Someone tell me what’s happened!”

  Voices answered, “Mendales!” “We’ve been discovered!”

  She leapt up, almost toppling the cot. The peephole’s narrow view was too frustrating. She ran for the door and pressed herself against it.

  “Mother Nialia,” the guard was muttering to himself. “Now what?” The people rushing by, hurrying to join their fighting units, had no time for him, but he had no orders for such a situation. He didn’t know what to do with his prisoner.

  The prisoner decided for him. The Tribune had once remarked that the door, which opened outward, was shoddily made. He had even speculated on the possibility of one sharp heave cracking the flimsy bolt. Scayna hurled herself against it.

  The makeshift doorway could not withstand such an assault. The bolt burst instantly in one violent crack and the frame rattled. The startled guard turned just as she shoved again. The door surrendered, flying open and smacking him. He fell backwards with an almost comical thud.

  She ran forward, thought again, and came back. The guard was struggling to lift his head. In one motion she ripped the sword from his hands and hit him across the back of the skull with the flat side, knocking him out.

  She whirled, but no one was there: the chaos had swept off to the left. She paused in confusion. Without knowing the lay of the camp, how could she decide where to run? If she followed the noise, the Defiers would catch her – but the noise signified fighting and the presence of Mendales, her own people.

  The ground underfoot was soft. Silently and swiftly she made her way towards the battle sounds. Her hand gripped uneasily at the sword’s hilt and she wished for a bow instead. Hand to hand fighting would be difficult for her; she wasn’t trained in it.

  The best thing would be to steal a horse and get away.

  Another building loomed up on her right, much larger than her little hut. Defiers were clustered around it. She ducked behind cover and peered out.

  Two men were standing on the top stair; the one on the left seemed to be giving orders. She recognized his voice. It was the leader, the one they called Samalas. The other –

  Pain stabbed behind her eyes and for several heartbeats she couldn’t see. “No,” she gasped out loud, in fury. “I won’t!” Under the force of her will the blackness cleared and the pain settled down to a tolerable level. A wave of nausea came and went. When it was over she could focus attention on the men.

  “– bring up on the right,” Samalas was saying. “Mejalna’s Squad is to come in behind.” He called out names and orders. The blond man beside him took in a deep breath. Samalas continued, “After we drive them past the tree line –”

  “No.”

  Every Defier in earshot halted in place. Scayna fidgeted impatiently. Samalas repeated, “No?”

  “We’ve got to evacuate, and now. We can’t overcome them like this; we’ll only be slaughtered if we stay put. Here, you – Mehna, is it? Find Squad leader Mejalna and tell her to fall back, but slowly. Make the Mendales pay for every bit of ground. Then we’ll bring the others in behind and –”

  “What makes you think,” Samalas burst out, “that we aren’t able to fight them?”

  “Think!” the other man shouted. “They knew
where we were, this wasn’t an accident. They’re prepared in full numbers, we’re not. How many soldiers do you think Tribune Haol would send against us? Every Band from MenDas must be here. They’re here to destroy us once and for all. Have some sense.”

  “We’re a trained army –”

  “No, we are not! Not yet.” He grabbed Samalas by the shoulders. No one else moved; the Defiers huddled like frightened children before quarreling parents. “We’re rebels, do you understand? Rebels on enemy territory. And I intend to see to it that these people live to return to their homeland. I won’t have them killed for nothing. I won’t have them killed for pride.”

  Scayna fretted. Was there no way around this quarrel? Perhaps if she slid past, over there ...

  “Yes, relas,” Samalas said.

  Her attention riveted back. The very sound of the strange word made the pain throb at her again.

  Whatever the argument meant, it seemed to be over. The Defiers scrambled off, following a torrent of new commands from the blond man. Relas meant power.

  She should have been running, but a compelling fascination had taken over her will. Her eyes refused to look away from him, though the sight of him filled her with revulsion. She strained for a closer look. A scar that nearly devoured one side of his face. Well, it would be easy to remember this face, she’d be able to tell Chilhi Bhanay... yes, but first she had to get out of here.

  There was a horse not five yards from her, waiting, perhaps, for this relas. As the Defiers dispersed, only the two men on the stairs were still in sight.

  She clutched the sword and crept up on the horse, keeping it between her and the men, who were again deep in discussion. She unwound the reins from the standing post. The horse, a tall bay, bobbed his head but did not resist her. She clambered awkwardly into the saddle with the sword dragging and banging at her side. Over the surrounding battle cries, the men wouldn’t hear her, but she was in full view if they only turned to look. She darted one last frightened glance their way, gathered up the reins, and froze. Another figure had swept from the building, wrapped in a vibrant red cloak she recognized.