Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

  Whispers ran at first from the survivors, who murmured the names of the fallen. Lindahnes who had had no previous part in the Defiers’ actions found themselves repeating names, memorizing genealogies, carrying the sad catalogue homeward. Bounced on trade caravans, slung across the backs of horses, driven ahead with cattle or dragging behind with mere wanderers, the news came. The roll call of the dead was sounded.

  Sad dark memorials were held, after the last night passing of a Mendale sentry or before the daybreak of activity. In the daytime weeping was muffled; grief concealed; the Mendale conquerors would take revenge against any family that acknowledged a Defier in its ranks, even in death.

  Then a change came. Over the gathered brooding stillness came a rushing wind, a gale of sudden hope mingled with disbelief, a rolling bright cloud of proclamation. It blew down the open passage and across the valley, whipping up the slopes of the Hills. It whistled in their ears, sang on their tongues; the very sound of it called across a great distance of time. Relas, the west flying wind of news said. A relas is returning...

  According to army orders, the Twelfth Archery Band would travel east to the foothills beyond the town of Harna, then go south and cross through the passage. The Band would receive its permanent Oversettle assignment later. Pirri hoped they’d be sent to the Second Hill. Rumor named it as the easiest posting, with good local wine. Scayna said, “The Oversettle headquarters are in the old Lindahne palace, aren’t they? That would be near the First Hill.”

  “I suppose.” Pirri had noticed that she was picking up more and more knowledge of lin ways, asking strange questions, poring over maps, even reading old War accounts, as if that were relevant to anything. One of the other women claimed she had seen Scayna in animated conversation with a lin trader in the markets. Pirri knew her companion archers were passing these stories along; the consensus since her escape from the rebels was that Scayna had grown even more peculiar. Her eyes as well as her black hair glittered in a disconcerting way. She was disliked.

  The fourth day out from MenDas their ranking roused herself to put them on a heavy schedule: up at dawn for a few hours’ practice archery shooting, then a long day of traveling. At dusk they pitched their tents, took guard shifts, and fell after supper into heavy slumbers. Chilhi Bhanay drove them hard, in both the shooting and the riding. She would not have it said, when they arrived, that the Twelfth was stale.

  They skirted towns and villages, following the main roads across the plains. As they rode past country folk, or workers in the fields behind oxen, or even children, Scayna would call out, asking for news. The answers were always the same: the discovery of a new lin royal was the fast-flying topic. Everyone was on edge; the First Tribune himself had called on every Mendale to help in the search. Several times she asked to hear the local description of this royal’s looks, but even when they had heard the wrong height or build, his scar and fair coloring were known. It was said with laughter that a number of unfortunates – men with birthmarks, broken noses, cuts or slashes on their cheeks – had been hauled in chains to MenDas. So far the right man had gone undetected, but it couldn’t be long.

  (Can’t you feel who I am?) She knew it was imperative that this relas be captured. If not, they all had only more unrest and rebellion to look forward to, and she herself would have to take part in the fighting. Lindahne could not be allowed to rise again. And yet she was glad she wouldn’t be in MenDas when the inevitable day of his capture came. They would catch him, probably quite soon, then try him, and hang him – and leave him there for days, as sport for gawkers and a warning to rebels. She pictured the tousled fair hair falling over the forehead, the questing eyes caught in a popping death stare, the cruel choking rope lashed across the skin of the neck. A shiver ran along her arms. Something? She sucked in a breath, and the moment passed.

  She took their hard training with ease, doing her best without forcing, and her best was quite good enough. The chilhi watched her in vain for something to complain about, and vented her temper on the other women. Scayna was in transition from one place to another, and she had finally learned to stop struggling. Her darks had receded; she could sleep well at night, and the days of riding passed calmly. It was early summer. Though she still disliked the onset of evening, it was good to be out in the open air.

  When they came in sight of the first rising foothill she pulled up her horse and considered. “What is it?” Pirri asked.

  A green slope in the sun... “No,” Scayna said with serenity; she was relieved. “This isn’t it.” Pirri was bewildered. After a time, with a sidelong look at Scayna’s hair, she kicked at her horse and fell in with another archer.

  Paither and his companions were also on the road. They planned to follow a northern route, one that put them within hearing of the Valtah. These outskirts were only frequented by the farmers whose lands ran down to the water’s edge. For a time they stopped at scattered market towns, scrambling for provisions. They had little to barter with among all three of them, though Paither had a few pieces of jewelry whose sale kept them fed for some days. He held on to one heavy silver bracelet, which he wore on his upper arm to cover the blue seal, though it would mean nothing to a Mendale.

  He was astonished to discover that Mejalna could at least get them their suppers by singing ballads in the ale-houses. Few professional performers traveled this far from the capital; the area was poor, and the locals grateful for the amusement. Mejalna’s voice was throaty, lacking a sweetness the sadder songs needed, but she carried the melodies well. She had sung for her brothers at home, and on the road with Renasi in her first year as a Defier. When the people were friendly she even enjoyed it.

  That evening at an inn in Mullas-town a young dark man, who had only just entered, called on her for a dancer’s tune. The air was hot, thick with insects and the smells of ale, aged wine and pipe smoke. Paither and Samalas were hunched together over their sparse meal; Mejalna, whose singing had paid for it, had not yet had her share. She had finished her fourth song, and was ready to sit, when the man called out.

  Paither looked up. She was standing before the oak casks that filled the black wall. Her hair was loose on her shoulders, a red glow against the faded Mendale robe she wore. Often when they entered the houses every head in the room would turn. Her startling beauty cut through the thick like a beacon of moonlight. The innkeepers, man and woman alike, would decide to take her voice on faith. After all, at the very least she would give the customers something to look at. Paither remarked on this once, somewhat diffidently, but found it was no surprise to her. She was practical about her looks and not above making use of them, as a tool she had been given by the gods. If it made an audience more forgiving when her tone strayed, or an innkeeper more liberal with food and wine, that was all to the good.

  But tonight she was tired, and the young man sounded insolent. She glanced not at Paither but at Samalas, who hated even this slight camaraderie with Mendales. He hated eating with them, hated hearing her sing for them (and they were all commoners at that), even hated speaking with them.

  “Come on, girl, something livelier,” the man repeated. Although he had just come in, he was already drunk. His black beard was streaked with foam. His wife, who must have matched him goblet for goblet, spluttered in anger behind him. He ignored her, eyes fixed on Mejalna.

  “Come and have your supper,” Paither called to her. His look crossed the black-bearded man’s, who repeated more loudly, “Something livelier!”

  Mejalna smiled blandly and shook her head. A few of the townspeople called to the man, telling him to sit down. “Calm yourself, Dorh.” “Here, split this one with me. Let the girl eat her supper.”

  “Got big new t’tell,” Dorh boasted, momentarily distracted, but Mejalna had to brush by him to get to their table. He grabbed her elbow. “Don’ stop,” he slurred.

  “Le’ her go,” his wife said, prodding him in the back. “Dorh! Tell them the news.”

  Out of the corner of her eye Mejalna
saw the innkeeper approaching. Paither had risen to his feet. She decided to keep her temper. “I’m sorry, I’ve done now.” She pulled back her arm, but he tightened his grip. His hands were sweaty.

  “What news?” the locals were asking.

  “From where?”

  “Never mind the girl, Dorh. Come and talk to us.”

  Dorh paid no attention. His wife muttered something and shoved past to another table. Paither called out but Mejalna couldn’t catch his words. She gave Dorh a dangerous smile, fixing his look on hers. She was a Squad leader; she had led raids, seen battle, defended companions, she had taken death risks. She wouldn’t suffer this. Dim-witted and ignorant of these things, Dorh still saw some measure of it in her eyes. He let go, and stepped back as if she had threatened him. “Here!” he shouted at the innkeeper, now standing beside them. “Who are these people?”

  “Just traders passing through, meaning no harm, and don’t you be starting any. You shouldn’t drink that homebrew of yours, Dorh. It makes you mean.”

  Mejalna turned away, nearly colliding with Paither. His furrowed brow cleared. They smiled at each other. He said in an undertone, “You’re too pretty for your own good. It causes trouble. Maybe we should break your nose or your jaw.”

  “Why not blacken my eyes?”

  “Or knock your front teeth out?”

  “Try it,” she flashed, and they laughed together. Dorh looked back, and halted.

  “You,” he barked through his black beard.

  Mejalna whirled, exasperated, but this time he was looking at Paither. Some dark thought was working across his befuddled face. “What is it?” Paither asked with forbearance.

  The man edged closer. His rank smell was overpowering. “But you’re just like they said. Young and fair-haired. With a big mark on your face.”

  “Dorh,” the innkeeper said.

  He flapped his arms “It’s from m’brother-by-marriage. He’s in today, he brough’ the news.” Paither and Mejalna exchanged sharp looks. The locals were puzzled. “This is him,” Dorh insisted. “Fair-haired and a burn mark, everybody says. Tha’s him!”

  The innkeeper, who knew only that trouble was starting, tried to soothe him, but several others raised questions. “She’ll tell you!” Dorh shouted above them, pointing to his wife. “We jus’ heard about it, didna we? That’s my news. News. His complete descrip –” he belched. “Comple’e desription.” At the table his wife was nursing her anger, refusing to back up his claim. She didn’t turn.

  Dorh, swaying drunkenly, was infuriated. No one understood him, and the man would be getting away. Through his ale-mist he thought of a word to save the situation. “Lins!” he roared. “Lins! Lins, lins, they’re lins!

  “Out,” Samalas said in Paither’s ear, pushing him. “Move. Fast. Go.”

  Paither planted his boots and held his ground. The innkeeper, convinced Dorh was raving, tried to apologize to them. Others had risen. The town was remote, but they had already heard something about a new royal lin. “Just a minute, just a minute,” a woman shouted to Mejalna, who had moved to open the doors. “Go!” Samalas hissed.

  Paither said crisply, “I’ll thank you to take your hands off me, Samalas.”

  “But –”

  “If we run,” he said through his teeth, voice low beneath the growing noise, “they’ll chase us down. We’ll face them out instead.”

  “No, we –”

  “Do as you’re told!”

  Samalas gasped and fell silent.Paither gave Mejalna a sharp nod. She released the doors, which slammed shut again with a bang that brought a measure of quiet to the room. “Excuse us, friends,” Paither said to the staring faces. He sounded affronted and more than a little astonished. “We seem to be upsetting your man Dorh here. We’ve all heard about these foul lin rebels, but I never thought to find myself called one of them. I’ve been told folk were hospitable in these parts, but I guess it was a lie. Be thankful you’re so drunk,” he added to Dorh, who gaped. “I wouldn’t take insults like that from a sober man. Good even’ to you all.”

  “Oh, now,” the innkeeper said soothingly, but Paither, back rigid, swept to the door. Samalas followed in his wake.

  The ale-house broke out behind them. As they saddled up outside they heard Dorh beginning again. Someone shouted back, “Enough of your tales! Anybody could see they’re only traders. And now you’ve chased the girl off, too.”

  “And my customers,” the innkeeper added indignantly.

  Mejalna said, “Well, I’ve missed my supper.” She felt carefree and happy, willing to ride all night if Paither wished. Samalas stayed quiet, waiting for him.

  Paither said, “So the news has spread all the way out here. A pretty accurate description, wouldn’t you say? From now on we’ll travel by night and rest during the day. That was our last inn.”

  “Yes, relas,” they said together.

  This worked for a week. They thought they were secure. Samalas went alone to one more town and confirmed that what seemed like all of Mendale was on the lookout for Paither. A large gift of land and gold waited for the man or woman who identified him. It was Tribune Haol’s doing, of course: playing on fear and greed both at once.

  As the outcry became greater, they were forced farther and farther off the main roads. One night they were chased down a mere farmer’s lane. Their sole pursuer rode about, shouting, threatening to rouse all the neighboring farmhouses. Mejalna waited for the clouds to clear the moon, and put an arrow in his thigh.

  It was a slight incident, but worrisome, and as they veered closer towards the Valtah River they were missing one intended connection after another. They had fallen out of contact with the Defier network.

  Samalas glared down at the day-old rabbit meat which was all they had for their supper. “Too bad we can’t graze.” He looked over at the horses, munching contentedly.

  “We’ll have to hunt again tomorrow,” Mejalna said.

  “It takes too long. We’ve got to move, we’re not even to the foothills yet, and who knows how long it will take to cross them.”

  “We also need to eat.”

  “Maybe I can try another town, alone.”

  “We’ve spent our last coins. What will you do, turn thief? And bring men out after us? I’ll go. Maybe someone will pay me in coin for singing.”

  “You’re too conspicuous,” Samalas said flatly. “People remember when they’ve seen you.”

  She flared up. Paither lay back in the tall grass, his saddlebags propping his head, while they argued it out. He listened, but not to them; he closed his eyes and conjured, murmuring inwardly, Ennilyn? Ennilyn? A prickle across his forearm gave him a moment’s hope, until he heard the whining insect sound. He slapped it away.

  With his eyes closed the roaring call of the Valtah was louder. Every day, every night, for age upon age it had rushed past into the unending Sea. The first Waters of the world were older even than the gods. An urge to go down to the waterline and see it, perhaps reach one hesitant hand into the swirling cold, came over him. Perhaps they should travel right along the shore. Follow the water home.

  He often led them without their awareness to speak of Lindahne. Often he could set off their memories, the happy and the bitter, until Samalas would shake his head and say, “Leave yesterday for yesterday. We’d better look to the future.” They didn’t realize how he yearned to possess their inner knowledge of home, their memory maps of tree and stone, their spent words and forgotten conversations – their very thoughts. All he knew of Lindahne had been given him by the woman he loved as his mother – and she herself had been exiled for all of his lifetime. All else came from his heart, born in him from Nialia. As he listened, he knew the goddess had given him the deep knowledge, the profound feeling ties that made him a Lindahne. But as a mortal, he missed the little lives, the dayby-day concerns. His companions spoke of the dark bengrass of the valley, the taste of the Second Hill’s apples. They sang yearning folksongs. They remembered the famous old mast
er leatherworker on the First, the crumbling ruins of once noble estates, the chatter of their counsella schooldays, the whispered words of the former priests of Proseras... it was all his legacy, his royal inheritance, his country. And he knew nothing of it.

  The gentle foothills would not be the way for him, he realized suddenly: only the soaring heights of the Five Hills, or death. He raised his head, but they were still arguing, making plans that would be useless.

  His head fell back on the saddlebags. The Valtah sang in his ears; almost he could feel the water thunder through the earth. The stars rose over him. The goddess leaned down, smiling. He whispered a prayer, and slept.

  Scayna’s Band was traveling more than a week’s distance southeast of the place where Paither and his companions had paused. They had passed up the slopes of the first foothills, known as TreeRise, and were now at GreenCrest. Here they were co-assigned to the Fourth Archery Band, which had been stationed upwards of a year in the area.

  The Fourth’s archers showed off for them, taking them to the checkpoints they ran for travelers over the border and demonstrating various tricks the lins sometimes employed to cross over without permission. They bragged of their capture of two rebels in an attempted Defier ambush the previous winter, and pointed out the remains of the rebel encampment. Soldiers from the men’s camp came to look the new arrivals over and add their own veteran tales. None of these people, archer or soldier, had actually crossed into Lindahne. Scayna paid little attention to them.