Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

  “Thank Nialia. This is enough, don’t you think? Let’s turn in.”

  The next morning Mejalna felt her strongest apprehension yet. When she picked up her paddles her hands trembled. Afraid that Paither would see, she moved too quickly. Her shove sent the canoe clumsily down the embankment, making a grinding sound against twigs and the little flat stones which glittered along the water’s edge. They had to jump forward and grab it before it hit the river and was gone without them. Paither shot her a look.

  “Sorry,” she said brusquely. The jolt had left a small indentation in the canoe’s side. Neither of them noticed.

  Paither checked the straps on their little bundles. She watched him take in the moist air in great happy lungfuls; the tuneless whistle came from him again. She stirred with impatience. He said himself that this cruel river came from a cruel god; perhaps its pulsing thunder was the immortal’s great heart beating. Yet it seemed to excite him – even uplift him.

  Well, not me, she thought. If I live past this I’ll hate even the water that’s drawn for my bath.

  At high-sun the Valtah whirled them past the last foothill. If he had raised his head and shaded his eyes, he would have been able to see, far off, a tall black rise of stone: the Shadow Tribune’s tower. But Paither did not look up; he had forgotten the tower’s existence. The river god demanded all his thought.

  The tower was busier with life than it had been for years. Its half dozen sleepy keepers had had a full Band foisted on them within the last moon; Tribune Haol was said to be in an uproar over the security of the border. He meant the land border, of course. No one thought of a threat from the river. The new Band was to be the last stones of an impenetrable wall.

  A solder looked off the parapet, yawning. The Valtah coursed below and no matter what the weather here on this side, the horizon was always lost in grey cloud. He was bored.

  Something on the water caught his eye. He stared, in disbelief, and then gave a shout, but they were too far away, beyond arrow-reach. By the time his companions ran up the canoe could no longer be seen.

  Mejalna felt the great liquid hand clench around them once more. The dancing sunlight half-blinded her, but she forced her eyes wide. Day after day they had skirted rocks – and disaster – through quick paddle work or sheer luck. But how long could it go on? Her head turned constantly, searching, searching. Water sprayed up and plastered down her hair. The fear, which before had always released her once they began, today clung doggedly to her heart. She risked a swift look back. Paither jerked his paddle and a new roar reached her ears: rapids.

  On such a flying current it was hard to imagine the existence of even faster motion, but they had hit fierce rapids three times before. The last time Paither had blundered in ignorance, shifting his weight the wrong way; they had come within a hair’s breadth of overturning.

  The river’s sudden new surge carried them farther out from the shore than they had yet been. Their paddles beat furiously, to no avail. Then, like a rearing horse, the canoe bolted upright and plunged into white water.

  Mejalna’s paddle was wrenched from her hand and the thong snapped across the skin of her wrist. It broke and the wood fell free, eaten by a swirling mouth of white. She had all she could do to keep her seat. After a short time’s madness she realized Paither was shouting. Just ahead a monster of stone shone through the water. It crouched deep below, waiting for them. Only the slick horrid glistening of its spine rose into the air. The god screamed with laughter, and flung them forward.

  As they hit she threw herself to the side and struck out at the monster with her bare hand, taking the first wave of the shuddering impact on her own flesh and bone. The canoe was spared the full force of the blow, but its weakened underside suddenly caved in, splintering. In the time before her next heartbeat, she knew that her hand was broken, the craft had foundered, and the hope of their journey was over and destroyed. Then she was dashed bodily against rock. The icy water seemed to flood her veins as it rose over her head.

  When she opened her eyes she saw soft cloth, drawn up to her cheek. With slow difficulty she turned her head and found that she was wrapped in a color-streaked blanket. Rows of changing color. So, she thought dreamily, we are safe... we?

  Shocked, she sat upright, and for a moment the world spun. When her vision had cleared a man stood before her.

  A listtel? No, his skin was lighter than that, more the color one went after a day in the sun, but smooth and even. He had a flowing black beard. She didn’t notice his eyes. “Who –?”

  There were others behind him. Now she saw she was still quite near the river. A few feet away a shattered hull, the remains of their canoe, lay half out of the water, as if it had crawled there to die.

  The man said something and came nearer. She shook herself a little. He repeated it, but she still couldn’t understand; perhaps something was wrong with her hearing? The sounds had no sense, as if he made animal cries, yet imitated mortal speech.

  Another voice came from her right. Two other men were standing over something, a figure on the ground. The figure gave another groan and rolled sideways.

  “Paither,” she said. As she kicked the blanket from her knees, the first man went to join the others. Suddenly a shout went up.

  Bewildered, she struggled to her feet and stood swaying. Her broken hand throbbed with pain. Paither was still unconscious. The men were exclaiming and gesturing.

  She staggered over. His shoulder, all exposed, showed a heavy bruise. Just above it, the blue seal was clearly visible: it was this they were pointing to.

  Rapid incomprehensible sounds flew back and forth between them. They took no notice of her. One of them knelt and grabbed Paither’s out flung arm.

  Mejalna stood on the hard real earth of Feimenna, the land of dreamers, and felt nightmare closing over her. She cried, “Leave him alone!” but no words came from her throat. As she fell, fainting, dusky arms reached out to catch her.

  .

  Chapter 20

  Scayna’s Band descended into the open passage that led into Lindahne. The Mendales called it Nesmin’s Way, in honor of the Oversettle Governor. Nesmin had been First Tribune

  during the War; after the victory he had ridden triumphantly into the occupied Lindahne palace. He had never left it. At home, even as First Tribune, he had had to contend with the Assembly; here as Oversettle Governor he was free to do mostly whatever he wished.

  The Band’s Lindahne guide dropped his horse back to fall in with Scayna. The two of them had become friendly. “Once we get past that ridge there you’ll be able to see the First Hill. Around at the base on the other side is Marlos-An, the old palace.”

  “Does the palace look the way it did before the War?” Scayna asked. He was old enough to remember.

  “Marlos-An? Well, any one of my people can see the Mendale marks on it. They’ve let the relasii flowers go wild, though. Last spring they grew right up the gates.”

  “What kind of flowers? Relas, did you say?”

  “Relasii. It’s the royal flower, very beautiful. Pinkish, lovely scent. Blooms all year long, even in the winter.” Their horses jolted into one another. He glanced at her and decided it was safe to add, “Your Governor Nesmin doesn’t pay any attention to that kind of thing. Symbols and signs. I’ve noticed they don’t mean much to Mendales. Nesmin doesn’t think our traditions are worth learning about either. In all these years, they say, he’s never even visited the First Hill’s temple.”

  “That would be the temple of your goddess?”

  “Nialia. Yes. Of course they don’t let anyone hold services now, but the temple’s still standing, praise the Mother.”

  She said abruptly, “If I’m permitted, I’ll go and see it.”

  “Will you? I don’t suppose they’ll stop you. They only keep out Lindahnes. We won’t even be allowed to hold the memorial ceremonies there.”

  “Has someone died?”

  “Didn’t you hear? Well, I don’t suppose she would
have meant anything to you. Queen Ayenna, our last royal. She’s gone.”

  “Oh. I am sorry. I met her once. They didn’t –” she paused awkwardly.

  “No, no, she died in bed, in the holding-house. Say her heart gave out. Perhaps the Mother wanted to spare her any more grief. At least she had a peaceful end.”

  “But how sad it is.”

  The guide, suspecting ridicule, looked at her sharply. Their eyes met and he relaxed, nodding. “They’ll be saying the Prayers for the Dead for her at home. ‘True light encompass thee, and go then in thy blessedness.’”

  Chilhi Bhanay, at the front of the group of riders, squirmed in her saddle, looking for him. He joined her, answered a few questions, and fell back again beside Scayna. She saw the other archers looking, but she didn’t care. It astonished her that none of her companions were interested in learning about this country, where they would be posted for who knew how long. Once the guide had found her own interest to be genuine – and respectful – he had had many good tales to tell.

  She asked, “What do your people think about this story of a new relas?”

  The guide started; his horse tossed its head. He liked her, but this wasn’t a subject to discuss with a Mendale. Her dark eyes were measuring his discomfort. He answered vaguely, “Well, when something’s told all over Mendale, eventually we hear of it, too...” He trailed off. She was still watching him. Sunshine played along her hair.

  “Do you know,” he said heartily, “you’re the first Mendale I’ve ever met with firedust hair. I thought your people didn’t have the trait.”

  Her grip slackened. Her horse, restless, immediately tried to pull off to the side. She gathered in the reins without thinking and brought him up. The guide halted beside her. She stammered, “What did you –?”

  “Firedust hair, we call it. It’s a rare beauty here. I didn’t know Mendales could have it. Well, there’s always more to learn, they say.”

  “We’re falling behind. Excuse me. I’ll speak with you later.”

  Before evening they rounded the ridge and made ready to camp. Scayna had her first sight of the Hill. She nodded. It was just as she had known: rising green, rolling to the sky, reaching upward to the light. She even recognized the outthrust of rock on the left. It was her vision, come to life in earth and waving grass, shining stone and cascading pink blossoms. (Relasii flowers, then.) This was the comfort she had conjured all her life, perfect in every detail – except for the flash of far-off white at the summit. That would be the temple of the mother goddess.

  But how did I know it? How was this born in me?

  (“Can’t you feel who I am?”)

  She had been fighting his question away, telling herself without conviction that it was only some sort of rebel lin foolishness. That name he had shouted. And a blaze of light and heat. For the first time she thought clearly, And I? Do I know who I am?

  But there was no one to answer.

  The towns along the next day’s march were accustomed to the arrival of Mendale soldiers. Many of the local people made their livings off army trade. At the second town the ranking permitted them to break formation. They would be quartered here until their permanent assignment was made.

  Pirri’s horse had thrown a shoe. Scayna helped her find a blacksmith. When he saw their army uniforms he took them ahead of his other customers, who watched in silence. Their looks were not friendly or unfriendly, merely concealed. They were all in brown (except possibly the smith, whose clothes were hidden under cakes of thick ash). Scayna knew why and what it meant, but when Pirri remarked on it she pretended ignorance.

  The little houses were asymmetrical, of oranges and browns, jutting out here, curling in there: a lopsided way to build, surely, but somehow charming. The Mendale buildings she was used to were monotonously alike; people sometimes had to hang banners to mark their own on a crowded street. Each one of these Lindahne homes had its own identity and, she had to admit, some kind of beauty. She fingered the graceful brooch she had found, which she kept in her pocket. Perhaps she’d be able to get it repaired.

  Half a dozen Oversettle soldiers – part of this town’s permanent posting – were lounging about the market square. Behind them, set off from the avenue, was a marble niche set in a rise of ground. Scayna could see within it a gold flat-topped pedestal; nothing else was on it. A memorial to the War dead, perhaps? It must be heavy. The gold would be worth five years’ work to these people. How could it stay there untouched?

  “Your pardon,” she said to the nearest Lindahne, the woman whose own horse had been put aside for Pirri’s. “Can you tell me what that is?” She pointed.

  The woman flushed, but in this town they had learned to be polite to Mendales. After a moment she said, “It’s sacred,” and closed her mouth with finality.

  Pirri was peering over the blacksmith’s shoulder. Scayna slipped away and crossed the square. The Mendale soldiers called out cheerful welcomes, warning her to watch these lins, they’re always cheating you. Their voices were loud in the open air. She smiled tightly and skirted around them. A tall young man detached himself from the group and came up behind her. “One of their primitive altar things,” he explained, following her eyes.

  Scayna restrained herself from touching the marble. The soldier went on, “They used to offer sacrifices here, burn things, twigs and such, you know the ones? With scent.”

  “Incense.”

  “Yes. Course we’ve put an end to all that.” He explained that Governor Nesmin (“as a generous man”) permitted the lins to keep such altars, so long as they weren’t actually used.

  In truth, Governor Nesmin had decided in the very first year that the gold and jewels of these altars were not worth the taking price: the townspeople would fight with pitchfork and supper knife, if they had to, to keep the Mendale soldiers off such sacred dedications – which would mean they’d all have to be killed, and the town razed as punishment. He had decided it was all too messy and time-consuming.

  The young man leaned his arm carelessly on the altar’s ledge, rocking it slightly. With a laugh, he reached out and gave it a contemptuous shove; it toppled over with a heavy thud. She glanced back toward the smith’s yard. The circle of Lindahnes had drawn together, faces rigid and glaring at them.

  “Been stuck here a year,” the soldier was complaining. Scayna ignored him. She took the altar fast in both hands and tried to right it. Suddenly, like a lightning shock through her fingers, the touch set off burning images in her brain.

  “Please, oh Mother!” Someone was screaming. Fingers clutched at the white marble. Blood was dripping. “Greatest Nialia!”

  Swords rang in the square. Feet thundered. “Mendales! Mendales!”

  The soldier shook Scayna’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  Her fingers fell from the altar. She turned blind eyes to him. Her heart was galloping; the screaming seemed to still echo in her ears. But no, everything was quiet.

  “Are you sick?” the soldier asked. “Sometimes if you’re not used to the lin water –”

  “Thank you,” she said in a low voice. “I’m fine.”

  The Lindahnes were still glaring. The other soldiers were still sitting in the square, which contained no running people, no battling enemies. Pirri was leading her newly shod horse beyond the smith’s enclosure. Scayna staggered over to join her. Quite soon she was able to make polite replies to Pirri’s common-place remarks.

  Over the next few days she came under continuous violent attack, not only from religious objects but, it seemed, every Lindahne creation around her. The inanimate spoke to her everywhere. With a touch, the memories woven into cloth, carved into wood, or pounded into stone were released, replayed as scenes in her mind alone. That they were true depictions – true shadows of the events once witnessed in these places – she had no doubt. They were always of the War and its destruction.

  She would lean on a marking stone wall and suddenly see the children who had crouched behind it, hiding, when
the village hall was put to flame. She would sit on a fountain’s edge and see a hand-to-hand dagger fight; she heard the choked-off scream of the Lindahne soldier, his throat slashed; she smelled the blood as it spilled into the fountain’s pure clear flow. Soon even the living things invaded her. When she retreated to the shade of a tree, she heard the exultant laugh of a Lindahne archer. She looked up and saw a young girl (who was not really there) aiming her bow eagerly at the invaders. An arrow whizzed through the air and thudded into the girl’s lungs. Scayna felt the air’s rushing movement, heard the dull heavy landing. She saw the girl’s splayed body on the spot of ground where her own summer cloak should have been.

  She couldn’t stop or control the visions. She had no warning of when they would come – and they were coming faster, becoming more numerous, with each day she spent in this country. Once she had hoped never to come to Lindahne: how right her instincts had been! Just recently she had changed, had actually wanted to come here, had thought to acquaint herself with these strangers. Fool, she berated herself, holding back the panic, you were a fool to think you were well. You’ll never be well.

  The pain of her old darks seemed like a lost pleasure in comparison. At least those she had been able to hide. Now she was often caught, called out of the horrifying other-world to cold reality by her suspicious companions. Trembling fear and rage swelled in her chest. She thought with yearning of the old sweet vision of greenery and sunshine – but here, in this country of the accursed, the Hill itself towered over her with nightmare. The glow of the temple’s white marble at its peak followed her everywhere like a burning sun. No matter which way she faced, no matter where she turned her eyes, she could see a reflected white gleam at the side of her vision. It floated in the air, far-off and yet beside her. When she closed her eyes to sleep it throbbed in the darkness behind her lids.

  All the archers in her Band knew Scayna had become stranger than ever. Pirri noticed that she suddenly avoided all things Lindahne – a near impossibility, one would think, in the country itself. The perverseness of Scayna’s attitude astonished her. Wasn’t she the one who wanted to know all about the lins? Wasn’t she the one who said she was going to study their history, learn their customs, visit their primitive little temples? Now she wouldn’t even sit on a Lindahne chair if she could help it.