Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

  Brother and sister had much to say to each other, sometimes too much; after rapid words they fell into strange silences. She already knew much of his life story, while he was still baffled by her very survival. She explained about Quienos, her supposed father, but her voice was strained.

  She had to tell him, too, of the queen’s death. He had been beyond any such news. Their eyes exchanged the same thought. Ayenna had been their last living royal kin. Now they had only each other.

  There was one question he needed badly to ask, one thing they would have to settle between them. But she was still new to him, and he refrained.

  On the second night her screams woke them up. Nhy jumped for his sword, ready to take on all comers. Paither clambered over and shook her awake. She gasped, and fell against him, burying her face in his neck. He said, “You were only dreaming. It’s all right.”

  “No,” she said, muffled. “No, it’s true. It’s the Governor, Nesmin, the Oversettle Governor... burning you out –”

  “What?”

  “He’s destroying the temples. He’s beginning on the Fourth, Simsas’s temple. I saw it burning.”

  Paither lifted her chin to look into her eyes. A bad dream from her Mendale memories, or a vision from Nialia? “But they’ve left the temples standing all these years. There’s no reason he’d tear them down now.”

  “Yes, there is. There’s you. He’ll trade you for the safety of the other temples. For Nialia’s temple.”

  Behind them Nhy said, “Who does this?”

  “The Mendales.”

  “Ah. Yes. Like Great Cult.”

  Paither said to her urgently, “What else did you see?”

  “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  He patted her shoulder and stood up. “We’d better go to the Fourth ourselves, then. I’m sure that’s what Samalas will do, as soon as he hears. And we’d better be quick. We’ll start right away. Nhy –” But the Feimenna was already rolling up his blankets.

  Paither was slinging on his pack before he realized that she had remained motionless beside the fire. She was apologetic but firm. She wouldn’t accompany him; she had another task. The Nialians were in tatters. Proper worship had not been seen for a generation. She herself knew nothing of the rituals and, worse, she was ignorant about her own power, or how her gifts could be controlled and put in the service of the goddess. The temple on the First Hill was blocked by soldiers. “Our mother Dalleena passed on a great legacy to me,” she said. “But it seems I don’t yet have the strength to wield it.”

  “Strength,” he repeated, dumbfounded. “Armas is the god of Strength. You’re going to the Third Hill?”

  “Yes. To our father’s house.” Their eyes met. She added quietly, “He was a priest in Armas’s service. Maybe he’s left a legacy for me, too.”

  “Ennilyn.” But he couldn’t argue with her. He smiled wanly. “I’m sorry to be parted from you again so soon.”

  The Feimenna, hovering, heard only this last and frowned. She said, “I’ll join you as soon as I can.”

  Paither paced. They waited. After a few moments he said, “I’ll send Nhy with you.”

  She stared. “I don’t need protection, if that’s what you think.”

  “I’ll have Samalas, and our uncle, and all the Defiers to help me. Someone should be with you.”

  In a hushed voice the Feimenna said, “I to be honored.”

  “Besides,” Paither added quickly, “the longer he’s out of sight the better.” They had bundled him up, into a cloak with a high and hanging hood. His olive skin couldn’t pass for light skin colored by sun, yet he was not dark enough to be a listtel, and there was no hiding his eyes at all. Even his speech was alien.

  Ennilyn looked at him sideways. She had listened, without real surprise, to the story of the Great Cult: well, after all, the gods were everywhere. Only the news that the Feimennas intended to take up the Lindahne cause as their own had astonished her. “The firsthigh believes this is our test,” Nhy had explained. “If we to fight for you against the Mendales, heretics, for you who are still held in the Mother’s hands, we to finally redeem our sin of the long ago.”

  But his constant gaze was intrusive and his awe almost annoying. Her mouth tightened. To have this stranger at her heels in her father’s house... Paither’s jaw was set. He said, “Nhy is going with you.”

  Her eyes darkened into storm clouds. Her back was rigid. Suddenly she tossed her head, and the firedust hair fell in a curtain across her face. Behind it she said, “Yes, relas.”

  He drew in a heavy breath. This was what he had needed to ask her: will you follow me? Or do you claim the Chair for yourself?

  She lifted her chin and the hair fell back. “You were born before me, you were the first. You’re the one true relas and heir. I’ll obey you.” He let out his breath. She added, “Take the horse.”

  Paither’s heart was generous. He added no burden now to her self-mastery and concession. With his pack across his shoulders he said only, “I’ll be glad when we’re together again. May Nialia hold you beloved.”

  Ennilyn, raised in Mendale, heard it as a first saying, charged with his emotion. She had no idea there was a response, and he waited for none. His boots trudged away into deeper words.

  He came out of the woodlands southeast of the Third; it wouldn’t be a long journey to the Fourth. Temhas’s horse was still where she had left it, patiently grazing. Paither recognized it, with a stab of feeling. Of course, it was Longtail, from Nichos’s estate. Father. I haven’t forgotten you. I’m coming for you.

  As a stranger in his homeland, he had to stop often to ask directions. Though he kept his hood down, more than one Lindahne stared silently at his scar. Was it possible a description of him had made it this far? One woman had looked so long he’d thought to move on without an answer, but she said finally, “You buy yourself a map in the next village, young master, then you won’t need to stop and ask questions. There’re Mendales all over us these days.”

  He took her advice. The map was crude but serviceable; he was able to keep to back roads. He decided to approach the Fourth from the north side and avoid the valley.

  On the outskirts of a village he turned a corner and surprised a group of children huddled over a scroll. They shrieked and scattered, without waiting to see if he were friend or foe, dropping the parchment behind them. Paither picked it up.

  “A Brief and True History of the Heirs of King Raynii,” it began. Paither clutched it to him, glancing around. No one was there. He unrolled it.

  It documented, in blunt words, the story of “Paither-relas” and his unnamed sister, and included the full and final actions of both his parents.

  His eyes flew across the careful writing: a professional scribe’s hand, undoubtedly. The story was accurate in every detail as far as he knew. Further on, the writer referred to Queen Ayenna’s passing and urged the Lindahnes not to despair. Indeed, the history argued, this was a time of great hope.

  He turned it over. In a reckless flourish, the author had signed his name: Samalas the Defier. To this I affix my honor.

  He leaned against his horse. Longtail nuzzled him questioningly. So this was how Samalas had obeyed him, announcing a new relas throughout Lindahne and putting his own invaluable support behind the claim! If a scribe’s copy had reached a little back village like this, there must be hundreds of others circulating in the Five Hills. Reason must have told Samalas that some were bound to fall into Mendale hands, but he hadn’t cared. He’d signed and pledged himself.

  Well, between this and Haol’s wide search, I must be getting quite famous. No wonder people are staring at me... Yet each time, man or woman, they’ve had the sense to stay quiet, no one’s endangered me. They’re loyal, by the gods, they’re Lindahnes. And one thing they’ve learned under the Mendales is the value of silence. “Come on,” he said to the horse.

  The entire Fourth Hill was in an uproar. Ennilyn’s seeing was true: the temple had been completely destroyed.
The Mendale soldiers had begun with a firestorm, gutting the sacred altars and reducing the shimmering hangings to charred ruins. Black ash smeared across the marble reliefs. When the fire had consumed the surrounding grasses, creating a barren circle, they moved back in with hammers, grip-ropes and oxen, to tear down the walls. Outraged Lindahnes maddened the beasts by flinging firebrands and stones, but they failed to drive off the soldiers. Several of the locals – later identified as former priests of Simsas – had been killed.

  Nesmin, the Oversettle Governor, reported this stern measure to Tribune Haol, concealing his glee but not his sense of triumph. He’d begun with the Fourth Hill in order to be well away, personally, from the predictable trouble. His Oversettle soldiers were carrying his ultimatum throughout Lindahne: Give up this criminal, this “relas” you are harboring, or face the ruin of the rest of your sacred temples.

  Though Nesmin had never meant to take this harsh step before, he was satisfied now that he’d made the right decision. Such forcefulness would prove to Tribune Haol and the entire Assembly that he was in full charge of the situation. With luck, it would also make them realize – when the Lindahnes came up empty-handed – that no real royal threat existed. Then Haol would leave him in peace.

  Meanwhile, smoke still hung in the air. Rubble and white fragments of marble were scattered down the slopes. As Paither guided his horse along he heard shrill cries of lamentation. He spent a long afternoon searching without help; in this time of disaster none of the Fourth’s residents would speak to strangers. In the end he followed his instincts, and the long trail leading up the slope to the summit. Halfway there he saw them, standing together in the road, surrounded by indignant locals.

  A suspicious quiet fell across the gathering at his slow approach. Samalas stepped out. The horse gave the first sound of greeting: it whinnied to Temhas.

  Of a sudden Samalas ran, with the headlong impetuousness of a boy, and stood breathless by the bridle as Paither dismounted. “I had no word – the scouts couldn’t find you – relas, I –”

  “Be calm, Samalas, everything’s all right. Good day to you.”

  “Relas, where is Mejal –”

  “Name of Nialia,” Temhas said, coming up behind them. The horse strained forward eagerly. “One of them runs off with you, Longtail, and the other saunters back on you. Well, nephew, your river trip seems to have agreed with you. Where’s Ennilyn?”

  “She had something to do. She’ll join us later. Who are these people?”

  “Followers. Don’t worry.”

  “And where are the Mendales? The sentries? Is it safe to be out in the open like this?”

  “They’re sitting smugly on top of the Hill,” Temhas said. “They send down a few soldiers every hour or so to move us along the road. They turned us back from the temple site.”

  “Relas,” Samalas broke in, “we’d better get you away, the soldiers will see you. Please tell me, is Mejalna –?”

  “She’s fine, yes, yes. She should be in Mendale by now.”

  “Mendale!”

  But Paither was asking for news of their imprisoned family. Temhas, it seemed, knew no more than he.Their embrace was awkward. Samalas couldn’t get the relas’s attention.

  Chapter 25

  Mejalna’s friend Renasi, left behind – and in charge – in Mendale, was once again fretting. He had been able to re-establish a communications line through to Lindahne,

  though the Defier scouts in the foothills were in constant danger from Mendale troop movements. A sizeable number of Defiers had been able to stay in Mendale, melting into their prearranged second identities, but Renasi dared not bring them physically together, lest the Mendales discover them again. In the meantime he oversaw the vital network of news, and occasionally approved the transfer of supplies or money to anyone in trouble. A Defier had been flushed from hiding just the day before; he had had to raise a large bribe to rescue him.

  The last news he had received from Lindahne some time ago had not been encouraging. After he had translated Samalas’s dashed-off note (they used a code based on the names of the gods) he sat and glared at it. Mejalna trying to ride down the Valtah river! It was that Paither, dragging her off on an idiot’s journey... He reminded himself that Paither was the relas, and deserving of respect. Well, even so, his rebellious thought insisted, he’s no right to endanger her that way.

  Samalas had signed off with a terse remark that “the other” had not been found. It had taken him some time, even after decoding this, to understand. He’d nearly forgotten about the sister.

  He stood on the doorstep of his peasant’s house, while his worries took flight, flocking and calling over his head, and landing by turns to settle on his shoulders. His wound, at least, had healed well. Yes, and she had given it to him. Mendale archer, now she’s the relas’s sister! I hope he knows what he’s about. And Mejalna –

  He blinked. He’d thought so hard that his eyes had seemed to conjure her up. Still, who was that, to dress so strangely?

  Four figures in astonishing robes, striped with every color, were approaching on horseback down the path. The three behind were men, dark men, who looked to have baked themselves in the sun. The woman in front certainly had Mejalna’s coloring, no doubt that’s what had deceived him. In fact she even moved like Mejalna. In fact –

  “By all the gods,” he burst out, as she dismounted. She came up the stairs, smiling, and embraced him.

  Later, nearly drowning under the flood of impossibilities she was stating so calmly, Renasi poured himself a large goblet of wine. The three dark men huddled together, silent, their disconcerting red eyes watching everything. “You say there are more coming?”

  “Oh, yes. I arranged it all with Paither, before we left. Calm down, Ren. They can’t understand a word; these three didn’t save our language.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Don’t you have any ale here? Pass them the wine, they must need it. We had a hard crossing. That’s twice Feimennas have saved my life.”

  “Feimennas,” Renasi repeated, dazed. He held out a goblet. One of the men touched fingers to his lips and took it.

  “We worked it out with Nhy, the times, places, everything. I’ll tell you later. Of course, the Feimenna needed some time too, to get their people together. They don’t have what we’d call a standing army.”

  Renasi gulped back his drink and poured another. “Are you really telling me that these, these, these people, they’re going to come here, over the Valtah, and fight with us against the Mendales?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Mejalna yawned. “Oh, not now, Ren. I’ll tell you later. It’s the Great Cult, you see, and then the mark of the goddess on Paither’s shoulder. Is there somewhere I can lie down?”

  “The bed’s through there. Wait! Tell me about the relas, about this cult thing. What are we going to do? Mejalna! What do I do with these men?”

  “Feed them,” she said sleepily, moving off. “I’m sorry, I have to get some rest. We can go over this later. I’ve been so tired lately. It just crashes down on me. I think I’m with child.”

  Renasi swallowed wrong and choked. One of the Feimennas stepped forward in concern, to pat him on the back. Renasi flailed away in panic from the touch. Mejalna had vanished. He charged down the hallway after her, yelping like a pug dog. The Feimennas exchanged bewildered looks. After a time they helped themselves to more wine.

  Paither, still on the Fourth Hill, prepared to face yet another challenge, another moment when he would have to declare himself and prove his royalty. He was weary of it, and hoped only to keep his temper, but after all there was no need.

  The “Brief and True History” had fulfilled its purpose, signed as it was by the nearly legendary leader of the Defiers, Samalas himself. Of course there were skeptics – embittered War veterans in the main, who had lost any semblance of hope. One man (Temhas related privately) had even approached Samalas to raise the question of legal inheritance:
Paither and his sister were passion-children born out of wedlock. Samalas, who rarely even smiled, had flung back his head and roared with laughter, asking the man if he thought Mendale rule was strictly legal. “But on the whole,” Temhas added, “the people are too happy to have a royal back to argue.”

  A council was called. The night was cold, with a pale new moon that threw faint shivering beams. Mendale archers patrolled the Hilltop by its light. Mendale soldiers paced menacingly in the villages, where, behind their doors, men and women brooded. Mendale patrols kept the roadways cleared of life.

  Nesmin’s soldiers were efficient, but even with the latest army influx, the occupiers could never equal the conquered in sheer numbers. When the patrols had passed, dim figures flit across the roads and vanished behind trees. The windows of the farmhouses burned with light, signaling quiet family evenings, but many of the houses stood empty. In the tradehouses older brothers and sisters looked after the little ones; their parents were busy, out in the night. While the Mendales congratulated themselves on their tight control, Paither and Samalas gathered representatives of all the Fourth Hill at a midnight meeting.

  The Lindahnes knew it was a special occasion. The nobles wore their time-honored family colors; the commoners forsook work clothes for their best browns, newly cleaned. They filed in, voices low in respect, to take seats; the overflow of the commoners stood against the back wall. High lamps, hanging from the ceiling, cast brilliant light on their expectant faces.

  Someone had tacked a map of the Fourth and Fifth Hills to the front wall. The younger Lindahnes, fresh out of counsellas, felt they were back at their schooling. They greeted the appearance of Samalas with relief and cheers.

  Another young man entered with him. They stood together on the platform with the map rising behind them. Alone in the colorful gathering, the young man wore a sleeveless robe of blue. Royal blue.

  Their many eyes looked from his robe to his scarred face, from the seal of the goddess on his shoulder to the hands resting lightly on his hips, from his welcoming eyes to the distant smile. They gazed with mouths open, as if they could drink him in.