The Fire Children

by Lauren Roy

  Even Char had to shield her eyes against the flash when it hit.

  When she could look again, a woman sat in the middle of the disc, cradling the dead Fire Child and weeping. The collar was wound about her neck, the only dingy thing on a woman as splendid as the sunset.

  “Mother,” whispered Ember.

  If she stood, Yulla thought, she’d tower over Vedra. Even seated, curled around the body, her head came up nearly to Vedra’s chest. Her dress was gold, her skin was gold, even her eyes glowed like the priests’ medallions after they’d been polished. Every color of the sun was in her hair: the pale yellow of dawn, the bleached white of high summer, the reds and oranges of day’s end.

  She was the sun made flesh, and Vedra had her leashed.

  “GET THE OTHERS.” Vedra’s voice rang out over the weeping of Mother Sun and the people of Kaladim. Amara turned on her heel and strode away, her sandals clumping across the boards.

  “The others can’t fight.” Char looked at Ember and Yulla. Yulla experienced that odd doubling again, standing in one place but seeing herself from the outside. The terror of the people below was mirrored on her own face.

  “We have to get down there,” she said. Somehow, her voice didn’t shake.

  Ember and Char needed no further encouragement. Char was gone first, leaving Yulla reeling as rooms and hallways and stairs rushed past while she herself stood still. Ember took her by the elbow and led her in his sister’s wake.

  Down the stairs again, and now the ground floor was searing hot. Yulla reached out a hand to steady herself and drew it away from the wall immediately, hissing as the heat passed through her bandages and set her burns singing.

  Char waited for them at the front door; now the sensations were reversed as she moved and her vision stayed still. She watched herself and Ember growing closer. His flames were nearly out, his fingers dark, dark brown against her own olive skin. Though he was a solid presence behind her, though she could feel the strength in his steadying grip, from Char’s perspective he might have been leading her in a dance, so lightly did he seem to hold her.

  She smiled at the idea, saw the smile bloom on her face, and stifled it immediately. This was no time for sentiment.

  “What do we do?” asked Char.

  “I don’t know, not really. We go out there. It’s all I have.” She wasn’t the Brigand Queen, with seven plans in reserve at all times in case the first three failed. She didn’t even know what the Brigand Queen would have—

  Yes I do.

  It was a nothing of a plan, brittle as a twig, but she still had the collars in her pocket; and that old, gruesome, half-remembered story; and Anur’s words: Those spells are more thought and will than language.

  If it doesn’t work, Mother Sun will be just as dead as if I hadn’t tried.

  “Maybe I do have something. Lead me out.”

  The girl nodded. Ember let Yulla go and took position behind her to the right. Char flung open the door and followed on the left.

  Everyone’s attention was on Vedra and the woman before her.

  Mother Sun had gained her feet. She was half again as tall as Vedra, and had stepped over the body of her son to stare down the woman who had murdered him. The edge of the Seaglass was the farthest she could go, it seemed; Vedra stayed just out of her reach. The heat out here was even stronger than inside, radiating off Mother Sun in waves. The people stood still, too terrified to run.

  “Tell me, child,” said Mother Sun in a voice that crackled like flame, “why I should let you live.”

  Vedra flicked the leash, setting a wave travelling along its glowing length. “You don’t have the power to kill me.” She raised her voice, let it echo off the buildings surrounding them. “Do you hear me? I control the sun.”

  Mother Sun shivered as the wave reached the collar around her neck, but if Vedra had sent the same kind of pain she’d inflicted upon Ember and his siblings, Mother Sun didn’t show it.

  Someone in the crowd spat and let out a string of curses. Char didn’t turn in time to see who it was, but it sounded an awful lot like Amma. Yulla wanted to run to her, find her and fling herself into her mother’s arms. She wanted to scream at her to go, take Aunt Mouse and Abba and Kell and flee as far as they could as fast as they could.

  She did neither; instead she gritted her teeth and pushed her way forward. A series of gasps followed in her wake as people realized that Fire Children walked among them. Twice, on the heels of that, she heard her own name said with equal surprise, and a touch of fear. They think I’m dead. Vedra made them believe it.

  She didn’t pause to explain. When unseen fingers plucked at her sleeve, she brushed them away gently. She needed to get to the front.

  “This won’t hold me nearly long enough,” said Mother Sun. She traced her finger along the collar, though she didn’t quite touch it. “When your little magics wear off, it will go poorly for you.”

  The door in the back of the hall swung open and Amara strode out, three leashes clutched in her bony hand. Mother Sun let out a cry of dismay as three more of her children stumbled up the last few steps and out into the light.

  Yulla saw the middle girl for the first time now—curvy and so very, very pale. She was much dimmer than the others. The two little ones clung to her legs, sobbing, their flames a tangle of orange and red.

  “Oh,” said Vedra, that cruel smiling creeping across her lips, “we have enough to serve. You’ll learn a lesson about loss before we’re through.”

  “Mercy,” said Mother Sun. She sounded afraid for the first time. “I beg you, mercy for my children.”

  “They’ll get the same mercy you showed Father Sea: none at all.”

  Revelation chipped away at the goddess’ fear, hardening her expression. “Father Sea.” She flung his name like a curse. “You mourn someone you never knew. Someone generations of your grandmothers never knew.” She spoke to Vedra, but her eyes were on Amara. On her children. “You’re more flame than sea, now. You’re more mine than his.”

  Vedra yanked on the leash, forcing Mother Sun to bend and look at her. “We condemn the fire and dust in our blood. We renounce you. We are the daughters of Wind and Sea, and you will suffer for what you’ve done.” She beckoned to Amara, who stood at the top of the plank. Amara separated out one of the leashes—the girl’s—and passed it to Vedra. The little ones tried to hold onto their sister, but their strength was nothing compared to the witches’ magic. Bereft of her, they clutched at each other.

  “Look,” Yulla whispered. “She’s hurt.” Now that she was illuminated by Mother Sun, they could see the purple bruise spreading along Amara’s jaw. She moved stiffly, too, with the gait of someone trying to hide their injuries.

  “They fought,” said Ember. “Down below, when she tried to take them, they must have fought. She was fine before.”

  Char glanced between Nasreen and Siwa, still at the front of the crowd. “So we can’t send fire at them, but we can touch them?”

  “I think. Maybe.”

  “Will that help, Yulla?” Char didn’t sound like it mattered much either way; she wanted to do violence.

  “The more distracted they are, the better. Can you keep an eye on Vedra and your mother while you’re, um, hitting Nasreen?” Her plan was hardly more than gossamer and spun sugar, but it would have to do.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Get me as close to the front as you can, then,” she said. “Once they see you, just go. All I need to do is walk straight.”

  “I’ll take her.” It was a new voice, but she didn’t need Char to swing her gaze around to know who stood beside her.

  “Kell?” She couldn’t squeeze out any more words around the lump suddenly blocking her throat. A few days gone, she’d wished she’d never have to see her sister again. Now she threw her arms around her and held on as tight as she could.

  “Hatal said it was you.” She hugged back as though determined to crack bones, and when she let go her cheeks were wet. Kell w
iped them dry with the back of her hand, then gave Char and Ember cautious, wary looks before making the sun’s blessing at them. “I’m her sister. I can help.” She frowned and leaned close. Yulla could smell honey from breakfast on her sister’s breath. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”

  “Kell, I can’t see. Vedra made me stare at the eclipse.”

  A storm of emotion flickered over Kell’s face: surprise and fear came first, but it was anger she settled on. She’d never resembled Amma more than she did in that moment: her jaw set, her lips a thin, grim line. “Then I’ll guide you.” Kell took her arm and nodded at the other two. “I heard what you’re going to do. Go. Stop them.”

  Ember touched Yulla’s cheek one last time, then he and Char melted away, the crowd parting before them. Up atop the Seaglass, Vedra had taken the pale girl’s leash and drawn it short. The girl stood rigid, her face contorted with pain, molten tears trailing down her cheeks.

  “Amma and Aunt Mouse are with Abba,” said Kell as she walked them along. “He’s hurt, but Amma says he’ll be all right. He was in the back of one of the groups that tried rushing at the witches.” Yulla felt her shudder, but Kell kept prattling on. It was what she did when she was terrified. “If he’d been two steps closer, he’d be dead. They say there’s a wall of wind up there, pushing people back. The first ones that tried getting through, they... They drowned, Yulla.”

  Kell slowed them down as they reached the front, where just as she’d said, the Wind blew steadily. Yulla leaned into it and felt its firm resistance. It was impersonal at first, the same force pushing everyone back. Then she felt it—a gentle touch on her shoulder, a smoothing of her hair, a mournful, regret-filled murmur in her ear. Still, it wouldn’t let her pass.

  “I know,” said Yulla to the Wind. “It’s all right.”

  It wasn’t, though. Vedra was taunting Mother Sun. This close, they could hear the soft keening coming from the tortured girl.

  “Look,” Vedra said. “Look how weak your children are. We bound them with the blood of your other children. We took their holiest and used them. You say we’re like them? We’re stronger. We bound your children, and we’ve bound you. We bound the Wind our mother.”

  Mother Sun chuckled. “You are more dust than wind. More sand than sea. Your blood is weak. You are weak.” Char’s vision was filled with people parting ahead of her, but as she broke through the edge of the crowd, Mother Sun spread her hands, smiling. “See, now. You don’t hold us all. And your mother can’t stop them.”

  Now that Mother Sun had said it, Yulla knew it to be true: the last couple of days, the Wind had only touched her, never Ember. Even outside the gates, when it kept them from each other, it had pushed Yulla away from him, but not the other way around. It had screamed at him, whipped stinging sands at him, but never done anything to him stronger than riffling his hair.

  Nasreen’s shocked face loomed up in Yulla’s borrowed sight, her beautiful features twisted with surprise as Char’s fist looped up.

  And hit her square in the jaw.

  Ember and Char had kept their flames dampened as they moved through the throng. Now that they’d gained the stairs, both of them burst alight. At the edge of Char’s vision, Yulla saw people shielding their eyes and shying back from the brilliance.

  “Oh,” said Kell beside her, breathless. “Oh.”

  Yulla saw it all in gold-tinged glimpses, found herself swaying with Char’s movements. After that first punch—one whose cousin Yulla had seen countless times in marketplace scuffles (Is that where she learned it? From all her time watching us?)—the fight changed. Ember and Char flowed around Nasreen and Siwa, trailing fire in their wakes.

  The witches recovered quickly from their shock. The two edged along the steps, dodging blows too fast to see.

  Then there were two of Nasreen, then three. Then four pale-haired women faced Char, all of them floating a handspan above the steps. They looked the same, moved the same. Char struck at them one by one. Her fist passed through each like it was nothing more than a dream.

  Siwa had a small, stoppered cobalt jar at her belt. She tore it free and uncorked it, pouring its contents (Blood. That’s Anur’s blood) into her palm. She dipped a finger in it and traced crude sigils on her forehead and throat, then flung what was left into Ember’s eyes.

  He hissed and staggered back. A hot metallic smell rose on the air as the blood burned.

  In the middle of it all, Vedra stood calmly. The girl had dropped to her knees, panting, forgotten for the moment while her tormentor assessed the situation. Vedra cast her gaze out over the crowd, settling at last on someone in the front.

  “She’s looking at us.” Kell’s voice had a squeak to it, but she stood firm.

  Vedra said, “Of course. Of course you’d be a part of this. But there’s nothing you can do, is there? Only watch.” She held out a hand towards Amara. “Give me those. Help our sisters.”

  Amara did as she was told, dragging the smallest of the Fire Children halfway down the ramp as she handed their leashes to Vedra. Then she strode up and around, heading for where Ember had renewed his attack on Siwa.

  Yulla didn’t want to know what tricks Amara could do.

  Siwa had poured more of Anur’s blood into her hand. She couldn’t control Ember with it, it seemed, but it hurt him when she used it.

  Blood is the key. She pulled the leashes from her pocket, remembering the illustration of the warlock in Abba’s book. The ropes he’d used to command his prisoners had dripped with blood. Only, she didn’t have any of the witch-women’s. How can I...?

  You are more dust than wind. More sand than sea, Mother Sun had said.

  The people here, they’re close enough to be our cousins, Siwa had said.

  She understood now why Ember’s younger sister had insisted she take the leashes.

  “Kell, do you have anything sharp?” It was too much to hope her sister had been knitting when the bells rang, calling the people to emerge. Maybe she can find a rock, then, or someone nearby will have—

  A rustle of fabric, then Kell pressed something into her grip. “I... it’s the cheese knife. We were having breakfast when they said it was time.”

  Its edge wasn’t much, but she didn’t need to do anything fine or delicate. Yulla withdrew the coiled leashes and felt for Kell’s hand. “Hold these for me. Like you’re giving an offering.”

  “Yulla, what are they? Are these the same things holding the Fire Children?” Deeper revelation dawned before Yulla could explain. Kell had grown up on the same stories, after all. “Oh, Mother Sun save us, they’re...” She sounded on the verge of retching. “Hurry,” she said. “I don’t... I don’t like this.”

  Yulla adjusted her grasp on the cheese knife, laying it flat against her forearm. Its weight was familiar from years of use. While her eyes told her Char was spinning around, trying to catch one of the Nasreens, her mind pictured the short, curved blade with the two funny tines, dimpling her skin where she pressed.

  Do it fast, she thought, and turned those tines—the ones for stabbing a cube of cheese, not a person—so they poked into her.

  Then she drew the old, smooth, pewter handle downward, and felt her skin tear.

  Kell cried out; Yulla gritted her teeth to keep from doing the same. She let the knife fall and held her bleeding arm out to Kell. “Soak them. Cover them in it.”

  For all her horror, her sister did as she was told. Yulla felt the coiled leather leashes pressing against the ragged wound as Kell got them to absorb as much blood as she could. After a moment, she let out a shaky breath. “They’re not going to get much more unless I unwind them. Should I?”

  “No. Give them to me.” They were back in her hands before the order had even finished. She leaned forward again, took a half step into the Wind, and waited for its caress. “I need a favor,” she said. “One I don’t think will go against your bonds.”

  It riffled her hair. Close enough for confirmation.

  “Will you carry the
se for me?” she said, and tossed them into the air without waiting for a response.

  Char was turned her way when it happened, so Yulla saw what everyone else did: the coils unfurling like grotesque ribbons, fluttering on the breeze. They were too heavy to fly that easily, yet on they sailed.

  One to Amara.

  One to Vedra.

  Before either woman could so much as swat them away, the collars fastened themselves around the witch-women’s necks.

  Amara clawed at hers, but, maddeningly, Vedra only smirked.

  “Let her go,” Yulla called. “Let Mother Sun and the others go.” Her unspoken threat was an empty one, though, and Vedra knew it.

  “Or what? You don’t even know how it works.” Vedra cupped one of the little ones’ cheeks. “But I can show you.”

  The fighting on the steps had stopped as Nasreen and Siwa, Char and Ember realized what was happening. The four Nasreens became one again; Siwa held the jar at her side, casting nervous glances between Ember and Vedra and Mother Sun.

  Char closed her eyes. Or blinked. Or let their shared sight go. Just for a heartbeat.

  The reversed eclipse floated in Yulla’s vision: bright disc, dark crown. A silver-throated voice spoke to her. Told her what to do.

  It felt like minutes had passed, but when Char’s sight flickered back in, no one had moved.

  Yulla closed her fist around the air, imagined a pair of blood-red leashes leading from it to Vedra and Amara. She gave them a yank.

  Her newly-inflicted wound throbbed and flared. A trickle of blood traveled down her arm and pooled into her tightly clasped fingers. It disappeared. There was a weight in her hand, the loop of a leash and the tug from the beast on the other end. She saw—no, sensed; Char saw only empty air between Yulla and the witches—she sensed the bolt of pain travel along those invisible cords. It grew stronger as it went. Yulla almost pitied them.

  Almost.

  The waves hit them simultaneously. Vedra and Amara both dropped to the ground, writhing and howling, scrabbling at the collars around their throats. Blood trickled from them in rivulets. Yulla wasn’t sure how much of it was her own and how much came from the deep scratches they dug trying to free themselves. It felt good, punishing the witch-women, the satisfaction of a job done well. But it’s wrong. It’s wrong to make another person suffer. She had no time to reconcile the feelings, to even ponder whether they could be reconciled.