by Crissy Moss
For the first time, I saw true fear on the girl's face. Her eyes widened, her mouth dropping open, not to cry but in a soundless yelp of despair. Ayrula once told me that servitors feared only one thing. Mother.
“You can’t send me back to Mother!” Orin cried. “She’ll punish me if I return before the year is complete!”
“And you should be punished,” he said, not backing down for an instant. “You jeopardized everyone on this caravan, as well as the goods we’re hauling for the family. You deserve any punishment she metes out to you.”
He turned his back on her, moving away, though I could hear her cries of fear as she followed him toward her wagon. He led her to the door and pointed up at the stall, never saying a word, glaring down at her with a hardness I hadn’t seen in the gentle giant before.
Orin pouted and whined for several more minutes while Edwum stood there. Eventually, her tantrum gave way, and she realized she had truly crossed the line of her hosts’ goodwill. There was nothing she could say or do that would help her. She hung her head as she climbed the rungs up to her stall and closed the door behind her.
“Is it really going to be that terrible for her?” I asked, coming up beside Ayrula.
“Yes,” she said. “Mother warned her, I warned her, Edwum warned her. She will claim that she did not know you were a mage, and that might be true, but it will be a lesson for her. We never know who we face until it’s too late. Mother will drive that lesson into her hard, and when the punishment has ended Orin will, perhaps, be less inclined to cause trouble. At least until she has thought it through.”
I glanced down at the ifrit lying in Ayrula’s arms.
“Will Yunta be all right?” I asked, hearing the quiver in my own voice.
Ayrula lifted the tiny ifrit up for me to see.
Ifrits were odd creatures, made of shadows that writhed just under the surface of their translucent skin. They had jet-black horns that jutted out of their heads and sharp white teeth. Everything else, as far as I could tell, was subject to change. While Ayrula’s servant was as tall as a man with muscular arms and crooked horns, Orin’s servant was small enough to be cradled like a child, with long thin arms and gangly legs. It was hard to see any distinct features on the creature's face, but the teeth were prominent.
Ayrula explained that the configuration of horns identified individual servants, though I suspected there was something in a servitor’s connection to the ifrits that gave them more insight. Yunta had two longer horns that curled back from his forehead and two tiny nubs on his chin. The left nub was now charred, half the size of the other, and an ugly black sludge had hardened over half of his face. But he appeared to be sleeping soundly in her arms.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered to him, gently touching one of his unmarred horns. “I didn’t know.”
“That you could bring fire?” Ayrula asked.
I looked up at her. She was watching me thoughtfully, but I saw no trace of judgment in her face, just curiosity.
“I knew I couldn’t be burned, but I did not know I could bring the fire from nothing.”
Ayrula’s eyes widened. “You can’t be burned?”
“I can’t be burned,” I said. The admission felt awkward, making the reality far more real than it had been. “My father pushed me into my mother’s funeral pyre and my clothes burned around me, but I was untouched.”
“I’ve heard of mages calling fire before,” Ayrula said. “I’ve never heard of one that could not be burned. I suppose that would be helpful if you’re able to create flames.”
“It wasn’t very helpful to Mykul or Yunta.”
“They will both heal,” she said, laying a hand on my shoulder. “And Orin will have learned from this. And you will, as well.”
“You have more confidence in me than I do right now.”
“You’ve had your first taste of betrayal,” Ayrula said in a low voice. “It won’t be your last, Sybel. Remember that, especially if you live among the wizards in Kemoor. You’ll meet others like me. Servitors and their ifrits. They won’t all be as nice as I am.”
She glanced around, chewing her lip as if trying to decide what to say.
“When you go to Kemoor,” she said finally, “they will know you are a mage. They will know you’re there to study magic. But that is all they will know. Choose whom to tell your secrets to. Sometimes the best defense you can have is not letting others know what you can do, or your full potential. If it comes to a fight, especially with a servitor, you don’t want them to know what you’re capable of.”
“You think I’ll be in danger at the wizard’s school?”
She let go, turning to focus on the fire again.
“There are a great many people in this world, Sybel. Some are kind and generous like you. A great many of them are just trying to pass through this life and get to the next with the least amount of trouble. But there are a number of them that are vying for power, wealth, or prestige. Any one of those things can cause them to do awful things to get to that point. Those who seek all three tend to congregate in places like the collegium. A place filled with power and wealth. Filled with knowledge. And that is one thing that all people seeking wealth and power have in common. They need that knowledge.”
“That’s why the servitors are there?”
“The servitors need knowledge more than anything else. It’s how they ply their trade. The more you know about a person, the easier it is to use them, blackmail them, or kill them.”
“How can you stand to be one of them, Ayrula? You’re so kindhearted, and I’ve watched you nurse people back to health. Even the care you give your sister.”
“You ask that as though I had a choice. Servitors are no more in control of their ability than you are with your fire.”
I thought on that. My life had been simple before I learned I could step into the flames. But was the power always there? If I had found it earlier, while my mother was alive, would things be different? Surely, it was different now, and I had very little choice in any of it from the moment my father pushed me.
Was being a servitor a similar latent ability? Something born in you rather than learned?
“She isn’t my sister, you know,” Ayrula said. “Not by birth, at least.”
That explained the difference in their coloring, and their personality. They did have the same turned up nose, but it was the only similarity I’d seen between them.
“When someone is found to be a servitor, they are given to Madam Kemoor,” she said. “The madam is our mother from that day forward, and we are all sisters and brothers in her home. She determines where we go and what we do.”
“And she sent you to be a guard on a caravan? From what I’ve heard, that’s not a normal job for a servitor.”
“It’s usually reserved for those who survive to be old men and women. Servants never grow old, never die. But we, with our frail human bodies, eventually get old, and fighting becomes harder. So, they are given easier assignments that make merchants happy and keep trade flowing into the cities. It works for everyone involved.”
“Then how are you here?”
“I asked for it.”
There was more to her story than that. I could tell by the way she said it and how she avoided looking at me. She wasn’t ready to speak about it, and I would have to respect that. Secrets. So many secrets, and each one stabbed at me, wanting to be drawn out into the light. It was because of secrets that I was in my current troubles, and I couldn’t help feeling that there would be more of both in my future.
“If Kemoor is so dangerous, why were you so keen on seeing me get there?”
“I didn’t know you back then,” Ayrula said. “I didn’t really care where you went, or why, but it was my job as protector of the caravan to see that you got there. Besides, the faster you get away from Orin, the easier my job becomes.”
She said the last with a smile and a small laugh. A joke, from Ayrula? Even though the truth of it stung a bit, I had to gi
ggle back at her. I did seem to send Orin into a rage far too easily.
“But the island isn’t all bad,” she continued. “There are some wonderful men and women there, people who can show you things you never dreamed of. But where there is power there is corruption. It’s like bugs to a candlelight: They are drawn in and trapped. Unfortunately, it’s usually those looking in that get burned. And there is more power and politics in Kemoor than anywhere else in the world.”
“Even more than the capital? Wouldn’t the various factions vying for power at the capital surpass a college?”
“No,” she said, adding another stick to the fire. “It doesn’t always work like that. Especially when those who move within the collegium have enough power to destroy the rest of the cities. They just choose not to use that power because they all agree that it wouldn’t benefit anyone, not even them, in the end.”
“You can’t rule over what’s been destroyed?” I ventured.
“Exactly. So, they let the political posturing of who owns and rules over what go on in the capital while everything of true importance happens in Kemoor.”
“True importance?”
She didn’t look up from the fire at first, her hands still as the flames leaped up before us.
“Pray to the dragons you never find out,” she whispered.
Doubts
I was at Mykul’s bedside as soon as Akwulf allowed me inside the next morning. The old mercenary looked more annoyed than pained, grumbling about being bedridden as Akwulf led me in.
“I told you he was fine,” Akwulf said. “Too ornery to know when it’s best to lie down.”
“Plenty of time for that when I’m dead,” Mykul rumbled. “It’s my hands that are burned, not my feet.”
“You’ll heal faster in here, so stop fussing and lie there.”
Akwulf shook his head as he turned away from Mykul, but there was a smile on his face. If the big mercenary was being ornery enough to cause the cook trouble, then he was well on his way to healing. But there was no need to tell him that.
“Maybe you can talk some sense into him, Sybel,” Akwulf said, quickly sliding a grimace into place to jab a finger in his direction. “But keep him in that bed.”
“Yes, sir,” I said with a half bow.
Then Akwulf disappeared out the tent flap, leaving it closed behind him.
“Sybel, have you spoken to Edwum? The caravan should have been moving by now. It’s midmorning.”
I stepped closer to Mykul, catching sight of his bandaged hands. The thick wrappings had been changed recently, their gauzy threads clean and well ordered. With how much he was thrashing around in the bed, I doubted they would stay that way.
“Edwum wants to give you a day to heal and get as much flesh back on your hands as possible before we move you.”
I stifled the sigh that threatened to come out at those words. As much as I trusted Akwulf and Edwum that Mykul would heal, ultimately it didn’t matter how much flesh grew back on Mykul’s arms. I could see the puckered skin on his forearms where the bandages were not wrapped. I could feel the heat radiating up from his body. I caused it, and the shame burned almost as deep as the fire.
The only comfort I had was Orin. I hadn’t seen her since the incident, and I didn’t think she would be allowed out of the carriage until we reached Ludwald.
“I’m fine,” he said, trying to swing his legs out of the bed.
“You are not fine,” I said, pushing him back onto the bedding. “You were burned. Severely. You need to at least give them a day to heal so that nothing goes wrong. I would feel horrible if you couldn’t go back to what you love after this.”
He finally quit struggling and sat back in the bed, hands still. His eyes followed me as I tucked him back under the blankets and settled everything around him for easy reach.
“You should stop this,” Mykul said.
“Stop what? Caring for you? Not likely.”
“Being so hard on yourself.”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked, shrinking down into the chair a little farther.
He chuckled, the rich warmth of his laugh rippling over me. I tried not to notice the twinge of pain when he did so, but it was there.
“You’re a lot of things, Sybel, but you don’t have a malicious bone in your body. This was an accident,” he said, gesturing down to his charred flesh. “You couldn’t have known Orin would be trying that, and you had no control of your reaction. In fact, I take it as a compliment.”
“A compliment? I burned you, Mykul. How is that a compliment?”
“You avoided Orin’s creature superbly. Fancy footwork, Sybel. It might keep you alive in Kemoor. I think it just proves I’m a good teacher.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he said, holding up a hand. “You defended yourself in the only way you knew how. You didn’t know what that ifrit was going to do to you, and you certainly had good reason to believe Orin had nothing pleasant in mind. And from what I saw, you could have killed the servant easily. Instead you acted with restraint, and you didn’t do any permanent harm to anyone.”
“Not even the scars?”
He laughed again, longer and louder than before.
“You should have seen me before the burns,” he finally said when he’d gotten the laughter under control. “I think these might be an improvement over some of the others I had. You aren’t a soldier for half your life without acquiring a few dozen scars.”
“But your hands,” I whispered.
He reached out, taking my hand in his, and gave me a squeeze. His hand still felt strong, his grip firm beneath the gauze wraps.
“I will hold a sword again,” he said. “I will fight. Don’t worry about me, Sybel. I’ll be fine soon enough.”
I gave him a small smile. I couldn’t help the guilt I felt, and perhaps it would never go away. I didn’t think it should go away. But at least I knew I hadn’t done any permanent damage. And he was right: I had been able to restrain the fire inside me. When it wanted to burn the world to the ground, I had pulled it back in. Maybe I could be a mage and use the fire—not submit to it.
“Is that what’s taking you to the mages? The fire?”
I nodded, still able to feel the flames in the pit of my stomach, a low grumble ready to leap out if needed. They hadn’t left since Orin’s attack, but they were quiet enough to ignore. Most of the time, at least.
“I’ve heard of a few fire mages out there,” Mykul said. “They do well as mercenaries, or generals in armies if they’re strong enough.”
“I don’t really think I’m suited for military service.”
He laughed, a long, uproarious cackle that made him grip his stomach with a groan. I couldn’t help hovering over him, trying to keep him still, but he waved me off, still chuckling.
“No, you’re no good on a battlefield, girl. You just don’t have the teeth for that sort of thing.”
He leaned back in the bed, still chuckling to himself. I couldn’t help but smile a bit at him, happy to see that he could laugh after being hurt.
“But,” he said, jabbing a bandaged hand in my direction, “there are more things in life for men and women in the military than hurting others. You remember that; someday it might come in handy.”
“Like what?”
“Like protecting people, keeping the peace, and helping those who can’t help themselves. Military life isn’t for everyone, though. You need discipline, and respect for authority that most people don’t have.”
“Like you?”
He laughed again. “Like me. Merc’s don’t have to deal with the authority problems, but we can still be a help and a protection to others. Or…” He trailed off, his eyes going to the open doorway. “Or they’re more like Orin,” he said in a quieter voice.
I could see how someone like Orin, bloodthirsty and headstrong, wouldn’t work well in a military situation, either. But as a mercenary she would have an advantage.
“You’re a sweet girl, Syb
el,” Mykul said. “I have a feeling that life is going to make you a little harder for the wear, but I hope you keep that sweetness about you. It would be a shame to lose it.”
“I won’t,” I assured him. “Not without a fight.”
Ludwald
With Orin locked in her wagon, the road became quieter. Ayrula let me know of Yunta’s progress to recovery, but no one save Ayrula was allowed to go inside. Orin, for her part, did as she had been told and stayed inside, rarely even opening the door.
Mykul didn’t let Akwulf keep him in bed very long. Within the week, he was sitting by the fire, sharing stories and boasting with the rest of them. His hands were healing, and he could hold his cup and eat without trouble. But he couldn’t hold a sword, yet, on threat of Akwulf putting him right back in the bed till we reached Ludwald.
Akwulf insisted that the mages in the city would be able to finish the healing, but I wasn’t so sure. Then again, I had to remind myself that I had no experience with magic, so I should defer to those who had more experience even if my heart couldn't seem to accept it. Akwulf had been able to do a great deal to help Mykul, and he only had a passing knowledge of healing medicine. Surely, the mages would know much more.
The days grew colder. I woke to a layer of frost glowing on the golden fields of grass. It quickly melted while Akwulf and I worked on making breakfast for the caravan, but it took longer to melt each morning.
Eventually, Edwum let Orin out of her wagon with strict instructions not to interfere with me or she would be banished permanently. Even then, she rarely emerged, slinking about camp for brief moments before returning. She had become a shadow of the girl I’d met on the road, subdued by the knowledge that punishment was soon at hand. She often sat by the fire at night when she didn’t see me, quietly listening to the stories with Yunta held in her lap.