A Question of Power (The Fire Chronicles Book 2)

by Susi Wright

  Xandor regarded his companion with envious admiration, wishing he had been more studious in his lessons in the mental arts, but he was grateful for the options presented by Sumar’s talents. He could recognise the wisdom there. Besides that, he felt strangely possessive about being the one to speak to the girl.

  With a respectful nod, he agreed. “It is decided, then!” Both warriors came to their feet simultaneously and headed for the backstreets of Tuli to watch and wait for their opportunity to talk to the girl, near the infamous brothel from Skrim’s tale.

  Xandor was surprised and pleased to discover that his sense as to the location of the establishment corresponded with Sumar’s; they were led to a two-storey building with a large oak door, decorated across the top by a row of colourful bunting and oil lights. All manner of roughnecks and reivers busied its brightly lit doorway, even at this hour.

  Hiding in the shadows of an empty shop porch in a dark alley nearby, they settled in, backs against the old door. In preparation for what could be a long wait, they pulled their cloaks tightly around them in the chilly pre-dawn mist and kept their eyes on the brothel.

  CHAPTER 8

  Serafina

  The young girl regarded her reflection disinterestedly in the polished crystal mirror. Frowning, she performed the ritual of adding the finishing touches of rouge and lip-colour. The glowing golden gaze of the image that stared back – so different from the eyes of anyone else she had ever met – as always, seemed like a stranger to her, even after a lifetime of looking at it. With inexplicable irritation, tonight more than any other, she sighed heavily as she dragged the brush forcefully through the cascade of silver hair that fell to her waist, fixing it to one side with a sapphire blue gemstone ornament.

  Ever since her arrival here at five years old – an event she remembered vividly – when she was taken from her nurse and adopted by Madam Cerise, all her ‘aunties’ who lived in this house had told her many times how beautiful she was. Then, she had thought this place was so much better than the life she had with those bad men who frequently beat her nurse to within an inch of her life. She had loved that wet-nurse for her caring ways, raising her from a babe and giving her the name, Serafina, because of her fiery eyes; she always worried what happened to her, after those men took her away at night. The nurse, Nan, had lost her own baby during those difficult travels.

  Serafina had cried at first, frightened for herself in a new place, and again for her poor nurse who had always suffered in the clutches of those men. She remembered hearing clearly the awful sounds of the merciless beatings Nan received every night in the other tent, but at the time, did not really understand all the poor unfortunate woman endured at their hands. The worst day in those memories had been the morning Nan did not come to help her dress, nor any day after that. Even at five years of age, Serafina knew people could die from beatings. She had once seen those awful men beat an old man to make him tell them where he hid his gold. After he told them, they smashed his head with a rock and threw him down the well. He was definitely dead. She had been heartbroken to think of Nan with her body broken like that, never able to cuddle up to her again. She cried for days, despite the men threatening to kill her too if she did not stop her wailing.

  Not long after that, she remembered, was the day she’d met the owner of this house, a fat balding man, known only as ‘Mister’ who had handed over a large bag of silver coins to the men and sent them on their way. She’d felt lucky then, to be rid of them. She hated those men. Later, when she’d met Madame Cerise, she liked her immediately. Madame reminded Serafina, in some strange way, of Nan, big-busted and motherly, though Madame Cerise was a little broader of girth, wore a lot of face-paint and much finer, frilly clothes

  She was shown to a small room, introduced to Mari, her room-mate, a kindly girl of sixteen who instantly assumed the role of big sister and tucked her into the first comfortable bed she had ever known. As she lay waiting to fall asleep, curiosity drove her to use her excellent sense of hearing to listen to what was being said in the next room. ‘Mister’ and Madame Cerise were obviously discussing her, referring to her as ‘the new girl’. ‘Mister’ said, “She will be a beauty. . .that one!”

  “She has very strange eyes. . .no? Do you think she could be a witchling?” asked Madame Cerise.

  “I hope not. . .the slavers denied she had ever tried magic on them in five years. If you can believe them, that is! She is very young. You can train her. She will be worth a fortune to us in a little while! Meantime, she can serve food to the other girls and do the laundry. If she becomes. . .troublesome. . .” He trailed off, but Madame Cerise knew all too well what he meant.

  Serafina overlooked the implied threat and simply wondered what magic was.

  From that night on, everyone who lived in the many-roomed house, all women and girls, were very kind to her. She was well-fed, taught how to dress and put on face-paint. Mari became her first friend. At first, it seemed different to sleep like her new friend, only two hours of the night and up until midday the next morning, but Serafina soon got used to it. The raiders had always turned them from their bedrolls into the cold before first light, so Nan could make them food before they set out on the road at dawn, looking for things to steal or people to rob. She had seen them kill people. She was constantly afraid. At least here she felt safe, even if sometimes she woke before dawn and Mari was still not tucked up in bed. For a long time, she wondered where her friend went at those times.

  When she turned thirteen, she found out.

  The last two nights, in the early hours as she tried to fall sleep, she’d clearly heard the discussion from the parlour, between Madame Cerise and Mister. Her name was mentioned, then Mister saying it was time for her to work, that they had waited long enough. Madame had pleaded and cajoled the first night and the discussion had ended peacefully when she heard them both leave the parlour and go to the room they shared at the end of the long hallway. Madame was giggling as they went. It seemed she had convinced Mister to listen to her. But, the second night’s talk ended very differently. It all started as the previous night. Voices were raised and a very heated debate followed, in which Madame Cerise seemed to be trying again to convince Mister not to take Serafina to the other house just yet, that she was still a little young for customers, that she needed more preparation.

  Serafina liked the woman who had assumed a motherly role towards her. ‘Madame’ had shown nothing but kindness. She felt genuine affection from the woman, who had patiently taught her how to cook for the large household, serve food to all the girls, clean the rooms and do the laundry. It had been very hard work. However, as a reward, she had a comfortable bed, learned how to dress up in frilly silk gowns and jewellery and put on colourful face-paint. That part was such fun. She had gone to bed after each midnight, having folded piles of clean sheets, very tired but happy and safe.

  This particular night, she had a strange and dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach that things were about to change.

  She had never liked Mister, who always looked at her in a most unsettling way that she could not understand. Sneaky. Greedy. Dangerous, like the raiders. And perhaps Madame Cerise had really been protecting her all that time, since he had never hurt her though she suspected he could. During the course of the exchange, which quickly blew up into shouting, it became clear that Madame Cerise’s influence had well-defined limits, when Serafina heard several loud slaps, a whimper, then silence from the next room. From her early childhood with the raiders, she recognised poor Madame Cerise had taken a beating. So, it seemed, Mister had won the argument and Serafina guessed she would indeed be going to the other house soon.

  Something told her, it was no where near as nice as this house!

  That seemed so long ago. Her initiation into her new working life in the brothel had been stark and frightening, despite inhaling some of the pungent smoke from a bubbling glass contraption in the parlour at Madame Cerise’s urging. “It will make it easier, my dear
!” had been the explanation. Serafina had merely felt nauseous.

  Her first customer, an ugly old fat man with rolls of blubber around his midriff, was anything but kind. The experience had been anything but easy.

  Madame Cerise hovered around afterwards, as Serafina cried, bathing her and tutoring her in her new duties, almost apologetic, but it did little to soothe her injured young sensibilities.

  For the next long years this way of life was all she knew. At first it was horrific, all of it unpleasant and painful, but after a while she developed her unique way of coping and she almost accepted her lot. Since she was never allowed to leave the house without her guards, she often thought back to Mister’s mention when she first arrived, of having magic, imagining a special power that could transport her to another place far away. In her mind, she developed a way of doing that very thing every time a new customer was with her. All the men became faceless as well as nameless. She no longer saw them, but they saw her and were completely mesmerised.

  After a while, she became the most popular girl in the house. Customers would pay Mister a small fortune to be with her. Consequently, Mister showered her with gifts and told her she was his favourite. She had begun to feel powerful quite some time ago. Madame and Mari taught her the tricks of the trade, and Mari remained her best and only friend when all the other girls became jealous of her success. Until one day, Mari did not come back to their room to sleep and she never saw her again. In her sadness, and from what she realised had happened to Nan, she knew one of the cruel ones had taken her friend’s life, in the throes of perverse enjoyment. She’d survived her share of those customers, until she had found her ‘escape’. Her own trick was the best of all, far better than Madame’s smoke, and if it was not magic, it was certainly close!

  As she stared at her reflection, she knew her power somehow lay in those strange golden eyes. . .and in her mind. At the beginning, she could simply take her mind away and be in another place while the men used her body; then as she became more experienced, she could just stare at them, wishing they would hurry. . .and it seemed to work, with very little physical effort on her part, leaving the customer confused but very happy to tell friends of her prowess. With that, an increasing stream of men with enough money clamoured for her attentions. Nowadays, if she focused on a man through the eyes, she could send him into fits of ecstasy, overwhelmed by desire, finishing him in minutes or even seconds and causing him to black-out. She was careful to keep him unconscious for as long as possible, leaving herself free to sleep or rest for the remainder of the allotted time. The man would wake, disorientated, believing he had experienced the best lay of his life. She had perfected this art so that now she could completely avoid physical contact, with the man completely unaware of the facts. Yes. She had power. At first, she had revelled in it. For a while, she’d even believed there was such a thing as magic.

  Over time, nagging questions as to her true nature wormed its way into her mind. She felt so different to everyone around her. Is this power. . . real magic? Am I a witch after all? Why do I always feel like a stranger to myself? The early romantic idea of magic seemed to have gradually worn off. Now with every use of those glowing stranger’s eyes, she felt colder and colder. Sick. As if something inside her was slowly dying. The power felt. . .empty.

  Tonight, as she prepared herself for the first customer of the night, she felt particularly restless as if something new hovered over her, outside of her own mind but connected. An exciting presence. Something different to anything she had ever felt in real life. Beautiful but just out of reach. This place was named the Isle of Angels. If it was, she was sure she had never met any. But how often she had imagined a real angel would come and fly away with her, far away from this place – how she wished it were true! She clung to that feeling, as she stood to answer the knock of yet another faceless one on whom she could use her power, though the thrill of it was gone. Today she felt more disturbed than ever, a little spiteful. She hated them all.

  CHAPTER 9

  Luck or Design

  The two Gaians waited patiently in the shadows. Watching the entrance of the brothel for several cold hours, both sensed they were close to the object of their search. Xandor was experiencing this perceptive connection for the first time in his life and it surprised him, strong and disorientating as it was for all young initiates to Perception. He felt elated. Excited. Anxious. His blood thrilled for action. Conversely, he was confused and embarrassed because he also felt a secret tinge of physical desire for a girl he had never even met. He was fairly sure Sumar would sense it.

  Sumar, the elder by ten years, had been aware since he was fifteen. Well-versed in the art of perception, he easily detected the turmoil of emotions in his companion. He understood far better the nature of this mission, than his comrade. It would involve severe tests on all levels, of that there was no doubt. Desire would be one of those challenges: it could be a curse. . .or a blessing.

  He knew the feeling. The first unruly glimmerings of pure Perception were disturbing, especially if the warrior was lucky enough to meet his soul-mate. That time had come for him when he was barely eighteen. That had been ten years ago. Mala, his match, had been the same age, from a very small clan that had joined with his after fleeing civil war in another land. He had instantly loved her to distraction, and her, him. Both had been so young and completely unable to resist the powerful emotion of desire, intensified as it was with the offerings of the mystical Link. They had three wonderful days of complete union, finding every opportunity to be together, even though there was some censure from both clans for their unashamed abandon. The happiest days of his life! Those were very troubled and unpredictable times and even the most perceptive Gaians found it difficult to plan a course of action. Both clans had been on the move for weeks trying to sense a safe place to camp, no time for ceremony or fuss, and when it came down to it, no one had wanted to deny the young lovers a little happiness. Knowing they were pledged to each other, everyone kindly turned a blind eye to their cavorting.

  In what seemed like no time at all, Sumar had to leave to help several small groups of Gaians by sending them back to a chosen place, as safe as anywhere could be. Then while there had been a brief lull in the attacks, he had himself returned to the camp in that safe, hidden valley and taken her as his bride. They had been wedded a mere two weeks, when he had been called away yet again, to a skirmish in a neighbouring province, to help another small clan that already lost most of its men. With only two warriors left behind to guard the valley camp, very little could be done when the two giant river reptiles snatched the women as they bathed in the stream. Mala was lost to him then. It was a deep and cruel blow. He carried the scars in his heart even now. Recalling her death brought fresh pain knifing through him, as if it was only yesterday; on these occasions, he had doubts that time was the healer some believed it to be. The devastation of loss seemed to haunt him ever since that fateful day. Every relative and friend lost, and there was a constant stream of deaths mostly at the hands of mercenaries and snipers, increased the torture day by day. So many he could not save! Until one morning, sick and tired of the struggle, both he and his aunt, Nerisse, had a simultaneous notion: they should abandon those desperate conditions, take what was left of the clan and head straight across the unpredictable Southern Sea to Siva.

  The threat of every possible peril in crossing that vast expanse of open sea, paled in comparison to the pull of their guiding sense and their desperation to survive. Their decision had proven correct when they had met Churian and their new brothers, and learned of the Alliance.

  Sumar broke from his reflections, feeling the need to offer Xandor some advice. “My Brother, I know it will be difficult – sometimes it will seem impossible, but you must keep your focus, as Churian said. And I will do everything in my power to help you. That is why I am here!”

  Xandor met his companion’s empathetic gaze and felt some of his wildly conflicting emotions settle to a steady thrum.
He was glad to have Sumar by his side.

  After another hour of observing the comings and goings across the street, Sumar spoke. “It is certain she will be working now and sleeping half the day tomorrow. There is no chance she would leave that place until at least early afternoon. I suggest we go search for something to eat and come back before midday.” He deferred the final decision to Xandor.

  “I agree, but the pull is so strong, it is difficult to let go, even for a moment!” Xandor looked at his friend with an unsettled sigh.

  “Treat it like an exercise, my friend, it will become easier!” Sumar’s tone was kind.

  “Thank you, brother.” Xandor rose from his crouch in the dark shop doorway. He grinned.“I do find I am painfully hungry!”

  “What shall it be then?” Sumar came to his feet with a brilliant smile. “Seabird or fish? We can make a fire a on the beach in the next cove!”

  “I say fish!” Xandor began to feel enthusiastic for the fun in diving for that quarry. It was something he had seldom experienced, living most of his life away from the coast. He remembered fondly, the few times he had accompanied his father to the northern lakes of Baram for swimming practice and they had hunted labis and fish together, before his father’s untimely death by Fire.

  The two moved away from the busy street before taking to the air; they headed for the beach, as the sun started to appear over the headland. They would avoid notice in flight among the array of large and small seabirds forming a throng in the air over the beach and the water, all beginning early morning forays for food in the cool dawn. Along the beach and above the cliffs at the end of the bay, seabirds of many species vied for the bounty brought by the incoming tide. Four or five giant ocean ruwaks, with a wingspan easily the measure of two men, dwarfed the flock of blue gulls around them, circling high above to spot their prey from the air before diving to catch it; the long-legged sea cranes that had already landed stood in the breakers stabbing fish with their spear-like bills.