Wings of Flame

by Nancy Springer

  The priest slipped around Kyrem, descended the steps of the dais from the throne. Only then could he free his gaze and turn his glittering eyes on Auron.

  “My white-headed horse,” he said.

  “It belonged to me,” said Auron imperturbably. “Insofar as such a steed can belong to anyone.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Dead on Kimiel.”

  “You took it to its death then. Rode it—” Hot storm of fury was rising in Nasr Yamut. Kyrem checked it with a word.

  “Priest.”

  Nasr Yamut’s eyes turned at once, again held by his, although they burned with hatred.

  “What are your conditions to walk out yonder door and tell your followers to disperse?”

  “One you have named already,” Nasr Yamut said, his voice a snake hiss of passion. “I am a priest. I am a fire-master still. You shall not slay me or defrock me or demote me or attempt to do so.”

  “Done,” said Kyrem indifferently, sealing the bargain with his word.

  “You shall abide by the Vashtin customs of coronation.”

  “Which are?”

  “The taking of a bride. The symbolic horse-mating, for fertility. The sacrificial fire to Suth, at the grove. The immolation of the sacrificial horse.”

  Nothing had been said of buskins or the constraints of custom, and Kyrem determined to oppose them at a later time. “Done,” he said.

  “And for the sacrificial horse, since my own kingmaker has been destroyed”—Nasr Yamut did not bother to dim the light of malice and triumph in his eyes—“I will have that roan of yours, that Omber, and none other.”

  Kyrem stood for a moment speechless with anger. “By your own standards he is unsuitable!” he shouted at last. “Not pied, splotched, ear-clipped, uncouth—”

  “None other,” said Nasr Yamut implacably.

  “Great Suth,” Kyrem breathed.

  “I will have eyes of lapis made for his head,” the priest added with ghoulish zest. “For when we hang it above the charts with the rest.”

  This man could be bested, Kyrem knew he could. He, prince of Deva, had the power to make the priest crawl, and of the forces ranged in the streets, his was far the greater. But the thought of such a conflict in sunlit Avedon sickened him. One horse’s life, against those of many hapless men.…

  “I gave Omber away to a friend once,” he muttered wildly to himself. “What, am I to do as much for an enemy now?”

  Nasr Yamut grinned, awaiting his answer. His malice would be satisfied whichever course Kyrem chose. Auron stood silently by, and Kyrem would not look at him. He had to make this pact entirely on his own.

  “Done,” he said tightly to the priest. “Now put off those robes and go.” And Nasr Yamut departed, gloating.

  A moment later Kyrem strode out on the portico, raised one clenched hand high in somber gesture of victory. The crowd below cheered, cheered again and broke up into families and groups of revelers. The priests headed back toward their stable in a knot of ceremonial colors, their master walking bright yellow among them. Auron came out quietly to stand at Kyrem’s side, looking around at white towers and brilliant turquoise sky.

  “A heavy price was paid, I know,” he said. “But unless I am much mistaken, the curse of war is off the land.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Storm spun out of the stardark over the holy mountain. Winter thunder flings kingdoms asunder, so the adage ran. To the folk in the lowlands and on the mountain flanks it was a fearsome storm, white flare of lightning and the terrible rumble of thunder, hooves of the black horse of death, death itself galloping in the sky, though far away—thankfully, far away. They huddled in their huts just the same. But the girl-creature of the wilds, exposed and naked on a rocky mountainside, did not seek shelter. Storm meant nothing to her, though she glanced up once and saw the thunder-steed plainly enough, black equine presence in the clouds directly over her. Lightning only served to illuminate her way. She crawled on, continuing her slow journey.

  The roar of thunder was not clamor of hooves only. It was voice, it had wordless meaning, like the chatter of birds, like the cry of the simurgh—

  Shuntali! Shuntali! You are dead. You do not exist.

  Meaningless. But the merest shred of memory stirred. She hissed softly at it. Hissing, she stopped, sat back on her haunches and stared upward into the vortex of the storm.

  There, at the core. It was not the thunder-steed only, but—huge, growing, the immense melantha-black equine head, gleam of rolling eyes, bared teeth, white flare of—wings, wings of white flame, and the glint of a jewel black as jet. And on the lifted forelegs, the claws, bone-white talons as of a huge bird. Closer, closer, as though they would pierce—

  Devilish claws. It was the demon, the dark Suth himself.

  The devil take you and leave his clawmark in you and bend all your bones.

  That wordless voice. It was only a small part of the vastness of the black bird-stallion, thunder of those blazing wings, roar out of the black abyss of night. She was merely a single small creature on the vastness of the Mare Mother’s sorrel side. But she felt its focus on her.

  Shuntali! Shuntali! You are dead.

  She hissed again, and the hiss was her reply. “Why, then you can no longer kill me. Go away.”

  My curse on you. I have made you.

  “Your curses have done their worst.”

  I have made you, I say. I am powerful; I am with the numina now. I deserve your worship.

  “Yaa.” She spat. “I also am powerful. I also am with the numina. I worship no one.”

  It was immense, the black terror steed; it was as big as the stardark sky. Corpse-white deathflame wings thundered over her; bone-white claws drove at her. So close that she could see the sheen of black feathers, black scaly legs. Feathered black steed with the clawed black legs of a vulture.… One taloned foot would be sufficient to pick her up and pierce her to the core. She did not care. Nothing could be done to her that had not been done already, no pain inflicted that she did not already suffer. But she was annoyed. A claw the size of a Devan saber slashed past her hunched shoulder—

  She opened her mouth and spoke aloud, human words. “Go away,” she said peevishly.

  And at once all fell to silence. She looked up; the storm was gone, the sky clear and liquid, the stars powdered across it like pollen of the melantha floating in the dark river of time.

  She crawled off toward Avedon, and if she felt triumph, no one knew it.

  “I don’t know what to do,” said the mother.

  The Devan noblewoman listened patiently, hiding her annoyance, though she was anxious to be on her way to Avedon. This was her most valued seamstress and needlewoman, and as often happened, such a servant became nearly a friend. It would not do for her to be unhappy; the work would suffer.

  “She moves through her tasks, but she scarcely speaks any more, ever, and she scarcely seems to know me. She tells me to go away. I have pleaded with her.…” The woman fell silent, trying to control sobs.

  Trouble with her daughter. The lady knew how daughters could be troublesome. “Did something happen to change her?” the noblewoman asked.

  “Nothing! At least nothing that I know of, and I know of almost everything that concerns her.… I cannot understand it. At first she seemed dreamy, as they often are at that age, and I thought little of it. Then it was as though she were caught in a nightmare, possessed by something, bewitched. She would scarcely move from her bed. I was so frightened, and I could not help her. Now she seems a little better in a way. She does her work, but she does not speak, and it has been so long. I am so worried about her.…” The mother sobbed again.

  The Devan noblewoman had seen the girl and did not think her bewitched, and she was growing bored with her servant’s sniveling. Happily she thought of a solution that suited her own devices.

  “Bring the little wench along with us,” she said, “when we go to the Choosing.”

  “The Choosing?”
The mother raised wet eyes, blinked.

  “Have you not heard what I was saying? All these new garments that have to be made, that is what they are for.”

  “I was not paying attention,” the needlewoman said humbly. “I have been so troubled.”

  “Well, I want you to come with us, and bring your daughter too. That way we can have an earlier start and work while on the road. Kyrillos has made a son of his the king of Vashti, it seems, and the prince must choose a bride at the festival of the winter solstice. There is to be a great Choosing for him, at Avedon, with girls of Deva and Vashti alike—any maiden may present herself. Perhaps the change and the excitement of the journey will help your daughter. Let her walk before him herself! If by strangest chance he should choose her, at least she will be well taken care of.”

  Though actually, the lady was thinking, this prince was sure to choose one of her own daughters, Devan noble maidens whom he had known from his youth. She would adorn them gloriously to draw his eye to them, and she would make certain that the needlewoman had no time to so bedeck her own daughter. The wench was not unattractive. But then, there would be many pretty maids in attendance.

  “So let us get to work on these clothes, shall we?” she said briskly.

  The needlewoman was working her mouth in consternation. “But my daughter is only fourteen years of age,” she managed to say at last.

  “As long as she is of childbearing years, the younger the better, say I.”

  “Well,” the woman murmured, moving toward the worktable, “perhaps it will be an opportunity for her after all. We are so—” She stopped short of saying they were poor. “Or perhaps,” she added, “she will be the better for the change.”

  “I am sure she will be,” the lady said kindly. “Now, about these headpieces—”

  “Thank you for thinking of us, my lady,” said the needlewoman, because she knew such thanks were expected.

  “You are quite welcome. The headpieces are to be all in satin stitch.”

  The Choosing took place at the river meadow between Avedon and the sacred grove. Devans came in throngs, their colorful tents festive under cloudless skies—even the winters were mild in the lowlands—and Kyrillos and all of Kyrem’s brothers came, and in spite of everyone’s fears, the gathering turned into a celebration. Factions vied to outdo one another only in hospitality. Vashtins, invited to the Devan encampment, feasted on whole spiced lamb roasted in pits and admired the mettlesome horses. Devans walked in delight amid the tiles and mosaics of Avedon. Young women of both kingdoms strolled about heavily veiled so as not to reveal themselves before the fateful day. And on that day, not the traditional day for nuptials, but still a day marked as auspicious by the sun and moon, planets and stars—on that day Kyrem put on a tall red cap and took his place on a gaily draped platform, settling himself to choose his bride.

  “Let the procession begin,” Nasr Yamut intoned. Although his malice had not abated, he had been keeping it to himself, biding his time. In the deep of night his moment would come.

  Musicians struck up a stately melody on pipes, reeds and tambourines. Half dancing, splendidly arrayed, the girls promenaded before the prince. The occasion reminded Kyrem somewhat of the ceremonial procession of sacred steeds he had seen in Avedon, and the maidens’ draperies, he thought, were no more functional than those of the horses. Heavily embroidered skirts, tight-fitting bodices studded with gems. Glittering corsets that bared gilded nipples.… Some of the damsels wore only filmy scarflike panels that drifted as airily as cloud wisp, revealing the white young bodies within. Some wore even less, nothing but beads and gold bracelets and gold fillets in the hair. Somewhat abashed, Kyrem made himself look at the faces. Lips reddened with carmine, eyes glinting moistly between lids blackened with kohl, sometimes studded with tiny beads. No better. All sheen and shimmer, surface.… Strands of fresh-water pearls hanging down from delicate ears pierced all around the rim. More pearls looped through braided hair, dark or russet.… With a small shock Kyrem recognized Auron’s former footbearers and smiled grimly at a private jest; these girls were supposed to be virgins! He knew no more than that about any of them, for his would-be brides were not introduced by name or rank or provenance. Some few he recognized under towering headdresses; those were the daughters of Devan nobles. Marrying one of them might constitute a lesser risk than choosing a bride unknown to him, a pretty whore perhaps—though it would be the best of policy if he could settle on a Vashtin bride—

  One of the maidens had lost the rhythm of the graceful processional, had stopped where she was to stand staring at him, dark eyes wide. And all thoughts of policy vanished from Kyrem’s mind. He jumped up, heart pounding, vaulted off his platform and ran forward to touch her arm.

  “Seda?” he blurted, tears threatening. But it was not Seda; he knew that already. This girl was taller than Seda, fresh-faced and beautiful in a simple dress of white, and her long, dusky hair rippled down over her shoulders unadorned. All the hope and trust of a well-beloved child were in her look. She could not have been more than fourteen years old.

  “Seda’s twin.” Auron had come to stand by Kyrem’s side. “It has to be. The faces are identical.”

  “What is your name?” Kyrem asked the girl, trying to gentle his voice, trying to calm himself. For just an instant he had believed Seda to be alive, and renewed grief was piercing his heart.

  “Sula,” she whispered. The name meant sunlight, sunshine. This maiden was a Devan then.

  “And you had a twin who was cast away?”

  “I—don’t know of any!”

  That soft voice. This had to be. “I will take you as my bride,” Kyrem vowed.

  Kyrillos had come up in time to hear that, to hear something of a twin, and comprehend. “My son, you will be seeing ghosts all your life!” he protested. “Let the dead rest. Find a better reason to take a bride. This lass is too young.”

  “I can have no better reason,” Kyrem flared at his father. “Why should I wed a stranger? Sula, are you here of your own free will?”

  “I—yes,” she breathed, though in fact she had scarcely understood what was happening. But now he stood before her, the one whose face she had seen in her dreams. And he must have seen her before as well, it seemed, by the look in his eyes. She stood in a trance of holy awe. This thing had been settled in the stars; she was a handmaiden of Suth.

  “We will be married this very day, you know, this very hour. Will you have me? Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  He took her by the hand and led her to the feast.

  They ate little. The time was taken up by ceremony, the wine-pouring and symbolic sheaf of barley. Nasr Yamut hovered near, leering. Kyrem would scarcely speak before him. But as soon as he could, he took his bride again by her soft hand and led her away to the bower built on Atar-Vesth. In silence they climbed the steep slope between the flamelike trees until they reached the flattened blue-stone apex, the altar itself. There stood their bower, a leafy latticework of liana interwoven with grapevine and late starflowers. Under its fragrant roof lay bedding worthy of a royal couple, down-filled cushions piled high, silken coverlets.

  The two stood gazing wordlessly. Kyrem had never done this thing, for the doing of it would bind him for life with a mystic bond, such was his being and genius. He felt more than a little afraid. What would this deed spell for him, contentment or woe? But the doing itself, that was nothing. He had heard the talk of his brothers, had glimpsed a few indiscreet conjunctions between servants. And only lately Kyrillos had instructed him.

  “Go gently, take your time,” the Devan king had finished. “You will have all afternoon.”

  Kyrem turned a soft glance on his bride.

  “Do not fear that we might be disturbed,” he told her. “My father and my eleven brothers stand guard around the base of this promontory.”

  That moved her to a small smile. “You trust your brothers?” Sula inquired, and Kyrem laughed aloud with delight.

 
; “I trust my father’s command,” he said.

  His laughter thrilled her, awoke some echoing chord in her; she had heard such laughter once or more in a dream. Her dark eyes widened, and he saw it, sobered and drew her to him.

  At some small distance, out of sight of the bower and out of earshot, a girl-creature of the wild was hiding in a knot of grapevine, plucking the purple fruit. The tart grapes did not satisfy her hunger, for she had traveled far and with difficulty, and all the while an aching emptiness had pulled at her, an emptiness not of the belly, though the pangs of her belly were persistent enough. It was the emptiness of one in need of healing, wholeness, the same emptiness that had once pulled a shuntali turned Devan princess away from Avedon and that now tugged her back. Odd, the call seemed so strong. But then there was belly hunger too, and the smells of a feast on the air, almost unbearable. The girl-creature fidgeted in controlled anguish. She did not dare show herself in daylight. Come nightfall she would venture forth to find food and perhaps win her way through to Auron—she had almost forgotten that name, could scarcely envision the kindly face. Was it he who called her? Or something else that she sensed close, so close.…

  No more than half thinking, no more than half human, she lay down in the brown loam beneath grape leaves and dozed. Had she not been mostly asleep, she would have been terrified by the sensations that overcame her, but as it was, in her emptiness and exhaustion, she accepted them unquestioning. Tingling, tingling thrill, ecstasy and ache in one, lips moving, moist, lips, and then a soundless music rising to a great mountain peak of tension, hollow, and then—full, fulfillment, a supreme fullness and wholeness and oneness with—love, pure joy.

  The girl-creature opened her eyes dazedly. Someone had whispered her name. Sula. Her name, whispered so softly—but how could that be? There was no one with her, and she was nameless.

  She felt stronger, and irrationally happy. Standing, she found that she could stretch nearly erect, and in a surge of new energy, she scrambled up a tree to reach the high-climbing grapes. There she stayed for a while, and not far away a slumberer dreamed of her.