by Krista Rose
I chanced upon an unused journal in my mother’s belongings, plain and leather-bound, the crisp pages blank and beckoning to me like an old friend. I spent the rest of the long, uncomfortable weeks of my convalescence writing with the ragged quill and bottle of ink that Kryssa managed to acquire for me, recording my stories and dreams with a careful hand. I knew we would not be able to afford another journal, and so I made certain to keep my writing small and precise, taking up as much of each page as I could manage.
I carried it with me everywhere, the leather growing worn and soft beneath my fingers. Even when my arm was declared healed and I was once again allowed to return to my chores, I still brought it wherever I went. Lanya finally sewed a pocket to the inside of my tunic so that I could feel its weight against my chest as I worked, a reminder that one day my life would be different, better, more.
I suppose it was only a matter of time before Father noticed.
He came into the house one afternoon, in one of those rare moments when all the others were out. I was sitting at the table writing; the comforting scratch of my pen halted as I saw him.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his brows drawing together. “What is that?”
“Writing.” I swallowed, but I saw no rage in him, merely curiosity. “They’re stories, Father.”
He took the journal from me, frowning at the tiny print. “Stories? What kind of stories?”
“Just… stories.” I stared at him helplessly. “I write them.”
“Hmph.” He dismissed them, and me, tossing the journal over his shoulder. It smacked against the wall, and I struggled not to wince. “Useless. Get out of your fantasies, boy, and face the real world.”
My insides shook, but I managed to nod. “Yes, Father.”
He left. I rushed to where my book had fallen, gently smoothing the pages as tears filled my eyes, blurring the words I had labored over. I did not care what he said; my stories mattered. They gave me joy, and brought the others happiness.
My words were a light in the darkness, and I would not give them up.
KYLEE
4 Zyten 574A.F. - 21 Emberes 574A.F.
“Can’t you even clean yourself properly?” Apple asked, his whiskers twitching as he watched me brush Renic’s coat. Our elderly grey plowhorse stood, patient and amused, as the cat insulted him. “It must me so inconvenient to be a horse.”
“That’s what he has humans for,” I told the plump tabby, my voice echoing in the nearly empty barn. “To take care of him.”
“Humans.” Apple sniffed, his tail arching in disdain; cats, I had learned quickly, were always disdainful of humans. “You can’t even clean yourselves properly.”
“I’m clean,” I retorted, indignant. “I take baths.”
“Baths.” He shuddered, as if the word were some great horror. “So unsanitary. So much wet.”
“So you’ve said.” I rolled my eyes. “But humans like wet.” I grinned when he shivered again before stalking away, muttering.
“You shouldn’t tease him so much,” Renic chided me gently. He turned his head to stare at me with one soulful brown eye. “Cats know many things, and you might need their help one day.”
“Apple can barely help himself out of a tree.” I made a face. “I doubt he knows much of anything.”
“Never underestimate others for their appearance, Skylily.” He nudged me with his nose, and snuffled at my stomach until I giggled. “Judgment is beneath you.”
I sighed, and wrapped my arms around his neck. “I’ll try.”
From the corner of my eye, I saw my twin slowly withdraw his head from the barn. I had no doubt that he, and the others, thought I was mad- it was not the first time I had been caught talking to the animals. I didn’t care. Renic was my friend, tender-hearted and gentle, and listened to my secret thoughts and wishes, which I was never able to tell my siblings. I told him my fears and wept into his neck; he endured it all with unfailing compassion.
I would not give up his company for the guise of sanity.
I do not know when I developed my aptitude for animals, but I understood them long before I could hear the thoughts of my siblings, and I loved them in a way I was never able to imitate with people. Animals were simple: they kept no secrets, told no lies, and did no harm except in their own defense. I admired them, and longed to be one of them for much of my childhood.
That is not to say I liked all of the animals. I did not care much for chickens; their inane chatter was mostly about food and fear, and their constant clucking ground against my nerves. I did not like the pigs either, for they spoke only of food, and stared at me greedily, as if wondering what I might taste like. I was thankful my gift ended at animals; I had no desire to understand insects, nor spiders.
But I loved the birds, who sang of freedom and love and the glorious fight to survive. I loved the goats, who told me of the joy of climbing and leaping and the feeling of cold mountain air around them. I loved the cats, prickly and sarcastic though they were, and named them all, though it was rather pointless since they ignored me no matter what I called them.
Most of all, I loved Renic.
Renic made me want to be better, to become worthy of his unconditional love and loyalty, though my cynicism often undermined these intentions. His friendship was my only comfort in the dark early years of my life, and I thought we would be together forever, our future stretching out endlessly before us.
But Renic had been old when I was young, and finally there came a day, shortly after Alyxen’s arm had healed from breaking, when I journeyed out to the barn to care for him, and found him collapsed on his side in his stall, his eyes wide and staring. My grief and my screams brought the others at a run, and they found me collapsed beside him, weeping and inconsolable.
We buried Renic near the apple trees he had once loved, though digging a hole large enough took more than half a day from our chores. It took all six of us to drag Renic’s body from the barn to the grave; it would have been simpler to cut him into pieces, but the others thankfully did not mention it.
I carved his marker myself, carrying the largest stone I could manage to the head of his grave, and spent the rest of the afternoon with hammer and chisel, carefully spelling his name into eternal stone. When I finished, I curled onto the soft dirt above him and wept, my heart broken into jagged shards within my chest.
It was then that I learned a simple truth of life: everything, no matter how awful or how wonderful, everything eventually changed.
BRANNYN
26 Alune 575A.F.
“Gods curse this stupid rain,” I muttered, scowling into the fireplace at the sodden wood I was trying to light. “Burn, damn you!”
The others watched me with wide eyes as they huddled under their blankets. It had been raining for days, the freezing, miserable rain of early spring which soaked everything, including our woodpile.
The flint shook in my hands, my body trembling with both the chill and my frustration. I had been trying to get the fireplace lit for nearly half an hour, and a part of me wanted to rip the whole cursed thing from the wall and toss it into the Western Ocean.
I took a deep breath, and tried once more. It didn’t light. I swore, and tossed the flint as hard as I could against the far wall. The clatter it made was far from satisfactory, and I growled as I punched the floor. My anger was clawing at me; I hated being trapped inside, the walls closing in around me-
“Brannyn, the floor!”
Kryssa’s startled shout made me glance down, and I jerked back in alarm, away from the small pocket of flames on the floor beside me. She rushed over and stamped it out.
“Sorry, Kryssa.” I stared at the burns in dismay. “I don’t even know how that happened.”
Her brows drew together, and she knelt. She gingerly touched the scorch marks, and I realized they looked like the grooves of fingers. “Brannyn?”
My fingers.
I set my jaw. I didn’t know what it meant any more than she did, but I was willing to try
anything if it meant not using the cursed flint.
I bit my lip, concentrating, and held my hand over the wood in the fireplace. The others were silent; I think they held their breath as the long minutes dragged past.
I had been angry when I punched the floor, and I focused my frustrations on the wood in the fireplace, willing it to burn. Nothing happened. Sweat began to form on my brow in effort, and my head began to throb.
Finally, I felt it: a faint, cool sensation on the back of my neck, like the trickle of water on a hot summer’s day; a slow release of tension, like a coiled spring calmly unwound.
The fireplace exploded.
I was sent flying backward, colliding with the table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kryssa and Lanya dive for the younger children, shielding them from the sharp, jagged pieces of brick that shot across the room. I found myself prone on the floor, staring as blue flames roared in the blackened fireplace, consuming the wood in mere moments, leaving only ash and choking smoke.
The room was suddenly sweltering.
I sat up slowly, groaning at the ache in my shoulder where I had struck the table. The floor around me was speckled with embers. I did my best to stomp them out before they caused any more damage, for the first time thankful that our father was with the Crone.
Kryssa began to laugh.
I gaped at her in surprise, which only seemed to make her laugh harder. The others joined her, nearly helpless in their hilarity, and I stared at them in confusion. Lanya at last had pity on me, swallowing her laughter long enough to fetch a mirror.
I had no eyebrows. They had been completely burned off, leaving my face looking perpetually startled. Much of my hair was still smoldering, and black streaks lined my face.
I looked ridiculous.
I joined in the laughter, unable to help myself. We collapsed to the floor, laughing until tears ran down our faces.
“Perhaps you’re a Firemage,” Alyxen commented later, after we had cleaned up the mess I had made. Father had returned from the Crone’s, but he had not noticed the scorch marks in the fireplace nor my missing brows before he had lurched into his room and slammed the door.
“Don’t be stupid,” Kylee sneered. “Firemages only exist in stories.”
“You’re stupid. They’re real. All the Great Mages are.”
“Even Darkmages?”
“Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know. But I know Firemages are real.”
Kryssa glanced up from brushing Lanya’s hair, and held up a hand to end the argument. “Alyxen, why don’t you explain what Firemages are, then we can figure out if Brannyn is one.”
He stuck his tongue out at Kylee. “According to the stories, the first Great Mages came about during the Great War, when the Younger Gods overthrew the evil Elder Gods. The Gods needed champions-”
“Like us?” Reyce interrupted.
“No.” He paused, frowning, thinking it over. “Well, maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, the Goddess Naitre-”
“Why do the Gods even need champions?” Kylee demanded. “They’re Gods, aren’t they? What could we do that they can’t?”
Alyxen glared. “Can I finish the story?”
“I just think it’s stupid.”
“Quiet, Kylee.” Kryssa’s fingers darted through Lanya’s hair, braiding it. “It’s rude to interrupt. You may ask your questions at the end.”
“Sorry, Kryssa.”
“As I was saying, the Goddess Naitre went to all the Guardians of Ca’erdylla, and-”
“Guardians?” Reyce looked confused. “What Guardians?”
Alyxen growled.
“The Guardians are the beings created by Destiny before the Gods came to Ca’erdylla,” Kryssa explained patiently. “They protect the Elements that were used to create the world.”
“Like dragons,” Lanya added, “or golems.”
“Oh.”
“Hush now, dear heart. Let Alyxen finish his story.”
“So Naitre went to all the Guardians, and asked them for help with the Elder Gods, who were evil. The Guardians said they couldn’t help directly-”
“Why not?”
“Reyce.”
“Sorry, Kryssa.”
“The Guardians said they couldn’t help directly because it would destroy the world. Instead, they created the Great Mages, who had the same powers, but were human.”
The others all began to ask questions at once, until Kryssa raised a hand. “One at a time.”
Kylee sat up on her elbow. “Why couldn’t Elves become Great Mages? Or Dwarves?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “The book said it was because Men are the weakest of the races. Maybe they thought it would make us stronger.”
“Or turn us into bullies,” she muttered darkly.
Reyce raised his hand politely, waiting to be called on. “Did the Great Mages really defeat the Elder Gods?”
“Yes. That’s why we serve the Younger Gods now, because during the Great War the Mages overthrew the Elder Gods and stripped them of their powers.”
Lanya started to turn around, and Kryssa gripped her head to keep it still. “Are Great Mages really like Guardians? I mean, are Firemages just human dragons?”
“Not quite.” He frowned. “The Great Mages are human Elements, the ones the Guardians protect. Firemages can do a lot of incredible things, but they can’t fly so they’re not really dragons.”
“What can they do?” I asked finally, curious.
“They create fire. They never get burned. They can make firestorms. Oh, and they can see the future.”
“Really?”
“That’s what the book said.”
“Have you seen the future, Brannyn?” Reyce stared at me, wide-eyed.
“Sure I have,” I joked. “It said we were all going to be rich one day and live in the palace and eat cake with the Emperor.”
He made a face at me. “You’re making that up.”
“Of course he is,” Kylee snapped, exasperated. “We never get cake.”
Reyce stuck his tongue out at her.
“Do you think Brannyn is a Firemage, Kryssa?” Lanya asked quietly, turning to look up at our sister.
“Well, I don’t,” I answered for her. “It was just a stupid accident. Having a little fire magic doesn’t make me a Great Mage.” I pointed at my face. “I’m not even fireproof. I burned off my own eyebrows, for Gods’ sake.”
Lanya giggled.
“I think we’ll figure out what Brannyn is in time,” Kryssa said gently. “I also think it is time for bed.”
The others groaned, but tromped off dutifully to our bedroom. I lingered, watching as Kryssa stood and carefully banked the fire. The scorch marks on the stones seemed to mock me, and I swallowed, suddenly afraid.
“Kryssa?”
“Yes, dear heart?”
“I’m dangerous, aren’t I?”
She gazed at me, her emerald eyes dark and intense upon my face. “Aren’t we all?”
I had no answer, and so I went to bed.
We did not discuss my fire again, and, because I tried very hard not to use it, the others seemed to eventually forget about it. I could not forget- I could feel it, pulsing beneath my skin, a caged beast waiting for freedom. The blackened stones reminded me of its dangers, but my temper ran short and violent in those days, fueled by Father’s cruelty, and it was only a matter of time before the fire erupted again.
5 Davael 575A.F.
It started with an argument of course, perhaps six months after the incident with the fireplace. My eyebrows had at last grown back, though they still itched and irritated me. It had been an abnormally hot summer, and the fields browned and wilted beneath an unforgiving sun. I sweltered in the motionless air as Reyce and I started the second planting.
The others had retreated into the relative cool of the house, and I resented them for it as I struggled to push our cumbersome hand-plow through the reluctant soil, cursing the loss of Renic. Reyce trailed behind me, a bag of seed slung across
his chest, dropping handfuls of corn into the furrows before covering them with soft dirt. It was monotonous work, and he hated it, pestering me constantly for a turn at the plow.
“No,” I repeated, for what felt like the hundredth time. “It’s too heavy, and dangerous.”
“No, it’s not,” he argued. “You just don’t want to plant.”
“Don’t be stupid.” I wiped sweat from my brow with my forearm, squinting across the long length of the field I still had to plow. “The blade on this thing is razor-sharp. I’m not going to let you lose a limb.”
“I’m not stupid!” He yanked off the bag of seed, dropping it to the ground with a soft thump. His dirt-smeared hands fisted at his sides. “You’re stupid! And lazy!”
I glared, dropping the plow to face him. My head ached; I didn’t have time for this argument. “I’m not lazy. The plow’s too big for you. Now stop being stupid, so we can get this done.”
“I’m not stupid!” His fist snaked out, catching me in the lip. My mouth flooded with the taste of blood.
I lifted my hand and released my fire.
I regretted it the instant it was done. Blue flames engulfed my brother, blackening the ground around us and turning the iron plow red hot. The seed bag was reduced to ash, the corn within exploding and scattering around us like scorched snowflakes. The air was filled with smoke and the choking reek of char.
I was certain I had killed him, and my mouth was already open to scream in horror.
But the flames died, and Reyce still stood in front of me- angry, certainly, but otherwise unharmed.
“You trying to kill me?” he yelled.
“I-I-” My knees buckled, and I collapsed onto the ground. My breath came in short, ragged gasps, and black dots danced before my eyes.
He shoved my head between my knees, holding me there until I no longer felt as if I would pass out. Slowly, I sat up, though I continued to shake. Reyce squatted in front of me, his gaze hard and unsympathetic and far, far older than it should have been.
“You shouldn’t use weapons unless you intend to kill.” He spoke softly, but I thought the weight of his words might crush me. “Your fire isn’t a toy.”