City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) (11 page)

Morghiad cursed and began sifting through them as carefully as he dared, but none of them seemed to have what he was looking for. After going through them twice, something caught his eye from across the room. The corners of a rogue sheaf of pages peeked out from under the bed; they must have drifted there after the fall.

The kahr got on his hands and knees to bring them out, then fumbled through the delicate pages frenetically... and found it. He slumped in the armchair and examined the engraving closely. That
was
Artemi: her dark eyes, even features, the stubborn set to her jaw and cascading gold-red hair. A little older perhaps, but the picture was an accurate depiction that captured a small part of the beauty of the real woman. There was no doubt about her identity. She stood on an outcrop with the reins of her horse in one hand, and two crossed swords were strapped to her back. A dagger was hitched on her right thigh and he could just make out the hilt of a second in her left boot. Her outfit of bodice and breeches was an entirely black affair that clung to her curves admirably. Below the image was the caption, “The female warrior, Artemi, prepares for the Battle of Harend.”

He wondered at the picture for a moment. The colours were still so vibrant. How was it that a hero of legend had ended up changing his bed sheets? She had told the truth about her age; he knew that from delving into her power. There could only be one explanation:
Chronicles
made mention of her being
vanha-sielu
, an old term that meant ‘repeated life.’

One had to be careful around vanha-sielu if they were not aware of their true identity - something to do with their minds not being ready for the onslaught of memories. People with fewer than twenty-five years were not even supposed to know about the phenomenon, but he and Silar had eavesdropped many conversations in their youth. Morghiad’s mind whirred at the possibilities. She had no idea what she was, but she could still be a very useful addition to his army. Morghiad gathered together the fallen pages and replaced them in their binding. He hid the split book on the highest shelf.

For several hours the kahr pored over
Chronicles
. By the time he had found what he was searching for, the skies outside had blackened and the rain had subsided. He had learned that stories of her went back over four-thousand years, that she had been a queen, an assassin, a soldier and vigilante - amongst other things. She had accumulated admirers and proposals from kings and warriors alike. And typically there would be a fight with her long-term enemy, Mirel, once a century.

Mirel was also a former assassin, possibly Kusuru. If Mirel had been as good a fighter as Artemi and a wielder too, it was possible the two could have exchanged identities through history. After all, one historian’s account of an event could utterly contradict with another’s. But Artemi had to be the ‘good’ one, surely? She was always the red-haired one, but could that be an error handed down through the ages? No. Vanha-sielu always had the same name, according to this book. It was something that could not be avoided when their parents came to name them. The important information, the piece he was looking for was on a well-thumbed page. It described a life she’d lived in a long-forgotten province of Hirrah.

“...Week by week, came the pains in her head,

The memories of a thousand lives lived once before,

The echoes of a thousand deaths felt once more,

Rent apart and then rebuilt our hero’s mind,

Till one day – twenty-three years, months four,

And seventy-two hours following her retour,

The lady lost all consciousness.

No efforts made by friend or family,

Could serve to awaken poor Artemi,

They feared her death was nigh until,

Following another three days still,

The woman awoke: she’d come ashore,

 No longer sister, lover or daughter for,

The red-haired Artemi was now, ever more,

The great and fearless warrior.”

Twenty-three. That meant he had just over five years before she reclaimed her identity - the point at which she would be ready for her memories. He recalled the victims of his eavesdropping mentioning something about madness or worse if a vanha-sielu was forced to remember early. He examined the illustrations in
Chronicles
for a second time. They all depicted a red-haired, dark eyed woman in various costumes which could be interpreted as his Artemi. The resemblance was vague, however, as if the picture had been copied from a copy or had simply been drawn from the words. The facial features could have been anyone’s. Perhaps that was a good thing if a young Artemi happened upon stories of herself. She would have some incredible tales to tell once she remembered. Morghiad could not help but feel a tingle of excitement at his discovery. Artemi was the fourth Blaze stream and she was a real,
living
legend.

Artemi huddled in her red blanket, rubbing her feet against the hard-packed mud floor. Her chamber felt colder than usual. Her whole life had changed course in a matter of moments, and it seemed beyond belief that she could be one of those women so reviled in Cadra. She did not want to be hated - she was sure she had not done anything worthy of being executed for. She could escape to another country, but then her father would be alone in Cadra. He often said how he treasured her as a gift from her mother, how he needed her. And now she knew that she really had been responsible for her mother’s death. Perhaps her duty to Calidell could be her payment for that particular crime. Artemi allowed herself to weep quietly. It was a disaster. How would her father react to the news?

“Are you alright, child?” came a hearty voice to her left. Caala was leaning into her chamber, candle held aloft. Her wide hips almost filled the entrance. There was something about her that gave the impression of invincibility.

Artemi forced a smile. “I’m fine, thank you Caala.”

“You bloody well are not, lass!” The woman flurried in, skirts brushing against the walls. She knelt next to Artemi and held the candle up to her face.

Artemi tried to push it away. “It’s nothing to worry about. Please.” She knew she could not hide the tracks of the tears on her cheeks but hoped that Caala might stop fussing, all the same.

The older woman clenched her jaw tightly. “Oh follocks! This is my doing. He did something to you, didn’t he? That blasted kahr, thinking he can take whatever he likes. I’d always thought he was different. If I get my hands on him...” Caala’s face darkened visibly as she mumbled the rest.

“He hasn’t
done
anything to me, Caala. Honestly.” Artemi held Caala’s pale grey eyes and huddled tighter, pulling her knees closer to her chin.

Caala grunted and knelt awkwardly. She set the candle on the floor. “Don’t think to protect him. You cannot be in love with the lad already. He may be very pretty and handsome and the rest of it, but he’s still a man and I can promise you he’s not in love with you, no matter what he says.”

Artemi furrowed her brow a little. “He hasn’t misbehaved with me. He certainly never said he cared for me. I met him and he was polite. That is all. Besides, I don’t think you can call a man with a stone for a face handsome. There is barely any life in it!” Lord Forllan could smile at least. He had a very nice smile indeed.

Caala searched her face for a moment, confusion evident. “If it is not him then what? You’re usually made of tougher stuff than this. Tougher than the rest of us. Hah!”

Artemi thought hard about her response. She could not tell Caala what she was, not with the reputation wielders had in this place. It would be too much of a burden to place on her friend’s shoulders. “I’m just finding it hard to adjust to this new lifestyle, that’s all.” This could serve a solution to her next problem... “In fact, the kahr took pity at my mood. He’s offered to lend me a book if I return to do his sheets again.” The lie was small, though it still left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Caala narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure you haven’t taken a shine to bloody Kahr Morghiad? I mean, if I were a few years younger I’d probably... well... Not that he’d be interested.” She put her hand in her pale brown curls. “Anyway, I suppose you’ll be wanting to take over my duties in his chambers?”

“He is much too grim for me.”Artemi smiled at Caala’s blushes. “But yes, if I may swap a few of those days with you, I should be most grateful.”

“As you wish, lass.” Caala rose. “But I expect to be given a look at those books as recompense.” She gave a cheeky smile and left.

Artemi considered her situation once more. The rain had begun to drip from the light well again, soaking into the floor beneath. She wondered if the place could ever fill with water like the tales of the Great Floods several millennia earlier, when houses turned to aquariums and palaces to submerged networks of caves, while the weakest civilisations had simply been washed away by waves, several-hundred feet high. She hoped that it wouldn’t again, and not in her tiny cell, at least until she had the ability to blast it to vapour with fire. Could a wielder do that? Perhaps this could be turned into a good thing, after all. She lay on her side and closed her eyes. The wails were sounding particularly loud again.

Chapter 4

Great, red flowers of light exploded in the dark skies above Cadra, momentarily illuminating the faces of the onlookers with flushes of crimson. Citizens of all ages and class stood atop the highest levels of the city, watching the fire show that hailed the beginning of the feast day celebrations proper. Gialdin Day had arrived and the place had come alive with the colours of costumes, wreaths, flags and ribbons. Earlier there had been a grand procession of the army, led by King Acher and his son. The train had seemed to run forever, winding up and around the sloping streets of Cadra, creating a regular
thud, thud, thud
that rang through the stones.

Artemi had felt the rhythm from her father’s house on the other side of the city. She had tried to tell him of her discovery, but had failed miserably. He had seemed so delighted at seeing her that she could not bear to break his heart with it. And so they had left the house and had watched the parade in apparent contentment: all men in black and green atop glossy horses. She spotted Morghiad at the front, dressed a black satin coat with red embroidery down the sleeves. His black warhorse was an intimidating thing - all muscle and power and might. She had been careful to keep out of sight of him and the king, of course. But now she gazed up at the fireworks and inhaled the smoky mist that was fast descending from their antecedents.

“You know, you were conceived the night they took Gialdin,” her father said wistfully. He was a wise-looking man of just less than six foot, with close-cropped hair not dissimilar to his daughter’s. His clothes betrayed his poverty but his posture was that of a proud man.

“That is not something I wished to know. Thank you, father.” Artemi twisted her mouth.

The man chuckled quietly. He regarded his daughter thoughtfully and then said, “Artemi, your mind has been elsewhere all day. Whatever is troubling you?”

“Nothing.” She continued to stare at the eruptions in the sky.

He persisted, his voice losing much of its mirth. “Is it a man? I’ll not have some wretch mess with my girl. Tell me who it is and I’ll straighten them out for you.”

Artemi met his eyes, laughing. “There’s no man -”

“It’s not a woman, is it?” His eyes widened.

“Father, no! I just have a lot of new things to learn in that castle. That’s all.”

“Oh. Your mother used to have that look on her face when I’d done something to upset her. I suppose you’re growing up. A man will take you from me eventually. Just make sure you give me some grandchildren to keep me entertained.” He started fiddling with one of his coat buttons.