The Fire Children (23 page)

She waited another few heartbeats. What if they were just pretending to leave, but actually knew she was here? What if they were waiting for her to show herself so they could catch her?
If I wait here too long, I might lose them completely.
She emerged from beneath the altar, staying crouched in case a witch’s head poked around the front wall. To her right, the ritual room door was open.

Anur lay face down, the way she’d been when Yulla had first found her. New stains marred her white robes, distinguishable from the older ones only by the way they gleamed wetly in the weak dawn light. Yulla wanted to go to her, to see if she could help... or if she were even alive.

She bled so I could follow them.
Letting Amara and her sister go would be worse than spitting on Anur’s grave. “Thank you,” she whispered, even though the priestess couldn’t have heard.
Mother Sun protect her.

Yulla could see Mother Sun now, risen just above the bottom of the Worship Hall’s roof. Her bright crown waved around the dark disc of Sister Moon’s girth. She didn’t look too long—the Worship Hall’s clear panes wouldn’t protect her sight the way Ember’s smoked glass would. She ran her fingers over its smooth surface for reassurance as much as luck, and set out after Amara.

She kept low as she scurried to the front of the Worship Hall and dared a glance across the square. The witch-women had reached the other side of the open space and entered the northern outskirts of the market. Amara plucked a morsel of something left laid out for the Fire Children as she passed a stall. As she did so, she shifted a jar onto her hip to free up the thieving hand.

Even in the washed out morning twilight, Yulla recognized the craftsmanship. Those cobalt colored jars were made in Darat, and the witch-women used them for their potions and salves. Amma collected them, lining them up along a window sill as she emptied them out. They caught the late-afternoon sun and bathed her bedroom in streaks of azure. This one, Yulla was sure, held Anur’s stolen blood. She could see it, the liquid darkening the lower half of the jar.

Rocks littered the ground near Yulla’s feet. Throwing one now would be foolish—they’d find her whether she hit the jar or not, and there would go her hope of finding Ember. But she pocketed a few palm-sized stones anyway, in case all her other plans failed. She wished Kell were here—her sister had uncanny aim. Kell could have broken the jar and knocked the witches unconscious with her throws. She could have done it in the space of a breath.

But Yulla was alone, and she had only this one chance to find where the witch-women were keeping Ember. She skulked after them, low and scorpion-like across the open space. She made a wide arc through the square. If they turned, she wouldn’t be directly behind them. Partway across, she found the footprints.

“Found” was the wrong word. She’d known this patch of ground all her life: she’d run across it playing games with the other children; she’d gone to the market for Amma; she’d raced to the Worship Hall, breathless and late for lessons. She could have crossed it blindfolded—
had
, in fact—and never so much as tripped.

She had her eyes on the witch-women—that’s why she missed it. The cobbles of the square were uneven, but this was a dip she hadn’t accounted for. She bit down on a yelp as her foot slid, the sole of her sandal skimming over the too-smooth surface. Her ankle turned and twinged, but she managed not to fall. When she had control of her breath again, she bent and massaged the ankle, and found she could put her weight on it.
Not twisted, then.
She touched the edge of the hole she’d stepped into and looked around.

A line of melted cobbles traced its way across the square, intersecting Yulla’s path before it curved toward Amara and her sister. They were like the tracks Ember had left in the sand near the caves, only the slag had settled back into ordinary stone rather than glass. Yulla darted a glance at the women ahead of her—if she’d made any noise, it hadn’t carried.

Her gaze moved up, then, above their heads and across the city. The top of the guard tower where she’d spent her first night was a black shape against the sky.
These marks belong to Ember’s sister. This is where I saw her getting dragged away.

The girl’s screams still echoed in her mind, the fear, the rage. Was she still alive? Had they done to her what they’d done to Anur? Had they done those things to Ember already, too?

Fury rushed through her, hot and keen. She fed it as she got moving again, remembering how the girl had tried to break away, how they’d pulled Ember along like a dog, how each of them had cried out in pain. The memories hurt, but she shoved that at the fury too, let it compound. When she reached the edge of the market, she had to slow herself down lest she catch up to the witch-women and start a fight she knew she couldn’t win. She might
feel
as brave as the Brigand Queen now, but she was still a girl. Still only Yulla.

She stuck to the shadows as they passed through the market, pressing herself up against the cold wooden frames of the stalls. Here and there she caught a waft of rotten fruit or spoiled meat—the unclaimed offerings for the Fire Children were wasting away even in the cooler air. Now that she knew to watch for them, she could make out the pools of deeper shadow where Ember’s sister had boiled the ground beneath her. Here was an awning half-torn from its poles, blackened finger marks burned into it where she’d tried to grab hold.

If I lose the witches, I can follow these.

The danger of that was small—up ahead, they’d stopped. Their postures suggested an argument, but nothing more than their hushed, heated tones carried to Yulla’s ears.

Stupid to get closer,
whispered the practical part of her mind.

A wedge between friends is a lever for their enemies,
replied the part that had driven her to come up above in the first place. It was the moral of one of the stories in Abba’s book, the one where Inkspot escaped from the wolves.

There was a stall between herself and the witches. Perfect cover, and one she could get to without having to dart out in the open. If either of them moved around to the open side, she’d be spotted, but they hadn’t backtracked yet.
Worth the risk.

“... simply think we should have bled her the rest of the way. It’s not like it would go to waste.” The shorter witch sounded kindly, and although Yulla was certain she had to be talking about Anur, her tone sounded perfectly, pleasantly, reasonable.

Amara’s sigh was like a death rattle. “What are you afraid of, Siwa? That the whelps will slip their bonds?”

“No. I know they can’t. But if you saw the way they look at me when I go down there...”

“It’s all they
can
do, is look. But if it disturbs you, order them to avert their eyes. If they don’t...” Amara trailed off, but Yulla could imagine the gesture that went with the rustle of fabric: the flick of a leash.

“I tried that,” said Siwa. “And it worked, until we brought the new one in. The last one. He just... smiles.”

“Even when you discipline him?”

“Even then.”

Amara made a vexed sound, but Yulla missed her response. Her heart was too busy soaring and breaking at the same time: Ember was alive; they were hurting him; he was fighting. She clenched her burned hand into a fist, the pain of the singed skin as it stretched forcing her back to clarity.

“Vedra says no.” Amara sounded bored. “She wants the priestess to suffer as Father Sea did. It took days for him to boil away; the woman will take her time dying, and know a fraction of his pain. Never let it be said our sister doesn’t have a poetic soul.” That husky voice caught, and when Amara spoke again, it was tinged with suspicion. “You pity her. The priestess.”

The wood of the stall’s front thudded. Had Amara backed Siwa into it? Yulla curled herself tighter, scarcely daring to breathe.

“I don’t, I don’t!” But the lie was there, colored by panic. “Please.” Amara wasn’t saying a word, but from the rustling, Yulla imagined her looming over the shorter woman. The wood creaked, and—near enough that Yulla could have reached up and given it a tug—the tail of Siwa’s dark brown braid dangled over the top of the counter. She had to be leaning back, away from Amara. “Please,” she said again. “I bled to bind the Wind. I know how much it hurts, is all. They’re... the people here, they’re close enough to be our cousins.”

“We are the daughters of water and wind.” A flat smack above Yulla’s head. Siwa shrieked. “Shall I tell Vedra your heart is made of clay?”

“No, no, please...”

“Compose yourself. And not another word about this, or I’ll shut you down there with them myself.”

The stall shifted as Siwa’s weight was removed. Her breath hitched once, twice, the sound of a woman struggling not to sob. Then their footsteps shuffled away and Yulla let out a breath.

Could she catch Siwa alone? Appeal to her sympathy? It might be worth trying, but then again, if her fear of Vedra was greater than her compassion, Yulla might simply find herself turned in. Too tempting for Siwa to try earning her way into Vedra’s good graces.

She emerged from behind the stall and resumed her stalking. The women walked a little ways apart now, Siwa trotting behind Amara like a chastised mule. They left the market by way of one of the western streets. If anything, it was easier to follow them here—Yulla could follow them more closely, and duck easily into doorways and alleys if she needed to.

Their silence was eerie: Amara’s hostility was evident in the set of her shoulders and the way her skirts snapped, the fabric pulled taut with the length of her angry stride. The first time she heard it, Yulla looked around frantically, convinced she was hearing wings.

Siwa had to hurry to keep up. Her breath came in little hiccupping gasps. When it seemed like Amara might plunge ahead and leave, though, the taller woman slowed her steps and waited instead.

Yulla recognized where they were. The buildings farther down this street spread out, giving even the alleys an expansive feel. Amma sighed over the houses here, envious of how high they climbed, and their top floors whose huge windows opened to let in the desert breeze, but didn’t invite a coating of dust along with it.

These dwellings were newer, Amma said, though they were still raised so long ago that only Old Moll might recall a time they weren’t there. The only way to truly tell that some parts of this neighborhood weren’t as ancient as others was by the short buildings nestled down between their taller cousins. One in particular stood out: the
versam
hall.

The children of Kaladim had come here to dance the
versam
at their coming-of-age for as long as anyone could remember. The walls got a new coat of brightly-colored paint every few years, but otherwise it was the same place their ancestors had danced, and their
ancestors’
ancestors.

And now Amara and Siwa were climbing the steps and disappearing inside.

Yulla frowned as their steps clicked across the dance floor.
The echo’s wrong.
She’d been in the near-empty hall before when Kell was practicing for her
versam,
or when the children had ranged around this part of the city in a game of hide-and-seek. It had a better echo than the cave in the desert.

Or, it used to.

It took her nearly a quarter of an hour to work her way to the door. She hugged every wall, paused in every shadow. No one came in or out, and no more sounds came from inside. Like the Worship Hall, this place was accessible any time of day or night. Four adults could walk abreast through the massive door carved into the facade. When the
versam
was performed, children danced through it in fours.

Yulla got down on her hands and knees and belly-crawled up the steps. She peeked inside and gasped.

The echo was wrong because the floor was missing. Not all of it: around the perimeter of the hall, the planks remained intact. It was what she’d heard the witches walking across. But in the center, where the
versam
dancers twirled and twirled for their finale, was an ugly, gaping hole in the wood. Its ragged edges looked like a giant had torn them out with its teeth. Splinters and beams stuck out at odd angles, layers of ancient wood exposed and destroyed.

Aunt Mouse had always said it was magic that kept the boards from decaying, or even being worn down by generations of dancers’ feet. The Fire Children had danced in there, too, but it had never burned. What else could it be but magic keeping those timbers from going up?

Now, Yulla thought she might have been right. The broken pieces had turned a dull grey, far from the golden gleam she was used to. The rot crept across the still-intact pieces, too, the way apple flesh browned if you let it sit too long.

Yulla eased her way inside, distributing her weight as evenly as she could to keep the stressed boards from creaking. She inched to the edge of the hole. The wood felt soft beneath her fingers, as though termites had been making a fine meal of it.

Down below, maybe twice her height from the dance floor to its cool blue disc, was the Seaglass.

Light came up through it, turning the area around the glass a cool, flickering azure.
It’s them,
she thought. She had to find a way down there, but at least two witch-women were already somewhere in the back of this hall. She’d have to keep watch for a while, try to find a time when none of the women were on guard duty, or when there was only one left to watch. Right now, she only knew the whereabouts of two. Vedra and Nasreen could be down with Amara and Siwa, or they might still be out in the city. Ember hadn’t known for sure how many witch-women he’d seen, though the others might have been illusions set to roam by Nasreen.

She had to find somewhere to watch from. Yulla backed carefully out of the hall, rounded the corner, and heaved a sigh. Her lungs ached, she hadn’t realized how shallowly she’d been breathing. Ember’s glass was a comforting weight at her side.

She took it out now and held it up to the sky, where Mother Sun and Sister Moon hung nearly at their apex. The glass turned the rest of the world tea leaf-brown, but no amount of smoke could change the brightness of Mother Sun’s crown. It appeared silver even through the filter, tendrils waving in whatever breezes passed them by so far away. Now and then one broke off, trailing like a streamer before it faded out.