The Seekers of Fire (15 page)

Esyld snickered as she waved towards the shack's peeling walls. "But then he had to hide here, for the Ber city was safe from
Bessove,
but
znahari
were unwelcome. So, did you bring your stone from the western mountains or Balkaene, little Ber girl? Why such a stone from you? They're waking, both the mountains and those who sleep inside, while day by day Ber fire in Mierber is dying. Where are you in this?"

"I wish that I knew." The girl walked to the window, a silent black shadow in the room's gloom. Esyld's room was always gloomy, even at midday. The girl stared outside, then suddenly turned and Esyld's cold stove erupted with tall, crackling flames, light and warmth chasing the gloom and shadows. Flames. Now Esyld had seen them with her human eyes. They were burning on the metal of the stove, and not inside.

"Esyld."

Esyld jumped at that, for suddenly the name seemed unnatural. In a way it was; she had not heard it for many years. She was not Esyld to the world.
Witch. Seer. Aberrant. Benefactor. Evil.

"Esyld, I took the stone from a murder-accused boy this morning, just before I came to you. I think he came from Balkaene." The girl glanced at the stove, and the flames reached their shiny orange fingers out towards the ceiling. Esyld shivered.
The boy. The boy panting over the heavy wheelbarrow he was pushing from the stone quarry and up the hill, this day like many days before that. The boy's frail, tired mother waiting at the threshold with her eyes dry and her face grim. The boy's mother was leaving him ...

"I let him go, Esyld. I let him go moments before the man who once tried to burn me would have arrived at the Militia station, seen the stone, and burned him, too. So where does that put me, Esyld? Recently, I seem to be sparing the stake flames to reprobates, but"—she tossed her head and the stove flames leaped towards Esyld, swirling to avoid her just a split moment before they would have hit—"but
my
fire is not dying."

The fire danced throughout the room, on dirt and metal, somehow sparing anything that burning could destroy.

"But it is not only fire that is in me, Esyld. I saw
Bessove,
once, before I burned. I liked them. And five days ago, at the firewell with Arion and that water witch, my eyes seemed to open for the first time in a long time, and I saw something else, too." She raised her hand, and the flames slowly flickered and faded. The stove, however, emitted warmth. There was fire inside it now.

"There are things flying in the sky high above Mierber, Esyld, things that do not belong in the sky. They resemble birds but are not. They are not
Bessove,
either. I want to know what they are, Esyld. And I want to know about
Bessove,
which, as you undoubtedly know, do not exist." She strode towards Esyld, grabbed her hands, and bore her eyes into hers. "Will you teach me, Esyld? I once ran away from being lady, I can run away from being a Ber as well. My fire is my own. Please. I can be a witch."

Esyld laughed. Softly at first, then louder, and louder, until her whole body shook with laughter and her chest ached, while the girl watched her in silence, her eyes wide and hurt.

"So you can be a witch, can't you? You like that shack so much? What is it that you like? The filth, the broken old bed? The previous owner's blood on the wall that cannot be fully washed? The muddy water that you need to cross half the slum to get, through streets full of crap, disease, empty-eyed women, half-naked brats and half-mad men? The bastards who at fifth drink may decide that a young witch is best on her back with her legs spread?"

The girl's now narrowed eyes could have burned through Esyld and the wall behind her, without flame.

"I can deal with these bastards well enough."

Esyld sighed. "You probably can, fire girl. I could, myself. None succeeded the first time with me, and none was left with what he needed for a second. But can you bear to be alone ..."

"I need no man!" the girl screamed.

"But do you need no one, no human at all, stupid wench!" Esyld screamed back. "Do you need the whole accursed world using you when they can, but never being there for you! How will you like screaming at night, wasting in fever, drenched in sweat, surviving the coughing sickness by yourself—for a witch's sickness is both well-deserved and will kill all who dare help? How will you like cringing in fear at every single rumor of Mentors and Bers? Have you ever feared Mentors, my lady? I have. Or have you ever spent the night listening to a stomach that growls and cries in pain, pretending that it is not yours, my lady? Have you!? And don't you dare cry!

"You want to learn about
Bessove,
you say. You want to learn about flying things. Well, my lady, leave the
Bessove
and flying things alone! The Powers That Be are not for the likes of you and me! I don't know about
Bessove,
my lady! I don't want to know! What I wanted to know, I know—how to protect myself, and the spells to ask the Sun and the moons for a little help. You Bers, with your book-Magic, pipes, and your Factories, you have angered the
Bessove,
and what I want to know now is how to live through it, not how to anger them more! Go back to your tower, little fire girl. Go back to where they will feed you and hide you behind cursed Ber walls. You may be misunderstood there. Here, you will be prosecuted and alone. Go back!"

Esyld coughed, her voice abruptly failing. She was weary, her voice spent. How long had it been since she had last lost control with someone? Long ago. Too long ...

"Go back to your tower," she barely whispered. "I have seen them coming—
Bessove,
and them humans who fly. Go beyond the walls."

Esyld's eyes were as usual dry, but she still felt a tear fall on her hand, and suddenly the girl's arms encircled her and pressed her to the girl's chest. The girl was crying for her, Esyld suddenly knew. Had anyone but Grandpap ever done that? Esyld put her arms around the girl's waist, and for the first time in many years, she cried, too.

Merley, the girl, asked Esyld to see her future before she went away. But when raging fire, armies, sorrow, flying wagons and heavy wagons that trampled the streets and land flashed before her sight, Esyld jerked her head and—for the first time in her life—refused to see.

But she could not refuse to tell what she had seen.

"Thou can't escape the pictures," she barely whispered to the girl, for she could not omit these words, either. It mattered not that this time Esyld did not want them to be the truth. Truth just
was,
and must be told. She always told it to those who came to her, even though it was rarely the truth that they wanted—and then they blamed her when the truth came to be, as if it were she who had made it.

"You can't escape flames if they come for you, either, can you? That is what old people say. But I have." The girl laughed. "What are pictures, after all? Bers say that there are some paths you should walk and some that you should not. But if you did walk those paths, would the pictures perhaps not change? Do not worry for me, Esyld. And, I will not forget you. Some day you will need someone to care for you. I may come back for you then."

"Go," Esyld whispered, "Go!" before she would have broken down and asked the girl to stay.

* * *

Could you change the pictures? Could the girl? The pictures of the future were, after all,
pictures,
possible truth, not truth come to be. Could the truth Esyld saw be changed, or a new truth invented? Esyld had wondered about that long ago, but then she wondered less and less as the years piled their weight on her. "
Paths,
" the girl had said. Would the truths that Esyld told her wretches come to be only if the wretches continued on the same old paths they trod?

Paths of broken shoes,
tsarvuli,
or ugly, bare feet. Master knew they were not easy paths to escape—and a noble Ber girl could never understand! Who was she to come and poke into an old witch's wounds! Who was she to make her cry and wonder, when crying was dangerous and wondering even more so?

Was it you who chose the path, or did the path chose you?

Esyld sighed, her gnarled hands on a stove warm for the first time in a long time. She listened to Merley's steps outside, and wondered.

Chapter 6: Fireheart

Excerpts from
Introduction to Mierenthia, Fiftieth Edition,
Year of the Master 680:

Our Government's job is not only to make laws. Mierenthia's resources are allocated, justly and wisely, every year by our Government. Our Government consists of two Councils: the Council of Sovereigns and the Council of the Master. The Council of Sovereigns is comprised of the High Lords and Ladies of all twenty Noble Houses, together with other wise nobles and esteemed common citizens. The Council of the Master is comprised of a hundred and twenty of the Bers, our protectors, lifegivers, and Blessed Stewards of the Master. It is the Council of Sovereigns' task to make suggestions, and the Council of the Master's task to make decisions.

A letter from Nelita, Daughter of Lisa and Karel, House Fredelbert, Year of the Master 703:

Mother, I am writing to let you know that lady Kaitlyn of Fredelbert has accepted my application to become her maid. Please, do not disapprove. I know that you have heard terrible things about the lot of a servant, that you consider it a profession for delinquent types who do not care to go to school, and that you will fear for my wellbeing. You might have even been right, were this another House. However, rest assured that the average Fredelbert maid is better educated and leads a better life than a Clerks' Guild apprentice. I know, you would say that if I had but waited a few more years, I would have become a Mistress Clerk. But what for, I ask you? A Mistress Clerk, just as any Mistress or Master Crafter, is still accountable to Mentors. She is still whipped every thirty days and still lives on what fire is allocated to commoners in commoners' neighborhoods.

House Fredelbert (like every Noble House, in case you didn't know) has Prayer for the nobles and Confession for the servants every thirty days, but Fredelbert's dedicated Mentor is so nice and lenient that servants are almost never whipped. The Fredelbert nobles, too, are nice; they rarely, if ever, beat servants or withhold payment. Yes, Mother, it is true that a servant (of a Noble House or of anyone else) is more dependent on her employer and more vulnerable than a person with a city job. But if the employer is nice, what is the problem? The servant of a Noble House, especially, might have a much better lot in life than many other people. And the fire—they have so much fire ...

Kiss Father from me. I trust that you will both forgive me.

Linden

Day 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705

The first thing Linden realized when she woke up was that once again she was late for Mister Podd's Mathematics lesson. It was not a realization that warranted opening her eyes. She pressed her back to the wall and covered her face with the blankets, sleepily thinking that he might forgive her early-morning neglect of formulae that she had anyway learned by herself long ago. Especially when she told him that her new pulley system worked perfectly. For eight days now it had been hauling shopping bags along the outer wall to old Mister and Mistress Clerk's top-floor apartment, with only one insignificant accident concerning old Gara's window.

The second realization was about the nature of walls. Hers was not supposed to be so warm in the morning, and no walls she knew about breathed. Her eyes still half-closed, Linden awakened just enough to remember that she had indeed slept in an unfamiliar place.

Her muscles tensed, and a moment later she leaped in the direction of her uninvited bed partner and reached for his neck, ready to squeeze at the slightest counter movement. His reply was to incline his head with a mildly surprised expression, his cheek gently brushing her hand. She stared at him, then her fingers slowly relaxed and started stroking before her conscious mind could decide what to do. Then his ears perked and he licked her face, and suddenly Linden was fully awake and laughing, fondling the almost-grown-up puppy's ears amidst his happy barking.

There was a knock on the door, and Linden wrapped the covers around herself, which the dog seemed to accept as a challenge. With an enthusiastic growl, he bit a corner of a blanket just as she called the visitor to enter, and for a moment they played a pulling game, until he seemed to sense her distress. She managed to wrap the covers again just as two girls appeared in the doorway, the puppy lying alert beside her.

"Blake, you great monster, there you are!" the taller girl exclaimed, and Linden flinched in sympathy as the other one shoved an elbow into her companion's ribs. The force was such that the tall girl wavered and the chest she was carrying dropped to the floor. Its exquisite metal lid rattled as it jerked open and twisted. The girl flushed in a sharp shade of pink, which contrasted strongly with her chestnut-brown hair. The other girl seemed to shrink, wriggling her hands, her wide green eyes fixed on the chest.

"Please, forgive our clumsiness, my lady." The first girl's voice was choked, but her chin was lifted proudly, even if it took her some effort to not look at the chest and keep her own hands apart.

Suddenly Linden understood. Hers was not the only new position in House Qynnsent. Whatever these girls had been doing so far, this was their first day as maids to a new lady with an unknown temper, and they had just broken a valuable item in her presence before even introducing themselves.

She did not need more than a glance at the chest. The craftership was exquisite, the edges delicately beveled, the white metal flowing into a glittering flower pattern on the sides and the lid. Linden did not even know if something like this could come from the same Furniture Factory as normal items. At least, there were not any similar items in the stores that she had visited so far. It probably cost the quarterly wages of both of her parents—and who knew how much these girls earned and if they would have to pay for the damage.

"Would you please close the door." After a second glance at the chest's twisted hinges Linden stood up, throwing the bed covers onto a pleasantly surprised Blake. In a moment a big ball of blankets, pale green sheets, and tan-and-black dog tumbled on the plush, dark-green carpet, and in another one silk and cotton were dragged all over the room. She stepped towards the girls, ignoring the mess and only slightly uncomfortable with the thinness of her laced nightgown. Well, they were women after all. She would look for clothes later, but right now there were more important things to do.

The shorter girl wore her blonde hair up, supported by pins, with only a few curls underlining the delicate shape of her face. Linden turned towards her.

"May I borrow a pin?"

With a quick glance at her colleague, the girl carefully withdrew a pin and handed it to Linden, not quite meeting her eyes. "As my lady wishes."

The tension was almost palpable, and Linden took a deep breath to control her rising anger. The expectation of servility from one person to another was not to be tolerated, even when, for a change, someone else was expected to be servile to her.

" '
My lady
' has a name," she declared as she knelt beside the chest, "and wishes it used instead of being '
my lady
'-ed. I am Linden. Lind is also all right—Linde is, that is."

Perhaps the girls were already embarrassed enough to not notice her own embarrassment at muddling the common and noble pronunciations of her name. She certainly hoped so.

After a momentary awkward pause, Linden smiled. "And who are you?"

She did not observe their faces while she listened to their replies, for she was curled on the floor with squinted eyes, analyzing the hinges from each possible angle. One of them had scratched the surface of one of the chest's sides, but if she inserted the pin right here and then moved that little plate to the left, the tiny scratch would be hidden.

The other hinge was more obstinate. She bit her lip and worked unsuccessfully on it until her eyes started tearing from the constant focusing, and the tall eighteen-year-old Clare suddenly knelt beside her, immediately followed by the blonde fourteen-year-old Felice. Clare silently pressed a finger to a spot where Linden pointed, glaring at it as if in a challenge, and Felice spoke in a shy and quiet voice.

"Please, my lady—" She swallowed. "Please, Lind, have the other pins, too, and don't worry if you break them."

As if brute force and breaking pins would do. Installing this particular pin as a support for the hinge, on the other hand ... She used a second pin to clear the way, having first made sure that the maids did not leave the rest of the pins where the dog could reach them and hurt himself. Then, finally, the first pin clicked into place. Linden closed and opened the chest several times to make sure that the repair was flawless, then sighed and pushed it away from herself.

"You really fixed it!" Clare whispered, flushing again, and Felice smiled, looking slightly less shrunken. "Thank you, my lady—Lind."

The maids were hers now. Linden smiled, feeling as weary as if she had won a fight.

Then, as she staggered up from the floor, she realized that winning the Qynnsent maids was not the sole reason for her weariness. Her right leg, slightly swollen and bandaged, throbbed painfully, and there was a certain lightness in her head.

"I am all right." She refused Clare's supporting hand, but treading the distance between the chest and the bed took twice as much as it had before, and she fell heavily on what was left of the sheets. Blake climbed beside her, his wet nose nudging her shoulder, whimpering as if he felt her aches. She patted his head, and even the small movement seemed to significantly diminish her strength.

At least last night's fever is gone,
she thought absentmindedly, as Clare arranged pillows and blankets around her, the maid's lips pursed in a worried way.

Last night. Some defensive mechanism in Linden's mind must have been triggered, for so far her consciousness had refused to dwell on last night's events. Now, the thoughts swarmed in an almost chaotic fashion, and Blake whimpered again as she shut her eyes tightly against the image of her mom and dad.

They were not dead, they could not be. Definitely not, and she would stop thinking about it before she had found a way to know. She traced a finger along one of Blake's paws, instead, trying to muse on how exactly a human mind employed memory selection. A moment later she chased that thought away, too. She was afraid of it. A part of her had yet to perceive that she had become a lady instead of Mentors' prey, and she was not ready to analyze minds so soon after her own mind's recent deeds. Neither was she ready to think about last night alone.

Linden opened her eyes again with difficulty.

"Clare, can you please deliver a note to lord Rianor?"

"I am afraid that right now she cannot, dear," replied a voice that was not Clare's, and Nan materialized from behind the girl, an anxious Felice at her heels. Felice placed a tray on the nightstand, and Nan sat on Linden's bedside, measuring the pulse of her hand.

"And calm down now. I have a note that he left for you, as well as news. And I see that he left that ever-hungry beast to keep you company, too."

The ever-hungry beast in question raised his muzzle from Linden's shoulder and lolled his tongue, eying the tray and the old woman expectantly. She sighed.

"All right, you. Off you go with Clare and Felice. Girls, first go tell Mira that the fitting is postponed and that I will talk to her later, then feed Blake and have the rest of the time for yourselves. Stay close, though, I will ring for you later."

"But if lady Lind needs us ..." Clare was flushing again, and Nan raised an eyebrow as she shooed her towards the door.

"I assure you that I am perfectly able to take care of lady Lind myself, but if for some strange reason she needs you, I'll ring for you in the middle of your break. Go get some rest, girl."

"Lady Linde can take care of herself," Linden murmured, but she was glad of the old woman's presence. She smelled of herbs and food and home, and she smoothed Linden's hair before she lifted her plump self from the bed and went to lock the door after the maids.

"First things first," she said as she settled heavily on the bed again. "Your parents are alive and well."

Linden took a few deep breaths before she could trust her voice. "How do you know?"

Nan shook her head. "As questioning as your lord, I see. Better that way, I suppose, for both of you. Here's your proof, dear."

She handed Linden a piece of paper, and the girl concentrated on keeping her fingers steady as she unfolded it. "
We love you.
" This handwriting was absolutely illegible and absolutely her dad's, while a sentence at the bottom twisted in her mom's beautiful letters, saying that they were going to forward Linden's personal items as soon as they could.

"We are waiting for more information, but so far the Mentors have done nothing to no one," Nan continued as Linden carefully put the paper on the nightstand, not trusting her fingers any more. She felt light and unreal and wondered at her lack of relief or any reaction at all. Then Nan's arms were around her, and remained there all the time while Linden's body shook and silent tears crept down her face, washing away more fear and heartache than she had believed suppressed.

When it was over Nan seemed to know better than discuss it. She grabbed a slice of toasted bread from the tray and spread a fruity mixture on it.

"You would eat nothing last night, but it is high time, Lind dear. Look at yourself, you're almost transparent, you should put some meat on those bones."

"I should not." Linden gave the normal response meant for well-meaning neighbors, then asked for Rianor's note. "Why would he go anywhere," she murmured as she unfolded the new piece of paper. "He was hurt ..."