The flares in the sky grew brighter. Conversation broke and stopped; we all stared at the sky. Someone murmured that we should go inside; the stone walls might offer some protection . . . no one moved. We had heard the stories; we knew what magefire did. I heard someone praying.
Something wet touched my cheek. I caught my breath—had I only imagined—and felt another. “Rain!” I cried out. Silent for another breath, we heard the distant roll of thunder. I burst into terrified tears and laughter as it began to pour rain. It was an out-of-season storm. Not magefire. Not war.
When I returned to our room, dizzy from exhaustion, the room was empty. I had not seen Mira since I had come inside. Suddenly worried, I went back out.
I was too tired to summon witchlight, and it was too wet for a candle, but fortunately I found her easily. She was still huddled on the ground by the south wall. She was soaked in rain and vomit, shaking and sobbing. When she heard me approaching, she tried to crawl away. “Mira, it’s Eliana, relax . . . ” I took her hand, cold and boneless. “Can you stand? Mira, my God, you’ll catch your death.” I helped her stand. She was still crying as we reached the room. I helped her put on a dry gown, and dosed her liberally with more of the tea before putting her to bed. I lay awake for a long time that night, listening to her whimper in the dark.
***
A FEW DAYS later, I approached Mira while she was alone. “Mira—” I didn’t know how to begin, so I blurted it out. “Mira, do you want me to stop using witchlight near you?”
She paused. “I—” she broke off. I could see a brief struggle. “Thank you, I—would appreciate that.”
“Mira—” I touched her arm, pulled back as she flinched away. “You can talk to us about it, you know. We’ve all lost family. We understand how it is. . . . You grandmother—did she die from magefire?”
Mira shook her head. “No. Famine.”
I was puzzled. “Have you—”
“No. I was in Cuore. Eliana. I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about it.” She turned, and fled the room.
***
THE RECITALS WERE held in the spring, and I went to the junior violin students’ recital to hear Mira. She was far better than I had remembered. I was beginning to understand what it was about her playing. As she played, time stopped for her. She played each note as if it were the only thing in the world; as if nothing mattered but that note at that moment. The music received her absolute, full attention. I began to understand why my teachers had shouted at me to concentrate. I paid attention, of course, but even when I felt that I was concentrating, part of my mind was deciding whether to skip lunch that day, or the fact that my hair was stuck under the violin shoulder rest, or whatever. While Mira was playing, I think there could have been a full-scale mage battle overhead and she would not have noticed.
With the spring, as well, the rains came. There was a prayer service for the people in the far south; please, this year, may life come from the land. As the season wore on, though, the news filtered slowly north, and it wasn’t good. The seeds were planted, and the rains came, but nothing grew. Nothing. I saw Mira turn and flee the room when we heard this.
From the south, news of famine; from the north, rumors of war. The Circle planned to break the truce, everyone said; it was only a matter of time. Most in Verdia whispered that continued war was madness; we needed food, not land. Anger was growing, near the border, and increasing as stories of the luxury enjoyed by the Circle grew. Refugees were going north by the thousands, to Cuore, where food at least could still be found.
One day, from the bell tower, someone saw a column of soldiers marching south. We heard conflicting rumors. One rumor said that war was starting again. The other story claimed that they were going to the border to keep the starving farmers from moving north, from storming the Circle gates in Cuore. I wrote to my parents, in the western part of Verdia, suggesting that they consider emigration—although with the stream of refugees that continued, despite the soldiers, Cuore might be just as bad.
Summer began, and a merchant caravan arrived. With their merchandise, they brought news, although no confirmation or denial of either rumor. They were staying away from the border region; in fact, most of the northern merchants thought they were crazy simply for coming this far south, although the situation in Cuore was bad, too. There had been riots in the streets, and rumors of fractures in the Circle that even the Circle could no longer hide.
I had some coin, so I bought an apple and some ribbons. The merchant had some ribbons that would set off Mira’s skin perfectly; I bought them to give to her.
It was late when I went back to my room. I swung open the door, and leapt back as witchlight flared—the door closed behind me. Five men, in the uniforms of the Circle Guard stood, crossbows leveled at me. A sixth stepped forward. He raised a hand. “It’s not her.” They sat back down, crossbows unwavering. He turned to me, fixed me with chill yellow eyes. “Sit. And be silent.” He indicated the floor directly in front of him.
My knees shaking, I sank to the floor. I could hear my heart pounding. With a flick, the man dispelled the witchlight. The six strangers waited, now in darkness, their attention fixed on the door.
Mira. They were obviously here for Mira. Had she committed a crime? What could she have done? She seemed so quiet. What could she have done? I shivered. Maybe this was just a dream. What could she have done . . .
Time passed. After . . . an hour? Two hours? we heard footsteps. I felt a gloved hand cup around my throat. “Be silent,” he whispered. I could hear the soldiers tense, then rise.
The door swung open. Light flared again—I blinked in the sudden brilliance, saw the door swing closed to trap Mira. “Hello, Miriamne.”
As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw Mira’s face clearly. For the first time that I had seen her, she did not look frightened. She looked defiant, and almost relieved.
“Liemo.” Her voice was clear and high. “I wondered who they would send after me. With soldiers, no less. What are they for?”
“Miriamne—”
“Mira.”
He winced. “I’ve come to tell you that you can come back.”
“Really.”
“Miriamne, we understand. You were under strain, ten times over—just being the youngest full member of the Circle in ten generations would have been enough. The death of your grandmother—we understand why you left. Why you felt you had to stay away, hide from us here. But you can come back, Miriamne—your chair is waiting for you.”
“Mira.” She paused. “My name is Mira, and I will never sit in the Circle again.” Mira? Full member of the Circle? Mira, who didn’t even summon witchlight . . .
“Don’t be hasty. I know you need time to think—”
“I made my decision before I left Cuore.”
His voice softened. “Miriamne . . . Mira. Don’t you miss magery?” With a flick of his wrist, a flare of witchlight appeared. I could see Mira flinch. “The energy . . . the intoxication of the energy drawn by the full Circle . . . ” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Miriamne, don’t you miss it?” He held out his hand, as if offering her the globe of light.
When Miriamne spoke, her voice was a whisper and her face was lowered. “More than you could imagine. I think of it every day—every time I see witchlight, or see someone start a fire. I remember the elation—the rush of power flying through my body. I miss it more than you could imagine—” Her breath caught. She raised her head. “That is why I must never even summon witchlight ever again.” There was a sudden relief in her eyes, as if she had won a battle she had hoped she’d never have to face. “Liemo. We can talk all night, but I will not change my mind.”
“Perhaps.” Liemo’s voice was almost too soft to hear. “We need you, Mira.”
Silence.
“War is coming. Soon.”
Her eyes widened. “And you dare to come to me for this? I would ten times over give Cuore itself to the enemy, than kill the land itself! You know that’s the cause
of the famine. You know it, even as you mouth the lie that there’s no ‘conclusive evidence’. Your magefire drained the Border lands of every drop of energy and life they had. Now the land is dead, and the people are dying!”
“I’m sorry about your grandmother . . . ” He glanced at her black ribbons.
She shook her head. “That’s not enough. I won’t help you fight a war, Liemo. I would rather die.”
There was silence Then Liemo spoke, very, very softly.
“I am sorry, Miriamne. But we truly do need you.”
The room went dark. Hands seized my arms; someone stuffed a cloth into my mouth to stifle the scream. Light flared again. I was dragged against the door, Mira shouldered to the side. I struggled, but one young violinist is hardly a match for two soldiers.
I could see Mira, horror in her eyes, struggling against the two soldiers who held her fast. The remaining soldier was cocking his crossbow.
“I am sorry, my dear.” He was addressing me. Then he turned to Mira. “It would be immoral, of course, to kill an innocent simply to test your resolve.” He nodded towards the soldiers holding me. “Violinist? Left hand, I think.”
I screamed; the sound caught in the gag. I tried to tear free. One soldier held me against the door; the other held my left arm, palm out, flat against the wall.
“You can stop this at any time, Miriamne. I will give you one minute to think about it.”
I tried again to tear free. No, not my hand, not my hand—
“Bowman, fire.”
I heard the snap of the bowstring and tried to brace—my eyes flew open—
—and, in a flare, the arrow was gone.
Mira fell limply to the floor, weeping. The soldiers released me, and my own knees gave way.
“Come, Miriamne,” I heard Liemo say. “It’s time to go now.”
***
THAT WAS TEN years ago; I saw all this with my own eyes. This was before the war broke out again. This was before the famine swept across all of Verdia. This was before the soldiers shot down my father for trying to steal food; before my mother and sisters died in the raging fevers that swept through the refugee camps. This was before I found my place, in the fight.
We have fought together. You know who I am. Would I plead for the life of a traitor?
It is true that Mira was one of the Circle. But she tried to break free of them, and joined them again only to save me. I owe her my hands, which have fought for you.
I have asked for nothing, in return for what I have given. I ask for one thing, now: Mira’s life.
Slowly, the sword was lowered from the sorceress’ throat; the blade cut her bonds. Eliana, the Third General of the Resistance, took the pale cold hand in hers. “Come, Mira,” she said. “It’s time to go now.”
MASKS
SO, HERE’S A philosophical question. If a writer writes slash fic about her own characters, does that make it canon?
Not that the story here is slash, mind you. All author-written slash has been lost to the mists of time. For the record, it wasn’t particularly good, although I will say that it was thoroughly dirty. The story that follows is actually the backstory to the slash that I wrote with Lyda about some of the characters in Fires of the Faithful.
(I have no idea if other professional writers do things like this. I kind of think the answer is “probably.”)
Domenico, who is Eliana’s teacher at the conservatory in the first part of the book, knows one of the Fedeli priests who turns up to terrorize the students. Lyda immediately leapt to the conclusion that they knew each other carnally (ahem) and, well, like I said: dirty.
But Domenico’s backstory lodged in my head. Why had he left a prestigious position at the Imperial Court to become a teacher in a remote backwater? Maybe this was all of a piece with this relationship.
This story is set many years before Fires takes place, and for the record, the priest who shows up in Fires of the Faithful is not the priest in this story, but someone else Domenico knew when he was at court.
***
MASCHERATA WAS ALWAYS my favorite holiday. I suppose that’s not surprising. Behind a mask, anonymous, I was free to be who I was. Surrounded by men dressed as women and women dressed as men, I could embrace another man without shame—clasp his hand, feel his breath against my cheek, and never have to glance over my shoulder to see who was watching. On Mascherata, I had no need to fear.
Nonetheless, that year, I had postponed buying a costume for weeks, and now it was nearly midwinter’s eve. I had delayed buying a costume because of Falco, my lover. On Mascherata, we could dance together, touch each other, publicly. I wanted a costume that Falco would love.
I watched from the bed as Falco shrugged on a dressing gown and put a kettle on the fire to make tea. He glanced back to give me the brief, intimate smile that had captured me when we first met. “Tea, Domenico?”
“Yes, please.” I rolled out of bed and started to pull on my tunic. “Ugh,” I said, realizing that it was still wringing wet from my walk to the Fedele Citadel, where Falco lived. It had been raining all day.
“Hang that on the screen,” he said, gesturing to the hearth. “You can wear one of my robes. Just grab something out of my wardrobe.”
“These aren’t exactly something I can wear home,” I said, gingerly removing a black robe.
“You can stay till your tunic dries. Or we can toss a cloak over you and you can send the robe back with one of the message-boys.”
I had never worn silk before. The fabric shifted against my skin like a feather. I buttoned it slowly, then sat down at Falco’s table. “Seems a little heretical to be wearing this.”
Falco laughed. “Let me just—” he reached over and unpinned the sigil, the two linked circles representing the Lord and the Lady. “There. Now it’s just a black robe. It’s not like there’s some rule saying that only the Fedeli get to wear black robes.”
“I feel much better,” I said, and tried to hide my discomfort with a broad smile.
The tea was ready; Falco poured me a cup. “Wasn’t I going to give you tea to warm you up when you first got here?”
“So you said.” I took a sip.
“It’s your own fault for being so damn distracting.” Falco touched the hair at the nape of my neck lightly as he set the kettle back on the hearth. “Besides, we had to get you out of those wet clothes.”
“I suppose that’s true.” My violin case lay on the floor beside the door, forgotten. I lifted it into my lap and unlaced it, checking to make sure that the violin and bow were dry.
“Say, while you’ve got that out . . . ”
“Do you want me to play something for you?”
“It would probably be a good idea. One of these days, one of my colleagues will ask me about your repertoire, and it would be unfortunate if I stammered out something like, ‘you know, concertos . . . violin concertos.’”
I tightened my bow and tuned the violin, playing a couple of quick arpeggios to loosen my fingers. Falco sprawled out in his armchair to listen, closing his eyes in rapt concentration as I played. He was an appreciative audience, even if he couldn’t remember the names of most of the pieces.
“Do you have your costume yet?” he asked as I let the last note fade away.
“No,” I said. “Do you?”
“Yes. Do you want to see it?”
“I’d love to.”
The robes and mask were wrapped up and stored in his wardrobe. It was traditional on Mascherata for the Fedeli priests and priestesses to dress as Maledori, and Falco was not one to defy tradition. The robe was scarlet red; it looked richly made, but like most Mascherata costumes, the fabric was cheap and the dye would run if it got wet. The mask was a sculpted demon’s face, adorned with red and black feathers and sparkling false gems. “D’you like it?” Falco asked, holding it up.
“Beautiful. I mean, terrifying.”
“Good.” Falco gave me a quick flash of that intimate smile. “Beautiful AND terrifying is ki
nd of what I was going for.”
He put his costume away and was starting to pour himself more tea when we heard a ringing bell. “Lady’s tits,” he muttered under his breath. “I had no idea it had gotten so late. I have to go.” He shed his dressing gown and pulled a fresh robe from his closet, buttoning it quickly.
“Let me give this back to you.” I started to unbutton the robe I was wearing, but Falco shook his head.
“No time. Just put your cloak on and send it back with one of the boys. If anyone asks, well, it’s no crime to get wet on your way to play for me, is it?” Dressed in black, now, Falco caught my shoulder in his hand and pressed his lips to mine; then he released me and turned to his mirror. He smoothed his hair, then straightened his shoulders and composed his face; he checked to make sure that the sigil was pinned to his sleeve. In moments, his face was almost that of a stranger: Father Falco, priest of the Fedeli. Guardian of the way, enforcer of the Law of the Lady. I met his eyes in the mirror and quickly looked away.
I tossed my wet cloak over my shoulders and bundled my wet clothes in my arms, and stepped out the door as he swung it shut behind us. He gave me the briefest flash of his smile as I shouldered my violin. “Remember,” he said. “You’re coming to play for me again the day after tomorrow. Don’t forget.”
As if I could, I thought, grimly striding out into the still-wet night. Beautiful and terrifying. Falco doesn’t need a mask for that.
***
MY QUARTET HAD an engagement later that evening—playing for a dinner party of Fedeli priests and priestesses. We had found a brisk business playing for Fedeli since Falco had first taken an interest in me, a few months ago.
Gift of the Winter King and Other Stories Page 9
