Fireheart Tiger

by Aliette de Bodard

  “Proposal.” Mother’s voice is flat. “You’re my daughter. I handle proposals. Who—” And then she stops, because there can only be one person involved. “One of the Ephterians. Her.”

  “We love each other.” Thanh’s voice is more defiant, more pathetic, than she’d like. “She wants me to be her consort. To take me with her on the rest of the Grand Tour.”

  She’s braced for an explosion, but when she looks up Mother is staring at her with an odd expression on her face. She’s playing with one of the game pieces: the adviser that Thanh took from her. She says, finally, “When I sent you to Yosolis, you were too young.”

  But old enough to be traded away for Ephterian support. Thanh clamps her lips on angry words, feels them bubble up, bitter and sharp, raw inside her mouth.

  Mother goes on, “And then the fire . . . I’m glad you came back, but I know that it changed you. That”—she stares, for a while—“that you were too vulnerable and too influenceable, and Eldris—”

  What— “You think that’s what happened? That I was groomed to fall in love with her? That she took advantage of a child?” Does she—does she have any idea what she’s saying? “Just because you don’t like us doesn’t mean we’re unnatural!”

  “Of course not.” Mother’s face is hard, angry. “You don’t understand, do you?” And then, in a softer voice, “She’s here to take what she wants. And she won’t take no for an answer.”

  “And you think it’s wrong.”

  A sigh. “No. I think you’re my daughter and I’d like to see you safe.”

  “Safe?” It’s too little, too late: false, edged protestations of love and concern. “You have no say in what’s happening here,” Thanh says, fighting back tears. This wasn’t how the conversation was supposed to go. “I don’t need to be protected anymore.” She needs, desperately, to be seen, but she’s not Linh, she’s not Hoàng, she’s not important enough to the country except as a bargaining chip. “We love each other, and that’s all that should matter.”

  Mother’s voice is hard. “Not when you’re a princess of Bình Hải.”

  Thanh didn’t want the conversation to go there—didn’t want to have to say the words she now says—but there are no options left. “You said you wanted Bình Hải protected, no matter what it cost. You said I needed to understand that.”

  “I did.” Mother’s voice is faintly puzzled. “I don’t see—”

  “You don’t?” Thanh’s hand shows the board: Mother’s scattered pieces, her own disarrayed army. She moves her general to face Mother’s general across the board—a forbidden move, slowly and deliberately made to see the way Mother winces. “We’re fighting each other, and in the end the board is clear for them to win.” She moves her general away from the board entirely, sliding it off to join the other pieces Mother took. “But if I become Eldris’s consort, they’ll leave Bình Hải.”

  “Why would they?”

  “Because you’ll no longer be a challenge to them,” Thanh says. “You sent me to Yosolis because you wanted me to know how they thought. Well, I can tell you how Eldris thinks. And Eldris’s opinion is going to be the one that matters.”

  “The one that matters.”

  “She’ll be queen,” Thanh says, slowly, simply.

  “And so will you.” Mother’s voice is sharp. “I didn’t think you craved power quite that much.”

  How—how does she even begin to voice this? That it’s not about power, that it’s not about how many people whose lives she can bend to her will, but simply about being in control of her own life? She can’t voice this, not in a way that Mother would understand. So instead she says, keeping her hands carefully away from the chess pieces, “I’ve said yes, and I won’t take it back.”

  Mother’s voice is speculative. “I could confine you to your rooms. Or disown you.”

  Thanh keeps her voice level, even, her eyes stubbornly on the scattering of pieces on the board. “You’re free to do as you wish.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have the words anymore.

  Mother moves, in a swish of cloth. Thanh doesn’t—she still stares at the board. “You’ll just run away, won’t you. Do as you please. You’ve always been so stubborn. So selfish.”

  “I’m not stubborn!” Thanh doesn’t answer the other accusation—because how could she? It’s not for Bình Hải or Mother or the negotiations, for all her protestations that it’s the best path. No: it’s merely because of the way Eldris looks at her—of the way she dissects situations and makes Thanh feel at the center of it all. She says, slowly and coldly, “I learnt enough in Yosolis.” Lack of filial piety, and pleasure taken where she will—and power and the meaning of it—and what it means to expect the entire world to shift around her. “Exactly the lessons you sent me there for.” She waits, with the ball of guilt and sick fear forming in her gut—the same ball she’s been curling around all her life: the knowledge she’s gone too far, too fast, that this time Mother will truly abandon her, the way she’s abandoned so many others.

  “Don’t you dare use that tone with me.” Mother’s voice is low and angry, and then it smooths out, becomes the empress’s voice again. “I see. I suppose it’s not that dire, in the end. A betrothal ceremony here certainly would help Bình Hải regain some of the prestige it’s lost with your behavior.”

  Her behavior. Negotiating in a panic, making herself vulnerable. The ball in Thanh’s belly becomes a vise squeezing her innards. It’s not her fault. She knows it’s not her fault. It’s Mother being angry again, never admitting to fault. But she loves Thanh, nevertheless. She wants the best for Bình Hải and for Thanh. “Mother.”

  Mother says, “I’ll present it to the ministers and officials of the court. The best path forward for Bình Hải: a reinforcement of old alliances. And of course you’ll be able to advocate for us once you’re in Yosolis.” The tone makes it clear it’s not a request Thanh can refuse. A clink of ivory on wood; as Thanh looks up Mother reaches for her own general and sets it square in the center of the board, in the river—a large boundary between both sides of the board, an area where no piece is meant to go or stay.

  She could say no. She could stand up and do this on her terms, but it took all the energy she had for this confrontation, and she’s got so little left. “Yes, Mother.”

  Mother smiles, and it’s like Pharanea’s: sharp teeth the color of bleached bones. “Superb. Was there anything else, child?”

  “No, nothing.” Thanh bows to take her leave. The ball in her lower belly hasn’t moved: as she touches her forehead to the floor, she feels it climb up, a nauseous feeling of not knowing whether she’s got what she came for.

  The memory of Mother’s smile follows her out of the room and into the corridors—a disquiet that refuses to go away.

  * * *

  “So?” Eldris asks. “How did it go?”

  They’re walking hand in hand in the gardens, by the pond. Frogs hop on lotus pads, and lanterns sway in the breeze. Eldris is holding Thanh’s hand: she didn’t try to ask anything for the first few minutes, just patiently waited for Thanh to speak. But of course, patience only goes so far—especially for Eldris.

  Thanh says, finally, “I don’t know. But she’ll announce it to the council. And she’ll hold a formal betrothal ceremony.”

  Eldris’s face changes—it’s like it’s flooded with light. “That sounds like it went more than well.”

  Thanh still remembers the ball of guilt—the touch of the chess pieces on her hand, the way it all welled up in her until she wasn’t sure if she was going to hold herself together. “I’m sure,” she says. It’s hard to muster enthusiasm.

  Eldris stops. “Thanh. You did it. That’s all that matters.” And she kisses her, slowly and carefully—and Thanh feels herself bloom, feels seen and valued. “Think of the future. Our future.”

  It’s blank—something barely seen, barely imagined, terrifying in its formlessness. “I don’t know what it would look like.”


  Eldris holds out her hand to Thanh, and in her pale palm is a ring: a silver circle with a sapphire the sharp, pale color of the winter sky and two smaller diamonds on either side, a piece of Yosolis’s cold climes offered to her. “Here. This is for you. A small token.”

  An engagement ring.

  Thanh picks it up, feeling the weight and coldness of it. She slips it on, feels it encircle her finger, the cold spreading to her skin. Eldris is watching her with a fond smile, but something in the intensity of her gaze makes Thanh queasy.

  “Us,” Eldris says. “That’s what it will look like. Us, together. Walking the Leuthe park in the morning—taking petitions in the afternoon—racing each other in the snow. Like it was, those months when we were together.”

  Thanh thinks of snow and winter, of boats and long journeys—of Eldris, holding her, always there to steady her. The lanterns sway overhead—and the crisp memory of snow becomes tinged with ashes—and abruptly she’s holding Giang’s hand and running in the midst of corridors that are aflame, and everything is fire, everything is smoke, and she’ll die here choking to death, breathing in the air of a country that’s not hers, but no country is hers anymore . . .

  “Thanh? Thanh? My love!”

  It’s Eldris, shaking her. Her blue eyes are wide with worry. “Are you all right?”

  Thanh shivers. “I remembered the fire.”

  “Ah.” A silence, from Eldris. “Some things always burn bright, don’t they?”

  Not for her. Of course never for her. But for her and for Giang . . .

  Giang.

  She completely forgot about Giang.

  Giang, whom she lied to. Who deserves better than what Thanh has done to her. “Eldris,” she says, slowly and urgently. “I need to go. There’s something I need to sort out.”

  For a moment she sees storm clouds gather on Eldris’s face—and braces herself for an explosion, for the temper Eldris has always lost so easily—and then Eldris visibly forces herself to relax. “Something?”

  “Negotiations,” Thanh says, curtly.

  “Surely these aren’t needed anymore?” Eldris shakes her head, fondly. “But of course. I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your responsibilities. Go. I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Of course.” Thanh runs her hand on Eldris’s face, feeling in the cool smoothness of her—her rock amidst the upheavals of her life. “Always, my love.”

  Eldris smiles, and kisses her back—and everything contracts, and desire slowly arches its way up her back, as Eldris’s tongue finds her—and then she withdraws, and Thanh stands up, gasping for breath, arms reaching for a princess who’s no longer there “Till tonight,” Eldris says.

  Thanh starts walking back—and then running. Giang. She has to tell Giang before the betrothal ceremony—before it becomes palace gossip even a very unaware fire elemental cannot ignore. She can’t find any lanterns on her way—no fire, no embers, nothing she can use to call on Giang.

  “Going somewhere?” Captain Pharanea’s voice, silky and threatening.

  No.

  “Get out of my way,” Thanh says, curtly. She shouldn’t stop, but Pharanea has moved to block the pillared passage into the courtyard leading to the Inner Quarters.

  “I think not.” Pharanea’s smile is predatory. “We had an agreement. You can hardly keep it if you insist on kissing and fondling each other in public places.” She spits the words like they’re poison, all subtlety gone. “I should have known you wouldn’t be able to behave.”

  Something twists in Thanh’s belly: fear, the knowledge that Pharanea doesn’t really want to keep their agreement. She thinks Thanh is a savage, not worth respecting. “I had my fill of etiquette teachers,” she says, speaking through a mouth that feels filled with cotton.

  “Light wasted on the blind.” Pharanea snorts. “On the weak.”

  She sounds like Mother—and something primal stirs in Thanh, a spike of fear, a sickness clenching her belly, the lack of options—and then she remembers that nothing Pharanea does can touch her anymore. She draws herself to her full height. “I told Mother.”

  Pharanea’s face twists in pure hatred. “You did what?”

  Thanh takes a step back—and then Eldris is there, sword unsheathed, standing between them both like the answer to a prayer Thanh didn’t even have to utter.

  “Your Highness.” Pharanea’s voice is shaking. Light plays on the drawn blade, shivers and breaks into a thousand reflections. “She’s not worth it.”

  Eldris’s entire stance hardens. “Are you talking about my fiancée?”

  Pharanea’s face goes white. “Your Highness.” Her mouth works, stops. She’s about to tell Eldris—to her face—that she can’t possibly make that choice.

  Eldris’s smile is razor-sharp. “Go on. Say it.” She holds the blade, lightly.

  Pharanea doesn’t move. She’s weighing options: trying to see if Eldris would dare to cut her down, wondering if she ought to remind Eldris of the consequences if she dies—of her many titles, of her many allies at court. Finally she says, “I apologize if I offended you, Your Highness.” And bows, low and abject.

  Eldris doesn’t move. Neither does the blade. “I’m not the one you offended.” Her chin moves, towards Thanh.

  “Your Highness!”

  The blade moves—held to Pharanea’s cheek, gently pressing down until a drop of blood pearls. Pharanea’s face is the color of snow and ashes. “You—” She swallows, audibly.

  “I would,” Eldris says, and her voice is almost gentle. The sword moves—the blood on it dripping down to fall upon the earth.

  At length, Pharanea says, “Your Highness,” to Thanh. “My apologies. It won’t happen again.”

  Thanh nods. She ought to say something. She ought to thank Eldris for standing up for her; she ought to be grateful. But all she feels is that same sick thing in her innards, and words scattering in her mind, and all she can see is blood on the blade. It seems so easy, so much less fraught, to remain silent.

  Eldris withdraws the sword. She and Pharanea continue to look at each other. “Thanh?” Eldris says, with only the barest of looks at her. “You can leave. Pharanea and I will sort this out.” She cleans the sword, and sheathes it. “Like civilized people.” Her voice is amused and bitter all at once.

  Thanh runs away, not looking back.

  * * *

  As Thanh runs, she feels Giang: in the lanterns overhead, in the wash of sunlight like bloodred fingers across the sky, in each and every gleam of light on lacquered pillars.

  Everything that burns in the palace calls to me, big sis. And you’re upset.

  She feels Giang’s hand in hers, remembers fire and smoke—and sees, again and again, the glint on Eldris’s blade, the drops of blood dripping to the floor.

  Pharanea and I will sort this out. Like civilized people.

  When she gets, out of breath, to her rooms, she finds Giang sitting on the bed, waiting for her. “Big sis.” She doesn’t ask what’s wrong, or why, or how, but simply holds Thanh’s hand, waiting. Her touch is as warm as fire.

  “You’re afraid,” Giang says, slowly and carefully. “Of me?”

  Thanh looks up. Giang’s human face is a faint outline, and the stripes of the tiger’s carving waver in and out of existence on her skin. She’s the fire—the one that’s haunted her nightmares for so long, the one that she’s feared for so long. Except . . . except it’s not Giang she’s scared of, and she dares not voice the other, darker thought—dares not give a name to other nightmares. “No,” Thanh says.

  Giang doesn’t speak, for a while. “Something happened.”

  Thanh closes her eyes. “Yes.” And, remembering what she wanted to do before Pharanea stopped her. “I lied to you.”

  “Lied?” Giang cocks her head. “I don’t understand. Thanh, that’s not—”

  “I know.” Thanh shakes her head. “Please. Hear me out. Please.”

  Giang moves away, settling on her haunches.

&nbs
p; “The woman who came to my rooms,” Thanh said. “She wanted me to stop seeing Princess Eldris.”

  Giang goes very still. “Seeing.”

  You matter.

  “We—” Thanh swallows. There’s no easy way to say this, to make it palatable. “We’re betrothed. We’re going to get married.” She stubbornly avoids looking at the sapphire ring on her finger, focusing instead on Giang's face, on Giang’s voice.

  “I know what a betrothal is. I’m not totally ignorant.” Giang’s voice is bitter.

  She is upset. It is absurd. Fire elementals can’t possibly care about humans. Can’t possibly—

  Thanh can’t bring herself to say the words.

  Giang isn’t speaking. She’s staring at her hands. Silence spreads, heavy and uncomfortable, much like Thanh’s mother not speaking after Thanh has disappointed her one too many times. Thanh says something, to paper over her panicked sense of letting everyone else in her life down. “You’re worried about where you’ll go if I leave. We can talk about this.”

  Giang startles. Her eyes, when she looks at Thanh, are the red of fire: the fire elemental who’ll scorch the earth. But when she speaks, it’s not the anger Thanh is expecting. “I’m not going back to Yosolis, but I don’t have to be here, you know”—and her voice becomes barbed and edged and it’s almost a relief because it’s something familiar—“I could just leave. Burn some trees in the jungle, or go in villages’ communal halls. They have nice, warm fires.”

  “You’re not happy,” Thanh says. It’s her fault. It’s everything she’s done and every lie she’s told. How did she possibly expect things to turn otherwise?

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” Giang laughs. She stretches, slow and careful. “Big sis, it’s your life. You go through it the way you want. You—” She stops then, starts again, “Your life doesn’t come with an obligation to make mine work.”

  Something stretches thin in Thanh’s chest, constricting her breath. She tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

  Giang is still staring at her—alien and distant, limned in the warmth of the flames. Any moment now she’ll turn into the being of Thanh’s nightmares—the fire that engulfed the palace, that still haunts her. She’ll speak and Thanh will only hear the roar of the flames. But Giang’s next words are simply, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was hurtful.”