A Fire of Roses

by Melinda R. Cordell

  Varinn sang power and protection back into the prisoners who had put their hands on him, and the power washed back through them.

  “Steady … steady,” Gefjun murmured as the power hit the prisoners, some of whom were not used to this kind of magic. A few of them turned green in the face. “Steady …. ”

  Nauma sang. She brought her hands out and a flare of red light fanned out, cutting across the crowd of prisoners at about the level of their necks.

  The red force struck Gefjun like a physical blow. She sang against it, her hands still on Varinn’s arm. Varinn, singing, echoed her song in his, and turned the blow aside. Several of the people who had hands on her, channeling power through her to Varinn, shook from the impact of the blast. But their hands were not torn away. They fought to stand.

  Varinn’s music lifted. Gefjun felt it pull power from her, the way an incoming wave will pull the water from the shore before towering up and crashing down. She sang with him, driving more power to him.

  Then he brought his hands up, slammed them together and flung them back open again. A great ball of blue power hovered there. She felt the power it tugged from her. He flung it right at Nauma.

  To Gefjun’s astonishment, Nauma opened her arms to it as it slammed into her.

  She staggered but didn’t fall, and she embraced the blue fire. Nauma had actually brought her arm out and pulled it toward her. Her eyes lit for a moment, and a strange wisps of blue smoke burst from her hair.

  She pulled herself straight, staring at Varinn, head low, fist clenched before her, blue fire crawling over her arms and hands.

  Gefjun shook her head. “Why’s she still standing?” She could feel how much power that attack took. It should have laid Nauma flat on the ground.

  But then she realized what happened.

  “She’s absorbing it,” Gefjun said. “I don’t know how, but she’s absorbing the magic.”

  Nauma swung her arm around.

  “Look out!”

  With a cry that turned into a high, wild note, Nauma pitched that music at Varinn, singing,

  Die!

  Die for my glory!

  Die to bring these dragons alive!

  Die now!

  Varinn sang against that awful music, Gefjun singing harmonies into his counterdefense, making it stronger.

  But it didn’t seem to affect Nauma.

  Nauma sang more powerfully, her music getting darker, while she began to turn incandescent from the power she sang with.

  Where is she getting that kind of power? Gefjun wondered. Right now, all her will was being spent on sustaining Varinn’s protective spell, and fighting Nauma’s insistent song that still, despite all their efforts, pushed their bodies, all unwilling, toward death.

  Then Nauma pulled her sword. “Kill them! Kill them now! I will capture their spirits to wake these dragons!” And she stepped forward, blue smoke curling and wisping around her hands, as a brilliant blue light shone around her.

  When Nauma made that first step toward them, all the prisoners pulled their hands off Varinn to reach for their meager weapons. Varinn staggered. With their help gone, with their power gone, Varinn’s song dwindled.

  Nauma laughed. “Easy prey for all of my warriors. Kill them, one and all!”

  Her army pulled their swords and held their weapons in the guard position as they walked to the prisoners.

  The prisoners’ outcry hit a whole new level of bitterness.

  Now Varinn hit Nauma’s fighters, but she only laughed as his power struck the soldiers … and vanished without a trace.

  “Ah, send me more. That felt good,” Nauma said. “Hey, kingy, you know what else would feel good?”

  Varinn ignored the remark that followed. “I can’t hit her with anything,” Varinn told Gefjun. “She only gets stronger.”

  “What kind of magic do we have? What kind of protection magic can we use for ourselves that doesn’t touch her?” Gefjun asked, grasping for straws.

  “It would have to be protection only. But what if she touches the spell and sucks the power right out of it?” He clenched his jaw.

  “Well, plant something,” Gefjun said. “Attack her with lichens and moss.”

  But he looked at her. “Or roses.”

  “Killer roses?”

  He took a rose hip out of his pocket and dropped it in the snow. Then he caught Gefjun’s hand. “Think of rose bushes. The biggest and thorniest roses of all. Think of them now.”

  Gefjun’s mind immediately leapt to one that grew in front of her home, a red, single-petaled rose, red, with the most wonderful fragrance. Then she thought of the huge rose blossoms that grew in Varinn’s courtyard, the huge roses with their sharp thorns.

  She thought of all those roses she’d worked with as a healer, thought of their fragrance, their color, how even their green leaves would leave the scent of roses on her hands. She thought of all the dried rose petals she’d made teas of to fill a sickroom with their fragrance, how she used to purify the air with them, how she’d hold the rose cup under the nose of some bedridden old granny to make her smile and start talking of the roses of her youth.

  A rose-colored light began to glow from her hands. She gazed at them in amazement as her mind continued to remember her roses. Then she placed her hands on Varinn’s shoulders. She felt the snap of electricity, all the while still thinking of the shy five-petaled roses that grew in the shade of the fir trees, thinking of the dark purple rose flecked with white that grew in front of her grandmother’s home ….

  “Wonderful,” Varinn cried.

  And then, with Gefjun’s hand still on his shoulder, he knelt and slammed his hands into the ground.

  Power came up to meet them from the ground—the power of the gentle earth, of cool darkness beneath the ground, the smell of a freshly tilled garden in spring.

  Varinn sang, low, to the ground. She felt Varinn gathering powers together, building them up, growing them ….

  “Hands, quickly,” Gefjun cried as Varinn sang.

  The hands closest to them reached in and channeled energy to them. The outside ring of the prisoners were already fighting for their lives from Numa’s attackers. One of Nauma’s fighters went down from a well-thrown rock right between the eyes, but two of the prisoners fell in a bright spurt of blood, pierced through by swords.

  Gefjun softly sang with Varinn. Though she’d never heard this song, she was connected to him, and because of that connection she knew how to sing it. And now she knew his purpose. She bent her will, bent everything she had in her as she sang with him. Their voices combined, flying in tandem, as she turned each thread of the music toward that little rose hip in the ground, the tiny fruit of the rose filled thick with rose seeds. She sang to the seeds, calling to the earth and all the powers of earth and heaven to give the seeds boundless energy and to give them everything they needed to grow.

  Filling each seed with strength and power.

  While they sang, Gefjun heard the prisoners striving to keep the enemy back from them, fighting valiantly with long sticks and rocks, even with their fists.

  And suddenly there burst from the ground a green thicket of rose brambles, uncurling and stretching up.

  Gefjun thought Yes! but kept singing with all her strength.

  The rose brambles stretched from the ground, growing and leafing out with a ghostly rustle before her eyes, green leaves opening like prayerful hands. The roses grew swiftly, tumbling over the snow and throwing up snowflakes in its wake. The canes, where they touched the snow, rooted, and new rose canes burst from the root crowns.

  The rose brambles stretched around the prisoners like a magical wall. The brambles stretched like leafy arms gathering them in. The rose brambles twined around other brambles, some of them growing into each other and making the thickest canes Gefjun had ever seen. The only way anybody could cut through these canes would have to be with axes. And the brambles kept growing around the prisoners, pushing Nauma’s attackers away as they grew between
the two.

  The prisoners stumbled back from the fight. Now, in the shelter of the rose bramble, they were free to place their hands on Varinn and send him strength and more strength.

  The shadows of the roses flickered across Gefjun and Varinn as they grew.

  And the roses grew taller, reaching skyward as high as the walls of a house—and then yet higher. They began to grow overhead, making a roof of brambles above Gefjun, Varinn, and the prisoners, closing them off from the snow that was now falling hard.

  Gefjun threw open her heart and poured her energy into Varinn, feeling as if a river was flowing out of her heart through her hands. She was shaking, her body reacting to all the power flowing through it as they built that rose thicket up to protect her fighters. She could feel her strength ebbing, but she was going to put it all out there. She needed to keep everybody safe. She was going to save her people.

  Amid all the chaos, she heard something quiet next to her ear that delighted her to the depths of her very soul.

  Her puffin was softly singing, a quiet melodic crooning.

  Even her puffin was helping them do magic.

  “No!” Nauma shouted in a way that was music to Gefjun’s ears.

  The rampaging rose canes pushed Nauma’s attack away from the prisoners. The brambles overran her fighters on their side, sweeping them up in a wild tangle of green, twining around them as they struggled. The prisoners gathered around Nauma’s men. “I’ll take that,” they said, plucking the swords from their hands, their boots from their feet, digging through their pockets to reclaim what the fighter had stolen from them, before the brambles threw them out of the circle back into the rest of Nauma’s fighters.

  The roses closed in a large circle around the prisoners to seal them off creating a high, solid wall that stood between them and Nauma. The greenery was so thick that Gefjun could barely see flickers of movement from the other side. The great arch over the prisoners made a green roof, though the light still gleamed through the rose leaves.

  And yet the river kept flowing through her. Varinn kept directing power into the ground. They were not finished yet, though her body shook as if she had a fever. You can’t keep doing this forever, she thought. Don’t kill yourself doing this! But they couldn’t stop. They were not finished yet.

  “Take your swords to the hedge!” Nauma screamed at her soldiers. “Cut your way in! Kill every last one of them! I want my dragons!”

  The swords hacked at the rose hedge, at the thick, thorny brambles. The prisoners moved away from the edges of the brambles, clustering close around Gefjun and the king. He still knelt, still drove power into the ground, shivering with the strain.

  Nauma shouted, and she began singing magic against the roses. She fired a huge flash of green light, and it struck the hedge with a roar that blew Gefjun’s hair back. But the rose leaves only fluttered in the magical green blast, and then all the rose leaves on that side of the hedge grew much bigger, with bronze edges—very handsome on a rose plant.

  The roses were slowing their growth, but now, groups of rosebuds swelled among the leaves. All Gefjun’s healing arts, everything she’d learned as a healer and medic through her life, she sent into that river that flowed into Varinn, and from him into the roses. She had the curious sensation of turning inside-out, but still she went on.

  Sun broke through the clouds, shining through the roof of rose leaves, illuminating the thicket. Every leaf in the great hedge turned toward the sun like open hands, with a shiver that went through the entire plant.

  Suddenly, the buds on the rose brambles popped open.

  Roses spiraled open, each one a deep, rich red shot through with lines of white.

  And a flame leapt from the heart of each blossom.

  Thousands of flames burned quietly from thousands of roses, and the air filled with their fragrance.

  The flames warmed the air around them, melted the snow where they stood, melting it away into a soft sward of grass that came sprouting up from the ground. Small meadow plants grew up under their feet, wildflowers and grasses alike.

  It was the most powerful enchantment that Gefjun had ever seen.

  She heard a funny little pop.

  And the enchantment let them go.

  Varinn’s hands lifted from the ground; Gefjun’s hands slipped off his shoulders.

  She staggered back, breathing heavily, dizzy. Her legs gave out, and she collapsed, sitting on the ground. Varinn sank back on his heels, his eyes glassy, and then he lay down on his back.

  “The king,” the prisoners cried, going to him.

  Gefjun crawled to him on her hands and knees by the soft light of a thousand rose-flames. Her puffin hopped down off her shoulder, waddled to him. With a little flutter of its wings, the puffin hopped up on Varinn’s chest and nestled down there.

  Varinn lay a hand on Gefjun’s arm from where he lay on the ground.

  Dead serious, he fixed her with his dark brown eyes.

  “Your puffin … is on … my chest.”

  “Good,” she said. Even though she was exhausted beyond anything she’d ever experienced, she looked him over to make sure he was okay. She rested her hand on his forehead, pressed her fingers into his wrist to check his pulse, counted his breaths.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m making sure you didn’t kill yourself just now,” she snapped.

  “I haven’t,” he said. “I just gave my heart and soul to something that saved this little part of the army. And of course,” he added, laying his other hand on hers as she tried to take his pulse, “so did you.”

  “Pff! What did I do?” she said.

  “Your power made this possible. I would not have been able to do this alone. I assure you, if I’d attempted this alone,” he said, flicking a hand at the great rose hedge. “I would have died halfway through.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “I know my limits,” he said quietly.

  And then she breathed the fragrance of the fiery roses, a sweet fragrance like nothing she’d ever known. And the next moment, Gefjun swayed with exhaustion. She fought to stay awake, but longed to give in. “What is in those roses?”

  Varinn was lying so still. He didn’t answer.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, trying to fight off a yawn.

  He didn’t open his eyes. “I’m finished. I don’t have any more in me. I’m sorry, but I’m going to take a little nap now.”

  “It’s fine. You did good. I think you saved all of us.” Gefjun lay down next to him, curling up at his side.

  Nauma’s forces hacked at the rose brambles, trying to get in to kill them, but for every rose cane they managed to hack off, two canes grew back in their place.

  Nauma screamed and hacked at the hedge with her own sword, but more roses sprang up in her face.

  “Nice,” Gefjun murmured. “Those idiots.”

  “The roses are enchanted,” Varinn said. “I don’t know why. I was singing, and suddenly the song went off in that direction as I created it. All I could do was follow.” He yawned mightily.

  Gefjun sleepily realized that all of the prisoners inside the rose hedge were all lying down as well. One fellow made a mighty yawn, loud as an elephant seal. Somebody was already snoring.

  “Why an enchantment?” she asked sleepily.

  He made a small grunt as if she’d awakened him. “We’re waiting.”

  “Waiting? Waiting for what?”

  “I dunno.” Varinn turned his head to her and rested his hand on hers. “I’m just glad you are here with me. I could die here in your arms and be happy.”

  “Don’t you dare die,” she replied. “I need you.”

  “Okay,” he said. “But only because you requested it.”

  The puffin snuggled down on Varinn’s chest and fell asleep, its orange bill going lower and lower as its head slowly tipped forward. Finally the end of its wide bill came to a stop, balanced on his shirt. The puffin’s eyes closed, and it sank into a a soft li
ttle blob of sleep.

  Gefjun wanted to pet the puffin and thank him, but she was too worn out. She gave in to a yawn at last, and her eyes slowly slipped shut.

  The puffin slept, Gefjun and Varinn slept, and all the prisoners they’d saved slept within the bounds of the magical rose hedge.

  21

  BLOOD-LIGHT

  Nauma

  The snow melted, a warm breeze whisked away the water, and a low fire sprang up around the edge of the rose brambles, driving back Nauma’s soldiers farther. The rose canes twined through the low flames, seeming to feed off the fire’s energy, growing more, covering the prisoners in warmth and safety.

  The rose brambles bloomed over in red and white blossoms, and the scent traveled far on the wind, perfuming the barrow of the dead dragons.

  Nauma stood contemplating the fire of roses that burned before her. When she’d tried hacking her way in there, the fire of roses had burned her hands, but she’d quickly plunged them into the snow to stop the burning. Her skin was red and painful, but it would heal eventually.

  Her fury still burned.

  Flames flickered along the stems of the rose canes, danced along the surfaces of the glossy green leaves, and a flame danced over each opened blossom.

  The fire burned with the smell of roses. She’d never liked roses; she was already getting a headache from the stink.

  She turned to her ragged troops, who had come all this way with her to share in her victory. They had been ready to go with her into battle, each riding his own undead dragon, each ready to cut hundreds down before them in bloody fighting, each ready to make the rivers turn hot and red with the blood of slaughtered armies.

  Nauma’s troops prowled around the edges of the rose brambles, trying to break in. They chopped away on the magical plants with axes, only to have more brambles sprout in every place where the axe cut them. Others tried to wedge the brambles apart, only to have their wedges crushed by the plants. One tried to shoot arrows through the narrow gaps between the thorns, only to have a bramble grow around the wooden bow, the way a tree will grow around an axe left there for many years. But instead of taking years, it took mere moments for the bow to fuse into the bramble. And then the bow itself sprouted green, leafy twigs.