Fire

by Kristin Cashore

  And so Fire found herself borrowing scalpels and clips and trays from a healer in the castle infirmary and engaging in some rather peculiar experimentation, perhaps along the lines of what King Arn and Lady Ella had done one hundred years before. On a smaller scale, of course, and with much less brilliant results.

  She crossed paths often with Princess Hanna. From her windows she saw the girl running to and from the little green house. She also saw Sayre, and other tutors, and sometimes Garan, and even Clara’s legendary gardener, who was blond and bronzed and muscular, like something out of a heroic romance. And sometimes an old woman, tiny and bent, who wore an apron and had pale green eyes and was the frequent stopping block to Hanna’s headlong rushes.

  She was strong, this little woman, always carrying Hanna around, and it appeared she was the housekeeper of the green house. Her love for the child was obvious, and she had no love for Fire. Fire had encountered her once in the orchard and found her mind as closed as Brigan’s. Her face, at the sight of the monster lady, had gone cold and unhappy.

  The palace had outside walkways built into the stone portions of the roof. At night, far from sleep, Fire walked them with her guard. From the heights she could see the glimmer of the great torches on the bridges, kept lit throughout the night so that boats on the fast-running waters below always knew exactly how close they were to the falls. And from the heights she could hear those falls roaring. On clear nights she watched the city spread sleeping around her and the flash of stars on the sea. She felt like a queen. Not like a real queen, not like the wife of King Nash. More like a woman at the top of the world. At the top of a city, in particular, where the people were becoming real to her; a city of which she was growing rather fond.

  BRIGAN RETURNED TO court three weeks from the day he’d left. Fire knew the instant he arrived. A consciousness was like a face you saw once and forever recognized. Brigan’s was quiet, impenetrable, and strong, and indubitably his from the instant her mind tripped over it.

  She happened to be with Hanna and Blotchy at the time, in the morning sun of a quiet courtyard corner. The little girl was examining the raptor scars on Fire’s neck and trying to wheedle from her, not for the first time, the story of how she’d gotten those scars and saved Brigan’s soldiers. When Fire declined, the girl wheedled at Musa.

  “You weren’t even there,” Fire objected, laughing, when Musa began the tale.

  “Well,” Musa said, “if no one who was there will tell it—”

  “Someone’s coming who knows it to tell it,” Fire said mysteriously, causing Hanna to freeze, and stand bolt upright.

  “Papa?” she said, turning in circles now, spinning to look at each of the entrances. “Do you mean Papa? Where?”

  He came through an archway on the other side of the courtyard. Hanna shrieked and sprinted across the marble floor. He caught her up and carried her back the way she’d come, nodding to Fire and the guard, smiling through Hanna’s stream of chatter.

  And what was it with Brigan every time he reappeared? Why this instinct to bolt? They were friends now, and Fire should be beyond this fear of him. She forbade herself to move and focused on Blotchy, who offered his ears to be petted.

  Brigan put Hanna down and crouched before the child. He touched his fingers to her chin and moved her face one way and the other, surveying her still-bruised and bandaged nose. He interrupted her quietly. “And tell me what happened here?”

  “But Papa,” she said, changing subject in midsentence. “They were saying bad things about Lady Fire.”

  “Who were?”

  “Selin and Midan and the others.”

  “And what? Then one of them punched you in the nose?”

  Hanna scuffed her shoes at the ground. “No.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Another scuff at the ground, and then Hanna spoke dismally. “I hit Selin. He was wrong, Papa! Someone had to show him.”

  Brigan was silent for a moment. Hanna rested one hand on either of his bent knees and dropped her eyes to the floor. She sighed dramatically behind her curtain of hair.

  “Look at me, Hanna.”

  The girl obeyed.

  “Was hitting Selin a reasonable way to show him he was wrong?”

  “No, Papa. I did badly. Are you going to punish me?”

  “I’m going to take away your fighting lessons for now. I didn’t agree to them so that you might misuse them.”

  Hanna sighed again. “For how long?”

  “Until I’m convinced you understand what they’re for.”

  “And will you take away my riding lessons?”

  “Have you ridden over anyone you shouldn’t?”

  A small giggle. “Of course not, Papa!”

  “Then you’ll keep your riding lessons.”

  “Will you let me ride your horses?”

  “You know the answer to that. You must grow bigger before you ride warhorses.”

  Hanna reached her hand out and rubbed her palm on the stubble of his face with an ease and affection Fire found hard to bear, so that she had to look away and stare fiercely at Blotchy, who was shedding silky hairs all over her skirt. “How long do you stay, Papa?”

  “I don’t know, love. I’m needed in the north.”

  “You have a wound, too, Papa.” Hanna took Brigan’s left hand, which was wrapped in a bandage, and inspected it. “Did you throw the first punch?”

  Brigan twitched a smile at Fire. Focused on the lady more closely. And then his eyes went cold and his mouth formed a hard line; and Fire was frightened, and hurt by his disregard.

  And then reason returned, and she understood what he saw. It was the lingering square mark of Nash’s ring on her cheek.

  It was weeks ago, Fire thought to him. He’s behaved himself since.

  Brigan stood, lifting Hanna with him. He spoke to the girl quietly. “I did not throw the first punch. And right now I must have a chat with your uncle the king.”

  “I want to come,” Hanna said, wrapping arms around him.

  “You may come as far as the hall, but there I must leave you.”

  “But why? I want to come.”

  “It’s a private chat.”

  “But—”

  Firmly: “Hanna. You heard me.”

  There was a sullen silence. “I can walk for myself.”

  Brigan lowered Hanna to the floor. Another sullen silence as they regarded each other, the taller side much more calmly than the shorter.

  Then a small voice. “Will you carry me, Papa?”

  Another flicker of smile. “I suppose you’re not too big yet.”

  Brigan carried Hanna back across the courtyard and Fire listened to the receding music of Hanna’s voice. Blotchy was doing as he always did—sitting, and considering, before following his lady. Knowing it was unethical, Fire reached out to his mind and convinced him to stay. She couldn’t help it; she needed him. His ears were soft.

  Brigan had been unshaven, in black clothing, his boots spattered with mud. His light eyes standing out in a weary face.

  She’d very much come to like his face.

  And of course she understood now why her body wanted to run whenever he appeared. It was a correct instinct, for there was nothing to be got from this but sadness.

  She wished she hadn’t seen his gentle way with his child.

  FIRE WAS SPECTACULARLY good at not thinking about a thing when she chose, if the thing was hurtful, or just plain stupid. She manhandled, pummeled, packed this thing away. His own brother in love with her, and she Cansrel’s daughter?

  It was not to be thought of.

  What she did think of, more urgently now, was the question of her purpose at this court. For if Brigan’s next responsibility took him north, then surely he meant to deposit her home. And she was not ready to go.

  She had grown up between Brocker and Cansrel and she was not naïve. She’d seen the parts of the city with the abandoned buildings and the smell of filth; she understood the look and
feel of city people who were hungry, or lost to drugs. She understood what it meant that even with a military force in four large pieces, Brigan couldn’t stop looters from knocking a town off a cliff. And these were only the small things, these were mere policing. War was coming, and if Mydogg and Gentian overran this city and this kingdom with their armies, if one of them made himself king, how much lower would that push those already at the bottom?

  Fire couldn’t imagine leaving, going all the way back to her stone house where the reports came slowly and the only variance in her routine was the occasional empty-headed trespasser whom no one knew the significance of. How could she refuse to help when there was so much at stake here? How could she go away?

  “You’re wasting something you have,” Clara had said to her once, almost with resentment. “Something the rest of us could only imagine possessing. Waste is criminal.”

  Fire hadn’t responded. But she’d heard, more deeply than Clara had realized.

  THAT NIGHT, WHILE she was fighting with herself on the roof, Brigan appeared beside her and leaned on the railing. Fire took a steadying breath and watched the glimmer of torches in the city, trying not to look at him, or be pleased of his company.

  “I hear you’re crazy for horses,” she said lightly.

  He broke into a smile. “Something’s come up and I’m leaving tomorrow night, following the river west. I’ll be back two days later, but Hanna won’t forgive me. I’m in disgrace.”

  Fire remembered her own experience of being five. “I expect she misses you terribly when you go.”

  “Yes,” he said, “and I’m always going. I wish it weren’t the way of things. But I wanted to check with you before I left, Lady. I travel north soon, this time without the army. It’ll be faster, and safer, if you’d like to return home.”

  Fire closed her eyes. “I suppose I should say yes.”

  He hesitated. “Would you prefer me to arrange for a different escort?”

  “Goodness, no,” she said, “it’s not that. It’s only that every one of your siblings is pressuring me to stay at court and use my mental power to help with the spy work. Even Prince Garan, who hasn’t decided yet if he trusts me.”

  “Ah,” he said, understanding. “Garan doesn’t trust anyone, you know. It’s his nature, and his job. Does he give you a hard time?”

  “No. He’s kind enough. Everyone is, really. I mean, it’s no harder for me here than it’s been anywhere else. Just different.”

  He thought about that for a moment. “Well. You mustn’t let them bully you; they see only their side of it. They’re so embroiled in the matters of the kingdom that they can’t imagine any other way of living.”

  Fire wondered what other way of living Brigan imagined; what life he dreamed of, if he hadn’t been born to this one. She spoke carefully. “Do you think I should stay and help them as they ask?”

  “Lady, I can’t say what you should do. You must do whatever you think is right.”

  She caught something defensive in his tone, but she wasn’t certain which one of them he was defending. She pressed him again. “And do you have an opinion as to what is right?”

  He was flustered. He looked away from her. “I don’t wish to influence you. If you stay, I’ll be terribly pleased. You’ll be such invaluable help. But I’ll also be sorry for what we would ask of you, truly sorry.”

  It was a rare outburst—rare because he wasn’t one for outbursts, and rare because it wasn’t likely to occur to anyone else to be sorry. Rather at a loss, Fire gripped her bow tightly and said, “Taking someone’s very mind and changing it is a trespass. A violence. Can I ever use such a thing without overstepping my right? How will I know if I’m going too far? I’m capable of so many horrors.”

  Brigan took a minute to think, staring intently into his hands. He tugged at the edge of his bandage. “I understand you,” he said, speaking quietly. “I know what it’s like to be capable of horrors. I’m training twenty-five thousand soldiers for a bloodbath. And there are things I’ve done I wish I’d never had to do. There are things I’ll do in future.” He glanced at her, then looked back into his hands. “No doubt this is presumptuous, Lady. But for whatever it’s worth, if you’d like, I could promise to tell you if I ever believed you to be overstepping the rights of your power. And whether or not you choose to accept that promise, I’d very much like to ask you to do the same for me.”

  Fire swallowed, hardly believing that he was entrusting her with so much. She whispered, “You honor me. I accept your promise, and I give you my own in return.”

  The lights in the city houses were dimming one by one. And part of avoiding thoughts about something was not encouraging opportunities for that something to make itself felt.

  “Thank you for the fiddle,” she said. “I play it every day.”

  And she left him, and walked with her guard back to her rooms.

  IT WAS IN the great hall the next morning that she came to understand what had to be done.

  The walls of this cavernous room were made of mirrors. Passing through, on sudden impulse, Fire looked at herself.

  She caught her breath and kept looking, until she was beyond that first staggering moment of disbelief. She crossed her arms and squared her feet, and looked, and looked. She remembered a thing that made her angry. She’d told Clara her intention never to have children; and Clara had told her of a medicine that would make her very sick, but only for two or three days. After she recovered, she’d never have to worry again about the chance of becoming pregnant, no matter how many men she took to her bed. The medicine would make her permanently unable to bear children. One of the most useful discoveries of King Arn and Lady Ella.

  It made Fire so angry, the thought of such a medicine, a violence done to herself to stop her from creating anything like herself. And what was the purpose of these eyes, this impossible face, the softness and the curves of this body, the strength of this mind; what was the point, if none of the men who desired her were to give her any babies, and all it ever brought her was grief? What was the purpose of a woman monster?

  It came out in a whisper. “What am I for?”

  “Excuse me, Lady?” Musa said.

  Fire shook her head. “Nothing.” She took a step closer and pulled off her headscarf. Her hair slid down, shimmering. One of her guards gasped.

  She was fully as beautiful as Cansrel. Indeed, she was very like him.

  Behind her Brigan entered the great hall suddenly and stopped. In the mirror their eyes met, and held. It was clear he was in the middle of a thought or a conversation—one that her appearance had interrupted completely.

  It was so rarely he held her eyes. All the feeling she’d been trying to batter away threatened to trickle back.

  And then Garan caught up with Brigan, speaking sharply. Nash’s voice behind Garan, and then Nash himself appeared, saw her, and stopped cold beside his brothers. In a panic Fire grabbed at her hair to collect it, steeling herself against whatever stupid way the king intended to behave.

  But it was all right, they were safe, for Nash was trying very hard to close himself. “Well met, Lady,” he said with considerable effort. He threw his arms around both of his brothers’ shoulders and moved with them out of the hall, out of her sight.

  Fire was impressed, and relieved. She pushed her feelings back into their cell. And then, just before the brothers disappeared, her eyes caught the flash of something at Brigan’s hip.

  It was the hilt of his sword. The sword of the commander of the King’s Army. And all at once, Fire understood.

  Brigan did terrible things. He stuck swords into men in the mountains. He trained soldiers for war. He had enormous destructive power, just as his father had had—but he didn’t use that power the way his father had done. Truly, he would rather not use it at all. But he chose to, so that he might stop other people from using power in even worse ways.

  His power was his burden. He accepted it.

  And he was nothing like his fath
er. Neither were Garan and Clara; neither, really, was Nash. Not all sons were like their fathers. A son chose the man he would be.

  Not all daughters were like their fathers. A daughter monster chose the monster she would be.

  Fire looked into her own face. The beautiful vision blurred suddenly behind her own tears. She blinked the tears away. “I’ve been afraid of being Cansrel,” she said aloud to her reflection. “But I’m not Cansrel.”

  At her elbow, Musa said blandly, “Any one of us could have told you that, Lady.”

  Fire looked at the captain of her guard and laughed, because she wasn’t Cansrel—she wasn’t anyone but herself. She had no one’s path to follow; her path was her own to choose. And then she stopped laughing, because she was terrified of the path she suddenly knew herself to be choosing. I can’t do this, she thought. I’m too dangerous. I’ll only make things worse.

  No, she said back to herself. Already I’m forgetting. I’m not Cansrel; at every step on this path I create myself. And maybe I’ll always find my own power horrifying, and maybe I can’t ever be what I’d most like to be.

  But I can stay here, and I can make myself into what I should be.

  Waste is criminal. I’ll use the power I have to undo what Cansrel did. I’ll use it to fight for the Dells.

  PART TWO

  Spies

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  AS MUCH AS Fire had known about the play of power in the Dells, her knowledge had been drawn in broad strokes. She understood this now, because now she held a minute and specific map in her mind. The focal points were King’s City; Mydogg’s holding on the Pikkian border; and Gentian’s land in the southern mountains below the river, not far from Fort Flood. There were places in between: Brigan’s many other forts and outposts, the estates of lords and ladies with tiny armies and shifting alliances, the Great Grays in the south and west, the Little Grays in the north, the Winged River, the Pikkian River, the high, flat area north of King’s City called Marble Rise. Rocky patches of poverty, flashes of violence, plundering, desolation; landscapes and landmarks that were bound to be keystones in the war between Nash, Mydogg, and Gentian.