Fire

by Kristin Cashore

  It overwhelmed Fire to keep track of everyone in this courtyard, and stretching herself beyond this courtyard was positively dizzying. But as best as she could, and using whatever minds gave her access, she was compiling a mental list of people in the palace she thought might be sympathetic to Lord Gentian or Lady Murgda, people who were not to be trusted, and also people who were. She communicated the list to a secretary in Garan’s offices who took down names and descriptions and communicated them to the master of the guard, whose many jobs this night included knowing where everyone was at all times and preventing any unplanned appearances of weapons, or disappearances of significant people.

  The sky was dark now. Fire sensed archers moving into the shadows of the balconies around her. Both Gentian and Murgda had been housed on the palace’s third level overlooking this very courtyard, the rooms above, below, across, and to either side of them empty of guests, and temporarily occupied with a royal military presence that made Fire’s guard seem quite shabby.

  These had been Brigan’s orders.

  Fire wasn’t certain which she was dreading more: what it would mean for her and his family personally if he did not arrive in time, or what it would mean for their night’s work and the war. She thought these might be pieces of the same fear. If Brigan didn’t come, he was probably dead, and with that, all things would fall apart anyway, whether they be big, like tonight’s plans, or small, like her heart.

  And then, only a few minutes later, she stumbled upon him as he materialized at the edges of her range on the nearest city bridge. Almost involuntarily she sent him a surge of feeling that began as fury but turned immediately to worry and also relief at feeling him, all of it so uncontrolled that she couldn’t be sure some of her deeper feeling hadn’t gotten through.

  He sent back assurance and exhaustion and apology, and she reached back to him with apology of her own, and he apologized again, more insistently this time. Brigan has arrived, she thought hurriedly to the others, and pushed their own expressions of relief out of her mind. Her focus was unraveling. She scrabbled to regain control of the courtyard.

  Lady Murgda was keeping a lower profile than Gentian. Like Gentian, she’d arrived with attendants, at least twenty of them, “servants” who had the feeling of persons used to fighting. A number of these persons were in the courtyard below. Others were spread throughout the palace, presumably watching whomever Murgda had instructed them to watch; but Murgda herself had gone straight to her rooms at her arrival and had not emerged since. She was holed up there now, a level below Fire and across from where Fire stood, though Fire could not see her. She could only feel her, sharp and intelligent, as Fire had known she would be, harder than her two enemies below and more guarded, but buzzing with a similar edginess, and burning with suspicion.

  Clara, Garan, Nash, Welkley, and several guards entered Fire’s room. Sensing them, but not turning from the balcony view, Fire touched their minds in greeting and, through the open balcony door, heard Clara muttering.

  “I’ve figured out who Gentian’s got tailing me,” Clara said, “but I’m not so sure of Murgda’s tail. Her people are better trained.”

  “They’re Pikkian, some of them,” Garan said. “Sayre tells me she saw Pikkian-looking men, and heard their accents.”

  “Is it possible Lord Gentian could be daft enough to have no one watching Lady Murgda?” Clara said. “His entourage is pretty obvious, and none of it seems trained on her.”

  “There’s no ease in watching Lady Murgda, Lady Princess,” Welkley said. “She’s barely shown her face. Lord Gentian, on the other hand, has asked for your audience three times, Lord King, and three times I’ve brushed him off. He’s quite eager to tell you in person all kinds of made-up reasons why he’s here.”

  “We’ll give him the opportunity to explain, once he’s dead,” Garan said.

  Fire listened to the conversation with one fraction of her attention and monitored Brigan’s progress with another—he was in the stables now—dancing all the while around Gentian, Gunner, and Murgda. So far she had only played around their minds, searching for ways in, approaching but not taking hold. She instructed a servant below—one of Welkley’s people—to offer wine to Gentian and Gunner. Both men waved the serving girl away. Fire sighed, wishing the elder were not so plagued with indigestion and the younger so austere in his habits. Young Gunner was a bit troublesome, actually, stronger-minded than she’d like. Gentian, on the other hand—she wondered if it was time to enter Gentian’s mind and begin pushing. He grew more and more anxious, and she got the sense that he had wanted the wine he’d refused.

  Brigan pushed into the room behind her. “Brother,” Fire heard Garan say. “Cutting it a bit close this time even by your standards, don’t you think? Everything in place at Fort Flood?”

  “Poor boy,” Clara said. “Who punched up your face?”

  “No one relevant,” Brigan said shortly. “Where’s Lady Fire?”

  Fire turned from the courtyard, went to the balcony door, stepped into the room, and came face-to-face with Nash, very handsome, very smartly dressed, who froze, stared back at her unhappily, turned, and strode into the next room. Garan and Welkley stared also, mouths agape, and Fire remembered that she was dressed up. Even Clara seemed struck dumb.

  “All right,” Fire said, “I know. Pull yourselves together and let’s get on with things.”

  “Is everyone in position?” Brigan asked. Mud-splattered and radiating cold, he looked like he’d been fighting for his life not ten minutes ago and had nearly lost, his cheekbone scraped raw, his jaw bruised, and a bloody bandage across his knuckles. He directed his question at Fire, searching her face with gentle eyes that did not match the rest of his appearance.

  “Everyone’s in position,” she said. Do you need a healer, Lord Prince?

  He shook his head, peering down at his knuckles with mild amusement. “And our enemies? Anyone we weren’t expecting? Any of Cutter’s foggy friends about, Lady?”

  “No, thank the Dells.” Are you in pain?

  “All right,” Clara said. “We have our swordsman, so let’s get moving. Brigan, could you attempt, at least, to make yourself presentable? I know this is a war, but the rest of us are trying to pretend it’s a party.”

  THE THIRD TIME Fire instructed Welkley’s serving girl to offer Gentian wine, Gentian grabbed the cup and downed it in two gulps.

  Fire was fully inside Gentian’s mind now. It was not a stable place. He kept glancing at the balcony belonging to Murgda. When he did this, his entire handsome being flashed with anxiety, and with a peculiar wishfulness.

  Fire began to wonder why, if Gentian was so anxious about Lady Murgda’s balcony, he’d assigned none of his men to monitor Murgda. For Clara had figured right. Fire knew the feeling of every person in Gentian’s entourage, and with a small effort, she could locate each of them. They were lurking around the doors and the persons of various gala guests; they were lurking near the guarded entrances to the royal residences and offices. None of them were lurking around Murgda.

  Murgda, on the other hand, had spies on everyone. Two of them were milling around Gentian this moment.

  Gentian took another cup of wine and glanced once more at Murgda’s empty balcony. It was so odd, the emotion that accompanied these glances. Something like a frightened child looking for reassurance from an adult.

  Why would Gentian look to the balcony of his enemy for reassurance?

  Suddenly Fire wanted very much to feel what would happen if Murgda came onto her balcony and Gentian saw her. But Fire was not going to be able to compel Murgda onto her balcony without Murgda knowing she was being compelled. And then it would be only one more step to Murgda figuring out why.

  It seemed to Fire that if she couldn’t sneak up on Murgda, she might as well be direct. She sent a message.

  Come out, lady rebel, and tell me why you’re here.

  Murgda’s response was both immediate and startling: an ironic, hard pleasure at being so
hailed; an utter lack of surprise or fear; a desire, unmistakable, to meet with the lady monster in person; and a blatant and unapologetic mistrust.

  Well, Fire thought, her tone deliberately careless. I’ll meet with you, if you’ll go to the place I specify.

  Amusement and contempt in response to this. Murgda was not fool enough to be led into a trap.

  And I’m not keen enough to see you, Lady Murgda, that I would let you choose the meeting place.

  Stubborn refusal to leave her self-created fortress.

  You don’t imagine I’d come to you in your rooms, Lady Murgda? No, I begin to think we are not meant to meet after all.

  A determination—a need—to meet Lady Fire, to see her.

  It was intriguing, this need, and Fire was content to use it for her own purposes. She breathed to calm her nerves, for her next message must be perfect in tone: amused—delighted, even—to the point of mild acquiescence, and somewhat curious, but rather indifferent as to where all of this might lead.

  I suppose we could start by getting a look at each other. I’m on the balcony just across from you and up.

  Suspicion. Fire was trying to lure Murgda out again.

  Very well then, Lady Murgda. If you think our plan is to kill you publicly at our winter party and start a war in the court, then by all means, don’t venture onto your balcony. I cannot blame you for caution, though it does seem to disallow your own interests. Goodbye, then.

  A burst of irritation in response to this, which Fire ignored. Then scorn, then mild disappointment; and finally, silence. Fire waited. Minutes passed, and her sense of Murgda shrank, as if Murgda were pulling her feelings away and closing herself tight.

  More minutes passed. Fire was beginning to try to cobble together a new plan when suddenly she felt Murgda moving through her rooms toward her balcony. Fire nudged Gentian to a place in the courtyard where he would not be able to see Fire but would have an unobstructed view of Murgda’s balcony door. Then Fire stepped forward into the light of the candles on her own railing.

  Murgda stopped behind her balcony door and peeked out at Fire through the glass pane. She was as Fire remembered her: a short, plain-faced woman, straight-shouldered and tough looking. Fire was pleased, oddly, by the strong and purposeful sight of her.

  Murgda didn’t emerge to the balcony; she didn’t even crack the door open. But this was what Fire had expected and the most she dared to hope for, and it was enough, for down below, Gentian’s eyes caught hold of Murgda.

  His reaction came to Fire plain as a pail of water thrown in her face. His confidence surged. His nerves were immensely comforted.

  She understood now why Gentian wasn’t spying on Murgda, and why Lord Mydogg’s ally Captain Hart had known so much about Gentian. She understood a good many things, including why Murgda had come. She had come to help Gentian see his plans through. For somewhere along the line, Mydogg and Gentian had become allies against the king.

  And Fire was reading something from Murgda as well, something less surprising. Whether Gentian knew it or not, his ally had come for one other reason. Fire read it in Murgda’s eyes, which stared across the courtyard at her, and in the feeling Murgda was releasing now without meaning to: stupefaction, wonderment, and lust, though not the lust Fire was used to. This lust was hard and scheming, and political. Murgda wanted to steal her. Mydogg and Murgda wanted her for their very own monster tool—had wanted her since the first moment they’d seen her last spring.

  Knowledge—even the knowledge that your enemies had unified to outnumber you—was strengthening. Fire saw now quite assuredly what she must do. What she could do, if she took care and kept hold of all the stray ends. You see? she thought now charmingly to Murgda. You’ve shown your face, and you’re still alive.

  Murgda’s mind sharpened and closed. She narrowed her eyes at Fire and rested her hand on her stomach in an interesting manner Fire understood, because she’d seen it before. Murgda spun around and walked out of sight, never once noticing Gentian, who was still craning his neck at her below.

  Fire stepped back into the shadows. Flatly, without dramatics, she communicated to the others all she had learned. They were surprised; horrified; unsurprised; eager to proceed. She answered as best she could what she believed to be their questions.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever get Lady Murgda out of her rooms, she thought to them. I don’t know if Murgda will die tonight. But Lord Gentian will do whatever I say, and I can probably manage Gunner. Let’s start with them. Lord Mydogg’s allies can tell us Lord Mydogg’s plans.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  FIRE WANTED GENTIAN, and more particularly Gunner, to see her clearly. So she went to the king’s own living quarters, which were on the second level overlooking the courtyard, and walked right out onto the balcony. She looked straight into the dazzled faces of Gentian and Gunner, whom she’d placed in fine position to see her. She smiled suggestively at Gunner and made eyes, which was ridiculous and embarrassing but had the desired effect. And then Nash himself stormed onto the balcony, looked to see whom she was flirting with, glared at Gentian and Gunner, took Fire’s arm, and yanked her back inside. The whole thing lasted possibly nine seconds, a fortunate brevity, for the mental strain on Fire was enormous.

  There had been too many minds in the courtyard to control at once. She’d had help. Welkley’s people had been on the floor creating distractions to deflect attention from her. But persons here and there had seen, and Fire had to make a list now of people who must be watched with extra care on the chance they’d found it interesting that the lady monster seemed to be working her charms on Gentian and Gunner—interesting enough to talk about it, or even do something about it.

  Still, it had worked. Gentian and Gunner had stared, paralyzed by the vision of her. I want to talk to you, she’d thought to them as Nash had dragged her away. I want to join your side. But don’t tell anyone, or you’ll put me in danger.

  Now she sank into a chair in Nash’s sitting room, her head in her hands, monitoring Gentian’s eagerness, Gunner’s suspicion and desire, and skimming the rest of the courtyard and the entirety of the palace for anything relevant or worrisome. Nash went to a side table and came back, crouching before her with a cup of water.

  “Thank you,” she said, glancing up gratefully and taking the cup. “You did well, Lord King. They believe you guard me jealously and I’ve a wish to escape. Gentian is positively brimming with indignation.”

  Clara, sprawled on a sofa, snorted in disgust. “Gullible no-heads.”

  “It’s not their fault, really,” Nash said soberly, still crouched before Fire. He was having a hard time getting up and leaving her. Fire could feel that he was trying. She wanted to put a hand on his arm, out of gratitude for all the ways he always tried, but she knew her touch would be no help to him. Why don’t you take water to your brother, she thought to him gently, for Garan had begun to sweat with one of the fevers that overtook him in moments of stress, and was resting on the sofa with his feet in Clara’s lap. Nash bent his chin to his chest and stood to do what she said.

  Fire considered Brigan, who’d leaned back against a bookshelf, arms crossed, eyes closed, ignoring the argument beginning now between his sister and brothers about the whys and wherefores of Gentian’s stupidity. He was neatly dressed and shaved, but the bruise on his face had darkened to something purple and ugly, and he looked so tired, as if he’d like to sink into the bookshelf and become a part of its solid, inanimate bookshelfness.

  When did you last sleep? she thought to him.

  His pale eyes came open and regarded her. He shrugged, and shook his head, and she knew it had been too long ago.

  Who hurt you?

  He shook his head again, and mouthed a word across the room. Bandits.

  Were you riding alone?

  “I had to,” he said quietly, “or not get here in time.”

  I was not criticizing you, she thought. I trust you to do what you must.

  He opened
a memory to her. He’d promised her, one green and gold day at the start of summer, not to wander alone at night. Yet he’d ridden last night alone, and most of today. It was within her right to criticize.

  I wish, Fire began, and then stopped, because she could not think to him that she wished they did not have this task to do, she wished she could comfort him and help him to sleep. She wished this war away that he and Nash would fight, hacking with swords and fists on a frozen field against too many men. These brothers. How would they get out of such a thing alive?

  Panic bunched inside her. Her tone grew tart. I’ve grown quite fond of your warhorse Big. Will you give her to me?

  He stared at her with about as much incredulity as such a question, posed to the army’s commander on the eve of battle, rightly deserved. And now Fire was laughing, and the sudden, unexpected lightness soothed her aching brain. All right, all right. I was only testing that you were awake and in your right mind. The sight of you taking a nap against the bookshelf doesn’t inspire confidence.