Bursts of Fire

by Susan Forest

  A shudder of power reverberated through the square. Meg felt its impact on her skin and in her heart, and she was blown back into the peasants behind her.

  No. By the Many Gods, no.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance—or perhaps within her skull—despite the wintry weather.

  How would murderers and thieves now gain access to the lowest sphere of Heaven and find their forgiveness in death? How would Uncle Chirles and King Larin of Teshe go to the spheres of the Gods to pray for death tokens for their subjects? The prayer stone, and its power, were utterly destroyed.

  How could this be?

  The grumbling resumed, lashing and furious. Gaps appeared about her, as people exhorted their neighbors. Meg had to move. She wormed her way toward the end of the platform.

  Now King Artem, himself, raised his hands and stepped forward. “Hear me, people of Shangril! The old ways are gone. Embrace the new.” He stepped back and nodded to his chancellor.

  Soldiers grasped Uncle Chirles’s two arms. Two others seized his sons. Before the magiel could do more than flinch in surprise, a soldier bound his hands behind his back.

  What?

  Meg caught a glimpse—

  Someone brushed the remaining shards of the Amethyst from the stone slab and placed a block of wood across it. Uncle Chirles was shoved to his knees, his head stretched across the block. Hazy mirages flicked near him, disappeared, and flicked again.

  “No! By all that is Holy!” her uncle screamed, writhing. Two soldiers pinned him down, hard. “Not my sons!”

  Uncle Chirles—

  “In the name of the Many Gods, you cannot—”

  The executioner gave his sledgehammer to an assistant and took up the ax.

  “This is blasphemy!” Uncle Chirles shouted.

  King Artem nodded, and her uncle’s face, just visible, paled with shock. The Holder of Histories placed his death token on his tongue.

  Again, with the same single fluid stroke, the executioner raised his ax and brought it down—

  Meg averted her face. But she could not keep it averted.

  Blood spattered those closest, and the severed head fell to the platform with a thump.

  Her stomach seized and she gagged. There were executions in Orumon, of course there were. But not many, and she’d never seen one.

  This time, a wave of outrage and shouting filled the square. Meg’s sight cleared.

  A tomato smashed itself against the plate armor of one of the king’s guards.

  Like a machine, the guards on the periphery of the platform nocked their arrows and raised their bows. Soldiers on the parapets did the same.

  Cold skittered over Meg’s neck and back. A soldier shoved Uncle Chirles’ older son—her cousin—

  There would be a moment of chaos. Just as there had been in Archwood. She had to make use of it.

  Meg pushed down her nausea, shoved against the milling crowd and freed herself into a gap between the mob and the castle wall. Pressing herself against the stone, she made herself small and wriggled along its rough surface. In a moment, she grasped the edge of the gate.

  The crowd went silent and a child’s scream was cut short.

  A horde of soldiers poured through the opening.

  In their wake, she darted into the castle.

  Meg knew the layout of Coldridge castle. She’d been here last summer.

  But as she darted up the cobbled entryway, Meg realized this knowledge would do her little good. She must still pass through three gates before she could gain the inner courtyard. The Gods were with her. For this brief instant in time, all three gates were open and empty of soldiers.

  She didn’t fool herself that the murder hole between the second and third gate contained no eyes spying from above or rocks ready to pour down on her. But she had surprise on her side. She scooted past the second gate and, flattening herself against the wall, scuttled through just as the third gate was lowering. She ducked and rolled beneath it, reaching the courtyard before the portcullis spikes found their slots in the cobbles, rocks tumbling through the murder hole behind her.

  She scrambled into the stairwell, clambering up its spiral as shouts erupted behind her. She followed a passage she’d discovered while playing Catch Thief with the younger children one afternoon. Images of Uncle Chirles slashed her vision as she ran.

  She dashed, finally, into the kitchen. A half dozen surprised faces flicked up from their work, and a scullery maid at her elbow screamed.

  Meg grabbed the girl by the shoulders. The name came to her. “Bess,” she cried. “It’s me! Meghra Falkyn!”

  The scullery maid stared at her, speechless with shock. There were four or five others in the small room. Cook, the cinder boy, a few more.

  “Bess, I have to talk to King Larin.”

  Bess continued to stare, her mouth open.

  Cook was at her side in a stride. “Meghra Falkyn?”

  “Yes. Do you recognize me?’

  Cook peered incredulously into her face. “Meghra Falkyn. How...”

  “Archwood is attacked. It’s under siege by King Artem. I have to tell King Larin.”

  Tell King Larin. Unless his head was next on the block.

  “Siege.” Cook nodded. “We were attacked and taken. Late summer. No siege. The king capitulated.” She spat on the floor. “He can’t help you.”

  Uncle Chirles. The sickening crunch—

  Meg shook the thought away. “I have to try. I have to talk to him. Is there any way you can sneak me into his room?”

  Cook’s brows knit. “Not easily. And, too risky.” Then she nodded: a short, decisive nod. “I’ll do what I can.” She turned and glared at the servants who stared at them in horror. “And not a word from any of you,” she bellowed.

  The sounds of footsteps and shouting in the corridor gave Cook an instant to react. She snatched a knife from the table at her elbow and an onion from a basket, and shoved them into Meg’s hands.

  Meg grasped her meaning. She hunkered down by a table, slicing.

  Cook flicked her fingers, and the servants returned to their duties. Bess picked up the bucket she’d been carrying and slipped Meg a shy smile before taking it out to the well.

  A handful of soldiers poured into the room, spreading out to search, looking beneath tables, in cupboards, behind crates, eyeing each scullery girl, drudge, and apprentice.

  “A spy entered the castle.” One of the soldiers addressed the room. “Has anyone seen him?”

  Cook shrugged. “No, Sir.”

  Spy. Meg’s vision flashed with a picture of her uncle kneeling at the block.

  The others murmured in the negative, heads lowered.

  Two soldiers continued to inspect the servants. One approached Meg. She put her knife and onion on the table and stood respectfully, hands at her sides, staring at the floor.

  He pushed past her, looked under her table, and continued searching.

  “You have a magiel?” The soldier who’d spoken seemed to see Meg for the first time.

  Cook bobbed her head. “Daughter of a village healer. A half-wit, not fit to apprentice in magic.”

  Meg wilted a little, in confirmation. By Kyaju, had they seen her skin as she dashed through the gates?

  The sickening crunch of the axman’s blade echoed in her ears.

  The commanding soldier grunted. “If you see anything untoward, report immediately,” he said. He nodded and left the room, followed by his men.

  CHAPTER 13

  Cook commandeered an upstairs maid to take Meg by way of the servants’ stairs to the king’s keep. Cook found Meg a long-sleeved apron, scrubbed her face and hands and put a cap over her hair, and the girl carried a tray of berries and cream while Meg carried a bottle of whiskey. Cook warned Meg as she wrapped her own shawl over her shoulders, she had no idea how a magiel with capricious skin and no proper livery would convince the guards she was one of the servants, nor how Meg would ever get out. King Artem and his magiel had taken quarters in th
e keep very close by King Larin’s.

  But getting away was not top of mind; once Meg was under King Larin’s protection, the difficulty would lie in retrieving Janat and Rennika. She could not afford to entertain other possibilities.

  Meg followed the girl up the back stairs, seeing but not seeing the flagstones beneath her feet. If the king would only give her refuge. The cook’s comment about him capitulating with no siege repeated in her mind despite all she could do to shove it aside. Was she walking to her own execution?

  Uncle Chirles.

  A guard stood back by one of the double doors but scrutinized her closely as she followed the maid into an antechamber. A desk and chair near a glass-paned window, and a narrow servant’s bed with attendant wardrobe, table, and chest, occupied the other side of the room. Tapestries covered the walls and narrowed the window, and only a few wavering candles fought back the gloom of the overcast day. A page waited at a large door opposite the double doors to the corridor.

  The maid was just approaching the page to be admitted to King Larin’s private chamber when a tumult of footsteps preceded a half-dozen men spilling into the room.

  King Artem, a powerfully built military man with a full mane of silver-streaked lank hair, strode in at their head, followed by a handful of guards. A tall magiel lined with age, white haired, and wearing unbleached robes scurried at the king’s heel, speaking in an insistent but restrained voice. “Sire, magiels do not require prayer stones to see the future.”

  Meg and the maid, bowing, backed away swiftly, as far as they could toward the wall.

  This magiel. Meg remembered. Papa had fled King Artem last summer and was replaced by a new magiel. She'd heard a rumor that Papa was dead.

  Where was King Larin?

  “By your reasoning we should kill all magiels.” The king stopped in the center of the room to glare at him, and the others halted as well.

  What?

  “Can you come up with no other solutions, Wenid? If restricting them to certain streets, certain markets isn’t enough, what about this potion you mentioned? Glim. Use that.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  The magiel’s voice took on an odd tone, less confident. “That is going too far. I was wrong to mention it.”

  Meg couldn’t help herself. She peered up at the tableau from beneath her bowed head. Wenid. Had she heard the name before? And...glim.

  “You saw the crowd’s reaction to today’s events,” the king snapped. “Killing magiels only fuels resentment. The message is lost.”

  “And who rules Shangril?” Wenid’s boldness returned, and he spoke as if he addressed merely another man, not a king. “You, or the rabble?”

  Shangril. All seven countries? How could—

  “I’ve already decreed death to magiels of the Great Houses,” the king said. “I will not condemn every magiel in the empire.”

  Empire. Meg caught her breath. Death? All magiels of the Great Houses?

  The House of Amber. Mama.

  Janat and Rennika. Her.

  “Magiels and Holders are symbols about which the mobs rally,” Wenid persisted. “You must end their influence, once and for all.”

  Artem waved his hand in dismissal. “Magiel magic is weak compared to prayer stone magic. Common village magiels are no threat.”

  “Common village magiels have decided battles by breaking horses’ legs. Even trusted magiels in our own ranks have turned traitors.” Wenid took a step toward the king and lowered his voice. “And we can’t pray to the One God to intervene in every skirmish. The cost would be too great.”

  Artem shot him a black look but did not step back.

  “We must establish the authority of the One God.” The magiel watched the king’s face. “And the authority of the one true king. Now, and beyond question.”

  “The petty nobles have no ability to mount opposition.”

  “On the contrary. Magiels lead a hidden blasphemy,” the shimmering man clipped, his voice still constrained. “As long as every village has a magiel, the people will continue to go to them, at night, in secret, prayer stones or no. The Many Gods will still be worshipped.”

  The king flicked his finger at the page and the boy opened the door. “I said I would bring these uprisers to heel,” he said to the magiel. “And I will. Now, leave it be, Sieur. I would meet with my sons.”

  Wenid opened his mouth as if he would speak, his dark eyes boring into the king. But he grudgingly bowed his head.

  The king swept into the chamber, the page following, closing the door behind.

  By Kyaju, all magiels? Killed? It brought bile to the back of Meg’s throat.

  But this was only Wenid’s plan. The king had not yet agreed.

  The maid gave her a bewildered, frightened look.

  “Leave,” one of the soldiers said to them. “The king will send his page if he requires aught.”

  Yes. Leave. Now.

  Meg followed the maid to the double doors.

  A mailed arm extended a spear between her and the maid. “Stop.”

  Meg stopped, her heart stopping as well.

  The maid made good her exit, casting a quick glance of pity at Meg before she disappeared down the corridor.

  “We have no magiels for servants.”

  Meg felt the eyes of the guards—and the king’s magiel—on her. “I—I’m new, Sieur.” She prayed to the Many that the accent she’d worked so hard to perfect would not betray her. “In t’ kitchen.”

  Wenid approached, and she lowered her head. “Explain yourself.”

  The door. Only a few feet from her. With the guard blocking it. Could she use magic? Not against Wenid. Her breath fluttered in her chest and she felt faint.

  That was it. What Cook said, about her being dim. She let fear flood her, poke tears to the back of her eyes and allowed her lips to tremble. “I—I—”

  Wenid tilted his head back as if the curse of her dull-wittedness was contagious.

  She swallowed and licked her lips. “Me Ma’s village magiel t’Big Hill,” she sniveled, looking from the magiel to the guard and back. “T’ village burnt—”

  Wenid snorted. “The basement cell will suffice until I can come.” He waved a hand at the guard and went into the corridor, muttering. “And the king wants the likes of this in Shangril.”

  The guard narrowed his eyes at her and she lowered her head again. “Come with me.”

  She shrank back. “Please, Sieur! Ask Cook!”

  There were two guards.

  Artem had attacked every country in Shangril.

  They manhandled her roughly into a cold and dank room in a small complex of half a dozen cells beneath the guard tower, reached down a short flight of stone steps from the bailey. Coldridge castle wasn’t big, and though rebuilding over the centuries had turned parts of it into a warren, this once–cold cellar was uncomplicated, thank the Gods, and located near the main gate. Its locks would be simple to circumvent once the castle slept. If she had that long.

  Artem’s magiel would have him outlaw—kill—every magiel in Shangril. Gods, there must be thousands. Tens of thousands. More.

  One guard released her, standing ready, while the other swiftly manacled her to the wall. Thereafter, they kept their distance. Clearly, they knew better than to let a magiel touch them. Even a simpleton.

  Unlike lowborn magiels, Meg was a daughter of one of the Great Houses of magic wielders reaching back to the Goddess Kyaju, and she had some limited ability to throw a spell—to cast with words at a short distance, without ingredients. But, shivering with fright and regret in the cell’s manacles, she could see nothing, in the dim light filtering from the waning afternoon, to cast upon. Raising a flagstone to trip one of them would get her nowhere but a deeper dungeon.

  Smash the Amber. Kill Mama. Deprive the people of their death tokens. Their access to Heaven.

  Could she—did she have the stomach—to close the throat of one of them, hold it closed until he died? Open a b
lood vessel in his brain?

  Even if she did, the other would raise the alarm. Her options fled, one after the other.

  “What’s your name?” The wary one asked. The other lit a handful of candle stubs fixed to a rickety wooden table.

  Dull. Common. She must appear a half-wit. She looked from one to the other and let her fright take deeper hold of her. In the dim brilliance and flickering shadows, the questioner produced a thick leather strap. “Meg!” she yelped, cringing.

  “Where you from?” He slapped the leather across his gloved palm, the thwack a promise.

  “Big Hill!”

  “Sieur.”

  “Sieur! Big Hill, Sieur!“

  He slapped the leather again.

  A third guard arrived, carrying a small cask, and the second grinned. “Does your thirst never end, Dunn?”

  “Could be a long night.” Dunn reasoned, and even in this light, Meg could see his complexion was florid. “Could get dry.”

  Ale? Or—Sulwyn said in Teshe they drank whiskey, and she’d seen how it made Sulwyn, and Janat the one time she tried it, silly and sleepy.

  The Gods were with her. Something on which to cast a spell.

  Meg willed the unfermented barley wort in the whiskey to find a time when it became alcohol. She cast a second, and a third spell to strengthen the brew, every minute apprehensive that one of them would become suspicious of her before the liquor had taken full effect.

  But the charm worked. The tipple made the florid guard drowsy and the second stupid. It made the wary guard belligerent, and she felt the sting of his thong across her arms and thighs and face more than once before his arm weakened and he joined the others in incoherence.

  By then she’d released the locks on her manacles, and when the cruel guard began to stumble, she darted from his witless attempts to grab her and out of the cell, closing—and locking—the door behind her.

  Stars spangled the sky when she emerged from the dungeon.

  Every magiel. Dead.

  But the king hadn’t agreed. He’d argued with Wenid. Told him to use something else. Glim.

  The main gate. With a colossal effort she found a moment when the portcullis was raised, and stepped through that doorway in time to her freedom.