Bursts of Fire

by Susan Forest

  “Bar the door and wait within,” Wenid ordered the men. “Remove his manacles.” When this was done, he nodded to the frightened young man. “You may call me Wenid.” He wanted to relax the—prisoner. It was best not to think of him as an innocent.

  The lad’s head bobbed and he looked at his feet.

  Wenid had been reassured that this was Gweddien Barcley. In the end, his heritage was perhaps no matter; by his skin he was clearly a magiel. If he was not of the House of the Chrysocolla, he would still sire more magiels.

  Wenid hesitated, then splashed wine into both goblets. He could not have compunction in this business. The boy did not matter, only his child.

  He handed the goblet with the glim to the boy.

  The boy lowered the cup suspiciously, his eyes unable to keep from flicking toward the pallet. “What do you intend to do to me?”

  Wenid snorted in disgust. “Not what you think,” he said acidly. “If I wanted to lie with you, I’d have taken you to a warmer room.” He looked pointedly at the boy’s goblet. “And if you suspect me of lacing your wine, be assured.” He drank from his own cup. The wine was astringent, choking. “There. See? Nothing to worry about.” He sat in his own comfortable seat and nodded to a plain chair. “Please, sit.”

  But the boy had used a low accent. Had Wenid’s spies been misled?

  The lad perched gingerly on the wooden chair. A blanket had been draped across it, and he tugged at its edges, pulled it up around his knees. Wenid hadn’t been prepared for the boy’s youth. Naiveté.

  “You are a magiel.” Wenid said the words he’d rehearsed. “A difficult heritage, since the king’s decree that magic wielders are forbidden.”

  The boy held his goblet stiffly in one hand, clutching the blanket around him with the other. If only he didn’t look so frightened.

  Wenid forced himself to go on. There was no room for second thoughts. “I am in a position to give you, and your mother if you wish, a comfortable life in Holderford.” This was all true. “Pleasant apartments. Food, clothing. The company of women.” That would make up, a little, for what he was about to do.

  The boy’s form became rigid. He’d schooled his expression, but Wenid could see derision and disbelief there. “In exchange for what?”

  “Your help in ending these unfortunate uprisings.” He took a small sip of his wine, a nudge. “Speak with those you know who would oppose King Artem’s rightful rule. Help them to understand the glory of the One God, and the dangers of demon worship. Together, we might save much bloodshed.” It was nonsense, but the boy must relax...swallow the potion. Then, what followed would be out of Wenid’s hands.

  “And if I did, would Artem return the lands usurped from the kings who stood up for their people?” The boy was challenging him. “The lands Artem gave to his sycophants?”

  “What’s done is done.” This boy might use a low accent but he didn’t question why he’d been asked to be a spokesperson. He spoke directly and clearly. He was no peasant. “Those kings had the opportunity to swear allegiance to King Artem and the One God when they were first asked. And some did.”

  “So, no, then.” In the dim flicker of the candlelight, the boy’s face darkened in anger. An idealist, a fighter. That would soon be gone.

  If only the boy would calm himself, he might drink. There were other, uglier ways to get the glim into him. Wenid hoped it would not come to that. “You are only a village magiel, I think. Who owns the lands you live on hardly makes any difference.”

  The boy straightened. “I am the son of Yolen Barcley, magiel of the House of the Chrysocolla, in Highglen, whom you left to die of a curse in prison,” he said, and his voice modulated, a flawless highborn accent. “King Gramaret lost his castle and all his lands when King Artem stole the Chrysocolla and destroyed it.”

  “Of course, I need proof you are who you say you are.”

  “I speak the truth and have no proof beyond my word. However, it is nought to me, if you believe me or not.”

  “If you are truly a magiel of one of the Great Houses, descended from The One God, himself, you can show it.”

  The boy tilted his head slightly. “Very well.” He lifted the blanket over his head, shielding him from the candlelight. It took a moment for the boy’s unmasking, but his skin glittered in the lightless space like an inky night sky, filled with infinitesimally tiny sparks of light. The universe of the Gods, the Heavens visible through his skin. The miracle was breathtaking.

  “Are you satisfied?” Gweddien lowered the blanket.

  Wenid took a breath and topped up the wine in his goblet. “I am.” He reached over to refill Gweddien’s untouched cup.

  Confirmation. It was a relief, and at the same time, a niggle. Their backgrounds were not dissimilar. Yet, didn’t Wenid understand the pain the boy would live? In service to the One God? It was his own pain.

  The boy drank.

  Wenid watched, a sickness turning in his stomach. He looked away and finished his goblet.

  “We had a peaceful country,” the boy was arguing. “Men could become wealthy through their own labor. Men could become learned. Men had hopes of raising their station.”

  All of this, true. But a wealthy country put greed above worship. An educated country questioned the divine right to rule. A country where men changed their stations became unstable. None of this would happen; not while Wenid had the king’s ear. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Your thoughts on these matters are helpful.”

  The boy did not hear him. He listened but listened to some sensation deep within himself.

  “Would you like to lie down?” And now, the bliss would begin. Wenid knew it. Envied him. Wept for him.

  The boy frowned. “The wine...is strong.”

  Wenid nodded to the guards who helped the boy to the pallet and covered him with furs. “You may leave, now,” he said softly when they were done. “He will be no trouble.”

  Meg woke, chilled, with spruce needles trickling down the neck of her robe and the roar of the river in her ears. The afternoon was waning to twilight, and the early summer heat beginning to abate, though it was cool beneath the low spreading branches of the spruce tree.

  A man’s voice was audible over the water. “The stones were chinked with moss, and the wind came right through. I visited it once.”

  Meg sat up to dig the twigs from her robe and knocked the branch above her, precipitating another shower of needles into her hair and clothing.

  “When did your father come to Archwood?” A different voice, pitched higher, muffled by the rushing water.

  “As a boy.” Sulwyn? “My grandfather had earned enough to buy his contract by trading wines. Ever since I was a boy, we always had the best wines in our home.”

  The space beneath the spruce tree was dim. Dusk had crept along the river when Meg wasn’t looking. She’d wriggled under the ground-sweeping lower branches of the spruce to recover from the morning’s healing, away from Janat and Rennika and the squalor of the shanty town, and to escape the heat. Just to close her eyes in the cool, summer-scented echoes of the river. She’d fallen asleep.

  “So that’s how your father became a trader.” The girl’s voice was only audible above the sound of the river because she sat so close to Meg’s tree. Who was Sulwyn with? Nia?

  “Yes. Hard work, of course.” Yes, that was Sulwyn. “But it couldn’t have happened if King Ean hadn’t seen the value of letting men have rising hopes.” Meg peered through the thick branches. Pants and stockings and boots. He sat almost close enough to touch. “Dwyn is a lot like King Ean,” he went on. “The people of Gramarye love him. But we need to build a following in Midell and Pagoras, and especially in Arcan. Dwyn and the rest of us have worked out a plan. We leave soon.”

  Leave?

  “King Gramaret?” The woman—girl?—he was with, sounded impressed. If he was seducing her, it couldn’t be Nia. Nia liked women. “What’s your work?”

  —the voice. Was Janat’s.

  Meg
felt a stab of guilt.

  “Emissary. Raising support. Meeting and talking to men of substance.”

  Negotiating with men of power? A thrill of fear and adventure coursed through Meg.

  “You don’t have to go.” Yes, Janat. Unmistakably.

  But Meg couldn’t stop listening. Sulwyn, meeting men who’d lost everything. Angry men. Or—perhaps, men who still clung to their money, afraid. Fearful men were dangerous. Covert talks, hidden in alleys and basements. King Gramaret had to remain concealed, protected; his emissaries did not. Could not.

  Perilous.

  “We have a moment of time, Janat. Only a moment in which to act. Everything’s turned upside down. People are angry. They’re confused. Artem is distracted. This is our opportunity to put the rule of law ahead of the whim of the king. And the Amber might be the only prayer stone other than his own that Artem hasn’t smashed. We must preserve the Amber. When Dwyn leaves, I’m going west.”

  “But you could be hurt again.”

  Why were Sulwyn and Janat sitting on the riverbank, alone? Janat wasn’t even interested in politics, not like Meg.

  “Why does it have to be you? To do this work?” Janat’s words were almost drowned by the rush of the river. Was she crying? Trying to stop him? Meg listened as hard as she could above the roar.

  “King Ean, Janat.” Sulwyn spoke with quiet passion. “Under his rule, my grandfather earned enough to buy his serfdom from his master. My father became a trader. I had a future. Do you know what that meant to me?”

  Meg would have gone on such a quest in a trice.

  “I could have been someone of influence. One day, I might even have held property, or perhaps my sons, or my sons’ sons. Do you know? Some of the guildsmen in Archwood owned their own shops.”

  Kyaju. He was right.

  “If Artem’s Ruby becomes the only prayer stone left, will his magiel bring death tokens back from Heaven for everyone? Hmm?” Sulwyn asked. “Or only for his highborn allies? Will he condemn anyone who thinks differently from him—to wander for eternity when they die?”

  “I know,” Janat conceded. “This fight is...who you are.”

  Meg itched to do something. But she was a woman, stuck here, taking care of Janat and Rennika. Hiding out in a village in the middle of nowhere. Hiding the dissonance of her skin.

  Sulwyn’s tone altered. “Do you know how long you and your sisters will stay here?”

  “No.”

  “It would be wise for you not to stay in one place for too long,” Sulwyn advised.

  Of course! Meg had been saying that since they arrived. But Janat wanted to stay—with Sulwyn.

  These words. They were private.

  Something had changed.

  When had Sulwyn and Janat started excluding her?

  “The people of Silvermeadow have been good to us,” Janat hedged.

  Kyaju. A sour taste filled Meg’s mouth and she was suddenly hot. Janat was just turned sixteen. And what about Sulwyn? Twenty? Twenty-two?

  Sulwyn’s voice kept on, melodic tones over the shush of the river. “There are rumors that Talanda’s daughters escaped Archwood. It’s only a matter of time until King Artem finds out who you all are.”

  Meg wanted to be anywhere but where she was.

  Sulwyn spoke again. “Dwyn says Elsen is far from Artem’s war. It fell early in the war and is at peace, now.”

  Maybe if she crept out the other side of the tree? But she’d rustle the bracken and they’d hear her.

  “Would you...would you consider...coming with me?”

  Go? With Sulwyn? A sting bloomed in Meg chest.

  “With you?”

  The words made Meg’s face burn, made her want to be anywhere but here.

  “I thought I could take you somewhere safe, maybe a small village in Elsen, and I would come to you when I could. I know it’s a lot to ask—”

  “Yes!”

  The river sounds rushed on, and Meg could hear nothing. She shifted. From her place she could see Sulwyn’s legs and a bit of Janat’s robe. If she stayed quiet long enough, they’d leave. Please, Gods, let them leave.

  Neither of them spoke. No sound, only the boom of the river. Janat’s skirt stirred.

  Meg could not help herself. She moved a branch to look.

  Sulwyn held Janat close to him, indecently close. Her arms were about his neck, his face bent over hers, eyes closed, their lips fastened.

  Meg’s stomach punched, her hand frozen to the branch, eyes unable to turn away. Janat—dear Janat—was only sixteen—

  And Sulwyn. Meg had thought him better than that. To kiss a child—

  Their lips parted. Janat looked deeply into the man’s face for a long time, her cheeks pink, contentment on her face. Sulwyn laid her on the grass on her back and leaning over her, traced the finger of his free hand along the edge of her cheek. He touched his nose to hers.

  Meg drew back into the dusk beneath the spruce tree. This was wrong.

  But...Janat and Sulwyn looked...

  Happy.

  The sound of the river would mask Meg’s leaving. She crept to the far side of the bole and out from beneath its branches, and made her way by a long and circuitous route through the woods, back to the town, thinking long and hard as she did so.

  Sulwyn...loved Janat.

  CHAPTER 19

  The summer air—even at night—had taken on a softness Rennika had never felt when she lived in the mountains. As the strawberries faded, the raspberries grew heavy on their canes. When she wasn’t begging or running messages, Rennika helped Sieura Barcley find herbs under auspicious celestial signs, and the magiel, still grieving her son’s disappearance, instructed Rennika in magic.

  But now as summer mellowed, Sulwyn had told them he was leaving. And Meg and Janat talked of going somewhere, too, which Rennika couldn’t fathom. They had friends in Silvermeadow. Her sisters had found enough work to live and they weren’t beaten often, as long as they stayed out of the way. Rennika didn’t want to go back to wandering.

  But the morning came when Sulwyn packed his cart, Janat had scrubbed his clothes and hung them to dry, then later, folded them and brought them to him. Meg and Rennika went to the tavern stable to say goodbye.

  Janat was sitting on the stone wall that divided the yak pen from the horse stalls as Sulwyn brushed the mare Sieur Dwyn had procured for him. “If there are no buildings there, you’ll have a lot of work before winter,” she was saying.

  He stroked the tolerant mountain pony with a wide brush. “No merchant is a stranger to work,” he said as Rennika and Meg slipped through the barn door.

  Rennika ran to him and wrapped her arms around him. “Don’t go!”

  “I have to go.” Sulwyn hugged her back. “I have to work.”

  “Get someone else to do it.” She climbed onto the stone wall beside Janat.

  “That’s part of my work,” he said, pulling the bridle from its hook and sliding it over the mare’s head. “Showing others why they should join us.”

  The door opened and a tall man peered in. “Ah. Sulwyn.” It was the man who was once king of Gramarye, and didn’t want his title used, so they all called him Dwyn. He eased himself through the door and closed it behind him. He had a head of thick dark hair with bits of gray that fell to his shoulders, now tied back but for a few strands. His clothing was good but used, and he covered it with a ragged woollen cloak. His boots, though, had not yet worn out.

  Sulwyn led the pony to her place before the cart. He nodded at Dwyn, which was completely wrong to Rennika, though Meg had explained why it must be so. “Sieur. I thank you again for your generosity.” He gestured to the horse and cart.

  Dwyn’s nod was graceful and kingly. Like the other refugees, he struggled to copy the low accent. “You’re working for Shangril,” he said. “You need tools to accomplish your undertaking.” He swept a glance over Rennika and her sisters. “What of the magiels?”

  Rennika startled. He knew?

  Sul
wyn took the harness down from its peg. “They’ve been discussing staying in Silvermeadow for the winter.”

  “Out of the question. Too many people here suspect who they are.”

  “They do not!” Janat cried, but the king silenced her with a glance.

  Meg lifted her head. “Sieur—”

  “Silvermeadow is on the King’s Road,” Dwyn said in a tone that permitted no debate. Meg looked as though she wanted to argue, but for once she didn’t.

  Rennika looked to Janat for support, but her sister only stared at Sulwyn, sudden fear on her face.

  Sulwyn draped the harness over the mare’s body. “My father had a friend, a trade partner, actually, with cousins in Wildbrook.”

  “Where is Wildbrook?” Meg asked.

  “The country of Elsen. North and west of here. Some distance.”

  The deposed king placed his hands behind his back, head lowered, centering on Sulwyn’s words. “The King’s Road will take them through Midell.”

  “Beorn is going to Pagoras. He could see them safely past Midell.” Sulwyn’s fingers stilled on the buckle and he gave Janat a reassuring look.

  “How long a journey?” Meg looked from one man to the other.

  Sulwyn limped to the other side of the mare to adjust the straps on the harness. “Two weeks, depending on the weather.”

  “They can’t all go,” Dwyn said.

  Rennika gripped Janat’s hand.

  “Why not?” Meg demanded.

  With a look, Dwyn deflected the question to Sulwyn.

  Sulwyn’s fingers fell from their work and he turned to Meg. “Three of you together. Your accents. Your ages. One scintillating, one variable, one steady.”

  “Be plain.”

  He shrugged apologetically at Janat. “It’s clear who you are to anyone who knows what to look for.” He flicked his gaze to the king.

  “There are rumors Talanda’s daughters escaped Archwood the night of the attack.”

  Janat hung her head.

  “No one has substantiated them,” Sulwyn interjected, finding his mug. “So far, the civil war has thrown the country in chaos. No one knows—for sure—who’s been killed, who’s in exile...”