Bursts of Fire

by Susan Forest

  “I haven’t forgotten anything. That’s weeks away.”

  “You never talk about it anymore.” Janat pressed the point. “You hardly pray. You don’t believe the Gods will help us. You think men need to fight men. You think—”

  “Five of the prayer stones have been smashed, Janat!” Meg slammed her quill onto the table and stood. “The king has killed the magiels of the Great Houses and is persecuting the rest. How are the Gods helping us, hmm? It is we who must help the Gods. Men have to right the wrongs that men have done.”

  “And you encourage Sulwyn to fight. You champion war, and killing, and death—”

  “I support the dream Sulwyn’s chosen. Better than you. I’m not a burden, a millstone—”

  “I am not!”

  “No? You’re afraid of your own shadow. You’ve always depended on everyone to care for you. Nanna. Me. That harebrained idea to go to the king’s men—”

  “That was a long time ago!”

  “—Sulwyn. Did you ever love him?” Meg flared. “Or just trade comfort for security?”

  “Meg!“

  “Even Rennika had more pluck than you, pickpursing. She’s the one who brought you work. Sewing. She’s the one who brought you requests for spells. You sat and hid.” Meg’s words flew, as though a dam had burst and she did not stop until all the spite had poured out.

  “Rennika’s quiet-skinned!”

  Meg blew out a breath in disgust.

  Janat had to get out. Piss on the dangers beyond her walls. Piss on the cold. She marched to the hooks beside the pallets and, finding her sack, tore her clothing from the pegs, rolled up her blankets and pallet, and stuffed everything into the sack.

  “You’re leaving?” Meg’s voice betrayed astonishment and satisfaction. “Janat?”

  The blasted candle created more shadows than light. Janat had to find all her things. She was not coming back.

  Meg said nothing, but Janat could feel her watching in disbelief.

  Food. She went to the sideboard and found half a loaf left from supper. A sack of oats. An onion. Apples.

  “Go, then,” Meg said from the table.

  The chetra in the pot. They were all hers. She had earned them.

  “We don’t need you.”

  We.

  Janat pulled her cloak from its peg by the door and slung her sack over her shoulder. “You know.” She stopped at the door, her hand on the knob, still shivering, and turned. “The stupid thing is. I’ll always love you.” She shot Meg a glare, and escaped.

  CHAPTER 25

  Huwen Delarcan consulted his figures. “Twenty-first ratchet mark,” he commanded with a confidence that belied his perpetual uncertainty. Since his gangly frame had put on muscle, hardening with his time at the siege camp, and his voice had ceased to flip out of its rather pleasing baritone, he felt more like a king-to-be than a mere prince. But Father still treated him like a child. Told him nothing of war strategy.

  The soldiers operating the trebuchet loaded the leather pocket with the requisite stone and began winding the winch. Huwen wished he’d paid more attention when his tutor was explaining the mathematics of triangles—particularly, how to compensate for a whistling winter wind.

  Above them, the stone ramparts of Archwood bound cliff to cliff across a high valley. When the city hadn’t fallen within the first weeks, it’d become clear it would only fall once the Amber no longer protected it. Eventually, the prayer stone’s magiel or its royal would die of starvation, disease, or accident. But as long as Talanda’s three magiel daughters and King Ean’s daughter lived, the siege could continue for years. The continual bombardment of the city via trebuchet was more military exercise to keep the men occupied, with the outside chance of a damaging hit.

  “A hit,” the captain reported.

  Father clapped a hand on Huwen’s shoulder in encouragement, but it was clear the stone had fallen just below the crenels, and had left no mark on the wall.

  “Reposition. Twenty seventh ratchet mark.” Huwen wished he could learn about command in one of the other skirmishes. Father had been training him in the current political situation and its roots. Arcan had made alliances among the seven kingdoms—well, six, until Archwood’s walls fell—and created a single political unit under the guidance of one king, his father. And, it was true, the creation of an empire had required the centralization of prayer to the One God, the only true God, and this had necessitated the destruction of the obsolete prayer stones. All the stones, that was, except the Ruby, the stone used by Father and his magiel, Wenid Col. At least, that’s what Wenid had said.

  As a consequence, small rebellions cropped up, as not all peasants understood the necessity of unification. Rebellions led to the death of honest empire-supporting civilians. Rebels were cowards, ignoring the rules of engagement, wearing no uniforms, so they could hide among innocent villagers. Often, they used weak but cleverly cast spells against their king. Such uprisings were absurd, but Huwen had to admit, probably more exciting than this endless siege. Over a year, now.

  “Majesty.” A foot soldier made a brief bow to Huwen’s father and indicated an approaching figure some distance down the snow-covered ridge.

  The trebuchet released and the stone arced gracefully into the air and landed squarely on the corner of a crenel. Huwen thought he could see the faintest mark where a splinter of stone had chipped. The men cheered, and a small bloom of pride suffused Huwen. He smiled, accepting his father’s nod of approval and Wenid’s faint smile. “Reposition,” he ordered.

  The courier was getting closer; Uther, by his gait, climbing quickly. He’d arrived yesterday from Holderford, having delivered Father’s instructions for supplies, and returning with mundane communications from Prince Avin, and some gossip from the capital. Saffen’s family had returned to Summerbluff, which meant Anwen went with her. More importantly, he brought news about recent altercations between rebels and soldiers. A group of lesser nobles in Teshe renounced their pledges and sided with a group of rebels. Their deceit culminated with King Larin’s death, leaving Father with no king in Teshe. Each revolt had been quelled, but cities, towns, villages—all—were strained with apprehension. And the uprisers’ powerful new magic, treacherously unleashed at the failed surrender in the fall—which Huwen had seen firsthand at Father’s side—had been confirmed by a second unexplained sorcery.

  Father eyed the row of trebuchets and the soldiers plodding back and forth to reset them. “Come,” he said to Huwen. “Interruptions are part of leadership.” He crunched on the hardened path through the snow, Wenid hobbling along behind. Huwen shoved his paper in his purse and, turning his back on the mountain wind, made his way down the ridge behind them.

  They met out of the earshot of the men. Uther nodded to Father. “Eamon is hurt,” he said without preamble, his breath puffing white in the cold. “He appears to have cut his own wrists. You’re wanted in the high camp.”

  No! Eamon had promised—

  Father paled, his eyes riveted on Uther. “Gods,” he muttered, and Wenid shot him a piercing glance.

  “Physicians attend him,” Uther continued in his urgently neutral tone. “They believe they will stop the bleeding, but the prince is not conscious. He may yet die. The Holder of Histories is by his side and will administer his death token if he feels the time is near.”

  By the One—

  Father glared at Wenid. “This war,” he growled. “This entire war, this upheaval in the country. So many dead. And he throws it away!”

  Wenid grabbed Father’s shoulders and gave him a shake. “Your end of the bargain. Until it is completed, the contract is not sealed.”

  Bargain?

  Father shoved Wenid’s hands away and marched at a reckless pace down the icy path.

  What did Wenid mean?

  Wenid’s face reddened with fury. “Everything!” he fumed under his breath. “Everything we’ve fought for!” He glared at Uther, who shrank from him. “Your father would let the fate of the s
ouls of his people rest on a boy’s whim.” He tromped down the ridge after Father, the wind whipping his cloak.

  Huwen stood stock-still in shock. How could a man touch Father that way?

  Uther lowered his head in sorrow and gestured for Huwen to precede him.

  And...the war was about broken trade alliances...

  Huwen took a step, followed by another.

  Eamon, like to die?

  And what had father meant, the war...this war was for...Eamon?

  It was the next morning when Huwen was allowed to enter his brother’s tent. He waited until Father had gone. Eamon lay on a cot on his back, one bandaged arm flung over his pale forehead, staring with glassy eyes at the canvas overhead. The Holder of Histories sat beside him, a bowl of cold soup congealing on the table.

  Eamon glanced at him, then looked away. His eyes were filled with the pain Huwen had seen there ever since his illness, over a year ago. The Holder stood and bowed, and Huwen dismissed him.

  Huwen brought the camp stool close to his brother’s cot. “You promised,” he said in a fierce whisper.

  He expected Eamon to dismiss him with a curt, “I lied,” but instead, he pressed his lips together, tears brightening his eyes. “You don’t know,” he rasped, “how I tried.”

  The words blunted Huwen’s rage. Pity and bafflement took its place. “What...” He shrugged.

  Eamon closed his eyes. “Uther brought a letter.”

  Huwen cast about, saw a folded paper near the soup. He unfolded it and read. He crumpled the paper. “Saffen’s family went back to Summerbluff?” This information had dampened Huwen’s spirits when he’d heard it; Anwen had been forced to go, too. “Mother’s Lady-in-Waiting married?”

  “Milanda.”

  Huwen puzzled. Milanda. The name was familiar.

  “Milanda married.”

  And the pieces tumbled together. “The girl you loved. The one you never spoke to.”

  Eamon shot him a scathing look.

  “Sorry.” But, by the One God, Eamon was inexplicable. Nothing made sense. “Eamon...”

  His brother rolled away from him.

  It had something to do with what Father said. The war. Father had left Holderford—a year and a half ago, to settle a dispute in the hinterlands, he’d said. This was only days after Eamon had suddenly—miraculously—recovered from the illness everyone thought would kill him.

  But it hadn’t turned out to be a simple dispute. The Azurite and the Chrysocolla had been destroyed with no conflict. Their kings had simply handed the prayer stones over to Father. The kings wielding the Emerald and Amethyst were defeated shortly thereafter, after brief skirmishes. Then Father had laid siege to Theurgy to capture the Citrine, and somehow, the war was no longer about disputes in the distant parts of Shangril, but about worship of the One God.

  Or was it? What had Father meant, this war was for Eamon? Huwen had a sinking feeling. Father had not told him the truth. At least, not the whole truth.

  “Eamon.”

  Silence was his answer.

  “What happened, the night you recovered from your illness?”

  Eamon stilled.

  “Eamon—”

  “I don’t know.”

  But he did.

  “Eamon.”

  “I forget.” He turned, and cast those too-adult eyes on him. Eyes that knew.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Eamon rolled over. “Go away.”

  Huwen knew Eamon well enough to know nothing he could do would make his brother speak.

  “By your leave, Your Highnesses.” The voice from beyond the tent door belonged to Uther. “I have a message from the king.”

  “Enter.” Huwen sat back, defeated, and Eamon rolled over to glare at him.

  Uther entered, nodding a bow to Huwen, and then to Eamon. He spoke to the latter. “Your father would speak with you.”

  Eamon turned back to the tent wall. “I’m ill.”

  Uther opened the chest by the bed and began to fill it with clothing that had been strewn about the tent. “Father has commanded you to go to Coldridge and would bid you farewell.”

  “Coldridge?” The boy turned, his eyes flashing with anger. “Where there are minders to tend me?”

  “King Larin was assassinated by rebels, and your father would have a Delarcan at the keep. You leave immediately with myself and Wenid Col. You’ll be taken by travois down to the main camp, where a courier has been dispatched to tell them to prepare a cart.” He closed the chest and fastened it.

  Eamon rolled over and sought out Huwen, his face drawn and defeated. “So. Pushed out of the way.” His voice was barely a whisper. “Once more, I fail.”

  Uther raised the unresisting boy to a sitting position and knelt to put his boot on. “Odd way to look at it.”

  Eamon frowned querulously at the obscure reference.

  Uther helped with his second boot. “I overheard Father talking to Magiel Col. You are to be the royal of the Ruby. At least for now.”

  “What?” Huwen cried.

  Eamon stared at him in bewilderment.

  Uther fastened a fur cloak around Eamon’s shoulders. “I’m only a messenger.”

  Nothing made sense. The only royal to travel to the Heavens with the magiel of the Ruby was the king—

  Uther clasped Eamon’s arm about his neck and shoved his shoulder firmly under his half-brother’s armpit. He nodded at Huwen. “Pages will be here momentarily to bring his chest.” He and Eamon disappeared through the tent flap.

  What was going on? Huwen did not for one minute believe that Eamon’s melancholy was related to Milanda’s marriage. Eamon had tried to hurt himself before he’d even met Milanda.

  No, this had something to do with the night Eamon was made well.

  A war. And now, control of the Ruby. It would make Eamon the most powerful person in Shangril. Disquiet sank through Huwen’s stomach. He would be king, not Eamon.

  Huwen had to untangle what was going on. What was really going on.

  It was possible Eamon had been too ill to know what had happened. But Eamon wasn’t the only one in his room that night. Father had been there, and Wenid Col.

  And Uther Tangel.

  CHAPTER 26

  The constellation of Ranuat’s seven murderers westered in a paling pre-dawn sky. A hint of wind skimming across the snow crust bore the scent of glacier. Sulwyn peed by a tree, a steaming hole in the snow. He buttoned his pants and, gazing up the valley toward the ghostly peaks, crunched back toward the group of yak hide tents. He was thirsty. A dipperful of ice water before breakfast would be welcome.

  Eight weeks, they’d been on this campaign. His passion to broker a place for the wisdom of men at the kings’ councils, and to do so, peacefully had failed. Artem had betrayed them. Beorn...Beorn had been a good man, and the soldier had died on Artem’s spike. The soldier’s death had sealed the uprisers’ resolve, but now they talked of war. Sulwyn had wanted nothing more than to return to Wildbrook, then, to Janat, and leave such bitterness behind. Heal. Live. Let others carry on the work of freeing Shangril’s people.

  And yet, returning to Janat had gone wrong, too.

  Janat’d been unhappy for some time. Sulwyn knew that. He’d intended to stay with her and make things right, but the distance between them had grown too great. Uncharacteristically, she'd left.

  Hunt as he might, he could find no trace of her. At first, Meg took this news with angry denial, grilling him about his search and launching out to undertake her own. He accompanied her. But once realization that Janat was gone—actually gone—crept home, there was no reason, for either of them, to stay in Wildbrook. Meg had a commitment to Dwyn, and Sulwyn, too, was drawn back into the conflict.

  They’d followed Dwyn from battle to battle, harrying Artem’s troops, directing rebellions, recruiting men, refining Orville’s steam machines, working out a plan to end what had become a civil war, but the glamour was gone. Cold and mud and death was all there was.
<
br />   And for his hurt and guilt, there was whiskey.

  Snow crystals crunched unevenly under his limp now as Sulwyn followed the path along the ridge. A movement, black against the gray of the valley, caught his eye.

  In a gap in the trees, Meg, swathed in thin furs and silhouetted against the growing dawn, gazed out over the snow-filled Orumon valley. She turned at his footsteps. “Sulwyn.”

  She was not beautiful the way Janat was, but she had grown, under Dwyn’s trust, into a confident, intense young woman. Sulwyn nodded his respect. Since they’d rejoined Dwyn’s camp, he’d tried to keep his distance from her. He should get back to camp.

  “Four thousand of King Artem’s men.” She indicated the valley.

  Her words arrested his steps.

  “But only two hundred, up on the shoulder where King Artem camps below the city gates.” She turned back to her study of the siege’s defenses. “Our spies are good.”

  “Fearghus is in charge of this campaign.” Dwyn’s guard, promoted now to his right-hand man. Dwyn had ridden, light and swift with only a handful of men, to Big Hill just north of Coldridge, to meet with a delegation of Teshe uprisers.

  Her voice became edged. “How can he not see how vulnerable the king is?”

  “You were at the council last night.” Had she even slept? Or had she stayed up all night on a waft of Heartspeed, thinking? To be fair, he’d seen Meg try to voice her objections—good ones—at the council, only to be shut down. Fearghus was old-fashioned, and she was a woman. Without Dwyn at the council to listen, her words fell on deaf ears. Finn, Orville—even Colm—had not opposed Fearghus’s plan.

  “Harry their flanks in the lower valley? Nothing more?” she asked derisively. “If Dwyn does not express a certain course of action to take, Fearghus only repeats the same tactics over and over.”

  He had a headache from last night’s beer and no stomach to rehash the arguments. “We don’t have the manpower, training, or weapons to confront them, army to army.”

  “We need to attack the heart of their power. The king.”