Ember and Ash

by Pamela Freeman

  “In my father’s service,” Ember clarified. Something in her writhed as she said it. It was like a betrayal, but she knew that the less important Halda and Ari thought Ash was, the more likely he was to be set free. A loyal servant with some family ties to the warlord was not valuable enough to hold for ransom, or to kill as a message of defiance or strength. Ash must be her servant, even if she could not ever think of him that way.

  “Your men will sleep with the others,” Halda said. “Come.”

  She led Ember to the chamber where she had left her pack. It was a mark of great condescension, for the lady to escort a guest to her chamber, and Ember thanked Halda for it.

  “In the morning, one of the girls will fetch you,” Halda said. “I must stay in the hall for when the Hárugur King returns.”

  Ember stripped off her clothes and lay down in her shift, pulling the soft blankets up high under her chin. A bed, after so long sleeping on the ground! She was weary to her bones… but after she blew out the single candle, she lay for a long time staring at the fathomless dark, wondering where Ash was and whether he could sleep safely.

  The Last Domain

  None of them wanted to eat. Larch, being a good soldier, forced down cheese and old biscuits with a swig of cider, and bullied Poppy kindly until she did the same. Jelica shook her head.

  “After,” she said.

  They sat at the back of the cottage and waited for the sun to go down, then went inside and waited more, until the stars had wheeled almost halfway through their nightly course.

  Jelica kept the shutters open so that the bright northern starlight could shine through. There was a moon, too. A beautiful night. Poppy sat and shook with cold and nerves, until Larch came over to her and crouched next to her chair.

  “You’re planning something,” she said, half-accusingly. Jelica looked at her, eyes picking up the light like a cat’s.

  “There might be a sure way to bring him,” Poppy said reluctantly. “Dangerous, though.”

  Jelica laughed shortly. “Dangerous anyroad. What way?”

  “My grammer once used the blank stone as the new flint.”

  A sound came out of Jelica as though she’d been punched in the belly, a big “whouf” of noise.

  “She must have been mad!”

  “They couldn’t find a new flint for the third night,” Poppy apologized.

  “What third night?” Larch asked.

  She knew so little—were they right to take her to this calling? But the ritual demanded that there should always be three women, at least.

  “Three nights, at Spring Equinox,” she explained to Larch, “the women of the old blood go to the black rock altars and strike new fire, with an unused flint, and… call Him.”

  “And He comes?”

  “Always,” Jelica confirmed, a note in her voice of remembered pleasure. “Always. And never any harm.”

  “But there must be a new flint each night, or He doesn’t come, and that’s… bad luck.” How to explain it to one of Acton’s blood, that deep, bone-deep bond; the three nights of mounting desire and yearning, the heated blood, the liquid touch… She had a new image of love, now she’d met Larch, but even so she shook with the memory of His touch. To not finish, to not have the third night—there were stories about women who’d simply pined away if they’d been prevented from worshipping; or killed themselves, unable ever to satisfy their desire; or killed others.

  “Bad luck,” Larch repeated. “But we don’t have three nights.”

  “It’s not Equinox,” Poppy said.

  “Then why should He come?”

  “Might not,” Jelica said. “But it’s worth trying.” There was a note in her voice that worried Poppy. Desperation.

  • • •

  The altar was so small that Poppy almost missed it in the dark; without the faint susurration of the gods’ voices in her head, she would have stumbled past it. They fled away as Jelica approached and the stonecaster turned as if to watch them fly, her face, even in the moonlight, clearly troubled.

  “They’ll come back,” Poppy reassured her. Jelica shrugged and nodded, but Larch looked at her strangely, and she felt the point just below her breastbone grow suddenly heavy. She knew that look; it was the one that said, “Strange. Freak.” Seeing it on Larch’s face hurt a great deal.

  Larch took a step toward her and stared into her eyes, her own guarded.

  “What do you see?”

  “I hear the gods,” Poppy whispered. “Softly, like whispering. My mam can take them inside herself so they speak with her mouth, but I can’t.”

  The corner of Larch’s mouth quirked up. “Glad to know that.” Her shoulders lost their tension. “Do we do the chanting now?”

  Poppy smiled at her. Perhaps Larch would be one of those amazing ones, like her own father, who could just accept the gods without feeling tainted. “Aye,” she said. “Tinder and prayer and flint. One to prime, one to hold, one to strike, three to call.”

  Obeying the instructions they had given her, Larch carefully put a nest of birch fungus tinder on the low surface of the altar. It was only a fragment of rock, barely larger than her foot. But it was a place of worship, none the less, and enough for their needs.

  Poppy put her striking stone down by the tinder, and Jelica, last and oldest, placed the new flint next to it. The blank stone, which meant that anything could happen.

  Poppy squeezed Larch’s hand.

  “We are daughters of Fire,” they said together, the three voices blending oddly: Jelica’s strong and dark, Poppy high and certain, Larch’s almost a whisper. “Daughters of Mim the Firestealer, Mim the Firelover, Mim the Fire’s love. The fire must never die.”

  They crouched next to the altar. Larch made a cup of her hands around the tinder, Poppy took up the striking stone, and Jelica raised the flint and brought it down smoothly in one motion. Sparks flew.

  “Take our breath to speed your growth,” Poppy said quietly as Larch blew. She had watched as they’d tried this at the fort, over and over, striking sparks only to watch them die out. But no one, under Arvid’s angry eye, had called Him properly.

  “The fire will never die,” Jelica said, so clearly that Poppy jumped as if she’d shouted. “Come on, my lord, you know me! Haven’t I served you well?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, a plea, yearning so deep in it that Poppy felt her whole body ache in response. “Kept myself just for you, didn’t I?” Jelica whispered, her breath taking one of the sparks and fanning it. It glowed in the darkness. “Don’t let the fire die!” Jelica begged. Poppy wanted to look away. It wasn’t right, to hear this from a stranger—from anyone. It was like spying on a marriage bed.

  But the spark caught.

  Quickly, they added more tinder, and then more, as the flames licked more strongly, more cleanly. They stood up.

  And He came. The fire flared out impossible heat, far too much for the amount of fuel they had given it.

  Every other time, on the higher altars, He had towered above her; now He was closer, barely taller than a man. It was curiously disturbing, as though He had come within her reach in a new way.

  Larch took a step backward, and Poppy stood still, but Jelica moved close, her face turned up as though to the summer sun.

  “Why did you abandon us?” she demanded.

  There was His face, as it had been in the wedding fire which had consumed Osfrid. Terrible, wonderful; she felt herself melt through with a mixture of desire and fear, confusing and exhilarating. Larch clutched her hand, but she couldn’t look away from Him.

  Fire gazed down at Jelica as though she and Larch weren’t there.

  “Angelica,” He said, His voice as full of love as any bridegroom’s. “I had reason.”

  “Ice is coming!”

  “You are strong, here in the north,” He said, laughing. “You will triumph, if your princess does. But I have business elsewhere!”

  The flames began to die away. “No!” Jelica howled, throwing out her hands a
s if to clasp Him.

  He paused, and smiled, a long slow smile full of desire and—yes, surely it was affection. Surely. Poppy could hear Larch’s breathing, ragged, beside her, and only that stopped her walking forward. “Then come to me,” He said. He opened His arms.

  “No, Jelica!” Poppy cried out.

  But Jelica surged forward and took His hands. He swept her into an embrace, into a column of flame, just like Osfrid, just like Osfrid. Larch screamed. Poppy felt the heat of desire consummated sweep through her, like on the third night of the Equinox; as Fire surged and climbed and then disappeared, all in an instant, she felt Jelica’s joy.

  There wasn’t even ash left behind. It had happened so quickly, not even a smell remained. He had not hurt her, but He had taken her completely, as if she had never existed.

  Mountainside, the Ice King’s Country

  It wasn’t Larra but another girl, a bit younger, with hair almost white and skin like skimmed milk, who came with a mixture of diffidence and curiosity about the stranger. Ember was ready dressed and would have been hungry if her belly hadn’t been roiling with worry about Ash.

  She was a stranger here, and she needed to build connections with these people. “What is your name?” she asked the girl in the best approximation of their language that she could manage. Amusement flashed across the girl’s face, so probably her accent was terrible but, “Iina,” she answered shyly, twisting the end of her plait around her fingers.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Iina. I am Ember.”

  “Ember Konungsdottir,” Iina said, making it half a question.

  “Almost,” Ember said. “Ember Arvidsdottir. Arvid is our konung.”

  Iina curtseyed as though the information required deference.

  “And your father?” Ember asked. Exchange of information meant equals.

  “Bren,” she said proudly.

  “Ah,” Ember said, careful to show how impressed she was. Iina dimpled.

  “Will you come to the hall, konungsdottir?”

  “Ember,” she said with a smile. “Is the Hárugur King returned?”

  “No.” Iina frowned with worry. She was choosing her words—to make it simple, or to hide something? “It is often so.”

  “It takes time?”

  “Much time,” Iina confirmed.

  The halls were fuller today, with more men, all of whom assessed her, not as a woman, but as a stranger. She was used to men being clean-shaven, or at most with a close-cropped, neat beard. None of these men seemed to have trimmed their beards since they first grew whiskers. It kept out the cold, she supposed, as fur did on animals. It made her feel she had stepped into an old story, one of the very old ballads about Acton and his men, the warriors who had originally come from this side of the mountain. And perhaps that was not too far from the truth. Perhaps these men thought as Acton would have thought, honoring only warriors and their skills. Enjoying battle, relishing danger. The thought dismayed her.

  She was relieved to see Cedar and Tern sitting on stools by the central hearth, eating bowls of what smelled like porridge. They stood up as soon as they saw her, relief on their own faces, and came over to her. Cedar put his arm around her shoulders and she turned her face into his shoulder for just a moment of comfort.

  “Where’s Ash?” she asked. She could feel him tense.

  “We don’t know. No one understands us, and the lady just says to wait.” He hesitated. “I think I would know if he was hurt.”

  She nodded. Of course he would know. That was how Sight worked, in families. The number of times Mam had come running out of the fort to find her because she had fallen and skinned her knee, or bumped her head… She blinked tears away. It meant that Ash was fine. Ember drew a deep breath and let it out, then went to the fire to greet Halda.

  She looked tired, and worried. Was it better to ignore that, or to be sympathetic? There was a point where simple compassion overrode diplomacy, Ember thought. She put her hand on Halda’s arm.

  “I’m sure they are all right,” she said.

  Halda tried to smile, but there was a flicker of irritation in her eyes.

  “Easy to say,” she said. “Kings have been killed before when they displeased the Ice King.”

  Ember beckoned Cedar over.

  “Will you cast for the lady?” she asked. “Discover how her family fares?”

  “Of course,” he answered, and bowed formally, “but where a Power is concerned, castings may be difficult.”

  “Let’s try anyway.”

  Halda was puzzled.

  “Cast?” she asked. “What do you mean?”

  Ember and Cedar both looked at her in astonishment.

  “You don’t have stonecasters?” Ember asked. “People who can tell you the future, or what is happening elsewhere?”

  She looked at them as though they were mad.

  “That’s impossible!”

  Ember smiled. “The last twenty years, how often have your people raided my father’s domain and found it unprepared?”

  As though a long mystery had been solved, Halda drew in a deep breath and let it out in a huff.

  “That was my mother,” Ember said. “She cast each week to discover your intentions.”

  Halda glared at her.

  “She has caused the death of many of us, then.”

  “If you hadn’t attacked, you wouldn’t have been killed,” Ember said mildly.

  “We need to raid. You can see how little we have,” Halda said, almost without thought, a fact so obvious, so ingrained, that she wasn’t aware how it sounded. Cedar bristled, but Ember shook her head at him. No use challenging these people’s deepest attitudes. Not yet. “We wouldn’t have been able to survive, the last twenty years, if the wraiths hadn’t left,” Halda mused.

  “The wind wraiths?” Cedar asked with interest.

  “Wind, Water, Ice,” Halda confirmed. “They had harried us for a thousand years. Growing crops was almost impossible, no child was safe outdoors… and then they just left, one day, screaming and shrieking and flying high… now they’re only in the wild areas, in the high passes.”

  “That was my mother, too,” Ember said with pride. “She and her friends banished them from all settled lands. I don’t think she realized that it would extend this far, but she would be happy that it did.”

  Halda’s face paled.

  “What kind of witch is your mother?”

  “Witch” was a word Ember had never heard, but the tone was plain. She raised her chin and stared Halda down. This was one of those moments which set the tone for a whole future, she thought.

  “My mother is a stonecaster with some skill in enchantments,” she said. “She is the warlord’s lady of the Last Domain, and it is her duty to keep her people safe, which she does with all the skills she possesses. If you had been able to banish the wraiths, would you not have done it?”

  Trouble clouded Halda’s face, but eventually she nodded, reluctantly.

  “Ae,” she said. “I would have, if it cost me my soul.”

  “But it would not,” Cedar said gently. “There is nothing evil about what we do. It is the gift of our gods.”

  This time, Halda’s tone was dry. “They are generous, then.”

  Cedar took the pouch from his waist, but before he could speak there was a hubbub from the far wall, and a young boy came flying over to Halda.

  “They’re back, lady!”

  “King be praised!” Halda exclaimed and hurried toward a curtained doorway. She stopped just outside as Bren lifted the curtain from inside and held it back for the Hárugur King and Nyr to come through.

  They were staggering with fatigue, but no one tried to help them until they were through the doorway. Then Halda rushed forward to embrace and steady them both, but with her hands gentler on Nyr, her voice full of emotion as she exclaimed over his pallor. They were both pale, indeed, and their faces were drawn as though they had gone much longer than a day without food, as though they had traversed hal
f the world to get here.

  “Bring chairs!” Bren ordered. The men in the hall were already bringing them forward. The first was the artist Ember had seen earlier, his shirt patched with paint, his long hair untidy but his hands beautifully clean and cared for. He met her gaze with a look of shock, and an involuntary glance up at his butterfly painting. Odd, she thought.

  The Hárugur King slumped into a chair by the central fire and Nyr followed him. Women brought hot drinks and plates of food and they ate gratefully, although their hands shook as they lifted the food to their mouths. They had more of a look of each other than she had seen before—the shape of the bones under the concealing beards was the same, although Nyr had his mother’s eyes.

  Ember hadn’t been this close to the fire before, and she realized, with a sinking heart, that although it burned cow pats as fuel, or maybe horse dung, the base of it was much deeper, and connected to the other fires in the bathing cave. This central hearth was Fire’s doing. His power was muted here, though, and she wondered why.

  Her stomach was flipping up and down with nerves, but she knew better than to ask a king anything before he was ready to speak. She waited, with all the rest, Cedar at her back and Tern beside him, for the two men to be finished.

  They didn’t hurry. It was as though they wanted to settle into the world again. She had seen Fire twice, and that was twice too many. Humans weren’t meant to encounter the Powers; it was no wonder that the king and his son needed time to recover.

  Nyr was finished first, but finally, Ari handed his plate to someone and rubbed his eyes, then stood up with a sigh. Nyr also stood.

  “The Ice King greets his people,” Ari said formally. All around, men and women both sank to one knee and bowed their heads. Tern made a small movement to follow, but Ember signaled him to stay upright. They were not worshippers of this Power.

  Ari noticed but seemed to accept their decision.

  “This is the pronouncement of the Ice King: the man Nyr Arissen is accepted as heir to the Hárugur King.”

  Halda’s face lit up with a mixture of pride and relief. Other heads lifted with smiles of real joy and bodies shifted a little, as though they wanted to jump up and cheer, but held themselves back.