A Chorus of Fire

by Brian D. Anderson

  Milani found a dice game in short order, leaving Mariyah alone at the table, though not unwatched; she still kept her charge within her line of sight at all times. Mariyah didn’t mind. Though she liked Milani, her company could grow tiresome. And small taverns in these stopover towns were supposed to be good places to see people from faraway lands. At least, that was what Gertrude had told her before she left Ubania. While many foreigners attended Loria’s social functions, they were invariably in the best finery and certainly not representative of the common people of their nations.

  Mariyah had spent their first night of notable interest at a well-to-do inn in the Lytonian city of Hzar, where Milani passed the evening pointing out the various styles and telling her where they most likely originated. Even jewelry could give away a person’s homeland. On this subject, Milani had extensive knowledge—which Mariyah had found peculiar before knowing the woman’s mother had been a jeweler for the king. None marked their faces like the Nivanians, but many had elaborate markings on their arms and legs—coastal people mainly, sailors and fishermen, though a few younger Ur Minosan and Gathian lads and ladies had adopted the practice, although they sported symbols of Kylor rather than the old gods. Some were quite beautiful, though Mariyah would never consider having one put on her own flesh. She found out later that typically the markings were not permanent and after a few months would fade away.

  Mariyah occasionally glanced over to Milani, who—unlike the bright-faced older man sitting beside her with a hefty pile of her coins in front of him—was looking very unhappy with the way the game was going. Perhaps someone is finally better at cheating, Mariyah thought with a smile.

  A small group of what from their tightly fitting trousers, short spiked hair, and open-necked shirts looked to be from Gath, had stood from their table and looked to be on the verge of a fight with another group of young men. Typical for Gathians, she thought, who were known to easily take offense should their honor be questioned. Unfortunately, this could mean almost anything. An improper nod of the head could upset them, especially if they’d been drinking.

  She continued to watch the scene unfold with mild interest as two burly men hurried from the bar to intervene. Gathians blustered loudly, but it rarely came to actual blows. These men were no different—an offer of a free pitcher of ale calmed hot tempers and hurt feelings without further incident.

  As she turned her attention to a trio of Ur Minosan merchants at the bar, something caught the corner of her eye, something familiar that she could not place. But when she looked, there was only a gathering of four older women at a table near to the wall, drinking wine and picking at a loaf of bread. The one with her back to her was just joining them. Mariyah was about to dismiss it as her imagination when the newcomer turned her head in profile.

  Mariyah’s breath caught in her throat as recognition became undeniable. It was the woman from the Hedran; the one who sentenced her; the one who had nearly seen both her and Shemi killed.

  “What’s wrong?”

  A hand was gripping her arm. She hadn’t realized that she was now standing, fists clenched and jaw clamped tight. Milani had seen her reaction and left the game at once.

  “It’s her,” Mariyah hissed through gritted teeth. “It has to be.”

  The woman was now facing away, chatting casually with her companions.

  “Who?” Milani pressed, stepping into her line of sight to force eye contact.

  “The woman who sent me to hell.”

  The desire to ignore caution and tear across the tavern and beat the woman to a bloody pulp was barely containable. The white-hot fury of vengeance was irrepressible, denying her mind any sense of reason. She grabbed Milani’s shoulders and moved her to the side.

  Milani again blocked her view. Her voice was stern. “Mariyah! You had better tell me what’s going on. Who sent you to hell?”

  She had fantasized about killing this woman so many times. Even having come to terms with most of the terrible events she’d suffered since leaving home, still she would wake up in cold sweats, trembling from the nightmare of her capture. The helplessness. The fear. They lingered in the recesses of her mind, and hard as she tried, would not be banished.

  “That woman at the table. The one in the green and black dress.”

  Milani looked over her shoulder. “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. She’s the one who sentenced me at the Hedran. She forced me to confess.” Tears were falling from an overpowering amalgamation of emotion.

  Milani nodded. “All right, then. We’ll kill her if you want. But not here in front of everyone.” She pressed Mariyah toward the seat. “Tell me exactly what happened. And try not to look at her if you think she might recognize you.”

  Mariyah resisted Milani for a moment, but calmed herself enough to sit back down.

  “That’s better,” Milani said. She reached out and placed her finger on Mariyah’s chin, turning her head. “Stop looking. She’s not going anywhere. And wipe your eyes.”

  Mariyah did as instructed, though she could not stop her hands from shaking. Milani was right, of course. Killing this woman in full view of the public would be stupid beyond belief. Still … it was going to happen, one way or another. Milani was not wearing her customary roguish grin, but rather the determined stare of a concerned friend. Mariyah took a series of deep breaths before briefly recounting the events leading to their capture—careful to leave out the details of her home or why they had been there.

  “She has it coming, then,” Milani said flatly. “I mean, I’d kill her if I were you.” She stole a glance at the woman, then sat tapping her fingers on the table in thought. Finally, she looked up and held out her hand to Mariyah. “I need some extra coin for drinks. You go wait at the bar.”

  Mariyah handed her two gold coins. “What are you going to do?”

  Her grin reappeared, though this time it held a fiendish quality. “You’ll know what to do when the time comes.”

  Mariyah stood and crossed over to an empty stool at the bar, taking care not to look directly at the woman, though in all likelihood it wouldn’t matter. When she’d confided to Loria that she was still haunted by what had happened, Loria had responded predictably—honest and direct.

  “This may be difficult to hear, but it’s unlikely she’s given you a second thought,” she’d told her. “It’s usually that way with those who scar us. I can only promise that scars fade in time.”

  That very well might be true. But not this scar. Not yet.

  Mariyah had never taken a life and had occasionally wondered how she would react when the time finally came. Loria had said that it would depend on the reason; that if she killed a foe in a fight, while it could bring about feelings of guilt, it was usually temporary—easier to justify in one’s heart. It was a death one planned in advance, when killing was truly a choice, calculated and measured, that it could become a torment.

  Looking over to the woman, Mariyah felt her rage continue to boil. She would learn to live with it. One thing, however: the woman would know why she was to die and who it was who brought justice down upon her. If Mariyah felt regret later … so be it.

  Milani had stridden over to the table and was bent down whispering into the woman’s ear, who then nodded and gestured for her to join them. What the hell was she doing?

  As the wine flowed, it became obvious. A coy smile. A playful touch. The way Milani leaned in and met the woman’s eyes.

  A seduction. Of all the possibilities, this was the most unexpected. She would have thought Milani incapable of it, given her brash, unrefined nature. But from a distance, it appeared she was quite adept. And the woman looked receptive to the overture.

  After about an hour, the other three companions excused themselves, presumably to retire to their rooms. Mariyah’s heart pounded. She could do it right now. There was a knife on the bar. She could simply walk up and ram it through her heart and exit the tavern before anyone would know what had happened. No. Don’t be a fool. Trus
t that Milani knows what she’s doing.

  She didn’t need to wait long. Milani whispered to the woman, and a moment later they stood and started arm in arm toward the exit. Mariyah had to force herself to remain seated until they were outside. Closing her eyes, she counted to ten. Hands trembling, she imagined the terror, the pleas for mercy, the blood pouring from the woman’s throat as she watched the light fade from her eyes. As if in protest to her rising bloodlust, a voice invaded her thoughts. Lem’s voice. He was telling her not to go through with it. But not even Lem’s disapproval could douse this fire. Surely he would understand. Even someone like Lem, gentle and kind, would see her need for vengeance.

  Mariyah stood, gripping the lip of the bar. She felt dizzy and realized that her breathing was coming in rapid gasps.

  “Are you all right, miss?” the bartender asked, an older gentleman with a soft voice that was a contrast to his gruff appearance.

  Mariyah nodded. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  She blew out a hard breath and strode toward the exit. By the time she reached the door, her stomach was fluttering, and saliva filled her mouth.

  Outside, the night air was chill, and the whistle of wind sifting between the cracks and crags of the ramshackle buildings called out ominously over the voices inside the tavern. Mariyah spit onto the street and wrapped her arms tightly around her torso. A short distance away, Milani and the woman were strolling hand in hand at a relaxed pace.

  The tingle of shadow walk itched in her belly as she scurried from the light of the streetlamps. Milani was laughing as she slipped her arm over the woman’s shoulders and led her around the next corner. Mariyah had not used shadow walk for some time. In Vylari she would often use it to hide from her father or when hunting with mother. It was hunting that had taught her to move about silently. Even with shadow walk, a deer or wild boar could hear you coming. The creaking of planks under her feet and the scraping of shoe leather revealed that she was out of practice, so she allowed her prey to ease farther ahead.

  Again, Lem’s voice plagued her conscience. You are not a murderer. You are better than this.

  “But I’m not. Not anymore. This world has changed me.”

  Just as it had likely changed him. Of course, with Lem, it would have only changed the manner in which he conducted himself. As Inradel Mercer, he had simply found a way to be what he’d always been. What he could only be.

  Milani halted and took a quick look around.

  “Are you embarrassed to be with an old woman?”

  Milani touched her cheek. “My employer does not approve of romance while on duty.”

  “We could return to the inn if you like.”

  “No. But I’d rather not be on the street.” She pointed to a warehouse a short distance farther down. “In there?”

  “The owners might not appreciate trespassers.”

  Milani flashed a playful grin. “I like a bit of risk.”

  “Ah, youth. Very well. Never let it be said I was too timid to enjoy a touch of adventure.”

  Milani led her to the front and pulled on the door, a smaller entrance set beside a large pair of loading doors. Finding it locked, she took a quick look around before retrieving a pick and hook from her pocket. In seconds, the locked clacked, and she pulled the door open just enough for the two to duck inside.

  Mariyah felt beads of perspiration on her brow. She paused outside, listening through the opening. What spell should she use? Her mind went blank for several seconds. Incapacitate her first, so as not to accidentally harm Milani? Her aggressive magic was powerful but often imprecise.

  She began to mutter the charm, her fingers twisting and writhing. She was ready. Lowering her shoulder, she forced the door fully open and then rushed through, arms extended and fingers spread.

  “What is this?”

  The voice came from off to her left. Mariyah spun and cast a quick burst of light that popped into existence a few feet above her head. Milani was backing away from the woman, a dagger in one hand, poised to strike.

  Mariyah let loose the binding spell, and two green ribbons of light sprang from her palms, slithering across the floor and then wrapping around the woman’s ankles. She let out a yelp as the magic crawled up her legs and torso. But before it was able to secure her completely, the woman’s arms flew above her head. Mariyah recognized the counter spell. A Thaumas!

  “Grab her arms,” Mariyah shouted to Milani. “Before…”

  It was too late. The counter spell was more powerful than Mariyah had prepared for, though in fact she hadn’t expected any resistance at all. Rather than dissipating the attack, it redirected the spell to strike at Milani. Green light smashed into her right leg and hurled her into the darkness of the unlit warehouse interior. The sound of wood breaking and boxes hitting the floor said that it had been a rough fall. But she could not worry about that now.

  Mariyah’s foe was recovering from the initial surprise and had turned to face her.

  “You!”

  Mariyah snarled. “Yes. Me.”

  Both women moved in concert, their hands flying forward. Blue flames streaked from Mariyah’s fingers; a cylinder of white light from her foe’s palms. The powers collided, and a wave of concussion staggered both combatants several paces.

  “Wait!” the woman shouted. “You don’t understand.”

  Mariyah ignored the pleas. Never let an opponent distract you. That was the first thing Loria had taught her about magical combat. She let loose a tiny ball of flame, no larger than the tip of a finger. A cleverly deceptive attack.

  But the woman was not fooled. As the flame broke into three separate smaller balls, she swept her arms in a tight circle and a sphere of ice appeared, shattering to a million shards just as the flame dipped sharply and began spitting dozens of thin needles of fire at the target. Most were consumed or deflected, but a few managed to get through, striking the woman in the shoulder and legs.

  The woman winced, sucking her teeth. Sensing her advantage, Mariyah concentrated on a powerful attack, an unfocused but lethal blast of raw magical energy. The woman wisely began erecting a barrier of protection.

  “That won’t save you,” Mariyah raged.

  Loria had warned her not to use this spell unless she was desperate. Anyone standing nearby would be killed as well. While filled with wrath, she did glance over to be sure Milani had not wandered back too close.

  A veil of yellow light surrounded the woman. Mariyah would have liked the opportunity to have spoken to the object of her torment; to let her know that she was no longer afraid. But that the woman had recognized who it was who would kill her would have to be enough.

  “This is for the lives you’ve ruined,” was all she allowed herself.

  The woman glared back defiantly, but said nothing.

  A flash of light blinded Mariyah for the wisp of a moment. Something had struck her from behind. Hard. Hard enough that she was now lying face-first on the floor, and had not initially realized she’d fallen.

  “No!”

  Was that Milani calling out? She couldn’t tell. The waking world was gradually growing distant. The blow had not hurt. In fact, she could no longer feel anything. Was she dying? The thought should have frightened her. But there was no fear. No pain. No worries. Yes, she decided. I must be dying.

  A second voice spoke, but the words were muffled, as if being spoken into a pillow. Then nothing, as the soft embrace of silence wrapped its arms around her.

  8

  SCARS, HATE, AND ACCEPTANCE

  Do not expect the wolf to weep or the storm to offer comfort. But to grant absolution to that which harms is the true grace of Kylor.

  Book of Kylor, Chapter Three, Verse Sixty-Eight

  “I don’t like this.”

  “I’ll be fine. Wait for a bit, then follow us.”

  As the waking world insisted its way to the fore, a dull throb pounded out a vicious cadence in her head. The crack of a whip and the jerk of forward motion forced her eyes
open.

  She was indeed in a carriage, though not Lady Camdon’s. The woman … the monster … was sitting directly opposite, smiling at her; the same wicked smile Mariyah had seen when she’d been sentenced to life in prison. Fury flooded her heart. She tried to reach out and grab the woman, but her torso was held in place by what must have been a binding charm, and her hands and ankles were tightly bound with ropes.

  “You’re awake, I see,” she said. “And in as fine a mood as last night.”

  Unable to strike out, Mariyah spat in the woman’s face.

  Though momentarily shocked, she retrieved a handkerchief from her sleeve and calmly wiped away the spittle with an impassive expression.

  “Do stop that,” she said.

  Mariyah spat again. This time the woman leaned over, avoiding the wet missile.

  The woman cleaned where the spittle had landed and sighed. “Don’t make me cover your mouth. It’s going to be bad enough having to explain to Felistal why you’re bound.”

  The old Thaumas’s name took her aback. “You know Felistal?”

  “Of course I do. He was my instructor.”

  Mariyah didn’t want to believe her, given the possible implications. “You’re lying.”

  Her smile returned. “Why would I lie? You’re not a threat. If I wanted to kill you, I could. My compliments, by the way. You’ve become quite powerful since we first met. Had my companions not thought your guard to be suspicious and come looking for us, you would likely have killed me.” Mariyah’s dumbfounded expression drew a laugh. “I can see you have questions. So let me explain a few things first. My real name is Aylana Barrow, Thaumas of the Eighth Ascension.” She dipped her head slightly.