Firebrand

by Kristen Britain

  “And I, you,” the man replied. He was bald, wore a patch over his eye. His right hand was a hook.

  Immerez, Estral thought. She’d never met him, but knew his description well enough. He had escaped the day the ice creatures had attacked the castle, and this was where he’d come. He and Karigan had a history, and this could only make things worse. The pair turned to examine Nyssa’s handiwork.

  “Terrik told me how the Greenie got caught in one of the traps,” Immerez said, “and her companion.” He glanced back at Estral. “It’s very odd. Greenies usually travel alone. I wonder . . .” He moved around to look at Karigan from the front.

  No, no, no. His moving revealed Karigan’s shredded back to Estral, the strips of bloody skin hanging off it. She reeled, and heaved up whatever remained of her breakfast.

  Immerez laughed.

  She wiped her mouth and looked again, trying not to see Karigan’s back by focusing on Immerez. He lifted Karigan’s chin with his hook to gaze into her face.

  “It’s her,” he told Nyssa.

  “The one who cut off your hand?”

  “Yes, and I was denied retribution, but here she is, like a gift.”

  No, no, no, Estral thought.

  Nyssa glanced from Immerez to Karigan, and back. “You two are a matching pair.”

  “Yes, the eyepatch. That’s curious. I wonder what happened to her eye. I tried to take hers out once, but missed my chance. Greenie, what happened to your eye?”

  In response, Karigan, who somehow remained conscious, or had just regained awareness, spat at him.

  Immerez calmly wiped his cheek. “You will pay for that, of course, but first . . .” He reached up to look under her eyepatch. She flinched away, but then sagged in what must have been deep exhaustion.

  Immerez hastily replaced the patch and stepped back.

  “What is it?” Nyssa asked.

  He wiped his hand across his brow. “What are your intentions for her?”

  Nyssa shrugged. “More lashes. I want to hear her scream some more. Terrik wanted answers, and I aim to get them, and will keep going until she gives them or passes out entirely.”

  “I believe you should hold off.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Grandmother needs to see her.”

  “But Grandmother—”

  “She’ll be back in another day or two. I am telling you, Nyssa, leave this one alone for now.”

  “What? Not even one more lash?” Nyssa placed her fingertip, coated in Karigan’s blood, on Immerez’s lips and smeared them. His tongue darted out to taste it, and he and Nyssa kissed long and deep. Her hands delved down the front of his trousers. Soon she had his belt and fly undone and she knelt before him, right there beside Karigan’s tortured body. Reed and Burson watched on in bored fascination, but Estral turned away in revulsion, unable to entirely block out the sounds of Immerez’s pleasure.

  When Nyssa finished, she said, “One more lash? I’ll even let you administer it.”

  “How can I refuse?”

  He was buckling his belt by the time Estral dared look again. He accepted Nyssa’s whip.

  “If Grandmother lets me,” he said, “I’ll have her hand.”

  This time, without Burson pressuring her to watch, Estral could turn away, but Karigan’s scream curdled into the center of her being.

  “You got her side and ribs,” Nyssa complained.

  “I thought you liked blood and pain.”

  “I am accustomed to making my subjects last by controlling the blood loss—the ribs bleed too much.” Then she added more brightly, “Though they do tend to be more painful. I suppose it’s all right since we are doing no more tonight.”

  “There are other things we can do tonight,” Immerez said.

  “Yes, and I will train you next time to be more precise. Reed, Burson, see to the prisoner. We’re done with her for now.”

  “You and I,” Immerez told Nyssa, “are just beginning, my little bird, my dark Starling.”

  A STORY

  They simply dragged Karigan into the pen and dropped her facedown, her shredded back exposed and oozing.

  “She needs help,” Estral told the guards. “At least something to clean her wounds.”

  The guards merely shrugged as they stepped outside and locked the door.

  “Please!” Estral pleaded, but they ambled away, removing their pipes from belt pouches and heading outside.

  She stood there trembling for a moment, unable to look at Karigan. She closed her eyes and tried to bear up. Studying the remains of those unknown men at the lumber camp had been one thing. Seeing the abused, bloodied body of her friend was another. She steeled herself and looked. The barbs of the whip had carved into the muscles of Karigan’s back and left her skin in ribbons. Estral’s stomach churned and she fought the bile that rose in her throat. She must be strong. For Karigan.

  She licked her lips and knelt beside her. She stroked back the loose, shorn hair from her face, a face that was uncharacteristically pale but for the lurid gash down her cheek.

  Reed unexpectedly reappeared with two buckets and some blankets. He opened the pen’s door and placed them inside. He pointed at the buckets. “One’s for slops, other’s for water.”

  “Thank you. Do you have a mender? Could I at least have bandages?”

  He shrugged, locked the door of the pen, and left her, pipe smoke trailing behind him as he stepped outdoors once more.

  Estral took the first blanket and covered Karigan from the hips down, leaving her back uncovered for fear that anything that touched it would irritate and adhere to her wounds. The second blanket she folded and, gently lifting Karigan’s head, placed it beneath as a pillow. She then nested straw around the rest of her, except where Immerez had scored her side. This bled worst of all.

  She removed her shirt from beneath her sweater and wadded it against Karigan’s side and held it there to staunch the bleeding.

  Karigan stirred, murmured.

  “Karigan? Can you hear me?”

  “Ears work,” she said barely above a whisper. It clearly took effort for her to speak. “As for the rest . . .”

  “Yes? Yes?”

  “Not so good. Terrible day.”

  “Yes, it is. I am so sorry. I—I wish I could do something for you.” Why didn’t they send in a mender? “How can I help?”

  After a time, Karigan said, “Story. Tell me . . . story. Take my mind off . . . this.”

  Estral rubbed tears from her face, tried to control herself for Karigan’s sake. If only she’d not made so terrible a decision that morning to enter the Lone Forest. She would never forgive herself.

  “Story.” Karigan coughed weakly.

  Estral took a rattling breath, feeling as if it were the last thing she wanted to do, but for Karigan, who had endured far more, it was such a small request. “All right. I’m trying to think of a good one.”

  “Make it up.”

  “What? Make it up?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Uh, all right.” She recalled that Karigan had always enjoyed The Journeys of Gilan Wylloland, rather light but colorful adventure tales. Making up something similar might work. She cleared her throat. “There once was a sorceress named Myrene who worked for the good of her realm and the order of Givean. A protector named Tiphane was assigned to her as she went about doing her good works, but Tiphane had a slight problem when it came to Myrene’s magic—she was allergic to it.”

  Karigan gave a breathy laugh.

  As Estral went on detailing the adventures of Tiphane and Myrene, she warmed to the telling of how the two friends, chained together in a coracle on the Lake of Souls by the villain, Sedir, attempted to save themselves. The worse their predicament grew as they drifted toward a waterfall, the more they bickered. Finally they managed to resolve their diff
erences and work together to escape and restore their friendship. Sedir came to a satisfying end, as well, in the hands of the souls that haunted the lake’s depths.

  When Estral concluded, she found Karigan to be asleep and breathing deeply. She pressed her hand to Karigan’s brow and frowned. Cool and clammy. Before long she was shivering. Nyssa’s workshop wasn’t freezing, but it wasn’t exactly warm. She decided it would be worse for Karigan to freeze than to have her wounds irritated, so she pulled the blanket to her shoulders, and hoped it would be bearable. She lay down against Karigan, thinking perhaps her body heat would help.

  She dozed off, only to be awakened by Karigan mumbling beside her. She turned over to see how she was doing. It was dark; no lamp or candle had been left behind for her to see by. There was only the ambient light of the brazier. She put her hand against Karigan’s cheek. Now she was hot, her forehead beaded with sweat.

  “Damn.”

  She scooped some water into her hand and patted Karigan’s brow, trying to cool her.

  “Why?” Karigan demanded.

  “Karigan?”

  “Why did he do this to me?”

  “You mean Nyssa?”

  “The professor. Why . . .” Then she quieted, falling back into her fretful slumber.

  The professor. She was remembering something of her sojourn in the future. Estral sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, not sure she could bear much more. Once again she wished she had never left their campsite that morning. She wished she was in Alton’s arms, that she had never left him even if it meant never regaining her voice. If she hadn’t, Karigan would be all right.

  “Dear gods, don’t let her die, don’t let her die.” It became a mantra, a prayer, murmured over and over until she slumped in exhaustion. How would the gods answer? With help, or with silence?

  The dark filled every corner, every rafter and crevice of Nyssa’s workshop, except where the brazier glowed orange and cast monstrous shadows across the far wall and ceiling. Wind gusted against the building, causing timbers to creak and groan and settle. Karigan murmured incoherently beside her. Emptiness weighed on her, the sense of how hopeless their situation.

  She swallowed hard and clasped Karigan’s limp, too-warm hand in her own, fighting against the surge of despair and the panic. She was not alone, she told herself fiercely. She must remain strong for Karigan. Must remain calm. But she shook, the despair bearing down on her. The gods had spoken with silence. They had abandoned her, and Karigan, too.

  “Meep?”

  She looked up and was met by the golden glow of cat eyes. “Mister Whiskers?” Maybe she was the one suffering from delirium. “Is that you?”

  He came to her purring, his tail crooked.

  “How is it you came to be here?” she asked.

  A shadow slipped through the slats of the pen behind him, but stayed at a cautious distance, a pair of green eyes gazing at her. A black cat?

  “Did you find a mate?” she asked Mister Whiskers.

  “Prrrt.” He rubbed against her hand.

  “Good kitty,” she said, running her fingers down the silky fur of his back. “Can you help us? Karigan isn’t doing well.”

  Karigan had grown fitful again beneath the blanket. Mister Whiskers sniffed her head and licked her nose. Then he curled up beside her shoulder and purred.

  “Can you become a gryphon and help us escape?” Estral asked.

  “Meep.”

  But he didn’t transform. How had he found them? She tried to temper her hope that Mister Whiskers could somehow help. He did not appear about to turn into a gryphon, and even if he did, what then? Could he break the pen open and protect them from the guards? Even if he could, how was she to get Karigan out? She couldn’t carry her, and then there were all the other guards and the traps in the forest. Her hope plummeted once more.

  “Such a nightmare,” she muttered.

  “Morphia,” Karigan muttered. “Why did the professor . . . ?”

  Estral gazed in despair at her friend trapped in nightmares within and without. The black cat, who’d been crouched near Karigan’s feet, crept cautiously alongside her body, and up to Mister Whiskers, then extended a paw and smacked him on the head.

  “Prrrt?” He backed away, eyes large.

  She smacked him again.

  Mister Whiskers, getting some message, moved away while his mate curled up in his place. It was clear who was in charge. He then settled on Karigan’s other side and transformed. There was barely enough room for the four of them with him in gryphon form, but somehow he squeezed himself between Karigan and the wall, and to Estral’s wonder, he extended one of his wings so that it sheltered Karigan.

  “Thank you,” Estral whispered, deeply moved. She was not as alone as she had been. She wondered what the guards would think when they found a gryphon in the pen with their prisoners.

  GHOSTS

  Karigan moved through dark dreams and memories of an underground passage, saw a blurred glimpse of Cade’s face.

  Then it all shifted, and she was standing beside a river. On the opposite bank stood imperious brick mill buildings that were much taller, more imposing, than she remembered. She was talking again to the Rider who wore ancient garb, or rather, he was doing all the talking, as usual.

  “I once had to quell the Aeon Iire, myself,” he said. “That is a dangerous one and you must be vigilant. The dark ones are very aggressive.”

  She could not see him quite right, and she realized it was because she was wearing a gauzy veil. It made her feel too hot, but she could not seem to gather the strength to lift it away from her face.

  The Rider gazed hard at her. “I see you are not well. This is not good, for the necromancer could have control of the Aeon Iire soon. You must be ready.”

  So hot. Flames reflected on the surface of the river. The mill buildings were engulfed in fire. The river bank burned, as well, surrounded her and the Rider.

  “You really are unwell, aren’t you.” The Rider produced a cloth and knelt by the water. He dipped it in, and the rings that drifted outward along the surface rippled flame. He wrung it out and then returned to her and lifted her veil, and dabbed her face with the cloth. It was cooling, and the intensity of the fire moderated.

  He shook his head. “And, of course, no help from Westrion.”

  What did the death god have to do with it?

  “You need to be well, be strong,” the Rider said, dabbing her neck with the cooling cloth. “The living world, and yes, even the spirit world, are depending on you. If the Aeon Iire is broken and the dark ones escape, we are all doomed.”

  PAST MIDNIGHT

  “Doomed.”

  Estral shuddered out of an uneasy sleep. “What?” she asked Karigan. “What did you say?”

  But Karigan did not answer. Then, out of silence, Mister Whiskers and his mate started to emit low growls. Given Mister Whiskers’ size, his growl rumbled like an earthquake. Estral looked out to see what could possibly be perturbing them, and in the shadowy dark, discerned a girl standing outside the pen, but little of her features.

  “Who are you?” Estral demanded.

  “I have your voice,” the girl replied.

  Estral leaped up and jammed her arm through an opening in the slats to grab at the girl who hopped back and stuck her tongue out.

  “Come here!” Estral cried. “Give it back!” If only she could lay her hands on the girl, then she could say the word that Idris had given her.

  “It’s mine now. You can’t have it back. Besides, you get to have kitties, so why shouldn’t I have something?” The girl started to skip away, then paused. “And your friend is gonna die. Especially if Nyssa works on her again. Nyssa likes blood.” Then she was gone, giggles trailing after her.

  Estral banged her hands against the slats and screamed her rage; then she dropped down onto the straw,
ready to weep.

  “Water . . .”

  Estral looked up. “Karigan?”

  “Water . . .” came the hoarse whisper.

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  She filled the ladle with water, but by the time she brought it to Karigan, she was once more asleep or unconscious. Estral placed her wrist against Karigan’s brow. Definitely fevered. She patted the water on her face.

  When she was done, she said to Mister Whiskers, “Can’t you do anything more than provide a protective wing?”

  “Meep?”

  She sat again ready to give in to her helplessness. What can I do? Nothing, nothing at all. I am no mender, and Karigan is paying for my mistake. I am worse than useless.

  It then occurred to her maybe there was something she could do. It’s what Enver would do: sing the healing. He had taught her a little of it as they traveled. Song without words, a resonance and harmony. Feeling the earth beneath her, letting the music rise through her, and then releasing it to the sky and into the burning fire of the stars. She did not know if it actually helped the injured and ill, but it could not hurt, and so she began.

  Perhaps it was the influence of the gift Idris had given her seemingly ages ago, but the music swelled within her, filled the pen, and, it seemed to her, escaped to the heavens. Was it her imagination, or did Karigan rest easier? Mister Whiskers and his mate purred. If it had no other effect, perhaps she herself was healing, at least a little.

  She was about to begin again when she sensed another presence in the building. If it was that girl—

  “Little cousin?” Silver moonlight blossomed from Enver’s cupped hands where he stood outside the pen.

  “Enver!” Now tears did fall.

  “I heard your song,” he said. “You have done well.”

  “Thank the gods you are here. Karigan—it’s unspeakable what they did to her.”

  He unlocked the door, having somehow acquired the key. He knelt beside Karigan, and Mister Whiskers withdrew his wing. He peeled back the blanket. Flaps of skin stuck to rough wool, which caused crusted wounds to bleed again. The moonstone revealed Karigan’s back in all its raw detail. Estral glanced away.