Firebrand

by Kristen Britain

  He would.

  She resisted the temptation, content to study his profile, his strong jawline that had been concealed by his beard since first she’d met him. It took years off him, the removal of his beard, but she knew that if she looked into his eyes, it would be there, the years and all he’d witnessed, the depth of his thinking and concerns. His eyes made him older than his years.

  Cade, whose life certainly hadn’t been easy, had not had the weight of a realm on his shoulders, and had been some years younger than the king. That level of responsibility had not been upon him, though if he survived to carry on the work of the opposition against the empire of his time, it would not take long.

  The two men were different and, yet, alike, each intense and prepared to fight for their people. She had loved them both, but with Cade, there had been no barriers between them as there were between king and messenger.

  Not going to touch him? Nyssa said. Your great unrequited love? What does it matter? You’ve already betrayed Cade, what’s a little more betrayal?

  Go away. Karigan just wanted to sleep and forget the world for a while, but Nyssa only insinuated herself deeper into her mind, cloaking every thought in shadow, obscuring even the king beside her, until only darkness filled her vision.

  You are broken, Nyssa told her, and the lash fell again.

  SEEING THROUGH THE GREENIE’S EYES

  Grandmother sat before the fire in the great hall knotting red yarn around a single strand of brown hair. She’d been so infuriated by the escape of King Zachary and the deaths of so many of her people in the process, that she’d dared not use the art until now. It had been bad enough the Greenie and her friend had managed to escape. And then the king? Her great prize? Working with the art while enraged would have led to disaster, but now that her strong emotions had settled, she could focus and work her intentions into the knots.

  Since looking in on Karigan G’ladheon had worked well the last time she had done it, she decided to try this time looking through her eyes. The red yarn represented intensity, her strong desire for the spell to work.

  Lala dropped onto the bench beside her and kicked her feet back and forth so that they scuffed the floor. She’d been moody since the escape of Arvyn, whoever he really was. Someone more important than an itinerant musician, it would seem. Lala knew only that Arvyn had been kind and patient with her, and she liked the music. After his departure, she had smashed the lute he left behind and fed the pieces to the fire.

  “Quiet, child,” Grandmother said. “You know I must focus or the spell will go awry. Either sit and watch quietly, or go out and play with the other children.”

  “They don’t want me around anymore.”

  “What? Why not?”

  Lala shrugged.

  Grandmother could guess. Lala wasn’t like other children. She had never really fit in. Among other things, she had a talent for the art, which could make others uncomfortable. Perhaps they actually feared her. Grandmother knew that feeling well, for all that her people respected her.

  “What are you doing?” Lala asked.

  “I want to see through the Greenie’s eyes, to see what I can learn.”

  “You think she’s still alive?”

  “I do.”

  “Damn. I told her friend she’d die.”

  “Lala, language, please.”

  “Sorry, Mum.”

  Grandmother nodded. Just as well Lala did not play with the other children if she was picking up bad habits like swearing. “We don’t want the Greenie dead just yet, so it is good she did not die of her wounds.” Nyssa had been very good at what she did, and would have taken the Greenie to the edge, had Immerez not intervened. That was another sore point—Nyssa had been taken from them, she with her skills that were so difficult to replace. Grandmother grieved her death anew.

  Lala, as if detecting her sorrow, touched her wrist. Grandmother patted her hand. The responsibility for all the failures—the escapes and deaths—rested on Terrik’s shoulders. How could he have permitted the king to escape when they’d just experienced the escape of the Greenie and her friend? The loss of so high profile a prisoner as the king was a blow. She had intended him to be the symbol she would use to crush the spirit of the Sacoridians.

  Terrik was now imprisoned in an underground box where he’d have time to consider his failures and pray, and he’d be further punished when she was ready, in a way that he would do the most good for his people and God.

  She’d replaced Terrik with Immerez, who had a much stronger military background. He’d already enhanced their defenses and improved discipline, which was very important, he told her, because the escaped prisoners now had inside intelligence about the keep’s complement and layout. They’d know its vulnerabilities and exploit them. There were Sacoridian troops in the north, he said, that the king could mobilize relatively quickly, as such things went.

  She knew he was right. It was maddening how little information she’d gleaned from the king while he’d been wrapped in her knots, but she’d seen enough of his mind to know that Immerez was correct. The king would attack simply to release her slaves and deal a blow to Second Empire. That one was strong-minded, had resisted her. If only she’d had more time, but she hadn’t wanted to rush it. She had not been, however, entirely unsuccessful in her efforts. She’d learned, for instance, the very interesting information that his wife was carrying twins.

  Perhaps I’ll knit them baby blankets, she thought with no small amount of amusement.

  She had also had the foresight to set a few spells upon him that would, in time, bring him much grief, no matter how far away from her immediate influence he might be.

  She needed to put aside thoughts of the king to concentrate on her project with the Aeon Iire, this current working of the art a diversion. The brown hair was almost completely wound into the bulky knots of yarn.

  “Put another log on the fire,” she instructed Lala. “Let us have the fire hot and bright.”

  As Lala obeyed, Grandmother tied the final knot. The hair was barely a glimmer amid the yarn. Using more than one hair would give her a better connection, but she’d used most of what had been taken for her great working. She wanted to keep the few that remained for any unforeseen need that might arise.

  Lala did a good job with the fire, stoking it up to inferno proportions. The heat it generated almost pushed Grandmother back as she approached.

  “Well done,” she told her granddaughter. In the Arcosian tongue, as taught to her by her mother and grandmother, she said, “Let me see as Karigan G’ladheon sees.” She tossed the working into the fire, then seated herself back on her bench and settled in for the duration.

  • • •

  As the fire died down, Grandmother, her back aching from sitting so long, was about to give up when a darkness appeared amid the languid flames. A very complete darkness. Had the Greenie died, after all? No, then there’d be nothing, no connection at all. Perhaps she simply slept. Grandmother bemoaned her poor back and hoped the Greenie woke up soon, and that she did so before the fire turned to ashes.

  However, much sooner than she believed possible, an image resolved in the dark space and drew her in. To her surprise, she saw Nyssa. A ghost? A dream? The Greenie saw her as huge, the thongs of her whip extra long, the tendrils like vipers, and the barbs dripping blood into a puddle. Nyssa’s face was half-shadowed, her expression a leer of delight.

  “You are broken,” Nyssa said.

  Grandmother flinched with the Greenie when the whip came down, the barbs burrowing into her flesh.

  The vision evaporated, but she heard, Broken, broken, broken . . . as an echo, the words carrying their own cutting strength.

  She was shaking when the world around her became real again with the pop of dying flames and her people moving about the keep, their chatter and footsteps. She took a trembling breath.

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nbsp; Lala sat beside her again and took her hand. Her grip was warm and Grandmother was grateful.

  “What did you see?” Lala asked.

  “Nyssa.”

  Nyssa who was dead, but in the mind of the Greenie, she was a larger presence than ever, carrying on her work through the veil of death. Dream or ghost, it did not matter, for she’d broken the Greenie. Dear Nyssa, how Grandmother missed her.

  “I want to be like Nyssa when I grow up,” Lala said.

  “You do?” Grandmother asked in surprise.

  Lala nodded.

  Lala, Grandmother thought, with her talent for the art, could be far more than a mere torturer, but obtaining additional skills would not hurt.

  “I would that Nyssa were here to train you herself. You do know she studied mending first? Hers was a long training.”

  Lala practically bounced beside her. “I want to learn!”

  “Then I must send you to the man who trained Nyssa.” Grandmother was not sure she wished to part with her true granddaughter. It meant postponing her work with the art, but perhaps there was a way to do both. “He is in Mirwell Province. Would you be able to live away from me?”

  Lala’s young face became serious. There was a sharp quality to her eyes. “I would miss you, but I want to be like Nyssa.”

  Grandmother nodded. “Very well. It will be arranged, but we will communicate often and I will expect you to continue your studies with the art regardless of how much training you do with Nyssa’s master.”

  Lala threw her arms around her. “Thank you! I will be good and learn lots!”

  Grandmother chuckled and patted her back. “I know, child, I know you will.”

  THE TORMENT OF KARIGAN

  “You left me behind so you could return to him,” Cade said, destruction all around him.

  “No, no, I love you . . . wanted to go back.”

  His eyes burned in accusation from where he stood amid the rubble and fog of dust. Even now she stretched her hand out, tried to reach him, but more debris fell and he was lost from sight.

  Lost . . .

  “Galadheon, Galadheon,” Enver said. “You are dreaming.” He gently shook her shoulder.

  She was clenching her bedding again. Her hair stuck to her sweaty brow.

  “Perhaps you would try to listen to the voice of the world with me,” he said. “It would bring you ease and—”

  “No.” It came out harsher than she intended. He’d had her try calming teas, and placed steaming bowls of water and lavender oil near her pillow. He’d tried singing soothing songs, and, she believed, blown some of his magic sleeping dust on her—she’d awakened with some suspicious gold glitter scattered on her blankets. Still the dreams tormented her. She could not see how “listening to the voice of the world” could help, but only make everything worse by opening herself up to attack. She could not see beyond the shadows that clung to her.

  “Very well,” Enver said. “I would like to look at your back before you begin the day.”

  Begin the day? That was a laugh. The days were as bad as the nights. Nyssa dogged her, stood just outside her peripheral vision, was an unrelenting presence. Karigan was so tired she could barely force herself to carry on a conversation.

  Enver was quiet as he examined her back and applied the evaleoren, then dabbed it over the burn that sealed her stab wound. The salve helped, but the pain and weakness, like Nyssa, were constant companions. He bandaged her wounds without breaking his silence. She was well beyond modesty when it came to his ministrations.

  When he finished, he asked, “Should I send in Lady Estral?”

  “No,” she replied. She could, with some difficulty, dress herself, though she didn’t think there was much point to it.

  Enver rose and left her, and she sighed, not wishing to move, not wishing to leave the tent and face the others and their concern. After she forced herself to dress, she simply slumped back into her bedding.

  “Yes, you are broken,” Nyssa said. “The old you would have gotten up long ago and faced the world, no matter what.”

  Karigan closed her eyes, but Nyssa was there in her mind, as well. There was no escape, no relief.

  “As for your companions,” Nyssa continued, “they are getting sick of you, having to wait on your every need and listen to your whining.” She played with her whip, twirling it through the air so that it sent droplets of blood spiraling in every direction.

  Karigan loathed herself, her weakness and dependence, so it was no surprise that her caretakers would loathe her, as well.

  “Right now they are huddled together talking about what to do with you,” Nyssa said. “More than likely, they just want to get rid of you. Go ahead, take a look if you don’t believe me.”

  Karigan crawled on her belly to the tent opening and peered out. Standing by the fire and speaking in hushed tones were the three: Estral, the king, and Enver. They did not look happy.

  “I think your king is very disappointed in you,” Nyssa said, “the weak and self-pitying whiner that you’ve become.”

  “I am not,” Karigan whispered. She crawled back to her bedding. “I am not.” But she could only imagine what he thought of her.

  Nyssa simply shrugged, for she didn’t have to say anything.

  “I am not.” But Karigan no longer believed herself.

  “I am concerned,” Enver said, “that the Galadheon’s wounds are not healing as quickly as I would like.”

  The three of them stood by the fire. Zachary looked from Enver to Estral, their faces full of concern.

  “Are her wounds festering?” he asked.

  “The physical wounds, no,” Enver replied. “Her spirit is another matter.”

  “She won’t eat,” Estral said, “and just wants to sleep, but whatever sleep she gets is very poor. She is no longer interested in songs or stories, and she doesn’t even get angry anymore.”

  “That is so,” Enver agreed, “and if she won’t eat and her sleep does not improve, it won’t matter if her wounds are festering or not.”

  Estral looked near tears. A sense of helplessness pervaded the air.

  “What can we do?” Zachary asked.

  “I have tried everything I know, Firebrand, as has Lady Estral.”

  They looked at him as if he might have the answer, but he was no mender. Clearly they thought he could do something. He was a king—he should know what to do, but he felt wholly inadequate.

  “I will talk to her,” he said. It was all he knew to do. Talk, and lend comfort and support.

  He poured a cup of tea and paused at the tent’s entrance. “Karigan,” he said, “I am coming in.” He didn’t give her a chance to protest, just pushed his way in.

  He found her as he’d last seen her, lying unmoving on her stomach, but her face looked more pale and lacked animation. He sat down beside her.

  “I brought you some tea.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, but she didn’t even flick her eye open.

  This was not, he thought, like her at all. “Can you talk to me? Tell me what is wrong? Enver says your wounds are healing, but . . .” He didn’t know what else to say.

  “Broken,” she murmured.

  “What’s that?”

  “Broken.”

  “What do you mean? What is broken?”

  “I’m broken.”

  “Oh, gods, Karigan, no you are not. Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Because it is true. I am sorry to be such a burden to you. You don’t have to—”

  “You are no burden,” he said softly. How could she even think it?

  “But—”

  “Rider,” he said sharply, “you are no burden. I will do as I wish. If I am sitting here beside you, it is because I choose to. Now, you will drink this tea.”

  “But—”

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nbsp; “It is an order.”

  Her eye widened at that.

  “Let me help you up,” he said more gently.

  He assisted her into a sitting position, hoping he did not cause her additional pain.

  “You—you shouldn’t,” she whispered. “Just let me be.”

  “Why should I let you be?”

  “You are the king.”

  He pressed the cup of tea into her hands. “Ah, you think I should be off doing other kingly things, like sitting on a throne and ordering people about. My dearest Karigan, taking care of my subjects is one of my kingly duties.”

  She sipped her tea, then gazed up at him. She looked so sad and haggard. “I can’t imagine you bringing tea to all of your subjects.”

  “Perhaps not.” He smiled. “There would not be time for anything else. And I must admit, you are a special case.”

  She looked away. “Please, you mustn’t think of me as special. This thing between us . . .” She shook her head. “Estora is your wife, and she is a good person, whole.”

  “What? What do you mean whole?”

  “Look at me,” she said. “Useless. I can’t even sit up on my own. So weak, my back . . .”

  “Karigan, Karigan,” he murmured, “strength and stamina can be regained. You are the strongest person I know, even now. Not many could endure what you have. You and Estora, well, you are two very different people.” He paused, searching for the right words. “If I could change it all for you, if it were in my power to spare you, I would do so. If I could trade places with you, I would. But I can only be here with you, and I will tell you this: you are not broken, and every inch of you is dear to me and whole.” He took a long breath before continuing. “I once told you how I felt about you. It was a couple years ago atop the castle roof.”

  “I remember,” she whispered, looking away.