Firewalk

by Anne Logston

  “I have been here,” she said quietly, “awake and aware, only one day, and in that day I have been wed, bedded my new husband, and had my first meal in days. Forgive me, but I am tired, so very tired.”

  “Of course you are,” Randon said hastily. “I beg your pardon. Come, I’ll dim the lamps and we’ll sleep.”

  It was strange to lie in the large soft bed and feel the presence of another beside her. Humble and barren as her small cell was at the Order, she had had it to herself. Strangely, Kayli found the sensation of Randon’s presence somehow comforting. It was too easy to feel alone, so far from home.

  Randon’s voice in the darkness startled her.

  “Homesick?” he asked quietly.

  Kayli sighed.

  “Perhaps a little,” she admitted.

  She heard Randon move closer in the darkness, and then his arms were warm around her. Kayli turned over a little awkwardly and laid her head on his shoulder. She’d coupled with this man only an hour before, but now it seemed strange to seek comfort from him. But thankfully he said nothing more, just held her in the silence until Kayli’s exhaustion overcame the strangeness and she spiraled down into sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Kayli woke slowly, stretching luxuriantly. The first weak rays of sunlight just touched the windowsill; at the Order she’d have been awake long before. She rolled over and gazed at her bedmate—her husband. Randon was deeply asleep on his side, one wrist over his eyes, the covers pushed down almost to his waist.

  How strange to wake next to this man, this naked man sharing her bed. Sharing more than her bed, Kayli reminded herself. Sometime last night she had woken to his kisses and caresses, her body already burning for him. Sweetly drowsy, the darkness swallowing any awkwardness or embarrassment she might have felt, Kayli had astonished herself with her own abandon. The memory made her blush a little now, in the light of day.

  She glanced at the sheets, the covers. Thankfully there was no hint of scorching. Whatever power had been released at her Awakening, at least she apparently need not fear setting the bed afire every time they coupled. A blessing, for even now, remembering that hot, secret passion in the darkness, Kayli could feel the Flame pulsing along her nerves.

  Daringly Kayli cupped her hands and focused her thoughts as she had been taught; almost immediately a small flame flared alight in the cup of her hands. Its touch on her skin tingled pleasantly but did not burn. Kayli smiled and banished the small flame; to her delight, the cut on her palm had healed to a white scar. She folded her hands closed as if to hold in a secret.

  Randon murmured something in his sleep and rolled over on his back. Kayli slid out of bed, donned her robe, and tiptoed out onto the balcony.

  Even in the weak dawn light, Kayli marveled at the size of Tarkesh beyond the castle wall. She could see small figures moving in the streets—merchants going to market, perhaps, or to their shops. Kayli wondered if she might someday see Tarkesh’s legendary market. There were villages around her parents’ keep, of course, but like most villages in Bregond, the greater part of the inhabitants traveled with the herds, circling the lands in their territories, returning home only to cull the herds, visit with the family members who remained at home, and send their tithes on to the High Lord. Merchant wagons passed singly or in small groups through the villages as they did the High Lord’s keep; there were few large gatherings.

  Now that Kayli had a better look at the grounds inside the keep wall, she was amazed to see that except for the meticulously tended gardens, lush with greenery, most of the ground had been paved with stones rather than leaving the earth to become trampled and hard. Of course; she was living in the wetlands now, and bare earth would become slippery mud. She wondered briefly where Randon rode. They seemed surrounded by city, at least as far as she could see from the south-facing balcony.

  “You’re up early.” Randon folded his arms around her waist from behind and kissed the side of her neck. “After all you’ve been through, I thought you’d sleep late.”

  “I apologize if I disturbed you,” Kayli said, leaning back against his warmth. It was an unusual, pleasing sensation. “I am accustomed to waking early.”

  “I heard the maids put a tray in the sitting room,” he said. “Come and have something to eat.”

  Kayli was glad for the food; she was hungry and the meal was tasty, but even better, it gave her something to do. She felt inexplicably awkward in Randon’s presence; after she’d wed this stranger and coupled with him, what could she say to him?

  Randon apparently felt none of the same awkwardness; he chatted jovially while they ate, saying nothing of any consequence, seemingly oblivious to Kayli’s shyness. Of course, she thought wryly, he was far more accustomed to waking up beside a bed partner than she was. After listening to an accounting of Agrond’s harvests last year, the increasing cost of importing tin, lead, iron, and copper, and the regrettable decrease of game near the city, however, Kayli held up a hand, silencing him.

  “What you say interests me greatly,” she said gently, “but you tell me nothing of yourself. I would like to learn something of the man I wed.”

  Randon sighed and put down his mug.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is a little strange to me. To be quite truthful, I don’t know that I’ve spoken—well, meaningfully—to anyone much except Stevann, and Father put an end to that years ago.”

  “Terralt said your father opposed your studying magic,” Kayli said quietly. She could still hardly conceive of such an attitude in any parent.

  “I very much doubt it was the magic,” Randon said wryly. “I imagine he simply didn’t want me so much in Stevann’s company. Stevann’s a lover of men, you know. I suppose Father was afraid he’d teach me such habits.”

  Kayli tried not to blush. Obviously Agrond was a much more cosmopolitan country than Bregond. There were men and women of such tendencies in Bregond, Kayli knew, even in her own Order. Officially such practices were forbidden. Unofficially they were ignored, but never spoken of in polite company.

  “In any event, I’d have made a terrible mage,” Randon said cheerfully. “I’m not the studious sort, and I read and write poorly—undoubtedly you know that from my letter.”

  “In the Orders that would not have mattered,” Kayli told him. “Except for copying the rituals into our grimoires, our lessons are spoken. In my Order there are two priests who are completely blind.”

  “And what sort of magical talent do you have?” Randon asked eagerly.

  Kayli cupped her hands together as she had before. It was easy, amazingly easy to conjure up the small flame.

  “I am fire-Dedicated,” she said, extending her hands so that Randon could see the flame. The tiny fire danced merrily over her skin, leaving behind an odd, pleasurable tingling.

  “How wonderful.” Randon bent over her hands, holding out his own hand. “May I?”

  Kayli hesitated. It seemed probable that Randon had some trace of the mage-gift, at least, but Kayli was uncertain that she had enough control over her fire yet that she could keep it from burning him if he had no magical affinity to the Flame. But, oh, if he did—

  Kayli closed her hands, banishing the small flame, smiling at the disappointment in Randon’s expression.

  “Give me your hand,” she said. “No, that one.” She gently unwound the bandages, wincing inwardly when she saw how much the cut in his palm had bled, how the cloth had stuck to the wound. “As most healers know, fire has the power to stop blood and close wounds.”

  Randon’s eyebrows drew down a little apprehensively, but he said nothing, letting Kayli expose the cut on his palm, wincing only a little when she opened his hand flat.

  Kayli brought forth the dancing fire in her own hand, then, holding Randon’s hand steady, spilled the tiny flame into Randon’s palm. Randon cried out, more in surprise than pain, and nearly pulled away, but Kayli’s grip on his wrist held his hand still. There was a brief odor of burning flesh as the small flame danced
across his palm; then the flame vanished.

  “It didn’t hurt,” Randon said hesitantly, staring with a mixture of apprehension and distaste at the charred line across his palm. “But it felt so strange. But look, I’m burned.”

  “Perhaps. But I think not.” Kayli dabbed at Randon’s hand with her napkin, then wiped more vigorously. The smudge of burned blood scrubbed away, leaving a healed scar like her own.

  “That’s remarkable,” Randon said, his eyes wide. “How did you do that?”

  “I did nothing but permit you for a moment to share my own fire magic,” Kayli corrected. “If you had no affinity of your own with the Flame, it would have burned you in truth.”

  “Then I have the same kind of fire magic you do?” Randon asked, such eagerness in his voice that Kayli was dismayed.

  “You saw how the flame died in your hand,” she said gently. “Either you possess little of the Flame of your own, or because of your lack of training, you are unable to sustain it.”

  “I suppose it’s too late to learn,” Randon said, sighing. “Stevann said mages begin training when they’re very young.”

  “Yes, for many reasons,” Kayli said quietly. “But, Randon, the duties of a High Lord would leave you no time for such studies in any wise.” She did not add that for Randon to attempt to learn fire magic so late in his life, long after his sexual energies had matured, would be unthinkably dangerous. There was no need to say it; Randon already realized the futility of the idea.

  “But what about you?” Randon asked, frowning a little. “I’m delighted to learn my new bride is a mage, and it’ll certainly impress my advisory council, but you say you still have learning to do. How can you do that here and now?”

  “Learning the necessary concentration and self-discipline was the greatest and most difficult lesson,” Kayli said, sighing at the memory. “Now I need only learn the rituals themselves.”

  “Will you need a study, or perhaps a workroom like Stevann’s to read and mix potions and such?” Randon suggested. “There are plenty of chambers I could have converted.”

  A great wave of relief left Kayli shaken; she had never permitted herself to wonder if Randon might oppose her studies.

  “I have only a few books, and I would prefer to ask Endra or Brother Stevann to prepare any potions or powders I might need,” Kayli said, smiling. “But if I might ask it of you, I would request that a forge be dedicated to my use—”

  “A forge?” Randon said, raising his eyebrows. “Well, I suppose that’s not so strange, especially if you want to conjure a fire any larger than that tiny flicker, or juggle coals like you did last night. There’s the old palace forge in the cellar, but it hasn’t been used since my grandfather’s time.”

  The offer stunned Kayli to silence, and for a moment she stared into Randon’s eyes, expecting to see the twinkle that meant he was mocking her. But there was no mockery in his eyes, only keen interest—or rather, thinly veiled curiosity. Well, there was no harm in that; he was her husband, after all, and most of the rituals need not be held secret.

  “You’re so inscrutable,” Randon said, chuckling a little, after a long moment of silence. “You say so little. What are you thinking with such a serious expression on your face?”

  Kayli smiled.

  “That I am grateful for your generosity and your interest,” she said. “But do you truly wish to spend three days locked in these rooms?”

  “Mmmm.” Randon stood and walked around the table to Kayli, bending over to nuzzle the side of her neck. His tongue traced a tingling path over her skin, and a restless warmth filled her, so that she leaned back against his hands.

  “I don’t know,” he murmured against her neck. “Three days may not be long enough by half.”

  This time Kayli had no fear or doubt to make her reluctant. In the aftermath of passion, however, her head pillowed on Randon’s shoulder, their legs tangled comfortably, she sighed.

  “What’s the matter?” Randon asked.

  “You are so skilled at pleasing me,” Kayli said, rather embarrassed. “I think of the women you have lain with, women who were skilled at pleasing you, and I feel—inadequate.”

  Randon laughed.

  “Any man can pay his coins and have a whore as talented at feigning pleasure as she is at giving it,” he said. “Believe me, it’s pure delight to lie with a beautiful woman and know I’m making her happy, and to be wanted for more than my gold. So don’t trouble yourself. No man marries a virgin and expects to find a great courtesan in his bed.”

  Kayli would have answered, but a timid knock at the outer door interrupted her thoughts. Randon scowled, but donned his robe and disappeared into the sitting room; Kayli could hear muffled conversation, and once a sharp, angry exclamation by Randon. Randon strode back into the room, flinging his robe aside and sighing explosively as he collected his clothes.

  “Is something wrong?” Kayli asked, reaching for her robe.

  “More or less,” Randon said irritably. “Knowing that I’d be conveniently out of the way for three days, Terralt’s called a meeting of my advisers to discuss all the reasons why my father’s choice of Heir should be ignored. Bright Ones, if it weren’t for the loyalty of the servants I’d never have even heard about the meeting. They’re already in the council chamber. I didn’t expect Terralt to force a confrontation so soon.”

  “Can he do that?” Kayli asked surprisedly. “Call a meeting of the High Lord’s own advisers without the High Lord?” Immediately she was embarrassed to have asked; Terralt had done it, hadn’t he?

  “He has no right, if that’s what you’re asking,” Randon said wryly, struggling with his trousers. “But my advisers are in an odd position—I’m the declared Heir, but not confirmed as High Lord yet, while Terralt’s been the High Lord in all but name for years. In their place I might have agreed to the session, too. But to fail to notify me—well, I’ll have something to say about that.”

  “Then I will go with you.” Kayli pulled a gown at random from her wardrobe and stepped into it.

  “There’s no time,” Randon protested. “By the time your maids could have you ready, there’d be no use in going.”

  “Then your council of advisers must learn that your bride cares more for her duties than her appearance,” Kayli returned. She brushed her hair hurriedly and pinned it into a simple knot at the back of her head, half laced her slippers, and nodded briskly. “I am ready.”

  Randon raised one eyebrow.

  “You’re not wearing any underthings at all, are you?”

  “No one can see that,” Kayli said. “However, if you wish to wait while I don all of my smallclothes and petticoats—”

  “No matter,” Randon said hurriedly. “As you say, nobody will know but us.” Then he grinned. “But I may find the thought something of a distraction.”

  This time they walked not to the great hall, but to another room on the ground floor. Two guards were stationed at the door, but they stepped aside as Randon approached, one hurriedly opening the door for them. Randon did not wait to be announced, but strode into the room, and Kayli, taking a deep breath and performing a brief calming exercise in her mind, followed.

  This apparently was the council chamber, a smallish room with no windows and only the one door. At the back of the room was a heavy wooden table with a large, ornate chair behind it, and beside that a smaller chair. Terralt was sitting in neither; he was standing instead, leaning against the table.

  A short distance from that table and perpendicular to it were two longer tables facing each other. Seated at those tables were the advisers Kayli had seen at the great hall when she and Randon had been married: three men at one table, two women and a man at the other. All six had turned to gaze at Kayli and Randon, and Kayli felt a little of her tension ebb when she saw the surprise and embarrassment on all six faces—and a measure of relief as well. Not a conspiracy, then.

  “Fair morning, lords and ladies,” Randon said casually, as if he’d met th
em in the hallway. “I’ve already presented to you the lady Kayli, my bride; Kayli, I make known to you my advisory council: Lord Kereg, Minister of Agriculture; Lord Disian, Minister of Science; Lord Vyr, Minister of the Army; Lady Tarkas, Minister of Trade; Lady Aville, Minister of Justice; and Lord Jaxon, Minister of Finance.”

  The ministers stood and bowed as they were named; Kayli noted that Lord Kereg and Lady Tarkas glanced briefly at Terralt as they rose, but whether their glance was to obtain approval or merely to gauge Terralt’s reaction, Kayli could not tell.

  “You may be seated, lords, ladies,” Randon said amiably. “I’m gratified that a formal assembly could be called so soon after my wedding so that my wife could meet you. I’m certain it was a simple oversight that someone forgot to notify me that my own council was sitting in session.”

  “Why, brother”—Terralt grinned—“have you forgotten that you said that you weren’t to be disturbed for three days?”

  You have shown courtesy, Kayli thought, tightening her grip on Randon’s hand. Now you must show strength. But she said nothing; it was Randon who had been challenged, not she.

  When Randon spoke again, there was a gratifying note of steel in his calm voice.

  “I would have preferred to believe this business an honest misjudgment on your part, Terralt,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want to believe you’d court treason so far as to disobey Father’s orders, to conspire against his chosen Heir, even try to seduce my ministers into treason with you.”

  “Until you’re confirmed as High Lord, they’re no more your ministers than they are mine,” Terralt said flatly, his grin gone. “And what sort of Heir expects his country to wait for three days while he dallies with his bride?”

  “The sort of Heir who respects the customs of a country with whom we’ve signed a treaty,” Randon said quietly. “But that’s exactly what this is about, isn’t it—what sort of Heir I am. And now’s as good a time as any to discuss that.”