The Seven Realms- The Complete Series

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Yes, sir.”

  And they were gone, disappearing into the haze of smoke.

  Raisa watched them go, her heart a clenched fist inside her chest. “Jemson,” she said, turning to the speaker, “we need buckets, barrels, anything we can use to wet down the buildings. And blankets to beat out sparks. We’ll start out on the Ragmarket side, and retreat across the river if we need to. Ask the dedicates to take the children inside the temple close, so none of them slip across the bridge. They can be watchers, and signal if any burning embers catch.”

  “We have pumps that we use to bring river water up to the gardens in the close,” Jemson said. “I’ll see what we can rig up.” And then he was gone.

  Raisa turned on the Klemaths, who stood gaping across the river. “Where’s your father?” she demanded. “We could use help from the army on this.”

  “Our father?” One of them—Kip, maybe—shook his head. “I think he’s in the borderlands right now. At least, our farrier said his warhorse had to be reshod since—”

  Keith flapped his hand to hush his brother. “We don’t know where he is, Your Majesty. But we’ll go see who’s on duty at the south barracks.” The two Klemaths raced away.

  Raisa frowned after them. Well, she didn’t have time to worry about Klemaths right then. She turned back to Amon.

  “We need help from the gifted,” she said, recalling how Gavan and Micah Bayar and their cousins had put out the fire on Hanalea. “Most are either on Gray Lady or escaping the heat in the mountains. Were there any wizards at the castle close when you left?”

  Amon shook his head. “No, but some may be back from the meeting by now. I left word they should come here as soon as they arrived.” He eyed Raisa with little hope. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to help with the children in the temple courtyard,” he said. “It would ease my mind.”

  Raisa shook her head. “Sometimes a queen needs to be with her people,” she said. “It would be wrong of me to hide out while Ragmarket burns.”

  “I’ll go,” Mellony said, suddenly at Raisa’s shoulder. “I’ll keep them busy.” Gripping her skirts to either side, she strode toward the temple entrance.

  “Would you please stay close to me, then?” Amon said. “So I won’t have to hunt you down if things go wrong?”

  Raisa nodded. Amon didn’t need the distraction of worrying about her. “We’ll work together,” she said. She heard the scream of metal sliding over metal. “There’s Jemson’s pumps. Let’s cross the river and see what we can save.”

  C H A P T E R T W E N T Y

  BLOOD AND

  ASHES

  With any luck, the Bayars wouldn’t expect Han’s party to descend Gray Lady via the road, since they hadn’t arrived that way, and had left no horses in the stables. Still, Han and Dancer raised shields against magical attacks. They wore talismans, of course, which would blunt all but an extremely strong or unusual killing charm.

  Han breathed a little easier halfway down the mountain, where the single road became a network of tracks leading to wizard homes on the lower slopes. It would be difficult to cover all of those.

  The Bayars would be on their way down the mountain, too. They’d be eager to get to Raisa, to tell their story first, to give it a chance to fester and grow.

  Han felt danger coming at him from all directions; he just didn’t know which blow would fall first. The uneasy prickling between his shoulder blades said he was overlooking something—some danger that he hadn’t anticipated.

  As they rode, he told Willo and Dancer what had happened at the council meeting before they’d arrived. They didn’t ask why they were racing down the mountain instead of going back the way they came. What was Han supposed to say if they did—I saw a wolf in the fireplace? All he knew was, he didn’t intend to allow the Bayars any time on their own for mischief.

  At the turnoff for Marisa Pines, Dancer edged his horse up next to Han’s and awkwardly embraced him. “You did well, Hunts Alone. You are well suited to lead the council.”

  “You may be the only one who thinks so,” Han said.

  “Give them time,” Dancer said. “I’ll come to the city as soon as I see my mother safely to Marisa Pines.”

  “Be careful,” Han said. “Lord Bayar would celebrate if you disappeared.”

  Dancer’s teeth flashed in the dwindling light. “I feel the same way about him,” he said.

  As soon as Han rounded the shoulder of the mountain to begin his descent toward the city, he saw it. A raw line of flame ripping across Fellsmarch like an infected wound, gnawing away at the city below.

  He reined in, staring. Fires in Ragmarket were common, and they were always bad news. All the buildings were made of wood, some thatched with straw, and they were crowded as close together as pigs on market day.

  But this was worse. Even at a distance, Han recognized the otherworldly purple-and-green hues of wizard flame. It would be next to impossible to put out, especially with the hot east wind driving it forward, through Ragmarket toward Southbridge.

  Bloody bones, he thought, recalling the look of smug contempt on Lord Bayar’s face when Han won the vote for High Wizard. Gavan Bayar hadn’t waited for the vote of the council, since he knew how it would come out. He’d done it while the guilty parties were far away on Gray Lady. He’d struck before Han had time to intervene.

  Han found his landmarks in the temple spires and placed the leading edge between the castle close and the river. A pall of greasy smoke swallowed the rising moon. From the looks of things, the blaze had already consumed half of Ragmarket. If unchecked, it would jump the river and roar over Southbridge, too.

  Han rode hard for Ragmarket, risking his life on the steep and rocky trail. Once in the city, he fought his way through crowds fleeing toward the castle close. He had to fight his borrowed horse, too. Eventually, he abandoned it and took to the roofs, making better progress until a series of open squares forced him back to ground level.

  As he ran, twisting and turning through streets made unfamiliar by swirling smoke, his mind churned. Bayar had chosen this revenge on purpose. First he’d burned up Mam and Mari. Now he’d burn up the rest of Han’s past, and his future dreams as well. Han’s insides knotted up until he could scarcely draw breath.

  He found a break in the fire line at the long-abandoned Market Temple, whose blackened stone walls resisted the hungry flames. Now people were fleeing the other way, toward the river, with bundles and bags in their arms, dragging screaming children by the hand, carrying lytlings to keep them from being trampled.

  But here, the way was blocked again. The flames had jumped the broad way and were roaring through Sheeps Meadows—which had never held sheep or meadows in Han’s lifetime. Rats poured from crevices in the flaming dwellings, running madly under the feet of the crowd and adding to the panicked confusion.

  “Alister!” someone shouted. He swung around, and there was Hallie Talbot and Mick Bricker, herding hundreds into the square in front of the old temple. Talia and Pearlie were nipping at the edges of the crowd like sheepdogs, keeping them from leaking away into the side streets.

  Hallie had a little girl perched on her hip—a three-year, maybe, with the same stubborn chin and gray eyes as Hallie’s. The child had a fistful of Hallie’s uniform tunic, looking like she never meant to let go.

  “Is there a way through?” Hallie gasped. Her face was smudged with soot, her uniform tunic scorched. “Did the queen send you?”

  “The queen?” Han’s heart slammed into the wall of his chest. “Why? Where is she?”

  “Last I saw her, she was down to Southbridge Temple, fighting the fire.”

  “You mean—she’s in this?”

  Hallie nodded. “Captain Byrne is there, too.”

  No, Han thought, his mouth bone-dry. This can’t be happening. Why would Raisa be down in Southbridge instead of safe inside the stone walls of Fellsmarch Castle?

  Maybe Bayar knew just where Raisa would be. Maybe that was why he’d sc
heduled it now—it was perfect timing, from a Bayar point of view.

  Fury rose up in Han’s throat like bile. If anything happens to her, I’ll—

  “We’re trying to get back to the river,” Hallie said, breaking into Han’s thoughts. “But the fire’s coming at us from all directions.”

  It was planned that way, Han thought. Hallie knew Ragmarket about as well as Han. If she couldn’t find a way, there likely wasn’t one. Han envisioned hundreds of people trapped and burning to death. “Bring them into the temple,” he said. “Take them down into the crypts. I’ll put up magical barricades to keep the worst of it away.”

  “Into the temple,” Hallie roared. “Families with children first. Don’t lose anybody. Move it, we an’t got all day! Lord Alister’s going to turn the fire.”

  Han was both touched and guilted by her faith in him. What if it goes wrong, he thought, trying to push away the memory of Mam and Mari.

  They poured into the sanctuary—ragpickers, slide-handers, fancies in their glittery silks, rushers, launderers, the merchants from the markets—all the layers of Ragmarket crowding in together as the flames roared toward them.

  While Pearlie and Hallie settled everyone inside, Mick and Talia manned the pump at the well in the courtyard, sloshing water into buckets, wetting down the outside of the temple, dumping water over themselves when their clothes began to smolder, too.

  Han ushered them toward the doors. “Better get inside, yourselves. Hopefully it will burn through and be done.”

  “What about you?” Talia asked.

  “I have to get to the river,” Han said. Raisa would be in the thick of it. He had to try and keep his fearless queen from getting herself killed.

  “But there’s no way through,” Mick protested.

  “There is for me,” Han said. “Didn’t anybody tell you? I’m a rum wizard.”

  Talia dragged his face down and kissed him hard, on the lips. “For luck,” she said. When he blinked at her, she added, “I’m only looking out for Queen Raisa. She deserves a little happiness. If you get yourself killed, Her Majesty will turn into a bitter old woman, and I will plant rue and thistle on your grave.”

  “I never believed you was a murderer,” Mick said, patting Han’s shoulder. “Just so you know.”

  “What?” Han blinked at him, but Mick turned on his heel and disappeared into the dark temple, pulling the door shut behind him.

  Han surveyed the situation. The temple was timber and stone. It might turn an ordinary fire, but not this. The timber was already smoldering, the lead framing the windows melting, running down, the pavers in the courtyard shimmering with radiant heat. If Han failed, everyone would perish.

  He walked around the perimeter of the temple, batting sparks from his clothes, shaking cinders from his hair, his hand on his amulet. He sent arcs of magic spiraling over the roofs, weaving a barrier to turn the flames.

  Han suddenly realized he was still wearing his council clothes—his finest coat, now charred in places, the Waterlow ravens draped over his shoulders like the scorched remains of his ambitious plans.

  When the temple was enclosed in a veil of shimmering charms, Han finished his work with a lacing of magic over the door. It looked like a fairy-tale castle—if you could overlook the ravenous flames all around it.

  The barrier seemed to be holding.

  He worked until he couldn’t stand the stench of his hair burning, then began constructing his own shroud, weaving tendrils of magic over his back and shoulders, armoring up as Crow had taught him, nearly a year ago. Would it work against wizard flame? He’d find out.

  He turned west, toward the river, zigzagging around flaming buildings where he could. Somebody’s home. Somebody’s business. Somebody’s livelihood. Anger choked him. Grimly, he forced it away. He had no time to be angry right now.

  Ahead lay a solid wall of flame, topped by greasy black smoke. He’d come up on the slaughterhouses, where beef and pork fat and offal fed the flames. Brick walls rose on either side, blocking the way around. Taking a deep breath, knowing his lungs were not protected, Han squeezed his eyes shut and plunged into the inferno. It roared in his ears, sizzled away any drop of moisture on him. Orange and purple blazed behind his eyelids. His flame-tempered skin seemed likely to crack open.

  And then he was through, sucking in smoke instead of flame, racing headlong, in order to get as far ahead of it as possible, knowing that if he lost the protection of his magical armor, he’d be little more than fuel. When he finally looked back, he saw nothing but flame and smoke. It seemed unlikely that anything could survive. He sent up a prayer for all the families penned up in the temple.

  By now he couldn’t be that far from the river. Down on the right was Pilfer Alley and the tiny kingdom Han had built—his sanctuary, housing Dancer’s metalshop. He resisted the temptation to turn aside and try to save what he could. It was a building. Buildings could be replaced.

  And suddenly he was there, at the edge of the river, surrounded by grim-faced firefighters. Dedicates, fancies, bluejackets, and even some Highlander soldiers—clearing away shacks and Ragmarket rubble, trying to make a firebreak, wetting down buildings, struggling to hold back the flames.

  Two large pumps were set up on the riverbank, raising the Dyrnnewater so the crews could fill buckets and barrels. One even had a leather hose attached, spewing water out the end and into the flames. It was a trickle, though, against an inferno; like spitting on it.

  Han searched through the firefighters for Raisa. Here was Speaker Jemson looking like a tall blackened crow, striding up and down the riverbank, directing dedicates and ’prentices at their work. Han heard Captain Byrne, his voice hoarse from shouting. He looked well roasted already.

  There were even a handful of Demonai, Night Bird included, whose talismans offered them some protection. They moved like spirits through the smoke and flame.

  He spotted Micah, posted prominently on the riverbank, driving back the encroaching flames with blasts of power, setting competing fire lines with carefully placed wizard flame. How had Micah made it there before him? Did he know some kind of a shortcut?

  He didn’t see Raisa.

  As Han watched, Micah put his shoulder to the wheeled pump, helping four others move it to a better location. As Micah stepped back from the pump, he turned and spotted Han. It was as if he’d been watching out for him. He strode toward him, visibly agitated, and Han instinctively took hold of his amulet.

  “Where have you been?” Micah hissed. “Waiting for the entire town to burn down before you made an appearance?” He was smudged over with soot, his finely tailored clothes scorched and burned through in places.

  Han could only stare at him.

  “No doubt you can’t wait to tell the queen that this is my fault,” Micah said, all but shedding sparks himself.

  “It is your fault,” Han said, cocking up his chin. “How can you say it’s not? And that’s exactly what I’m going to say.”

  Micah clenched his fists. “I’d never do anything to hurt Raisa. I had nothing to do with this, and I’m not taking the blame for it, you can trust me on that.”

  “I don’t trust you on anything,” Han shot back. “Where is she? Where’s the queen? You’d better hope she’s all right.”

  “Do you really expect me to tell you?” Micah turned away, back to the fire line.

  Furious, Han scanned the riverbank, then stopped a passing bluejacket, who pointed across the bridge. “I think she’s over to Southbridge Temple,” he said. “Something about medical supplies.”

  The temple close was cool and shady after the intense heat on the other side of the river. Was it just a few years ago that Han had been there as a student, before the siren call of the streets had lured him away?

  Just inside the doors, he saw her. For a long moment, Han stood frozen, drinking her in, helpless with relief. She was wearing her fancy temple clothes, but she’d ripped the skirt off above her knees to allow more freedom of movement.
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  She knelt on the stone floor stuffing bandages into a carry bag, while a young dedicate waited, shifting from foot to foot. When the bag was full, she thrust it into his arms.

  “The infirmary is set up in the sanctuary,” she said. “They’ll be wanting these now.”

  The boy tore away as if she’d lit a fire under him.

  And then Raisa looked up and saw Han.

  “Han! Thank the Lady!” She sprinted toward him, barreling into him with the force of a much larger person, flinging her arms around him and all but knocking him over.

  He could only pull her close and feel her warmth against him, and reassure himself that she still breathed and the Bayars hadn’t managed to take her from him—not yet, anyway.

  Raisa looked up at Han, her green eyes brilliant in a very dirty face. Her cheekbone was purple and swollen, and she smelt of wood smoke.

  “I was scared to death when you didn’t come,” she said. “The flames were so thick, and Micah said the meeting ended hours ago. He thought you’d be right behind him.”

  It hasn’t been that long since the meeting ended, Han thought. “You’re hurt,” he whispered, gently touching her cheek, his throat hoarse from smoke and shouting.

  “The pump handle caught me right in the face,” Raisa said. Her eyes pooled with tears. “This is nothing. We don’t know how many dead there are, but we’ve got some serious injuries on our hands, and I don’t know where these people are going to live.” Her voice trembled.

  Mastering herself, she took a step back, keeping hold of his hands. “Where’s Dancer? I thought he’d be with you.”

  Han shook his head. “We split up. He’s on his way here, but I don’t know if he’ll be able to make it through. I haven’t seen Cat, either. I’d think she’d be in the thick of this.”

  Raisa shook her head. “I don’t know where she’s gone. She was here earlier. And Hallie, Talia, and some others went into Ragmarket an hour ago and haven’t returned.”

  “I just saw them,” Han said. “They’re holed up in the old Market Temple with a couple hundred people. I think they’re safe for now.”