by S. G. Night
“You don’t scare me, Hikshaa,” Brahn said disinterestedly. “Go bully someone else. You have your price, now run along back to Monger’s lap and tell him I’ll do what I can to get the product by the 10th — for fifty scion.”
He looked back down at the paperwork on his desk. The Demon, Hikshaa, just stood there fuming, a tower of gangly flesh and claws. And then, to Notak’s astonishment, the Demon actually turned and left, slamming the door shut in its wake.
“Demons,” Brahn scoffed to himself.
On the ledge outside the window, Notak took a step back from the sill. He reached out with his thoughts, searching for Rachel. When he found her cognitive presence in the ether, he tugged at her.
What? Rachel’s voice said inside his head.
I found something, he thought in reply. I just eavesdropped on a meeting between Brahn and a servant of our target. I got a name, and a few ideas.
Anything else? came Rachel’s response.
Apparently Westward Trade deals in black market contraband under the table. Brahn mentioned a stash somewhere in the warehouse.
What should I be looking for?
Drugs, Notak said. Saffron sap and king dust. They also mentioned another item, a big one by the sound of it, but they were too vague for me to figure out what.
Pause. I think I got something here, Rachel said. A door in a back corner. Suspicious looking. Should I check it out?
Go ahead, Notak said as he began his shimmying way back along the ledge toward the dark alley.
Another pause. Locked.
Can you get it open? Notak asked.
Think so, Rachel thought back.
Good, I am on my way to you.
There’s a skylight on the roof, she told him. I left it open for you. There are a couple of Company workers wandering around the warehouse floor, so be careful. I’m in the southeast corner.
Notak reached the alley and hopped down to street level, brushing himself off and releasing the ‘Flage. Be there soon. How goes the lockpicking?
Almost… Rachel murmured. Almost…got it! Yep, good sized room full of crates. Crates full of…wow, lots of stuff. Spark, headwash, red rook, any kind of drug you could —
Rachel’s voice suddenly cut short in Notak’s head. He frowned. Rachel?
Nothing.
Rachel, are you okay?
There was a long, mortifying silence. Then: Get over here. Right now. Rachel’s voice was cold, angry.
Are we compromised? Notak demanded.
No, Rachel seethed. Right now, Notak. You need to see this.
——
The warehouse — thank God — was not fortified like Hammon’s had been. It only took Notak about five minutes to climb the wall, slip in through the skylight, and navigate through the rafters of the dim, cavernous room. He found the door in the southeast corner, slipped inside, and shut it behind him.
Inside he found an unlit room, wooden boxes piled up to the low ceiling. Rachel stood near one corner of the room, at the top of a staircase that appeared to lead into a basement area. He came around to stand beside her. Her face was stricken, frozen somewhere between horror and rage. Her fists were balled so tightly into fists that they shook.
“What is wrong?” Notak asked.
Rachel did not speak. Instead, she nodded down the stairs.
“What is down there?” Notak inquired, worried. “More contraband?”
Rachel shook her head woodenly and gestured at the wooden crates around the room. “The drugs are in those,” she said, her voice rasping with the intensity of whatever emotion was gripping her. “But the real stuff is down here.”
Notak’s frown deepened. “Rachel, what is wrong?” he asked again. “What’s down there?”
She took him by the hand and led him down the stairs. The basement was just a simple hallway, dark, damp, and dirty. The walls were lined with doorways leading into small side-rooms.
“What is it?” Notak asked again.
She jerked her chin at the side-rooms. “Look.”
Concerned, Notak looked again His eyes adjusted. And what he saw made his stomach heave.
The small rooms’ doors were made of cast iron bars, rusted and grimy. Through each door, Racath could see a Human girl curled up in the back corner of the room within. No, not rooms…cells. This place was a dungeon.
Their only clothes were rags and scars. Filth and bruises darkened the paleness of their skin. They were scrawny, shivering, clearly starving. Some of them lifted their eyes to look out through their cell-doors at the pair Shadow-wrapped figures in the hallway.
And their eyes — God, their eyes! They were white against the dirt that covered the rest of their bodies. Like little pearls glimmering in the darkness. They were red-rimmed and dry; some were bleeding slightly — the signs of someone hopelessly addicted to jat.
Horrified, Notak took a revolted step back toward the stairs. What kind of putrid, awful scum could do something like this? What kind of person could be evil, so rotten to the core, that they could stomach this kind of cruelty?
He could only think of one person that it reminded him of. A sudden, overwhelming anger took hold of him. Hatred like he hadn’t felt in years. Hatred that he hadn’t felt since the last time he’d stood face-to-face with Mrak.
Rachel turned her head to look at him, her eyes full of pity, pain, and fury. “Westward Trade?” she said. Her words were quiet. It was a rare kind of anger that could make Rachel go quiet. “When we’re done with the Demons? When we’ve won and the Dominion’s gone? I’m going to personally kill every last person that belongs to this Company.”
Notak nodded, his teeth grinding so hard that he feared they might crack. His fists were shaking too. “You can do that,” he said. “But only if I don’t do it first.”
***
THIRTY-FOUR
The Pyre
Time rolled on in the domus.
Their usual trip to the bathing pool had been tense the day after Racath had seen Nelle’s scars. She had stood on the ledge overlooking the pool for a long time, her face pained, silently wringing her gloved hands. As cathartic and therapeutic as their heart-to-heart by the waterfall had been, Racath could tell that she was still anxious about showing her arms.
In a moment of boldness, he had gone to her and pulled her into a wordless embrace. He had spoken soft things to her, reminding her a thousand ways that she had nothing to hide from him. It took a few long, painful minutes. But eventually, Nelle relented and hesitantly removed the gloves. Her shoulders had been stiff with reticence, her face painted with embarrassment. It took another good hug before she relaxed enough to disrobe and jump into the pool.
They swam together, and soon enough Nelle seemed to forget about her nervousness and return to her usual bubbly self. It was a slow transition, like a shy flower unfolding, and Racath couldn’t help but be reminded of how he must have looked to her during those first few awkward times in the pool. Nelle never wore her gloves during their swims again after that.
Racath’s gut would clench every time he looked at the burning-red scars on her arms. It wasn’t disgust. It wasn’t revulsion — at least not for Nelle. It was hatred, brewing in the back of his throat. Hatred, pure and unadulterated. Those scars were a reminder to him of the unimaginable horrors that the Demons had inflicted on her — and the rest of Io, too. Those scars were an indictment against the Dominion for all the blood that they spilt, the families they destroyed, and the lives they damaged. And those scars were a promise that Racath would bring fire down on their heads.
——
The next few days blew by quickly. His training continued as usual — sparring, Magicks, academics, language, etcetera. But Racath could tell that his time in the domus was quickly coming to a close. He was burning through topic after topic with little difficulty now. On a good day, he could master four or five new Magicks every morning. His martial skills had reached their peak — he wasn’t going to get any better than he already was. Oron wa
s starting to run out of things to teach him. Really, there was just one last issue to take care of. One last thing before he could become a Scorpion….
——
“Stop.”
The command was so unexpected that Racath nearly tripped over his feet. The shade he’d been about to eviscerate evaporated, disappearing into a haze of dark smoke. Confused, he turned to look at the older Majiski standing at the edge of the pit. Oron was wearing an expression that Racath couldn’t quite identify, somewhere between incredulity and perplexity.
“What?”
“What the hell is your problem?” Oron said.
Racath’s eyebrows knit together. “What are you talking about?”
Oron turned to look up at Nelle, who sat in her usual spot on the edge of the pit. “Tell me you noticed it too.”
“Oh, I noticed,” the augur answered, pushing herself off the edge to land in the sand next to Oron. “I saw it a long time ago, actually.”
“What are you two on about?” Racath asked. They were both looking at him appraisingly, like he was an interesting insect under a magnifying lens.
“Name for me,” Oron said. “The last five Magicks that you just used against my shades.”
“Uhh…” Racath thought back, unsure where this was going. “Red Fist…Red Wave and Red Lance…Red Claw…why? Did I do something wrong?”
Oron shook his head. “It’s not what you did. It’s what you haven’t done.”
Racath frowned. “You’ve lost me.”
“You’ve been using fire Magicks for the past ten minutes,” Nelle told him. “And only fire Magicks.”
“And you’ve been using them like no one I’ve ever seen before,” Oron added.
“…So?”
“So, every time I ask you how your search for your corobna dosdom is going, you tell me you’ve made no progress,” Oron answered. “And yet you wield mage-fire like it’s second nature. You’ve got a love for flame that borders on pyromania. You’ve got an obvious talent for it. Have you even considered that flame might be your dosdom?”
“Of course I’ve considered it,” Racath grumbled sheepishly. “But….”
Oron looked at him expectantly. “But…?”
“But…I already know it’s not fire. It can’t be.”
Nelle arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “Oh? Why’s that?”
Taking a deep breath, Racath brushed the sand of his palms and told them all about his encounter with the Demon Briz’nar in Milonok — more specifically, about his absorption, and re-expulsion of the Demon’s mage-fire.
When he was finished, they were both staring at him silently. They looked at each other with vacant faces, then turned their eyes back on him again.
“What?” he demanded.
Expressionless, Nelle walked up to him and smacked him hard across the back of the head.
“Ow!”
“You idiot, why didn’t you tell us that before?!”
“I didn’t think it mattered!” Racath said angrily, massaging the back of his head. “Doesn’t it just disqualify fire as an option? It burned me, it hurt me! If my dosdom really were fire, wouldn’t I have been protected? Shouldn’t the rift in my anda have opened then and there?”
“Not necessarily,” Oron answered. “You said that the Demon’s fire gave out at the end, right?”
“Right…?”
“And you said you felt saturated?” he continued. “And there was fire bleeding off your markara? Like you were overflowing?”
“Yeah…but…I thought it was supposed to come open when I reached the overflow point.”
Nelle shook her head. “Not exactly. You have to hit overflow — reach total saturation — and keep absorbing even more of the energy. The sustained flow keeps what energy you’ve already absorbed from leaking out your body, compacting it until the rift bursts. Your dosdom might really be fire. Briz’nar might have just run out of flame before the pressure reached a critical point.”
Racath pressed his lips together. “That makes sense, I guess…but…I dunno. I’m still not sure.”
“You need to have a little more faith in yourself, Racath. Are you drawn to fire?”
Racath hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Are you talented with fire?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want it to be fire?”
The last question made him pause. He thought about — thought long and hard — before answering. He remembered the mockery the fire had bombarded him with the last time he’d tested it in meditation. You are not fit to command a spark, it had seemed to say. I am the master, you the slave.
When he’d first heard those words, he’d been afraid. But now, now it just made him angry.
“Yeah…I think I do.”
“Well, there you go!” Nelle exclaimed, thumping him on the back. “Look, don’t let us tell you what to do about this. But if you want my opinion, I’d say go for it. If it feels right, do it.”
Slowly, Racath nodded again, more to himself this time. Nelle was right. There really couldn’t be any other answer — he had already exhausted every other option. It made sense. And there was no sense in putting it off. “It feels right. Let’s do it.”
Oron’s eyebrows shot up. “What…right now?”
“Right now. Tonight. If I wait any longer, I’ll lose my nerve. And there’s no point avoiding it any longer.”
“You’re sure?” Oron asked, suddenly dubious. “I only meant to prompt you to focus on fire in your meditations, not to go rush off and light yourself on fire right this second.”
“I’m sure. It’s fire.”
“Oh, don’t be such a worrywart, Oron,” Nelle said before the older Majiski could speak again. “If he’s ready, then let him do it.” She looked at him excitedly, like a child awaiting a long-anticipated surprise. “You are going to do it…right?”
“Right,” Racath affirmed. “The sooner the better.”
“And how exactly are we going to get enough flame to rival an Archfiend’s mage-fire?” Oron inquired skeptically.
That brought Racath up short. He thought for a moment, then asked: “How much lamp oil do you have in storage back at the house?”
Oron shrugged. “A half-dozen barrels, give or take a few. Why?”
A grin blossomed on Racath’s lips. “Tonight’s the night. Meet me on the cliff by the waterfall. Bring the oil.”
Oron seemed hesitant, but Nelle was already on her way up the stairs. “How much of it?”
“All of it!”
“Now, that’s the spirit!” the augur called back over her shoulder.
——
Night had fallen by the time they had lugged the half-dozen barrels of oil onto the cliff overlooking the pool.
“You’re certain about this?” Oron asked dubiously, hefting the last barrel over to the pile.
Racath nodded wordlessly.
Oron dropped the barrel onto the grass beside the others. The oil inside sloshed around ominously and Racath’s gut churned with trepidation. He swallowed hard, smothering the fear before it could turn toxic in his stomach.
“You’re sure?” Oron asked again. “If we’re wrong—”
“I’m not.” The words sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than his teacher. He grimaced to himself, pulled off his shirt and stepped inside the large circle of stones he had laid out for himself.
“I hope so,” Oron murmured. “Or else you’re dead.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“He’ll be fine,” Nelle assured them both. She pried off the lid of the first barrel, lifted it, and walked over to Racath. Her eyes soothed him when she looked him in the face. “You ready?”
Racath pinched his eyes shut and nodded.
Nelle dumped the barrel over his head. A cascade of slick, yellow oil soaked his hair, splattered down his shoulders, and saturated his bare arms and chest. Racath shuddered, his teeth chattering as the cold fluid pulled the heat from his skin. Witho
ut pause, Nelle doused him with the second barrel. He shivered again, chilled in the cool autumn night. Nelle repeated the process again and again until all the barrels were empty. Oil soaked every inch of Racath’s skin and saturated the soil beneath his feet.
Nelle leaned close to him and whispered in his ear. “If you don’t survive this,” she said. “I’ll kill you.” She kissed his cheek and took a few steps back to stand beside Oron outside the ring of stones.
Racath inhaled the deepest breath he had ever drawn. His muscles tight, he tried to still his breathing and clear his mind of all doubt.
“Racath,” Oron interrupted.
He paused and looked at his teacher through the oil dripping off his hair.
“You know that I will support you in this,” Oron said. “I trust your decision. But I just wanted to remind you of your responsibility. You are the Krilati. Our hope as a nation, as Majiski, lives and dies with you. If you die tonight, all that hope goes with you. Are you ready to risk that?”
Oron’s words sunk deep and cold into his chest, just like the chill of the oil coating his body. So much riding on him. Was he ready to risk that? Had he really given this enough thought? Was this stupid, reckless? Irresponsible?
Racath set his jaw. No. He knew it was right. He knew it. Knew it just as certainly as he knew that fire burned.
Raising his hand, he pulsed a flare of energy down his markara, and a ball of red mage-fire blossomed in his palm.
“I am.”
Racath slammed the fire down into the pool of oil at his feet. The fuel ignited. In a scream of rushing air and erupting heat, a pillar of fire engulfed him.
At first, Racath felt nothing at all. Nothing but light. White. Blinding. Wondrous….
But then he felt the flames. And the light was suddenly horrifying.
It scorched him. Burned him. It was clawing him. Biting him. Tearing at him like the brimstone claws of a monster born in the heart of hell. His entire body was a torch of shrieking inferno and scalding pain. He cried out, fell to his knees. His eyes saw nothing but the horrible light of ten thousand tongues of fire.
