by A. G. Henley
I glance at the girl in the early light. Recognition burns in her eyes as she listens to the men speak. She will learn that to be a daughter of the Fire Sisters is an honor, a privilege. That is what we give the girls: pride in being a warrior, pride in being a woman. It is a gift.
The men finally slink off toward the river, disappearing into the black. They move methodically back and forth between the trees and the Restless, searching. We stay in place. The girl falls asleep. I pull a blanket from my pack and wrap it around her, tucking the ends under her body.
Fog drifts over the hill from the Restless, like the great banks of billowing clouds that steal up the mountainside from the Shivering Sea to the Cloister in the winter. The moisture sizzles when it reaches the Eternal Flames, the wall of undying fire that protects one end of our home.
The men find nothing, of course. They settle a distance away from where we perch, and eventually they are quiet, probably asleep. Fools. They should flush us out while they can.
I rouse the girl, whispering to her. We sit, ready to slip down to the branch below. But before we can escape, one of the men speaks in the common tongue. His voice comes from a distance, sounding plaintive, almost unearthly. He seems to speak to the mist. I shiver.
"Daughter, I hope you are near and can hear me.” His voice wavers, as the girl’s did earlier. “I miss you.”
She freezes beside me.
The emotion in his words surprises me. He does not sound angry to have lost a possession. He sounds lonely, bereft, frightened.
"If you can hear me, Kaiya, if you are listening, I will not stop looking until I find you. I love you."
Tears drip down the girl's dirty cheeks now, leaving reflective trails of the moon. I watch, strangely fascinated. I have not shed tears since I was a young girl, living in fear of the Teachers, before I understood the power they offered me.
Her muscles are rigid. It's clear from her face she wants to go to him. I bite my lip.
Can a man truly love his daughter? No. It's not possible. Our Teachers taught us men have few feelings, and those they do have are reserved for themselves, not others.
My eyes narrow. It must be a trick. This man is clever, cunning, deceptive. He hopes to turn my thoughts away from my duty. He preys on what he believes are my feminine weaknesses: sympathy and compassion.
Has he not heard of the power of the sting and the invincibility of the Fire Sisters? If not, then he will learn.
I bid the child to follow as I steal from branch to branch to the ground and into the swirling mist, away from the forest and away from this dangerous man.
4.
Concealed by the fog, the girl and I creep over the berm and through knee-high wet grass to the impatient Restless. We must move quickly, using the noisy water as cover. It will be a long walk to where we can cross the river and again climb up into the trees. I begin to jog, knife in hand.
She follows without prompting, her dark hair stark against the chalky mist. Her nose runs and her cheeks are streaked with tears, but her expression is blank once more. The sting is at work.
I hear no sounds of a chase, so after a while I stop listening behind me, instead casting my senses ahead into the shifting haze. The ground is muddy and uneven, difficult to maneuver in the low light. The girl slips and slides behind me, yet I have no trouble keeping my feet.
When Adar and I were old enough and skilled enough to leave the children's compound, we went to live with a few other Initiates under the tutelage of Grimma, the Cloister's legendary training mistress. She helped perfect our prowess in combat and taught us ways of moving stealthily through the trees. The Sisters are phantoms of the forest, she would tell us. I took her training to heart.
Male voices and the sound of a woman crying echo ahead. I pause to listen, holding the girl close behind me.
"Shut up," one of the men says. "If there is any game out here, we aren't gonna hear it over your racket."
"And if we don't eat today, you don't eat today," a second man says. "You were supposed to do our cooking and washing and keep us warm at night. Instead all you do is snivel and cry. Waste of flesh."
A slap rings out, but it doesn't stop the howling. My teeth clench. I have encountered men who sound like these before. They are often wanderers with no home—and no purpose.
I tell the girl to sit inside the protective curls of fog where we stand. "Remain here, and be silent."
Dipping the point of my blade in the venom sack, I slide closer.
"Stop that noise!" Disgust taints the second man’s voice. "You kick off more than the moaners! Make us some breakfast, woman, and if you cry in it, you're gonna regret it."
The mist thins suddenly, enough for me to see the three clearly . . . and for them to see me.
Alarm seizes the two men’s faces as they scramble for their weapons—a stout club for each. They are bony, dirty, and in threadbare clothes. One is small enough to be mistaken for a child. He squints at me as if nearsighted and backs away a few feet. The taller one shoots a questioning glance at the other but does not budge. His grip tightens on his club. He is missing the thumb on that hand; it will make his swing weaker.
The woman shrinks away from all of us. Her hair—loose and long, brown and bedraggled—droops around her face. Her pale flesh is a map of bruises.
"What do you want?" The thumbless man sneers. His teeth are blackened.
"Let the woman go." I flick the venom-wet tip of my knife toward her, allowing him a good look at my weapon and how I handle it.
"She's ours," he says.
The small man hisses and tugs on the other’s sleeve. He is ignored.
I hold my blade loosely, but if my stare were a spear, the thumbless one would be missing his eyes by now. I tamp down my fury.
"Women do not belong to men," I say, "any more than the sun belongs to the inferior moon."
"This one does.” He steps over and grabs the woman by the hair. As he does, his gaze finally falls where all men’s eventually do: my body. His tongue snakes out of his mouth, licking cracked and bleeding lips. "And you will, too, sweeting."
The small man yanks desperately on the other man's arm now. Sweat beads on his brow. "Don't you know that paint and the colored feather, cocklebrain? She's a Fire Sister."
The other’s eyes fly open as he takes me in again. His maimed hand twitches uncertainly.
"We didn't know she was one of yours," the little one says to me, his voice respectful. His head dips low.
"Weren't worth a loaf anyway," the tall one mutters.
"She is not my Sister," I say. "But she is a woman, which makes her more valuable than both of you together. Now release her and drop your weapons."
The little man complies instantly. Frowning, his partner follows after a moment. They huddle together, eyes on me. I sidle closer.
"What are you gonna do?" the small one asks breathlessly. His eyes skitter everywhere except to my knife.
Let them be afraid for their worthless lives.
Gripping the taller man's shoulder, I bring the blade to his neck. I only mean to sting him so he cannot follow the girl and me, but the dullard lashes out, knocking my hand away. He pushes me hard, and I stumble back.
The small man loses no time sprinting into the forest; the thumbless one scrambles for his club. He swings it wildly at me as the woman shrieks and crawls away. It might be the last thing he ever does.
I spin under his arm, drop to one knee, and knock his feet neatly out from under him. He falls on his back, and I pounce, jabbing my blade into the vein at his neck with practiced precision.
His body becomes rigid. Hovering over him, I hold his frightened gaze. Does he see me now? Me. A Fire Sister. Powerful, indomitable. Not a piece of flesh he can use or discard at his pleasure.
When I'm sure he does, I stand. The sting keeps him still. The woman abruptly stops her noise, and the little man is gone into the mist-wrapped trees.
"Sit there," I tell my victim, pointing to a nearby t
runk. "Don't move until dawn tomorrow."
Let his belly be empty and see how it feels. Let him fear who or what may find him here, unable to move. The corners of my mouth lift as I think of him soiling himself, listening for wailers while the sun and moon take their leisurely strolls across the sky. The man's face contorts with fear, but he crawls to the tree without hesitation.
I turn to the woman, who flinches.
"Go where you will," I say gently.
Breathing hard, eyes still sparking with fear, she scuttles away. If she had shown the slightest hint of courage, I might have taken her with me to the Cloister. But it would have been cruel; this one was no Sister. She would have been sent away again in a matter of weeks. Perhaps she has people nearby she can join. At least she is free from this filth.
I clean and sheath my knife and look for the girl. The fog has thinned enough that she is now visible. She crouches where I left her, but she must have seen everything.
Her eyes brim with silent questions but little fear as she stares at the man sitting obediently against the tree. I help her up. I have chosen well.
5.
The girl and I jog on, hugging the bank of the Restless. I do not allow our pace to slow; her father and his companions may still hunt us.
The mist clears completely, revealing the river country. The Restless is wide and dark. Her banks curve through the forest, holding the mad rushing water tenderly between them. The other side lies far enough away to be a difficult swim, but near enough to be easily seen. Thanks to the turbulence, the water is opaque. The Teachers told us the fish that ruled the Restless in the old days died out when the wailers came.
Trees—much smaller than greenhearts—arch over the river. The girl and I climb around them, stepping past downed trunks and low bushes. There is no path along this stretch of the Restless as there are along others. Few communities are nearby, and the wailers do not seem to know or care how to keep a trail cleared.
At a high point, I stop to peer behind us. To my dismay, the three men are there, miniaturized in the distance.
We could enter the forest to our right and hide, but I don't want them to pass us, separating us from the Cloister. I could fall back and sting the men, but the odds of that fight are not good. And I would have to kill at least one in order to subdue the others. The girl's integration to the children's compound will be difficult enough without witnessing me slitting the throats of her kinsmen. It is best to stay ahead of them.
I push her faster. It is a race, one I will not lose.
The ground begins to undulate in front of us. This stretch of land rises up, well above the river. We run straight up a hill.
The last bit of the climb is steep. We use rocks and exposed roots to pull ourselves to the top; I help the girl when she requires it. As we scramble to our feet at the crest, I notice the vicious stink.
Wailers.
A small group of the creatures shambles around the almost-bare plateau. Blood smeared and grimy, with infected sores on the skin of their bare limbs and disfigured faces, their veined eyes roll to the girl and me.
Their moans turn to screams of rage and hunger. They hurtle toward us.
Get to high ground.
Dragging the girl, I sprint for the few paltry trees perched at the edge of the cliff, leaning over the river. They will have to do.
The creatures close the distance between us with always-astonishing speed. Their shrieks pull chill bumps from my skin. When the child's feet slide in the dewy grass, I hold her upright.
The trees hanging out over the Restless are not nearly lofty enough to be completely out of reach when climbed. We have no choice. I squat next to the tallest and sturdiest and lace my fingers together for the girl.
"Give me your foot! Jump!"
She steps into my hands, and I launch her up. As soon as I'm sure she will not fall, I leap and grab the lowest branch with one hand. The wailers are there a moment later, clutching at my legs.
I kick one and slash at another with my knife, biting into the meat of its shoulder. It screams, and blood spurts from the wound onto my hand and weapon. My body twists, and the muscles of my arm feel as if they will tear from the bone. The limb groans and cracks under my weight.
I strain to bring my knees and feet up to the branch. Shaking, I hook my heels over and thrust my body onto it. A moment later I am climbing again. The knife is in my mouth; the creature's blood tastes of rotting meat. My stomach lurches, and I spit as soon as I can.
The girl is above, panting, her movements jerky.
"Climb!" I shout.
We move as high as possible. The tree bends with our weight, pushing us even farther out over the river. It leaps and crashes far below.
The wailers swarm the bottom of the tree, screaming at us. Their faces are blood and fury. But my attention is not on the creatures or the river or even the girl. Instead, I watch the three men clamber up the hillside to the plateau. They do not run away from the wailers, as most would. They run toward them.
The creatures surge around the men, howling and clawing at their clothes. The men shriek as the wailers tear their skin and gouge their eyes. Bloody teeth clamp onto their necks. They are being consumed.
My vision blurs and my head aches, and suddenly it seems as if the men are walking calmly among the creatures, prey among predators. I blink, trying to clear my sight.
Are they being consumed or not? How do they do this?
Pain splits my head; I feel sick. I cannot reconcile what I see from one moment to the next. It makes no sense.
"Kaiya," one of the men says.
The girl's resemblance to her father is obvious. And even from a height I can see the pulse in his neck throbbing frantically. He is afraid for her.
"Come down. Come with us," he pleads to her. "Come home."
Clutching my roiling stomach, I growl at the girl. "Stay where you are."
Her head swivels from her father to me. The two other men—one with light hair sprinkled with silver and one with skin dark as basalt—disappear around the back of the tree. I keep the girl close. The creatures follow the men, surrounding them, their mouths working hungrily and howls tearing from their throats.
"Let my daughter go.” The girl’s father pays no attention to the wailers. He steps to the bottom of the tree, his liquid, soulful eyes searching my face. "Please. Her mother is dead; I cannot lose my child, too. Give her back to me."
"Men are not fit to raise daughters."
"Why do you say that?"
His question rings with genuine curiosity. I'm inclined to explain, but before I can, a creature screams in his face, spittle bursting from its mouth. It rips his scalp away from his head with claw-like nails.
Saliva and acid burn my throat at the sight of his skull. I reach to cover the girl's eyes, but it is too late.
Only . . . a moment later, her father is whole again. The ache in my head flares.
"Some men are not good fathers, it is true," he says, "but I love and cherish my daughter."
"So you say," I whisper. My eyes roam over his head, searching for the damage that's no longer there.
"Ask her," he urges. "Ask Kaiya."
The girl stares at her father with a longing I cannot explain away. She wants to go to him; that is clear. But would she still if she knew there was another way to live? Our way?
"She cannot speak," I say. "She has been stung."
A thundercloud of anger passes over the man's features. I watch him warily.
He reaches up toward her. "Come to me, love. I'm here."
Nothing happens for a moment, but then her fingers stretch toward him. I am amazed; she thwarts the sting, if only for a moment.
The man's gaze twitches behind me, holding a message. I read it just in time and fold myself over the girl as the other two launch their spears at me. Her father bolts into the tree below, climbing quickly toward us, calling for his daughter. The creatures groan.
"Jump, Kaiya!" I shout, already in motion
myself. "Now! Into the Restless!"
“No!” her father cries.
The girl's mouth opens, her face a picture of agony, but she cannot resist my direct order. She leaps into the air, far over the river, arms and legs thrashing. And a moment later, I hurtle after her.
6.
Cold water assaults my body as I plunge under the surface.
Kicking and pushing up for air, I immediately search for Kaiya. She is ahead of me, struggling to keep her head above the swift current.
My strokes slice through the water between us. Grimma taught Adar and me to swim when we were both Initiates. I hear her gruff voice now, ordering me to stay calm even as the river breaks over my head, rocks rip past my face, and water dives into my throat, choking me.
"Roll onto your back, put your feet in front of you, and lie still," I tell the girl when I reach her. I get behind her, thread one of my arms under each of hers, and begin to scissor kick, towing her toward shore.
Something splashes upriver. Blinking hard to see, I look back. Two men stand silhouetted at the edge of the bluff overhead. Kaiya's father is in the river. He tries to follow us, but he is clearly unaccustomed to such a fierce swim. The heavy current fights him.
The shore curves ahead, creating a small pocket of calm water. If I can maneuver there, it should slow us. I grit my teeth and strain toward the smoother surface, willing my taxed muscles to reach it before the river hauls us past.
A tree root flashes by; I grab it. The drag is incredible—black spots dance in my vision and my knuckles whiten—but slowly I pull Kaiya to land. Although the shore is slippery, she is able to scramble out. With one last effort I follow her, squirming onto dry ground on my belly. For a moment, we lie there breathing heavily.
Her eyes turn to the far shore.
Her father is tangled in a bush that grew out into the river instead of above it. I shake my dripping head. Mother Asis protects him for some mysterious reason.
