Quatrain

by Sharon Shinn

  “Can someone saddle my horse? I have to get closer before I can control it.”

  “Yes, yes, Albert has already instructed the groom to bring it around.”

  Degarde was among the small group of men milling about at the bottom of the stairs, and he was the first one to spot Senneth. “Thank you,” he exclaimed, catching her hands as she took three steps at once to land in the foyer. “I have exposed your secret, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

  He was streaked with sweat and grime; he must have dashed through the fire itself to reach her. “It doesn’t matter, but we have no time to waste,” she said, pulling free and running for the door. The groom was just now leading up her rawboned gelding; she threw herself into the saddle and kicked it forward, trusting it to find its footing in the dark. Dawn was still at least an hour away. There would be precious little illumination to light their way until they arrived at the scene of the fire, when there would be too much.

  Degarde was instantly beside her on a horse of his own. “How did the fire start?” Senneth called to him.

  “I don’t know! Perhaps some of the town boys were hunting yesterday and someone was careless with a campfire. And someone told me there was lightning while we were at Evelyn’s house, though it never brought any rain. A small fire could have been smoldering all this time and just now blazed up.”

  “How big is it?”

  “I couldn’t see a way around it as I was coming down the hill,” he answered. “It stretched too far in each direction.”

  She nodded and urged the horse to run faster, though they had to slow down as they crossed through town. Anxious villagers had gathered in the cold streets, shawls and cloaks thrown over their nightshirts, all of them staring with dread and fascination at the leaping red wall of devastation slowly climbing its way up the hill.

  Even before they were close enough to feel the flames, Senneth could sense her temperature rising. It was as if she was a tightly wrapped bundle of kindling just waiting for a spark. The power began building in her veins; her hands were so hot that she stripped off her gloves and was almost surprised that her fingertips were not steaming in the chilly air.

  They were close enough now to make the horses nervous, so Senneth jumped off the gelding and tossed his reins to Degarde. “Hold him,” she said. “Stay back.”

  “What are you doing?” he cried after her, but she paid no attention. She just gathered all her strength and ran uphill as fast as she could, into the heart of the fire.

  Every sense was assaulted with heat, scent, sound, vertigo. The air was too hot to breathe. Senneth felt her throat crisp as she tried to inhale, and her uncovered skin felt as if it would melt to the bone. She was surrounded by leaping, chaotic sheets of fire, scarlet and gold and edged with black. Impossible to tell which direction she faced, impossible to determine where the line of fire ended, or if it ran on to engulf the entire country. Around her, trees crashed to the ground, squealing as their highest limbs splintered apart and groaning as their massive trunks were clawed in two. Primitive and triumphant, the blaze roared out an incomprehensible language of jubilant rage.

  Senneth raised her hands and spread her fingers wide and gathered all that heat and fury and power inside her.

  She felt the fire twist and snap at her like a rabid cur. Calmer than stone, she held her place, bent her fingers back a little to widen the reach of her palms. Inexorably, she drew the fire closer and closer to her. She opened her hollow bones, she emptied her veins, to allow the flames to rush unchecked through her body. Her fever spiked even higher—surely her skin must be glowing. She flung her head back, her blond hair no paler than the yellowest crown of flame, and soaked up the conflagration like so much spilled wine absorbed into a heavy cloth. Around her, the fire stuttered and grew docile. The high, ragged curtains of flame descended, huddled low, collapsed upon themselves in great smoking strips of char and cinder.

  Behind her, she heard a growing mutter of wonder and confusion—just as wordless, at least for the moment, as the fire’s expression of glory and wrath. Her own orientation was suddenly peculiar; she dropped her hands and straightened her back and felt a little wobbly on her feet. Was she facing uphill or down? Was she sitting or standing? She shifted her weight and looked around her at the blackened and unfamiliar landscape and tried to focus her mind.

  Running footsteps behind her made her whirl around and fling out a hand, still red with heat. “Don’t touch me!” she warned. “You’ll scald yourself.”

  It was Degarde, of course, who had presumably given the horses over to someone else’s charge, but right behind him were about a dozen villagers. Everyone was staring, but some of them looked amazed and some looked horrified. Senneth noticed several of the older residents clutching moonstones in their fists.

  “Senneth—are you—do you need—why can’t I touch you?” Degarde panted, coming so close he could have swept her into an embrace.

  “I am hot with magic,” she said, glancing over his shoulder as she spoke to see if any of the townspeople flinched at the words. There were one or two that she noticed, and probably a few she didn’t. “It will take some time to dissipate.”

  “Thank you for saving my house,” he said. “For putting out the fire. I still can’t—I watched you do it, and I still don’t—it seems impossible anyone could have such a gift—”

  “Mystic!” someone called out from the gathering crowd. Senneth couldn’t tell who spoke, but she saw a few others nodding their heads.

  Degarde spun around. “Mystic indeed,” he said angrily. “But one who has risked herself to save all of you from burning in your beds. You should be grateful! You should thank her! Not call her names.”

  The muttering mostly subsided, but Senneth saw a few people in the crowd exchange troubled glances. “Never mind,” she said in a low voice to Degarde. “I’ll be on my way in an hour or so. They can talk about me all they want then.”

  He looked astonished. “You’re still planning to leave for the Lirrens? Now?”

  “Don’t worry. The fire is well and truly out. You and some of the local men might start clearing away debris, but trust me when I say there are no sparks lingering in the wood, waiting to reignite.”

  He came a step closer, half lifting his hand. It was clear he really wanted to disobey the injunction against touching her. “You misunderstand,” he said. “My concern is for you. I don’t know what toll magic takes on a mystic, but surely such a display must drain you of all strength. Shouldn’t you wait a day or two before setting out again?”

  Senneth couldn’t help laughing. If anything, she felt energized by the encounter with the wildfire; she felt as if she had ingested its elemental exuberance through her pores. “I am not so easily overset,” she replied. “In fact, I am more restless than ever and eager to get on the road. I am glad,” she added, “that I was here to beat the fire down. I’m not sure how easily you and the people of Benneld would have contained it on your own.”

  He glanced over his shoulder at the townspeople, most of whom had started to disperse, and then fell in step with Senneth as she began making her way down the hill. “Yes, but there was a cost,” he said. “Now you have been identified as a mystic, and there are those who will hate you for that reason alone, no matter how much good you do for them.”

  She shrugged. “That is the true cost of magic,” she said. “And one of the reasons no mystic stays for long in any one place. The welcome tends to disappear very quickly.”

  “It shouldn’t,” Degarde said.

  They had reached the horses by now, both sets of reins being held by a thin boy who eyed Senneth with frank appraisal. She approached her big gelding with caution, afraid her elevated temperature might cause him to sidle away, but he merely stamped his feet and then turned his head to nose her for a treat.

  “Thank you for holding him,” she said to the boy as she swung into the saddle.

  “I never watched over a mystic’s horse before,” he said.


  “I hope it was not too onerous,” she replied pleasantly. She tossed him a coin, since money sometimes helped people forget what they didn’t like about someone else, and he gave her a brilliant smile.

  “Never been touched by a mystic, either,” he said hopefully. She gave him a closer inspection. He looked like he might be ten years old, the curious type who found adventure or trouble wherever he went.

  “Eric,” Degarde said in a disapproving voice, but Senneth laughed. Her body was still burning up, but she thought she was cool enough now that she wouldn’t leave a permanent mark if she touched the boy. So she leaned from the saddle and pressed her hand against his smooth cheek. He gasped but held perfectly still, his face a study in delight, fear, and wonder. When she pulled back, the red imprint of her palm was clearly visible on his skin.

  “Now you have,” she said. “May you remember the experience a long time.” And she kicked the horse forward and picked her way down the hill, back to the Cordwain house.

  Two hours later, a party of six set out on the winding eastern road that would take them over the Lireth Mountains. At first, conversation was wholly about the fire and Senneth’s miraculous ability to control it, but since she contributed nothing but a smile to that particular topic, eventually her fellow travelers turned their attention to other subjects. Senneth still didn’t talk much, but spent the first few hours of the journey forming her opinions of the men Albert had recruited to accompany him on his visit to the Lirrens.

  On the whole, she liked them, and she was impressed at how quickly Albert had been able to round up suitable male relatives to enhance his stature with the Lirren traders. One was an uncle, a gaunt, severe man with a watchful face and a quiet way of speaking; Senneth thought he was just the sort who would impress the Lirrenfolk. One was a brother who appeared as genial as Albert, if not quite as prosperous.

  Two were nephews born to Albert’s sisters. Seever and Curtis were both in their early twenties, friendly, boisterous, and energetic. They reminded Senneth of half-grown puppies whose feet were still a little too big for their bodies. Still, they could both fight, which she learned over lunch when she invited them to engage in battle against her.

  “You can call up fire from your fingertips and you can wield a sword?” Curtis demanded. “How many skills can one woman have?”

  “Apparently, as many as she likes,” Senneth replied with a grin. “So, yes, I can wield a sword. Now I want to know if you can.”

  He looked at Albert, who merely nodded. Albert hadn’t seen her fence, of course, but clearly he had come to the conclusion that she could do almost anything. “Very well,” Curtis said. “But I don’t want to hurt you.”

  It was obvious pretty quickly that he wouldn’t be able to, even though he rapidly abandoned the notion that he had to hold his strength in check. They struck and parried for a good ten minutes before Senneth signaled the fight over.

  “Not bad,” she said. “You’ve obviously practiced.”

  “So have you!” he exclaimed. “Where did a woman learn to fight like that?”

  She laughed. “Everywhere I had to.” She motioned at Seever. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Seever wasn’t as strong as Curtis, but he was faster and a little more disciplined. She was quite pleased with both of them when she called a halt to the exercise. “I think the Lirrenfolk will like you,” she said.

  “Will they really want to fight with us?” Curtis asked.

  “Most Lirren fighters are fairly skilled,” she said. “There’s a lot more day-to-day violence than you’re likely to see here in Gillengaria, so they have to know how to handle themselves. But fighting is also a sport with them, and they’re proud of their abilities. They’ll give you a real challenge—so do your best. They’ll respect you for your effort, even if you don’t beat them.”

  They were halfway up the mountains by nightfall and made a sketchy camp. “Don’t bother with a fire,” Senneth said, and used magic to keep them all warm through the night. They were up with the dawn and soon picking their way across the peak. By midday they were halfway down the mountain and within hailing distance of a small party climbing up to meet them.

  The two groups came to a halt on a sort of natural terrace, rocky and littered with snow, but relatively level and wide enough to hold them all. There were eight in the Lirren party, including one woman, and Senneth could see on all their faces approval of Albert’s entourage.

  She hung back to let the men discuss business. She would mediate if anyone wanted her opinion, but she had already given Albert all the advice she could think of, and she didn’t have any skills particularly helpful at a negotiating table. So she watched the older men of both groups hunker down to parlay, while the three Lirren boys and Albert’s nephews began circling each other and commenting on weaponry. Soon enough, she knew, a friendly scuffle would ensue. At least she hoped it would be friendly.

  She approached the Lirren woman, who had picked a spot to begin laying out pans and utensils. She might have been brought along for her sound business insights and good judgment of people, but she was obviously planning to contribute to the success of the expedition by cooking the meals as well.

  “I’ll help, if you like,” Senneth offered. “I know a little about Lirren spices.”

  The woman looked up from where she was kneeling on the hard ground. Like most Lirrenfolk, she had fine features and a closed, composed expression. These were not people moved to easy smiling. Her hair was a well-brushed brown, just now pulled back in a neat braid. Through the woven plaits, Senneth could make out occasional streaks of lighter blond, dyed into the hair in the pattern of this woman’s clan.

  “Indeed, I have seen you at gatherings before this,” the woman replied.

  That sharpened Senneth’s interest. She seated herself across from the woman and studied her face more closely. Yes—a little familiar—Senneth might have met her once at a wedding or feast day. “I have kin among the clans, but I don’t believe you are among them,” Senneth said. “I was adopted into the Persal family.”

  “I am Derling,” the woman replied.

  Senneth had to think a moment, but she was pretty sure the Derlings claimed only friendship with the Persals, not blood ties. “A good family,” she said. “My name is Senneth.”

  “Mine is Rinnae.”

  “Did we meet during the time I lived on this side of the mountains?”

  “There was a feast in my sister’s homestead that you attended with the Persal family,” Rinnae replied. “You helped in the kitchen. There had been rain for days, and yet you made the wet wood burn so that we could bake salt bread and broil the meat.”

  “I remember that feast,” Senneth said. The kitchen had been crowded and cheerful, the older women working tirelessly, the younger ones gathered in the corners to whisper about boys and complain about their mothers. “Even with my help, the wood didn’t want to burn! I remember the room being very smoky.”

  “And yet the meal was delicious,” Rinnae said.

  Senneth nodded. “As are all meals prepared by loving hands.”

  Rinnae handed Senneth a small knife and bag of root vegetables. “You might peel and chop those,” she said.

  It looked like Rinnae planned to simmer a big pot of soup over a small fire, not a meal that was quick to make. Apparently, she expected the negotiations to go on for some time. Senneth pulled out the first lumpy tuber and began methodically to pare it. “I hope everyone in your family is well,” she said.

  It was a traditional invitation to conversation, and Rinnae obliged, detailing her daughter’s upcoming wedding and the antics of her young grandson. “And your family?” she asked in return.

  “The last time I heard from Ammet, the Persals were thriving,” Senneth said. “I would be happy to hear it if you have any current news.”

  Rinnae gave her a sharp look from dark eyes. “Do you not have family in Gillengaria?” she asked. “Are all of them well?”

  The qu
estion caught Senneth off guard. It was rare that the Lirrenfolk acknowledged that anyone outside of the clans even existed. “I have not been blessed in my blood family, as you have been,” she returned lightly.

  Rinnae glanced expressively at Albert and his relatives, now squatting on the ground around some crudely drawn map and arguing in a friendly way with Rinnae’s menfolk. “Did no one on the other side of the mountains adopt you as the Persals did? Are you not kin with the men you accompanied here today?”

  “They are friends,” Senneth said. And not even close friends, by any sort of reckoning. If Rinnae realized that Senneth had known them barely a week, she would be astonished at how much effort Senneth had put into their well-being.

  Even without that piece of knowledge, it was clear that Rinnae disapproved. “Do you have no one, then, that you would call on as kin, whether born to you or bound to you by ties of deep affection?”

  “I am bahta lo,” Senneth said. It was a Lirren phrase meaning “above the clans” and usually applied to a handful of restless, solitary women who declared themselves free of family interference. They generally passed their lives as itinerant healers or peacemakers.

  “Even a woman who is bahta lo occasionally finds a hearth where she can rest,” Rinnae said. “Even a woman who is bahta lo sometimes needs the arms of the clan about her.”

  It made Senneth feel peculiar to receive such an admonition from a Lirren matron—a stranger, yes, but part of a tradition that Senneth had learned to respect deeply. She felt chastised, vaguely depressed, clearly in the wrong. So she might have reacted if King Baryn himself chided her for misconduct. “I can claim a few souls who love me,” she protested. “I am not entirely friendless.”

  “It is not right for anyone to be alone,” Rinnae said sternly.

  “I like it,” Senneth said.

  Rinnae gave her one long, close inspection before she said, “No. You do not.”

  There didn’t seem to be any answer to that, so Senneth didn’t attempt to make one. She and Rinnae worked in near-silence for the next hour, stirring the soup and mixing a loaf of bread. Oddly enough, despite the previous conversation, the silence was companionable, and Senneth felt a sense of deep satisfaction once the meal was ready to serve.