Daughter of the Flames

by Zoe Marriott

  Closing my eyes, I concentrated, counting each breath until my mind was focused and I had fallen into a light trance. Gradually the bass thudding behind my eyes began to smooth out.

  By the time I stirred again, the silvery light at the window had been submerged in darkness. My head still felt a little tender and my hands trembled, but I knew that would pass soon. I’d been getting the headaches all my life and I was used to them. At least this one hadn’t been too bad. Sometimes the pain was so intense that I saw flashes of light, strange faces, and thought I heard voices. It was like going mad. When I was younger, Surya had nursed me through the fits. Now I tried to keep them to myself as much as possible. Surya had enough to worry about.

  With an effort I uncrossed my legs and kneeled up. I sat for a moment in the darkness, adjusting, then reached out for my candle and tinderbox. I lit the candle very carefully and placed the thick glass shield over the flame as soon as it caught, then set it on the windowsill.

  There was an earthenware jug of water and a basin on the little wooden table by the bed. I stretched out absently for the jug and poured the basin full, then realized what I was doing and set the jug down so abruptly that I slopped water onto the floor. I stared at the basin with something close to loathing, struggling against the urge to complete the ritual.

  It was a stupid habit. Stupid and childish. Most of the time, I didn’t even remember. But it was dark and I was alone and – as if the headache had stirred up emotions that at other times lay dormant – I couldn’t resist.

  The rich yellow light created strong reflections in the water as I bent over it. I raised my hand, cupped the trembling fingers over the left side of my face and looked down.

  I saw waving black hair, cropped at chin length. The movement of the water made it seem to drift around my face like a shadow. Skin the colour of toasted almonds, a right eyebrow that was thick but naturally arched, lashes a glossy frame to the slanting, amber eye. The nose was thin and hawkish, but balanced by the wideness of the mouth.

  I met my own eye, and saw the wariness there. Why do I do this to myself? My reflection had no answer. Sighing, I took my hand away.

  The scar began as a puckered white line cutting through the deep widow’s peak on my forehead, but it thickened as it curved, and was an inch wide by the time it trailed down over the top of the nose. It slashed across my eye and upper cheek, ending at the left ear, where it had seared away the bottom of the lobe. There were no lashes on the scarred lid of the left eye, only a ridge of pinkish tissue that made an S shape and created a lopsided, hooded effect over the eye that, by some miracle, had been spared.

  I brushed a finger over the scaly, uneven skin. In some places the scar tissue was so thick that I felt nothing; in others, so fine and delicate that even a faint breeze seemed to rasp against it. I stretched my mouth into a smile, and watched the way the normal skin around the scar wrinkled.

  Every time I looked into the water, or a mirror, I saw the same thing. The same old face, the same old scar. And yet, every time, I somehow expected it to be different. I didn’t understand myself. What did I really want to see? It wasn’t as if I could ever remember looking any different. In exasperation, I plunged my hands into the water, shattering the reflection into a thousand drifting black-gold fragments.

  Enough, now. Enough.

  The octagon room – where the temple’s population gathered to eat – was almost deserted that evening. When I entered, fresh from the bathhouse with my hair still curling damply, there were only a handful of people seated at the long, low tables that filled the large space. Surya was one of them.

  The noirin was seated on a square cushion at the corner table, her legs tucked neatly under her and her hair – almost entirely grey now – falling down her back in a dozen thin braids. She had a book balanced on one knee, and her free hand, holding a ring of sesame seed bread, was frozen halfway to her mouth as she read.

  I smiled at the characteristic scene. The only thing that could make Surya sit still for more than five minutes was a book. I did not share her fascination with written words because, like most people, I couldn’t read. The only book that interested me was the Book of the Holy Mother, and Surya would read aloud from that to anyone who asked.

  I collected a wooden tray and went through the archway into the kitchen, where the sleepy namoa on duty doled out sticky stew made with diced lamb, chickpeas and olives, a bowl of rice, and some of the sweet sesame seed bread rings, along with sour black cherry jam to spread on them. I added a cup of mint tea to the tray, and then carried it back out and sat down opposite Surya. While I’d been gone she had managed to eat her bread, but had paused again, this time with a cup of pomegranate juice in her hand. She didn’t look up, so I applied myself to the fragrant stew, knowing that she would notice me in her own time. The rice was fresh, fried in butter with almonds and dates, and I hummed in appreciation as I spooned it up, taking the opportunity to scrutinize Surya’s appearance.

  I was relieved to see her looking better than the last time we talked – what? Three days ago? Four? The fine lines around her eyes and mouth were not so pronounced, there was good colour in her dark skin, and the tattoo of tiny stylized birds – a motif common to namoa – around her left eye looked nice and crisp, which meant she’d finally found time to have it redone.

  Surya had been frantic lately, dealing with an influx of new refugees sent to us by the Rua resistance and covertly organizing for food and other essentials to reach the fighters who had been forced back into the foothills by the gourdin. She also had to fend off the Sedorne lords who always wanted to come up and perform a “friendly” inspection of the House of God. Surya walked a careful line with the Sedorne who had divided Ruan up after the invasion. She needed to keep them convinced that the temple complex was neutral, just an archaic institution of worship and not a worthwhile target of Sedorne aggression – but at the same time she had to make them respect the Order and her, so that they would not try to steal the Order’s land or interfere with its running.

  As the fighting in the region worsened, Surya’s task had been made considerably more difficult, and my time with her had been restricted to the odd five minutes here and there. I missed her. When I was younger we’d enjoyed much more time together. In fact, before I was deemed responsible enough for a cell of my own I had lived with Surya in her generous quarters. Somehow she had always kept the evenings free for me, whether we practised our sword work, played games of chance, read from the Holy Book or just talked.

  Looking at her, I had a sudden flash of memory of a time many years before, when I had asked Surya if I could call her mother. She had pulled me onto her lap and embraced me, imparting that familiar sense of love and safety. Her voice, when she spoke, had wobbled, and I had been astonished to think that she could cry, just like me.

  “I’m honoured that you should ask me,” she had said, stroking my hair. “But you had a mother, my dear, and though she may be gone you must never forget her. She was a great woman, a hero. So was your father. They died for this country and for the people of Ruan.”

  “But…” I had whispered. “But I don’t even know their names. Or who they were.”

  “One day you will, little agni, I promise. One day.”

  I sighed, coming back to the present as I tucked my hair behind my ear. I was still waiting for one day.

  By the time Surya closed her book, looked up and saw me, I had begun spreading sour cherry jam on my sesame bread.

  “How long have you been sitting there?” she asked, smiling as she stretched her arms. “You should have spoken, dearest.”

  I shook my head. “You looked too peaceful. What were you reading?”

  “Oh…” Surya picked up her pomegranate juice again, sipped, then stared down into the cup. “It’s a book about the reis.”

  “Is it interesting?” I offered her one of my bread rings, since she had eaten all hers. She almost snatched it from my fingers. Her sweet tooth is her greatest weakn
ess, I thought with a grin. Thank the Holy Mother the Sedorne haven’t found that out.

  “More sad than interesting. The bloodline was unbroken for eight hundred years – and undone by the Sedorne in a few short hours. I don’t believe the Rua will ever be at peace until we have a rei back in Aroha.”

  “That will never happen,” I said. “So we’ll have to find a way to get rid of the Sedorne without a rei.”

  “Rei Toril and his wife had four children. Only five bodies were recovered from their apartments – two adults and three children.” Surya repeated the facts calmly. It was a familiar debate, one we’d had before.

  “There were dozens of bodies found in the ruins of the rei’s palace. The missing child could have been one of them,” I pointed out.

  Surya rolled her eyes. “I do not believe that is the case.”

  I decided to try a new argument. “Then let’s say you’re right, Surya. Let’s say there is a missing heir somewhere, waiting to be discovered. What difference could he or she actually make to our situation? Just because they come from a family of rulers, does that make them a ruler? They cannot magically unite the Rua and banish the Sedorne. So if the missing heir appeared tomorrow, what would really change?”

  Surya stopped rolling her eyes and looked at me with sudden intensity. “When the reia is found, everything will change, Zira. Everything.”

  I blinked in surprise, but before I could ask her what she meant, she shook her head. “Zira, listen. I have been meaning to talk to you but I’ve been so busy. I have a task I need your help with. I’m going to have to go down to the settlement at Mesgao, and I’d like you to come with me.”

  I forgot our debate and leaned forward intently. Mesgao was a region at the base of the great river, a day’s journey into the foothills. The town there had been taken by the Sedorne in the first wave of the invasion. Although many Rua still resided there – and fairly peacefully under the rule of the current lord – it was most definitely enemy territory.

  “There is an important member of the resistance who’s been trying to get through to us.” Surya reached across and helped herself to my pot of cherry jam. I was too fascinated by what she was saying to stop her. “There are so many gourdin patrolling the foothills, he doesn’t think he can make it without being caught. He’s managed to get as far as Mesgao and he’s hiding there with a merchant.”

  “Is he so sure the gourdin would catch him?” I interrupted. “Why doesn’t he disguise himself as a namoa?”

  In general, the Sedorne tended to treat namoa with a certain gruff respect, the same way they treated their own wandering depote. Unless they were massacring indiscriminately in a given area – which had been known to happen – they left the holy people alone. I thought this might be because they mistook the Holy Mother for an aspect of the fire element they worshipped, but I didn’t know enough about their heathen religion to be sure.

  “Because he was a lord. Though he was stripped of lands and title in the invasion, he does still have the rank mark in his tattoo. He refuses to have it altered to something less conspicuous. Thinks it would be cowardice.”

  I felt my eyebrows go up. Surya sighed again. “Yes, I know. In any case, I do have to talk to him. There’s a monthly bazaar in the town and I shall ostensibly be taking samples of our wool to the merchant who is sheltering him. I’ll be travelling as a normal namoa in order to avoid notice. You can be my assistant.”

  I bowed from the waist, trying to hide my grin of delight. Surya had never asked me to do anything like this before. Usually she was reluctant even to let me off temple grounds. Unlike most of the other novice elects I had only been to Aroha once, and my travels to other areas could be counted on the fingers of one hand. It had annoyed me in the past, but I knew that Surya was only trying to protect me – and I had to admit that the reactions I’d received to my scar away from the House of God had made me less eager to meet strangers. Perhaps this new trust meant she was beginning to see me as a potential fighter.

  “I would be honoured. Thank you,” I said.

  “Excellent. I’ll speak to your teachers about reassigning your duties, and we’ll set off tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  The house where we found the merchant was in the older part of Mesgao town. The building was small, built on one level from planed wood panels, with peeling red and yellow flame designs painted under the double-peaked straw roof. The front was open to the public, with wooden doors folded back to reveal piled bolts of cloth to passers-by, and a tattered orange canopy extended out over the packed dirt path to provide shade and an extra area to display the wares. Cheap tin and cloth God charms tinkled cheerfully from the canopy posts as we brushed underneath into the cool dimness of the shop.

  A girl in a pink tunic and a colourfully patched headscarf looked up from the threads she was sorting, then went back to her work as the merchant rushed forward to greet us. He was a portly man of average height with thinning hair and a deceptively young face. The tattoo around his left eye depicted a pair of running foxes surrounded by cotton flowers. The flowers were a reference to his trade as a cloth merchant, and the foxes were probably a pun on his name, Zebhan Dhindir – a zebhan being a black fox found in the lowlands. But I thought the design had been well chosen for other reasons. Despite his innocent face, the man’s eyes were sharp and constantly moving as he spoke to us, and it wasn’t hard to believe he was as cunning as his namesake.

  After an exchange of pleasantries – effusive from the merchant and guarded from Surya – the man began what was obviously a prepared speech.

  “Oh, these crowds, these crowds!” he lamented over the clamour of the marketplace outside. “I hate them, you know. A man can’t do any business with all this noise!” He held one hand to his head in a convincing impression of a sensitive, beleaguered soul. The girl looked up from her thread again in bewilderment, but glanced away when the merchant glared at her.

  I shot Surya an amused look. It was the first time I’d ever heard a trader complain about the number of potential customers being too high. Surya’s lips curved in an answering smile, but her eyes were shadowed beneath the hood of her red robe and I could not see their expression. When she pushed the hood back, her face was blank. She had been in an odd mood since we’d set off yesterday morning and I had left her to it, thinking she would sleep it off. Unfortunately she hadn’t. If anything it had worsened when we left our cart on the outskirts and began the walk into town.

  “Let us go into my sitting room where it is quiet,” he said. “My manservant can bring us tea.”

  Dhindir pulled back the curtain that concealed the back room and obsequiously gestured us through, following on our heels. This little room was brighter than the one we had just left, with shards of light tumbling through the bamboo screens on the high windows, but it was equally stuffed with multicoloured bolts of cloth. Only a small area at the centre was clear, with some threadbare cushions tossed onto a greying carpet and a low table. Dhindir whistled softly, and a moment later a man pushed his way out from behind a pile of yellowing linen. He was the same height as the merchant – shorter than me by a few inches – and I guessed he was in his early fifties, his hair an unusual silvery grey. The stylized curlicues of rank decorated the cheekbones.

  “Zebhan, must you whistle at me as if I were an errant dog?” he said shortly, his cultured lowland voice, with its rounded vowels, contrasting with the flatter, softer mountain accent I was used to. Before Dhindir could answer, the other man had turned to bow to Surya, gesturing her to a cushion every bit as smoothly as if he were in his own home rather than the shabby back room of a less than prosperous cloth shop.

  I raised an eyebrow, knowing my face was shadowed by the deep cowl of my hood. Who was he trying to impress?

  The merchant, rolling his eyes good-naturedly, disappeared back through the curtain. The man continued. “I am Casador Fareed. You must be Noirin Surya. It is an honour to meet you, my lady. And this…�
�� He suddenly looked at me, narrowing his eyes to try to make out my face under the hood. “This must be—”

  “Zira, a novice elect from the temple,” Surya interrupted sharply. “Push back your hood, Zira.”

  I started, and stared at her in surprise. Why?

  She nodded reassuringly. “Go on.”

  Hesitantly I reached up and pushed the hood away, feeling the warmth of the light fall onto my skin.

  The man jerked with shock as he saw my face properly for the first time. I stood tensely under his shocked eyes, waiting for him to remember himself and look away. It usually took a moment for people to realize how rude they were being. This was why I always kept the light hood of my robe up when I left the House of God.

  But he continued to gape at me, his gaze tracing the path of the scar with agonizing slowness. My shoulders hunched and my hands balled into fists as the appalled silence stretched on. I twitched my head round and flicked a glance at Surya, but she avoided my eyes. Finally I reached up and jerked the hood forward again.

  “Looked your fill?” I asked. I heard the jaggedness of my voice and hated it.

  “I…” The casador wet his lips. “My apologies. I was not warned—”

  “Enough,” Surya said, meeting my enraged look with an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry, agni. I think Casador Fareed and I should talk in private now. Go out and buy yourself something to eat – enjoy the bazaar. Here, take my purse. I won’t expect you back before noon.”

  Pressing my lips tightly together, I took the purse from Surya’s hand and walked from the stifling room without even bowing, forging through the clutter in the shop and out into the street. The throng of people on the path bumped and buffeted me until I reached the other side and ducked down the narrow gap between two buildings. The God charms that hung from the eaves above danced happily over my head as I leaned against the mud-brick wall and gulped the slightly frosty morning air.