by Zoe Marriott
The pressure stopped. He stood over me, utterly still, staring into my face if he had turned to stone. Something was changing behind the opaque ice of his eyes. The darkness that I had deliberately set free was slowly receding, folding back in on itself.
He shook his head. “No.”
I stared at him, uncomprehending, as he carefully removed the point of his sword from my chest and stepped back.
“Pick up your sword, Zahira.”
“What?” I croaked.
“Pick up your sword,” he repeated.
I scrabbled to my knees, grunting with pain. For a moment, I could only clutch at the throbbing wound in my chest. Then I forced my hands away, wiped the blood off on my breeches, and reached for the fallen blade. I kept my eyes on him as I climbed awkwardly to my feet. I was dizzy, and icy cold, as if a layer of skin had fallen away.
“What’s this?” I asked, my voice sounding small and scratchy to my own ears. There was no way I could win now – he must know it. Is this his way of torturing me?
“You wanted to fight me, Zahira,” he said. There was something different about him. He had his control back now, but the usual air of languid mockery was gone. He was deadly serious. “Fight.”
Without warning, he rushed at me. I braced, trying to ignore the pain as I lifted my blade. He feinted left. Moving on instinct alone, I blocked, then lunged, aiming for his chest.
I saw a flicker of a smile cross his face. Then – as the clouds scudded away from the sun and flooded the marketplace with light – he dropped his sword and opened his arms.
My blade went into him up to the hilt, making a soft, wet thud.
I stared at the hilt protruding from the centre of his doublet in disbelief, my fingers slipping away from it. I looked up into his face. He was the colour of chalk, his jaw clenched in pain as his hands came up and grabbed at my shoulders. He swayed, fighting to stay upright, and I found myself clutching at him, the hilt of the sword digging into my sternum. For a moment, we stood there together in a strange kind of embrace.
“Why…?” I breathed, stupid with shock.
He tried to smile, but only managed a twisted grimace, breath rasping harshly through his lips. The metal fingers tightened painfully on my shoulder as I looked into his eyes.
“Curse … broken,” he ground out. His expression changed, and I saw a flare of light, flickering like a blue flame, in his eyes. “Emelia…” he whispered.
Then he crumpled, falling away from me and sprawling on the stone at my feet.
He was dead.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
The sword poked out of his chest grotesquely. Some impulse made me reach down and, with a shaking hand, pull it out. Blood gushed up from the wound and pooled around the body on the golden stones, spreading with syrupy, shining thickness. My fingers clenched on the sword hilt.
I wanted to feel something. Anything. There was nothing there. No sorrow, and no happiness either. All I could call up was a distant sense of relief.
I was free. Ruan was free. And I had recognized the blue flicker that had brought Abheron ease in his final moment. The Holy Mother had embraced him. Perhaps even he was free, at last.
I heard a commotion behind me, and then footsteps thudding rapidly across the paving stones. I swung round, lifting my sword.
It was Sorin.
I dropped the sword and threw myself at him. He wrapped his arms around me and we held on to each other, wordlessly.
“That was the worst – the worst – thing I’ve ever had to do in my life. Stand and watch you. Just stand by and watch…” he said, the words muffled in my hair. I could feel him shuddering.
“I know.” I sighed. I was so tired, and my head was spinning wildly. “I know. Wait a moment.” With an effort I pushed away from him and turned to look at the marketplace. The human wall of gourdin had gone. I couldn’t see any sign of Abheron’s personal guards. They had fled, probably fearing that they would be mobbed now that Abheron was dead.
Without the barrier, the crowd had come in until they were barely a foot away from us. They formed their own wall, and they showed no signs of moving. Eerily silent and still, they stared at the scene before them.
“What’s wrong with them?” Sorin said quietly.
“Shock. Fear. Anger. We’ve seen people like this before.” I shook my head. “They’ve just watched me kill their king. They don’t know me; they barely know who I am. Everything’s changing. They don’t know what to do.” I had great sympathy for them. I felt much the same.
I turned away and limped towards the abandoned cart. The children were slumped against each other, seemingly half asleep now. I hoped the drugs would wear off with no ill effects. Someone had put the back of the vehicle up again, so I undid it, and then turned to face the crowd.
“Come and fetch your children,” I called out.
For a moment, everything remained still, except for the wind that teased and ruffled my hair. Then, slowly, hesitantly, in twos and threes and fours, people emerged to collect their little ones. They nodded or bowed to me nervously as they came, and I tried to smile reassuringly.
Finally the cart was empty.
“What about the others?” someone shouted.
I turned to look for them, but they were hidden. There was a low murmur of agreement, and the people stirred, like the banners rippling in the wind over my head.
“What about the ones at the palace?” the same voice cried.
I sighed, then winced as the wounds in my chest and arm throbbed. My cheek stung like fire, my whole body ached, and all I really wanted was to curl into a ball and cry. But I couldn’t.
These people had no reason to trust me. I had to give them one.
Sorin groaned as I turned to scramble painfully onto the deserted cart, but he obligingly followed me up, steadying himself on the side of the vehicle.
I looked out at the crowd and saw a few familiar faces tilted up to watch me – Toril and Padmina, and some of the resistance people I knew. I saw Joachim, his head bandaged and his face grim. And there, at the very front, Deo, beaming, urging me on. I took a moment to gather myself, calling on the skills I’d once used to inspire refugee children in the House of God. If they have pride, I can teach them strength… My father had said that. My father, the rei.
From somewhere, the words came.
“People of Jijendra,” I began, speaking as loudly as I could. “People of Jijendra, Ruan and Sedorne. My name is Zahira Elfenesh; I am the youngest daughter of rei Toril and reia Emelia, who once governed Ruan. This is my husband, Lord Sorin of Mesgao. Your children will be returned to you as soon as we can get to the palace and find them. That is my promise to you.”
There was another low rumble of noise from the crowd, but I couldn’t tell if it was approving or threatening.
“Before we go to the palace, I ask for a few moments of your attention.” I gulped, then continued. “I would ask you to look at me and my husband. Because we are the face of your future. I ask you to listen to us, because we are the voice of the days to come.
“For many years you have lived under the rule of an insane, broken man – this pitiful dead creature.” I gestured at Abheron’s body, though I kept my eyes away from it. “He tried to break you. He oppressed and hurt you in every way he knew how. Some of you may have fought back, as much as you were able. Others had too much at stake, or were too frightened. Still others” – I allowed my tone to grow steely for a moment – “may have taken advantage of the situation. Whatever you have suffered or gained under Abheron’s rule, I am telling you now: that time has come to an end.”
I paused, letting my words sink in. I glanced at Sorin. He gave me an apprehensive look, but nodded encouragingly. This is your moment, so get on with it.
The wind was dying down, and my words echoed across the market square.
“Ruan is a great land. A beautiful land. There is enough here for all of us to share – enough for everyone. There is no roo
m for fear, or cruelty and hatred. They have no place in this land, and you don’t have to put up with them. There should be justice and equality between all the people of this country, both Rua and Sedorne. Most of all there should be compassion – from us to you, and from you towards each other.”
I lifted my hands up. “I am your reia. I do not know what sort of reia I will be. I don’t know if I can be great. I do know that you are my family now, and I will take care of each of you – man and woman, young and old, Rua and Sedorne – as long as I live. There will be difficulties, and hard times, I know that. Whatever happens, we all have to remember one thing. You deserve better than this.” I pointed again at the grisly remains of their former king. This time I forced myself to look too, at the man I had killed. “We can do better than this. If you will trust me.”
I stopped, and waited. There was utter silence.
Then, at the front of the crowd, Deo lifted his fist and shook it in the air. In a clear, loud voice, he called out, “Long live Queen Zahira! Long live the reia!”
One by one, other voices took up the cry. “Long live the reia! Long live the queen!”
People began to cheer, stamping their feet, whooping and whistling. The noise rose up like a joyous wave. I saw a puff of colour fly into the wind, and then another, and for a moment didn’t realize what it was – then I saw the crowd raiding the climbing flowers that grew along the edges of the marketplace and up the houses on the waterfront. Suddenly everyone was flinging handfuls of white and yellow and red petals into the air. The wild breeze rose again, caught at the flowers and sent them spiralling up. They swirled around us, catching in our hair and clothes and scattering over the sad remains of what had once been the king of Ruan.
I turned to look at Sorin and saw the emotion in his face, shining from his summer-blue eyes. He reached for my hand and held on to it tightly, tightly, until my fingers ached, and it was the most welcome pain in the world.
There was a bright, singing note in the wind, like laughter. I looked up at the gale-scrubbed sky, where a trick of light gave the flickering cloud shreds the blue and gold hue of peacock feathers. Joy bubbled under my skin. She was with me – She had always been with me.
I was a daughter of the flames.
I knew it in the warmth of blood trickling down my arm and chest, in the ache of my bones, in the clasp of my hand with Sorin’s and in the sound of my own laughter, torn away by the wind and carried out over the cheering people.
My people.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Despite taking only six months to write in first draft form, Daughter of the Flames was a very tough book. It went through several transformations before it was finished, and there were times when I wasn’t sure I would finish it at all. Thanks are owed to:
Diana Wynne Jones for writing The Tough Guide to Fantasyland because it made me want to find out what went on in fantasy nunneries – before they got ransacked – and how fantasy religions really worked, and got me angry about fantasy colour-coding.
Emil Fortune for looking at the synopsis and pointing his finger straight at the problem which was holding the story back and Yasmin Standen for acting as a one-woman cheering squad while I worked out how to fix it.
The Furtive Scribblers’ Club – Tina, Susan, Rachel, Barbara, Holly, Brian and all the rest – who were always there to haul me out of the Pit of Despond and tell me that no, I wasn’t completely mad, I was just a writer.
All the friends and co-workers who turned out to support me during the madness of 2007, especially Nicola Robinson, who practically set up a bookshop in her office, and Helen Mearns, who bought the last three copies of The Swan Kingdom so I could finally leave the bookshop and go home.
Steve Rawlings and Jim Bunker for astounding me with the most beautiful cover art and design yet again. The staff of Waterstone’s Grimsby, who got behind The Swan Kingdom and pushed until it was in the top fifty of the Children’s List.
And as always, Mum and Dad – the sun and moon of my internal landscape.
Daughter of the Flames
Zoë Marriott lives in North East Lincolnshire with her two cats, named Hero and Echo, and the Devil Hound, otherwise known as Finn. Zoë has written three books: The Swan Kingdom, which was longlisted for the Branford Boase and chosen as an USBBY Outstanding International Book, Daughter of the Flames and Shadows on the Moon, which won the prestigious Sasakawa Prize. She is currently working on a fourth novel, FrostFire.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously.
First published 2008 by Walker Books Ltd
87 Vauxhall Walk, London SE11 5HJ
Text © 2008 Zoë Marriott
Cover illustration © 2008 Steve Rawlings
The right of Zoë Marriott to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, taping and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data:
a catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-4063-3643-6 (ePub)
www.walkerbooks.co.uk
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part Three
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
