Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

  “What do you mean, Khyla will be ill? She’s in perfect health.”

  “But I know, Mother. I felt it when she touched my arm before.”

  “Felt it? What kind of talk is that? Don’t tell me tales.”

  And when it came true: “How did you know? How?”

  As if another soul had control of her mouth, she had answered vaguely, “The goddess told me.”

  “Goddess!”

  On her father’s face, astonishment. On her mother’s, fury. “Are you a primitive knee-bowing lin, talking about a goddess? How dare you!” she shouted, and followed it with a heavy slap.

  After that Scayna took care to keep her knowledge, as well as her fear, to herself. She knew it wasn’t possible to see things that hadn’t happened yet – and that meant it could only be an illness, a sick fancy. She vowed not to know, not to see.

  She had succeeded in banishing the visions, the calling voices; she forbade them from her mind for as long as she had the strength. When she weakened, her darks were the result: pounding headaches and powerful nausea, the visits to a black land she could never recall.

  But someday I’ll conquer that, too.

  “Scayna!” Daana said sharply, for the second time. “Can’t you ever answer to your name?”

  “Mother?”

  “I was saying, maybe we’ll see you in the spring. Send me letters.”

  “Yes, Mother.” She leaned down for a brief kiss.

  “Stay out of trouble,” Quienos growled. “Stay away from the Assembly members. Scayna. Scayna?”

  “Yes, Father? I doubt if the Trio will have much thought for me.”

  “I wanted to tell you –”

  “Forward!” the chilhi called. Horns blared. The horses in front of them began to move.

  “There’s the herald at the Assembly,” Quienos said suddenly, rapidly. “Name of Nichos. I served him for a time in the War. Stay away from him. If you do have to meet him, don’t let him find out you’re my daughter.”

  “What? Why?”

  Quienos slapped her horse’s rump. The animal jumped forward; she had to grab at the reins.

  “And keep your shoulder covered!” her mother shouted.

  In bewilderment and shame – was her hair, her skin, her very existence so ugly that she must forever hide herself? – Scayna began the ride to MenDas.

  Paither frowned, compared the map again to the book’s description, and nodded grimly, a man confirmed in his suspicions. He tossed the scrolls to the side. He had been an avid scholar of the history of the War since childhood; Mendale accounts (the sources he was forced to rely on) were always biased to some degree, but this author had not even bothered to get his geography right. Tomorrow at sword practice he’d ask old Hillu about the battle he was currently studying; Hillu had been in this one, as a foot soldier, and it was always better to check with an eyewitness. The old soldier, who claimed Paither had already surpassed him in swordsmanship, was always willing to take a rest and talk.

  He yawned and glanced again at the window, though it was dark now and he could see nothing. His father Nichos was expected home before morning.

  He poked at the logs of his waning night fire and used a stick from it to light a candle. He set it carefully in a tiny wall alcove. His mother maintained a small altar to Nialia in a room off of her apartments; though he often worshipped there with her, this little shrine was for his private prayers. He murmured, asking the goddess to protect his father on the road home.

  It could be hours. He might as well get some sleep. He turned to the bed and began to disrobe, pulling the garment over his shoulders without bothering to undo the catches. The open neckline fell over his face and bunched at this chin. A draft tingled across his exposed back and he paused.

  Movement...

  Up. Away?

  Still entangled, he waited, eyes closed, trying to see the inner picture. His father, moving. Rising, perhaps, floating up – going farther away from him – and that was all.

  He wiggled back into his robe and glanced at the candle. Sometimes the goddess almost seemed ready to speak to him, though the sounds were faint and far away. Before the War, of course, true Nialian priestesses had had full “seeings” into the future; from this they brought divine prophecy to the people. But as far as he had ever known, Nialia’s closest followers were all women: his mother had once told him it was an inherited gift, from mother to daughter. He wondered again how he, a man and a halfer at that, could be touched by it.

  Well, whatever it meant this time, he wouldn’t go to bed now. Instead he stretched out on the bed sheets fully dressed and watched the play of flame light on the wall. He was generally restless, energetic and busy; and as always when he finally paused for contemplation, a familiar confusion stole up and enveloped him.

  In a few more moons he would be nineteen. Nineteen: he’d wasted nearly a full year since reaching his majority. Yet how else could he spend his days? At least working on the estate he made himself of use. If he left the breeding work...

  As Nichos’s son he was entitled to a position in the Mendale Assembly. Their family line had rights to secretary and chamberlain positions among others; on Nichos’s death he could himself succeed to herald.

  Join the Mendale government? Be one of the victors, the conquerors. Betray his mother’s people. His people. And he’d never even seen Lindahne, never even breathed its air.

  No, he’d have to refuse. Surely both of his parents would be able to see that. Even now Nichos rarely took him along on his trips to MenDas; he wasn’t introduced to influential Assembly members; no connections were cultivated for him. Yes, his father surely could see

  – what did he see?

  Something in him flinched. Perhaps Nichos was ashamed of him, the halfer son. Perhaps he thought Paither was unworthy. If his father truly believed that, it meant he had already failed.

  He tossed on to his side and listened in vain for the sounds of arrival. It had to be almost dawn. He rose and pulled back the window draperies. The moon’s position told him it was still full night.

  Maybe he’d be able to avoid the Assembly; after all it wasn’t mandatory service. But in the next few years, before his twenty-fifth birthday, he’d have to train for the Mendale army. “Trainers” were kept in reserve, in case enlistments went down, but lately rumors said some were being sent to Lindahne, as extra help for the Oversettle forces. So then, he would finally go to Lindahne – as the enemy.

  I can’t bear it. His heart gave a leap of agitation, like a fish on the hook. It was the law, he’d be imprisoned if he refused; he’d be rejecting Mendale outright and all his father had worked for – and he’d have to tell him so to his face.

  Finally he heard horses on the main approach. He glanced out again. His father was leading the little group, muffled and hunched over in weariness in the saddle. The figure behind him was heavily cloaked but Paither knew him by his movements. It seemed Baili was traveling with less worry and more comfort.

  Well, I could go with him sometimes instead of Baili, he thought with a pang of jealousy. He’s not even really family. Just another Lindahne refugee, a man without his own home or blood kin to turn to.

  Shame followed on the thought. He knew his mother’s ties to Baili were deep and long-lasting; they had been woven back in the mists before his own lifetime. And Baili, a full Lindahne with childhood memories of the War, was more accepting of Mendale ways than he was himself.

  He waited a decent interval, to give his parents a few moments of privacy. Then he slipped along the drafty corridors and tapped on the door of their apartments. “Mother?”

  “Come in, son,” Nichos called to him.

  Pillyn was propped up among the pillows, the bed curtains pulled back. The fire was roaring. Nichos sat on a stool before it, trying to pull off his boots. His stained cloak and worn packcases had been flung into a far corner.

  “They’re glued to me,” Nichos panted. “I’m glad to see you, son. Are you well?”
>
  Paither bent and kissed him, then grabbed his heel. “Pull.”

  “You should be sleeping,” Pillyn said to him, and yawned. “Is Baili coming up, Nichos?”

  “He said he would if your candles were still burning. He didn’t want to wake you.”

  The first boot came off with a sudden jerk. Paither caught Nichos’s hand to steady him. His dark skin, the blackness that proclaimed him a listtel, glowed brick in the firelight. Listtels were an ancient noble line, considered one family; their dark coloring was rare and much admired. Nichos had married a fair woman, knowing his children too would be fair, though he could look for listtels among his grandchildren. In the meantime he was the only dark-skinned member of his own household. A streak of vanity made him enjoy flaunting it. He wore scarlet or yellow silks and rich deep velvets: a lavish parade of bright luxuries that somehow, in his steady way, he carried with dignity. Paither saw the lines of fatigue at the corners of his eyes, the graying hair at his temples. “You were away too long,” he blurted. He grabbed the second boot.

  “I won’t argue with that. Wait, I’ll pull.”

  Pillyn asked, “Any more news from MenDas? Did they find the people who killed Berrold and Dissus?”

  “That depends on how you look at it. By the pelting rain, I’m glad I’m home.” His feet freed, he went to her. “Kiss me again, my love.” He settled next to her on the bed.

  “What do you mean?” Paither asked.

  “They put two Lindahnes to death for the murders, but they were old men, not Defiers. It was just a show of power. The Second Tribune thinks it doesn’t matter which Lindahnes die for the crime, so long as someone does.”

  “Proseras curse them for fools,” Paither said. It was a Lindahne saying.

  “Which?” Nichos asked his wife.

  “Proseras is the god of Wisdom, dearest. Try to remember.”

  “Oh. Well, Paither, but in one way they have been wise. All they really wanted was a public punishment.”

  “Did you speak against it?’

  “No. Now, now, son, listen to me. I can’t rail against every step the Assembly takes, not if I want to have influence when it’s really important.”

  “Weren’t the lives of these men important?”

  “That’s not the question. It was settled before it began, and nothing I could have said or done would have changed it. Influence has to be hoarded up, like gold. If you need to make a large purchase with persuasion, you can’t have squandered your wealth away. I can only speak out when I can do some good, or in the end I’ll be powerless to help anyone.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “No. Having knives stuck in their backs wasn’t fair to Berrold and Dissus, either. And what I haven’t told you yet is that Planna is missing. She’s one of the chroniclers, and you can stake your bet she’s been murdered, too.”

  Pillyn clutched at his hands. “What about you? Aren’t you a target? Any Assembly member– ”

  “I don’t think so. The Defiers wouldn’t want me. After all,” he smiled at her, “it’s well-known I’m a lin-lover.”

  “Baili’s here,” Paither said, as another knock came at the door.

  “See?” Nichos said in mock horror. “Here’s another one. Go wake up your brother, Pillyn, and I’ll be overrun with Lindahnes.”

  “It’s not funny, Nichos. You must take a lot of abuse because of us.”

  Paither and Baili were greeting each other cheerfully. In a low voice Nichos said, “My love, as of next spring I’ll have been married to you for nineteen years. I’m still glad to come home to you. Why should I care what halfwits in MenDas say about it?”

  “Nichos – oh, Baili, look at you! As dirty as when you were a boy. Have you been rolling in mud?” But she held out her arms to him.

  “Look at you,” the young man returned, leaning to hug her. “Nice and cozy in bed when there are thirsty travelers waiting, tongues hanging out. No wine in my room, none in sight here –”

  “Over here,” Paither said by the fire. “You’re not looking in the right place. Want me to mull it?”

  “I won’t wait for that.” Baili walked over and accepted a cup. At twenty-six, he stood as Paither’s elder brother, though he was often away with Nichos, for whom he worked as an assistant. He was a cheerful, handsome presence; Paither realized he had missed him. Turning his head, Baili spit the first mouthful into the flames: the Mendale custom of paying the spirit of the wine. Paither never did it.

  “Father’s been telling us the news.”

  “Yes, isn’t it exciting?”

  Pillyn demanded, “An execution? Murders in the capital?”

  Baili said to Nichos, “You seem to have left something out.”

  “You tell them,” Nichos said in a strange voice. He fixed his eyes on his wife.

  “Friends beneath my roof,” Baili proclaimed, “or rather, beneath your roof. Allow me to present the man they’re calling the next Third Tribune of Mendale.”

  “Nichos.”

  “Would that make you happy?”

  She rallied so swiftly and so well that he did not catch it. “Of course it would. This is wonderful, why didn’t you say something? I’m very proud of you.”

  “It’s not definite,” Nichos said, happy with what he had found in her face. “It might take a little time until we know.”

  “The First Tribune’s behind him,” Baili said. “No one’s going to oppose him.”

  “Congratulations, Father,” Paither said, trying to put warmth into his voice. Third Tribune. So that was it – higher, and farther away. Third Tribune meant real individual power; Nichos would no longer be just one voice in a large Assembly.

  “They’re having a special meeting to nominate him in less than a moon,” Baili added. He drained his wine. “And this time we’re all going, right?”

  “Going to MenDas?”

  “It’s an impressive ceremony, Pillyn. I want my family with me.”

  “Does that include me?”

  “Of course, son. Temhas can look after things here. I don’t suppose he’d care to go anyway. Pillyn? Do you mind?”

  “The last time I was actually in the Assemblage House...”

  “Your own father was speaking there, as the honored ambassador from a free Lindahne.” Nichos’s kind eyes were steady. “I remember. But that was a long time ago. And the War is over.”

  “The Oversettle isn’t,” Paither said. No one answered him.

  Baili, who had also accompanied the ambassador on that long-ago journey, put in, “It doesn’t seem so bad when you’re there, Pillyn. The Assembly’s interesting.”

  Pillyn and Nichos continued to gaze at one another. She bit her lower lip. “Should you have a – a ‘lin-wife’ beside you at the moment you become a Third Tribune?”

  “My love –”

  “I’m surprised they’re willing to have a lin-lover as Tribune, at all,” Paither said.

  “Now look, both of you. That’s quite enough. You’re my family and this day will only come once for me. Don’t you want to see it?”

  “Of course we do,” Pillyn said quickly. “I’m very proud of you.”

  “Well, then. Son, how are the horses?”

  “Doing well,” Paither answered absent-mindedly, forgetting about the stable that had had to be isolated. “I’m going to bed.”

  “A good idea,” Baili said. “Good even’. See you all when we break fast. No, on second thought, don’t call me until high-sun. I want a good long sleep.” They left.

  Nichos pulled off his clothing and dropped it to the floor. He crawled over Pillyn unceremoniously and fell to the other side of the bed. “Exhausted,” he murmured. “How is my daughter?”

  “Missing her father. She has a new little painting to show you. I wanted to ask you... was there... has there been any news about Queen Ayenna lately?”

  “Oh, I meant to tell you. Funny you thought of her. They say she might be moved to a holding-house. I don’t think you’ll b
e able to visit her any more, I’m sorry.”

  “Poor woman. I’m glad I told her about Paither; it’s some kind of comfort for her. Are you asleep?”

  “Mmmmm.”

  Pillyn blew out her candle, smiling. “You’re halfway to Feimenna.”

  “Feimenna?” For a moment surprise roused him, then he remembered. “I keep telling you, Feimenna is a real country on the other side of the Valtah river.”

  “And I keep saying that that’s nonsense. How could you or any other Mendale know that? No one can cross the Valtah. It’s unconquerable. At home we say Feimenna is only the place of dreams.”

  “We have stories, legends.” He was annoyed. After all this time she still called Lindahne home. “Once travelers did cross over, long ago. Maybe our ancestors, maybe my ancestors, had knowledge that we’ve since lost.” She heard the querulous note in his voice and put it down to fatigue. She leaned in the dark to kiss his forehead. “Mmmmm,” he murmured again. They wrapped their arms about each other and fell asleep.

  In his own room Paither was also thinking of dreams or, more precisely, remembering one. The first time he’d dreamt it he had been nine, or eight? It was while his face was still unmarked, of that much he was certain. His mother had been teaching him another Lindahne country song that day, as she often did; he begged for them, and for Lindahne tales or a story from the Book of the Gods. He had known at the earliest age that every word about the goddess was divine truth. The Lindahnes alone understood the pantheon of gods, the way of the heavens; his father’s people were not believers. And they were wrong, he knew. He knew because even then Nialia sometimes touched him, a light breath, a whisper of wind on his skin.

  They had giggled that day over the birth story of Quessa, god of laughter. Soon his questions had led her to speak of Lindahne history, and from there they slid naturally to King Raynii, the last sovereign and husband of the deposed queen, who had come to grief in the War. Later they had gone to an army demonstration with his father. The women had given an impressive display of archery – he remembered the slender arrows skimming together like a school of fish that had taken to the air – but he had lingered longest at the swordfights, crowded in with the other boys, fascinated. Yes, it was easy to see where the dream had come from.