Calling Up the Fire

by Lori Martin

“Yes. Lovely farm. Is it yours?”

  The horse, who also knew the young man, swung its head out

  playfully. The farmer patted it, and casually patted the hanging saddle

  cases. “My wife and I are going to raise a family off of it,” he said.

  His hands brushed the outline of her small bow, packed in the soft

  materials of her clothing. “Seen anyone else on the road, miss?” “No, not at all.”

  “Ah. Well. Enjoy your ride, miss.” He nodded, jerking his chin

  with broad emphasis. Now the archers would lower their bows. “Good even’.”

  Once she was in the trees the formality was over. They chirped at

  her from the highest branches, like hungry lasbirds.

  “What’s the news, Mej?”

  “What have you heard?”

  “Did you have any trouble?”

  “Good even’,” she called up. In the dusk she could see a boot here

  or there, a few eager faces peering down. “The new Third Tribune

  made a speech. No trouble on the roads.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “What kind of speech?”

  “You’ll hear,” she told them, over her shoulder. The first shack

  house came into view. A few men were lighting fires for the evening

  supper.

  Renasi, the man who had accompanied her to Nichos’s estate,

  waved her over. “You’re just in time.”

  She dismounted. A young girl of perhaps fifteen nodded shyly to

  her and led the horse away. Renasi held out his wine flask. “Meeting of all the Squad leaders, Samalas says, and he meant the

  minute you got in. Are you tired?”

  “Thanks. Yes, but there’s no help for that right now. I’m hungry,

  too. Where are they?”

  “The central house. I can’t go; he’s making this a closed meeting.

  But I’ll round up supper for you and send it in.”

  She turned for the central house, wondering if Samalas, the head

  of the Defiers, had thought of a solution. He was twenty-eight –

  thought of as an older man, since most of his followers were just past

  their majority, and a good number were actually underage. He was

  sharp-witted, daring, arrogant. Mejalna respected his abilities but

  found it difficult to like him, though she kept trying. His absorption

  with their cause was absolute; nothing else, including personal affection, was allowed to intrude. But he had chosen her as one of three

  Squad leaders (following the Lindahne military form). They worked

  well together.

  The central house was no more comfortable than the other shack

  houses, merely larger, with a porch of three long wood slats. Two

  servants were playing dice on the top step.

  “Good even’, Mistress Mejalna,” the girl said. She made a clumsy

  effort to rise.

  “No, sit, please, Essa.” The girl was heavy with child. The man

  beside her rose and nodded. “They’re waiting for you, mistress.” “Has Samalas decided what to do with you two yet?” “Yes, mistress. He’s letting us stay until after the baby’s born. Then

  he’s sending us back home. We’re to travel like we were a family returning from the Hall of Merits.” He added, “He’s lending us money.” The girl said gloomily, “But we’re out of the Defiers, for good.

  We’ll marry at home, and try the Sea trades.”

  “It’s for the best,” Mejalna said, but kindly.

  Although passion-children were well-loved in normal Lindahne

  society, Samalas maintained that active Defiers had no right to encumber themselves with a family. As a consequence, romance, or at

  least the physical expression of it, was discouraged. Even the married

  couples that insisted on joining together were expected to keep to

  this rule. The youngest Defiers, still shy and uncertain in their love

  affairs, were half-grateful for the restrictions; most, like Mejalna, took

  their obligations seriously and held themselves aloof from entanglements. There were of course those who counted on luck. This couple

  was only the second in the last year to lose their gamble. In Lindahne she herself had been betrothed. Thayner had been a

  cheerful, energetic man, much like her beloved brothers; a man, she

  had thought, with courage. On the day when she first told him she

  was joining the Defiers, she had expected him to join with her, postponing their own union until Lindahne was once again free. She had

  hoped his eagerness would match her own; she had hoped desperately

  that he would understand the shame driving her. Instead, he had been

  mortified, then angry. They had quarreled furiously, and there had

  been no reconciliation.

  She shrugged off the memory and entered the house. Smoke from

  the open fire was collecting under the low, uneven ceiling. The long

  table, which showed the marks of hasty construction, was covered

  with maps. Samalas looked up. “You’re late. Any trouble?” “For me, no. For us, yes.”

  Ymon, the other Squad leader, greeted her cordially. Samalas

  waved a hand at the servant tending the fire. “We’ll start the meeting

  now. See we’re not disturbed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  She pulled up a chair, watching Samalas for any telltale signs of

  excitement. He grew fiery with ideas. But he seemed composed,

  sitting like a hard-driven skeleton with cold intelligent eyes. A shock

  of white, which he had had since childhood, rose at the peak of his

  forehead among the dark hair.

  He had weaved the Defiers from a tangle of thin threads. At first

  he had been prompted by a wish for revenge, after the murder of his

  brother by a bullying Mendale soldier; later he felt it his destiny and

  duty. He relied on his father, a former councilor to the royals, for

  advice and guidance. But the older man was weary and sometimes

  despairing, and would not take part in any more fighting. Throughout

  Lindahne, Samalas had heard similar sentiments. The War generation

  had known death and defeat. For all their still-churning anger, few

  had the will to raise swords again.

  So he had turned instead to their children, and soon found himself

  with eager recruits. He would hear of a farmer’s son on the Third Hill

  who had knocked a Mendale trader from his horse, or of a nobleborn

  girl on the Second who had “accidentally” shot her arrows at a Mendale

  ranking. He searched such people out, and as each joined with him,

  others had had the courage to follow. The nobleborn came with him

  and received positions according to their rank and capabilities, while

  the commoners’ children asked only for the chance to strike back at

  the Mendales.

  Eventually, his father, roused, had called together a group of former

  councilors, priests, and priestesses: older men and women who served

  as the “Advisors,” taking no active part in resistance but giving the

  young Defiers the advantage of their War experience. Samalas himself had grown into a respected man, their unquestioned leader. The Defiers who had followed him here to Mendale, to live in secret among their enemies, were without home or family, without the help of the Advisors or the outward comforts of their secret faith.

  They had only each other.

  “Vallas rode in yesterday. He says they were threatening to execute

  the queen,” Samalas said. “Have you heard anything more?” “Just confirmation. The Second Tribune gave a very success
ful

  speech this morning, right in front of the Assemblage House, yelling

  about vengeance on the Defiers. It looks like she’ll get her way.” “Nialia curse them,” Ymon said. He shook his head, and his hair,

  tousled up in yellow waves, fell over his eyes. He was a brave fighter,

  Mejalna knew, but he liked to make a show. Gold chains sparkled

  around his neck and glittering rings winked from his fingers. “We’ll have to stop it,” Samalas said, with a calm certainty that

  they could.

  “The new Third Tribune spoke after her. He called for mercy; he

  said they should spare the queen.” Both men stared. “He seems decent,

  for a Mendale. But no one wanted to listen to him.”

  Ymon joked, “Maybe we should have gone to him for help, instead of asking his wife.”

  Samalas pressed his lips together. Contacting Mistress Pillyn had

  caused an angry debate. “Do you still think, Mejalna, that we haven’t

  breeched our security there?”

  “I don’t think we have to worry about Mistress Pillyn, or her

  husband.”

  ”Well, if they cause trouble we’ll have to deal with them. What

  about the son? You haven’t seen him again?”

  A tap came at the door.

  “I asked not to be disturbed!” Samalas bawled.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the girl’s timid voice said through the door. “Master

  Renasi insisted.”

  “What is it?”

  “Supper, sir. For Mistress Mejalna.”

  Ymon laughed.

  “He knew I was hungry,” Mejalna apologized. The girl scurried in,

  dropped the overloaded plate in front of her, and rushed out. “Ranfox again,” Ymon explained unnecessarily, as the hot smell filled

  the room. “I don’t know why we can’t get a good juicy rabbit once in a

  while.” Mejalna was too hungry to care. She took a hearty bite. “Have you seen him?” Samalas pursued, as if there had been no

  interruption.

  Her look stayed on her plate. She chewed, chewed harder, shook

  her head, and swallowed.

  Ymon said, “All right, I’ve waited as long as I could. He’s been

  hinting and hinting, Mej, that he knows what we can do about the

  queen, but he made me wait until you got here. So let’s hear it.” “All right. Here’s the Assemblage House,” Samalas said, unrolling

  one of the maps. “Over here we have the Second Tribune’s quarters,

  between the Northeast and Southeast Gates. Over here – these are

  the Third Tribune’s apartments. Has the new Tribune moved into

  them yet?”

  “I heard not. Not until next week.”

  “Good, then they’re empty. Now over here is the First Tribune’s

  section, by the Northwest Gate. Now – but maybe it should be the

  Second Tribune,” he interrupted himself, frowning. “She’s the one

  who’s behind all this. It would be more fitting. On the other hand,

  we need the highest one.”

  “The Mendales claim the Trio are all equal in power to one another.” “The Mendales claim a lot of things. The First has been in office

  longer and he has more friends in the Assembly. All right. We’ll keep

  with him.”

  Mejalna sliced her meat, smiling. Ymon said, “Well, I’m glad that’s

  settled. Any hints as to what we’re talking about?”

  Samalas didn’t answer. He stared at the far wall.

  Mejalna said, “We’ll have to move fast, before they take the queen

  to a holding-house, as they said they would do.”

  “They already have,” Ymon answered, startled. “Didn’t Renasi tell

  you? He found out yesterday. They’ve walled her up in solid rock,

  with guards everywhere.”

  She uttered a pained sound and pushed away her plate. Directly

  to Samalas she said, “We have to save her. Are we going to storm it?” “But Mej,” Ymon spluttered, “we can’t attack a holding-house.

  They’d have every soldier in the country on us. And they’d probably

  murder the queen before we could even fight through to her.” “They’ll also be expecting it,” Samalas said.

  “But –”

  He pointed again at the map. “Through here would be the best

  way, I think.”

  “Name of the gods,” Ymon said. “The best way for what?” “For getting to First Tribune Haol, of course.”

  The other two exchanged glances. Surely he knows better than

  this, Mejalna thought. Out loud she asked, “We’re not going to kill

  him? That won’t save the queen. Or do you mean speak with him?” “Samalas, begging our friend Haol for mercy is like asking a wolf

  not to eat meat.”

  “No, no,” he said impatiently. “Don’t you understand? We’ll have

  to capture him.”

  Ymon was dumbfounded, but Mejalna, quicker, suddenly lit up

  with excitement. “Abduct the First Tribune?” Her voice rose with

  exhilaration. “And hold him for hostage?”

  “If they want him back,” Samalas said, “they’ll have to return

  Queen Ayenna to us, unharmed.”

  She bent eagerly over the map. “It wouldn’t be too difficult to get

  this far, say, but beyond this point we’ll have to –”

  “I don’t believe either of you,” Ymon said. “They’ll never, never,

  let us get away with it. Even if we can pull it off, Nialia knows how,

  they’ll be all over us. They’ll destroy us. Samalas! The Defiers will be

  wiped out.”

  “Without the queen, we have nothing.”

  “But –”

  “We have nothing!”

  She remembered the sad whisper, We have lost our royals. And another voice: The day may have come. “Do you believe the stories

  they tell at home, that Dalleena-relas may have borne a child?” “If she did, where is the child now? We don’t have the luxury

  of stories. We’ve always known it would come again to war. I had

  thought one more year – we’d be more firmly established here. But

  the time’s been chosen for us. If we save the queen, if we humiliate

  the Trio and bend the Assembly to our will, all of Lindahne will take

  courage. Instead of mere rebels, we can be a true army. And we can

  win. This is the first step, we can’t be afraid of it.”

  “Oh, yes we can,” Ymon retorted. “All right! I follow where you

  lead. Let’s work it out.”

  They turned to the maps. Mejalna said softly, “May Proseras make

  us wise.”

  “May he make us fast,” Ymon said. “We may have to do a lot of

  running.”

  A few hours later, Renasi found her slumped on the central house’s porch. He said, “Everyone but the sentries have gone to bed, they’re dreaming in Feimenna. Why are you still here? It’s cold.”

  “I don’t know. Just thinking. I’m so tired. And what are you doing?” “Looking for you, of course.” He sat down beside her. “You’re a good friend, but I don’t know why you bother. Not in

  love with me, are you?”

  “No,” he said frankly. “Although any man has to notice how

  beautiful you are, but you know that. The truth is, you remind me of

  my sister at home. Brave but too impulsive. Neglecting yourself because

  you’re caught up in what you’re doing.” He laughed. “But you’ve got

  more sense than my sister.”

  “Do I? I haven’t been very sensible today. I let someone... touch

  me in some way. And I lied to Samalas about something imp
ortant.”

  She looked down at her hunched knees. Her hood was off. Her long

  light auburn hair slid down across her neck and shoulders, enveloping her in soft comfort.

  “Mej, why did you become a Defier?” Surprised, she lifted her

  head. Renasi said, “Yes, I know. We’re not supposed to ask that of

  each other, or talk about our old lives.”

  “I’ve wondered sometimes why Samalas made that rule.” “I know why. It’s because we’re all here from grief. Yet we can’t act

  from that, we have to act for justice. But tonight let’s break a rule.

  Tell me your grief.”

  She said slowly, “Not a death. Not the grief of death.” She closed

  her eyes. Across the blackness she saw the images: the darkened

  temple above, the boy running to her in the sunlight, tumbling and

  laughing down the slope...

  “I have four brothers,” she said. “My father was a priest of Armas before the War, and my mother was the head of the Third Hill

  council. They raise cattle now.” Her mouth closed, as if her thoughts

  had melted in shadow. Renasi waited. She began again. “My mother

  had – important papers, historical documents from our Hill. And the

  year before she married, King Raynii honored her with the safekeeping of some royal archives. She was very proud of that. During the

  War when they had to evacuate the Third, when the Mendales were

  winning, she and my father buried the archives beneath the altar of

  Armas: the god’s Strength to guard them.

  “Later when I was growing up, I used to go with my brothers to

  the temple – we couldn’t get in, of course, because of the soldiers,

  but we stood near and looked. I told Daiv, the youngest of us, ‘This

  is where the archives are, the archives the king gave our family to

  protect.’ We’d whisper it to each other: our family.

  “Sinna and Johrae took up work on our estate, and Lis took over

  a sheep farm. Daiv wasn’t of age yet, nor was I, but he always said he

  wanted to get involved with village government. He said he’d like to

  use whatever little power the Mendales would spare us, to work for

  our people. I was at home that day, on the afternoon the Oversettle

  solders came.” She paused.

  After a few moments Renasi urged, “What were they after?” “The archives. They’d found out about them.” She continued flatly, “They tore the altar up from its base and split it in two, and then they took hammers to the mosaics. When they found what they were after, they made a bonfire on the crest of the slope and burned the archives.