Daughter of the Flames (2 page)

Surya went down on her knees and carefully laid the little girl on the moss, then turned and reached into the shadows under a bulging section of roots in the nearest tree to pull out a wooden case. All new healing equipment – from bandages to ointments to sharp needles – was placed in this circle for one turn of the moon before it was used, so that God might bless it. The cavernous spaces under the tree roots served as storage places. Surya opened the case she had retrieved and sighed in relief at the contents. It held all that she needed.

She turned her attention back to the little girl. She had not stirred. Something in the way the child lay, so limp and still, reminded Surya dreadfully of the dead rabbits she used to remove from her father’s traps when she had been a child herself. This wasn’t a natural sleep; it wasn’t even the shocked, unconscious state some injured people entered. But the fire seemed to have left her unscathed, except for the awful burn on her face. Surya knew that would require attention soon, but there was probably no hope of saving the child’s eye, so she put it aside for the moment.

Swiftly she cut away the rags of the nightgown from the girl’s body. There was nothing more than a bruise or two on her, and those probably from the nursemaid’s desperate grip. Lifting the lid of the good eye, Surya saw that the pupil was huge, massively dilated against the blue iris. It did not react when she shaded it with her hand. She lifted the little head, propped it against her knee and began probing the scalp for injuries.

Almost immediately her fingers found the source of the child’s unnatural stillness. It was a dent – as long as Surya’s thumb – in the back of her skull. The area was thick with clotted blood, pulpy and soft to the touch.

Despair filled Surya as she realized how massive the blow must have been. Even a grown man could not take such an injury and survive. She sat back on her heels, pushing a stray wisp of hair out of her face with a shaking hand. This child … this poor, tiny child. If what the woman said was true – if the whole Elfenesh family was dead – this child was Ruan’s last hope. And she was dying. What would become of them now?

“What is it?” The woman had managed to tear her eyes from the sacred flames and was examining Surya’s expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I cannot save her,” Surya said roughly. “There’s nothing to be done.”

“No!” The woman lurched to her knees and began to crawl towards them. “No – please.
Please
. She has to live! I’ve given my life to save her. It can’t be for nothing. She can’t die!”

Surya shook her head, unable to answer for the tears that choked her throat. Oh God.

The flickering of the flames in the pit stilled as if they were listening.

“Do something!” the woman pleaded, raising her blistered hands. “Anything!”

My daughter.

The voice was deafening, painful, ringing in Surya’s head with the joyful roar of wildfire and the terrible, triumphant scream of hunting birds. She had never heard it before – had never hoped to hear it – yet it was so familiar to her that it might have been the echo of her own voice. Without realizing she had moved, Surya was flat on the ground, her face pressed into the earth, her heart jumping into a shocked, irregular rhythm. There was a soft thud behind her as the other woman copied her movement.

“My … my Mother?” Surya whispered hesitantly.

You cry, daughter. What would you ask of me?

“I – I am sorry. I never meant…”

Daughter
.

Warmth and comfort settled over Surya’s her trembling body, as if God’s hand had touched her. In the midst of her turmoil she felt a smile curving her lips, tears of joy welling in her eyes and soaking into the moss. She took a deep breath, easing herself up from her prone position to look down at the fragile, dying shell of the child reia.

“Holy Mother. Please. I do not want the little girl to die. Can she be saved, Mother? Can you save her life?”

If you ask the gift of me, my faithful one, I will grant it.

There was a gentle warning in the voice.

Surya hesitated. She knew the laws of balance as well as any living woman. Life and death must always be even. If the Holy Mother intervened, then the equilibrium of the world would be disturbed. What life was given … must also be taken. A shiver went down Surya’s spine.

“What – what are the consequences?”

Zahira was born for this death. If instead she lives, many other lives will also be changed, now and for ever.

“Can you tell me what her fate may be?”

I cannot.

Surya winced at the finality of the answer. “No. I’m sorry. Mother, can you tell me – should I ask this?”

I can only tell you what you already know. There must be balance. If Zahira is to live, my daughter, there will be a price.

The beautiful, terrible voice of God paused. Then it named a price that made the noirin’s heart bump wildly in her chest. She slowly lifted her gaze from where it rested on the reia’s pallid face, and stared into the sacred fire. The flames were so still now that the green and blue ripples looked like the surface of a calm pool of water. A myriad of thoughts burst into her head in that one instant, even as her lips were opening to frame the reply.

“Great Mother, I ask you to save her life.”

There was a sigh, a sound of sorrow that stirred the dry leaves of the lir trees.

Then the voice came again.

Bring her to me
.

I never knew my mother’s name.

I knew she was a hero. The first story Surya ever told me was of my mother and her death. How, gravely injured herself, she dragged me from the fire that consumed our home, and carried me all the way from Aroha to the House of God in the mountains. How she refused any treatment for herself, and died of her injuries, peacefully, only when she knew that I would live.

But she never told anyone her name. Only mine.

Zira
.

The story was all I had of my family. After the Sedorne came, slaughtering and burning their way across Ruan, so many families were scattered, so many homes destroyed, so many people murdered and abandoned to rot by the roadside, that Surya said there was no way to trace my identity. I was alone in the world from that day: the day my mother died to save me.

I was lucky. Incredibly lucky. I always knew that. I could have been one of the poor orphan children, dying of starvation or disease on the streets of Aroha. I could have been dead myself. Or I could have been living as a slave – in all but name – under some bloated Sedorne lord.

My childhood was not perfect – whose is? But I had a precious gift, one denied to so many children in our troubled country. A home. I cherished it and thanked God for it – until the day it was taken from me.

Sunlight sparked from the curved blade as it slashed downwards. I shut my eyes hastily and twisted away, the soft hiss by my cheek telling me that the sword had almost found its target.

Half blinded by sun shadows, I spun past my opponent and brought the flat of my sword down hard where instinct told me his hand would be. I was rewarded with a snarl and a juddering clash of metal as the blade skittered off his padded gauntlet; then I was turning again, the movement sweeping my short hair across my face.

Keep moving … keep moving… I saw the dim shadow of his bulk to my right and feinted left, then snapped towards him, bringing the sword up in the half-crescent move. Metal screeched as our weapons slid together. I threw all my weight into my sword arm with a grunt of effort and wrenched upwards. I felt the sudden release as the sword popped from his hand and I leaped back, eyes clearing just in time to see his blade flick up in a jagged arch against the sky, then plunge back into shadow as it landed in the dirt of the practice ring, raising a small puff of dust.

He gaped at his empty hand, then burst out laughing.

“Excellent, Zira!”

I lowered my sword and bowed, tugging my rumpled robe back into place. “Thank you, Deo.”

“It was well done. Though I hope you realize that move was a dangerous one. It could just as easily have ended in you losing your own sword.”

I shrugged, trying to keep my voice even as I replied, “But if it had been a real fight and you had blinded me, I would have been desperate enough to take the chance.”

Deo loved it when I lost my temper. He grinned approvingly. The tattoo that curved over the ridge of his left eye and cheek – a stylized leaping wolf for his warrior status, surrounded by stars that symbolized his commitment to God – gleamed blue against his dark skin.

“It was a dirty trick, yes,” he admitted. “Yet you coped, as always. We’ll make a fighting namoa of you yet.” He turned away to address the small huddle of young people gathered at the edge of the practice circle. “Did you all see that? Yes? Would anyone like to try it themselves?”

Most shook their heads vehemently. My irritation disappeared and I had to cover my mouth to hide my smile. I didn’t blame them.

He continued. “Well, perhaps something simpler then. Don’t worry – I won’t let her gut you.”

As if that’s what’s worrying them, I thought.

Deo beckoned the children forward and reluctantly they filed into the circle, arranging themselves in a ragged line before him. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels as he addressed them. “Now, I know many of you have never held a sword or a weapon before. But all of you would like to learn to fight. Yes?”

The children – ranging in age from nine to about my own age of fifteen – looked at one another and shuffled uneasily but stayed silent. They were the latest ragged group to arrive in the temple complex. None of them had been here longer than a month. I examined them closely, though I had seen children like them all my life. They were bony, and quiet, and frightened. But they were proud too – still proud enough to be disdainful of the baggy hand-me-down clothes they wore, of the kindness that the temple people offered, and the lessons the namoa tried to teach.

If they have pride, I can teach them strength. The thought rippled up like a memory and I frowned. Who had said that? I couldn’t remember. Surya perhaps. With a small shake of my head, I stepped forward to talk to the refugees.

“Most of you are here because the Sedorne stole your homes, hurt your families, and drove you out. Is that not right?”

Several of the children nodded hesitantly, avoiding my eyes. Others only stared at their feet. They knew that Deo was a namoa and therefore a servant of God, to be respected. But I was not even a novice namoa yet – I wasn’t tattooed – so despite what they had seen of my skill with the sword, they knew I was only a little older than them. And then there was my face. The afternoon light was bright and golden and reflected off the stark white of my scar, making it uncomfortable to look at me. So they didn’t.

Yes, I had a good idea what they were thinking. I crossed my arms and waited, drawing out the silence until they began to shuffle again, nervously, and each of them had braved a swift look at me out of curiosity. Deo smiled, but said nothing.

“Is that not right?” I repeated finally.

They were so relieved the silence had ended that this time almost all of them had an answer for me.

“They burned our farm.”

“The lord accused our pa of stealing.”

“They said we were helping the resistance.”

“They hanged my uncle.”

“They killed my mama.”

I looked at the child who had spoken last and felt a little lurch of recognition. The girl, perhaps nine or ten if she was small for her age, had raggedly chopped hair – even shorter than mine – which stood out in black spikes around her thin face. To the Sedorne, long hair on men or women was a sign of status and pride, and they often shaved the heads of their Rua prisoners, thinking to humiliate them. It was another example of how little they understood the people they professed to rule.

I dropped to one knee before the girl. Her amber eyes were defiant, as if daring me to raise a hand to her. Holy Mother, she was so young… I had to swallow before I could speak.

“They killed my mama too,” I said.

The little girl blinked. I blinked too, and looked away. The attention of the group was now fixed on me. I looked back at them, forcing each one to meet my gaze.

“When the Sedorne soldiers – the gourdin – came to your homes, what did you do?”

A chorus of defiant voices answered.

“Ran. Ran away.”

“We hid from them. We had to.”

“They would have killed us.”

“We had to run.”

“You’d have run too.”

“We had to.”

I asked them, “What did you
want
to do?”

They were silent again. Outside the practice circle the temple people and namoa went about their business with cheerful noisiness; but within, the stillness was absolute.

“I think you wanted to stay. Didn’t you? To defend your homes and your families. I think you wanted to stay so much, it must have almost killed you to run. You didn’t know how to fight and you had no weapons. You were afraid. You had no choice.” I heaved myself to my feet and looked them over. “You have a choice now. If you want to learn to fight, we’ll teach you. If you want to walk out of this circle and never come back again, we’ll let you go. It’s up to you. I’ll promise you this, though: make the right choice and the next time the Sedorne come,
they’ll
be afraid of
you
.” I waited for a beat. “Is that what you want?”

Every head nodded, hard enough to send braids whipping across faces and caps flying away. Some of them were even brave enough to step forward.

This time I didn’t try to hide my smile.

Forty minutes later, the air was filled with the sharp crack of the light softwood practice staffs meeting, grunts of effort and the occasional yelp of pain as someone forgot to get his or her glove-padded fingers out of the way quickly enough.

Deo rubbed a giant hand over his curly hair as he inspected the pair of children I had been supervising.

“Remember – watch those fingers!” he said, then nodded in satisfaction and stepped outside the circle to lean against the wall next to me.