Firebrand

By the time they had finished for the night, Grandmother was spent. Just traveling to Birch’s encampment in the cold had been exhausting; then there was her spellwork as they talked, which took its own toll. Now as she reckoned things, it was quite late. Birch had given his cabin over to her, with its rush-filled pallet drawn up to the fire, and blankets and furs to cover herself. Like most of the northern settlers, the one who had lived here had done many things to subsist, including the hunting and trapping of furbearers.

She folded her knitting into its basket. The slave girl lay in a heap in the corner with only a tattered cloak to keep her warm. Indeed, the men had left her alone in her unclean state this night.

Grandmother uttered a short prayer and made a sign of warding, and hunkered down to sleep.

• • •

At some point, she was awakened by a scuffling sound. She blinked, trying to clear the sleep from her eyes. The fire was down to low, lazy flames and embers, and the orange light glowed against the figure of the girl hunched over the yarn basket.

“What are you doing?” Grandmother demanded.

The girl glanced up, then grabbed a knitting needle and flung herself at Grandmother. Grandmother cried out and threw her arm up to block the dagger blows of her own knitting needle. The girl was quick and strong and desperate, and with the light shining in the whites of her eyes, insane.

But Grandmother had not lived as long as she had, had not gone into Blackveil and survived, without having a certain amount of strength of her own, not to mention a good dose of common sense. She always carried her knife attached to her belt—even when she slept—and grabbed it now. She pulled it out from beneath the covers and stabbed up into the girl’s ribs. The girl made a throttled cry and rolled off onto the floor and curled into herself.

On inspiration, Grandmother dragged herself off the pallet. She could not tell if the blood on her front was the girl’s, or her own from the shallow puncture wounds made by the knitting needle.

The girl was still alive and writhed on the floor. Grandmother grabbed her spellwork from the basket and flung it over the girl like a blanket. She screamed for surely it must burn, even though the spellwork had not yet been primed. Grandmother had simply inured herself to it as she worked on it. She had woven enough spells into it that she could feel its receptivity, its hunger. She leaped onto the girl and stabbed through the yarn. She thrust the knife again and again, even after the screams died and the girl lay limp.

By the time Birch and some of his guards burst into the cabin, Grandmother was standing over the girl, breathing hard. Her shift was saturated with blood.

“Grandmother, what have you done to my slave?” Birch demanded.

The undyed yarn of the spellwork greedily absorbed the girl’s blood. The fact that she’d been experiencing her first courses would imbue it with even more life energy, power. Spells were nearly living things, and they’d find the taste of her succulent.

“Your slave,” Grandmother said, “has made herself useful.”

ESTRAL’S DECISION

“Are you telling me I should be listening to the voice of the world?” Karigan demanded. She was situated in the tent, wrapped in her blankets and using her saddlebags to support her upper body. It was easier on her chest that way. A bowl of steaming water was placed next to her.

“All I am suggesting,” Enver said patiently from the tent opening, “is that you try the visualization. It might relax you, ease your lungs for a good night of sleep.”

At this point she was almost willing to try anything. “You believe it will really work?”

“I believe it will help.”

She stared hard at him for a moment, then relented with a sigh. “All right. Let’s give it a try.”

“Close your eyes,” he replied, “and imagine a clear blue sky . . .”

He led her through calming visions of gently lapping waves along the shore, leaves rustling in the woods. She followed along, relaxing as he guided her down a forest path lined with ferns, and dappled with sunlight and shade. He told her to imagine the smoke and irritation leaving her lungs, that her lungs were as clear as the sky, that her breath moved as easily as the breeze through the trees.

She lost track of where his images left off and her dreams carried on.

“How bad is it?” Estral asked as Enver emerged from the tent.

“All will be well with reasonable rest. The trespass of the smoke apparitions was not gentle.”

“What is ‘reasonable’?” Estral did not think she was going to like the answer.

“A week would be ideal.”

“A week?”

“Quietly, please, little cousin. Do not wake her. A week would be cautious and best, but we do not, I know, have that luxury. I suggest we let her rest tomorrow and see how she does. Had she not been so eager to leave the lumber camp, I would have preferred we stayed there another night, but alas, here we are. I will sing the healing. Will you join me?”

Estral thumped down onto a rock beside the fire. “You had better handle it. I’m not up to it.”

Enver nodded, and sitting before the fire, he began his song of healing, a song without words. It soothed her some, but she couldn’t help feeling desolate. Her father was likely dead or a captive of Second Empire. He could be very close, and she couldn’t seem to do a thing about it. The one person who could was not well.

She gazed at the tent she shared with Karigan. As unreasonable as it was, she was angry at Karigan for being sick. She blamed Karigan for her inability to reach her father. She was angry that Karigan had become the focus of supernatural events. Was it true what Enver had said about Westrion? So strange. What had she become? Did Estral even know her anymore?