Firebrand

Lala did a good job with the fire, stoking it up to inferno proportions. The heat it generated almost pushed Grandmother back as she approached.

“Well done,” she told her granddaughter. In the Arcosian tongue, as taught to her by her mother and grandmother, she said, “Let me see as Karigan G’ladheon sees.” She tossed the working into the fire, then seated herself back on her bench and settled in for the duration.

• • •

As the fire died down, Grandmother, her back aching from sitting so long, was about to give up when a darkness appeared amid the languid flames. A very complete darkness. Had the Greenie died, after all? No, then there’d be nothing, no connection at all. Perhaps she simply slept. Grandmother bemoaned her poor back and hoped the Greenie woke up soon, and that she did so before the fire turned to ashes.

However, much sooner than she believed possible, an image resolved in the dark space and drew her in. To her surprise, she saw Nyssa. A ghost? A dream? The Greenie saw her as huge, the thongs of her whip extra long, the tendrils like vipers, and the barbs dripping blood into a puddle. Nyssa’s face was half-shadowed, her expression a leer of delight.

“You are broken,” Nyssa said.

Grandmother flinched with the Greenie when the whip came down, the barbs burrowing into her flesh.

The vision evaporated, but she heard, Broken, broken, broken . . . as an echo, the words carrying their own cutting strength.

She was shaking when the world around her became real again with the pop of dying flames and her people moving about the keep, their chatter and footsteps. She took a trembling breath.

Lala sat beside her again and took her hand. Her grip was warm and Grandmother was grateful.

“What did you see?” Lala asked.

“Nyssa.”

Nyssa who was dead, but in the mind of the Greenie, she was a larger presence than ever, carrying on her work through the veil of death. Dream or ghost, it did not matter, for she’d broken the Greenie. Dear Nyssa, how Grandmother missed her.

“I want to be like Nyssa when I grow up,” Lala said.

“You do?” Grandmother asked in surprise.

Lala nodded.

Lala, Grandmother thought, with her talent for the art, could be far more than a mere torturer, but obtaining additional skills would not hurt.

“I would that Nyssa were here to train you herself. You do know she studied mending first? Hers was a long training.”

Lala practically bounced beside her. “I want to learn!”

“Then I must send you to the man who trained Nyssa.” Grandmother was not sure she wished to part with her true granddaughter. It meant postponing her work with the art, but perhaps there was a way to do both. “He is in Mirwell Province. Would you be able to live away from me?”

Lala’s young face became serious. There was a sharp quality to her eyes. “I would miss you, but I want to be like Nyssa.”

Grandmother nodded. “Very well. It will be arranged, but we will communicate often and I will expect you to continue your studies with the art regardless of how much training you do with Nyssa’s master.”

Lala threw her arms around her. “Thank you! I will be good and learn lots!”

Grandmother chuckled and patted her back. “I know, child, I know you will.”

THE TORMENT OF KARIGAN

“You left me behind so you could return to him,” Cade said, destruction all around him.

“No, no, I love you . . . wanted to go back.”

His eyes burned in accusation from where he stood amid the rubble and fog of dust. Even now she stretched her hand out, tried to reach him, but more debris fell and he was lost from sight.

Lost . . .

“Galadheon, Galadheon,” Enver said. “You are dreaming.” He gently shook her shoulder.

She was clenching her bedding again. Her hair stuck to her sweaty brow.

“Perhaps you would try to listen to the voice of the world with me,” he said. “It would bring you ease and—”

“No.” It came out harsher than she intended. He’d had her try calming teas, and placed steaming bowls of water and lavender oil near her pillow. He’d tried singing soothing songs, and, she believed, blown some of his magic sleeping dust on her—she’d awakened with some suspicious gold glitter scattered on her blankets. Still the dreams tormented her. She could not see how “listening to the voice of the world” could help, but only make everything worse by opening herself up to attack. She could not see beyond the shadows that clung to her.

“Very well,” Enver said. “I would like to look at your back before you begin the day.”

Begin the day? That was a laugh. The days were as bad as the nights. Nyssa dogged her, stood just outside her peripheral vision, was an unrelenting presence. Karigan was so tired she could barely force herself to carry on a conversation.

Enver was quiet as he examined her back and applied the evaleoren, then dabbed it over the burn that sealed her stab wound. The salve helped, but the pain and weakness, like Nyssa, were constant companions. He bandaged her wounds without breaking his silence. She was well beyond modesty when it came to his ministrations.

When he finished, he asked, “Should I send in Lady Estral?”

“No,” she replied. She could, with some difficulty, dress herself, though she didn’t think there was much point to it.

Enver rose and left her, and she sighed, not wishing to move, not wishing to leave the tent and face the others and their concern. After she forced herself to dress, she simply slumped back into her bedding.