A Promise of Fire (2 page)

I force a cocky smile. “I’m Cat the Magnificent. Soothsayer Extraordinaire.”

He doesn’t smile back, only letting me off the hook once he gives me a look that says he’s not done fishing. “Time to dazzle some Sintans, Cat the Magnificent. Soothsayer Extraordinaire.”

The tension I hate so much breaks when Desma pats my rump. “Either those pants shrank or you’re eating too many spice cakes again.”

I make a sound of disgust. “Why is everyone ganging up on me?”

She grins. “Because you’re weird, and nobody knows who you are.”

“My pants are fine.” Actually, they’re verging on truly uncomfortable, but I’m not about to admit it now.

Aetos crosses his arms, frowning. “They
are
too tight. If I see anyone looking at you for more than five seconds, I’ll tear his bloody head off his bloody body.”

My right eyebrow creeps up. “Then everything will be very bloody.”

“Laugh all you want,” he growls. “Just don’t get splashed.”

I make a sign to the Gods on Olympus. “Grant me patience.”

“Seriously, Cat.” Desma grabs my arm, unexpected urgency in her grip. “Those face paints and that outfit make you look a lot older and more experienced than you are. Tread carefully in the crowd tonight.”

I roll my eyes. “I have done this before.”

“I know.” She releases me as abruptly as she grabbed me. “But things are different in Sinta now, especially in the south. These people have realized that muscle
can
overcome magic. Hoi Polloi have been feeling feisty all spring and summer, and you wouldn’t want to kill anyone by accident.”

Everything in me stills. “What makes you think I can do that?”

Desma shrugs. Aetos looks way too interested, so I shift the focus to him.

“You can kill with fire.”

“I can kill with one finger,” he scoffs, snapping for good measure. “Fast, too.”

Desma’s small hands land on her narrow hips. “We’re talking about magic, not obscenely overmuscled Giants.”

“Who are you calling obscene, rainbow woman?” Aetos’s barrel chest heaves with indignation, thunderclouds gathering in his eyes.

“Stop!” I cut off their bickering before they have a chance to warm up. The Fates got everything backward with these two—a huge, tattooed southerner with fire and flight and a tiny Demigoddess with nothing to show for her Olympian heritage except rare beauty and a colorful glow. What a pair. I wish they would finally sleep together and get all the repressed emotion out in the open. “I have to go. My table’s up.”

Aetos winks. “Careful out there.”

I shove him. It’s like ramming my hand into a marble statue. “Why does everyone suddenly think I need protection? Didn’t you just decide
I’m
the menace who can kill by accident?”

“So you can?” Desma asks.

I shake my head. “Of course not.” I hate lying to my friends.

* * *

A boy with a berry ice in his hand and red dripping down his chin passes me three times before he finally stops.

I point to the chair across from me. “Sit.”

Looking skittish, he lands on the edge of the seat. “Can you see my future?” he asks.

“Maybe.” Never commit to something you probably can’t do. I can try to have tea with Zeus. That doesn’t mean I’ll succeed.

His expression turns belligerent. “Does that mean you can’t?”

“Let’s make a deal.” I lean forward, lowering my voice. “If you don’t think I do a good job, you don’t have to pay me.”

Hazel eyes sharpen, and he nods.

“Say it,” I prompt.

“It’s a deal.”

I sit back, satisfied. “What do you want to know?”

He shifts uncomfortably. His face, boyish and awkward now, but promising to break hearts in a few years, scrunches up. I wait, trying to look patient until his question finally pops out.

“Will I ever have magic?”

I stifle a sigh. You’re either born with magic or you aren’t. Magoi or Hoi Polloi. It seems cruel to dash his hopes too fast, though. “Give me your hand.”

Trusting, he holds out his right hand.

I wipe my slippery palm on my leather pants, which does nothing, and then take his hand in mine. His is sticky with berry ice juice, and our hot skin fuses.

Palm reading is an ancient ritual, one that holds no bearing on anything whatsoever. You can’t read a damn thing from the lines on someone’s hand, but if the boy has even a tiny, glacial shard of the Ice Plains inside him, I’ll feel it. His power will want to come to me the same way mortals reach for the Gods.

There’s nothing. He’s warm, sticky, and smells like kalaberries. His hand holds no power, although that doesn’t mean magic is forever out of his reach. I hesitate before sending him on a dangerous path. “Why do you want magic?”

His cheeks color. “I’ll never be as smart and strong as the tribal warlords. If I don’t have magic, I won’t have anything.”

That’s not true. He has a brain. He seems healthy. He can do anything he wants. The boy believes what he’s saying, though, or else my magic would react to the lie.

“Are you brave?” I ask.

He looks surprised. “I-I try to be.”

“Do you love your mother?”

He nods, his brow creasing at my question.

“Say it out loud,” I insist.

“I love my mother.”

“Is your family good to you?”

He starts to nod, and I raise a warning finger with my free hand. I have to hear it. There’s magic in spoken language. It’s binding. There’s a reason people ask for someone else’s word. Every sentence a person utters can be a promise—or a betrayal.

“They’re good to me,” he answers.

A loving family. How novel.

“If you saw a child being beaten, would you walk away or would you intervene?”

His eyes widen. “But what could I do?”

“That doesn’t answer the question.” A hard edge creeps into my voice, and he pales.

Note to self: Don’t scare children.

His shoulders straighten. “I would intervene.”

I brace for a ripping in my soul. Surprisingly, none comes. He’s told me the truth, which makes him worthy of my advice. He’s also courageous and has a family that will support him, which means he might actually survive it.

“The Gods favor kindness and selflessness.” Some do at least, and despicable people like Cousin Aarken get chomped.
Ha!
“Under the right circumstances, goodness and honesty can be rewarded.”

The boy looks confused. “I have to be good and ask the Gods for magic?”

I sit back, releasing his hand. “Yes, but you can’t just go to the temples, pray, and say, ‘please, please.’ It doesn’t work that way. You have to prove yourself. When you’re older, wiser, and much stronger, choose either the Ice Plains or the Lake Oracles.”

“You mean go north.” His freckled nose wrinkles in distaste.

“That’s where the magic is. Here, we’re so far from Olympus that it’s weak and diluted in the people who possess any at all. Even Magoi have trouble this far south. It’s harder for most of us to wield our power.”

“Most?”

I wink conspiratorially. “Most.”

The boy chews on his berry-stained lip with teeth that are white and straight. “Which should I choose?”

He’s so earnest that something in my chest tightens. I’m pointing him toward vicious magical creatures or Oracle fish the size of Dragons. What if I’m sending him to his death?

“You have to be very strong to survive the Ice Plains. The Oracles are capricious but usually the safer bet.”

He nods, storing the information away. I should charge two coppers for this kind of thing, especially in southern Sinta. There’s more ignorance of magic and history here than anywhere else in Thalyria.

“Which lake?” he asks.

Make that three coppers. Maybe even four…

“That’s your choice, and it depends on which God you want protecting you.” I pitch forward and then say in a low voice, “But if you’re anywhere near Fisa and you see Poseidon’s three-tentacled trout, tell it Catalia says hello.”

I draw back, alarmed.
What in the Underworld?
I don’t blurt things out. I don’t just hand over information about myself that I’ve never told my friends, including my full name.

The boy’s eyes go as round as clay pots. “You’ve been to an Oracle?” he says far too loudly.

My stomach lurches while I wonder when I stopped being in control of my own mouth.

Damn meddling Gods. What do they want with this kid? Or worse—with me?

I reluctantly nod. “And came out the right end. Not the back,” I clarify. I don’t even want to think about being digested by a giant fish. “Oracles will look you in the eye, poke around in your head, and then taste you. If you’re lucky, they’ll help you. If you’re not worthy, they’ll swallow you whole.”

He pales. “Eat…people?”

“Even Oracles need to eat. I have a cousin who found that out the hard way.”

The boy’s jaw practically hits my table.

“Oh, he deserved it,” I assure him. Mother knew Aarken and I were rivals and informed me with her usual cruelty and disappointment that I should have taken care of him before the Oracle did. Kill or be killed—the family motto.

“You’re amazing.” The boy sounds breathless.

I laugh. Sort of. “Everyone thinks so.”

He grins at my obvious humility and starts digging around in his pocket for a copper.

“Keep it,” I tell him. “Buy yourself another berry ice and bring one back for me.” It’s so hot I’m tempted to let one melt down the back of my neck, but I’m sticky enough as it is.

“Thanks!” He grins even wider.

I hope the information I’ve revealed about myself remains between us. His smile is charming, and I don’t want another enemy. “How old are you?”

“Thirteen,” he answers proudly.

It’s only a small deception. Pain still rips my soul. Flames sear me from the inside, igniting in my core and lashing out to char my bones. I lock my body down, holding still until the burning passes.

“You’re eleven,” I say coolly. “Why would you lie?”

His face falls, and he stares at his feet. “I wanted to impress you.”

“Lies never impress.” I try not to grit my teeth and scare him. “Remember that when you see the Oracle, or you might come out the wrong end.”

He nods without looking up.

Sweat breaks out on my upper lip. A bead of moisture slips down my spine. Between the southern climate and the boy’s lie, someone’s going to have to peel me out of my pants. I hope Desma’s up for the job.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Jason.” He’s still hanging his head.

“Go get me that berry ice, Jason of Sinta. I’m melting in this heat.”

He flashes me a relieved smile and then dashes off.

I lean back in my chair, fanning myself and longing for the cool north, a view of the Ice Plains, and a way to take back certain parts of what I just said. At least the kid doesn’t realize it’s important. Poseidon and Fisa are worlds away to a southern Sintan boy. Catalia doesn’t mean anything to him.

I’m just starting to convince myself that my unprecedented slipup wasn’t so colossal when a deep voice rumbles behind me, making me start.

“The Gods don’t favor kindness and selflessness. They favor strength and courage.”

The low voice washes over me like the incoming tide on a dark night, chilling despite the heat. I turn, my heart leaping into my throat. The warlord who was staring at me earlier steps closer, his long fingers nearly brushing my shoulder as he points to the banner proclaiming me a soothsayer. “You planted an idea. You didn’t tell him his future.”

“These conversations are supposed to be confidential!” I snap, springing to my feet.
Oh Gods! How much did he hear?

“The boy asked if he’d have magic, and you never told him if he would.”

My jaw unhinges. How dare the brute listen in! “I gave him a way to get magic. That’s better than answering a yes-or-no question.”

“So will he get it?”

I have no idea. That depends on the Oracle. It depends on Jason. “That’s none of your business.”

“You went to an Oracle. Which one?”

I feel the blood drain from my face. “That’s none of your business, either.”

His eyes narrow, and he stares down that hawkish nose at me. “What did you whisper to the boy?”

My heart stutters. “That’s none—”

“—of your business,” the warlord finishes dryly.

If looks could kill, I’d be dead. I don’t respond well to threats, even ocular ones, and my spine shoots straighter than Poseidon’s trident. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, then don’t bother. It won’t work.”

His full lips curve into a cool smile. “In my experience, I can intimidate anyone.”

I huff, incredulous. “Do you want my services? If you do, sit down. Otherwise, go away. You’re scaring people off with that look.”

His expression darkens. “What look?”

“That one.” I wag my finger in his face. “The one that says
I’m big, I’m bad, and I can chew you up, spit out your guts, and use your bones for toothpicks
.”

The warlord’s face blanks with surprise. You’d think I just morphed into the Hydra and grew some extra heads.

One of his four men, an auburn-haired ax-wielder to his left, can’t repress a snort and gets the back of the warlord’s fist in the gut for it. Not too hard, but hard enough that the end of the laugh comes out as a wheeze.

I glare at the semicircle of large, muscular men now cutting me off from the noise and bustle of the rest of the circus fair. My table is at my back, they’re at my front, and I can’t walk away, even if I want to. “Take your violence elsewhere. This is a peaceful table.”

Peaceful? Me? Ha!

“A fragile flower,” the warlord mocks, magnetic gray eyes looking me up and down in a way that makes my temperature rise. He studies me intently and a little too long. “And wilting in the heat.”

I scowl, repressing the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on his white tunic. He’s too clean for a tribal warlord. He doesn’t even smell bad, and his slightly wild, jet-black hair is shiny, curling softly around his neck. There’s not a drop of perspiration on him, which infuriates me. I contemplate the sword with its two-handed hilt poking up over his shoulder from the leather harness on his back, pretty sure I can’t even lift the monstrosity. Good thing I have other strengths.

The sharp pinch of magic stings my skin, and I turn. Aetos is watching.

“Either sit down and get a question answered, or that man over there”—I point to my painted friend—“is going to pop your skull like a cherry in a crow’s beak.”

The warlord’s teeth flash in the way of wolves before they pounce. “You think he can?”

“I know he can.”

The idiot actually chuckles. “He wouldn’t know what hit him.”

I snort. “He’d incinerate you.”

“He could try.”

His tone is utterly unconcerned. I grit my teeth. Typical warlord: huge ego, huge sword, huge ass. Figuratively—the rest looks just right.

“Go.” I point away from my table. No one insults my friends.

His eyebrows lift. “
Go?
”

“Do you need me to say it in sign language?” I make a rude hand gesture that universally conveys my meaning.

Setting his jaw, the warlord circles my table. I turn, too. His men follow, and the semicircle of muscle moves to the other side, guarding the warlord’s back and leaving mine once again open to the circus fair and a dozen very powerful people who will come running if I need them.

The warlord sits in the chair the boy used, dwarfing it. “You’re awfully small to be making threats,” he remarks casually.

“It was more of a message,” I reply, still standing.

His gray eyes turning steely, he rises halfway, plants his hands on the table, and leans forward until we’re practically nose to nose. “Send that message again, and I’ll teach you how to make a real threat, and carry through on it.”

My scalp tingles. I have to give him credit; the warlord does menace with a capital
M
. But I grew up on a steady diet of terror, and I know true malice when I see it. This isn’t it. This is banter to people like us.

Baring my teeth in what could hardly be called a smile, I throw his words back at him. “You could try.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growls softly.

“Trying to scare me?”

“Glad it’s working.”

I laugh—although maybe I shouldn’t. He
does
look miffed all of a sudden.

In magical fights, I can absorb other Magois’ powers and then turn their own abilities back on them. If I have to fight a Hoi Polloi, I need to be faster, stronger, or smarter, or else I’d better have some useful magic stored up. Right now, I don’t have anything. I doubt I’m faster, and I know I’m not stronger than the warlord. As for brains, the jury’s still out. At least I have my sense of humor.

Deciding to test his, I glance up at the night sky and then cringe like something terrifying is coming straight for us. As if on cue, the warlord surges to his feet, drawing his sword and looking spectacularly ferocious. His free arm sweeps out over the table, pushing me roughly back. I stumble, see red, and then gear up to fight back when I realize he’s trying
to protect
me.

Under the heat of his hand, something in my chest contracts with a sharp twist. His piercing eyes look up, around, everywhere, vigilantly scanning the amphitheater for threats. There’s nothing, of course, and his arm drops.

“Don’t scrunch up your eyebrows like that,” I scold, a little out of breath for no good reason. “You’ll give that pretty face wrinkles.”

He’s not pretty. He’s far too masculine for that, with his intense gray eyes and powerful body. A fresh scar cuts diagonally through his right eyebrow. Along with his wide mouth and hooked nose, it gives him a piratical look that does strange things to my insides.

When he swings his gaze back to me, I have no idea what to make of his expression. The auburn-haired man is turning red from trying to hold in a belly laugh, so I cringe again and cover my head with my hands.

“
What
are you doing?” The warlord sits again, resting his sword across his lap.

“The Gods might punish your gargantuan ego, O Scary One. I’m trying to avoid the lightning bolts.”

The ax-wielder guffaws and then takes a hasty step back.

“Is this how you treat all your customers?” the warlord asks.

My surprise must be obvious. “So far, no question has been asked, and no money has been exchanged. I wouldn’t call you a customer. You’re more of an eavesdropper and a bully.”

“Good Gods!” the ax-wielder booms. “She has bigger balls than I do.”

Humor flashes in the warlord’s silver-hued eyes. “Balls don’t necessarily come with brains.”

“Mine do.” If my smile were any more syrupy, my teeth would rot.

He arches a dark eyebrow, as if daring me to show him the goods. I’m not sure whether to laugh or run. In the face of indecision, I turn to the auburn-haired warrior. “Want your fortune read? Half price.”

“Sure.” He adjusts the ax on his shoulder, catching the torchlight and sending a sudden glare into my eyes.

I move to the side. Being blind is too much like being in the dark—never good.

“I have a question,” the warlord interrupts.

Curiosity sparks. “Finally.” I let out a beleaguered sigh and flop back into my chair. It’s probably safe to sit down again. While the warlord is far from harmless, I’m not getting the impression he’s out to harm
me
. “I was beginning to think we’d be here all night.”

He levels a flat stare at me that would wither a person who hadn’t been tortured, beaten within an inch of her life, and nearly murdered six times in her own bed before the age of fifteen.

“Around me, big mouths are attached to dead bodies,” he says.

I sigh, shaking my head. “What kind of person goes around threatening death?”
And by that, I mean
besides
most of the people I grew up with.

He leans forward again, one eye closing in a quick and unexpected wink that takes the dangerous edge off his words. “The kind who can.”

Butterflies tickle my insides. “You either have an Olympian-sized sense of self-importance, or you’re overcompensating for a lack of confidence.”

The warlord’s gray eyes crinkle at the corners, and his lips jump up for the briefest of smiles, taking his face from striking to far too appealing in less than a heartbeat.

“Peace?” he offers, his deep voice sincere.

I bite my lip, taming the reciprocal smile I can’t quite help, and pretend to think about it. “Fine. But don’t go releasing any white doves yet.”

He chuckles, the warm, appreciative sound sending a wave of heat through me that has nothing to do with the southern climate. My words come out surprisingly husky when I ask for his question.

Sitting back, he indicates the four men around him. “Are my companions loyal to me?”

And just like that, I’m uncomfortable again. His question smacks of another life, one where people tortured me for truths.

“Soothsayers predict the future.” I force an even tone despite my suddenly thumping heart.

He rephrases the question, never taking his eyes off me. “Will my men
remain
loyal to me?”

I try not to squirm, not liking his revision much better.

The warlord frowns at my hesitation. “What’s more important than loyalty?” he asks.

There’s a hardness to his tone, and his question strikes a nerve.
Have I been disloyal? Does running away make me a traitor, or smart?

Who cares? I’d rather be disloyal than dead.

My eyes dart to the men behind him. “All four?”

“All four.” He nods to his crew.

I swallow my misgivings. The warlord doesn’t know me. He doesn’t know what I’m capable of. “Four coppers then. One for each.”

He puts the coins on the table, and I pocket the money, turning to the ax-wielder first. “What’s more important? Your warlord’s life or your own?”

“My warlord’s.”

There’s no hesitation. No soul ripping.

“You have to choose between this
savage
”—I sink a lot of sneer into my voice just for the fun of it—“or your wife. Who do you choose?”

“I have no wife.”

“But if you did?”

“If I choose to marry, my wife and children will come first.”

No searing flames. No melting bones. No pelting truths to outweigh the lie.

I let my eyes glaze over and place my hands on my crystal ball, pretending to do soothsayer-like things for an appropriate amount of time. I should probably make up a chant, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

“Your man is loyal,” I finally announce. “But I don’t advise using his future family against him.”

“I’ll have a family?” The ax-wielder’s face splits into a wide grin.

Eh…
“Yes. Lovely wife. Several strong children,” I lie. Or maybe I don’t. How in the Underworld should I know?

The warlord’s unwavering stare has me shifting uncomfortably in my chair. “Step back, Flynn,” he commands. “Carver, you’re next.”

A dark-haired man approaches, moving forward with a confident stride. He’s about my age, lean and tall, and looks like he’d be mean in a fight. He’s the type of sinewy swordsman that can move like a shadow and strike before you blink. I know his kind. He’s the kind you want watching your back, not sneaking up on it. There’s a resemblance to the warlord in his facial features, black hair, and gray eyes, but the similarities end there. The warlord outweighs him by about sixty pounds and is probably ten years older.

The man—Carver—smiles at me. There’s a disarming, rather friendly gleam in his eyes, but I have no doubt his easy smile could turn sharp with menace.

“Is loyalty important to you?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I point to the warlord. “Would you follow this man into a fight?”

Carver nods.

“Say it,” I prompt.

“I would. I have, and I would again.”

I glance at the warlord. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes feel like a Cyclops’s foot on my face. I ask for Carver’s hand, feeling awkward. Even if palm reading is a hoax, his rough skin still tells a story of battles and blood. “Would you die for this man and his cause?”

“Yes.” A simple, one-word, truthful answer.

I stare at Carver’s long, powerful, callused fingers. What is the warlord’s cause? From what I heard, the new royal family outlawed warring among the Sintan tribes. They’re all supposed to get along now that one of theirs has taken over.

I repress a smirk.
Good luck with that.

“I would bleed for him. I would die for him.”

Carver’s truth is so strong that it carries a word—brother. Shocked, I drop his hand like a poisonous snake. I almost never hear an echo from truths.

The word still bouncing around inside me, I say, “Your brother is loyal, but I think you already knew that.”

“Hmm.”

I scowl at the warlord. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I never said he was my brother.”

Damn it! Who stole my filters tonight?
“You look the same.”

“Not that much.”

I wave my hands above my table. “Soothsayer, remember? I
know
stuff.”

He tilts his head, looking hard at my eyes. He keeps up his scrutiny until unease ripples through me, making me squirm.