A Thread of Time: Firesetter, Book 1 (17 page)

Chapter 20

Ailana

Embo, foolish woman that she was, came
back for me instead of escaping into the woods with my husband and our
children.  Why?  I didn't know.  I certainly wouldn't have done the same for
her. 

“We're sisters,” she said, even though we
weren't.  “I would never leave you behind.  Get up.  We must hurry.”

I was still sitting upon the floor where
Pellen had left me after carrying my son away to a cruel and certain death. 
Why didn’t he see how much better it would have been to let me be the one to
take my child’s life?  Amyr would have died peacefully, warm in my embrace,
leaving from my arms to the afterlife, secure in my love.

“I am not going to the forest,” I
declared, rising to my feet.  The floor was dirty and beneath the sofa was a
thick mat of dust and crumbs.

“What are you doing?” Embo shrieked. 
“Have you gone mad?  Sweeping at a time like this, when the Korelesk army is
but steps away from our door?” 

She rushed at me, while I was taking the
broom from the closet, before I had even begun to brush it against the filthy
floor.  There we stood fighting for it, each of us grasping at the handle,
wrestling, and yelling as we did when we were children. 

What a sight to see we must have been for
the Korelesk army, when they burst through our door moments later.  Here were
two crazy women battling over a broom, ignoring them completely though they
pointed their guns at our chests.

It was only when one man started laughing
so raucously, we heard his voice over the noise of our own shouts, that Embo
let go of my broom and began to scream in fear.

“Oh, shut up, Embo!” I snapped, now
sweeping the floor as if my life depended upon it.

I didn’t pay any attention to the men in
my living room, as I was already lost in my own world, lost in time and space. 
When they proclaimed Embo ugly and shot her twice through the head and chest, I
thought only of how her blood was making a mess.

Me, they thought beautiful, and me, they
decided to use, but I didn’t care for my mind was far away.  I couldn’t have
stopped them in any case.  A broom handle was no defense against a gun, so
compliantly, my body let them, and I lived.

My memories of what happened next were
vague, unformed shapes, and distant feelings of coldness, stifling heat,
rancorous smells, hunger and thirst.  With others in a truck, I was taken from
my village in Farku to a camp somewhere in the countryside of Korelesk. 

There, I recalled stumbling across frozen
ground in shoeless feet.  I was washed in a frigid shower, clothed in rags that
had belonged to someone else.  After which, I was guided to a dorm and a cot,
where I sat, preoccupied with my garment’s holes. 

If I only had a bit of thread, I would
have repaired this torn blouse, for the holes were large and though the fabric
was thin, it would mend well.  Grandmother would never have let me go out in
something as poor as this.  Grandmother would have snapped at me and thrust a
needle in my hand.

“Fix it immediately!” she would have
ordered.  “Sew them up!  No child of mine will go out in public looking like a
pauper.  Recall that I have a Royal Seal upon my door from the Empress Sara. 
Neither you nor your cousin Embo will disgrace it in this way.  If you do, I
shall throw you out upon the street.”

“I am already on the street, Grandmother,”
I replied, following a long line of women to a workroom that was filled with
tables and chairs. 

Now, once again, I had in my hand that
familiar needle and spool of thread. 

How long I remained in this place, I could
not say, but neither was it much different from my years spent at the Imperial
Palace.  Each day, I arose and sewed uniforms for Korelesk, and each night, I
returned to the hard wooden bunk I shared with another woman. 

I aged, and my bones ached.  My hair grew
thin and I lost three teeth, all of which were in the back so they did not
tarnish my once beautiful smile.  I grew thinner still, until the rags hung
like empty shirts on a drying line.  Despite my appearance, somehow, I drew the
attention of the Duke, who summoned me one day while surveying the workroom.

He had been standing with our foreman,
conversing quietly among themselves, when the foreman raised his hand, his
finger clearly pointing at me.

“You,” he called.  “Come here.  Bring your
needles and your thread.”

I looked about me, and behind me.  Surely,
I was not the one so singularly designated.

“Are you stupid, Karut?” the foreman
taunted.  “Or, can you not hear my voice?  Choose another, m’lord.  That one
clearly has no clue.”

“No,” the Duke replied, his familiar
leering smile seeping across his face.  “You have said she stitches better than
any other.  I will have the best, or none at all.”

Slowly, hesitantly, I rose from my chair
and pocketed my tools.  Although, I held no love for the workroom, or the many
men’s uniforms on my table, at that moment, I would gladly have forfeit this
honor to another girl. 

The Duke was little changed from the last
time we had met.  His belly was still large and overbearing, his hair long and
thin, and in need of a wash.  His eyes were cold and colorless, with no sign of
recognition at my face.  This calmed me a bit, for though my task may have only
been to sew, I feared he meant to use me in the manner he had once professed. 

As I followed him to the overseer’s
building, I glanced quickly around the path, as if I might find a means to
escape.  If I had crumbs to lay, or a knife to mark upon the foliage, I would
have done so.  Instead, I searched for a break or a hole in the fence.

Of course, there were none.  The fencing
was new and patrolled by guards.

“Hurry up, Karut,” the Duke snapped.  “I
have no time for you to sightsee my lovely gardens.”

“Yes, m’lord,” I mumbled, returning my
eyes to the ground and the path beneath my feet. 

I was taken to a room, which was little
more than a closet with a table of clothing strewn across it.  There was a
single chair beside it and an uncovered light bulb overhead. 

“You have your needles and thread with
you?” the Duke confirmed.

“Yes, m’lord.”  I dipped slightly into a
curtsey and waited for permission to examine the goods.

He nodded, waving at the torn lining of a
man’s black wool coat.  Beneath it was a pair of trousers with a large rip in
the back seam and a pair of lady’s fine silk gloves with a burn in the palm of
both hands.  These holes were odd, for they were perfectly round and singed in
a circle.  I guessed them to have been caused by a lit cigarette.  Reweaving
them would take me more than two days, a task I dreaded for it required
patience and considerable skill.

“Can you repair them?” the Duke asked,
already lighting up a fresh cigarette. 

He blew a ring of smoke into the air of
this tiny room, filling it with both his stench and disdain.  I pitied the poor
lady whose hands had been inside these lovely gloves, for surely, her palms
would have suffered the same fate.

“Yes, m’lord.  I can fix them, but it
shall take me quite some time.”

“You have until tomorrow,” he declared
before departing.  “See that you repair everything as if it was brand new.”

The door shut behind him, and the lock was
turned, trapping me inside to breathe the foul air and dwell upon his words.  I
grew fearful of what would happen if I failed at this task.  For a few moments,
my heart raced, and my breath came hard and short in my chest. 

For a moment, I thought to scream and to
pound upon the door, but who would open it?  No one, for all servants would
suffer the same fate.

“Calm yourself, Ailana!” I heard
Grandmother’s voice in the back of my head.  “Do what you have always done. 
Stay alive by the prowess of your thread and needle.”

Throughout the night, I sat in that chair,
my fingers stitching with rarely a moment’s break.  The lighting was poor and
my back ached, but I did not stop.  My stomach growled for I was given nothing,
not even the workroom’s broth to drink.  When my fingers grew sore and bled, I
tore cloth from my blouse and wrapped them tightly. 

As I worked, my mind wandered far away.  I
thought of my son, my beloved Amyr, and I imagined him watching over me from
the heavens, his soul at peace.  If he had lived, he would be fourteen or
fifteen years by now.  I wasn’t sure exactly, for I had no clue how long I had
lived in this camp.  If by some twist of fate, Pellen had managed to keep my
son alive, he would be nearly a grown man. 

Setting my sewing down for a moment, I
imagined if Amyr lived, if he grew strong, how things might change.  In a few
years’ time, Duke Korelesk would have met his match.  In a few years’ time,
Amyr---Amyr would have been---.  A soft tapping at the door interrupted my
thoughts. 

For a moment, my heart ceased to beat and
my breath caught in my throat.  I had finished only a single glove, and not
even begun the coat and trousers. 

“Yes?” I gasped, fearfully.  “Come in.”

Slowly, the door swung open just a crack,
revealing a young girl’s face.  She was pretty, with a wide clear, gray eyes,
and soft chestnut hair that curled around her ears and fell to her shoulders.

“Are you finished?” she asked me.

“Kari-fa!” I swore, as I spied a thin
brown mustache above his full red lips.  No, this was not a girl at all, but a
boy similar to the age my Amyr would have been.  He was soft and feminine and
as he held out a hand to retrieve a glove, I saw a circular burn mark in the
center of his palm.

“Take them with you,” he ordered.  “Pack
everything.  We have to leave.”

“To where?” I asked, when I found my
voice.

The boy looked over his shoulder, to the
hallway from whence he came, before turning back to me and whispering so
softly, I could barely hear.

“We’re going to the Imperial Palace in the
Capitol City.  The Duke means to declare himself the king.  We have conquered
all other armies and no one stands to block our way.  Hurry up.  I will sit
with you in the bus, while you finish repairing my other glove.”

The next day, I returned to the Capitol
City, traveling alongside the boy, who was called Petya.  We rode in the
servant’s bus with the other household staff, and none spoke, save an ancient
butler who mumbled unintelligibly under his breath. 

Before arriving, I finished both of
Petya’s gloves, which he wore as soon as I drew the final stitch.  Afterward, I
repaired his trousers and his coat, but I did not dare to ask him how his
clothing came to be so damaged.

At the Imperial Palace, we were assembled
in the central courtyard, by the beautiful glass fountain that was built by the
Great Emperor for his beloved wife.

“I am the new king,” Marko of Korelesk
declared, demanding that we all make obeisance before him on our knees.

King Marko spoke more of his plans, but I
paid no attention, even though his voice was like a wasp in my ear.  Instead, I
stared at the fountain, at the brilliant rainbow of colored water, and I
dreamed of my son, who would have filled this garden with roses if he was king.

“I hate him,” Petya whispered in the midst
of the new king’s speech.  “I hate him.  I would kill him in an instant if I
could.”

“Hush!” I cautioned him.  “Do not speak
ill of our new lord.”

After that, we did not speak another word,
for the boy turned his face away. 

I continued to stare at the fountain and
dream of a day that would never come.  In this dream, all the people of this
planet would bow before a new king, who had eyes that turned the colors of the
rainbow, depending on the light. 

The people would love this king, for he
would be kind and have a joyous smile, one not unlike my own.  The people would
say this king reminded them of his ancestor, the Great Emperor, for under his
rule, we would prosper once again. 

In fact, the people would whisper amongst
themselves that it was almost as if the Great Emperor had been reborn, for it
was he, the son of his great-grandson, Mikal, who was the last to descend from
the Imperial Blood.  As for the new king’s mother, well, she would be quite
content standing by his side as he reigned upon the Imperial Throne, for that
woman was none other than a poor, Karut seamstress, me.

Chapter 21

Dov

I decided I hated the sea.  After our last
voyage in Jan’s tiny boat, I had vowed never again to sail across the ocean.  I
had no need to return to the other continent.  I had no desire to reclaim my
familial duchy of Kildoo, and frankly, I enjoyed living in the motherland, so I
figured there would never be a reason I should have to travel again.

I was wrong.  Amyr came and bid me pack my
few belongings, as well as find a horse for our trek back to the King’s
village.

“I don’t have a horse,” I said, to which
he just gazed at me with his strangely colored eyes.  “I guess I’ll have to
find one.”

“I guess you will,” he repeated.  “And, do
it quickly.  We ride at nightfall.”

I went to the Farmer Lehot, who had always
been kind to me, especially when he had caught me stealing raspberries from his
bushes, or apples from his trees.  Instead of grabbing my ear and dragging me
to the Village Chief for punishment, he would make me pick the ripe berries
until my hands bled from all the scratches. 

Farmer Lehot had a daughter, Lorinda, who
was just my age, which was why I liked to spend so much time around his
orchard.  Purposely, I’d steal an apple, just to earn the chance to perch in
one of his trees where I could watch Lorinda churning butter on their porch. 

Lorinda was tiny, even smaller than me,
with long, dark thick hair that was perfectly straight without a single curl. 
When she moved it was as if every hair followed her in tandem.  I loved to walk
behind her watching this dark, silky curtain swing from side to side, imagining
what it would feel like in my hands. 

If her hair wasn’t beautiful enough,
Lorinda’s eyes were like two limpid pools of mud, the kind that would swallow
you up in just one step.  They were framed by long thick lashes in the same
color as her hair, and her red mouth was always open in a circle.

The only part of Lorinda that wasn’t
absolutely perfect was her left front tooth, which instead of pointing down,
stuck out at an angle.  I used to imagine what it would feel like to kiss those
sweet round lips, to feel that tooth poking through the delicious softness,
bumping my tongue.

On the other side of the orchard, Farmer
Lehot had some pasture land where he kept his goats and sheep, as well as
several horses to pull his carts.  Lorinda had a pony and when she wasn’t doing
her chores, invariably she was upon that pony’s back. 

It might have been the heat or dehydration
that made me so whimsical in those late summer days, but as I sat in the trees
picking fruit, I dreamed of the two of us on the pony galloping away.  We were
both so small and the pony fat, he could have easily carried us together, or so
I thought.  Imagining Lorinda pressed against me in a saddle nearly felled me
from a tree.

Now, when I needed a horse, my first
thought went to Farmer Lehot.  I would go ask him if by chance, I could borrow
a steed for just a few days.  

“I’m off to the King’s Village,” I would
declare.  “No, I don’t know when I shall return, or if I ever will, for I have
been chosen to become a warrior to fight the Mishaks.”

Undoubtedly, Lorinda would hear this and
come running to my side from wherever she was.  She might have been in the barn
and there might be pieces of hay stuck in her hair. 

“Take my pony,” she’d insist.  “I’ll ride
with you so I can bring him back.”

Then, the two of us would travel to the
King’s Village in the same saddle just as I had dreamed.

“Dov!” Amyr snapped, still staring at me. 
“Hurry up.”

“Yes, Amyr,” I mumbled, heat searing like
a burn across my face. 

I ran to the farmer’s house and presented
my case to borrow a horse, while waiting for Lorinda to magically appear.  Unfortunately,
she was at the market selling boxes of fruit and berries from her stall.  Her
pony was in the back pasture, and I could see now he was obviously too small to
carry two. 

“You’ll take one of my old draft horses,”
the farmer insisted.  “I’ll arrange to have him returned to me.  Bless you,
little Dov.  You’re a brave young fellow.”

So, there I was astride this enormous
furry beast, while all of the other warriors rode sleek and fast fighting
steeds. 

“Don’t pay any attention to them,” Amyr
whispered when the other boys laughed at my ancient mount. 

I wouldn’t have, but they laughed again
when Torym, the fisherman, challenged me to fight.  I knew that would have been
a losing proposition for me, and had Lorinda not emerged from the market to watch
the show, I never would have slid down from the back of that horse. 

As it turned out, I didn’t have to fight
anything except the urge to take the horse and disappear, after Amyr killed the
fisherman with a single blow from his blade.

“Why did you do that?” I asked him later,
during the trip to the King’s Village, as we rode side by side, and alone at
the back of the pack.  “He was a decent fellow.  Nothing was bad about the
fisherman, Torym.”

“It was necessary,” Amyr murmured. 
“Sometimes I must act even when it doesn’t appear to make sense.”

“But, why did you let him hit you, if you
meant to kill him anyway?”

Amyr snorted.  “It is my strategy.  You
ought to learn this since you are so very small.  If they think they can best
me, they let down their guard.  Furthermore, it absolves me of any guilt when I
take them out.”

I didn’t think Amyr ever felt guilt, nor
remorse in this life, or any other.  I did, though.  My heart was soft, not a
stone like his, and kept replaying the whole event over and over in my mind.

As Amyr swung his knife at Torym, I saw
Lorinda approach from the corner stall, her mouth open, her protruding front
tooth, a tiny speck of white. 

Amyr’s hand and blade connected with
Torym’s head, followed by the sound of bone crunching.  Lorinda screamed the
fisherman’s name, before fainting.  She fell over like a rock, her body
thudding as it hit the wooden boards, her head knocking against the neighboring
stall, before she passed out. 

My instinct was to jump down from my horse
again, and run to her side, rescue my love, but Amyr was already mounted and
demanding we move out. 

“Get going,” he ordered me, leaving me no
choice but to follow, to obey his command, for I was his squire, forever his
servant, and his eyes and ears.

After two days of travel, dirty and wet
from the rain, as well as hungry from lack of food, we arrived in the King’s
Village.  Not five minutes later, I was told we must board a boat.  I wanted to
protest, but my opinions were neither asked for, nor desired.  Despite my
reluctance, in a matter of moments, I was once again upon the waves.

At least this time, the vessel was fairly
large and I could stand on the deck and heave my sickness into the sea.  The
wind was cold and it helped to calm my stomach a little bit. 

“Come below, Dov.”  The boy called Bear
waved to me.  “You must learn of our mission and be marked.”

Mission?  Marking?  I didn’t want either
of these things.  I wanted only to go home to Lorinda, who I now realized, had
fainted at the death of another man.

I didn’t jump off the boat, or swim back
to the shore.  Instead, like a good soldier, I followed Bear down below into a
room that was hot and filled with odors that alone would have made me sick.

“Ay yah, Dov!”  Amyr waved, an odd
smelling cigarette perched precariously upon his lip.  Like everyone else, he
was naked above the waist, while Pori worked intently, drawing something upon
his back.  “What do you think it is?” Amyr slurred, the cigarette obviously
more than just tobacco leaves.  My friend had certainly changed in the King’s
Village, and I wasn’t certain it was for the better.

“It’s an eagle, Amyr,” I muttered, noting
the newly inked black wings that spread across his shoulders, recalling a
similar marking at another time, although I couldn’t say exactly where or
when. 

“Ay yah, of course,” Amyr laughed
drunkenly, his eyes flashing in a million colors all at once.  “What else would
I be?  I am the same as I have always been.”

“You are next, Dov,” Pori murmured, waving
a needle in my direction.  “What creature owns your soul?  Every warrior of
Karupatani must be branded with their animal spirit.”

The only creature that came to mind was a
woman, or to be specific, Lorinda, for every waking and sleeping moment, my
thoughts were entirely upon her. 

Amyr made a huffing noise.

“Dov,” he shook his head, “that one was
not for you.  You will thank me later, as will Jan.  Ach, what I must do on
your behalf.”

“What are you, little Dov?” Bear called,
perched on a bunk.  “Something small.  Something light of weight, yet something
that flits about.  I know!  You are a hummingbird.”

“I am not!” I protested.  “I am not
anything at all.”

“Maybe, a rabbit,” Borak snickered.  “The
type that likes to run and hide in holes.”

“Or, a goat,” his brother, Turak called
from across the room.  Before him were stacked many empty bottles of ale, as
well as a pile of butts and ash from dozens of cigarettes.

“Dov is the phoenix,” Amyr announced,
rising to his feet and stretching out his back.  The great black eagle
quivered, looking fiercer than it did when he was still.  It was a good
rendition, though.  Pori was quite the talented artist.  “Come now, Pori.  Put
a phoenix upon Dov’s arm, for he shall rise from the ashes once again.”

A phoenix.  I liked that.  It, too, was a
great and noble bird.  Although, I didn’t desire any marking, if I had to have
one, this could be it.

I removed my shirt and let Pori create,
although the swaying, hot room made my head spin and the scent of old smoke and
ale-laced breath sent my stomach lurching.  As soon as the rendering was
finished, I lurched up the stairs, before I spewed all over everyone. 

That night, I spent up on the deck as I
had all the ones before.  There I sat on a box filled with ropes and floats,
and wrapped in a blanket I had stolen from a berth below. 

The sea was calm and the air was warm,
when Amyr sat down beside me and lit a cigarette.  I watched him flick a finger
and from nowhere fire appeared.  He drew long and hard on the smoke and then,
like a dragon blew it all into the air.  How he had changed from the sickly,
weakened youth to this man who was hard and cold as steel!

“We land in Farku tomorrow,” he said, his
face turned up to the morning sun, his eyes alight with a thousand colors,
before they turned a dark and angry red.  “We will set fire to the land, to the
buildings, and all who dwell within, and then, you will rise from the ashes
like your spirit bird once again.”

“Me?  Not me.  You.  You are the one, the
MaKennah who has returned.”

“Not I, Dov.  Not this time.  Now, I am
merely Amyr, son of Pellen, shopkeeper from the Karut ghetto in Farku, and
Ailana, seamstress to the King.  You are the phoenix, the firesetter.  You are
the one who will command.  By birthright, the throne is yours for you are the
sole grandson of the Duke of Kildoo.”