Turning the Storm
Authors: Naomi Kritzer
W
e have to retreat,” Giovanni said. “Get back to the wasteland
now
, Eliana. Trust me on this one!” And I would have, but that was when the fires came down.
I grabbed for my whistle, blew
retreat, retreat, retreat
. The first wave had not hit the area nearest me, but I could see flames rising farther in the woods. White sparks streamed toward the sky like fleeing stars, and I heard screams of agony. “Oh, my God,” I said. “Lucia.
Lucia
.”
Giovanni took off at a run; I didn't see to where. I turned, and in the twilight I could see a handful of figures on the hill behind us, clasping hands, silhouetted against the darkening sky and the bright burning forest.
I counted. Five mages—that was all it took. Five of them.
As I watched, they turned toward us, scanning the field we'd camped in. Over my head I saw the fire spring into life like a billowing gold cloud. The color darkened to red, and the cloud slowly unrolled. As the edge of the cloud touched the tops of the trees, they burst into bright white flames.
The cloud of fire paused for a moment, and I could almost feel the mages taking a collective deep breath. Then the flames flashed down toward me and I closed my eyes tightly, knowing that in an instant I would feel my flesh burning around me.
And there was nothing I could do about it….
Fires of the Faithful
To Ed Brike,
with love and gratitude
for all your support
First I'd like to thank my superb editor, Anne Groell, for helping me make this the best book it could be. I'd also like to thank my agent, James Frenkel, and his assistant, Tracy Berg, for their support and enthusiasm.
I'd like to thank the members of the Wyrdsmiths, past and present, for critique, encouragement, and friendship: Bill Henry, Doug Hulick, Ralph A. N. Krantz, Harry LeBlanc, Kate Leith, Kelly McCullough, Lyda Morehouse, and Rosalind Nelson.
Quite a few people answered questions, helped me with research, and let me borrow ideas. Thanks to all of them, but special thanks to Michelle Herder for historical information; Jennifer Horn for dance steps; Geriann Brower for Italian language consultation; and Sharon Albert and Louis Newman for Aramaic language consultation. Any mistakes, of course, are because I failed to take the advice of my consultants.
Thank you to all of my beta readers, who read and commented on earlier versions of this book: Ed Burke, Jason Goodman, Rick Gore, Michelle Herder, Jennifer Horn, Curtis Mitchell, Rudy Moore, Rebecca Murray, and John Savage.
My most heartfelt thanks go to my family: Bert, Amy, Abi, and Nate Kritzer, and Ed and Molly Burke. Molly is eighteen months old as of this writing, and helped mostly by napping at appropriate times. Ed, on the other hand—well, when people ask me about writing with a toddler in the house, I have to say that step one is to have a supportive spouse or partner. More than just being a wonderful partner and fellow parent, though, Ed has always taken my writing seriously— well before I ever sold a word of it. It is a great gift to have someone close to you who believes in your dreams, and I am grateful for it.
The Life of the LandThe doom of the leader is to lead.
—
The Journey of Gèsu, chapter 4, verse 10.
E
liana? Eliana!” Giovanni stared down at me, flushed in the late summer heat. I squinted up at him and he sat back, looking relieved. “That was one hell of a fall.”
I groaned and lay still for a moment. Two months of leading an army—two more successful battles, even— and I still couldn't stay on my horse and reload a crossbow at the same time. I pushed myself up with my elbows. “Nothing hurts,” I said. That was blatantly false, but nothing
especially
hurt. “I must have just had the wind knocked out of me.” I turned to glare at Forza, my horse. She had skidded to a stop shortly after throwing me, and was staring at me with wary sheepishness from farther down the hill.
“It's getting late, anyway,” he said. “Let's just make a quick circuit around the hill and head in.”
“Where'd the bow land?”
“Got it,” Giovanni said. I stood up and Giovanni handed it back to me. “Let's go.” He whistled for Stivali, the horse he'd claimed from the Ravenessi stables, and
we remounted, turning to head back to the army encampment.
“Hold on,” I said, reining in Forza. “Who the hell is that?”
Giovanni turned to look north and squinted at the figure walking toward us. “I don't know.” He unslung his own crossbow and cocked it. “But whoever it is, he's alone.”
The man headed straight toward us. He seemed to be carrying weapons, but they weren't drawn. I loaded my crossbow—easy enough now that Forza was standing still—and checked behind us, in case the man was supposed to be a distraction. I saw nobody, but stayed on my guard. We had an outer ring of sentries, but this man, at least, had gotten past them unchallenged.
“Hello there!” the man said, saluting us as he approached. “I come in peace, to meet with your leaders. I assume you are soldiers of the Lupi?”
Giovanni's eyes narrowed and he squinted down the sights of his crossbow. “Maybe.”
I decided to let Giovanni go ahead and intimidate the stranger. He wouldn't fire without cause, and I found the stranger's breezy manner irritating. “What do you want with the Lupi?” I demanded.
The stranger bowed low, showing off a freshly sunburned neck. “My name is Felice. I have come from Cuore as the delegate of the reformers.”
Giovanni lowered his crossbow just a hair. “Fire falls from the sky,” he said challengingly.
“And the land weeps,” Felice said.
Giovanni lowered his bow completely. “I guess you are who you say you are. We're—”
“—pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said, cutting
Giovanni off. “We'll take you back to the camp.” I swung down from my horse and confiscated Felice's visible weapons—a decorative sword and an ornately carved crossbow. I was not so impressed by a two-yearold password that I was going to tell this man that he'd just met both generali of the Lupi army, alone. For all we knew, he was a spy on a suicide mission to kill us both. “You can ride double with me.”
Felice mounted Forza effortlessly and I climbed up awkwardly behind him. I regretted not making him ride with Giovanni, but said nothing, not wanting to look foolish. We rode back toward camp.
Felice even smelled like an aristocrat: clean, despite his long walk, with a very faint whiff of perfume. His tunic was made out of a delicate fabric that caught the light oddly, covered with a well-tooled padded leather vest. His hands carried the light calluses of a gentleman-fencer, like Giovanni—except Giovanni did some real work these days.
Back in camp, I dismounted and passed the horses off to Vitale, the youngest of the Lupi. He'd joined us when we'd liberated that first slave camp after Ravenna. I'd tried to send him off to Doratura or one of the other resettled towns, but he'd stubbornly followed us across the wasteland until I shrugged and said that anyone so determined was clearly old enough to make himself useful. “Take Forza and Stivali,” I said to Vitale. “And tell Michel we need him right away.”
Vitale vanished into the camp, and Giovanni and I stood awkwardly, facing Felice. I wanted a private moment with Giovanni, to ask him the significance of the password and how secret it really was, but I needed Michel to take custody of Felice first. Fortunately, Michel
arrived almost immediately, still tying his sash. He was rumpled, and I suspected he'd been napping. “Michel,” I said. “This is Felice, allegedly one of the reformers from Cuore. Take him to the generale's tent; they'll be with him shortly.”
Michel picked up his cue, and saluted without addressing either of us as “Generale.” “Please follow me,” he said, and led Felice off toward my tent.
I turned to Giovanni. “What was it he said to you?”
“It's a password—”
“I guessed that. How secure is it? Couldn't he have found it out some other way?”
“We can trust him,” Giovanni said confidently. “He's been sent by Beneto's commanders. I'm just surprised it took them this long. We ought to have a contact with the main Reform organization.”
“Really.” I stared off past Giovanni's shoulder. An argument was brewing between two of my men over whose turn it was to dig latrine trenches. “Hey!” I shouted, and they both jumped to give me a guilty stare. “It's both your turns. Fight over it and you'll be filling them in, too.” I turned back to Giovanni. “Well, let's go see what he wants, then.” I caught Vitale as he passed by. “Send Lucia to my tent when you get a chance. I don't want Isabella, not yet. Try to get Lucia alone.”
Giovanni beamed as we entered the tent. My tent was larger than Rafi's tent in Ravenna had been, but not a whole lot higher; we didn't have much in the way of real tent poles. Felice sat cross-legged on a cushion, looking around dubiously at the rough accommodations.
“Welcome to the Lupi encampment,” Giovanni said. “I am Generale Giovanni, and this is Generale Eliana.”
I nodded to Felice, returning his aghast look with a predatory smile. “Charmed,” I said.
Felice closed his mouth with a snap, but his eyes were still wide. “Really? I'd pictured you—” he studied me, his lips parted—“differently.”
“Were you expecting me to be taller?” I asked. I glanced toward the tent flap, wondering how long it would take Lucia to arrive. “Male?”
“No, no, no. Of course we knew your, ah, basic description. Older, I'd say. I guess I'd assumed you'd be older.”
“Hmm.” I decided to let him stop flailing. “I suppose you're expecting us to bring you up to date.”
“That would be helpful, yes.”
Lucia came in and sat next to me. “This is Felice,” I said. “He claims to be a reformer from Cuore.”
“Do you know him, Giovanni?” Lucia asked.
“No,” Giovanni said.
“I joined the Cause after you departed for Ravenna,” Felice said. “I am originally from Parma.”
