Wildfire (9 page)

 

  
I was fairly bested. Even if my tongue had been obedient, I had no answer. In silence and in penance, I went to the bed and drew the curtain behind me. I looked over the cloth for rents and bloodstains and found none. I put on the dress, and my bruises showed dark under it. When I came out my face was burning and the rest of me was cold. I wouldn’t look at anyone.

 
  

 

  
Peace had come to the city of Lanx, so long at war within itself, and King Thyrse and Queenmother Caelum had decreed this a festival day. The victorious army paraded through the city, riding in great galleys rather than on horseback, for the principal streets of Lanx were water, not stone. The king in gilded armor stood with the queenmother on the bow of the first galley, under a canopy of cloth-of-gold. They led the procession from one keep to another, accepting the submission—freely given or not—of the clansmen in the city.

 

  
We were aboard the galley of Crux, second in line, the clan having won its place by the notable victory over Torrent. The warriors of our company mingled with warriors from Lanx. Not long ago these distant kinsmen of the Blood of Crux had been unknown to each other; now they were closer than kin, they were battle brothers.

 

  
Painted oars flashed in unison. Throngs of people watched from the walls and hills of the city. Spiller and Rowney and I had found a place on deck, near the sterncastle. We leaned on the rail to watch Lanx going by, but my eyes were drawn to Sire Galan on the forecastle, standing with his uncle, the commander of his company.

 

  
His uncle’s name was Sire Adhara dam Pictor by Falco of Crux, but he went by his title of the Crux, for he was First of his clan in the kingdom of Corymb. It was his duty to lead the clan’s Council of Houses and serve as Intercessor with the Council of the Dead. Before I came to Incus, I had thought Sire Adhara was First of his clan in all the world. I’d never considered that clan Crux in Incus might have its own First, and that there could be two men known as the Crux, two living representatives of the god.

 

  
The Crux was fond of his nephew. One could see that, seeing them together. One would never guess he had well nigh condemned Galan to death by forbidding him to ride, in punishment for starting the feud with Ardor. He’d offered Galan a choice: fight on foot or walk home from the Marchfield in shame. Galan had chosen to fight, though he knew as well as anyone that a cataphract without a horse draws enemies as a carcass draws flies.

 

  
Sire Galan had won back his uncle’s esteem, and if their accord was less
than perfect, I was the cause. The Crux didn’t much like his company to wag a tail of camp followers. He’d permitted Galan to take me for a sheath, because he relied on Galan to be fickle: a few nights, a tennight, and I’d be gone. When Galan didn’t tire of me, the Crux had called me a canny, saying I led Sire Galan around by his dangle.

 

  
He’d done what he could to rid Galan of me, and nearly gotten his way when Sire Galan tried to send me home. I wondered if the Crux had found out yet that I had followed.

 

  
We glided under the arch of a bridge. Jacks from our company were arguing with those from Lanx over which city was richer, this one or Ramus, where our King Thyrse held court. But all agreed that if Lanx was this wealthy, Malleus, the foremost city of Incus, must have treasures beyond imagining. Rowney said we’d all be rich when we took her, even the bagboys, and we’d pick her clean.

 

  
“Not so,” said a jack named Cockspur. “Not if the She-wolf doesn’t let us at it. She means to keep it all for herself. That’s why she wanted all of Torrent killed, to put fear into the other clans in Lanx so they’d surrender, which they did. They’re too timid to fight, and when there’s no fight, there’s no sack, see? So all we got was what was in that one keep—and mine is half spent already, for the merchants here are a thievish lot. Haven’t you heard the soldiers from other companies grousing because they got nothing?”

 

  
Spiller took a swig from a wineskin and passed it on. “You don’t think our king will bow down to a woman, do you? He means to help her until it’s time to help himself.”

 
  

 

  
Even as the king and the queenmother accepted homage and tribute, they offered it where it was due, halting at the great temples of Lanx to sacrifice to the gods. Many warriors followed them ashore to worship the god of their clan, or one whose favor they sought—a god helpful in battle, perhaps, such as Rift or Hazard. Each temple was under the protection of its clan, but stood outside keep walls, open to other worshippers. As we went from one to the next, I would ask, “Which one is this?” and one of the jacks from Lanx would answer. In this way the names of gods were given back to me. Some sounded familiar, such as Prey and Carnal, while others seemed altogether new, such as Delve. I repeated the names to myself, fearing they might slip away again.

 

  
King Thyrse and his sister disembarked to visit the temple of Ardor; before them down the gangway went rhapsodists playing praise songs, and behind them Auspices leading three offerings: a spotted cow, a ram, and a sort of deer with curving horns instead of antlers. In procession they mounted the steep steps from the quay to the temple. I turned my back on
the odd sight of a cow climbing stairs, and sat down on a coil of rope. I was tired and my head ached and Sire Rodela buzzed, and it was long past noon and we were not yet halfway through the round of keeps and temples and courteous speeches. I snugged my new cloak about me, glad of the cold wind, else Galan might have made me go outside wearing only the gossamer gown. Instead he’d given me this mantle of thick felted wool, dark green, and threatened to burn my old sheepskin if he caught me wearing it again.

 

  
Sire Galan came pushing his way through the crowd of jacks, calling out for me. He had some men with him, Sire Edecon and three other cataphracts and their armigers, and I was relieved that I remembered their faces and reputations, if not their names. One was a bastard son of the king, called Sire Gawk, or perhaps Sire Quack. He had long thin legs and a long thin neck with a big bobble in it, and if he somewhat resembled a heron, he had some of the heron’s poise and swiftness too, which he’d acquired in tourneys in the Marchfield. He stooped to look at my face and said, “Remarkable. What did the Crux say? Did you show him?”

 

  
“The Crux didn’t say, and I didn’t show him. But I happen to know his varlet told him all about it,” Galan said, rubbing his finger and thumb together to show he’d paid the jack to gossip. He turned to me. “I thought we should go to the temple of Ardor, and give thanks to the god for sparing your life. Shall we?”

 

  
“Perhaps we ought better go amorrow, another day?” I said, pointing over the side. A crowd of men had alighted from the galley that flew Ardor’s banners, and were walking down the quay toward the temple steps. Mortal tourney had ended the feud between the warriors of Crux and Ardor, by the king’s decree, but no decree could abolish hatred. They might no longer be Galan’s foes; nor were they his friends.

 

  
He grinned in a manner I’d learned to distrust. “It’s Peaceday, isn’t it? What day could be better?”

 

  
We went ashore, Sire Galan and his friends and their varlets and me, and we followed the warriors of Ardor up the steps. I’d forgotten much of what had happened in the day and night just before the lightning struck, but now the god permitted me to recollect a certain vow I’d made after I threw the bones. The Dame and Na had told me to propitiate Wildfire, and I’d misunderstood their warning, thinking it was meant for Galan. Perhaps it was too late for propitiation, but I still had a promise to keep.

 

  
I was gasping by the time we reached the temple square. Sire Galan asked me what the matter was, and I said, “Nothing…I just need to, to catch my death,” and he said I mustn’t jest about such things. I showed him my gold coin and told him my errand, though I couldn’t think of the word for the dried tears of the amber tree, and kept calling it mercy or merry.

 

  
The warriors of Ardor entered the temple, but we lingered outside in the crowded square. The cataphracts and their men watched fire-eaters swallow and spit out flames, while Galan and I visited the peddlers who sat under awnings at one end of the square, selling talismans and offerings. I was triumphant when we came upon a man selling myrrh. “See, merry!” I said, and Galan laughed. The peddler used his scale to measure out a small heap of myrrh equal in weight to the goldenhead. I hadn’t thought it would be so costly. Galan made me a present of a tin amulet, stamped with the godsign of Wildfire, to hang about my neck.

 

  
We climbed the last few steps to the temple portico, and Sire Galan urged us through the throng standing in the shadows of the great columns, into the doorway. A wedge of sunlight slanted down through the portal, brightness filled with white smoke and interrupted by our shadows. An Auspice of Hearthkeeper stood in our way, a crook-backed ancient with a blue shawl concealing her mouth. She said, “Mud can’t come in here; their shrines are around the sides.”

 

  
Sire Galan dismissed Spiller and Rowney and the other varlets with a gesture.

 

  
The priestess said, “Her too.”

 

  
Galan’s hand was behind my back, twisted in my cloak. “Lightning struck my sheath and she lived. We’ve come to offer thanks to Ardor, and to ask the Auspices of Wildfire the meaning of this omen.” He spoke more loudly than was warranted, and his voice, enlarged by the chamber, echoed back at us.

 

  
Men crowded into the light from the darkness within. The First of the clan of Ardor in Corymb was among them, the Ardor himself. I’d seen him in the Marchfield, but never so close. His face was a heavy slab of flesh, and he wore his black beard trimmed close to his chin. Sire Galan had killed his son in the tourney, and it was as if I’d done it myself, I remembered so well the slippery feel of the hilt, the blood spraying the visor.

 

  
The Ardor stood next to the priestess, straight where she was bent, and he rested his hand on the hilt of his dagger. “Don’t let him pass. He profanes the temple.”

 

  
Sire Guasca—that was the name of Galan’s friend, the king’s bastard—stepped up beside me. He kept his hands empty at his sides, but his fingers curled.

 

  
Galan smiled in the face of the Ardor’s scowl. “I mean no sacrilege here, only sacrifice.” Sire Edecon put a velvet sack in Sire Galan’s hand, and he untied the drawstring and drew out a goblet made from a nautilus shell set in a cage of golden fretwork. Light filled the polished pink throat. Sire Edecon stepped forward and emptied a purse into the goblet, so many goldenheads that they spilled over and rolled across the floor.

 

  
“A praise gift, in thanks.” Galan offered the goblet to the priestess.

 

  
She took it, saying, “She may pass.”

 

  
He started forward, and his hand on my back was insistent and reassuring. Sire Guasca and the others were close behind.

 

  
The Ardor would not move out of our way. “Will you sell the god’s blessings for gold? I know this man. He’s a man of Crux, and no more trustworthy than the Moon.”

 

  
Sire Galan said, “I swore before the king—as you did—to end our feud on the tourney field. And we ended it, I thought. But if you wish to start a new quarrel by calling me a liar, I’ll oblige. Others will bear witness I didn’t start it myself.”

 

  
The priestess of Ardor stepped between them. Her voice quavered, but she spoke roundly. “You will not brawl in the temple.”

 

  
The Ardor looked over her head at Sire Galan. “I didn’t call you a liar. Did anyone hear me say that? But you are Ardor’s enemy, and I can’t let you mock the god.”

 

  
“I pray the god doesn’t take me for an enemy,” Sire Galan said. “And if I offended in any way, I hope my sacrifice will make some small amends.”

 

  
Onlookers crowded around, giving us less room to advance or retreat. The priestess put her palm on Sire Galan’s chest. “It seems you came to make trouble.”

 

  
“No. I came with an offering and a sign. The offering has been accepted. The sign has yet to be read.” He took my jaw and turned my face toward the light from the doorway. His fingers pressed too hard on a painful spot under my ear. “Look at this! This is no trick.”

 

  
“Let go,” I hissed at Galan. “You’re hurling me.”

 

  
The priestess came close to peer at me. Her eyes, half hidden by the fragile pleats of her eyelids, were milky blue and opaque. She said, “You may enter.”

 

  
Galan turned his hard grip into a caress, a touch that lingered on my throat, before he dropped his hand onto my shoulder.

 

  
The Ardor didn’t move aside. He said, “I am the First of Ardor, and I say they shouldn’t.”

 

  
The priestess said, “The First of Ardor lives in Malleus. You might claim to be the First in your own land, but here you are second. This man is welcome to worship in Ardor’s temple, and to bring his sheath that we might examine the portent. You’re not to meddle in this.”

 

  
Galan pushed in front of me and I followed, with Sire Edecon at my back and Sire Guasca beside me. I thought the Ardor and his men wouldn’t give way, but they did, just enough. We passed between them, out of the sunlight.

 
  

 

  
The temple was built to the measure of gods, not men, and I was awed by it. The other worshippers didn’t seem awed; they strolled about, greeting each other with loud cries, noisy as a flock of sparrows in a holm oak. Galan led me down the central aisle, between columns planted like rows of stone trees, their branches upholding the vaulted ceiling far above in the smoky haze. I wouldn’t look behind to see if the Ardor followed.

 

  
Three fires burned at the far end of the vast room, and they seemed small at first, dwarfed by statues of the Hearthkeeper and the Smith behind them. These colossal statues were not diminished, as we were, by the vastness of the temple; the temple had been made vast to house them. The Smith stood behind his forgefire, and in the ruddy light his bronze shoulders and torso gleamed as if covered in sweat. His burnished arm was upraised, and he seemed about to move, to bring the hammer down on the golden ingot on his anvil. The Hearthkeeper, carved of luminous alabaster, knelt beside him. She was wrapped in a cloak, her forehead hooded and her mouth covered, and the alabaster folds clung to her like fine gauze, revealing a secretive smile and the curves of her body. She cradled a blaze in her outstretched hands. Wildfire, the elemental, which has no human form, was manifest in a lake of fire burning in a stone bowl.