Child of Flame
Page 392

Eldest Uncle bowed his head, burdened by memory. “We only suffered. We never fully understood what magic they wove against us.”
“I should have listened to Cat Mask,” muttered his daughter. “The humans can never be trusted. Maybe he’s the one I should be talking to now.” She began to walk away but paused to face Liath. “My son is no better than an exile in his own country. He turned his back on his father when Henri would not listen either to him or to me, and walked away to find some means to fight the sorcerers on his own. That is how I left him and the child. You would know better than I if he can succeed.”
“You left him to face the Seven Sleepers? Alone? Your own son?”
“You left him,” echoed the other woman, “to face your enemies? Alone? With what weapon do you stab me, Sister? Surely only with the one that impales yourself. I almost died giving birth to him. Did he greet me with any warmth when I saved his life and that of his daughter? Nay, he treated me as a stranger, despite our kinship. I will not shed any more blood or tears on that field.” Hoisting her staff, she walked haughtily away, heading back through the pine woods toward the old watchtower.
“She has no heart,” murmured Eldest Uncle sadly when she had vanished down the trail. “She sacrificed it to the gods long ago when she walked the path of the spheres.”
“Did she walk the seven spheres as I did, and return?”
“That she ascended the path cannot be doubted. That she returned alive you see by her presence. What she sacrificed on her journey none know except her. I can only guess.” He sighed. “My child, you have changed. What did the fire daimones tell you?”
“I am their child,” she said softly, humbled by the knowledge. Had her own mother given less than Sanglant’s? She had given her life and her substance to bring a child into the world. She had given her very soul. “I am more, and less, than what I thought I was. But at least I am free of the chains that bound me and the veils that hid the truth. Tell me truly, Uncle. Do your people hate mine? Is there any hope for peace?”
“Mustn’t there always be hope for peace? We must believe there is because I know that the other side of peace brings the worst kind of grief. I lost those most dear to me. I am not alone in the tears I have wept many a night remembering those who are gone before their time.” He smiled, a wry twist of his mouth. His face was so old, lines and wrinkles everywhere, creases made equally by frowns and by smiles, by laughter and by tears. He extended a hand, hesitated, and touched her gently on the arm. “Hate is a fire fanned easily into a storm that burns everything in its path.” Tears welled up in his eyes even as he blinked them away. It was hard to see the resemblance between him and Sanglant except for the color of his skin and the dark splendor of his hair, still glossy and thick despite his great age. “I beg you, my child. Save us. Do not let the descendants of the sorcerers of old destroy us utterly as they attempted to do when I was a youth.”
“I will not,” she promised him, then she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He flushed mightily, hard to see on that copper complexion but easy to make out by the spark of emotion, the slight narrowing, in his sharp old eyes. “I will see you again, Uncle. Be looking for me.”
“Fare you well, Daughter.”
The flower meadow waited, silent, barely stirring in the soft breeze. Heat drowned her as she walked forward into sunlight, into the haze of bright color, pale bells of columbine, lush peonies, banks of poppies, and a rich cloud of lavender. She stayed on the path, careful to mark each patch of ground before she set her foot down. The thought of all those serpents made her queasy. She gathered up all her things, dressed properly, and girded on belt, sword, and quiver, pouch, knife, and cloak. The gold torque she stowed in her pouch.
The trail led her through the chestnut woods, and she crossed the river, which ran even more shallow than before. The glade where she had first seen and met the old sorcerer lay empty except for the flat stone on which he often sat to twist flax into rope. A few dried stalks lay scattered on the ground around the rock. A breeze rustled through desiccated leaves. Not even a fly buzzed. Silence drowned her like a heavy veil.
The land was dying. It would die, unless it returned to the place it belonged. Just as she had to return to the place she belonged.
She had a long way to go to get back to them, and a longer path yet to map out once she reached their side. Reaching into the heart of fire, she called the burning stone. It flared up in the center of the clearing, blue fire racing up and down its length. Grasping her bow more tightly, she stepped through into the crossroads between the worlds, where the river of fire ran as aether through the spheres, its many tributaries linking past and future, present and infinity. Through the endless twisting halls she searched for the gateway that would take her back to Earth. Infinite doorways offered glimpses into other worlds, other times, other places, present and past, half seen and swiftly vanished.