One of the horses was not running. The leader’s mount was caught by the reins, the Kishion gripping it with iron, forcing it to remain.
“Over here!” the Kishion barked at her. He beckoned for her to come to him and swung up on the saddle. She noticed the Romani leader sprawled on the grass, his neck at a crooked angle. The feelings swelled inside of her. Part of her wanted to unleash the magic in her blood against the Kishion. Another part of her cringed at the thought. Surely if a hundred bee-stings could not harm him, neither would fire. But it was not just the logic of the thought. She cringed at the thought of harming him, of betraying him again.
Phae ran to him and let the flames die down inside her. He reached down for her and she reached up to him, grabbing his arm. He pulled her effortlessly up and she swung her leg around the saddle behind him.
“Hold tight to me,” he said to her. The flames began to roar inside the grassland, licking through the dried grasses and blazing into the sky. Stamping the flanks, the Kishion jerked the reins the other way and started the beast at a gallop. Phae pressed against his back, holding around his middle as tightly as she could. They raced against the flames spreading out through the meadow. The ride was thrilling. She found herself smiling, even when she remembered the man she had just killed. It frightened her how easily she had done it, how powerful it had made her feel.
The euphoria did not last long.
Phae knelt by the stream and cupped water in both hands, gulping it down. Her stomach was in knots with anguish. She had killed a man. Yes, he was a Romani. Yes, he probably deserved to die. But she was sixteen years old and it horrified her. She had summoned flames with her hands as a child and had been taught to control her emotions and to control the flames with the Vaettir words of power. She had never desired nor even thought to turn them against a living person before. She swallowed the water and bowed her head, grief-stricken with how easily she had done it and how giddy it had made her feel. Phae loathed herself.
The horse drank deeply from the stream, resting its lathered body for some time. The Kishion crouched by the stream and filled his leather flask. He glanced at her and she tried to look away from him so that he wouldn’t see the tears on her lashes.
“The first death is always the hardest,” he said. “It will fade.”
She wiped her lips. “Coming from you, that is not very comforting,” she answered, glowering at him. “I do not want to be like you.”
He snorted. “No one would wish it.” He straightened, adjusting the saddle straps and patting down the beast. “The Romani have a saying. If you don’t know the way, walk slowly. They should have heeded their own wisdom this morning.”
Phae stared down at her reflection in the stream. She wiped her nose, feeling miserable. They had covered quite a bit of ground so far. The day was not all spent yet, but she could see the hills looming ahead of them, jagged with clefts of rock and stunted pine. The hills looked as if they had a stain, but she knew it was just the colors of the stone in the shadows. The valley was encircled by those hills, which provided a natural barricade from the other kingdoms. By nightfall they would reach the road that was carved into the mountain, leaving Stonehollow and joining with Fowlrox. They would probably reach Fowlrox before midnight.
She rubbed her legs and stood. The Kishion examined the contents of the saddle bags. There were some rations there—dried beef, fruit, nuts, figs, and cheese. An old heel of bread was removed as well. He tossed these to her, though kept some of the figs for himself.
“Do you even need to eat?” she asked him, tearing a hunk from the bread.
He shook his head no. “I enjoy the taste of food. But I will not starve to death or die of thirst.”
She sat down by the edge of the stream, taking a nibble from the cheese. It was sharp but full of flavor. “You truly cannot die then?”
He nodded. “I do not know the magic the Arch-Rike uses to give me this invulnerability. I have vague memories. I know about the Vaettir, the Preachán, the Cruithne. I am Aeduan, as you can tell on your own. I believe I have even visited all of the kingdoms. But I do not recall my past.”
Phae sighed deeply. “I am sorry I was rude to you.”
He gave her a curious look, pausing in his examination of the saddle bags. “You are a strange girl. I do not deserve your apology.”
“That may be true, but I offer it still. I do not hate you, Kishion.” She sighed again. “I wish you had a name, though. I do not like calling you that. It doesn’t…feel right. When you have finished your task, I do want you to go find your true name. When you have, come and tell it to me. This is assuming my life is useful to the Arch-Rike in some small way.”
“Over here!” the Kishion barked at her. He beckoned for her to come to him and swung up on the saddle. She noticed the Romani leader sprawled on the grass, his neck at a crooked angle. The feelings swelled inside of her. Part of her wanted to unleash the magic in her blood against the Kishion. Another part of her cringed at the thought. Surely if a hundred bee-stings could not harm him, neither would fire. But it was not just the logic of the thought. She cringed at the thought of harming him, of betraying him again.
Phae ran to him and let the flames die down inside her. He reached down for her and she reached up to him, grabbing his arm. He pulled her effortlessly up and she swung her leg around the saddle behind him.
“Hold tight to me,” he said to her. The flames began to roar inside the grassland, licking through the dried grasses and blazing into the sky. Stamping the flanks, the Kishion jerked the reins the other way and started the beast at a gallop. Phae pressed against his back, holding around his middle as tightly as she could. They raced against the flames spreading out through the meadow. The ride was thrilling. She found herself smiling, even when she remembered the man she had just killed. It frightened her how easily she had done it, how powerful it had made her feel.
The euphoria did not last long.
Phae knelt by the stream and cupped water in both hands, gulping it down. Her stomach was in knots with anguish. She had killed a man. Yes, he was a Romani. Yes, he probably deserved to die. But she was sixteen years old and it horrified her. She had summoned flames with her hands as a child and had been taught to control her emotions and to control the flames with the Vaettir words of power. She had never desired nor even thought to turn them against a living person before. She swallowed the water and bowed her head, grief-stricken with how easily she had done it and how giddy it had made her feel. Phae loathed herself.
The horse drank deeply from the stream, resting its lathered body for some time. The Kishion crouched by the stream and filled his leather flask. He glanced at her and she tried to look away from him so that he wouldn’t see the tears on her lashes.
“The first death is always the hardest,” he said. “It will fade.”
She wiped her lips. “Coming from you, that is not very comforting,” she answered, glowering at him. “I do not want to be like you.”
He snorted. “No one would wish it.” He straightened, adjusting the saddle straps and patting down the beast. “The Romani have a saying. If you don’t know the way, walk slowly. They should have heeded their own wisdom this morning.”
Phae stared down at her reflection in the stream. She wiped her nose, feeling miserable. They had covered quite a bit of ground so far. The day was not all spent yet, but she could see the hills looming ahead of them, jagged with clefts of rock and stunted pine. The hills looked as if they had a stain, but she knew it was just the colors of the stone in the shadows. The valley was encircled by those hills, which provided a natural barricade from the other kingdoms. By nightfall they would reach the road that was carved into the mountain, leaving Stonehollow and joining with Fowlrox. They would probably reach Fowlrox before midnight.
She rubbed her legs and stood. The Kishion examined the contents of the saddle bags. There were some rations there—dried beef, fruit, nuts, figs, and cheese. An old heel of bread was removed as well. He tossed these to her, though kept some of the figs for himself.
“Do you even need to eat?” she asked him, tearing a hunk from the bread.
He shook his head no. “I enjoy the taste of food. But I will not starve to death or die of thirst.”
She sat down by the edge of the stream, taking a nibble from the cheese. It was sharp but full of flavor. “You truly cannot die then?”
He nodded. “I do not know the magic the Arch-Rike uses to give me this invulnerability. I have vague memories. I know about the Vaettir, the Preachán, the Cruithne. I am Aeduan, as you can tell on your own. I believe I have even visited all of the kingdoms. But I do not recall my past.”
Phae sighed deeply. “I am sorry I was rude to you.”
He gave her a curious look, pausing in his examination of the saddle bags. “You are a strange girl. I do not deserve your apology.”
“That may be true, but I offer it still. I do not hate you, Kishion.” She sighed again. “I wish you had a name, though. I do not like calling you that. It doesn’t…feel right. When you have finished your task, I do want you to go find your true name. When you have, come and tell it to me. This is assuming my life is useful to the Arch-Rike in some small way.”
