Law of the Broken Earth(132)

Outside the spiral, the fire was much worse. Flames roared up the walls; the discarded chairs caught; flames licked across the boards of the floor. The soldiers fled.

Mienthe was screaming, Tan realized at last. He came up to one knee, twisting about to look for her, but she was untouched. She was crouched down upon the black line of the spiral, her hands pressed against her lips, shaking and white with terror, but never stepping away from the line she had drawn.

Someone else groaned, a deep, raw sound of agony, and the flames suddenly flattened low and flickered out. The walls and floor were charred, everything was charred except within the spiral, but there was no longer living fire anywhere.

A man stood near the entrance to the spiral. His posture was rigid, ungiving. His austere face was set in an expression of bitter resignation and anger. When he turned his head, taking in the room and Mienthe’s spiral, his black eyes burned with power. Istierinan, straightening, stared at him with horror and loathing.

A little distance from him stood a big man and, tiny next to him, tucked half out of sight behind him, a pale, fragile girl. The man was gripping her delicate hand in his big one, gripping hard, by the clenched muscles of his forearm. But it was not the girl who had cried out with pain, but the man, and now he let her go, cupping one terribly burned hand in the other.

The girl looked dismayed. She came back toward the man, her steps quick and light.

“No,” snapped the dark man. “Fool! Do you not understand yet what may wake when you use fire to heal a man?”

“He’s right. He’s right. You mustn’t,” said the big man, backing away from the girl, his face twisting with pain and with some strong, dangerous emotion.

“It’s my fault, then!” cried the girl, and whirled away from them all, gathering herself as though she might spring away into the air.

“No,” said the dark man again.

The girl whirled to face him. “Let me go!” she cried. “Kairaithin, let me go! If this is my fault, let me set it right! He cannot constrain me!” Her voice was high and light, furious and desperate and somehow not at all a human voice. And she glowed, Tan realized, as though she burned with her own internal fire. Flames flickered within the tangled gold-white hair that fell down her back; her eyes were swimming with golden fire.

“Get out!” roared Istierinan, his voice thick with fury. “Get out!”

“Impossible,” said the dark man, Kairaithin, but to the girl. He took no more notice of the Linularinan spymaster than an eagle might have paid a furious songbird. Less. He said, still to the girl, “And untrue. Nothing that has happened is your doing. Though you may still pay the cost of it. As may we all.” His taut posture had not eased; he tilted his head as though listening to the great wind that had brought them; as though listening to the roar of fire, or of some powerful music none of the rest of them could hear. His voice was strong, harsh, dangerous.

Like the girl, he was a creature of fire, Tan realized, though the fire that burned in him was darker and more powerful and far more tightly controlled. His shadow rose behind him, huge and wild and burning. It was not the shadow of a man, and at last Tan realized what he was, what he must be, for all he wore the shape of a man. This was the griffin who had come to Mienthe’s cousin? This had brought the warning that had taken Bertaud and the king away to the north and left the Delta vulnerable to Linularinan machinations? Tan was amazed by the composure Mienthe had shown after meeting this creature.

The griffin mage turned suddenly, focusing all that dark, burning power toward Mienthe. She didn’t quite manage composure this time, but flinched noticeably from the scorching heat of his stare. “It was your wind,” he said harshly. “When I looked for a new wind to ride, it was your wind that swept across mine. And what direction do you mean for this storm you are calling?”

Mienthe flinched from the powerful Kairaithin, but in fact nearly all of her attention was on the pale-burning girl. She took a step toward her along her black spiral, holding out her hand. “It was you I needed all along!” she said. “Fire to balance earth! No wonder, no wonder—Was there a wind? Well, no wonder it brought you here!”

“No!” cried Istierinan. “Fool!” He did not leave the protection of the spiral, however, but turned and began to walk once more along the narrow passage between its black lines, toward Tan.

The pale girl said furiously to Kairaithin, paying no attention to either Istierinan or Mienthe, “It wasn’t my wind! I know what wind I would call up!”

“Kes,” said the human man. He spoke with difficulty, his voice ragged with pain, but his voice checked her where the others had only fed her fury. He said again, “Kes. You were a creature of earth, once. Try to remember. I know you remember a little, or you wouldn’t have held your fire back for me—you wouldn’t have thought of healing me—and you did think of it. You did. You had a sister whom you loved, do you remember? I know she hasn’t forgotten you. Would you really call up a wind for Tastairiane Apailika, a fire to burn across your sister and her horses? Across everything you ever loved?”