Memory of Fire Read online

  "So when I took away the child's death…"

  "The rrôn felt you. Yes."

  "Why didn't someone stop me? Why didn't someone stop the child's father?"

  "The rrôn are not always nearby. Besides, we believed we were protected—we carry copper, each of us wears copper, you wear copper. Your attempt at magic should have had no result."

  Molly frowned. "Not to be disagreeable, but I'm not wearing copper."

  "You were. Your hands were bound—we thought—with rope threaded with it; this was to protect you, to protect us, to get you safely to Copper House. No one thought your will or your power would be stronger than copper."

  But she had taken off the ropes, and a hundred soldiers had died.

  "Did the child and her father get safely away?" she asked, and as soon as she did, feared that she did not want to know the answer.

  But her captor, the only one so far to speak to her, said "Yes."

  Good. That, at least, was good. "The other people in this caravan? They were civilians?"

  "We were all soldiers." He added, "We all volunteered. We knew the risks when we offered our services to the Imallin."

  The other guard said, "You are the Vodi—you stole a child from death, and the Vodi-fire came to your summons. This is the miracle we have awaited, and you have already proven yourself to be everything the Imallin promised. We all saw this; that is why all of them"—he waved a hand at the scattered bodies—"died for you, and that is why Birra and I kept you safe."

  Her guards fell silent. The three of them walked along the line of ruin. As well they were silent; she did not feel like talking anymore. The corpses in the forest weren't human, but they had died to save her from something terrible, something that chilled her blood in her veins and made her flesh crawl. She'd felt the things that had come after her; their hunger and their rage and their watchfulness still echoed in her gut, as if from a distance they still sought her.

  She did not understand the guards' comments about copper. She couldn't grasp the reality of their inhuman faces, their oddly accented voices, their almost reverent words to her juxtaposed with the fact that they'd kidnapped her, tied her up, and dumped her in the back of a hay wagon. She couldn't quite surrender to a complete belief that what she'd just gone through had really happened. Except for the bodies by the side of the road, the iron-hard blood-stink in the air, the eyes opened in terror and staring at nothing and turning dull and white in the cold, the faces twisted in grimaces of pain that resonated beyond race or species, she might have convinced herself that this was a bad dream.

  She walked between her guards, shuddering at the carnage. She'd never wanted anyone to die for her.

  * * *

  Human and veyâr stood atop the parapets of a well-built quarried-stone castle that overlooked vast forests, a fine, cold, rocky river, and wild meadows. The veyâr said, "Is this what you had in mind?"

  "Aside from the problem with the mice, it will do. And it comes with the land?"

  The veyâr nodded. "The district rolls are short, but annual taxes provide enough income in crops and herds to support a reasonable household. And as you can see, you'll have more than enough wood, and the waters of both the river and the small lake to the south are rich with fish. If you decide you want to do this, I'll provide you with the tax rolls, and for the first year or two, with an accountant who can help you make sense of them and guarantee that you'll receive your tithes in an accurate and timely manner."

  The human rested both hands against the parapet. "You want a lot."

  "I do. But as you can see, I'm willing to offer a great deal in return."

  "And the people here would accept humans as the master of this land."

  "You are of the Old Gods. They would serve with complete obedience."

  The human laughed. "I know all about that complete obedience once it comes down to 'it's your turn Sunday to bring the roast.' Doesn't matter, I guess. The land and the castle will work for what I intend." A mouse crept along the inner wall of the parapet, body flat, and the human frowned and pointed a finger at it. For a moment green fire enveloped the mouse. Then the glow died away, and with a tiny squeak the mouse raced away, no longer attempting stealth.

  "I thought you'd killed it," the veyâr said.

  The human shrugged. "Killing one mouse would be a complete waste of time."

  "True. That's why there are cats, I suppose." He shrugged and gestured to the castle and the lands beyond. "So—you'll do this?"

  "I'll give you want you want."

  "When I have them in my hands, all in good condition, you'll receive the castle and a fully trained staff to serve you. The only staff member that won't be permanent will be the accountant, but I'll make sure you have time to train your own before I take mine back."

  "Then we have a deal." The human turned to go, then said, "Perhaps you'd best show me out. I'm afraid I'll require a bit of time to learn all the passageways of this place."

  * * *

  Molly did not fight the blindfold her captors put over her eyes. She'd caught a glimpse of the edge of a wall, and she'd heard sounds in the quiet predawn air that sounded like the waking of a small town. If she was near warmth, near shelter, near a place that could protect her from those monstrous flapping nightmares that dived screaming from the sky, she would bide her time and see what happened before she decided what steps to take.

  Her captors led her, blind, toward something that rattled and clanked—she thought "drawbridge" and questioned her first impression, and then found herself walking across booming metal, while beneath her feet water rushed, moving too fast to freeze even in this bitter cold.

  "Almost there," one of her guards said, and she stumbled along an uneven street, then heard a heavy metal door open and someone whisper—and she moved at last from cold air into warm. Next the footsteps thudded over stone, and now they rang on metal.

  "We're very sorry, Vodi," one of the creatures said, as they settled her onto a comfortable seat. She heard doors clanging behind her, bars falling into place, locks clicking shut. Metal, metal, and metal, and she thought—I'm in a jail cell. A prison. Perhaps she should have attempted escape when they tried to blindfold her—except that she didn't know yet where she would run. Where could she find safety? She had no idea how to get home, because her problem lay deeper than what country she was lost in. She could not even guess her world.

  And one of her captors said, "We have done everything within our power to make this place comfortable for you. You will want for nothing; you will suffer no discomfort and no harm."

  Her head was still covered. She thought of pictures she'd seen of American captives held in foreign prisons, tied to chairs with hoods over their heads, and she thought if they kept her like that, she'd lose her mind. Air Force hostage training had taught her a lot about herself. But the hostage training had been based on the assumption that the captive would have some idea of where he was in the world, of who held him, of why he had been taken. She knew none of these things, and the slipperiness of her predicament left her with nothing to grasp.

  One of her captors removed her blindfold, and for a moment the light blinded her. Then she got her first clear look at her captors.

  Three of the creatures stared down at her. Their pastel-tinted flesh ranged from creamy yellow-gold on the one who'd removed the blindfold to soft green on the one who stood by the door to pale blue for the one who knelt by her side, holding a beautiful bowl of steaming, scented water and a thick, soft cloth so that she could wash her hands and face. Their long, thick hair was in darker tones of their skin colors, so that they reminded her suddenly of tremendously tall, skinny chicks dyed for Easter. They wore their hair bound back in intricate braids and knots, and their huge almond-shaped emerald-green eyes—which in this light did have pupils, but still no visible sclerae—watched her with unnerving, unblinking intensity. All three wore gorgeous robes of velvet heavily embroidered with satin thread and gold and silver braid, with hems and sle
eves turned back to display layered undergarments of embroidered silk. Pretty fancy for kidnappers. All three wore intricate facial tattoos.

  They belonged in the room in which she found herself—but it wasn't a room. It was a suite, and a world away from her single-wide back in Cat Creek. From where she sat, on the edge of an intricately carved wooden bed, she could see vaulted copper ceilings that rose to five-sided points; from the peak of each point a silver lamp hung, the many flames casting a warm glow. Pillars, also copper and formed to look like smooth-barked trees, reached branches upward along each arch, and each branch was hung with thousands of silver leaves that jingled softly with every faint movement of air. The copper panels of the ceiling and the frames around each door bore brilliant enameled leaves, flowers, fruits, and vegetables. The copper floor had been hammered to mimic tiles.

  Only walls, ceiling, doors, and floor were made of copper, however; the furnishings were of inlaid woods, oiled to a soft sheen, while the appointments—lanterns, plates, cups, and dinnerware—were of polished silver. On the bed, silk blankets and embroidered bed curtains. On the cushioned couch and behind it, tapestry that would have fit well in a king's castle. Heavy lace curtains at the windows.

  Nice place. Nice prison. But Molly didn't want to be a prisoner, and her guards were sloppy. She knocked the basin of water from the hands of the yellow one, wrapped her arm around his neck, and twisted his head back until he was forced to come to his feet, back arched nearly in a bow, to keep his neck from snapping.

  "I want to go home," she said. "I don't know what you people are, and I don't know what you want from me…and I don't want to find out. You get the guy who made the green tunnel, and get him to make another one, and do it now or I'm going to break this skinny bastard's neck. You understand me?"

  The creature she held did not fight. He stared at her with sad, willing eyes, and said, "If I must give my life to have you here, it is yours."

  And the other two nodded. "We would each have died for you in the forest. He would die for you now. If you feel you must kill him, you will do so—but we cannot take you back to your home yet. Not yet. Not until you understand why we have paid such a terrible price to bring you to us."

  And how the hell were you supposed to argue with that? She didn't want to kill the yellow guy. She just wanted leverage—and she didn't have any. If she killed her captive—if she killed all three creatures in this copper room—she would still not be on her way home. She wouldn't know anything more than she knew at that moment.

  The distance between the world she knew, the world where things made sense, and this place beyond reason and understanding ached in her bones. She yearned for a sign. For something that she could hold on to.

  She let her captive go and looked from one tall, tattoo-faced creature to the next. She took a deep breath to keep her voice from trembling, and said, "What are you?"

  "I am named Birra."

  "No—not your name. I mean…what are you. Aliens? Elves? Doctors in a psych ward? Have I gone crazy? It feels like it."

  Birra laughed. An odd sound, dry and papery. "None of those things. We are the people of this world. Your new world. Your true home."

  "My home is in Cat Creek, North Carolina. People don't have to be kidnapped into their true home."

  "We brought you here to save you…and to save us."

  "I'm perfectly capable of saving myself—most of the time, at least. So spare me your self-congratulatory odes to the praise of my jail cell." She looked around her. "Pretty though it is. Just tell me what you want, who you want it from, and what it has to do with me. I don't have rich friends, I don't know anyone in a position of power, and I can't affect political or military policy." She rested her hands on her knees, and said, "So what is going to happen is, you're going to tell me that you took me to get some sort of leverage, I'm going to tell you that having me in your cell won't give you any leverage, and then you're going to say you're sorry and take me back home."

  Birra was shaking his head. "Your world was hurting you—it was destroying you. Why do you so want to go back to it? Here you will have the love and appreciation you deserve. You belong here, Molly. You belong with us."

  Molly stood up and brushed past the three of them; she stalked to the window and stared out of it. Love and appreciation sounded good, of course, but there would be a catch. And it wasn't going to be a good catch, either, because her windows had bars on them. And though they were lovely bars—thick copper grilles done in elaborate curving diamonds—bars told her at some point she was going to want to leave enough that she'd consider going out by the window.

  Down the side of a smooth-as-glass tower. At least five stories.

  Things could be a whole lot worse than they looked even at first glance.

  Or maybe the bars were there to keep out the…what had her captors called them? The rrôn?

  She shuddered just thinking about that possibility, and immediately pushed it out of her mind.

  If this was such a great place and she was such an honored guest, why hadn't they simply invited her? Why kidnap her, tie her up, and dump her in the back of a hay wagon? Why not be more forthcoming with the information?

  She turned away from the window and saw the three of them huddled by the one door she was sure led out of her cell. They watched her the way three baby songbirds would watch a snake crawling through their tree. The hell with them—she turned her back on them and started searching through the several generous rooms of her cell; along with the huge, elaborate bedchamber, she had a salon, a small pantry, a lovely dining room, a closet filled with elaborate clothing that looked like it would fit her, and a fine bathroom. And thank God for that—she'd thought she would explode if she didn't find one soon.

  No kitchen, no cooking staples. So she would be dependent on her captors for meals. But in the pantry she found dried fruits and jarred delicacies that could be eaten as they were, and large stocks of two of her favorite foods—Peter Pan peanut butter and semisweet Dove chocolate. That gave her the shivers; semisweet Dove chocolate was one of her favorite things in the world, but she'd not bought any for herself in—six months? Eight months? Maybe longer. So how long had they been spying on her before they grabbed her, and how much did they know about her? In the salon she found a fine selection of knitting wools in rainbow colors, all sizes of knitting needles, and good watercolor supplies and an easel. A twelve-string Gibson acoustic guitar stood in a corner of the bedroom, beside a beautiful solid-wood music stand that looked hand-carved and very old. Tablature paper—that gave her the creeps, too. Bad enough that they knew she played guitar, even worse they knew that she played a twelve string, when she had never played for anyone but herself in the privacy of her trailer living room. Worst of all that they'd watched her so closely that they knew she couldn't read music and had to do all of her compositions in tab.

  They kidnapped her, they tied her up and blindfolded her and locked her in a fancy jail cell, they died in droves to save her from monsters, they wanted to be nice to her. Schizophrenic bastards. All being nice meant was that they wanted something from her—something she had the power to withhold. The healing magic? Of course. She would be asked to sacrifice. They would demand that she eat death, devour pain. That long caged nightmare would begin again.

  And perhaps they wanted something else, too. Something she would be even less inclined to give freely.

  Clearly these creatures were not her friends. She'd learn more, though, before she decided what sort of enemies they were.

  Cat Creek

  In the dream, Lauren was still in the house. Thunder rumbled across the horizon, and when she looked outside, black storm clouds approached across a broad, golden plain that was nothing like what she could see from her windows when she was awake; the clouds scudded near the earth, blowing dust and dervishes of paper and other debris before them. Initially the dream was silent save for the growling of the thunder; then the first lightning appeared—green and glowing as a neon sign�
��and as it crackled to the ground, she began to hear wind, too.

  As she watched, the clouds birthed the first of the tornadoes. A point descended like a python dropping from a low tree, whipped to the ground, and began moving toward her, writhing sinuously. Then another, and another, and another, until the mass moved at her like Medusa's hair, and she felt herself as turned to stone by dread as any mythological warrior had ever been.

  Twenty tornadoes or more whipped across the ground, all tearing straight toward her and the house, and finally, in the painful slow-motion run of dreamtime, she pulled herself away from the window and fled toward Jake, but when at last she reached him, they had nowhere to go.

  Then she heard Brian's voice, telling her to run for the mirror—that she and Jake would be safe in the mirror.

  Yes. The mirror.

  She felt the echoes of the green lightning in it—but the tornadoes were of this place and this time, and from the here and the now; at least, the mirror offered safety. Clutching Jake, she raced down the steps and stood before the tall old mirror; she was not frightened that she could not see her reflection. Somehow that seemed right. She pressed her hand to the glass. And it opened, as a door would open, and she ran through into darkness.