Daughter of the Flames (10 page)

Then something seemed to burst inside me. A great howl of grief exploded from my lips and I lifted her, cradling her body. She weighed nothing. Her head rolled against my shoulder and her legs dangled over my arm as I staggered down the worn steps to the shrine, keening like a wounded animal.

Before long, light and voices reached me. People rushed out of the shrine to see what the noise was – and then fell back, white-faced and stricken, as they saw Surya, lying in my arms. My voice died as I walked through the crowds of temple people and namoa into the golden light. Silence rippled ahead of me until the shrine was utterly still.

Then Deo was there. He reached out and gently lifted Surya’s body from my clutching fingers. His dark, hard face was streaked with tears.

“There, now … there…” he crooned softly, whether to me or to Surya I did not know.

As her weight left my arms, my knees buckled. Someone caught me as I fell and eased me down to the ground. Blankets were draped around me. I heard Mira talking, but could not make out the words, or even her face. People came and went. They spoke softly to me, touched me. I couldn’t make myself respond. I had gone away.

I lay, Surya’s blood crusting on my hands and clothes, unable to move, hardly breathing. Perhaps I was dying.

Then a voice came that I could not ignore.

It is time, my daughter.

At the centre of the shrine, the peacock flames erupted into life. I jerked to my knees, nearly falling, squinting against the light as the flames exploded upwards, swelling until they crackled high above the treetops. Shades of shimmering blue, green, purple and gold unfolded through the blaze, colours so pure that the eye could hardly perceive them. I heard a clamour of voices, shouting, cries of joy or fear from the other occupants of the shrine. But that voice – the terrible, beautiful voice that had awoken me – called inside my head, blocking them all out.

Step into the fire, Zahira. Reclaim what is yours.

Barely aware of my own actions, I reached out to clutch the twisted trunk of a lir tree and hauled myself to my feet. As I stumbled forward, my watering eyes made out the shape of a giant woman, her arms raised to the sky, the azure folds of her sleeves billowing like the mantle of the clouds. Then there was a purple and emerald flower, the exquisite petals dilating to reveal a blazing gold stamen. As I reached the pit, the flames became a great iridescent bird that spread its fiery wings until they blocked out the sky itself.

Arms outstretched, I stepped into the fire.

Remember.

…Sunlight turned her hair golden. I lay against her shoulder, under the shining ripples of hair, and watched the way the light glinted through it onto the bodice of her dress. I liked this dress. I pulled happily at the little blue and silver threads until she caught me and brushed my hands away. She shifted me in her arms and then lifted me. Air rushed around me as she swung me up, and I shrieked with laughter at the speed and the little thrill of fear. Her hair fell back and I saw her lovely face, smiling – always smiling – and her eyes. Her eyes were blue, the deepest and most beautiful blue in the world. I got the lovely feeling inside and waved my hands madly.

“Don’t ruin Mama’s favourite dress, Zahira,” she said, laughing up at me.

I understood the words, though she was speaking Sedorne. She always spoke in Sedorne, so that I would know it as well as I knew my dada’s language.

Remember.

…Dada. Big hands, brown, like mine; not white, like Mama’s. They were not smooth like Mama’s either, but hard on the palms and tips, so that they felt like the unpolished wood on the toy ships my brothers carved. They curved around mine gently as he showed me how to use the quill pen. Carefully I dipped it into the ink; a few drops fell onto the paper, glinting strangely in the candlelight, like little black jewels. I reached out to touch, but he caught my fingers and held them to stop me.

“Uh, uh. We don’t need to put our fingers there,” he said, his deep voice rumbling with laughter. “Concentrate on the letters. Write me your name, sweeting.”

My fingers were clumsy, but I wrote my own name:
Zahira Elfenesh.

“That’s beautiful! Good girl. Now, do you think you can do it in Mama’s language?”

This was harder. I dripped more ink on the paper, but ignored it as I slowly scratched out the square letters that spelled my name.
Zahira Elfenesh.

“Well done. My clever girl.” He hugged me with one arm as he took the quill and slid the ink bottle out of my reach. I glowed with pride and then looked up hopefully. Dada sometimes gave me sweets when I was good. He laughed again at the look on my face.

“All right then.” He set me down on the floor by his desk. “There’re sugared almonds in the bottom drawer. But only a handful – and don’t tell your brothers and sister.”

“No, Dada,” I said, already pulling out the drawer.

Remember.

…Indira. My eldest sibling, my only sister. I sat on her knee, wriggling with impatience as she deftly knotted and plaited my hair.

“Will it look like Mama’s?” I said, twitching as I tried to see into the mirror. It was too high up. All I could see was Indira’s face, her blue eyes frowning down at her handiwork.

“Not if you don’t stop moving,” she said firmly. “Sit still.”

“But I want to see,” I whined.

She laughed suddenly. “Oh, all right. I’m done.” She adjusted the mirror so I could see my hair, plaited in swirls around my head, just as Mama wore hers.

“Thank you!” I cried, jumping up and down on Indira’s knee in excitement.

“Well, I can’t do it as well as Mama’s maid,” she said modestly, but she was grinning. “One day you’ll dance with your hair all braided with pearls and jewels, and wearing a beautiful dress, and all the lords and casadors will fight to be your partner.”

“Really?” I breathed. I stared at my own face and tried to imagine how it would look when I was old enough to dance. I had the same blue eyes as my sister, but her skin was paler and her face longer, with high cheekbones like Mama’s. My face was brown from the sun, and round. I didn’t have dimples either. Would I change when I was fifteen like Indira? Or would I always look the same?

“Of course.” Indira interrupted my thoughts. “Now get off, will you? I’m late for riding. Go and play with Kiran and Pallav.”

…My brothers. Kiran, tall, and slender like Mama, Pallav, short but broad like Dada.

“You can have this one, Ziri,” Kiran said, handing me the smallest boat, with the odd-shaped bow and broken sail.

“I want the
River Spirit
,” I said, dismayed, looking at the much larger and better carved toy boat he was holding.

“The
River Spirit
is mine,” he said pompously. “And the
River Rat
is yours.”

“And the
Wind Rider
is mine,” Pallav agreed, not looking up from the fountain, where his boat bobbed happily in the miniature currents and waves.

“Not fair,” I muttered.

“Is,” said Pallav, not taking his eyes off the
Wind Rider.
“When you can carve your own, then you can have whatever you want.”

Kiran nodded. “Until then, you can have the
River Rat.
” He turned away and placed the
River Spirit
on the water.

I stared at the
River Rat
in silence, lip trembling, and then gently put it down on the rim of the fountain. If I couldn’t have a good boat, I didn’t want to sail.

After a moment, Pallav turned round and looked at me. He sighed when he saw my expression. “Oh, all right. You can have the
Wind Rider
. But only this once.”

I clapped my hands with glee and hugged him.

“Eugh.”
He pushed me off. “Only this once! The
Wind Rider
is mine. But I suppose I can carve you something better than the
River Rat
…”

“You made me carve the
River Spirit
myself,” Kiran protested.

“Ziri’s only five,” Pallav said. “She’s just a baby…”

Zahira. Remember who you are.

Screaming – blood – smoke and flames. Nanny has me. She whispers that everything will be all right, but I can hear her heart thudding and her fingers clutch me too tight. She’s frightened. Mama – I want my mama! I want my dada!

Then pain. Horrible, screaming pain that throbs and throbs across my face. And my eye – my eye – I want my mama…

I have held these memories safe for you, Zahira, through all the years of your childhood. Now you are a woman in the reckoning of your people. The time has come for you to remember.

Mama! Where is my mama? Where is Dada? Where am I?

Who … who am I?

When you wake, you will know who you are. Then you must decide what to do. Have courage, my daughter. I am with you.

When I woke, I was lying in the fire pit at the centre of the shrine. Flames the colour of peacock feathers rippled gently against my skin. It felt like warm water. I heard voices, and saw faces, dozens of faces, watching me, arranged in expressions of anxiety and shock. For a moment, through the flickering of the fire, I didn’t recognize them. Then I realized they were the namoa whom I had known all my life. They looked different but they weren’t. It was me.

I was the stranger.

I reached my hand up through the fire to Deo. He grasped my fingers without hesitation and pulled me upright. With his help, I got to my feet in the stone pit, the fire lapping at my ankles, and scrambled up the smooth bank of grass to where the other namoa stood. They edged away from me, as if they were afraid even to feel the brush of my tunic. Below me, I could see everyone I knew, their faces turned up to watch me. Waiting…

I am the stranger. Where am I? Who am I? A strange, sharp voice repeated the questions in my head.

Whose voice?

Who are you?

Only Deo seemed unafraid. His hand on my fingers was firm and reassuring – but when I turned my head to look at him, I saw him start in surprise.

“Your eyes,” he said. “They’re…”

I blinked at him, and lifted my free hand to touch the skin under my eye.

“They’re blue, aren’t they?” I stopped speaking abruptly as I heard my own voice. It was different. The soft burr of the mountains was gone. Without it my voice sounded deeper, more sure of itself.

I sound like my father… It was Zahira’s voice in my mind. My voice … her mind. Who am I?

I staggered as the flood of memories threatened to overwhelm me again. My head pounded with flashing images, faces, lights. Deo put his arm round my shoulder and I sagged into him gratefully, shaking my head.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice low. “We all saw the hand of the Holy Mother reach for you. We saw you step into the flames. What did She say? Why are you different?”

I straightened, steadying myself against Deo’s shoulder. “Because … I am different.”

I stepped away from him and turned back to look down at the temple people.

Our people, Zahira’s voice whispered.

I took a deep breath. “How long have we been in here?” I asked Deo.

“The – the gate was broken a day and a half ago.”

“Has anyone been outside yet?”

“No.” He hesitated. “We were waiting for you.”

Waiting for you? Zahira whispered. Waiting for
us
.

Holy Mother. Am I going mad?

I rubbed my head. “I think it’s safe now. Someone should go out and check, carefully.”

“Did God tell you this?” He sounded hopeful.

I sighed. I was so tired and my head hurt so much. “Send someone out, would you? Please?”

The namoa murmured and whispered around me as I sat down on the smooth grass, while Deo went out of one of the entrances.

Mama and Dada … Kiran and Pallav … Indira. My breath caught and I hid my face in the crook of my elbow, feeling moisture pool against my skin. My family. I had been without a family for so long. In the fire, I had been with them again for an instant. An eternity. Now they were gone once more. Everyone I –
Zahira
– loved was dead. And Surya … Surya… She was gone too. I still had her blood on me. The one person Zira –
I
– loved was dead. There was no one left. Nothing left. Except me.

Us.

The Holy Mother had said I would know who I was. I didn’t. I didn’t know anything. Is she the same as me? Am I her? Who are we?

“They’re gone.”

I looked up at the sound of Deo’s voice. He was staring at me, his face ashy with shock. I had never seen him so pale, not even when he’d seen Surya … Surya, dead.

“What is it?” I asked, climbing to my feet with difficulty.

“They’re gone, but…” He shook his head, unable to continue.

“I’ll come.” I walked past him, through the crowds of people, through the entrance and down the stairs. I heard a tide of voices and footsteps rising in my wake, and realized everyone was following.

The entrance opened onto the inner courtyard; I stepped cautiously through. I was lucky to be able to get out at all. Stone blocks lay everywhere, like gravestones. As the namoa and temple people spilled out behind me, I saw what had made Deo’s face go pale.

The outlaws had lifted the stone flags and tunnelled under them to the foundations of the walls. There was nothing left of the inner wall but tumbled piles of rubble. Remnants of the stronger Great Wall stood like rotted teeth in an old woman’s mouth. The Great Gate had been torn down and set afire; it still burned sullenly, barely more than charcoal, the metal braces twisted and blackened in the heat.

And the House. The front wall of the House… They had pulled it down. The internal walls and ceilings had collapsed. It was a smoking, gaping ruin.

We can never rebuild this. It has been finished. For ever.

The shock of it hit me like a blow to the face. Our home. The home of the Holy Order, and the centre of Rua worship for hundreds of years. It had taken our ancestors fifty years to build it, four hundred years ago. The Sedorne had destroyed it in a day and a half.

The temple people and namoa wandered through the wreckage, dazed and weeping. I saw a small group of refugee children shifting through the debris in the octagon room with deftness that spoke of long practice. Rashna saw them too, and drove them away.