5.

 

Afterward, after the baker’s apprentice had guided her to the chair, Jaerc poured her a drink and sat with her until she had regained her composure.

Then he left. A part of him, Ayae knew, was older and wiser than her. She sat on her couch in the warmth of two suns—the fading morning sun and rising midday sun—and berated herself for the tears. She knew she was stronger than this. She had begun with nothing in the orphanage. Yes, she scratched at the burning on the back of her left arm when, later, she stood before her bed and contemplated the empty leather pack. Yes, her partner had left her. Yes, Orlan had left her. They were both different forms of abandonment, but leaving would change neither.

She passed beneath the large tree outside, the light of the two suns shining through the cut-back canopy that webbed itself in dark green across the houses around her. She would return to the Keep, to Fo and Bau and yes, she admitted as she passed a family pushing a cart full of green and yellow and red produce, to Lady Wagan. It will not be long until a kindness is said. She would apologize for her behavior the night before and she would learn as much about herself as she could about the two Keepers.

At the door, she was greeted by Bau, who opened it just before she approached. “Ah,” he said, the first word a long breath. “I was right. You did return.”

“You should make prophecies,” she replied, her tone hiding the rapid beat of her heart.

“I have tried,” he replied, his smile easy with practice. “When I was young, maybe fifty, sixty years of age, I spent six months attempting to write the future down. I would predict weather, trade, births and deaths. I had a very nice quill and expensive vellum.”

“But no luck?”

“No,” he admitted. “I thought it might be a sign of divinity, should I be able to do so. That I was somehow shaping the world without my conscious knowledge.”

Crossing her arms, rubbing at the burning on her left forearm, Ayae said, “I see this failure did not stop you from believing.”

A slight twist entered his smile. “I am to learn patience with you, it appears. But yes, you are right. It did bother me. It suggested that there was no fate, no design at work around us, no reason for the abilities that we had. The answer suggested that we were free to do as we please. In the Enclave in particular, there was a lot of debate about it.”

“And?”

“And?” The twist deepened. “There is no answer. That is the reason for the debate.” Before she could reply, he pulled the door behind him, and walked past her. “Enough of that. We have work to do.”

“What about Fo?”

“Let him sleep,” Bau replied. “He is not pleasant after an evening of failed experiments.”

“Failed?”

“You’re all questions today, aren’t you?”

Opening the door to the Keep, he motioned for Ayae to follow. She considered repeating the question, but decided instead to wait. Ayae retraced her earlier steps with Bau, returning to the empty courtyard. Crossing the sparse ground, the Keeper led her through a small gate to the west and into another part of the estate. The grass grew thickly around a cobbled path that ended in a squat, brown-brick smithy with the stable roofs enclosing it like ribs across a heart. It was cold and gray, unused today.

She stopped. “What is your plan?”

“To set you on fire,” he replied easily and without stopping. “I shouldn’t worry, if I were you. You are in the company of the Healer.”

“Is that a joke?”

He laughed, but said, “No, I’m quite serious.”

“You’d better rethink your plan.”

Holding open the gate to the smithy, he turned to her. “You survived—”

“If you think,” she interrupted, her voice even, “that you can even touch me, then you should think again.”

Bau’s eyebrows rose slightly.

“Think again.”

“Don’t think like a mortal,” he said, as if he were talking to a child. “You cannot—”

“You will not burn me.” There was no give in her voice.

He moved the gate back and forth, a touch irritated, until he finally said, “Let us see how you light a fire then, shall we?”

Pushing past him, Ayae stepped into the smithy. There were horses standing on either side of the building and not one of them paid attention to the new arrivals. The ground was covered in fresh sawdust that had become soggy and dark at the edges. It clung to the soles of her boots as she walked to the tool rack and picked up a shovel. She drove the shovel into the coal beside the furnace, kicked the door open, and dropped it in there.

As she dug in for a second time, his hand closed around her wrist. “You should not play me for a fool, child,” he said softly.

She met his gaze. “I am not a child.”

His gaze flickered, fell to the floor. “No?”

To the pile of coal which was suddenly, and without explanation, on fire.