Today North and South would be unified.
Ember felt exalted by the thought. Even separated, as they were, by half a continent, the Far South Domain and the Last Domain in the north would today become a single political entity, to be ruled eventually by her husband. She and Osfrid, providing a sheltering roof from one end of the Domains to the other, two islands of justice and equality; two examples of how the Domains could be, should be run. Having two large domains under his control would give Osfrid a strong voice in the Warlords’ Council, and the alliance with the Lady Sorn of the Central Domain made that even stronger.
She looked out the window, trying to find Osfrid in the crowd below.
The muster yard was full of almost everyone she’d ever known. All of her father’s officers had come in from their estates, complete with wives and daughters and sons. Some of the sons were off on the border, in case the Ice King attacked, of course. Most of her mother’s family had come, too, although her adopted sister, Elva, was still inside, her pale eyes and skin unable to bear the glare of the warm sunshine. But Elva’s daughters, Poppy and Saffron, were sitting on a bench; Saffron was flirting with an officer’s son while her brother, Cedar, looked on with his customary cynical smile, his dogs at his side lolling in the sun. Elva was so much older than Ember that she always thought of her nieces and nephews as cousins; they were much of an age. The eldest, Ash, was only a year older than her and her cousin Clary was a year younger, yet Clary was home in the Western Mountains Domain, almost ready to give birth. Ember spread a hand across her own belly, smiling; maybe by this time next year she would have a baby, too.
All the people of the fort had made a circle around the wedding fire. It was an important day, the marriage of the domain’s heir, but she hoped that some of them were there because they wished her well, not just because she was the warlord’s daughter.
Her cousin-nephew Ash came into view, covered in dust and accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man who moved like a dancer. She was glad Ash had come in time. It set the seal on this fine day.
Springtree, the day when all the ice had melted and the may was in full flower, was the luckiest day for a wedding, everyone agreed, but here in the Last Domain it was later than in other places—only half a moon before the Solstice—and it had been known to keep cold until then. The weather was so uncertain that the stonecasters always got the Chaos stone if they tried to predict it, and the blank stone, too, which meant that anything could happen. Today, although there were still small patches of snow melting in the shade, the sun was bright and the air warm enough for her to cast aside her coat and wear only her wedding outfit.
She smoothed the delicate silk skirt down over her trousers and danced a little, just to hear it rustle. Green for Springtree, of course, but mid-green with a soft shimmer of reddish-gold somehow woven into it, the very red of her own hair appearing and disappearing as she twirled.
There he was! Below her, in the muster yard, Osfrid looked up, his eyes caught by her movement, and he smiled at her. She waved to him. He was handsome, the image of what a warlord should be.
He turned back to oversee the building of the fire they would jump over together, as he should, and she turned away, too, to rejoin her mother and his as they set the last stitches in her wedding sash.
Dark purple, this, of the finest silk, it had been brought from far beyond the Wind Cities by eastern traders, and all winter she had embroidered it with their names: Ember and Osfrid, entwined traditionally with flowers; irises in pale purple, their green stems crossed like spears below the names. She loved to embroider anyway, but making this had been a delight: at least an hour each day, when the light was brightest, when she could simply sit and daydream about how wonderful her life was going to be. She and Osfrid, loving each other, living in the warm, fertile Far South Domain, where it hardly ever snowed, where their children would run around barefoot in summer, where she would, after Osfrid’s father died, become the warlord’s lady: respected, rich, happy.
It was traditional that the two mothers set the final stitches in the sash, to bind the two families closer together, but Ember had to suppress a laugh. Her mother, Martine, hated embroidery—sewing of any kind, in fact, and most of the “womanly” arts expected of a warlord’s lady. She was struggling with the needle, her face set firmly in that expression Ember knew well—determination not to let her family down in any duty expected of a warlord’s wife, overlying a deep, deep contempt for everything a warlord stood for.
“Done!” Martine said with relief. Osfrid’s mother, Sigurd, smiled at her with a hint of reproof. Sigurd was so much a warlord’s lady that Ember was a little in awe of her. Not beautiful, but stately, reserved, calm. Yet she smiled with real affection as she tied the sash around Ember’s waist and stood back to let Martine tuck the ends in at the back.
“There,” Martine said. “You’re ready.” Her expression was a mixture of pride, love and anxiety—and anxiety was so alien to her mother that Ember felt a flash of fear.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Have you Seen something? Have you cast the stones for me?”
Although her mother was one of the best stonecasters in the Domains, seeing the future in the choosing and fall of the stones in her pouch, she had never before been able to see Ember’s future in the stones, but perhaps now—Martine shook her head.
“The stones won’t speak to me of you, you know that. I—I’m just unsure about all this,” she murmured, flicking a glance at Sigurd who was chatting with a couple of officers’ wives at the door to Ember’s chamber. “It feels wrong to me.”
Ember sighed.
“Mam. You just don’t want me to be a warlord’s wife!”
Martine’s mouth twisted wryly.
“Perhaps I don’t,” she admitted. She tucked a strand of Ember’s hair up into the elaborate knot on the top of her head. “It’s not an easy life.”
Thank the gods she herself had been bred to the job, Ember thought, instead of having it forced on her as it had been forced on her mother when she had fallen in love with her father. Where was Arvid? Ember looked out and yes, there her father was with Osfrid and his father, Lord Merroc, supervising the fire, laughing and chatting, at ease as he always was, in any company. The Springtree had been raised behind them, its branches adorned with long ribbons, ready for the dance which would follow the wedding. The dance she and Osfrid would lead.
“It’s time to go down,” she said. She couldn’t help beaming at her mother. “It will suit me, Mam, you know it will.”
Martine laughed.
“Aye, it will that,” she said, a catch in her voice. “You’re perfect for it, and may the gods bless you both.”
For a moment, Ember was conscious of the gray in Martine’s black hair, of the lines around her green eyes, and of her own maturity. She might soon be a mother herself; would she feel the same anxiety when her child married? No doubt she would.
They went down to the men as they should, the bride arm in arm with her mother and future mother-in-law. As they came out of the hall Osfrid turned and saw her and his face lit up. How lucky she was that her father had let her choose her husband—out of the six young warlords’ sons who had come to woo her, Osfrid was by far the handsomest, with fine broad shoulders and chest and long, lean legs. Her heart fluttered with excitement. Tonight was her wedding night. They had kissed and touched a little, but of course that was all. She was a warlord’s daughter, and her worth lay in her husband’s surety of her loyalty. One man, and one man only, so that the bloodlines would be secure.
Her mother had tried to talk her out of that.
“Try him out before you buy him,” she’d advised coolly, when Ember had first chosen Osfrid. “You learn a lot about a man in bed.”
Ember had wanted to retort that she wasn’t a Traveler whore, lying down with anyone who took her fancy, but of course she didn’t. Not when her mother was Traveler born and bred.
She knew her duty, and Osfrid knew his. He hadn’t even tried to seduce her. Not once.
Besides, she thought now, pushing aside that slight disappointment, her mother didn’t understand the—the beauty of coming to a man as a virgin, offering him everything she was, for the rest of her life. How could Martine understand?
Outside the door the people of the fort were gathered, and the guests, all dressed in their best finery, all smiling, nodding, laughing. Somewhere music was playing: flute and harp and drum, a light tingling sort of melody. A few people cheered when she appeared.
Ember went forward. It struck her that she was arm in arm with the two cultures, the two peoples, of the Domains: Acton’s people and Travelers, Sigurd and Martine, new blood and old, and she herself in between like a bridge.
Osfrid moved to meet her, arm in arm with her father and his, smiling as though his heart would burst.
The two mothers took her hands, the two fathers took his, and they were joined together and stood for a moment, looking into each other’s eyes. Ember had never been so happy.
Arvid, as the warlord of this domain, performed the ceremony. He produced the red string that symbolized heart’s blood, and bound her right hand to Osfrid’s left. She would take it after, and keep it safe, and the midwife would use it to tie the cords when her babies were born.
“Heart to heart, blood to blood, family to family,” he said solemnly, his eyes suspiciously bright. He would miss her, she knew. “Long life, long love, and death far distant.”
He stood back and gestured to where the fire had burned down to glowing coals.
“Be purified by this fire; be reborn into a new life together.”
Handfasted, they smiled at each other, and together took two steps toward the fire. They were in perfect unison. A good omen, Ember thought, as she bent her legs and leaped as he leaped, over the coals.
As they reached the highest point, buoyed up by happiness, Ember felt the air change around her. It was suddenly hot; impossibly hot. Osfrid began to turn his face toward her questioningly. He seemed to move slowly, so slowly.
A roar hit her ears like high wind, like someone enormous shouting.
The sleeping fire reared up, flames huge and impossibly high. She was surrounded by flames, a column of fire around her; the heat on her skin was unbearable but she wasn’t burning.
Panic struck at her and she clutched Osfrid’s hand and screamed in pain. It was alight—he was alight, Osfrid, Osfrid… The flames licked around her wrist, consuming the red cord, cutting her free of him and she fell, tumbling, on the other side of the fire, alone, with the flames towering over her, so loud, gold and orange and red and white-hot at the center.
Osfrid was suspended in the fire, his body turning black, skin cracking open, blood, oh gods, his blood was boiling, his mouth opened in a scream he had no time to voice, his beautiful blond hair a halo of flame.
Then the fire flared even more, covering him in a sheath of white. There was nothing but flame.
There was a face.
A man’s face in the fire. Not Osfrid. Not human. The face of the fire itself, wild and sulky and unpredictable and full of desire. For her. Despite her shock, she felt heat run through her like hot mead.
“You are mine,” the fire said, a voice half honey and half rough wood. “Your mother should have known that. And you will come to me.”
The flames disappeared. The fire was coals again, just coals, and Osfrid had gone as if he’d never been. There weren’t even any bones. Just ash. Ember knelt, cradling her burned wrist, staring numbly at the ashes and only then heard the shouts and cries and Osfrid’s mother, screaming.
“A judgment on us,” Sigurd moaned, later, in Martine’s room, lying on the bed with her waiting women in close attendance. “A judgment on us for marrying our son to a Traveler’s whelp!”
Martine, passing a cold cloth to one of the women, didn’t even flinch. She’d warned Ember before the betrothal that those in the south didn’t think the same about Travelers; that there would be some in Merroc’s court who would look down on her because her mother had dark hair, but she’d laughed it away. Times had changed, she’d said. People didn’t think like that anymore.
“When times are good,” Martine had said, smoothing back a strand of Ember’s unruly hair, “people are happy. But when things go bad, they look for someone to blame. Usually that’s Travelers.”
So. There was Sigurd, who this morning had been so kind, so happy, now calling her a Traveler’s whelp for all to hear. Her world was fragmenting around her. Everything she had relied on was falling apart. Everything she had planned was smashed beyond repair. She felt numb and cold, but underneath there was anger, and she knew that sooner or later the anger would warm her enough to let her speak. But she didn’t know what she would say.
Ember got up from the chair where she had been huddled, and went downstairs. Martine followed her.
Her father and Merroc were standing by the fireplace in the hall, but the fire was out for the first time in Ember’s memory. It had been put out, she saw, with a bucket of water, and smelled of wet ash, acrid and unpleasant. The men were drinking applejack. Merroc, ten years older than her father, looked double that, the long lines of his face dragged into furrows and his skin pale against his still-red hair. His hand shook as he raised his mug.
Another man was with them—the tall, slender man who had come in the gate with her cousin Ash. Ash himself, she noticed, was sitting quietly in the corner, with his brother Cedar. They nodded at her, but didn’t smile, and she was grateful. She couldn’t pretend to be all right.
The men turned as they came in and her father put out his arms to her. She walked into them but as they closed around her she felt none of the usual safety, nothing of her habitual comfort from his presence. She returned his embrace for his sake, not for hers.
She pulled herself away and turned to Merroc, hesitating. His eyes searched hers.
“Why?” he asked. “Why did it happen?”
She had to find enough voice to answer him, but it was hard, as though she had forgotten how to speak.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. Tears started in her eyes, hot and burning as the fire had been on her wrist. They rose and fell, rose and fell, and she could do nothing but stand there and let them, because she couldn’t say what she felt. The tears would have to speak for her.
“I know you loved him,” Merroc said, as though trying to puzzle it out. “So why? And how?” With the last word, his free hand smacked into his thigh. “Some enchanter. Has to be. Some enchanter with a grudge against us…”
He turned and looked at Martine, and at the other man with dark hair. His thoughts were plain. Enchanters tended to be of the old blood. The last enchanter who had caused trouble for the Domains had been a Traveler. The odds were that if an enchanter had cast a fire spell, he would be a Traveler too.
Ember could see, in that moment, all the gains of the Resettlement being lost, vanishing like autumn mist at noon. No matter what, she couldn’t let Merroc believe that. It was clear he hadn’t seen what she had—the face in the fire.
“Not an enchanter,” she said, forcing the words out, having to form them carefully as though she spoke in another language. “The fire spoke to me. That was no spell.”
Merroc and Arvid exclaimed, but her mother and the other man drew in their breaths, as though she had confirmed their fears. She turned to her mother.
“It said—He said, that I belonged to Him. That you should have known that.”
Martine began to sink to the ground, her legs shaking, and the other man went to support her. She turned to him gratefully and the two dark heads together sparked a memory in Ember, of being very young and seeing this man laughing with her mother. Fifteen years ago? At least. He had been visiting from the south. “You may call him the Prowman,” Martine had said. “Or Uncle Ash, whichever you prefer.” The man had laughed. “Are you sure you want to saddle her with an uncle like me?” he’d asked. That was all she remembered, but now, as an adult, she realized that this was Ash the Songmaker, the Prowman of the Lake, the great hero of the Resettlement.
She would think about that later.
“Mam? What did it—He—mean?”
Martine stood straighter and faced the Prowman, not her.
“He’s shown Himself,” she said to him. “You knew about Him?”
“I knew some,” he said. His voice was mellow and rich, comforting. “I knew He existed.”
“Do you think I can talk about Him now?”
“I think you have to,” the Prowman said. “Or there will be retribution on the old blood across the Domains, and we know what that looks like.”
Her mother shuddered and finally turned to look Ember in the eye.
“There are… powers,” she said. “Call them gods, if you like. We know of five, at least, but there are probably more. Fire is one.”
“But why Osfrid? Why me?”
Inside, she was raging. No, no, no! She didn’t want anything to do with powers or gods or anything unchancy. She wanted a simple, happy life with her husband and her children and the duties of a warlord’s lady.
Merroc took a step forward.
“Yes,” he said. “Why Osfrid?”
“Fire was there when you were born,” Martine said to her. “That’s why I called you Ember. He was in the grate, looking at you, the moment after you were born, and He used up all the fuel so only a breath later all that was left was embers. It was only a heartbeat. I wasn’t even sure if I’d imagined it…”
But there was a story here her mother wasn’t telling, and the anger inside her swelled larger.
“Why?” she demanded. The words were coming more easily now. “Why me?”
“I angered Him, once,” Martine said, very softly. “I… supported someone He wanted, and she refused Him.”
“So He wants me instead?” Her voice was shrill, she could hear it climbing into hysteria, but she didn’t care. “Because you made Him angry? That’s not fair!”
“My son died because you angered a god,” Merroc said, almost thoughtfully, as though weighing an argument in council.
Arvid gestured and then drew his hand back, as if afraid of making things worse.
“The Powers of this land do as they please, and they always have,” the Prowman said. “Believe me, I know. There is no predicting them, and no stopping them. Martine is not to blame.”
Merroc turned on him. “Then who is?” he demanded. “On whom do I take revenge?”
“Will you turn against the land itself?” the Prowman asked.
“If I have to!” Merroc snarled, and flung out of the room, up the stairs to his wife.
Feeling her legs shake, Ember moved to a chair and sat down.
“He said I belonged to Him,” she whispered. “That I would come to Him.”
“Come to Him?” Martine asked, her voice sharp.
“ ‘You are mine’,” Ember quoted. “ ‘Your mother should have known that. And you will come to me.’ ”
“That’s not… right,” Ash said. “That’s not how it works. The lover has to choose.”
“The lover?” Ember tried to keep her voice from shaking. “He wants me—” She couldn’t finish. Her mother was shaking her head, over and over.
“That’s not how He is. It’s not!”
“Martine?” Arvid said, his voice hard. “You have never mentioned this to me.”
The Prowman put a hand on his arm. “It’s forbidden for women to talk about it to men,” he said.
“But you knew,” Arvid said, his eyes still stone.
“Because I—” the Prowman looked at Martine as if for guidance, and then stood for a moment, eyes unfocused, as Ember had seen her mother stand when the Sight hit her. He shivered a little, and shrugged. “I am the Prowman of the Lake, which is one of the faces of Water, another of the Powers of this land. I have some little knowledge of the others.”
“Five, Martine said.” Arvid’s voice held the warlord’s tone of command, the voice he used when training his officers.
Oh gods, this was about more than her! Ember thought. This changed everything they thought they knew about the world.
The Prowman nodded.
“Five we are sure of: Fire, Water, Earth, Air and the Great Forest. There may be others. We know very little of the Sea, for example. The Foreverfroze people talk of the Sealmother. And in the deserts, the Hungry Wind is spoken of.”
Arvid waved that aside. His eyes were fixed on Martine.
“So for all the time we have been together, you have known of these powers and not told me?” His voice was full of betrayal, and Ember shared that feeling.
“You should have told me,” she said. “I’m a woman.”
Martine spread her hands, which shook.
“I was trying to keep you safe from Him,” she said. “I never took you to the fire altar. I thought, if you didn’t go to Him, He couldn’t hurt you—He’s never done anything like this before!” Her voice was a cry, and it shook Ember. Her mother had always kept calm, no matter what, before.
“Yes, He has,” Ash said. “Once before, at least, He took a woman from her own home because she had neglected Him. One of the Bynum girls.”
The anger that had been building inside Ember was too great to contain anymore. Its heat was overwhelming. She clenched her fists against the soft silk of her wedding skirt and cried, “I will not be owned! I will not be commanded! Lady Death will take me to the cold hells before I will bow to Him.” She meant it as a shout, but it came out flat and cold and even.
For the first time, her cousin Ash came forward and put his arm around her shoulders.
“Shagging right,” he said. He looked at the Prowman, and something passed between them. “We don’t belong to any old gods. Times have changed.”
The Prowman and Martine looked at them with identical expressions of love and concern and exasperation.
“Could be you’ll have some trouble explaining that to Him,” the Prowman said.
“I will not be owned!” Ember shouted, the rage turning hot.
The cold, wet, dead fire in the grate sprang to life. Ember felt her breath catch in her throat; saw the others suspended in movement as they all turned to the hearth; and in that moment, her sister Elva came through the doorway from her father’s workroom, her white hair and pale skin seeming to shine in the dimness. Something in the way she walked made a shiver run down Ember’s spine. When she opened her mouth, it was not Elva’s gentle voice which came out: it was deep, dark, rough, as though another being spoke through her.
“He is here,” Elva said.
Ember began to shiver. Her sister Elva was a prophet, a mouthpiece for the local gods of the black rock altars, but Ember had never seen her possessed before. She lived a long way away, in Hidden Valley, and the gods had been quiet every time they had visited there. It was wrong, horrible, to hear another voice come from her sister’s mouth.
Ash and Cedar, Elva’s sons, didn’t even blink, and her mother took it in her stride.
“Give us guidance,” she asked. “We entreat you.”
Elva turned to the hearth, her movements unsteady, as though the gods weren’t used to commanding a moving body.
“Show yourself,” the deep voice said.
The fire grew, swelled, spread out into the room itself, into a tree of flame. He was there; the face, just as she had seen it. The others saw it too, and that was a comfort of sorts, that she wasn’t just imagining, wasn’t going mad… The dark, blazing, male face stared at her, eyes not red but black.
“You are mine,” it said. He said. “You will come to me.”
Her anger flared up as fast as His flames. Oh, she’d fought against her temper since the day she was born, but not this time. This was righteous anger and He deserved it.
“I will not be owned!” she shouted.
He laughed, the flames dancing at His feet in rhythm.
“I don’t own,” He chuckled. “I possess.” His tone made it explicit; heat ran through her, from her nipples, her belly. How dare He! Even Osfrid had never made her feel like this.
“Not me,” she hissed.
His eyes narrowed and He turned His head to glare at Elva as though she—the gods—were responsible.
“She has the right to refuse you,” the gods said. “You may not compel worship.”
Ember felt supported, at last. All those dawn services at the black rock altar had been worthwhile, it seemed. Fire seemed to shrug, and turned back to stare at her. Her father moved to stand in front of her, but she sidestepped him. It was dangerous, she felt, to let Him out of her sight.
“Then I must make you come,” He said. “If you wish to relight the fires, you must steal fire from me.” He looked at Arvid, standing helpless beside her. “If you must protect her, use the old blood. I will consume anyone else.” His gaze went past her and He paused, considering. Ash and Cedar, she realized, had come forward as well and were standing right behind. “Those two will do,” Fire said. He smiled, as if at a private joke.
With a great thwump of air sucked up the chimney, the flames were gone. He was gone. The fire was out in the hearth again, as if it had never been alight, leaving behind a scent of woodsmoke and something else, something acrid which seared Ember’s throat. No one spoke. Cautiously, Ember came forward and, crouching, touched the ashes. Cold. As though the fire had died a lifetime ago.
She stood up slowly, confused. What had He meant?
Behind the wall, in the kitchen, shouts and accusations were flying.
Her mother frowned and went through the connecting door, saying, “What’s toward here?” in her best lady’s voice. She came back a moment later, her face pale.
“The fire’s gone out in the kitchen,” she said, looking at Elva.
Ember blinked. Why was her mother’s voice so shaky? A kitchen fire…
Martine crossed the room and put her hand on Arvid’s arm. They were the same height, and at the moment wore the same expression of worry, giving them a strange resemblance.
“They can’t relight it,” Martine said.
“Try again,” Arvid replied.
“It will not avail,” the gods’ deep voice said. Elva blinked and coughed, clearing her throat. “This isn’t good,” she added, in her own light tones.
Ember turned back to the fireplace and grabbed for the tinderbox which lay on the mantelpiece above it. Tinder on the ashes, kindling from the basket next to the hearth, flint, striker… the flint was struck and sparked, but although the sparks fell onto the tinder, they didn’t catch, just charred and died. She tried again, and again, in a nightmare where everything was familiar but nothing acted as it should.
She had made fire like this since she was a small girl. Children were taught fire-making early in the Last Domain in case they were caught by nightfall in a forest, or became lost. Fire was all that would save them, then.
Her father came to kneel beside her.
“Let me try,” he said. “Maybe a man…”
She blew on the sparks as they fell from her father’s hand, but the tinder stayed sullenly unwilling to catch, and finally they gave up. Martine had her hand under her breasts, as though holding her heart firm.
People were crowding the doorways. Arvid turned to them and beckoned one forward. Holly, the woman who led his guard.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“All the fires in the fort,” she answered. “Except one. The bonfire—the wedding fire. That’s still burning.”
“Take a brand from it—” Arvid began, but Holly interrupted.
“No, my lord. We’ve tried to light sticks from it, torches, tinder—it will burn whatever wood we put on it, but as soon as you take the wood from it, the fire goes out.”
All the fires in the fort, Ember thought numbly. It was spring. They could survive spring and summer without fires indoors. Cook on the bonfire. But this was the Last Domain, and when summer ended and the snow came…
A man ran into the room and fell on his knees in front of Arvid, panting.
“My lord, our fires…”
“Where are you from?” Arvid asked.
“Two Springs, my lord.” It was the nearest village.
“Are there any fires alight, there?”
The man shook his head.
“No, my lord. Except there’s a candle Mayflower keeps burning always in remembrance of her daughter, you know, the one who died so hard of the canker. That’s still alight. But we can’t take a light from it. And—and there’s a flame, but the candle’s not burning down.”
Arvid looked despairingly at Martine, and cold settled into Ember’s bones. If this was the story throughout the domain, their people were dead when the first snow fell.