8
Day Fire
Ginger didn’t see Darz again that day. She and Kindle went to the Seller’s Festival, a big market the village set up once every ten days. Kindle was a quiet companion, saying little and standing back while she haggled with produce-tenders. No one seemed surprised to see them together; indeed, many people gave them approving glances.
When she and Kindle did talk, she dropped hints about the blood, mentioning stains at the butcher’s shop, wondering if anyone had recently slaughtered a sheep, that sort of thing. He reacted to none of it, and she was soon convinced he had nothing to do with the blood in her suite. She wondered if she had misjudged him. When he had followed her that night, he had been drinking. It didn’t excuse his behavior; she would have the bruise for days as a reminder. But he had none of the submerged anger she felt from Dirk Bauxite or Second Sentinel Spark. Mostly Kindle seemed shy around her. It eased her apprehension about spending the next ten days under his watchful eyes.
In the past, Kindle had avoided her. He was fourteen years older, and she had never known him well in her childhood. After she became an acolyte, her ties with the town had receded. A mystique built up around the priestess, isolating her. It was the price she paid for having more freedom than most women.
Ginger had heard that in Quaaz, where the queen lived, women had less constrained lives. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to rule Taka Mal as a woman. Did Queen Vizarana struggle with her generals and advisors? If they wished a man on the throne, their discontent wasn’t enough to stir rebellion. Far from it. The tales Ginger had heard about the queen glowed with praise. People considered her the daughter of the Dragon-Sun. Perhaps that was why it worked; most people viewed her as a priestess at the highest level, which allowed traditionalists like Tajman to think of the Dragon-Sun as the true ruler of Taka Mal. It softened his objections to a female sovereign.
Sometimes Ginger thought she should travel to a place like Quaaz where no one knew her, where she could be like anyone else. But the urge always faded when she thought of leaving home. As much as she longed to see the world, she couldn’t face that much change. The prospect of the unknown had always unsettled her, especially after she had lost her parents at such a young age.
Ginger shook off her gloomy thoughts and concentrated on marketing. People usually exchanged services or goods for what they bought, but she had only her temple services to offer and they were free. So the village provided her a stipend of hexa-coins to pay for goods. Kindle carried her sacks of fruits, vegetables, cheeses and wine. She appreciated his help; lugging around the bags was exhausting. Today she only had to carry a sack with her purchase of candles, parchment, quills and ink.
On the way out of town, they stopped by Kindle’s cottage. She waited in his parlor while he packed. It was a pleasant house, if a bit spare. The whitewashed walls had no adornment, but many windows let in sunshine, and red curtains billowed around the open ones. Red cushions were plumped on the wicker furniture. The room’s most striking feature was a sunwood clock that hung from a scrolled bar on one wall. The timepiece had copper numerals, and it ticked. She doubted it came from Sky Flames; no one here could craft such an intricate work. He had probably bought it in Quaaz during his army days. It had a strong, masculine look and gave her an insight into him, that he liked fine, elegant works.
Kindle came out of an inner room carrying a blue sack. He had exchanged the dark trousers and red shirt of his sentinel’s uniform for rough blue leggings and a blue overshirt with a rope belt like other men in the village wore. Apparently he didn’t think of himself as a sentinel for this visit. She wondered if Tajman was putting them together in the hopes of encouraging a marriage. Although she had warmed to Kindle today, she had never felt attracted to him in that way. He was cordial now, but what about the next time he drank? She didn’t want to think what a lifetime of that would mean.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look pale.”
“A little tired,” she said. “All this heat.”
“We can take my cart.” He seemed pleased to offer it.
He took her into his cactus garden and brought a wheeled cart around from the side of the house. After they loaded in their sacks, they set off walking with Kindle pushing the cart. They soon left the village behind. The desert surrounded them, and the land buckled in ripples and up-thrust crags striped by yellow rock. The bluffs were too rocky to call dunes, but in the distance, hills of sand shimmered like topaz against a parched blue sky.
“I do so love this land,” Ginger said. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’ll kill you if you aren’t careful.”
“It’s an austere beauty,” she acknowledged. “That’s why it’s so compelling.” She stretched her arms, working out kinks from the long day. “I could write for hours about the colors, how shadows turn from yellow to red, and the hills hunch up like sleeping giants with only their shoulders above the ground.”
Kindle snorted. “Such fancies are a waste of time.”
Ginger deflated like a torn bulb on a water-cactus. After a moment, she said, “I like writing.”
“I would think you have more important duties. Like attending the Dragon-Sun.”
She frowned at him. “What do you think ‘Attending the Dragon-Sun’ means?”
“Cleaning his house. Tending his fountain. Meditating. Helping people.” He glanced at her. “Speaking with respect.”
“I always speak with respect.”
“You spend so much time alone out there.” He sounded as if he didn’t know whether to be angry or worried. “You’ve forgotten how to be a woman.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “How could I forget to be what I am? I’m just not the way you want me to be.”
“You also talk a great deal,” he grumbled.
“And if I talked about how great I thought you were, would you tell me I talk too much?”
“I didn’t say—” He tilted his head as if he were confused. Then he glared at her. “You’re twisting my words.”
“Oh, Kindle.”
He gave the cart an extra shove that toppled the sacks against one another. “You twine words around until it’s all muddled. It’s not right. You shouldn’t do it.”
Ginger didn’t know how to answer such a comment. His way of looking at the world was foreign to her.
It was going to be an interesting ten days. Unfortunately.
“You’ve been in here all morning!” a man accused.
Ginger jumped out of her chair, and her opal skittered across the table. She spun around to see Kindle in the doorway of the room, holding a knife in one hand and a broken table leg in the other. He had been at the temple for two days, and she still wasn’t used to his presence.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her heart beating fast.
“I’m fixing the leg on your damned knickknack table.”
She spoke carefully. “Thank you.”
“What are you doing?” he demanded. “I clean and mop, and you sit in here.”
Ginger hesitated. She had been looking for references to abilities such as hers, poring over history scrolls in search of clues. She couldn’t tell him about her spells, though, so she spoke another truth. “I’m working on something for the ore diggers.”
Kindle came in and waved his knife at the scrolls scattered over the table. “How can crinkled parchment help a miner?” He stopped in front of her, standing too close.
She backed up. “It may help them dig mine shafts.”
“Oh, Ginger.”
“It’s true!” She took a scroll off one chair. “This describes something called gunpowder.”
“Powder?” He came over to her, again standing too close. “Cosmetics are for women.”
“Not that kind.” She slipped away and went around the table, putting it between them. Unrolling the parchment, she indicated a section of calligraphy. “This tells of a powder that explodes.”
“It sounds like you made it up,??
? he said.
She straightened up, bewildered. “Why would I do that?”
“So you can say you’re working when you waste the day.”
She frowned at him. “Studying isn’t a waste.”
He struck the table with his piece of wood, making scrolls jump and rattle. “Don’t talk to me that way!”
Ginger stared at him. He had blown up the same way this morning when she had asked if he knew what was happening with Darz. She hadn’t dared ask again.
“I mean no disrespect, Sentinel Burr,” she said.
Kindle lowered his club. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m just so flaming tired of housekeeping.” He pointed his knife at the scroll. “What does it say?”
She offered it to him. “You can read it.”
His face darkened. “I would rather you did.”
It wasn’t the first time he had avoided reading in her presence. She wondered if he had never learned how. It wasn’t unusual in Sky Flames. That might explain why he resented her time in here. “It says to combine sulfur, saltpeter and charcoal,” she explained. “Sometimes it says ‘potassium nitrate.’ I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I. But the others are easy to get. I’ve never heard of them exploding.”
“Have you ever seen them mixed?” She couldn’t imagine why anyone would do such a thing.
“No. But I’m sure it’s happened. If it exploded, don’t you think people would know?”
“I suppose.” It had been her thought, too. She read to him from the scroll. “Charles told me today he doesn’t understand why we haven’t invented this powder.” She looked at Kindle. “Charles Carter was shipwrecked here.”
“Odd name, that.”
Ginger liked the exotic name. “I’ve never heard any other like it. A priestess wrote about him a century ago.” She read from the scroll. “Charles says we are isolated and get only bits of ‘modern’ knowledge. He sounds demented, talking about the ‘British Empire.’ He believes we are a lost land cursed so no one can find us, and that neither can we leave this continent. I’ve told him ships from our settled lands sail the wide seas and visit other lands, but he doesn’t believe me. He asks when I last heard of such a ship. What can I say? We live in the desert. We have no ships. But my explanations don’t convince him.”
Kindle shrugged. “He probably heard that tale about a curse from someone in the village.”
“Probably. It’s such an old yarn.” Ginger rolled up the scroll. “It’s true, though, I’ve heard nothing in my lifetime of ships from our lands trading with others. Histories tell how they have in the past, but never today.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Kindle said. “But I do know those powders won’t explode.”
“You’re right,” she said glumly. “I tried mixing them. Nothing happened.” She paused. “I didn’t do what it said with ‘pressure’ or heat, though.”
“Why not?” he asked, more curious now than hostile.
“I don’t know how.” This was the first time in the past two days he had shown an interest in anything she did. She prepared their meals, but their dining was awkward and strained. If the Elder hoped to promote matrimonial bliss, it wasn’t succeeding. Exploding powder seemed to appeal to him far more than domesticity.
“I don’t suppose you would have time to look at it,” she said, deliberately taking an offhand tone. “I know blowing things up wasn’t part of your duties here.”
His eyes lit up. “I could make time.” He leaned over the scroll. “Tell me more of what that says.”
She motioned him to a chair and sat down next to him. Then she began to read.
On the evening of Ginger’s third day in seclusion, the Archivist visited with Jalla, her oldest daughter. Jalla had just apprenticed to a baker in town and wished to embark on her new craft under good auspices. So they came for a blessing.
Ginger seated them on the fountain, where a fine spray filled the air. As they settled down, she went to her rooms for her amulets. She chose two figurines, a dragon and a woman. Her opal matched the tinted glass of the figures, so she set it next to them. In the daylight, it was no more than a pretty rock.
She carried out a tray with her amulets and some cold tea. Walking to the fountain, she thought how much Jalla resembled her mother. They had the same dark hair, of course, though Jalla’s wasn’t streaked with gray. Jalla also had her mother’s focused manner, intent on every detail. It was a trait common to adults in Sky Flames, and Jalla was a young woman of fifteen. Although Ginger admired her, she couldn’t help but regret Jalla’s loss of youthful exuberance.
“You look well today,” Ginger said to the Archivist as she offered her the tray.
“Thank you.” The historian took a mug of chilled tea.
Ginger smiled as Jalla took the other mug. “And you! You’ve grown again.”
Jalla grinned at her, open and friendly. “Just wait until next year.”
Ginger sat next to her and set the tray on the ground, then put the figurines on the ledge between herself and Jalla. After a pause, she added the opal. It gleamed against the gray stone.
Ginger touched her thumb to Jalla’s brow, and the girl closed her eyes. The only sounds were the musical flow of the fountain and chirps of redwing doves on the roof.
“Jalla Bluewing,” Ginger said. “May your spirit be blessed for all your days.” She withdrew her hand, and Jalla opened her eyes. Ginger picked up the Sunset figurine, a woman with hair the color of dusk and a flowing dress in sunset colors. Ginger brushed the statue up Jalla’s right cheek and down her left. “May the goddess bless you with wisdom, long life and insight.” She touched the statue to Jalla’s brow. “May she grant you healthy, happy children.”
Ginger set down the figurine and picked up the dragon. Its red wings spanned her hand, and the fire-hued body glittered like her opal. Its fanged mouth was open, trumpeting to the sky. Held under its body by huge claws, the yellow orb of the sun gleamed. The stand for the figurine was colorless, so the dragon seemed to burn with a flame all its own.
Jalla watched her with curiosity. And confidence. Ginger had never felt she earned that trust, yet people came to her and the town prospered.
She turned Jalla’s hands up to the ceiling and set the dragon on the girl’s right palm. “May the sun favor you with strength and bring light into your days.” She moved the statue to her left hand. “May he ward off evil and protect you throughout your life.” Then she folded Jalla’s hands around the figure. “May you always keep his spirit within you, to guide your life and your heart.”
“Thank you,” Jalla murmured.
Ginger opened her hands. As she set the dragon on the ledge, the opal seemed to glow more brightly. On impulse, she picked it up and pressed Jalla’s hands around the stone. “May you always be joyous,” she said, “and find delight in your life.”
The opal flared, and yellow radiance streamed around Jalla’s fingers.
“Oh!” The girl lifted her rapt gaze to Ginger. “That’s lovely!”
NO. Ginger barely held in her cry. Had the sun already set? She released the spell and the light faded. As she took back the opal, she tried to smile as if this were normal. The girl seemed to glow herself.
The Archivist, however, was watching Ginger closely. As the town historian, she would know their priestesses didn’t normally create yellow light.
The Archivist said nothing, however. She and Jalla stayed a while to chat, and Ginger gradually relaxed. Kindle remained in the background, repotting plants that hung from the terraces. Ginger knew her guests were aware of him, but neither mentioned the Flame Sentinel.
“I haven’t had much time for my studies,” the Archivist was saying. “I’ve been recording the ore shipments we’ll send the army later this summer. It’s important we keep good records to ensure we get full payment.”
“Is it a problem that we don’t?” Ginger asked, intrigued. This was a glimpse into the exciting world beyond Sky Flames. She grinned
at the Archivist. “Surely the officers of the Queen’s Army can do their sums!”
The historian spoke coolly. “Even the best number-tenders can make mistakes.”
Ginger regretted making the joke. She should know by now the Archivist wouldn’t laugh. Jalla was listening with a smile, though, which encouraged Ginger’s spirit.
“How is that soldier you’ve been tending?” Jalla asked. “Is he healing?”
“Actually, he’s not here anymore,” Ginger said.
The Archivist pressed her lips together. “That’s enough, Jalla.”
The girl glanced at her mother with surprise and a hint of annoyance. Ginger wished the Archivist hadn’t shushed her so fast. She was bursting to know how Darz fared. Taking a chance, she asked, “Have you had any news of Goodman Goldstone?”
The Archivist answered in a voice heavy with disapproval. “I assume he is doing whatever a pilgrim asking for forgiveness does during his penance.”
Jalla looked from Ginger to her mother, her gaze alert. Ginger could almost feel her soaking in every word.
“He needs rest and tending,” Ginger said. “He could die up there.”
“Darz Goldstone is no longer your concern.” The Archivist’s voice could have chilled an ice dragon. “Perhaps you should look to your own penitence rather than inquiring after that which has no proper place in your life.”
Ouch. Ginger wished she wasn’t so sensitive to disapproval. If the elders had their way, which they probably would, she would never see Darz again. But it was for the best. Her interest in him could only hurt her.
As the Archivist and Jalla were leaving, walking with Ginger to one of the entrances, the Archivist spoke in an overly casual voice. “I’ve never seen that yellow light before.”