Lesson of the Fire (5 page)

“Grateful to Nightfire for deliverin’ them
from the damnens, the villagers asked how they could repay him.
‘Every year on Weardfest, you must give me a slave,’ he told them.
‘The slave must be eighteen years old an’ must volunteer to serve
me for eight years.’”

Sven’s hands gripped the stone in front of
him, his knuckles shading to white. His chest rose as he took a
deep, calming breath, and when he exhaled slowly, he thought his
breath moved the storyteller’s cloak, so far away. The memory rose
in his mind like a bubble of marsh gas.

The green of Rustiford had seemed so large to
Sven when he had set himself on the path to Mardux, years ago. The
mood that night was a mix of somberness, relief and fright. The
elder told the story during Weardfest, and this time, it was Finn’s
turn to play the role of Brand. Sven would get his chance,
though.

I remember ...

Chapter 5

“
Each color of the cloaks worn by wizards
corresponds with those of the eight kinds of myst, which is the
source of Mar magic. Green is for Energy, which is used to create
or negate heat, light and sound. It can also increase the duration
of other spells. Most Mar find Energy the easiest magic to use, and
producing a tongue of flame at the tip of the finger is almost
always the first application taught to an apprentice.”

— Nightfire Tradition,

Nightfire’s Magical Primer

“The villagers heard Nightfire’s terrifyin’
words an’ flinched,” declaimed the elder on the green of Rustiford.
“The price the wizard asked was too much! Many townsfolk grumbled,
an’ it may’ve come to blood an’ fire, but Bran’ Halfin shouted over
them all.”

“Hold, neighbors!” Finn Ochregut called
tremulously, walking forward from his seat in the crowd and
reciting his part of the story. “We couldn’t have made it here
without Nightfire, an’ we would’ve died if we’d stayed. We know the
Law an’ what it demands for a life preserved. We must do as he
asks.”

“But who’ll go with him?” the villagers
demanded as one.

“I’ll go first,” Finn announced in an
uncertain voice.

A younger Sven watched Finn from a log near
the fire. Cloaked in black, he sat with three others, all one year
younger than Finn. Across from them, two villagers sat. They were
Finn’s age — safe from slavery to Nightfire and torn by guilt at
Finn going instead of them.

“Nightfire heard the boy’s words an’ smiled,”
Sveld, the elder, continued. “He allowed Bran’ a few hours to bid
his family an’ frien’s farewell before takin’ him from us.

“Ev’ry year, Nightfire has come to collect,
and ev’ry year, a brave young man or woman has stepped forward to
pay Rustiford’s debt. Bran’ Halfin was the first. He was my
gran’son, the son of my daughter, Tora Halfin, who fell during the
passage to Rustiford.”

All the names were repeated, as they were
every year. Rustiford had sacrificed seven young men and women to
Nightfire, and now an eighth would go. None had ever returned.

The names were branded on Sven’s soul, and
his eyes were rooted to Finn.

Had I thought, eight years ago, that I could
be the one chosen? Maybe I did know.

Eda’s eyes were still liquid brown in his
mind, and Katla’s fiery green. Brand was a distant memory, a young
man more like an older brother than a playmate, but strong and
stern.

The first to choose.

And Horsa, who had taken Sven in like a
younger brother when his sister had made her choice.

The elder paused for a long time, looking at
the small crowd that was the whole population of Rustiford.

“This year, Finn Ochregut has offered himself
as the tribute to Nightfire. This town is in his debt an’ the debts
of all who’ve gone before him.”

To Sven, Finn looked more like a man who
would sooner plunge his head in a marsh pond than do this. Whether
he had made his choice to gain honor or because he owed a debt,
Sven could tell that the ceremony was the only reason Finn wasn’t
fleeing. Though Mar distanced themselves from immediate family at a
certain age — community was key to survival — Finn’s mother was
crying.

“The Weardfest has en’ed with the night.
Today comes the wizard who will take our tribute an’ leave us t’our
grief.”

The crowd did not stir as Sveld walked slowly
away from the dying embers of the bonfire. When he reached Finn,
the elder raised his right hand, palm open to near his own shoulder
in a deferential blessing and salute. Finn returned it
automatically, sweat rolling down his face despite the cool air.
Others in the crowd did the same. Some spoke to him in hushed
tones, but most could not find words.

Finn’s mother looked into her son’s eyes,
tears streaming down her face. She seemed on the point of clutching
him in a crushing embrace, but thought better of the embarrassing
display of physical affection in public and settled for placing a
hand on his cheek before walking past.

Sven and his three companions, Erbark, Hauk
and Lori, made no move to leave, waiting for the two across from
them. Finn’s peers left without speaking to Finn, without saluting
him and without inviting anyone else to join them. Sven watched
them, and at first he thought he alone saw them touch hands when
they were nearly out of sight. He caught Erbark looking in the same
direction, but his friend quickly pretended not to notice.

“Th’ people of Rustiford came here to avoid
this,” Lori said quietly.

Sven huddled closer to them nervously,
looking over his shoulder. He thought the great wizard could hear
them.

Dad said the Duxy of
Flasten used to raid our town, and all the towns around us, to take
our people for slaves.
That was years ago,
when Sven was just a child, and halfway across the swamp. His
father had said they had lived in a town with clean water and flat
fields on the edge of two duxies.

“We came here because of this,” Erbark said
dully. He sat up straight, but his eyes were staring after the two
who had just left.

They took us as
slaves,
Sven thought. Two kinds of slaves
were allowed under the Law — tribute slaves and oathbreakers.
Tribute slaves, like the ones Nightfire took, volunteered their
service to repay a debt. Oathbreakers served as punishment for a
crime, repaying their debt to the Oathbinder for breaking their
promise to obey the laws of their community. A slave was supposed
to serve a sentence of no more than eight years.

Flasten’s slave-takers were magocrats who
came to town and arrested whomever, claiming they were
oathbreakers. The judge was a Flasten magocrat. The sentence was
always the maximum. But it was worse than just lying about
oathbreaking. Flasten then sold the slaves to foreigners, who did
not understand the Law. No one ever returned.

“I feel so bad for them,” Lori said, and
everyone’s eyes turned to the log Finn’s peers had sat on.

“I feel relief,” Sven said, letting his
thoughts spill out. “They say we were starvin’, that all the people
Flasten took left us with not enough han’s to feed an’ clothe
ourselves. That Dinah’s Curse was runnin’ through us like water
through mud, an’ we were on the edge of death, when Nightfire came
an’ saved us.”

Across half of
Marrishland,
he added to himself.
Dad said thousands of us left with the great
wizard, and there’s less than a thousand in this town.
He looked at Finn, standing alone briefly.
And soon to be one less.

He put his arms around his friends as they
huddled together.

One of us four next
year,
Sven thought darkly, his breath
puffing out in front of him.
We are the
only four who will be of age.

He remembered there once
being seven kids his age. The trek from their old town took one
kid, and two more had died from Dinah’s Curse after Rustiford had
been founded. He shook his head and stood up, his friends’ eyes
following him.
There had been six when
Katla had chosen to go. There were three for this year. Next year,
there would be four.

And the year after that?

Sven realized he could not recall the number
of sixteen-year-olds in Rustiford.

Brand will return to Rustiford next year.
It’s only eight years.

But eight years seemed like an eternity right
now. Eda had told him of her plans to stay away from all the men in
Rustiford until she could volunteer to join Horsa as Nightfire’s
slave in just a year. Two months later, though, deep in despair
over her loss, she had come to Sven for comfort. Sven still wasn’t
sure which he regretted more — that he didn’t refuse her or that
she still volunteered to go with Nightfire the next year.

No. Eight years meant that by the time he
returned, many people here wouldn’t even remember him. It would
break his father’s heart, his father who had already lost his wife
and daughter to the wizards.

Erbark helped Lori stand, and silent, giant
Hauk, who had a tear on his cheek, grasped Sven’s hand to pull
himself up. Sven looked at his companions, his friends, and saw his
fear mirrored in their faces as they left the green behind. They
knew it, too.

Erbark broke the silence, “This is our last
Weardfest together.”

They walked, their boots breaking the frost
on the ground, their breaths puffing out in clouds. The morning sun
crawled out from behind the horizon as though it had overslept. The
tall homes of the first adult citizens gave way to the shorter
cabins of newly declared men and women.

“I’m scared,” Lori voiced what they all
felt.

“I’m not tired yet,” Hauk made a universal
suggestion.

“I’ve some soup,” Sven invited.

“All right then,” Erbark agreed for them.

They walked through the village. The sun
struggled over the trees, slowly shedding light on the town. The
smoke from scores of chimneys hung against the blueness of the
clear sky. A brief gust of wind from the north moaned through the
trees. Their heavy boots clunked up the stairs to the door of
Sven’s house.

Sven turned the latch and pushed the door
open. The sun had not yet become bright enough to light the cabin,
so he lit a lamp and stirred the hearth fire before hanging a small
pot of soup over it. The four of them took a seat in a circle near
the hearth.

They sat without speaking for a long time.
Hauk lit a pipe, inhaled deeply, blew a stream of smoke through his
lips and launched into a brief fit of coughing. Lori pulled the
strip of cloth away from her hair, allowing the dark strands to
cascade to her shoulders. She produced a brush and began brushing
the black, curly hair rhythmically. Sven stirred the soup, watching
as the flames engulfed the wood with greedy hunger. Erbark
sharpened a dagger along a small whetstone.

Long moments passed in this way — the scrape
of the metal, the crackle of the fire, the spoon against the bottom
of the pot, the coughing fits between puffs of smoke and the
whisper of hair against the brush. Then Sven spoke.

“The soup’s ready.”

The other three looked at him, a little
surprised. With tired smiles, they accepted the meal offered
them.

The soup was mediocre, being leftover from
the previous day. It was a mixture of rabbit and root vegetables
with just a hint of laurita, a wintertime soup that they would soon
grow to detest. None of them complained, however. They merely ate
quietly, even slurping up the last of the broth in their bowls.

The hum of voices and the scrape of walking
feet on sandy paths alerted the four that Nightfire had arrived.
Much of the town would turn out to watch Finn depart. Sven did not
stir from his place in the circle, and neither did anyone else.
They would not be going this year. It was important they stay
together today.

“Which one of us?” Lori demanded. “It has to
be one of us, so we might as well decide now.”

None of them spoke for a minute, staring at
Lori. She didn’t blush.

How could you feel
embarrassed about this?
Sven
thought.
It’s like asking who’ll go hunt
for food or who’ll boil the water so we can drink.

“I can’t go,” Hauk said. “I’ve a duty to my
neighbors.”

They all knew what he meant. Hauk had trained
with Thorhall, the blacksmith, for years. Thorhall was becoming too
old to do smithwork, and Hauk was doing most of the work now. He
was irreplaceable.

“I don’t want to go, either,” Lori said. “I
want to raise a family.”

Each one of them knew how important Lori’s
family was to her. She had been the oldest of nine children, making
her practically a mother already. She had made it her duty to see
that the children of the village did not wander into the swamp. The
parents in Rustiford depended on her and trusted her.

But someone could replace
her,
Sven thought, but he forced his mouth
to stay shut.
Is there an argument for
everyone not going?

He opened his mouth to speak.

“I’ll go,” Erbark broke in suddenly. “Perhaps
he’ll even let me visit Rustiford sometime.”

He smiled and leaned back casually. Lori did
not react so favorably.

“He’s never let any of th’others visit,
Erbark!” she snapped. “For all we know, he’s sellin’ all his slaves
to the Dux of Flasten or findin’ a reason to keep them longer than
eight years.”

“Not all wizards are slavers,” Erbark said,
testing his dagger’s edge with one finger. “If he tries to cheat
me, well … ” The blade flashed in the air and sank into a knothole
in the far wall.

“He’s a wizard!” Lori cried. “He’ll just hurt
you if you fight him.”

Erbark shrugged, and Hauk laughed so hard he
pitched into a coughing fit.