The Seekers of Fire (22 page)

Rockville, where Grandma and Grandpa lived, was a small village with a single firewell. In the Northwest wells still mostly worked, and the two Bers who took care of the Rockville area were not hidden like those in Mierber; they were almost friendly. Linden could not go; she had to stay for the Day of the Master and her Judgement.

Linden had wanted to stay, actually, for she hoped to join the Science Guild, but it was one thing to want to stay, and quite another to be forced to do it without Eily.

Would she have defied the Ber later, if she had not seen Eily sent away for fear of Bers first? Maybe. But perhaps saying goodbye to her darling sister was what had made the anger she had been amassing for years finally erupt. She could not take obedience and surrender any longer!

She would not take it now, either. Linden started crawling towards the notebook and ink bottle. She would get them, then she would carefully try to stand up, without tearing her dress further. It was such a beautiful lady's dress.

It might be a lady's dress, but you are not a lady. Or do you really think you have become one only because you ran away with a lord?

She had run away with a lord, long ago, too.

The wind had been wild and exhilarating as they drove, one of his hands on the reins and the other arm around her waist, their eyes bathing in the infinite horizon. Come the night, however, he stopped the carriage and the tired, sweaty horses not at the castle but at a common inn. He snapped at her when she asked why, and his kiss was not gentle ...

"I am not her, either!"

But she was. All at the same time, she was a peasant, a lady, a city woman, a servant, and a witch—and she was others, too, some of them creatures of streams, lakes, and forests. She was human women who were special, who watched the sky at night and filled it with their dreams, who sought love, knew mechanisms, made books and music, and dared approach forests. And she was a
samodiva,
an element, one with the wild wind and rain; she knew nothing about humans and did not care—until a human man tried to make her his and gave her a grain of alien awareness.

They were all inside her, drawing images inside her mind, of dreams but mostly of sadness, fear, and fury. Somehow each image Linden saw implied of a special woman's doleful fate, until she could carry these images no more—until all she wanted was to curl into a ball on the cold stone floor, close her eyes, and dream herself into oblivion.

No. This is not all I want. This is what you want, whoever—whatever you are.
She had crawled to the ink bottle and notebook and now felt the stiff paper in her hands. Paper was such a useful thing; she had often wondered where paper came from. The books never said.

Yes,
she
had wondered. She, Linden. That was her own thought, the thought of one who always wanted to know, who always sought a way. This person would not be swayed by fear and doleful-fate images.

Linden opened the notebook and watched her sketches and the map that she had drawn of the corridors she had passed.
Yes, watch the map and forget the fake images in your mind.
She had been drawing maps since she had learned to hold a quill. She knew maps; maps were a convenient thing to focus on while coping with what was not real. A map was the real word.

Or, was it?

The world was the stone, wooden door, the quill, her dress, the wild rain and the moons. It was the Qynnsent corridors, twisting along the House's wings, and it was the banners themselves, not the dots and stars she had drawn to mark their locations. A dot for a regular banner, a star for a changeling—dots and stars were banners for Linden now, but for someone else they would be just meaningless symbols.

The map was not the world. The map, like the darkness Linden and Master Keitaro had discussed earlier tonight, had no meaning but what she gave to it.

In the same way, the images in her mind should hold no more fear and doleful fate than she allowed.

Linden turned a page and scratched a word.

Extrapolation.

It worked in the same way that the painting on Merchant Pierre's women's perfumes did. Pierre got them in the same bare glass flasks and from the same Factory that Merchant Larissa did, but he did not stop at that. While Larissa's flasks remained bare on her shop's shelf, Pierre had hired someone to paint a happy woman's face and the face of a devoted man on each of his flasks. And somehow, even though Pierre's shop was more expensive, many of Linden's neighbors preferred to buy perfume from him.

"
You will be a loved, happy woman with perfume from this flask,
" the painting seemed to say, and in those women's minds this seemed to turn to, "
With perfume from a simple, bare flask, you would be bare and simple yourself. Unloved. Unhappy.
"

It was the same wretched perfume, but a simple painting made people tell unpleasant stories to themselves.

Linden bit her lip, then took another deep breath. What stories was she telling to herself right now?

Start with the first image, the one about the witch tied to a pine. It was still clear in her mind, and so was the image about the runaway girl and the lord. The rest of the images, even the elemental
samodiva,
blended together. She might have to divide them in order to fight them ...

No. Not fight. Interpret.

She gripped the quill and wrote down the facts (and no more) about the witch and the runaway, even though the lump in her throat made her eyes blurred. Then she read about the first image and thought. A woman, a crowd coming to her cottage in the night. The woman with her clothes torn tied to a pine tree; the woman's dog and cat inside the house; the house starting to burn. That was the essence of the image, but the essence was not all she had perceived. She had imagined the woman raped and the animals dead in torture, while the peasants went back to the village unharmed. Like merchant Pierre's customers, she had made her own story around someone else's "
painting.
"

"It never happened, did it?" she whispered to the room. "And why should I believe you, whether you answer yes or no? If you answer at all. Well, I will not be feeding your doleful stories with my imaginings! I will not be
making
your doleful stories. If I do not know what the true stories are, I will make my own."

This image is already in my mind, but I will make the best story I can—not the worst—with it.

Linden gripped the quill again and wrote.

She was tied with her clothes torn, yes, but no one would rape her. They were trying to burn her loving dog and cat, but both would live and be well—she would save them. Those were useless peasants who knew nothing at all, but she knew about soil, and so to the soil she called—to Mierenthia.

The soil that the humans ruthlessly plowed was the same soil that swallowed human houses in its rage. The force that made a small seed grow was the same force that raised mountains.

She called to that quiet, dormant, devastating force. It erupted beneath the offending feet of the first one who dared approach her. She heard them scream as his senseless body fell into the crowd; saw them run as rocks and lumps of dirt rained on them.

Fear gripped her heart as she watched lumps of earth fall on the roof, but the earth was here for her, to help her. The smoke drifted away from the roof as the flames died beneath a thick layer of soil, and the door cracked as a large stone rolled against it. In a moment, a large black dog, who had forgotten about limping, and a tabby kitten ran towards her.

She cried while their teeth tore her bounding ropes. She kissed them both, then kissed the pine tree and the soil beneath her. Then she smiled. She would repair her dear old cottage first. Then she would go down to the village and take the two little boys who got often beaten because they were smart. She was planning to raise and teach those two, and perhaps she would teach the rest their own lesson. Besides ... she would perhaps go find happiness and love.

She could do anything. Nothing could stop her.

Linden could do anything, too. When she had first started writing, her fingers had been blue with cold, but now the blood seemed to flow more easily inside them. Her breathing was more stable, and she could move her limbs. Perhaps she could stand up, too, if she tried. She did. Her eyes still were blurred, and when she made a step the floor seemed to sway, but then from amongst all the images in her mind came the image of a tree—proud and erect even in the storm, stable.

So she stood stable, herself, then scribbled in the notebook a question about whether trees could be proud. Pride was something human.

She would find the way out of this room, she knew it now. Something had changed between her and the room, like something had changed yesterday between Rianor and Dimna. Where there had been empty stone walls before, she could now see vague shapes, and beneath the banner across from where the door had been, some little green light flickered.

Especially if she squinted and concentrated on it, it did. Almost, Linden wanted to explore the light, but she would not be so stupid a second time. The exploration she had already done here was more than enough.

"You will let me go," she whispered, at the green light and the gloomy room.

It would, but first she must write her own version of what happened to the lord and the girl who ran away with him, and then think about the other, blended images.

Then, suddenly, a new sensation made her almost drop the notebook. Something ... someone was watching her, focusing on her with a force that was almost physical.

She did drop the notebook when the real lord stepped from behind the shadows just as the room changed.

Rianor

Night 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705

She did not see him immediately. She sat on the floor across the Aetarx, her feet tugged beneath her, a notebook propped on her knees. She was scribbling. Fast and furious, her quill darted across the sheets, her hair glittering with the Aetarx's green light, her thin, silver-green dress caressing her body every time she shifted to turn the pages. A dress in his colors—or the Aetarx's.

Rianor watched her silently for some time, his mind trying to connect possibilities and explanations. He had rejected the notion of her being a vision immediately. The Aetarx had tried blurring his mind with fake pictures when he had first become the High Lord, but he had learned to keep it out. He had learned to resist the confusion, pleasure, fear, anger, and the unexplained yearning. Anything unexplained was not to be trusted, including the Aetarx—and including beautiful women with complex minds, materializing at a place where no women, or any men but him, should be able to enter.

She rose, slowly and with difficulty, and now that he could see her better, Rianor noticed her dress was crumpled and her face was pale.

"You will let me go," she said, quietly.

Rianor stepped from behind the shadows, his eyes fixing hers. She dropped the notebook, jerkily, the quill trembling in her fingers.

He kept his voice emotionless. "Why, don't you like it here? Where do you want to go, Linde?"

She dropped the quill, too. Perhaps she had not seen him before, had not been talking to him. Then she slowly knelt, and he wondered, surprised, that this particular woman was going to ask for forgiveness in such a servile manner. He was partly irritated and partly amused when she just picked her writing materials and rose again, the dress sweeping around her, and returned his gaze without even blinking.

The Aetarx was pulsing now, green light flowing into silver with speed that almost gave him a headache, the glow bathing her figure. She raised a hand to toss some stranded hair back, and the light followed in ripples—like water did when you swung a hand quickly in a full bath—like light made of water, following and obeying the wishes of a fairytale lake witch.

Now, that was interesting.

"My enticing witch," Rianor found himself saying, then corrected himself mentally. He had not
found
himself saying anything. As usual, his mind was in full control; he meant it. His mind also registered the distress his words caused her, the slight quiver of her hands crossing in front of her chest, and the immobility of her features. There were shadows beneath her eyes, and when she shook her head as if to get rid of the light, Rianor realized that her distress had been strong even before she had seen him. And she had not been addressing him earlier; her eyes had been focused in the opposite direction, towards the Aetarx.

"What is this place?" She was addressing him now, making an effort to control her voice.

He inclined his head, still suspicious. "You mean you do not know?"

She did not, or she was a very good actress. She was afraid of the light and of the way it embraced her slim throat and sparkled further down her beautiful body—and she was afraid of the way Rianor's eyes traced it.

He raised them back to her face. Interesting how her being here had distressed
him.
He had wanted to see her immediately, had been looking forward to talking to her, but it would not have been exactly polite to go to her rooms so late at night. It was after midnight already, and he had been back in Qynnsent for almost an hour now, but he did not want to sleep, and he had not really wanted to talk to Desmond, or to Nan, whom he had awakened to treat the First Counselor with her herbs and potions.

He had come here, instead—as if he had wanted to make sure that his own Ber place was still holding, that it had not erupted in smoke and trickery like the temple. Or perhaps he had come here because here neither Nan nor anyone else could pester him; because here he could be alone.