Fires of the Faithful (13 page)

The village seamstress was a tiny, aged widow named Marietta; she lived alone in a cottage filled with bolts of gray cloth. Outside her cottage, rose bushes were coming back to life; in the summer, the walls of her cottage were covered with a cloak of red flowers. “How old are you now, dear?” Marietta asked me as she climbed up onto a chair to measure the breadth of my shoulders. “Just hold the measure there, now, on your shoulder,” she added, and let the tape fall, climbing off the chair to check my height.

“I’m sixteen years old,” I said.

“So almost ready for an orchestra.” She clucked her tongue. “Well, you’ll be wanting another new cloak soon enough, then. It’s too bad I can’t give you something a bit more stylish now.”

“Can I see your other fabrics?” I asked.

Marietta smiled. “Surely. There’s no harm in looking, is there?”

The teachers, and the students leaving to play in orchestras, bought their clothes from this woman as well, and in her back room she had a fine selection of dyed wool flannel.
“I think this one is my favorite,” I said, fingering a swatch of dark red.

Marietta clucked her tongue again. “ ’Tisn’t quite the color for you, dear; you’d do better in a dark blue. Still, not too bad.” She held it up. “Not bad at all; I’d have thought you too pale for the red, but you’d carry it off, anyway.” She sighed and put it away. “Next year, yes? In the meantime … I think I actually have a cloak on hand that might fit you. Made it for a boy who got himself into trouble and had to leave the conservatory, and I was left with the stock.” She fetched it from her back room. “Here now, try that on.”

Much to my disappointment, the cloak fit perfectly. “Thank you,” I said.

Marietta saw my wistfulness, and gave me a smile. “Now then, you’ll be off on your own soon enough, won’t you? What’s an extra trip to Bascio when you’ll have the world?” I tried to smile back. She patted my hand and said, “Just one more moment.”

She vanished into the back room again and returned with a strip of the dark red cloth. “Since I had the cloak anyway, I’ll give you a discount,” she said, “and with the difference you can pay for this. It’s just a scrap, but it’s big enough for a scarf, or even a sash.” I made a token protest, but she insisted. “Just don’t let that Dean of yours see it, and if he does, don’t tell him where you got it!” I promised, and she folded it neatly and tucked it inside the cloak.

Despite being denied a second trip to the village, I was in a fair mood when I returned. Mira would like the scarf, I was certain, so I headed back to our room, whistling one of the folk songs we’d been learning. I swung open the door.

Witchlight flared, blindingly bright. I leapt back, but
hands seized my arms and jerked me inside. The door slammed shut behind me. I blinked in the dazzling light, staring into the rigid face of the man who had grabbed my arms. He wore the uniform of the Circle Guard. Beyond him, I could see four more men in the same uniform, seated on the beds, crossbows leveled.

At the very end of my bed sat an older man in a scarlet robe, with chill yellow eyes. He rose, his lips tight, his head tilted back to stare down at me even though I was taller than he was. “It’s the roommate,” he said, and sat back down. “Bring her here.” He indicated the floor directly in front of him.

“Sit,” the guard said, shoving me toward the man in scarlet. “And be silent.”

My knees shaking, I sank to the floor. I could hear my heart pounding. With a flick, the man in scarlet dispelled the witchlight. We waited, in silence, staring at the door in the fading daylight.

Mira. They had to be here for Mira.
Why?
My first thought was that somehow, they’d found out about Mira teaching the Old music—but these men were not Fedeli. I could hear the man in scarlet behind me—his breathing was calm and even, like this was something he did every day. Who was he, with his white-hot witchlight? He wore no uniform. Was he a mage from the Circle, all the way down here? What could Mira have possibly done that would require the
Circle
to come for her? The man shifted slightly; I heard the rustle of movement. If I had ever met someone who could be a Maledore in the guise of a mortal, he was it. I had only looked at him for an instant, but his yellow eyes were burned into my mind. I shuddered, and felt his hand close briefly over my shoulder like a claw, ensuring that I wouldn’t move again.
Maybe this is a dream
,
I thought, but the growing ache in my legs from sitting still assured me that I wasn’t sleeping.

Time passed; the room went from dim to dark as the last of the light faded. I tried to guess the passage of time from the noises outside. It must be almost time for the evening meal; Mira would be back soon.

We heard footsteps approaching the door. I felt a gloved hand cup my throat. My stomach lurched with the desire to escape the touch of his hand, but I bit my lip and remained still. “Be silent,” the man in scarlet whispered. I could hear the soldiers tense, then rise. The door started to swing open.

“RUN!” I screamed to Mira, and the man clapped his hand over my mouth.

“That was very stupid,” he said into my ear—but Mira still stood in the doorway, in the blinding flare of witchlight. She stepped inside, and the door swung closed to trap her. The man released me and shoved me aside to stand up. “Hello, Miriamne,” he said.

Mira leaned back against the door, eyeing the man with defiance and disgust. “Hello, Liemo,” she said.

There was a long pause. Mira gently set her violin down on the floor. “You certainly brought enough guards. Were you planning to have them drag me bodily back to Cuore?”

“Miriamne—”

“Mira,” she snapped.

The man winced. “I’ve come to tell you that you can come back.”

“Really.”

“Miriamne, we
understand
. You were under strain, ten times over—just being the youngest full member of the Circle in ten generations would have been enough. The death of your grandmother—we understand why you left.
Why you felt you had to stay away,
hide
from us here. But you can come back, Miriamne—your chair is waiting for you.”

“Mira,” she said. “My name is
Mira
, and I will never sit in the Circle again.” My head was spinning.
Mira? Circle? The girl who couldn’t—wouldn’t—even summon witchlight?
I stared at her; her eyes were locked on Liemo’s. My mouth had gone dry. Would she have ever told me? I felt like I should feel betrayed—or horrified—or frightened, but all I could think was that I wished we’d run away the other afternoon, when she suggested it.

“Don’t be hasty,” Liemo said. “I know you need time to think—”

“I made my decision before I left Cuore.”

Liemo’s voice softened. “Miriamne … Mira. Don’t you miss magery?” With a flick of his wrist, his witchlight flared brighter, danced in his hand like flames in a wind. I could see Mira flinch. “The energy drawn by the full Circle with
you
as the focus …” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Miriamne, don’t you miss it?” He held out his hand, as if offering her the globe of light.

When Mira spoke, her voice was a whisper and her face was lowered. “More than you could imagine. I think of it every day—every time I see witchlight, or see someone start a fire. I remember the elation—the rush of power flying through my body. I miss it more than you could imagine—” Her breath caught. “That is why I don’t summon witchlight. That is why I will
never
go back.” I saw her straighten her shoulders and look Liemo in the eyes. “Liemo. We can talk all night, but I will not change my mind.”

“Perhaps.” Liemo’s voice was almost too soft to hear. “You are one of the strongest, Mira. One of the best.”

Silence.

“We need you.”

Mira’s eyes widened. “I don’t care how much you think you need me.
I would burn Cuore to the ground myself before I’d help to kill more of the land!
You know we’re the cause of the famine. You
know
it, even as you mouth the lie that the Vesuviano army sowed our land with salt. Our magefire drained the Verdiani borderlands of every drop of energy they had.
We
killed the land.
We
caused the famine. It’s
our
fault, Liemo.”

I sucked in my breath.
Magery
caused the famine? The Circle—our protectors—had killed us? Killed Bella’s sister? I felt a pain in my chest like a knife, and I stared at Mira with blinding anger—but whether it was at the Circle for what they’d done, or at Mira for keeping their secret from me, I wasn’t sure.

“I’m sorry about your grandmother …” Liemo looked down, almost ashamed. Almost.

Mira shook her head. “I don’t care if you’re sorry. I won’t share magery with you again, Liemo. I would rather die.”

There was silence. Then Liemo spoke, very softly.

“I am sorry, Miriamne. But we truly do need you.”

The room went dark. Hands seized my arms; someone stuffed a cloth into my mouth to stifle my scream. Light flared again. I was dragged up against the door. There was horror in Mira’s eyes as she struggled against the soldiers who now held her fast. I tried desperately—uselessly—to break free, or to spit out the gag.

The last soldier was cocking his crossbow.

“I am sorry, my dear,” Liemo said to me. “But you did try to cry out, when I had told you not to.” He turned to Mira. “It would be immoral, of course, to kill an innocent simply to test your resolve.” He nodded toward the soldiers holding me. “Violinist? Left hand, I think.”

I screamed; the sound caught in the gag. I tried again to
tear free. One soldier held me against the door; the other held my left arm, palm out, flat against the wall.

“You can stop this at any time, Mira. I will give you a few moments to think about it.”

I tried again to tear free.
No, not my hand, not my hand—

“Bowman, fire.”

I heard the snap of the bowstring and tried to brace—my eyes followed the blur of the bolt—

—and, in a flash, it was gone.

Mira’s hands were outstretched as if she were praying to the Lady, and there was a wild, terrifying ecstasy on her face. She stood a moment more, frozen in silence. Then she fell limp to the floor. The soldiers released me, and my own knees gave way. I tore the gag out of my mouth.

“Come, Miriamne,” I heard Liemo say. “We’re going.”

“No,” I said. I tried to stand, bracing myself against the wall, but my legs were still shaking too hard. My mouth was almost too dry to speak. “Mira, don’t go with him!”

Mira held one hand over her eyes, and her shoulders were shaking. She didn’t answer.

I couldn’t take her arm, so I grabbed the edge of her robe. “Mira, you don’t have to go with him!” Liemo gestured, and one of the guards shoved me away from her. “Mira! Look at me!
Please
, Mira!” Liemo was lifting her to her feet; she straightened slightly.

“You see, Miriamne?” Liemo murmured. “You are one of us, after all.” He smiled at me, a patronizing, triumphant smile that knotted my stomach. He had an extra cloak, made of a fine black wool, which he flung over her shoulders, covering the drab gray robe. “Let’s go.”

As the last of the soldiers left my room, I found that my legs would hold me again and I stumbled to my feet. The hallway outside was empty. Liemo was striding down the
stairs, Mira following in his wake; I stumbled down behind them.

The other girls from the dormitory were clustered at the bottom of the stairs, just inside the door, a teacher standing watch over them. Someone must have told the Dean to keep people out of the way. “What’s happening?” Giula asked. “Who are they? Where are they taking Mira?”

I shook my head. Seeing how hard I was shaking, Giula offered me her shoulder for support as I stumbled after them. The teacher reached to stop us, but I brushed him away, and the rest of the students followed me silently as I ran out the door.

“Mira!” I shouted again. “Mira,
don’t leave
.”

“I don’t understand,” Giula said, flushed with frustration and worry. “Who are they?”

“The Circle,” I said. “Mira is a member of the Circle.”

“What? That’s impossible, she’s not a mage, she doesn’t even summon witchlight.”

“
Doesn’t
summon witchlight. Not
can’t. Won’t
.”

“I don’t understand,” Giula wailed again, almost losing her own footing as I stumbled. Someone steadied me from behind. I realized that people were spilling out of the buildings—students, then teachers, staring bewildered at Mira and the guards.

Eight black horses pawed the ground in the courtyard. Liemo had brought an extra for Mira.
Miriamne
. He had said the name like a curse, like a threat. They were mounting the horses.
“Mira!”
I cried out.

This time, she met my eyes, looking down from her horse. Her face was anguished, choked with despair, drowning, and I reached out the last way I knew how.

“Rachamin, Arka,”
I sang—the words to the healing song.
“Rachamin, Gèsu.”

Giula, next to me, clasped my hand.
“Refuya, Arka.”
she sang.
“Refuya, Gèsu.”
Behind us, Flavia took up the song, as well. Then someone clasped my other hand—Celia. Looking straight at Mira, she took a deep breath and joined the song.

In the hush of the crowd, the courtyard rang with the voices; our sharp rhythm echoed off the walls. Mira closed her eyes, and for a moment she almost seemed comforted. Liemo started and stared at us, with an expression almost like fear in his eyes. Then he took the bridle of Mira’s horse and spurred his horse to a gallop, fleeing us, fleeing the school. The soldiers wheeled and followed. Slowly, our singing died.

My knees gave way again, and I fell to the stones of the courtyard.

PART TWO
 
Set Me Be the First to Salute You