Soul of the Fire

Chapter 36

Fitch, his head bowed, could see Master Spink’s legs and feet as he walked among the benches, his boots making a slow thunk, thunk, thunk against the plank floor. Around the room, a few people, mainly the older women, sniffled as they wept quietly to themselves.

Fitch couldn’t blame them. He, too, was occasionally reduced to weeping at penance assembly. The lessons they learned were necessary if they were to fight their evil Haken ways—he understood that—but that didn’t make listening any easier.

When Master Spink lectured, Fitch preferred to look at the floor rather than by chance meet the man’s gaze. To meet the gaze of an Ander as he taught the horrors of what was done to his ancestors by Fitch’s was shaming.

“And so it was,” Master Spink went on, “that the Haken horde came by chance upon that poor farming village. The menfolk, with frantic concern for their families, had gathered together with those other simple Ander men from farms and other villages around. Together, they prayed to the Creator that their effort to repulse the bloodthirsty invaders might succeed.

“In desperation, they had already left nearly all their foodstuffs and livestock as a peaceful offering for the Hakens. They had sent messengers to explain the offerings, and that they wished no war, but none of those brave messengers ever returned.

“So it was a simple plan these men had, to go to the crest of a hill and wave their weapons overhead to make a show of strength, not to invite a fight, of course, but in an urgent effort to convince the Hakens to pass their villages by. These men were farmers, not warriors, and the weapons they waved were simple farm tools. They didn’t want a fight; they wanted peace.

“So, there they were, those men I’ve taught you about—Shelby, Willan, Camden, Edgar, Newton, Kenway, and all the rest—all those good and kind men who you have come to know over these last few weeks as I’ve told you their stories, their loves, their lives, their hopes, their simple and decent dreams. There they were, up there on that hill, hoping for no more than to convince the Haken brutes to pass them by. There they were, waving their tools—their axes, their hoes, their sickles, their forks, their flails—waving them in the air, hoping to keep those wives and children you’ve also come to know safe from harm.”

Thump, thump, thump went Master Spink’s boots as he came closer to Fitch.

“The Haken army did not choose to pass those simple men by. The Hakens instead, laughing and hooting, turned their Dominie Dirtch on those gentle Ander men.”

Some of the girls gasped. Others wailed aloud. Fitch himself felt a twist of fear in his gut, and a lump in his throat. He had to sniffle himself as he imagined their gruesome death. He had come to know those men on the hill. He knew their wives’ names, their parents’ names, and their children.

“And while those murderous Haken bastards in their fine, fancy uniforms”—Fitch could see the boots halt right beside him where he sat on the end of the bench near the center aisle—“stood laughing, stood cheering, the Dominie Dirtch rang out with its terrible violence, tearing the flesh from those men’s bones.”

Fitch could feel Master Spink’s dark-eyed glare on the back of his neck as the women and many of the men sobbed their grief aloud.

“The wails of those poor Ander farmboys rose into the Ander sky. It was their last scream in this life, as their bodies were torn apart by the excellently dressed, laughing, jeering Haken horde with their weapon of heartless slaughter, the Dominie Dirtch.”

One of the older women cried out with the horror of it. Master Spink still stood over Fitch. Right at that moment, Fitch wasn’t as proud of his messenger garb as he had been earlier, when the other people had whispered to each other in astonishment as he took his seat.

“I see you have yourself a fine new uniform, Fitch,” Master Spink said in a voice that made Fitch’s blood go cold.

Fitch knew he was expected to say something.

“Yes, sir. Though I was a lowly Haken scullion, Master Campbell was kind enough to give me a job as a messenger. He wants me to wear this uniform so all Hakens might see that with Ander help we can do better. He also wants the messengers to reflect well on his office as we help in his work of spreading the word of the Minister of Culture’s good work for our people.”

Master Spink cuffed Fitch on the side of the head, knocking him from the bench. “Don’t talk back to me! I’m not interested in your Haken excuses!”

“I’m sorry, sir.” He knew better than to get up from his hands and knees.

“Hakens always have excuses for their crimes of hate. You’re wearing a fancy uniform, just like those murderous Haken overlords enjoyed wearing, and you enjoy it the same as they, and then you try to make it seem as if you don’t.

“To this day, we Anders suffer grievously under the unceasing scourge of Haken hate. Without question, every look from a Haken conveys it. We can never be free of it. There are always Hakens in uniforms they enjoy wearing to remind us of the Haken overlords.

“You prove your filthy Haken nature by trying to defend the indefensible—your self-centered arrogance, your pride in yourself, your pride in a uniform. You all hunger to be Haken overlords. Everyday, as Anders, we must suffer such Haken abuse.”

“Forgive me, Master Spink. I was wrong. I wore it out of pride. I was wrong to let my sinful Haken nature rule me.”

Master Spink grunted his contempt, but then went on with the lesson. Knowing he deserved more, Fitch sighed, grateful to be let off so easy.

“With the menfolk murdered, that left the women and children of the village defenseless.”

The boots thunk, thunk, thunked as the man started out again, walking among the Hakens sitting on simple benches. Only after he had started away did Fitch dare to get up off his hands and knees and once more take his seat on the bench. His ear chimed something awful, like when Beata had struck him. Master Spink’s words bored through that hollow ringing.

“Being Hakens, of course, they decided to go through the village and have their wicked fun.”

“No!” a woman in back cried out. She fell to sobbing.

Hands clasped behind his back, Master Spink walked on, ignoring the interruption. There were frequently such interruptions.

“The Hakens, wishing a feast, went to the village. They were of a mind for some roasted meat.”

People fell to their knees, trembling with fear for the people they had come to know. Benches all over the room scuffed against the floor as most of the rest of the people in the room also went down on their knees. Fitch joined them.

“But it was a small village, as you know. After the Hakens slaughtered the livestock, they realized there wasn’t enough meat. Hakens, being Hakens, didn’t want for a solution for long.

“The children were seized.”

Fitch wished for nothing so much as he wished for the lesson to be over. He didn’t know if he could bear to hear any more. Apparently, some of the women were of the same mind. They collapsed to their faces on the floor, hands clasped, as they wept and prayed to the good spirits to watch over those poor, innocent, slain Ander people.

“You all know the names of those children. We will now go around the room and you will each give me one of the names you have learned, lest we forget those young lives so painfully taken. You will each give me the name of one of the children from that village—little girls and little boys—who were roasted alive in front of their mothers.”

Master Spink started at the last row. Each person in turn, as he pointed to them, spoke the name of one of those children, most beseeching after it that the good spirits watch over them. Before they were allowed to leave, Master Spink described the horror of being burned alive, the screams, the pain, and how long it took for the children to die. How long it took for their bodies to cook.

It was so grisly and sinister a deed that at one point, for just the briefest moment, Fitch considered for perhaps the first time whether the story could really be true. He had trouble imagining anyone, even the brutal Haken overlords, doing such a horrific thing.

But Master Spink was Ander. He wouldn’t lie to them. Not about something as important as history.

“Since it’s getting late,” Master Spink said, after everyone had given a child’s name, “we will leave until next assembly the story of what the Haken invaders did to those women. The children, perhaps, were lucky not to have to see their mothers used for such perversions as the Hakens did to them.”

Fitch, along with the rest of the assembly behind him, burst through the doors when they were dismissed, glad to escape, for the night, the penance lesson. He had never been so glad for the cool night air. He felt hot and sick as the images of such a death as those children suffered kept going through his head. The cool air, at least, felt good on his face. He pulled the cool purging air into his lungs.

As he was leaning against a slender maple tree beside the path to the road, waiting for his legs to steady, Beata came out the door. Fitch straightened. There was enough light coming from the open door and the windows so she would have no trouble seeing him—seeing him in his new messenger’s outfit. He was hoping Beata would find it more appealing than did Master Spink. “Good evening, Beata.”

She halted. She glanced down the length of him, taking in his clothes.

“Fitch.”

“You look lovely this evening, Beata.”

“I look the same as always.” She planted her fists on her hips. “I see you’ve fallen in love with yourself in a fancy uniform.”

Fitch suddenly lost his ability to think or speak. He had always liked the way the messengers looked in their uniforms, and had thought she would, too. He had been hoping to see her smile, or something. Instead, she glared at him. Now he wished more than anything he had just gone home straightaway.

“Master Dalton offered me a position—”

“And I suppose you’ll be looking forward to next penance assembly so you can hear about what those Haken beasts in their fancy uniforms did to those helpless women.” She leaned toward him. “You’ll like that. It will be almost as much fun for you as if you were there watching.”

Fitch stood with his jaw hanging as she huffed and stormed off into the night.

Other people walking down the street saw the tongue-lashing she had given him, a filthy Haken. They smiled in satisfaction, or simply laughed at him. Fitch stuffed his hands in his pockets as he turned his back to the road and leaned a shoulder against the tree. He brooded as he waited for everyone to move along on their own business.

It was an hour’s walk back to the estate. He wanted to be sure those returning there had gone on so he could walk alone and not have to talk to anyone. He considered going and buying himself some drink. He still had some money left. If not, he would go back and find Morley, and they would both get some drink. Either way, getting drunk sounded good to him.

The breeze abruptly felt cooler. It ran a shiver up his spine.

He almost leaped out of his boots when a hand settled on his shoulder. He spun and saw it was an older Ander woman. Her swept-back, nearly shoulder-length hair told him she was someone important. Streaks of gray at the temples told him she was old; there wasn’t enough light to see exactly how wrinkled she was, but he could still tell she was.

Fitch bowed to the Ander woman. He feared she might want to take up where Beata had left off, and take him to task for something or other.

“Is she someone you care about?” the woman asked.

Fitch was taken off guard by the curious question. “I don’t know,” he stammered.

“She was pretty rough with you.”

“I deserved it, ma’am.”

“Why is that?”

Fitch shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He couldn’t figure out what the woman wanted. It gave him gooseflesh the way her dark eyes studied him, like she was picking out a chicken for dinner.

She wore a simple dress that in the dim light looked like it might be a dark brown. It buttoned to her neck, unlike the more revealing fashion most Ander women wore. Her dress didn’t mark her as a noble woman, but that long hair said she was someone important.

She seemed somehow different from other Ander women. There was one thing about her that Fitch did think odd: she wore a wide black band tight around her throat, up close at the top of her neck.

“Sometimes girls say mean things when they’re afraid to admit they like a boy, fearing he won’t like her.”

“And sometimes they say mean things because they intend them.”

“True enough.” She smiled. “Does she live at the estate, or here in Fairfield?”

“Here in Fairfield. She works for Inger the butcher.”

She seemed to think that was a little bit funny. “Perhaps she is used to more meat on the bones. Maybe when you get a little older and fill yourself in more she will find you more appealing.”

Fitch stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “Maybe.”

He didn’t believe it. Besides, he didn’t figure he would ever fill in, as she put it. He figured he was old enough that he was about how he would be.

She went back to studying his face for a time.

“Do you want her to like you?” she asked at last.

Fitch cleared his throat. “Well, sometimes, I guess. At least, I’d like her not to hate me.”

The woman had one of those smiles like she was well pleased with something, but he doubted he’d ever understand it.

“It could be arranged.”

“Ma’am?”

“If you like her, and would like her to like you, it could be arranged.”

Fitch blinked in astonishment. “How?”

“A little something slipped into what she drinks, or eats.”

Understanding came over him all at once. This was a woman of magic. At last he understood why she seemed so strange. He’d heard people with magic were strange.

“You mean you could make something up? Some spell or something?”

Her smile grew. “Or something.”

“I just started working for Master Campbell. I’m sorry, ma’am, but I couldn’t afford it.”

“Ah, I see.” Her smile shrank back down. “And if you could afford it?”

Before he could answer, she squinted up at the sky in thought. “Or perhaps it could be ready later on, when you get paid.” Her voice turned to little more than a whisper, like she was talking to herself. “Might give me time to see if I couldn’t figure out the problem and get it to work again.”

She looked him in the eye. “How about it?”

Fitch swallowed. He surely didn’t want to offend an Ander woman, and one with the gift, besides. He hesitated.

“Well, ma’am, the truth is, if a girl’s ever going to like me, I’d just as soon she liked me because she liked me—no offense, ma’am. It’s kind of you to offer. But I don’t think I’d like it if a girl only liked me because of a spell of magic. I think that wouldn’t make me feel very good about it, like only magic could make a girl like me.”

The woman laughed as she patted his back. It was a soft, lilting laugh of pleasure, not a laugh like she was laughing at him. Fitch didn’t think he’d ever heard an Ander who was talking to him laugh in quite that way.

“Good for you.” She gestured her emphasis with a finger. “I had a wizard tell me as much once, a very long time ago.”

“A wizard! That must have been frightening. To meet a wizard, I mean.”

She shrugged. “Not really. He was a nice man. I was a very little girl at the time. I was born gifted, you see. He told me to always remember that magic was no substitute for people truly caring about you for who you were yourself.”

“I never knew there were wizards around.”

“Not here,” she said. She flicked a hand out into the night. “Back in Aydindril.”

His ears perked up. “Aydindril? To the northeast?”

“My, but aren’t you a bright one. Yes. To the northeast. At the Wizard’s Keep.” She held out a hand. “I’m Franca. And you?”

Fitch took her hand and held it lightly as he dipped to a knee in a deep bow. “I’m Fitch, ma’am.”

“Franca.”

“Ma’am?”

“Franca. That’s my name. I told you my name, Fitch, so you could call me by my name.”

“Sorry, ma’am—I mean Franca.”

She let out her little laugh again. “Well, Fitch, it was nice to meet you. I must be headed back to the estate. I suppose you will be off to get drunk. That seems to be what boys your age like to do.”

Fitch had to admit the idea of getting drunk sounded very good to him. The possibility of hearing about the Wizard’s Keep sounded intriguing, though.

“I think I’d best be getting back to the estate myself. If you wouldn’t mind having a Haken walk with you, I’d be well pleased to go along. Franca,” he added in afterthought.

She studied his face again in that way that made him fidget.

“I’m gifted, Fitch. That means I’m different than most people, and so most all people, Ander and Haken both, think of me the way most Ander people think of you because you’re Haken.”

“They do? But you’re Ander.”

“Being Ander is not enough to overcome the stigma of having magic. I know what it feels like to have people dislike you without them knowing anything about you.

“I’d be well pleased to have you walk along with me, Fitch.”

Fitch smiled, partly in the shock of realizing he was having a conversation with an Ander woman, a real conversation, and partly in shock that Anders would dislike her—another Ander—because she had magic.

“But don’t they respect you because you have magic?”

“They fear me. Fear can be good, and bad. Good, because then even though people don’t like you, they at least treat you well. Bad, because people often try to strike out at what they fear.”

“I never looked at it that way before.”

He thought about how good it had made him feel when Claudine Winthrop called him “sir.” She only did because she was afraid, he knew, but it still made him feel good. He didn’t understand the other part of what Franca said, though.

“You’re very wise. Does magic do that? Make a person wise?”

She let out the breathy laugh again, as if she found him as amusing as a fish with legs.

“If it did, then they would call it the Wise Man’s Keep, instead of the Wizard’s Keep. Some people would be wiser, perhaps, had they not been born with the buttress of magic.”

He’d never met anyone who’d been to Aydindril, much less the Wizard’s Keep. He could hardly believe a person with magic would talk to him. To an extent, he was worried because he didn’t know anything about magic and he figured that if she got angry she might do him harm.

He thought her fascinating, though, even if she was old.

They started out down the road toward the estate in silence. Sometimes silence made him nervous. He wondered if she could tell what he thought with her magic.

Fitch looked over at her. She didn’t look like she was paying any attention to his thoughts. He pointed at her throat.

“Mind if I ask what sort of thing that is, Franca? That band you wear at your throat? I’ve never seen anyone wear anything like it before. Is it something to do with magic?”

She laughed aloud. “Do you know, Fitch, that you are the first person in a great many years to ask me about this? Even if it is because you don’t know enough to fear asking a sorceress such a personal question.”

“Sorry, Franca. I didn’t mean to say nothing offensive.”

He began to worry he had stupidly said something to make her angry. He surely didn’t want an Ander woman, and one with magic besides, angry with him. She was silent for a time as they walked on down the road. Fitch stuck his sweating hands back in his pockets.

At last she spoke again. “It isn’t that, Fitch. Offensive, I mean. It just brings up bad memories.”

“I’m sorry, Franca. I shouldn’t have said it. Sometimes I say stupid things. I’m sorry.”

He was wishing he had gone to get drunk, instead.

After a few more strides, she stopped and turned to him. “No, Fitch, it wasn’t stupid. Here.”

She hooked the throat band and pulled it down for him to see. Even though it was dark, there was a moon and he could see a thick lumpy line, all white and waxy-looking, ringing her neck. It looked to him to be a nasty scar.

“Some people tried to kill me, once. Because I have magic.” Moonlight glistened in her moist eyes. “Serin Rajak and his followers.”

Fitch never heard the name. “Followers?”

She pulled the throat band back up. “Serin Rajak hates magic. He has followers who think the same as he. They get people all worked up against those with magic. Gets them in a state of wild hate and blood lust.

“There’s nothing uglier than a mob of men when they have it in their heads to hurt someone. What one alone wouldn’t have the nerve to do, together they can easily decide is right and then accomplish. A mob takes on a mind of its own—a life of its own. Just like a pack of dogs chasing down some lone animal.

“Rajak caught me and put a rope around my neck. They tied my hands behind my back. They found a tree, threw the other end of the rope over a limb, and hoisted me up by that rope around my neck.”

Fitch was horrified. “Dear spirits—that must have hurt something awful.”

She didn’t seem to hear him as she stared off.

“They were stacking kindling under me. Going to have a big fire. Before they could get the fire lit, I managed to get away.”

Fitch’s fingers went to his throat, rubbing his neck as he tried to imagine hanging on a rope around his neck.

“That man—Serin Rajak. Is he a Haken?”

She shook her head as they started out again. “You don’t have to be Haken to be bad, Fitch.”

They walked in silence for a time. Fitch got the feeling she was off somewhere in her memories of hanging by a rope around her throat. He wondered why she didn’t choke to death. Maybe the rope wasn’t tight, he decided—tied with a knot so it would hold its loop. He wondered how she got away. He knew, though, that he’d asked enough about it, and dared ask no more.

He listened to the stone chips crunching under their boots. He stole careful glances, now and again. She no longer looked happy, like she had at first. He wished he’d kept his question to himself.

Finally, he thought maybe he’d ask her about something that had made her smile before. Besides, it was why he had really wanted to walk along with her in the first place.

“Franca, what was the Wizard’s Keep like?”

He was right; she did smile. “Huge. You can’t even imagine it, and I couldn’t tell you how big it is. It stands up on a mountain overlooking Aydindril, beyond a stone bridge crossing a chasm thousands of feet deep. Part of the Keep is cut from the mountain itself. There are notched walls rising up like cliffs. Broad ramparts, wider than this road, go to various structures. Towers rise up above the Keep, here and there. It was magnificent.”

“Did you ever see a Seeker of Truth? Did you ever see the Sword of Truth, when you was there?”

She frowned over at him. “You know, as a matter of fact, I did. My mother was a sorceress. She went to Aydindril to see the First Wizard about something—what, I’ve no idea. We went across one of those ramparts to the First Wizard’s enclave in the Keep. He has a separate place where he had wonders of every sort. I remember that bright and shiny sword.”

She seemed well pleased with telling him about it, so he asked, “What was it like? The First Wizard’s enclave? And the Sword of Truth?”

“Well, let me see. . . .” She put a finger to her chin to think a moment before she began her story.