A consuming fire, p.12
A Consuming Fire, page 12
Anya stood and considered him for a moment as he turned to his knives with a fixed concentration she hadn’t yet seen in the thief. For reasons she couldn’t quite sort out, it irked her to have Tieran so oblivious to her presence when she was nearby. With a decisive gesture, she reached out and dropped her coin into the pail at his side, where it landed with a small metallic sound. Tieran froze, and Anya took the opportunity to walk off at once, glancing over one shoulder only long enough to see that the thief had gone red as her band. It pleased some restless, relentless part of her, to make him flustered, and set a light and floating feeling at her core.
For a short while, Anya drifted up and down behind the white-painted line. Some of the archers seemed very capable, and there were liveried guard members watching them carefully. Though plenty of people milled about, drawn to the rest of the festival attractions, not many stopped for long, and most glanced dismissively at the exhibition before turning away. Few paid real attention, or walked the line to leave tokens in honor of particular skill.
Tieran, it seemed to Anya, was at a disadvantage, as his lane was at the line’s farthest end. She watched from a comfortable distance, free to stare as much as she liked, as he finished making his meticulous preparations and palmed several knives. He handled the blades with precision, showing a self-assurance she hadn’t expected. The thief had always struck her as a disaster on two legs, but here, seemingly unaware of any audience, his focus was a palpable thing, and he moved with feral grace.
Anya could not tear her attention away as, effortlessly, without appearing to choose a stance with care or focus much on the target at all, Tieran let his knives fly. One after another, they left his hand, all three of them striking hard, blades buried deep at the target’s center. He repeated the act, this time with his left hand rather than his right, then fetched his knives back and began again. Presently, as if bored by demonstrating the same skill repeatedly, he adjusted focus and aimed for the outer rim of the target instead, leaving half a dozen blades quivering in a perfect circle around the target’s narrow edge.
Still no one stopped, and his pail stayed empty except for Anya’s offering. Though Tieran showed no outward sign of caring, Anya herself was growing increasingly frustrated. It annoyed her to see the thief working hard at something honest and gaining nothing for his efforts. Some of the showier archers had pails heavy with coin despite the thin crowds, and the guards watching them offered an occasional encouraging word.
The trouble was, Anya thought, that Tieran was all skill and no spectacle. He was unassuming and devastatingly efficient and not eye-catching in the least. He lacked the elegance of the best archers, even if he could match their accuracy. And his chosen weapons were a more visceral, brutish thing. The better archers gave an impression of righteousness, as if they were avenging angels. As if they were a defending force standing between the watcher and danger. Tieran, on the other hand, could not help giving off the air of a cutthroat. He was not a guardian, but danger itself, met in a back alley at night, and so onlookers shied away.
Well, Anya knew how that felt. They drew back from her as well, though she had one advantage Tieran did not—when she flaunted her band, all eyes fixed on her.
All eyes fixed on her.
An idea sparked in Anya. It rested within her, sharp and bright and just, and so she gave herself no time to question it, but immediately started across the green. When she’d approached the exhibition overseer with Tieran, she’d hung back, face and band hidden by the broad brim of her new hat. Now, she removed the hat, setting it aside in the shade of a nearby tent. She pushed her hair back and loosened the neck of her woolspun shirt a little, to ensure that her scarlet collar showed to full advantage. Then she strode purposefully up to the overseer’s booth.
The guard’s air of disinterest vanished immediately at the sight of Anya.
“Weatherell girl,” he said, his voice clipped and respectful. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I’m hoping you can help me with something,” Anya answered, smiling sweetly. “I’ve taken an interest in your exhibition. You see, very soon—in a matter of weeks—I’m going to have to face something terribly dangerous. And I thought, standing here watching, that it might be wise to get an idea of how that feels in advance. To test my own mettle, I suppose.”
A vague flash of what might have been panic crossed the guard’s face. “What—what is it you’re suggesting?”
“I’d like to stand in front of someone’s target while they shoot,” Anya told him, doing everything she could to channel Ilva’s charm and confidence. “That’s all. We could ask for volunteers if you like, or I could just choose someone. Of course, they should be allowed to refuse if they’re not certain of their skill.”
“I can’t agree to that,” the guard said firmly. “Neither Lord Nevis nor the Elect would approve.”
“But it’s what I want,” Anya said stubbornly. “Everyone beyond the wood is meant to give a Weatherell girl whatever she asks for, to fit her out for her journey and her task. This is what I’m asking for. This is what I think will help.”
The guard was fighting to retain his detached manner, perspiration beading on his forehead.
“I take it there’s some… tension… between your ranks and the Elect,” Anya said, though she had only a rudimentary understanding of the function of politics and power in the world outside of Weatherell. “I could make that tension a great deal worse, you know. I could tell the Elect you’ve disrespected me and my calling.”
The threat came out with startling ease—Ilva’s gregarious lifelong influence followed by Tieran’s company were doing nothing for Anya’s once-unimpeachable morals.
“We’ll put it to them,” the guard said reluctantly, gesturing at the white-painted line. “If no one agrees, you’ll have to carry on. If anyone does agree—well, then on their head be it.”
Anya nodded. “That sounds fair enough.”
She followed the guard to the open green space behind the line. He took out a wooden whistle and blew a shrill blast on it, summoning the archers and Tieran from their lanes. As they came, the thief shot Anya a bewildered glance, which she pointedly ignored.
“This is our next Weatherell girl,” the guard said, gesturing to Anya. “She’s on her way to the mountain and wants a favor from one of you.”
Every one of the exhibitors was watching Anya now, as well as any onlookers who’d been milling about. Her nerves, as always, began to sing at the attention and she tamped them down.
“You all seem very skilled,” she said gently. “And you know I’m bound for somewhere dangerous, to face down our great and terrible god. I’m hoping to get a glimpse of what it might be like. An idea of the fear, I suppose.”
She could feel Tieran’s gaze fixed on her, and when she looked his way he was wide-eyed, imperceptibly shaking his head. Undaunted, Anya continued.
“If you’re certain enough of your own skill to stand me in front of a target and shoot at it anyway, stay here,” she said. “If not, take a step back.”
Well over half the exhibitors hurried to back away. Half a dozen stayed, including Tieran, though he looked miserable and had his head down.
Anya made a show of looking over those who’d remained. Several were proud and overconfident, and she would not have let them loose an arrow at her for all the coin in Albion. A few were quiet and steadfast, and Anya expected they could do the job if called upon. Only Tieran, among those who’d stayed, seemed as if he’d like the earth to open and swallow him up.
“The boy with the knives,” she said, after it felt as if she’d deliberated long enough.
“What, him?” one of the brashest archers protested. “He’s nobody and nothing. I’ve been a tournament champion in eight counties. Ewan here, who’s overseeing things, can vouch for me—we serve together in Nevis’s guard now. Let me be the one to do what you’re asking.”
“The boy with the knives,” Anya repeated firmly.
“Well?” the guard in command asked Tieran. “Do you agree?”
Still staring at the ground, Tieran muttered something inaudible.
“Speak up,” the guard repeated impatiently.
“Said yeah, all right,” Tieran answered, glancing up with a scowl.
“Good,” Anya said, though her heart was racing in her chest. People had been drifting over from the fairgrounds to see what the fuss was about, and more were gathering by the minute. It was what she wanted, and yet she couldn’t still her nerves. To steady herself, she held out a hand to Tieran, as if they’d never met and she expected an escort. “Shall we?”
He took it, and for all he’d looked reluctant his touch was solid and warm beneath hers, not the least bit of him shifting with pent-up emotion. Somewhere deep down, whether he’d acknowledge it to himself or not, he was certain of his skill, and that lent Anya courage.
“You sure about this?” he said under his breath as they headed for his lane, the crowd they’d gathered following after them eagerly.
“No,” Anya murmured. “Not at all. But I’ve made a scene already and I am sure of you, so there’s no turning back.”
Tieran winced as Anya voiced her trust in him, but nevertheless walked her down the green lane to where the wooden target stood. Anya tried not to look at the way the surface had been scored and riven by the thief’s blades.
“Stand like this,” Tieran said, and Anya had never heard him speak so softly before. He put a hand on both of her shoulders and guided her into place, so that she stood with her back pressed against the target, arms at her sides.
“I wanted to help,” Anya told him earnestly. “You needed it and I didn’t know what else to do. I’m not afraid of you, Tieran, I promise.”
He gave her a hangdog look. “How come your hands are shaking, then?”
“It’s not on your account, it’s because of them,” she said, nodding in the direction of the waiting crowd, which had swelled alarmingly. The whole thing was so absurd Anya couldn’t help but smile a bit. “I hate people watching me. Always have done.”
Tieran crooked an eyebrow. “Hate it more than having knives thrown at you?”
“Well, I don’t really know,” Anya answered. “I’ve always been afraid of getting in front of people, but no one’s ever thrown something sharp at me before. Give me a moment and I’ll let you know how they measure up.”
“Never done this before either,” Tieran said honestly. “Don’t like it. Don’t want to do it. Want to run.”
Anya shook her head. “No running. I was watching you. So long as you don’t lose your nerve, we’ll both be fine. I’ve taken more risks crossing busy lanes.”
“Didn’t think they had busy lanes in Weatherell,” Tieran said, but he turned and walked back to where his knives waited beside the white-painted line. It suddenly seemed, to Anya, like an impossibly far distance.
Reluctantly, Tieran bent and picked up a single blade. He tested its weight carefully, as if he’d never touched the thing before. All the assurance Anya had seen in him earlier was gone, replaced by the sullen, closed-off hesitance into which he so often retreated.
Without warning, Tieran let the knife fly. Anya held her breath, but she did not shut her eyes and did not flinch as the blade sank into the wooden target with a resounding thud, fully two feet from her head.
One of the archers scoffed. “That the best you can do?”
Again, Tieran threw. Again, the knife hit the target near its edge. Half a dozen times he repeated the act, exhausting his store of blades.
The onlookers were disappointed and unhappy at how obviously he was holding back, and muttered among themselves. A few had already begun to drift away.
“Again,” Anya called sharply.
Tieran came to her, and she stayed just as she was while he pulled his knives from the target.
“Stop being afraid of me,” she told him. “You can do better. Don’t think of me, think of your family. Think of making a start at paying them back.”
“Not afraid of you,” he said. “Afraid of myself.”
Anya met his gaze, stubborn and immoveable. “Well, I’m not. Never have been. You’re less of a liability than you think, Tieran of nowhere, and less of a risk than you’ve been told.”
Tieran kept silent, and when he gave her one last look, his clever hazel eyes were haunted.
When the thief took his place on the white line once more, his attention wavered. Anya could see it, focused as she was on him. A sudden catch of the breath, a glance to the right and left, an intensifying of the hesitance in his posture. Worried, she scanned the crowd, searching for the source of Tieran’s discomfort, and found Orielle and Roger standing among the onlookers, with four other grayrobes gathered around them. They watched Anya closely, a potent blend of shock and disapproval on their faces.
Her heart sank. It was evident from their expressions that it had been one thing for Anya to publicly question her betters on points of justice and the Cataclysm. But this—making a spectacle of herself, courting danger, showing an audience firsthand what it looked like for a red-collared girl to put herself in harm’s way—was no longer something they could tolerate.
I could disappear, Anya realized with an awful chill. The escort they’ve offered was not just a kindness but a threat. They could take me into their white halls and fit me out for the mountain and no one would question it, and I would not know a moment of freedom from here to the end of the road.
But Tieran knew. His eyes caught hers and he nodded, and that was all they needed between them.
Palming his knives, three in each hand, the thief chose his stance carefully for the first time. A breathless and quiet moment passed, during which all that could be heard was distant music from the fairgrounds and the breeze tugging at canvas tent flaps. Anya saw the moment Tieran fully committed himself to the task at hand. Saw him sink into himself, and become not a boy, but a blade.
It was like a song, what happened next. The slight hum of the knives as they arced through the air in breathtaking succession. The percussive jolt as they hit, one after another. The calm that swept over Anya as she stepped forward and felt the hilts of Tieran’s blades brush the crown of her head, the sides of her neck and arms. They’d come with an inch of her, and she had not flinched, and he had not faltered.
The crowd erupted into chaos and cheering, not for Anya but for the thief. Cautiously, she chose her moment. She waited until every hint of a gray robe had been swallowed up by the writhing mass of onlookers, and then slipped behind the nearest tent, preparing to lose herself in the tangled, bright maze of the fairgrounds. Part of her still thrilled with nerves at the prospect of the grayrobes finding and laying hands on her. But the greater part knew she’d got the best of them again, and done what she felt was right even when they disapproved.
“Weatherell girl.”
The guard, Ewan, who’d been overseeing the exhibition, had noticed Anya’s departure and followed. A shock of anxiety ran through her, from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet. But all he did was nod.
“That was… an education. Lord Nevis will find your conduct today interesting, to say the least.”
“Why?” Anya asked. “He’s not one of the Elect. Why should he care about me at all, so long as I do what I’m meant to, and placate the god?”
“Lord Nevis is always interested in the progress of Albion’s sacrifices,” the guard said meaningfully. “And if you ever find yourself in need of help—the sort that you can’t count on the Elect for—well, he’d be willing to give it.”
Anya cast a sidelong look at the guard. She didn’t like his insinuations any more than she liked the Elect’s interference in her progress.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” she said flatly, before disappearing into the crowd.
THIRTEEN Curtains
That’s for you,” Tieran said roughly as he arrived in camp that night and dropped a heavy sack of coins down beside Matthias.
Anya had been back for several hours already and was reassured that Linny, her redoubtable mam, and their group of travelers had made it to the sunken lane, after which they were sent safely on their way. Tieran was the last of the wanderers’ folk to straggle in, and at the sight of the full purse he’d brought, Matthias went pale.
“What… where did you get… Tieran, you didn’t—”
The thief bridled. “Came by it honestly. They had an archers’ exhibition today and there wasn’t no one else throwing knives. Suppose I was a… what do you call it. A novelty.”
Matthias did not look reassured.
“She can tell you,” Tieran said, jerking his head in Anya’s direction. “She was there.”
Anya nodded quickly. “I can, and I was. Tieran did very well for himself, and there was nothing underhanded involved. Promise.”
“All right then,” Matthias said, visibly relieved. “In that case, thank you, Tieran. This’ll go far for us.”
Tieran sat down a foot or so from Anya, and Midge trotted over to him, smiling her dog’s smile and begging for attention. The thief threw an arm around her neck and buried his face in her ruff of long fur for a moment. When he looked up, he seemed calm and centered—more so than Anya had seen him since he’d realized the wanderers were taking new risks on his account.
“It’s a start,” Tieran told Matthias. “Not enough yet by half, but I’ll keep at it till I pay back what I owe.”
“You know it’s not like that,” Matthias said anxiously, breaking the corner off a hard slice of waybread and handing it to Midge, who ate it greedily and whined for more. “You don’t owe me anything. Never have, never will. If this was just a matter of you and me, it’d be old history already.”
“But it’s not just between us,” Tieran said. “And you’ve always had more than me to look out for. So I’ll stay beholden until I’ve made good for everyone, not just you.”
The tension between them was beginning to set Anya on edge, but she was saved by the appearance of Ella and Janie.
