to be a prisoner.
Each time that the torturer stomped past, Fallion would be alerted by the sound of jangling keys, followed by the thump, thump, thump of booted feet. Then the light would come, blessed light, and for long minutes after the brute was gone, Fallion would savor the afterimage of the torch, its flames twisting gently, sputtering, the delicious aroma of oily smoke lingering in its wake.
Sometimes, Fallion would look to see if his brother was still alive. Jaz rarely roused himself anymore. His chains did not rattle; his breathing came slow. Only every few hours did he struggle for a breath, suddenly gasping.
They’re going to kill him, Fallion realized.
Jaz was second in line for the throne. Those who wanted Mystarria badly enough to kill children would place a great value on him.
But Fallion was the prize. He held the birthright. He was the one that the killers would want most.
And maybe even the people of Mystarria, he hoped. They might want me, too, enough to pay my ransom.
He couldn’t imagine that. He was a child, more trouble than he was worth. He was not some great king, skilled in diplomacy and wise beyond the understanding of the common folk.
I’m nothing, Fallion knew. They would not want me.
But they would pay nonetheless, he suspected, if only to soothe the national conscience.
“See,” Chancellor Westhaven would tell himself, “I did not let my princes die. I am a good man.”
Mystarria was wealthy, one of the wealthiest nations in the world. Surely Westhaven would pay.
If he could.
Fallion recalled the smoke rising from the palace at the Courts of Tide. There had been a fierce battle, the kind where nations fall.
Lowicker the Brat might have prevailed, or the Warlords of Internook might have invaded by now. Mystarria might be nothing more than a fading dream of glory.
No one can rescue me, Fallion realized. And so I must rescue myself. But how?
The manacles were too tight for him to wriggle loose. In the days since his imprisonment, they had only grown tighter. His flesh had swollen, and now his wrists were as large as a man’s. No matter how he moved, he could not get comfortable. Sometimes wounds opened if he squirmed too much, and blood flowed down his arms into his armpits, smelling of iron.
He had only one asset. Fire.
But there was nothing to burn in his cell. No cots or mattresses, no wooden chairs or beams. Perhaps his captors knew of his powers, so they gave him no fuel.
Even if I had fire, what would I do with it? Could I make it hot enough to melt my chains?
Perhaps.
But in order to survive such heat, Fallion would have to accept Fire as his master, become like the flameweavers of legend who were so powerful that they clothed themselves in nothing but living flame.
And thus wrapped in flames, they gave in to their passions, their hunger, and went from place to place, seeking to make the world an inferno.
Fallion’s father had battled such creatures. They were no longer human.
Why would I want to? Fallion wondered. Why would I want to serve something that doesn’t serve me?
“To live,” Fire whispered. “To grow. It is only Fire that can set you free.”
Fallion was hovering near death when Shadoath finally entered his cell. He did not hear the keys rattle or the grating of the door as it swung on hinges that were almost never used. He became aware of her only gradually, first when he heard the sound of Jaz gulping, greedily drinking, the water splashing on the floor, as the child whimpered in relief.
He thought it was only a dream at first, some nightmare that featured sustenance that would never come. It was not until he heard Shadoath’s voice, gentle and seductive, that he realized that she had come, “There, Child. Drink. Drink your fill. I’ll save you. I’ll be your mother now.”
Fallion’s eyes flew open. The room was lit by a narrow candle, tall and thin, lying upon a silver plate, beside a silver bowl. Jaz was down from his manacles, and now he lay in the arms of the most beautiful woman that Fallion had ever seen. Jaz’s dull eyes stared up at Shadoath, and Fallion had never seen such adoration in the eyes of any being. Shadoath had saved him. She was beautiful beyond dreams. She had no ewer from which to drink. Instead, Jaz drank from her cupped palm.
His eyes said it all: his soul was hers, now, if she wanted it.
Shadoath took a crust of bread from the pocket of her black robe, fed it to Jaz. He wept at the taste of it, and she stroked the tears from his cheek, then bent her head and kissed his forehead.
“So hot,” she whispered. “Your head is so warm.” She lifted him, peered up at Fallion, and smiled. Then strode away, leaving the light.
Fallion’s own tongue was leathery, and felt as if it had swollen in his throat. His stomach cramped so hard that it felt as if it were wrapped around a stone.
Yet his body seemed almost weightless now, and he could no longer feel the pain of the manacles slicing into his wrists, or the muscles stretching in his arms.
He was hot, too. Feverish. And as his brother was carried away, Fallion burned for release, yearned to be carried with him, and wept for want of water.
But there was only fire in the room.
Fire!
Fallion closed his eyes, felt the heat of the candle. He was more sensitive to the flame now than he had ever been. It was a bright and steady presence in the room, like the impotent rage that was building in him.
There is fire all around, Fallion realized. There are flames inside me, burning for release. There are fires inside the other prisoners.
I don’t need torches to build an inferno. I could draw the fire from them.
It had been done. Fallion had heard of flameweavers so sensitive that they could draw light from the sky, or suck the heat from a human body.
It could be done again.
Fallion reached out with his consciousness, let it surround the candle, bask in its warmth. The candle sputtered, seemed to come alive.
A rage built inside Fallion. His brother had been carried away, refreshed, weeping in gratitude.
Had Jaz died, Fallion would have mourned. But Jaz had been claimed by Shadoath, and there was no word for the grief that Fallion felt now.
Jaz will be kept as a slave, Fallion realized. Perhaps he’ll be pampered and treated well, like the bright Ones who brought us here. But he’ll be hers, and he’ll learn to serve her without thought, without compassion.
From the shadows of the room, Valya strode, and knelt to pick up the light. He had not seen her there.
She had heard him crying.
“You can have food,” Valya said. “You can have water, too. All you have to do is beg.”
Fallion shook his head. He didn’t want to live as a servant of Shadoath.
“Mother can give good things, too,” Valya said. “It’s not all punishment.”
The words were just one more blow. “Mother?” Fallion asked. “She’s your mother?”
“Yes,” Valya said too loudly, as if it were nothing to be ashamed of, as if she’d fight him if he uttered a single syllable of condemnation.
There is light in her still, Fallion thought. She sees the truth about her mother, and hates her.
“I can set you free,” Fallion promised.
Valya stormed from the room.
Shortly afterward, perhaps only hours though it might have been days, Fallion woke again.
He’d been dreaming a dream unlike any that he’d ever had before. All of his dreams now were of the prison, of the torturer stumping past his cell, keys rattling. Sometimes in the dream, the torturer turned and leered at Fallion. Sometimes he opened the door, hot tongs in hand, and smiled grimly. Sometimes he brought water, and just as Fallion was taking a drink, he would plunge a blade into Fallion’s chest and begin to twist it, twisting, twisting, so that Fallion’s innards wound around the blade and eventually began to pull free.
