Fireberry Fever Dreams

Hyperlink table of Contents
Scene 2
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Scene 14
Sceme 16


Fireberry Fever Dreams
1

Under the dizzy stars, from among the leaves of the vitalis tree, the flickering yellow and red fireberries cast runes of shadow and flame upon the forest floor. With that, the breeze whispered its warning. On that grassy scroll, the scrawny little boy Jode tossed and turned.

In his dream, Jode clawed his way out of the little boy-body and hunched to hide behind the top of the tree. With each forward step, he ripped his fingers and toes from the ground like roots. He glared at the lamplight that flickered in his family's kitchen, and stomped toward it, crawling on hands and knees under the doorway.

"I–" Jode's mother, Veria, sat on the floor, arms over her face, sobbing. "'M sorry. Won't do it again. Please!"

A red-skinned demon with Jode's father's face waved a frying pan. "See that you don't, witch."

Jode howled and roared so loud that the doors and cabinets rattled.

The demon Jodemer looked about in confusion. "Stop your tricks!"

In a whine, she pleaded, "I can–it's not me. I didn't take any–"

"Teach you to lie, ignorant little backwoods dabbler." Jodemer's demon swung the frying pan over his head, spattering the room with grease.

But Jode grabbed it on the backswing and ripped it from the burly demon's hands. With a roar, Jode grabbed Jodemer's hatchet from the demon-faced man's belt and started hacking. "If you think you can get away with this, just wait until Daddy 'Demer comes home!"

The demon tried to fight, stabbing at Jode with a dagger as soft as a cloud.

Again and again, Jode brought the ax down on the demon's head.

Veria cried in horror, "No! Jode, don't. Stop it!"

His sister, Iyanla, came to the door and screamed in terror.


2

Back under the tree:

With a shuddering start, Jode fell into his body.

Peeking out the kitchen doorway into the forest, Iyanla screamed, "Help, help, there's a demon. Somebody? Anybody? Help."

"Oh, it was only a dream." Jode rolled his eyes and shook himself before moving toward his family's cabin, ignoring the gigantic claw marks in the ground. What is Sis on about?

As Iyanla ran and grabbed Jode, forester Danril ran to the kitchen.

Jode struggled against his big sister's grip. "I've gotta go see Mommy."

"No, Jode! It's not safe."

"Great mazes beyond!" The scream came from the kitchen.

Forester Danril's yelp set even the trees on edge.

Afraid to think what had happened in the kitchen, Jode shuddered. He looked at his sister for answers.

She turned her eyes and hugged Jode close.

Danril yelled more. "Veria! What what what?"

The forest held its breath, afraid to speak what Jode knew. His nightmare had come true.

Danril's further yell sounded more a whisper, with all the flavor cut from it. "What have you done."

Jode struggled against Iyanla's grip as his big sister held him close. He whined, "Let me at her."

Danril pointed at Iyanla. "Keep that boy away. And you, too. I see to your mother." He turned back to the kitchen.

The forest got quiet.

Forester Danrill grabbed his hair and stared into the kitchen. "Ya alright?"

"Daddy!" Knowing that nightmares don't come true, Jode cried a little boy's prayer to Jodemer. Not even in the fever of the fireberry could it have happened: his daddy, Jodemer, did not lay shattered on the kitchen floor. "Come help, we need you."
3

Another time, with other people:

Relemiah embroidered lettering into a bit of linen as her aging mother, Nemiah, watched over her.

"Yes, that pattern; that is all I can remember."

Would the half-remembered pattern have even a sliver of the magic? Relemiah looked with apprehension into her mother's eyes.

"Learn it well, Reli." She gripped Relemiah's sagging shoulder.

The walls pressed in on Relemiah. Not enough, she thought. Without a fireberry tree, she lacked the fire needed to kindle her baby's life. She glared back over her shoulder at Nemiah.

The old woman smiled and sat beside her. "Perhaps you can intuit still more."

She couldn't do this alone. Relemiah frowned upon her mother. "We spoke of this. You must…"

Nemiah smiled sadly and brushed the hair out of her daughter's eyes.

…survive. She needed her mother to survive, but that stark word caught in Relemiah's throat. Relemiah swallowed and conjured her courage. "Continue."

'Held off so long as I can." Nemiah's shoulders shook as she drew a breath. "The gates are calling."

Relemiah shuddered at the mention of the afterlife and looked sadly at the red-pulsing, yellow liquid in the bottle. "There is not enough."

"You can stretch it for some time. Just mind the pattern in that cloth."

"Always, too hopeful." The young woman stood up and looked out the window. The late harvest season "They have driven the old groves to extinction. There remains…"

"Always hope, my child." The old lady pushed down and stood over her daughter. "Perhaps you will find the pulsing of the fireberry in your own heart, as I have."

Like some trueborn in a sorcerer's tower, calling fire from the sky? No. The hunters clear-cut the magical forests inside her, as well. "Not only under the moons have they cut the trees."

"These words." Nemiah laid a wrinkled knuckle on her daughter's cheek, meeting Relemiah's backward look with a tired smile. "See that they do not come true for much repetition."

"However hard it is to kindle, I…" Relemiah sighed, then looked over to her mother. She clung to the teachings of her people. "I do embrace the fire."

Nemiah touched her daughter's knee. "Buried in ashes beneath the snow…"

The ancient poem spoke of hope, but all Relemiah could feel was the despair piling up in layers of white frost on the burned and blackened landscape of her soul.

"You have the wisdom; you too can stoke the afterflame." The old lady hobbled to the crib and looked down. "He has Emaril's eyes."

Long ago, Relemiah could feel the warmth even in the cold of winter; but no longer. Still, this was only a distraction. "Don't go." She stared deep into her mother's gaze.

Nemiah turned away from Relemiah.

She needed her mother as much as her son needed her. And also because her son needed her. "Do not give him your last."

"Would you choose your mother over her grandson?" She touched the baby and began to shiver.

"You cannot ask that."

"Oh, my reluctant warrior," Nemiah sighed. "It is fate that is asking."

Relemiah wanted to scream at her mother, beg her to fight. To rage against the falling night. To fight as Relemiah had not, so many years ago, at the burning of the vitalis tree. All had been said. Reluctant warrior, indeed.

Nemiah's hair darkened. The scattered white hairs turned black, and a black stain formed on the old lady's skin.

"Mother! No!" Realizing it was too late, she grabbed the bottle, with the pulsing red glow. "Take the damn potion!"

With that, the hungry blackness swept over Nemiah, leaving a statue of charcoal.

In the time of a single, gasping breath, the black statue crumbled into a cloud. The bitter-cold stink of mint coated Relemiah's throat and froze her lungs. The cloud formed a black snowfall. It landed in a circle on the floor. Waved away by Relemiah's skirt, the thin circle of dust swirled into nothingness.

The old woman might as well never have been.

No surprise crossed Relemiah's grim face as she moved to her child.

The red-eyed baby smiled up at her.

As she looked upon her son, relief softened her cheeks, and she almost matched the little one's smile.

"Nemiah!" A voice called from outside, bursting through the door. "We don't have to…"

One look into Relemiah's eyes, and he stopped. The slight man grabbed Relemiah and held her. "Nemiah will be missed."

She coughed down her tears. "You found it?"

He nodded. "Think so."

"They live a thousand years, Emaril. A thousand thousand. They weather fire and drought."

He turned his face away from her, holding her tighter still.

"Why? Why do you destroy such a precious…."

He gripped her, hands supporting the base of her neck, and pressed her to his heart. "I don't know, Relemiah. I just … do not know."

But he did; they both knew. Their precious treasure burned, a fever that many could neither command nor quench. All she could do was clutch the man close to her and sob softly into his shoulder, as his tears flowed into hers.

4

Shaking from the thought his stepfather could have been murdered by an invisible demon, the tiny Jode trembled behind the door and listened to the man with the shovel–forester Danril?–talk to his mother.

"I'n right, what happen here."

Mother simply stared for a moment, then closed her eyes. "We just had a passing bad run of luck, that's really all."

"That what you call it?" He dusted his hands and picked up the shovel. "When a man just up and dies from his own ax?"

She looked up at him. "What might you be implying? Jode's not a bad lot."

The man nodded back in surprise. "The boy? No. Just, no."

Veria gave him an arch look. "What then?"

"Haunted?" Danril shrugged. "Living or dead, don't know."

Chin down, Veria stared at the man through her eyebrows, with no sign whether she was sizing him up or demanding an explanation.

Danril spat. "Somebody, something.  'Tain't safe."

"I'm not any kind of witch if that's what you suggest." She stepped toward him as if ready to draw a sword–though she had dressed for the kitchen, not for the wilds. She dusted her hands and whispered, "I left all that–the dabblers and miscreants–behind me in the city."

"Heh." Danril stepped back, raised his shovel between him and the woman. He walked forward and laid his arm behind her neck. "Almost had me there. But there something wrong. I get you out of here."

Stiff as a board, Veria whispered, "I will not have you burning me alive over some ridiculous superstition!"

"You're mad, you know what?" He strode to the door. "Questioners will hear this."

"I told you not to call anybody."

He shook his head. "Who you think I am?"

"You!" She shook and looked out the shutters. "You're the authority in these parts."

"Yep." He scoffed. "Til some man says I'm wrong."

"Damnit, Danril. We can't have them here."

"Well? Can or not, they be here soon." He picked up a roll from her oven and bit in.

"No, Danril." She came up and touched him in the shoulder. "Please? I'll do, ah…"

Darnril gazed into her eyes, a cockeyed smile spreading.

"Any…" Veria blushed and looked at his belt. "...thing."

Danril grinned and pulled her chin up. "Really?"

Veria shrugged, grimaced, and nodded.

Jode slammed the wall in rage.

The cupboards clacked and the lids on the black fire stove popped.

"I'll be. A witch?" Danril laughed and pushed Veria to her knees. "Better stop this off."

Her voice quivered as she pushed away. "Please. You don't understand. It's you that had better stop."

"Don't want to hear it." Danril laughed again. "Thinking, 'shove the woman in the oven, save the questioners some trouble.'"

"Don't laugh at Mom." Jode bit into the burning fruit and made a scratching motion.

As though someone had pulled the rug from under him, Danril fell, scrambling to the floor.

"You think this is funny?" He reached up and pulled her face down to his knee. "Not Jode's dad. Not dying easy."

"Don't threaten my Mother," Jode whispered under his breath.

The cupboards clacked and the fire hissed.

"Please, just… not here." Veria put her hand on Danril's shoulder. "I told you I'd do anything, and I will. Just not here."

Danril grabbed his shovel and pushed the floor away. Then he pointed it at Veria. "Right attitude, wrong man." He held the shovel by the neck, so that the blade covered his forearm, and waved the handle under her nose.

"What… whatever do you mean."

"You hadn't got uppity, maybe your husban'd still be aground." Danril swung the shovel handle at her head, only to stop an apple-height above her shoulder. "Not hunting after the gates."

The gates–that's where the ghosts go when they're done. But, no! Daddy's not ready. He's still coming back from hunting. "You stop!"

She put her hand on her forehead, blocking Danril and his shovel from her sight. Looking down, and slightly back toward the door, through clenched teeth she insisted, "I don't need you to see this. I don't need your help."

"No, little lady." Danril huffed and pulled up his pants and stepped closer. "Don't suppose you're going to get my help."

As she continued to beg, her whine raised to a shriek. "Let him do what he wants. You don't need to be here."

The terror in his mother's voice made Jode's skin itch like fire.

"No wonder they burn you." Forester Danril jabbed her in the chest, sending her sprawled out in front of him.

Jode made a punching motion.

Danril groaned and doubled over, dropping his shovel to hold his hands between his legs.

Veria kicked him in the shoulders, to knock him back. "I bid you not make him watch. Did I not beseech you?"

Danril's head snapped to the side. "Broken gods!"

The shovel blade flew into Danril's face, throwing him back.

Sprawling back before Mother, Danril threw his arms up over his face.

Fireberry juice dripped down Jode's chin as he took another bite, fueling the fire inside–the fire that fed the beast.

"I'm sorry," Danril whined. "Please, no more!"

The shovel slammed against his face and against his head.

Danril fell to his knees.

Veria howled, "Do you see what you've done?"

"Stop it!" Jode cried to the shovel, to the space above Danril. "You don't have to keep going!"

Again and again, it hammered into the helpless man's head.

"Stop! Stop stop stop!" Jode yelled at the shovel. "Don't hit him!"

But with every cry, it slammed harder, until at last both Jode and the busted shovel clattered to the door.

"Let's go." Iyanla tiptoed into the kitchen, tugged Veria's hand. "While they sleep."

Veria shook her head and took up a bucket of water. "Can't you see? They'll know." She started to wipe away the blood on the floor.

Iyanla grabbed bread and put it in a basket. "I'm not afraid of the questioners."

"You should be." Veria sopped up still more blood. "Maybe they'll believe us."

"Danril was right, though. The questioners are right." She waved at the mayhem. "This is not."

"But my son–"

Iyanla stood aghast. "What about me, Mother?"

Veria swabbed up the blood with her rags. "I can't abandon my son. I can't let the questioners have you–either of you."

"But why, Mother?" She waved at the dying man on the floor. "What could be worse than this?"

5

A flickering in the moonless night, a lone candle lit the fat, wrinkled cheeks of the haughty innkeeper. Only the antics of the tiny flame hinted at any doubt behind his bourgeois arrogance.

"Good sir, I–" Emaril bowed, looking at the base of the candle. "I have a question. I am seeking…"

Innkeeper Lebarac hissed, "Let not even the wild winds hear of your quest."

Relemiah blinked at the familiar turn of phrase, despite the unfriendly tone of voice–words often heard about the campfire.

Emaril bowed his head in submission.

When Lebarac came close he leaned in and whispered to the woodsy couple, "Whether you be questioner or questioner business, I wash my hands of you all."

Relemiah draped the blanket over her boy's fireberry-red eyes and Emaril reached for his purse.

The innkeeper flinched as if a blade had flashed too near his face.

Despite their secret cousinhood, Lebarac still feared the tales of Relemiah's people–whether the stories of her people's magic, or of their doom beneath the crushing maces of the questioners, soon she would see.

"We mean you no harm." Emaril proffered a coin. 

"Ah, but I wish you would. The shadow of your fists, the stain of my blood." He shrugged and cut the purse from his belt. "'Twould go a way to making me look…above question."

Relemiah recoiled, but her husband smiled and pulled out a quill. "I truly cannot harm such a man as yourself." He stroked the man's face with the quill.

"Emaril!" Relemiah pulled back on her husband's arm and softened her whisper further, "Take care, our power is limited."

"A pittance, recovered by a moment's rest." He touched the invisible ink and waved his other hand, as if cranking some energy into it.

The innkeeper sniffed. "I do not understand."

"Should it come in handy, the mark will feed upon your face, leaving the painful semblance of a bruise."

"Will the questioner not detect your working?"

Emaril smiled and winked. "Magic by which I punish your… 'rudeness'?"

Lebarac glared and shook his head.

A classic ploy like that should work–if Lebarac played it deftly, it could fool an average questioner. Worse than the subterfuge was that she had to choose between warning Lebarac and protecting her family. She leaned in, whispering, "Any robber could strike you with a fist."

Lebarac tilted his head.

Her husband had a flair for gentle solutions. Relemiah whispered, "But the questioner seeks people who could harm you from afar."

Emaril patted the innkeeper on his shoulder. "So simply say something bad about me, or my wife, and this mark shall wound you before the judge himself."

The innkeeper offered his purse again.

Enaril held up his hands to push the offering away. "We could not possibly take your money when it is you who have–"

"But you have performed a service for me," the innkeeper said and winked. "You blasted witches."

As the innkeeper's cheek turned purple, he took Emaril's soft hand and placed the purse in it. "No doubt I'll regret this, but my gold will serve you well–in places where magic is best not trafficked–and the resentment will help sell your story. My story."

"The merchant's mathematic." Emaril nodded and grinned, referring to the special corruption of 'civilized' thinking. "Have to admire the man who wields his counts against the questioners."

Lebarac sniffed and pointed to the road with his candle. "Find the pulsing shade…."

The traditional greeting. They could count Lebarac as friend, at least until Milos took hold of him. Rememiah sighed in guilty relief.

Emaril brushed the innkeeper's elbow and gave him a sad, brotherly smile. "Before they cut it down."

The gentle touch of Emaril's hand on Lebarac's elbow sang to Relemiah, of their shared centuries of oppression and hiding– whether that of Emaril's people in the forest-elf style huts or that of Lebarac's, in their villas and inns. She dared hope that Milos would see something worth sparing in Lebarac.

With a deep breath, the innkeeper offered up a dagger in a wood sheath.

Emaril cocked his eyebrow at the finely-carved small weapon, with pictures drawn in the handle and sheath.

Emaril looked to Relemiah.

The blade shone bright and clean. Relemiah nodded.

Emaril lowered his head and slowly lifted the dagger in both hands to peruse its contours in silent awe.

The wood itself, a fine blonde, had a wooden blade of cherry red. Emaril's fingers twitched at the touch of the blade.

Lebarac's holy blade warmed her skin. In the dark, its subtle glow washed the shadows from their faces.

Emaril's eyes opened wide. In a slow whisper, he said, "A fireberry dagger?"

"Most prized possession." The innkeeper shrugged. "The only remaining sign of my faith."

Emaril vibrated with the power of the holy relic. "I am deeply honored."

Relemiah gestured at her husband.

"And troubled." Emaril stretched out his hands to return the dagger. "How can you…?"

"Troubling times." Lebarac shrugged and held his own hands up in refusal. "And a long tradition of trading heritage for safety."

As she guided her husband to hide the dagger, Relemiah whispered, "We will never tell the questioner that you touched this."

Looking longingly after the dagger, Lebarac wiped away a tear. "May he never ask. Carry it in honor. The honor that once adorned the Lebarac name."
{loc:6|
6
Three days after the nightmare with Danril:

Sorrow burned behind Jode's eyes, aching to drip tears on his father's burial plot, right there beside Danril's. "You were supposed to be strong, Daddy 'Demer. You were supposed to protect me."

"Don't even." Iyanla folded her arms as she stood behind Jode. "You're not sorry."

"But I am, Sissy!" Jode balled up his fists. "You take that back."

"What are you going to do, Jode? Kill me like you killed Dad?"

"It wasn't me." He tried to tear his hair out. "You be quiet. I don't want to see–"

"Probably killed yours, too. Do it, Jode. Go on. Call your demon." Iyanla raised her head and closed her eyes. "Not afraid. Not like the men of this family."

"It wasn't me!" The wind rose up and the trees shook. Apples and pinecones fell. "That was a dream."

Iyanla scoffed. "You are a plague."

The bad one lurked on the edges. Jode had to silence Iyanla: had to. "I told you to take that back."

"I want to join Dad, Jode. Don't wanna live like this."

The rustling grew louder and Jode's fists balled up. Why wouldn't Iyanla just be quiet? Jode had to do something. In a burst, he ran to her and tackled her, knocking her on her back.

As he held Iyanla down, apples and pinecones pelted him in the head, smashing against him and leaving his hair bloody.

When it died down, Iyanla threw him off and yelled, "You're a monster, Jode! A monster." She ran into the wood.

Jode nodded, buried his head in the grass, and cried. His father would be fine, but who would protect his sister and mother?

7

In a distant room by a fire:
The old man, Milos, nodded dramatically and closed the book. "And that, you see, is why you cannot allow fireberries to stand."

The young lady, Quela, straightened her official robe, a simpler version of his. "But isn't it sometimes for the betterment?"

"I understand the attraction, my child." Milos nodded and paused. "Their glamor loses its sparkle when you bandage your burned fingers."

They said magic was ugly, having only the illusion of beauty–a glamor. "But if we destroy the fruit can we not spare the eaters?"

He scoffed and pulled back, just slightly. "The seeds remain within."

Quela's cheeks burned. Did he mean that literally–can a fireberry-drunk witch conjure her own tree? She had heard the stories since before she could speak. But… she raised her hand to speak but thought better.

Gently, as if touching a burning stove, Milos set his hand on her shoulder. "My child, would you not wish to return to the age of glass?"

In the mythic age of glass, without the simplest of sorceries, humanity had stacked glass and iron higher than mountains. Buildings rose tens, even scores of stories covered in walls of glass. Quela had seen the pictures but felt certain that their genesis–and also the moon, NASA–had been forged in the fires of magic. Most of all she feared that the lost Amerik empire had been as divided against their fellows as the urgan and the hinn against those still called human.

"Do not chastise yourself." He patted her head. "You came here to rise above such thoughts, to stop those who do not."

She had to admit, since donning the robes of the questioner, she herself had already turned away a handful of travesties. "Still, how does our merciless code differ from that of the barbarians–even the urgans?"

"Death can be a mercy." Milos stopped for a breath. "But from the pigsnouts, it is only by accident."

"But, Milos! The children?"

"To see the future of a child is a terrible weight." The man laid a cold hand on her shoulder and stared contemplatively off into the distance. "Our hands are stained, no matter what we do. I don't know what to do with that."

She shuddered and pulled away.

"You were called as much as I, my dear." Milos brushed her hair behind her ear. "To face the horror of what we do takes courage."

Quela shook her head sadly.

"I understand. You should be disgusted–with yourself more than me. I mean, I talk a good game, but…" He smiled down on her and offered her a biscuit. "You, on the other hand…?"

She waved him away.

He sat down in front of her. "You have the potential to be so much more, to face down the evil in this world."

Quela shuddered to look into Milos' eyes, to see them smiling down on her, as if they shared a cause–the cause of the grand church. She needed to get away, to wash off the scent of corruption, to get her bearings. The sillage of unworthiness in his presence drowned out all else. She could not smell right from wrong, let alone which she wanted. But one thing she could say, which was true enough no matter which side she chose: "I shall cleanse the earth of those whom magic has most corrupted." She glared at Milos, daring him to acknowledge her true meaning.

"Carefully spoken, Quela." He tipped his head back for a minute and shrugged. "Fortunately, to you, I am comrade, not questioner."
{Loc:8}

8

On the road with Milos:
Milos pulled his horse to a stop at the gate to the bridge.

"Be off!" The soldier at the gate brandished his mace. "We do not recognize your right of way."

"By the stripes, my child!" Milos scoffed. "Are you not a son of Adam?"

"Sweet Sigrun's name." The soldier kicked up dust. "My father's name Is Karloff and I do not recognize your hate."

The small woman beside Karloff's son took a three-fanged dagger from her quiver and flashed it so the questioners could see.

Quela gasped and pointed.

Milos bowed his head to the woman warrior. "A kind man such as yourself can be easily swayed to harm his own people. You should lower your gate and yield to our inquiry."

The woman warrior approached Karloff's son from behind.

"Inquisition, more like." He glanced back, surprised at his companion's odd and impractical three-pronged dagger, then returned to Milos.

Quela yelled, "Stop! She'll hurt you!"

Karloff's son dodged, only grazed by the tip of the dagger.

He slapped his hand over the scratch on his neck, foam drooling from the corners of his mouth as he stumbled forward.

Milos looked sadly at Quela. "Better you hadn't done that."

Karloff's son fell to his knees, shaking and groaning.

"But we could have helped him."

Milos nodded to the woman warrior, who dropped a killing blow on Karloff's son with her own mace.

Milos sniffed at the scene. "You have done the sons of Adam a service this day."

"It is nothing, Lord Questioner." She shrugged. "I never would have thought, a man like him…?"

"I grieve with you." Milos held her upstretched hand. He paused to lock eyes with Quela and said, "The best of us, our kindness gets turned to aid all that is vile. I don't know what to do with that."

The woman closed her eyes and nodded.

Quela knew Milos spoke to her even more than to the believer in front of him.

"There is a place for you in the coming age of glass, of that you can be sure."

The woman guard raised the gate, and they rode further onward.

When they were a distance away, and his whispers could not be heard by the guard, Milos rode close to Quela. "I am disappointed in your needless cruelty."

Quela gripped her reins in anger.

"Why prolong that man's suffering? It is fortunate that fine woman had the hardness to spare him."

"By what right?" Quela urged her horse forward. "Are we in bed with the cult of the Black Dragon King?"

"It is not up to you to spare those." Milos urged his horse faster. "A disciplined heart brings the shortest path to peace that any have seen."

Her stomach soured. "So kindness is cruelty and cruelty is kindness?" It made sense; Milos would never cease making sense. A full dose of venom should have been painless, at least outwardly. Had she been selfish to deny him that dignity?

"We struggle to end the pain without bringing more." Milos shrugged again. "If it were as simple as that, well, sure; but, it isn't, and we must soldier on. Beyond that, I don't know what to do with it."

"That's your answer to everything?"

"I am wise enough, though barely, to admit that there are no answers."

"What you are, is sophomoric and vile."

"As I said." He shrugged and flashed her a smile. "To be a questioner is to be thus, more monster than human. That is why, to me, you are comrade, not questioner."

Again with that phrase. Quela thought of the weapons she had been taught to carry, including the secret ones. Would Milos be ready for her? Could she be his questioner? How dare she even think of judging this distinguished man, who taught her so much? He deserved some warning, at least. She coughed. "Is that for you to decide?"

Milos simply lowered his gaze and rode on. "The Black Dragon made us what we are. He seeks to restore us to our proper place."

To destroy us, rather. Quela had been taught another story: the Black Dragon had taught early humans to eat of the fruit of death, calling it 'knowledge' and promising meaning and adventure. Perhaps the fireberry had been the other fruit, the one denied us for our supposed rebellion. Did he really mean to fix what he had started, or finish it? No mortal could ever be sure, and thus he wove his way into the many orders. A teacher, a patron, so different from the higher dragons. Surely this paragon of ancient magic stood at the center of the anti-magic crusade of the questioners. Again, Quela shuddered. How had she not seen the warning signs before she joined the questioners?

"One day you will be the best of us." Milos sighed, long and softly. "The one who is her own questioner."

Quela stared at Milos.

"If, that is, I can keep you alive. Already you know better than the entire order."

She could not tell if Milos spoke in praise or sarcasm. Quela could not mask nor ignore her passions, both of agreement and doubt.

9
Years ago, when Jode was a baby:
A much younger Veria and Jodemer rode in a wagon.

Veria yelped and jumped out of the wagon.

"A fireberry tree!" she squealed, and grabbed one of the glowing fruit.

"You sure?" Jodemer pulled his horses to a stop. "I thought the questioners had destroyed them all."

She offered the fruit to her new husband.

He turned his head. "You know I don't like crabapples."

"Crab?" She wrinkled her nose. The pale yellow fireberry flashing red barely fit in her palm, not some fingertip-sized apple.

Iyanla, currently herself little more than three, made a face at her stepmother. "Wormy."

Veria smiled and spun around. "Oh, don't you see? It's under a protective glamor. Nobody can tell!" She offered her baby, Jode, a taste of the juice. He smiled.

"I thought glamors were beautiful. That's disgusting," Jodemer said, a bit green from watching them eat the fireberry.

"Oh, it's all the same." She shrugged. "And look over there, the perfect place for our home."

Jodemer took Veria in his arms. "Are you sure, my love?"

"Nobody will ever know what treasure we have."

"But the reasons behind it." He shivered. "Strange monsters, out of control magic. Your family has a history of–"

"I'm not going to eat it, silly." She pinched his nose. "After today. I just love the idea of being near it. To bask in the flickering shade…"

"Well, my love, whatever, wherever you wish, that is where I shall build.


10
A few months before Jode's Nightmares

A grizzled old man sat in the flickering shade of the fireberry tree.

"Old Man Wolf!" Veria reluctantly put down the frying pan and strode out of her kitchen. "Not welcome here. Not you, not your … druids."

"That is the questoners' name for the order of wolves." But he shrugged and nodded. "Few wish to hear the truths we offer."

"Your presence tempts the questioners."

"My dear, there are far worse threats about you than the tines and torches of the questioners and their smoke-stained villagers."

Veria shivered. "Away from me, you mangy, forest dog."

"You cannot turn from the old ways."

"Many have done exactly that." She scoffed. "That is why they are 'old.'"

"But not you. You live here, in the flickering shade." He shook his head. "Please, allow me to instruct your son."

"You only want him for your blasted cult!"

"There is another option." A small bottle appeared in Old Man Wolf's palm. "As bitter cold as it is."

"Keep your portents and your potions away from me, druid."

He set the bottle on the ground beside him. "Do not decide now. But keep this handy."

"Parazin!' Veria said, pointing at the bottle.

Though Old Man Wolf shuddered, bottle and man remained. He rose and dusted off the knees of his robes. "I am impressed. In this cold world, few could sleep so close to the tree of life and not partake of its warmth."

"I shall look after my son and I as I see fit."

"Your discipline is admirable." He trudged past Veria, only to stop and whisper over his shoulder, "But who is to know. It may be good, it may be bad. And, if it is bad…."

Veria ran to scoop up the potion.

Old Man Wolf nodded and continued into the forest.

Veria walked into her kitchen and threw the potion in the fire. A thick, black smoke smelling of apple and of mint filled the room. The subtle glow in Veria's eyes dimmed, turning them from purple to blue.

11

Long ago, before the patch of ashes in the middle of the wood, knelt young Relemiah, on her thirteenth summer.

"Lot of good you did, Reli." A boy, Emaril, paced behind her. "I don't know what you were thinking."

"I know, Emaril, but..." She wiped the tears from her eyes. "We're not..."

"Some great warrior witch, imbued with the power of our legacy."

She sobbed. The questioners marched with an inhuman precision, in defiance of nature–in defiance of humanity. "No, Emaril. They can't be stopped; they are decided."

He rushed to her and grabbed her wrists. "Dead men can't … this has to stop."

"You wanted me to become the barbarian?"

"I wanted you to do what was right. I wanted you to save the tree. I wanted you to save our home."

"The fireberries allowed Kilnor to do his work." Images of burned-out armor and smoking empty clothes assaulted Relemiah. With a frown of disgust, she shook her head at the violence her sweet brother had wrought on the civilized men. "They had a right to defend themselves."

"Against Kilnor." Emaril shivered and looked in horror at the ashes of the tree. "Maybe? He had been burned by the flickering shade. But this?"

They stood there, staring at the ashes in the bright sunshine as a sharp gust ruffled their hair.

Emaril muffled the whine in his voice. "Too far. Too much."

"So I had the right to decide that?" She picked up the ashes and filtered them through her fingers. "The right Milos thought he had."

Emaril shook his boyish head fiercely, glared, and raised his finger as in scolding. He took a breath, teeth showing.

Time slowed as he seemed about to tell her she ought to join the questioners, if she felt that way. Let him; hearing it out loud could hardly be any worse. She had violated her oaths, had failed to protect the sacred places. And for what? To be better than Milos? What good was that? The tears backed up behind her eyes, their burning spread throughout her body--threatened to melt her.

But Emaril paused and turned his ear toward Relemiah instead. Then he dropped to his knees to take her in his arms. "Without that tree…"

"Then, we find another." Relemiah hugged Emaril tight. "The world goes on."

Gently, Emaril cautioned, "So will Milos."

The trees clawed at the chill wind that put voice to Relemiah's anguish. Holding the boy close, she winced and nodded. She thought to tell him that men like Milos had always roamed the earth, but found more honesty in silence.


12
On the road to Jode's house:
Quela remembered the boy's eyes, shining red in the night.

He must have been seven, maybe six.

She wondered if that face had really looked like her brother, so much, or if her mind played tricks on her. Did they really need to put the boy to death–and make such a public show of execution? "You would never have made it, little one," Quela whispered into the night as her small horse thumped along in the dusk.

"Careful talking to your little bearer," Milos said, indicating the beast she rode. "People will think you've tasted the fires of the flickering. You wouldn't want that."

I have. She tickled at the bump on her horse's forehead, where she had cut off the pearly horn. "Wouldn't want the people to think. I am a questioner, after all."

"You are special, Quela. Called to a higher purpose; you and I against the world." He waited eight clicks of the hooves before he continued. "And our hearts grow heavy with the weight of what must be done."

The questioner's art included speaking the unpleasant obvious, staving off the reveal, and then covering that with a conclusion that often flowed in contradiction to logic and truth. Even when expected, the pattern had a compelling current that carried people along its course. Especially since it could as easily be used to inject the truth as a lie.

"Honor demands that we press on, to do what we have come to do."

True or false, she could feel how easily her heart would accept that story, how eagerly she longed to obey this direction that Milos offered. She longed for the glory of a great battle, a life spent well, her blood invested in the grand cause. But there it was, as plain as anything: honor demands nothing of the sort. True honor actively forbids the work of the questioners. Or was it merely vanity?

"I know in my heart that I can count on you to support me in this."

She looked down, and whispered, "When the time comes, I will do what is right."

Milos stared at her for a long moment, counting the hoofbeats. "Will you do what is right or what you feel?"

"There shouldn't be any difference."

"You would think they'd be the same thing." Milos pulled his horse to follow a step behind Quela. "At first, I often thought they were. Then, I understood."

Quela groaned, feeling herself pulled, but unable to navigate the starless wilds.

"That world would be heaven. That world, who would carry swords? You would simply ask people to look into their own heart."

Quela stared at him, suppressing the urge to bash him in the skull. His hands were soft, his movements as fickle as his words were deft. She could remove him as easily as a fat fly. Strike a blow for justice–or for chaos. Perhaps they were not opposed? Is that the sort of questioner she was–the sort she wanted to be? Because no matter how she chose, for good or for ill, once a questioner, always a questioner. She found herself struggling in the web he had woven for her, unsure if she wanted to feast or fly away. The Sons of Adam were not meant to fly, for what that was worth, thrown down to earth like their Black Dragon King.

"Alas, we don't live in that world. There isn't any authority more reliable than our books, books written by people no better than us. And chosen for us by people a good sight less wise than ourselves."

A sick feeling spread through her stomach, something dirty that wasn't in her food; something the sliver of her bearer's enchanted horn could not banish. "Let me guess, you don't…"

He nodded. "And I don't know what to do about that."

But he did. He always knew how to selflessly obey the directive of the Sons of Adam, no matter how vile. He bore the sleepless nights with a dignity that lit up the clouds in the night. She told herself that it was not necessary to be vicious, like him. So long as one wielded one's wicked ways in the direction of the right. She only hoped that she could hold the path, could find the strength to do what she knew to be right.

Quiet tears rolled down her cheeks.

If only she knew what.

He gave her a comforting nudge in the upper arm.

She looked over at him, a stone's throw away. It had been his hand on her arm, as solid as flesh.

Hadn't it?

13

Nearer to Jooes home:
"Hello, my good man," Quela said to Innkeeper Lebarac. "Have you a place to stay?"

The innkeeper pushed his hands against the table, but it did not hide the trembling. "My lord, lady, our rooms are at your service. Though hardly worthy."

"I think it is my money that is not worthy here." Milos set a few silver on the table. "Perhaps you feel the magic we deal in has contaminated my touch."

Lebarac looked upon the pile of silver. "We are honored you choose to patronize our place of business." Frowning, he reached for the coin.

"Be at ease." Milos put his hand on Lebarac's pudgy knuckles. "As best you can. There is room for misunderstanding and temptation."

Lebarac looked up at Milos, smiling his best disarming smile, letting Milos hold him there.

Milos released him. "Nobody is prepared to obey the code at first. That is why questioners exist, to guide humanity back to its rightful place."

A world bereft of wonder and power. Lebarac took the money and placed it in his pocket. "I shall prepare your rooms right away."

"There is one other thing, Master…?"

"Lebarac. I own the place."

"Yes, a fine name, and a fine inn. Master Lebarac, can you tell me have there come any magicians through your place? Perhaps seeking a special tree."

"You speak of the fireberry tree?" Lebarac wiped a tear from his eye. "Man and child, a family traveling with a witch named Relemiah."

That knocked back Milos' head in surprise. "You are wise to come clean. It is not as though you could protect them."

Lebarac frowned and nodded.

Milos laid his hand on Lebarac's shoulder, causing him to flinch before submitting. "I understand; you're confused. A good man caught between witchery and civilization."

Implying they were opposed forces, Quela noted, with Milos and Quela on the side of civilization. But magic could be wild and it could be civilized, as could tradition.

"You must understand, that is why my order exists." Milos slid his hand from Lebarac and addressed the room. "To protect you from the will-o-wisps of fireberry intoxication."

A young man pushed away from his seat at the table. "What should I do if I suspect my neighbor of witchery?"

"You?" Milos spun and faced the man. "I'd recommend building up a bit of money and securing a wife."

Quela clucked her tongue. "Meanwhile, always report your suspicions. Even the brightest questioner has trouble sorting the spooks from the natural noises in the darkness."

"Yes, yes, of course." Milos waved his hand and gave Quela a long-suffering look. "But this man hasn't met with sorcery. Boy's driven by adolescent jealousy."

He had no way of knowing that, Quela knew. She scoffed under her breath.

Milos adjusted the boy's collar and asked, conspiratorially, "Is it her cooking or her bosom that is bothering you?"

The boy sputtered.

"Milos!" He need not be presumptuous and dismissive–even if such things often won over the crowd. The questioners were supposed to be the good guys–at least, pretend to be.

The old man sneered a second and, under his breath, Milos asked, "Do you doubt my call?"

Quela shook her head. Such an obvious ploy, this denial. It would only serve to ratchet up hysteria and out the real witches.

"Don't trouble yourself, young man. It's common for people to be fools. Even the grand questioner is not allowed to judge his own neighbors."

Even Lebarac looked visibly relieved at Milos' statement.

Milos walked up to the innkeeper. "I would ask you the location of the tree, but I see Emaril's curse on your cheek."

Lebarac swallowed, touching his cheek to see if he had accidentally set off Maril's spell.

"Emaril thinks me a fresh initiate." Milos strutted about, with his empty cup. "No need to trigger that. We are not about needless harm."

Lebarac cringed.

"So go, see to the room. I should like the one you gave Relemiah, if I could."


14
Minutes Later:
Quela thanked Lebarac and, for privacy in Milos' investigation, closed the door to the sleeping room.

Quela grabbed the charm from Milos' fingers. "I knew you weren't as innocent as they say."

"And I was beginning to doubt you even suspected." With an approving smile, he took the charmed coin back and placed it in a purse by itself.

"You're as guilty as they are."

He frowned. "More so, I dare say." He took the lay of the room.

"How do you suggest…"

"Right here is where Nemiah took her last breath. Stolen by a baby."

Quela shuddered. Magic was dangerous, but she doubted–wanted to doubt–it could be that dark.

"'The Hunger,' they call it. The ones that get old enough to speak." Milos shrugged. "I would never let my granddaughter drain the life of me, much as I might want to. Does that make me better, or worse than them?"

A rage filled her. Did this ornery devil think her a rube? "You're making that up."

"We don't tell you everything. It's not even the worst version of it. Just a craving, really. The child wouldn't survive if it were."

"If magic is so bad, how do you justify using it yourself?"

He shrugged. "When a man does something wrong, he will be very bad at it. At first."

"That's not an answer."

"Like anything difficult, it gets easier." He looked her in the eye. "Most eschew magic altogether. I admire them. Attend their funerals, when I can."

"You are a dastard and a devil."

His smile didn't reach his eyes before he let it drop. "And a survivor. I use what I have to prevail, for those who can't."

She stared in horror.

"Cling to whatever makes you thrive. Your bearer. The alicorn…"

She rocked a bit back on her heels. "What?" She couldn't believe he had allowed her to smuggle forth a unicorn, or to spare the alicorn–the precious material of the unicorn's horn.

He adjusted his sleeves. "You think I didn't smell the unicorn? Think I didn't see you stirring your drink with the beast's horn."

Her drink had fizzed at the alicorn's touch. The innocent dog had taken ill after drinking from her cup–proving her suspicion and further staining Quela's honor. Was Milos about to end her for her crimes against the Sons of Adam? At least, she could console herself that the punishment had been earned.

"Good choice, by the way. Alicorn is precious–not so insidious as fireberry." He checked the window. "It wouldn't have killed you; but had you taken ill I'd have had you transferred."

"A test."

Milos nodded. "If you will."

"I passed?"

He shook his head. "There are no answers, let alone right answers."

"Touché." She groaned. "I wish I knew what to do about that."

"Kill me." He strutted as if before a judging royal, more lawyer than defendant in this very real courtroom. "For either side. These people would hide you. Become a witch. Lead a rebellion."

"How do you know I haven't already turned on you?"

"That is for me to know, and for you…" He shrugged and smiled. "To keep your mind busy."

"So arrogant."

He shrugged and turned his back, pouring himself a drink. "Familiarity breeds contempt. That can be dangerous but also liberating."

"How do you dare me to kill you?"

"I draw your attention to the fact that you have not." He took a sip, slow and careful, eyes closed for exactly the time it would take to see the killing blow. "Why is that?"

"I don't know."

"Then how can you be a threat to me? You will always not know."

She didn't have any answer to that; that was the point. No authority, no matter how solid in its wisdom, could penetrate her fortress of infinite doubt.

15

At the base of the hill where Jode lives:
Relemiah halted, suddenly standing like a soldier in a parade.

Emaril stopped, reaching in his secret pocket for the fireberry blade.

Thundering in their ears and in their hearts came from just up ahead.

Only once had Relemiah heard this terrible thunder–'the Call of Dragons' the elders called it–when her brother had been burned and turned monstrous. "That–that's not normal."

Emaril drew the blade.

Even that fine blade could do nothing against the raw power here. Left unchecked, the magical calamity would bring down the dragon's justice on the entire forest. And no bad thing–better burned to ash than swimming in the horrors a mad sorcerer might call down. This fight belonged to her; she waved Emaril down and shook her head. "Stay behind."

He grabbed her sleeve. "You know I cannot."

Not for the first time she regretted turning her back on her family's ways–released her natural authority to a husband-wife council that threatened her two men. "You have my hearts, in your chest and in your pack."

He pulled out the ropes to secure the baby's pack in a tree. "I will leave him behind. He needs his mother."

Her chest clenched and her breath wheezed. She could not face battle with either of them present. She opened her throat and slowed her voice, "And I need you to stay safe."

"You cannot bind me."

Power came into her with each breath; she felt it warm and singe her insides as she gathered it in her hand. "I can, if I must."

"You turned away from the code for a reason. Let me be there with you."

Please? Sttill unsteady, she counted her breath. "I must do this alone."

Emaril hung the baby's pack on a tree limb, where the leaves wrapped around it and hid their son perfectly. "You don't do anything alone."

"That's the problem." She pointed at Emaril, and he slipped back. "That's where I've been derelict."

"Don't, Reli," Emaril begged. "Please don't shut me out."

She stepped forward and took Emaril's hands. "If you have your hand in my decisions how will you weave your own?"

He looked down to his right. "It's not what we do."

"That's brought us here." She squeezed his hands and cried. "If I turn from my truth, if I try to steal yours–I can only get a shard of that."

He twinged in fear and hurt. "I can help."

Yes absolutely. "Stand strong, and call me to victory." She wept, until by force of magic she boiled the tears from her face.

He raised his hand to touch her face, and as the tears disappeared, something shifted in him.

She took his hand in hers. "I can do this, but only if you are waiting on the other side."

"You don't know what you're doing, what lurks."

"That's not my job." Not to reason why, but only to fight–to love, and even die for the people. As exemplified in the two precious hearts that would be waiting for her here at the base of the hill. She drew the fireberry blade and put it in Emaril's hands. "Wait here, and be ready."

Emaril sobbed, blinded by tears. "I can do nothing for you?"

She wiped his tears away. "You have the difficult job." She kissed him, a warrior's kiss–a kiss of farewell.

Emaril savored her for a time, then looked away. "Sigrun's name," he cursed.

"Now?" She lifted her husband's chin and offered a playful chiding. "Not the time to put faith in the questioner's gods."

He smiled for her, a sad, forced smile.

She kissed him, gently, and turned to the hill.

He stepped after her. "What if it is a trap?"

Even the softest mewling of magic would be beyond the voice of the questioners. This power rattled the earth; even her entire clan could not do this much. She shrugged. "Then I shall answer."

16

A short walk halfway up the hill:
The blow came from behind Relemiah, driving her knees and face into the soft forest dirt.

"I have you now." Milos' trembling hands pulled her wrists behind her and fastened them into the magelocks.

"You?"" A cold force that was more than emotion pressed on Relemiah's lungs. "How... did you…"

"Heard that, did you?" Milos sniffed and lifted Relemiah to her feet. "Had my eye on that boy for a while now."

Relemiah sized up the enemy. Frail yet genteel, Milos seemed untouched, either by time or by the disgust on Quela's face.

Milos leaned in to Relemiah, whispering in her ear. "I know, I know; magelocks don't stop spellcasting." He shrugged. "I got you covered."

As Relemiah drew her breath, to taste the fire in the air, the metal around her wrists reached in and drained all the heat from her, body and soul, leaving her shivering.

"Careful, there. Don't overdo it." Milos patted her affectionately on the shoulder. "You'll explode when you get loose. As if that would ever happen."

Quela pulled Milos aside. "You let this happen?"

"It's only a few men Jode destroyed. And a few torch-toting peasants on the march. Nobody to be concerned about."

In Quela's eyes, Relemiah saw a reflection of herself, the seeds of doubt and guilt, of a will to something better than Milos allowed for her. But would either of them break free? And if they did, would it happen in time?

"We only have one set." Milos indicated Relemiah's manacles and led her up the hill toward the boy's house. "You'll have to be sure to capture the real enemy."

Quela and Milos stalked up the hill.

Relemiah knew from the speed and the glances the mood of her enemy. Each step more careful than the last, they refused to turn their back on the other.

At the top a red-faced ogre stamped amid a handful of peasants, swinging one of them by the ankles. Knee-deep in the ogre's shoulders, Jode stands over the battlefield.

"Release me," Relemiah said. "I can stop this."

"Believe me, Relemiah, she wants to." Milos shrugged. "We all want that. But we have sold our hearts to the Sons of Adam."

Relemiah groaned and pulled at the shackles. "This was never supposed to happen. With the proper tuition…"

"Your brother, Killnor, did much the same," Milos said. "Just shut up and watch the show."

Jode's monster grabbed a lamp and poured oil over the peasant's hair as Jode screamed, "You're! Not! Real!"

"No, boy, don't!" Relemiah called out. "Have decency."

"Your magic makes us gods," Milos said. "We were never meant for that."

The peasant screamed as he batted away the torch flame with his arms, trying desperately not to let them light his face on fire.

"This is between us, Milos," Relemiah begged. "Let me stop this and you can have me."

"I have you both. He'll collapse soon. And any who see this will be turned against his breed–your breed."

Quela stepped toward the prisoner.

"Go ahead. I won't stop you."

She stepped back half a step.

There went the final hope. Barely able to hear the screaming of battle, Relemiah looked down in disappointment.

Quela muttered something and pulled out the cloak pin, a pearly stick the size of a candle, and sidled up to hide behind Relemiah.

At least I can shield someone, Relemiah thought. "If only I had listened. If only I had fought at our tribes' tree."

"You've come to understand," Milos said, then reached for his dagger.

A moment later the magelocks pulled from her hands and the fire came flooding in–almost enough to burn her entire family.

Milos' dagger stung Relemiah's arm, and, behind Relemiah, Quela howled in agony.

Swimming in red, and breathing cinnamon fire, Relemiah raised her hands and blew the draconic force over the demonic ogre.

"Not real!" Jode screamed as he fell to the ground and the peasant flew into one of his fellow's arms. "None of this."

"Be at ease! The battle is ended." Relemiah threw up a wall between the boy and the peasants.

"You'll be gone. Jodemer will come. He'll come and wake me up." The boy cried over his mother and sister's twitching bodies, over wounds inflicted by angry peasants. "He has to come."

A creeping horror came from the nick in Relemiah's arm and Quela pulled at Relemiah's cloak.

Relemiah turned to look at Quela, who stopped to convulse as if she were vomiting.

Relemiah bent over the wounded Quela, who had been stabbed in the chest by Milos' dagger.

Eyes bleeding tears of green, Quela took her pearlescent stick–the alicorn–and shoved it in Relemiah's wound. "Do not… let him go."

As the magical horn removed Milos' poison, the breath returned to Relemiah and she pulled her strength. Though Quela had taken a full dose, with the help of the unicorn spirit, Relemiah might be able to drive the poison from this woman's body.

"No healing. Please." Quela looked helplessly at Milos, who slowly backed to the edge of the clearing, toward the densest wood.

Relemiah knew Quela was right: stopping Milos was paramount. But only if they stood together. She grabbed the hand with the alicorn and sent her power deep into the magical token, questing for the spirit of the animal. "There will always be serpents. But we cannot let them take our hearts."

The effort of purifying Quela's blood took the wind out of her. The walls fell and the peasants rushed forward.

Though Relemiah had spent the surge of fire well, she retained barely enough to hold herself together. Any more and, like her mother, Nemiah, before her, she would crumble to charcoal dust.

"Where did it go?" The peasant leader yelled.

"Come with me!" Milos cried, striding from the scene in a random direction. "We shall find it."

The sobbing boy knelt beside Veria and Iyanla, who lay moaning but very much alive. "This isn't real. You'll see. You will see!"

Emaril struck from hiding at the escaping questioner, Milos, who dodged and scrambled away.

"Leave him alone!" cried one of the mob.

"My mistake," answered Emarill, who blushed and lowered his fireberry dagger. "I thought he was one of the enemy."

"Better be lucky he's not," another peasant huffed as they followed the questioner.

Emaril rushed into the center of the abandoned battlefield, bringing a healing kit and tending to Veria and Iyanla.

Relemiah stumbled against a tree, and, not wanting to slow Emaril's work, edged just out of his reach. She smiled her approval and chided, "Told you to stay away."

"Never been good at the traditional male virtues." He moved over to Quela, who lay unresponsive. He adjusted her tunic and checked her breathing. His spell fizzed about the questioner's ragged body. "Especially obedience."

When Emaril paused, Relemiah nudged him.

"She's…" He frowned over Quela. "...going to be here a while."

"We can't leave her. Milos won't be happy with her."

Emaril looked sadly down at Quela's shivering form.

"We'll be alright." She had the right and the duty to impose the will of her heart–a right she had never before dared to claim. She clamped down on his shoulder. "That's an order."

Emaril laughed and took his wife's hand.

She smirked at him. "You will obey."

Emaril wiped away some of Quela's blood from his hands. "I'll give it a try."

Quela moaned, "Men do that?"

Emaril stroked Quela's forehead and adjusted her shirt. "In the forest villages, we do. Mostly."

She chuckled and harrumphed. "And the Sons of Adam think they can do better?"

Relemiah cleared her throat. "And, I don't know what to do with that."

"Aah, oh!" Quela grabbed her wound. "Ha, thanks but please–oh, wow– don't make me laugh."

The fireberry tree swayed in the wind. The peasants had mostly left on Milos's snipe hunt. Jodes family slumbered in a heap, being tended to by those of their neighbors not hunting for Milos' victory. The devious coward, Milos, would know better than to return without long preparations. Relemiah touched her son's heartstone; he was amused by a bird that had stepped near his pack.  Relemiah spared a gentle spark of soothing warmth into Quela, careful not to scatter herself on the winds.

Caution. How well had she and Quela learned? Had it been their decisiveness or only Milos' cowardice that won the day? The power of fireberrries wasn't the only precious lifeblood in this war, and moving forward, Relemiah swore to place the same premium on courage.