Child of Flame

Truly, she was a clever person. He knew that she used words to coax and cozen. In his dreams—when he had had dreams—he had seen that lying and cheating ran rife among humankind. A knife is a knife, after all, a tool used for cutting or killing. No need to give it pretty words to pretend that it was something other than what it was. Yet perhaps they could not help themselves. Perhaps, like cattle chewing their cud, they twisted words and flattered and deceived because it was part of their nature.

“What you say may even be true. Yet it seems to me that there are many from the slave pens who will not breed and who can never learn. I have no use for tools that are broken. In two months my men will cull the herds for the winter. At that time any among the slaves who cannot speak true words to me will be culled along with the rest of the animals.”

“Two months is not very long,” objected Otto. “Even in our own lands a child will not speak for two years or even three, and truly five or six years must pass before any child can speak like to an adult.” Otto had fire in him, a passion for life and what humankind called justice. That was what had brought him to Stronghand’s attention in the first place. “Surely if we must teach them to speak as we do, as well as to obey the simple commands they already know, we need as much time as it would take to teach a child of our own people to speak.”

“I weary of this debate. Now you will listen to what I command.” He stretched his claws, letting them ease out of their sheaths, sharp tips grazing the air. “Rikin tribe will not carry useless burdens. We have far to go, and everything we carry must be useful. I will allow no argument on this matter.”

He paused, but neither of them replied. Otto’s age lay heavily on him. Deep lines scored his face. The harsh winter wind and bright summer sun had weathered his skin. Even his hair had turned color, washing brown to white, so that in a way he seemed to be mimicking the coloring of his Eika masters, even though Stronghand understood that this happened to be the way age marked humankind. Deacon Ursuline simply listened, face composed and silent.

“In two months, the herds will be culled. If you cannot or do not choose among the slaves, then I will. My choice will fall heavier than yours would, so accept now the responsibility or give it back to me and abide by my decision.”

Ursuline was as persistent as she was patient. “Let me ask one boon of you, then, my lord.”

He was tired of bargaining. He was tired of the sight of mewling, whimpering, dirty slaves, who were of less use to him than the scrawniest of his goats and cattle because their flesh was too sour to eat. He cut off her words with a sharp gesture. Turning, he lifted a foot to walk away—

Confined within white walls, it pushes restlessly against its prison, but it is too weak to do more than nudge up against its prison wall before the bath of warm liquid in which it floats soothes it back into lassitude. Awareness flickers dimly. Hunger smolders. Shapes, or thoughts, spin and twirl in its mind before dissolving. It remembers ancient fire, and a great burning. Is it not the child of flame, that all creatures fear? Voices whisper, but it cannot understand the meaning behind such sounds, and within moments it has forgotten what a voice is. Memory dies. The waters of forgetfulness rock beneath it. It sleeps.

Stronghand’s foot hit the ground, jolting him back to himself.

He had to blink, because the weak autumn sun seemed so strong that his eyes could not adjust. Stark terror flooded him, surging like a tide through his body. In the spawning pools of every tribe, the nests of the RockChildren ripened. Once he, too, had been a mindless embryo bathed in the waters of forgetfulness, seeking nothing more than his next meal. In the nesting pools, those hatchlings lived who devoured their nest brothers rather than being devoured themselves. Those that ate matured into men, and those that simply survived instead of being eaten remained dogs.

Yet before Alain freed him from Lavastine’s cage, he had been, like his brothers, a slave to the single-minded lust for killing and war and plunder that still afflicted most of his kind. How close had he come to being a dog instead of a thinking man? How close was any creature to unthinking savagery, forgetting what it was?

With effort, he forced the fear back. He had not bathed too long in those waters. He had clawed his way free. Alain had freed him from his cage, and he meant to remain the way he was. He would not let memory sleep, and instinct rule.

Slowly, the world came clear around him and he could see again. He tightened his grip on his staff. Deacon Ursuline and Papa Otto had averted their eyes, careful not to be seen noticing his weakness. But even so, they looked startled, utterly amazed.