Higher and higher she flew, above the black smoke and still higher. At last she burst out above the gray clouds into blinding white sunlight that struck her eyes like daggers. She screamed in pain, sinking back below the clouds, and continued flying south.
Her wings carried her far, over landscapes she did not recognize, hills and valleys of Parumvir dotted with flocks of sheep that, if her shadow fell across them, stampeded in panic. Their sheepdog guards fled as well, abandoning their flocks to run, tails tucked, for the nearest shelter.
Una flew on. The sensation of flight was lost on her, for her mind was consumed with her burning: the throbbing burn at her bleeding neck and the boiling burn in her breast.
It might have been days, years, centuries later, for all she knew, when she began to regain some of herself. The fire inside her died even as the sun set on the horizon, and she found it more and more difficult to catch the updrafts with her hideous wings. When at last she could go no farther, she descended like a falling stone. An empty farmer’s field presented itself to her view, and she tumbled into it. Her legs, unable to support her weight, collapsed beneath her.
At first she lay still, not thinking, hardly breathing. Then slowly, painfully, thoughts crept in. What was she? What had become of her? Where could she go? Who could help her? The questions rang loudly in her head, and panic stirred up the fire in her breast.
No! No fire! She whimpered and squeezed her eyes shut.
A child’s scream filled the air.
Una’s eyes opened, and she scrambled to pull her ungainly limbs under her. Pushing herself to her feet, she watched a little girl, screeching like an angry kitten, flee the field up a hill. Answering deep-throated shouts rose moments later. Una sat up on her hind legs and saw peasants running from barns and cottages – women carrying children away, men with pitchforks and scythes charging toward her, shouting and menacing.
Terrified, she tried to scream, but a monstrous flame billowed from her throat instead. Smoke spilled out and covered the ground at her feet. The peasants stopped. Some flung themselves down on the ground while others turned and fled. Three sturdy men, one bald and white bearded, brandished their flimsy weapons higher and continued charging, screaming like barbarians.
She took to the air even as the nearest peasant, armed with an ax, stepped into the field. Her shadow swept over him and his two companions as she left them and the field far behind.
The flame roared in her head. They believe I’m a monster, Una thought, snarling even in flight. That’s what they think of me. Idiots! Flames licked between her lips. Mindless creatures. I should burn them all!
She shook her head violently as she recognized her thoughts. No, that’s not who I am. This is a lie; this isn’t me. This is his work, but I am still inside.
Deep down inside herself she searched. Red ash covered everything, every thought, word, or deed. But as she rooted around in her soul, she thought she could still see traces of the princess.
It’s all a lie. Just a lie!
But the fires were stoked inside her once more, and she flew on. She flew over flat green lands she did not know, not the hills of her own country. Night came on, and a silver moon glimmered high above. She landed at last beside a quiet river and crawled into it. The river bubbled and steamed about her. Moaning, she turned on her side to bathe her neck wound. For a moment, cool water sent an icy thrill through her body. But that moment passed, and the burning returned threefold. She would have wept, but the fire had consumed all her tears. Instead, exhausted, she propped her chin on the shore, keeping her nose just out of the water, and lay still. The moon gleamed down on her, highlighting the rough contours of her unsightly frame.
When she woke, her fire was low, and Una found herself once more in the body of a girl.
–––––––
Fidel sat in the dark in his small room at the garrison in Dompstead, for he refused to let servants in to light his fire. Numb, he stared into shadows. Voices carried through the door from the hall, and Fidel recognized General Argus’s voice above the rest.
“I must see the king!”
“He will admit no one – ” Fidel’s attendant protested, but Argus interrupted with a roar.
“Let me pass. We must flee this place before the duke arrives. We haven’t much time. Let me speak to him.”
“Sir, we have our orders.”
“Hang your orders!”
There was a scuffling in the hall; then a new voice spoke. “Word for the king . . . concerning his son.”
“Tell me,” Argus demanded.
Low voices murmured, but Fidel did not wait for the attendants to decide whether the message was important enough to disobey his command and let the messenger through. He got up and, staggering in the dark, opened his door.
The attendants, the general, and the young soldier who brought word of his son all looked up as though caught in some sin.
“What news do you have of Felix?” Fidel demanded.