Queen of Fire

Alturk’s gaze lowered in discomfort, though there seemed to be no anger in him, just regretted memory. “I heard it, a sound that could only have come from the mouth of a god.”

 

 

“The Cave of Mists,” Kiral said. “The Mahlessa told me only one other besides her has ever seen it.”

 

“It was the Mahlessa who guided me to it. Though my club and my knife had made me Tahlessa of the Grey Hawks, husband to six wives and father to a fine son, I was still a youth dreaming of greatness, a greatness I thought I would find in the Cave of Mists where the voices of the gods are said to still echo. So I went to the Mountain and asked for guidance from the Mahlessa. I was not permitted in her presence, for no man is worthy, but she gave me a guide and sent us forth with words I thought a blessing but later knew as a warning—‘There is only truth to be heard from the gods.’”

 

Alturk paused to regard Kiral with a faint grin. “My guide was a woman of grim aspect who spoke rarely except to voice insult, calling me a fool, and a braggart, and son to a mother who had clearly spread her legs for an ape. Were she not a Servant of the Mountain I would have pitched her from the highest cliff, as she well knew.”

 

“You would have tried,” Kiral said in a hard voice.

 

“Your blood-mother was the harshest-tongued woman I ever met,” Alturk returned. “And I married the worst six bitches in the mountains.”

 

“And wanted her for the seventh.” Kiral returned his grin. “Only she had more sense.”

 

Alturk grunted and waved a dismissive hand. “In any case she guided me to a cave, a small gap in the side of an unremarkable mountain. ‘You’ll die in there, ape-spawn,’ she told me, then walked off with no other word spoken. I could feel the heat flowing from the cave, knowing that what lay beneath would prove the greatest trial. But I wanted so much to hear Nishak’s voice, I knew he had great things to tell me.

 

“At first all was blackness, my torch the only light as I climbed ever lower. Sometimes the walls of the cave would fall away, leaving me crouched on a narrow ledge with the void all around, not knowing if a single stumble would send me tumbling to my death. Then I came to the bridge, in truth a narrow arch of rock spanning a great chasm, with a fierce torrent of water falling like a curtain halfway across. On the far side there was only blackness. The test was clear, if I went on my torch would die in the torrent and I might never find my way again. The gods are wise in their tests, choosing only those worthy of their voice, for a coward would have turned back.” Alturk paused, the softest laugh escaping his lips. “And only a fool would have gone on. And I did.

 

“The bridge was slippery, the water chill as ice, and all became dark when it claimed my torch. I dropped to my belly and crawled, feeling my way forward until the narrow bridge became broad rock and ahead, the faintest glimmer of light, drawing me ever onward. The light grew as I neared, the walls of the great cavern I had entered giving off a green glow and in the centre a pool of roiling water, constantly bubbling and birthing a fine mist. At first I found the smell of it harsh and like to turn my stomach but the scent faded as I drew close to the pool, as close as I dared for its heat was vast . . . And I heard it, low at first, like a tremor in the earth, but building, becoming clearer and stronger until I felt my ears might burst from it.

 

“I knew then I was a fool, a bug crawling across the feet of a giant, for what would such a voice have to say to a speck such as I? But . . . he did. ‘Do you know who speaks to you?’ he asked me and through my fear I babbled his name. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I who gave the gift of fire to all mankind. I who saved you from the all-dark. I who has succoured you with warmth for all the ages. For I am the most generous of gods, and yet you always ask for more.’

 

“I would have fled if my legs had not failed me, left me crawling on the cave floor like the bug I knew myself to be. I begged him, like a captured Merim Her facing the just knife, I begged and wailed and soiled myself in fear. But Nishak knows neither pity nor anger, he is generous but his gift can burn as well as succour, for truth is a flame that burns deep. ‘I know what you came for, Tahlessa of the Grey Hawks,’ he told me. ‘Your mind is so easily picked apart. So much anger, so much ambition, and what’s this? A child you imagine worthy of a great future, a child you believe will lead the Lonak against the Merim Her. Look closer, see more.’

 

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