Almost triumphantly, the girl held up her other hand, her small fist clenched, and a ball of greenish-blue flame winked into life around it. The eldritch fire began at her wrist and formed a point above her closed fingers, flickering and dancing wildly.
Unable to help herself, the girl whooped with delight and the flames grew a little higher, filling the tent with shifting, other-worldly light. She no longer cared that someone might notice the light from outside; her chest was filled with a sense of floating, of being apart. There was nothing but the flame.
The inside of the tent was painted with light. The blankets, the bed rolls, her mother’s cooking pots, her books, her scrolls, her precious bottles of ink, the girl’s wooden toys, her wooden practice sword, the dirty cups and the crumpled clothes – they were all transformed, captured in a glow that made the girl think of the waters of the Sky Lake. She wondered if this was what it was like to live underwater.
Her hand did not burn, but the tent was filling with heat, and she could feel pinpricks of sweat under her hair and on her back. The rala root was a collection of soft, blackened sticks in her hand – there was a smell, like rot, like old mushrooms and harvest – and the flames were dying now, sinking back towards her fingers. Desperate, the girl reached out without thinking, seeking more of that green life, and plunged her free hand into her mother’s basket of greens.
The flames roared back into life, shooting towards the gathered ceiling of the tent in a wild plume of shimmering blue, and at that moment the tent flap was thrown back.
‘Noon!’
Her mother shuffled rapidly into the tent, pulling the flap tight behind her. The flame swirled wildly for a moment as the girl tried to control it, licking against the dried flowers hanging above. They lit up like tapers, the blue-green light turning a more familiar orange as it came into contact with something to burn, and then her mother was cursing and shouting, snatching down the burning plants and smothering them quickly with blankets. The beautiful fire was gone, and the tent was thick with heat and the bitter stench of smoke. When the fires were out, her mother fixed her with a look. There was a smear of soot on her cheek, and her black hair was a tumbled mess.
‘Noon! What have I told you about this?’
The girl hung her head, rubbing her fingers together to brush away the dead rala root. ‘Not to do it.’
Her mother sat heavily across from her daughter. ‘And?’
‘That it is bad.’
‘Noon. What have I raised? A little frog that croaks out words? Come on.’
Noon looked up. Her mother’s face was a still shape in the gloom of the tent, her skin warm and alive. Her eyes glinted with exasperation, but the anger was already fading.
‘That the winnowfire is dangerous. That I could burn myself, or other things. That I could burn the tent down.’
‘You nearly did this time. Not to mention wasting an entire basket of decent food.’ Her mother tipped the basket up so that Noon could see the inside of it, revealing a sad pile of blackened vegetation. She sighed. ‘Continue.’
‘That no one must know I can do it. That if they find out –’ Noon stopped, fidgeting – ‘the Winnowry will come and take me away.’
‘And they will, my sweet. I won’t be able to stop them. Mother Fast won’t be able to. None of us will. They’ll take you far from the plains, and I won’t see you again.’
Noon pushed the blankets away, sitting up properly. ‘But how could they ever know, Mum? I will keep it secret, I promise. No one will ever see. I could use the winnowfire to be a proper warrior! I could protect us, keep us always warm when the snow comes!’
Her mother watched her for a few moments, saying nothing. ‘What does it feel like?’ she asked eventually. ‘When you summon the fire?’
Noon paused, sensing a trap, but when her mother said no more, she shrugged. ‘Like being alive. Like there is too much life in me, and I can do anything.’
Her mother’s lips grew thin, and she looked away, her head bowing briefly so that her thick black hair covered her face. Then she looked back at her daughter, meeting her eyes steadily. ‘I am sorry, Noon, but you must hide it. You are very small now, and you can’t possibly – their witch spies are everywhere. You might be safe for a day or two, maybe even a week, or three, but eventually the Winnowry would come for you.’ She shuffled over and gathered her daughter up into her arms, kissing the top of her head. ‘I can’t lose you, little frog.’
In her cold and dusty room in Esiah Godwort’s grand house, Noon turned over and opened her eyes, pieces of the dream speeding away like leaves on the river. For a moment, she thought she could still smell her mother – the scents of wildflowers and horse – but it was just the stink of musty bedclothes, after all. Her hand trembling only slightly, she wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand and waited for the sky to lighten. Things would look better in the daylight.
It was the biggest wall Noon had ever seen. It was so big, in fact, that she hadn’t realised it was a wall until she saw the enormous gate built into the side. If anything, it resembled an extremely steep hill, with unusually uniform sides. To complete the resemblance, the thing was covered all over with a brownish clay, and here and there small plants and trees had taken root. They should have been an encouraging sight in the barren landscape, but they were sad, twisted things; the poison of Greenslick seeped in everywhere, it seemed.
‘He said the gate was open.’ Vintage had her broad-brimmed hat pulled firmly down over her head, and had spent part of the previous day scavenging Godwort’s house for supplies, so her pack was bulging. Tormalin stood next to her, his long sword slung over his back. He had been up before Noon, boiling water to wash in, and as usual he looked elegant and composed, his long black hair held in a liquid tail down his back, his skin shining. Looking at him, it was difficult to believe his people were a dying race.
‘It is, but just a crack. Look.’ Tor went to the enormous gate. It was constructed from oak trunks and riveted with iron, and it stood open about an inch. A thick blanket of shrivelled leaves and dirt had settled against it, but by leaning his whole weight against it Tor managed to open one door wide enough for them to squeeze through one by one. They filed in and stood, caught in silence for a moment.
‘What a place.’ Noon cleared her throat. ‘I’d almost rather be back at the Winnowry.’