Okay, Lily …
… I’m running along the wall. My Walltop guards see me pass, but I have no fear that they will tell anyone on the Council or in my Coven about the meetings I’ve been having up here. Walltop guards would rather die than betray me. That’s why I chose this place over any other spot in the city. My secrets are safe here.
I arrive at the guardhouse and duck inside. It is a Spartan place. A fire pit blazes in the center of the bare-brick room and a few sticks of unpadded furniture bend under the thick bodies of my guards.
“Is he here yet?” I ask the room at large.
The guards stand as one and chant, “My Lady,” in perfect, deep-toned unison. Again, I am struck by how archaic the customs are up here. A room full of huge, rough men and women and all of them avert their eyes like I’m some kind of goddess.
It unnerves me to be so revered, but the more time I spend up here the more I understand it. I’ve learned that every warrior on the wall is gifted. Not one of them has opted out of being claimed by me, as happens sometimes with the city guard, and unlike my city-level guards they are much more talented—talented enough to feel the true power of my willstone. Apart from my mechanics, only Walltop guards can appreciate the kind of strength I can give them, and only they crave the Gift as much as a mechanic would. They are better warriors for it, but never entirely whole people without it.
I can feel the tug of all their minds, and tonight I can’t help but give in to their craving. The fire bends toward me. A witch wind moans around the flames as I gather heat. I change the heat into force and fill all of their willstones with a few drops of my strength. It’s enough. I watch as every eye droops with euphoria. Every mouth parts. Every heart pounds. I can feel my strength welcomed into them like rain in the desert.
This is the danger I must avoid—the lust to fuel an army. I will always want to possess them and fill them with more than just this little jolt of power. I will be tempted to build a pyre and fill them with the Gift.
I am one of the few who can go to the pyre and live, and I will always want war because of this. The history books are clear about firewalkers—also known as warmonger witches, depending on what book you read. I know the history of my rare kind, but still fight with myself. It feels too good to fuel an army to not want war. This is why I let so few of my claimed get close to me, and why I exclude all my mechanics except Rowan. I rein in my lust for violence. I will not allow myself to become a warmonger witch, like nearly every firewalker before me has been.
I think of Rowan and take enough strength from the thought of him to cut off the communion with my Walltop guards. Rowan is vessel enough for me.
Leto steps forward. “Thank you for that, Lady. Your guest is in my private quarters, as always,” he says, his voice rough with gratitude. I tip my head in acknowledgment.
I show myself to Captain Leto’s tiny quarters, and let myself into the sweltering heat of the shaman’s makeshift sweat lodge. Inside there is only a desk, a fire, and a cot to furnish the room. On the cot sits the old shaman. He is tall and slender, and his limbs are long and gangly. His cinnamon-colored skin is wrinkled, but his hair is still coal black. He has streaks of red and yellow paint on his cheeks and eagle feathers braided into his long, silky hair in the old way. Rowan’s hair would look like that, if he ever let it grow—which he won’t do no matter how much I beg. He thinks it would make him look like a savage.
“Have you eaten today, girl?” the shaman asks, as he always does.
“No,” I reply, ignoring the fact that he calls me “girl.” Strangely, I’m not offended. From him it feels like an endearment. “No food, no water. As usual.”