Brian Staveley - The Providence of Fire

Adare ground her teeth and looked away. They sat just inside the wide glass doors of the old palace where Lehav had made his headquarters. To the south, the lake stretched away farther than she could see, all waves and gray, like a great chipped slate. On the far side of the water, well out of sight, sat Sia, a twin city to Olon, but richer, and more beautiful. Past Sia lay the trellised vineyards of central Eridroa, then the jade hills, green as emeralds, if the paintings were to be believed, sparkling with ten thousand terraces. Adare had seen the vibrant scrolls hung in the Dawn Palace, but she had never been farther from Annur than Olon, and the sudden mad urge seized her to set out south on a lake boat, to slip out of the city when no one was watching and just disappear.

It was a childish fantasy, of course, the opposite of what she had come to do, but then, despite her success, what she had come to do was looking harder each day. According to Nira, she should have been grateful that the devout were calling her Intarra’s second prophet, that the scene at the Well was being hailed as a miracle. In a single day, she’d won the loyalty of Intarra’s most faithful, and besides, it wasn’t as though she’d never had a title before.

Princess. Malkeenian. Minister of Finance. She’d grown accustomed to the big names, but this newest honorific-prophet-hung on her heavily as an ill-fitting coat. She still couldn’t explain what had happened at the Well, couldn’t be sure why she had walked away unscathed from the lightning. That Intarra had answered her prayer, Adare was just willing to believe, especially when her mind filled, as it still did several times each day, with that boundless, brilliant light, a wash of peace and power so burning hot it felt cool as balm. She’d come to the city a skeptic, and was leaving with a reverence kindled in her heart-fine. But none of that made her a prophet .

“It’s not even your lie,” Nira went on, stabbing a bony finger into the tabletop. “It’s the people saying it. All ya have to do is nod your dumb head and smile.”

Adare sucked a long breath between her teeth. The old woman was right enough. Word of Adare’s miraculous survival was already spreading, of a Malkeenian princess who had forsaken her palace and throne to join a sacred band of pilgrims, to make her own sacrifice at the Well, who had been marked twice over by Intarra, once with the burning eyes, and a second time, to reaffirm her holiness, by a sacred web of bright scar laid into her skin. Most hagiography, of course, was bullshit. In some of the tales, people had Adare stepping into the Well itself, then borne up on a fountain of light. And yet, she had few enough advantages in the fight against il Tornja as it was.

“Listen, ya priggish idiot,” Nira said, spreading her hands. “People don’t want men and women for leaders-they want saviors.”

“And what if I don’t want to be a savior?”

“Then you’re dumber than I took ya for. Which was pretty fuckin’ dumb.” She shook her head in frustration. “Let me lay it out, plain as cloth: a fisherman tells his own story-where he fished, whether his nets came back full or no. A tailor tells his own story. Even a whore tells her story, though there are plenty a’ crooked cocks who’ll try ta take it from her.

“But a queen? An emperor?” She shook her head. “You can sit on the throne and talk till you’re outta air, but it’s them,” she said, stabbing her cane at the wall, at the Sons of Flame drilling in the courtyard beyond, at the citizens of Olon, at the entire empire. “It’s them who tell your story. And listen to this bit, girl, listen good: there aren’t but two tales to tell. You’re a savior, or a curse. An answered prayer or a ’Kent-kissing monster. So when people go tellin’ tales with the words blessed, and goddess, and prophet, ya thank your bright shiny goddess and ya nod and ya fuckin’ smile. It’s you who made me councillor, so I’m counselin’-take the worship and be glad for it.”

Adare stared, taken aback by the tirade. “All right,” she said finally, “but they believe all this, all this business about prophets, because they haven’t met me. The people who know me know the truth.” In her mind she watched again as Birch met her eyes, shook his head, and turned away, one man, at least, who wanted nothing to do with her divinity. “When they come to know me, they will come to know it.”

Nira nodded as though she’d been making that precise point all along. “Which is why ya don’t let people know you. Why ya can’t.”

Adare shook her head wearily, staring out at the waves. The best wines in the world came from Sia, reds and whites both. She could go south, take a room in a tiny whitewashed house overlooking the lake, spend her days baking and fishing.… And then il Tornja would win. He would destroy her empire as he had murdered her father. She tore her eyes from the water, turning back to Nira.

“All right,” she said. “Prophet. As long as I don’t have to push the story myself. As long as that’s it.”

“It?” Nira asked, brows rising. “It?”

“Yes. It. I’m doing this to see il Tornja captured, tried, and killed. Not so I can follow in the footsteps of Maayala.”

“And if ya succeed?” the woman demanded. “What then?”

“Then Kaden will take his place on the Unhewn Throne-”

“Kaden!” Nira hooted. “Your poor bastard of a brother’s feeding the crows by now. Ya think the ’Kent-kissing kenarang went t’all the trouble ta gut your father just so Kaden could dance back home and plant his bony, ignorant ass on the throne?”

Adare held up a hand. “I realize he may have gone after Kaden. The delegation sent north, the one with Adiv and Ut, they could have been part of the plot.” She shook her head at the magnitude of the suggestion. “But could il Tornja really win over both the Mizran Councillor and the First Shield of the Aedolian Guard? And if he wants Kaden dead so badly, why didn’t he kill me? I would have been the easiest target of all.”

Nira looked her up and down, then snorted. “You were worth more to him bedded than dead. And there was no threat that you’d take the throne.” She pursed her withered lips. “Is there?”

Adare let out a long, slow breath. “Annur would never accept me on the throne. And Kaden…”

The old woman waved the name aside. “I’ve heard about enough a’ Kaden. He’s dead, girl. Dead as meat.”

Adare glanced down at her hands and realized she’d torn a nail right down to the quick. Blood pooled in the nail bed, then, when she tried to wipe it away, smeared across her hand. In all the long march south, she hadn’t allowed herself to think beyond the need to win over the Sons, and now that she had them, all she could consider was il Tornja’s destruction. Nira was right, though. If they did succeed, if the kenarang didn’t plant all of their heads on spikes over the Godsgate, someone would need to rule Annur.

“I could do it,” she said slowly.

Nira smiled, a tight, grim expression. “You’re a thickheaded bitch, Adare, but when you’re in the shit deep enough, at least ya know ta start swimmin’.”

* * *

Despite her reservations, after several more days, Adare was forced to admit that the events at the Everburning Well, divinely ordained or not, had worked a small miracle for her cause. Not only were the Sons of Flame flocking to Lehav’s call, but the common people of Olon, sons and daughters both, came in scores, then hundreds, then thousands, some begging to join the holy army, others bearing baskets of food, or even, in one strange case, a dozen iron rakes.