Chapter 4: Fire

Is it time yet?

In the gloom of the rustic tavern, Relaila found it difficult to tell whether it was still evening or if night had already fallen. The thrill of the occasion left her giddy, nowhere near tired, her head buzzing with the kind of restless energy that drove sleep far away. At the back of her mind, she could practically feel Remura crackling with delirious glee, anticipating the festivities to come.

She glanced around, trying to get a sense of how late it really was. Judging by the steady stream of peasants still pushing through the rough wooden door, and the level of drunken revelry already bubbling in the room, she guessed there were at least two hours left until midnight.

The man, seated across from her at the table, looked up, his face full of inebriated expectation, as he set down his large wooden tankard, now empty. What was left of the mead that once had filled it to the brim now only existed as frothy bubbles stuck in his unkempt, graying beard. He seemed to be in his early fifties—perhaps twice her age—and from the pungent scent that clung to him, she could tell he'd come straight to the tavern from tending his nets. Such was life in the remote villages of the Agerian Empire.

She had been touring the northern coast for a couple of weeks now, and this was far from the worst she had encountered out here. As an entertainer, she had to take the good with the bad.

Or the ugly, Relaila thought. The fisherman’s face was almost round, puffy with blubber and flushed red, either from alcohol, the freezing winds of the Sea of Rage, or both. One of his front teeth was gone, leaving a large black gap among his brown gnashers as he leered at her. Wherever she went on her travels, there was always a man like him in every tavern or inn where she performed.

A small woman in a gray cloak bumped into her, momentarily breaking her focus. The place was starting to get crowded, and it was hard for her to work without being disturbed by patrons rushing up to the tavern counter, or by serving girls weaving their way among the tables. That wasn’t surprising, Relaila thought. Celestial signs that the superstitious believed heralded the end of the world seemed to really draw people to lose themselves in liquor.

Then again, she mused as her gaze swept around the noisy room again, these people probably didn’t need heavenly omens of doom to go drinking. Chances were, they required no inspiration whatsoever to pursue intoxication.

“One more, sweet girl!” the old man begged, trying his best to be heard above the ruckus around them. From his drunken lips, it came out more like, “An ore, shit gull.” Relaila endured it with the ease of long habit. She wasn’t that sweet anyway, though she did her best to pretend otherwise while entertaining.

Flashing a flirtatious smile at him, she waved her hands above his mug, while at the same time silently reciting incantations to Remura, god of leisure. With a slurping sound, the tankard suddenly filled with golden liquid until it overflowed, the sweet bubbles dripping over the edge and down onto the wooden tabletop.

The fisherman squealed like a little girl, giddy with anticipation. Or maybe like a pig. Probably the latter, Relaila thought. She definitely had the attention of the room now. In settings like these, booze magic was always a guaranteed crowd-pleaser.

It went over well with the patrons, at any rate. Glancing over at the counter at the back of the room, she could see the tavern keeper glaring at her with dark eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, it was time to switch over to less controversial acts of magic.

Relaila paused for a short second, mentally going through her repertoire. Then she closed her right hand, raised her index finger, and held it beneath the fisherman’s nostrils.

“Hold out your hand,” she asked him. “Just like mine.”

She fervently hoped he wouldn’t hold it out just like hers, under her nostrils. Getting acquainted with the fragrances of the man’s somewhat poor personal hygiene at that close range was not something she relished. Fortunately, he was smart enough to understand her intended meaning. Or just drunk enough to lack the coordination required for a nose poke.

“No,” she corrected him. She couldn’t work the trick if he just held out a clenched fist. “Point your finger like this.”

The fisherman did, eventually.

Moving her lips in silence, Relaila begged her patron god for fire. Suddenly, a small flame emerged from her index finger. It lasted only a second, but the acrid smell spreading in the air made it clear the hair in the man’s nostrils had just been incinerated. The smoke certainly was an improvement to the aroma surrounding him, she mused.

But as the flame sticking out from the top of her digit was snuffed out, a similar flame appeared a coin’s breadth above the drunken fisherman’s outstretched finger. For a moment, the room went silent in awe. The old man stared dumbfounded at his dirty, burning digit, moving his head around to see it from all sides, as if he were trying to figure out the illusion behind it.

There was no trickery there to be found, of course—not that the geezer’s little brain would have been able to figure it out, even if there had been.

She should have done the act with his ear hair instead, Relaila thought afterwards. Had she done so, it wouldn’t have been the end of the world if the rest of the hair on his head had caught fire in the process, pun intended. In the back of her mind, she could feel Remura chuckle at the joke.

Good. There was nothing more important than keeping her god happy. And speaking of happiness, even the tavern keeper’s scowl had softened now. As it turned out, awe was actually better for business than free mead.

By now, most of the men and women in the tavern were watching her intently. Most just wanted to see what other magic tricks she had up her sleeve, but some clearly had other activities in mind—ones more suited to the back rooms than the taproom. She usually didn’t mind. As long as the pay was good, Remura had no objections to such affairs.

But not today. Today, the god of leisure had other forms of pleasure in mind for the night.

The showmanship and light banter carried on for another hour or two. Eventually, the patrons started to drop off, either going home to the wives—their own, or someone else’s—or they just fell asleep on the floor of the esteemed establishment known widely across the land as The Drunken Pot.

Relaila wasn’t the last to leave the tavern, but by the time she stepped out, business had already dwindled to a halt.

After that, the night all but died.

* * *

Remura, god of leisure and betrayal, bless your servant tonight. May you find me worthy of your power, and my sacrifice a sweet scent in your nose.

Relaila Litarian, Blood Sister of Remura, stepped out from the tavern into the midnight darkness of the mostly empty street.

From the north, a cold wind swept in from the Sea of Rage. With it came a faint scent of salt, mixed with the fishy reek of the beasts, mysterious and cruel, that dwelled in the dark depths of the ocean. Soft, thin wisps of gray fog drifted like wraiths through the small village, swaying in the breeze, catching thin rays of moonlight wherever they floated into the open.

Relaila shuddered and drew her cowl closer around her shoulders. Soon enough, it wouldn’t be needed anymore to keep her warm.

“Are you ready to have fun?”

The thought echoed eerily through the dark recesses of her mind. Remura had spoken, her voice sharp and harsh, as clear as if she’d been standing beside Relaila, leaving no room for doubt. Now the time was finally at hand.

She took off her shoes and walked barefoot in otherworldly silence across the gravel road, nearly invisible as her red waistcoat and skirt turned black in the pale moonlight. The shadows obscured her target, but after a moment, she found the large, black iron lock on the wooden door in front of her.

A rolling motion of her right hand, paired with a silent whisper, was all it took. Remura was indeed with her tonight. A soft click from inside the mechanism confirmed the door was now open. The old, rusty hinges on its side screeched as she pushed it ajar.

The sound it made tore through the dead silence of the night like nails scraping on a plate, but Relaila didn’t mind if she woke up the inhabitants now that she was inside. The sacrifice would be so much sweeter if her victims were aware of the terror stalking them in the dark before they met their inevitable end. Listening carefully, she heard the old couple stirring in their bed as she approached them from the night, like a shade rising from the abyss.

She felt the power beginning to tingle in her hands, the dark magic granted to her by her patron god. A brief flicker of light, a spark dancing from finger to finger, heat rising in the air. She knew the signs well. This was the moment when Remura granted her all the power of the gods of the world.

It made Relaila feel invincible. Using the divine magic was effortless. All it took was for her to will it into existence, and it was there, ready to be commanded as she pleased—all for the glory of the gods, of course.

The flames that shot from her hands set fire to the old couple’s rough garments. The fire that engulfed them didn’t burn very hot. It would take some time before they died. She made sure their pain and fear stretched out as long as possible, to sweeten the sacrifice. Their terrified screams rang like hymns in her ears, the melody rising with the smoke to the heavens like incense. She knew the gods of the world looked favorably upon her offering.

Once she had let Remura savor the last drop of life ebbing from the old man and woman, Relaila moved on to the next shack down the street. Behind her, the fire spread, and warmed her soul.

In the darkness, the commotion caused by the inferno all but guaranteed she could proceed with her mission undisturbed. The villagers were busy rushing for water, too frantic to search for a culprit—if they even realized this calamity was more than an accident. After her show in the tavern earlier that night, no one would suspect the sweet girl of such a thing. And should they catch her red-handed… well, anyone who saw her in action would simply become one more sacrifice upon the altar of the gods of the world. Her patron would have her back.

Three doors and eleven lives later, she came upon a hut she at first thought was empty. Walking through its single, dark room, she heard no sound and was about to leave and try the next shack, hoping for better luck there. But just as she turned, the giddy voice of Remura slithered back to the edge of her consciousness, whispering maliciously for her to stay, to take a closer look around.

“There’s a special treat for me in here. Do not let it go to waste.”

Something in the god’s voice—there was an edge to it, more malevolent than she had noticed before—made Relaila briefly consider leaving despite her patron’s command. But she had no choice in the matter. She had pledged her soul and her services to the god of betrayal, and this life was the path she had chosen. Turning around was simply not possible.

So she stayed, and looked more closely around the room. The fires outside flickered through the open window, casting dancing patterns of yellow light and black shadow on the rickety, unpainted walls and the worn-out floor.

In the corner of her eye, she caught a motion from under the bed. A small hand was briefly illuminated by the flames burning across the village. Relaila squatted down to get a better look.

A young girl was curled up there, clutching a crude toy rabbit made from hay and string tightly to her chest. Silent tears had traced lonely paths down her dirt-smudged cheeks.

“Hello there,” Relaila said quietly, smiling softly to put the child at ease. “Don’t be afraid, little one. Where are your parents?”

At first, the girl didn’t reply. But after a long pause, a tiny voice rose from under the bed.

“They went out to help the Kalindors,” the girl said. “They haven’t come back yet.”

Chances are they never will.

“Do you want to see a magic trick?” she said. “Why don’t you come out, and I’ll show you something fun while you wait for them.”

At first, the girl didn’t move. In the chaos of the night, and with her parents gone, the space beneath her bed probably felt like the safest place in the entire world. But she was lonely and afraid and didn’t understand what was happening around her, and after a moment she crept out, clearly hoping for a bit of comfort from the pretty lady who had come to help her.

“Do you like rabbits?” Relaila asked. The girl nodded without speaking.

The Blood Sister held out her left palm toward the child, waved her right hand in slow circles above it, and whispered an incantation to Remura. From the air above the skin of her hand, tiny flames suddenly burst into life. At first, they looked like any other fire, except smaller and more delicate, but within seconds they divided into strands that started to twist and braid into complex shapes. It didn’t take long until the burning outline of a rabbit formed in the air, hovering a coin’s breadth above her palm.

“Do you want to pet it?” she asked. “Come, why don’t you touch it? It’s warm and soft.”

The little girl stretched out her hand toward the fire, eager to feel the pretty fire animal.

Three minutes later, once the shrill cries had finally fallen silent, Relaila stepped out of the burning hut. With a shrug, she let go of the cold fingers that had been tracing lines up and down her spine, and warmed herself in the dark fire Remura granted.

Author's Note

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