The Firefarer

Part Ten: The Source - Chapter One - Vito

Something was tickling Vito's upper lip. He stirred, grunting lightly, and brushed it away. Cloying and feverish, his dreams refused to release him.

Andre was calling his name. They were in a high-walled garden. He looked up to gold-rimmed clouds and a sky of kingfisher blue. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of olive trees. Andre moved through the long grass, her hair in plaits as it had once been, the hem of her gown brushing the ground.

Again that light, feathery something brushed across his face. Coughing, spluttering, Vito spat it away, jerking free of sleep. Then he rubbed his hand across his skin and squinted at his palm. It was black with soot.

He was suddenly aware of painful smoke-stung eyes and the stink of ash. His head swam with a bitter rush of memories. There had been a battle and the Ahi girl, Muna, had walked through its very midst. At first, he had thought the death of her young brother had left her crazed, her mind tipping from grief into madness. But then he saw how fire danced beneath her skin, how her eyes were two bright suns, how flames seeped like sweat from her face. And when she opened her mouth and uttered one terrible word, she had spoken with a thousand voices as if the whole world inhabited her body.

That was when he had run. He could remember nothing else.

He could not lie here forever. Eventually he would have to sit up, to see what, if anything, the Firefarer had left in her wake ˗ if she or Moran had survived. Because it was too late for...

Vito rolled queasily onto his side, screwing shut his eyes. There was a hollowness within; his body drained of everything that he had ever known or believed or understood, his existence reduced to an awful, agonising ache and in place of his heart, a hard husk, as if it too had shrivelled up in the heat. With arms curled around his head, Vito drew his knees to his chest and wept like a child.

He had no idea what time it was, where he was, or even if he were still alive. A part of him prayed that the fires had taken him too, had absorbed him into the Mystery. But if that were the case, why did he still think of Andre? Surely the Mystery was pure knowledge. There was no place there, the brothers had taught him, for happiness or grief or any other human instinct. But here he lay, his hair and skin coated in cinders and the pain of Andre's death so keen it cut like a blade. So, no, he couldn't be dead.

He had cried himself dry. That brought a faint relief ˗ at least there were no more tears to be shed for now. Pushing himself from the ground, his body as stiff and cramped as an old man's, Vito staggered to his feet. Charred fragments floated down through the air like black snow. Frowning, he caught one in his hand, staring at it dumbly. As light as feathers, as fragile as ancient parchment it fell apart, crumbling between his fingers and slipping to the ground. He looked up to a silent storm of blackened shreds spiralling downwards, coating his hair, his clothing. They collected in small heaps amongst the grass, nestled on the branches of trees, the river now running black with ash. As far as he could see, the valley resembled the cold grate of a fireplace with palls of smoke wafting like low lying clouds and not a person in sight: not a voice, not a groan or a whisper, the Pagi and Ahi reduced to dust.

Kicking through the ashes, he stumbled over sword hilts and axe heads, while the steel rings of charred harnesses or armour clinked beneath his boots: the only proof that two great armies had, on a sunlit morning, torn each other apart with all the ferocity of savage dogs. But that morning was now gone, and with it the world as he had known it. He had no idea of the time: a few straggling rays of sunshine pierced the smoke-choked air, but whether it were afternoon or evening, he couldn't tell.

Nor was there any sign of Muna. Perhaps, he thought wearily, in expending such raw power, she had destroyed herself. Her face came to him then ˗ not as she had been, as the Firefarer reducing a battlefield to dust ˗ but as a young woman, her skin streaked with the filth of the road, her slender limbs trembling with exhaustion. He suspected that beneath the ragged clothing and the dirt, she had been beautiful.