The Rhymer's Daughter (Leopard's Bane book 2)

Chapter 1
They buried Verit on the same night that he died. There was no choice. Their home had been turned to ashes, and to leave him outside was unthinkable. Even Verit’s scrawny little carcass would have drawn creatures from far and wide searching for a free feast. Someone would have had to stay constantly on guard, or he would have been eaten; flesh gorged, sinews chewed, bones gnawed, devoured. Yalka could not bear that. Her brother had to be buried that night.
The charred ruins of the River Settlements, Yalka’s home for almost all of her sixteen years, were still smoking as she and her grandfather started up the hill. The air was heavy with soot and the bitter stench of fire. The smoke stung her eyes and parched her throat. Here and there, islands of embers glowed in the dark where shacks had once stood. From time to time a gust of wind would spin them, whirling firefly sparks into the air. The display would have been beguiling, had its genesis not been so terrible.
Yalka went first, trying to pick a path that would not be too hard for the old man who followed, carrying his grandson over his shoulder. They had wrapped the boy in a piece of brightly coloured cloth, a riot of embroidery set with glass beads and small squares of silver. It had belonged to Yalka’s mother, and it was the most valuable thing they owned. Her grandfather had wanted it to be Yalka’s pairing shawl, her bridecloth, and it had been the first of the few things he had managed to snatch from the fire. It was not a burial shroud; the gaudy colours mocked their grief and the bleak destruction around them, but it was all they had.
Yalka was weary beyond imagining. For the whole time the fire was raging she had been its opponent, labouring to fight it off. She had been powered by pure energy as she rushed between the blazing houses, looking for her enemy’s weak spots. She had filled buckets from the river and organised a chain. She had dragged people and things from the searing shells of their homes, her eyes streaming as she stared into the caverns of flame. She had tugged, wrenched, ripped, torn, in her efforts to salvage. She had screamed as a tongue of fire licked her calf, and again when another caressed her shoulder, but mostly she had felt nothing. She felt it now; her whole body hurt with a ferocity beyond tears.
All three of them—Yalka, Verit and Syramos, their grandfather—had been asleep when their own shack was torched. The two children must have woken together, because as Yalka leapt from her bed, the smell of burning already strong, she was aware of the boy already at her side. Her grandfather was still sleeping soundly, and she had to shake him awake. Then, signing to Verit to stay put, she slid and tumbled down the stairs from their sleeping loft.
The door to the street was swinging open, and there was a fuming, smouldering mess of rags in the middle of the room. The smoke blinded her, and she could scarcely breathe. As she backed away, a black shape appeared in the doorway and hurled in a blazing brand. There was a percussive thump, like a great beast gulping air, and the heap ignited. Yalka screamed, and her grandfather came down the stairs behind her, almost falling in his haste.
For a few frantic moments they struggled with the blaze, but they soon saw that it was beyond them to put it out. The timber shack, with its simple furnishings and Syramos’ books, offered perfect food for the flames. The choking smoke forced them out, and then they saw with horror that theirs was not the only fire. Every other shack they could see, up the hill and down, was burning.
They were stunned, watching while their home was devoured. Then, without speaking, they began to work. Syramos wrapped rags around his hands and head, Yalka doused them and his clothes with water, and he plunged back inside. At once he was lost in the smoke, and Yalka watched anxiously, searching for movement in the murk. She thought he was gone, and she was on the point of rushing in to see if she could drag him out when he appeared in the doorway, clutching some smouldering objects. He flung them from him and Yalka took over, getting them away from the inferno. Syramos went in again and again, each time fighting harder for breath as he staggered out, each time bringing fewer things. He bent double, coughing and wheezing, his clothes charred and smoking. Yalka had filled two pails from the river, and she tipped water over him.
As the girl and her grandfather worked, the burning shack became increasingly dangerous. It was blazing furiously and had become a cone of flame. The sleeping loft was almost gone and looked as though it would collapse at any moment and bring blazing boards down on their heads.
When Syramos next came out, Yalka grabbed the old man’s arm and held on, but there was no need. He had reached the limit of what he could do. He tottered away from the heat and crumpled to the ground. He gulped the water she gave him, and retched. She squatted beside him and looked into his face, her arm around his shoulder. His eyebrows were gone, his beard was singed, and his nose and forehead were streaked and raw.
Yalka stared at the remains of their shack, and along with despair came a rising torrent of anger.
‘Peglar said this wouldn’t happen,’ she cried. ‘He promised we’d be all right.’ She wiped her stinging eyes. ‘Why didn’t he stop it?’
Syramos was numb, as if the heat and flames had sucked all the life from him. He shook his head slowly. ‘I doubt Peglar could have done anything about it,’ he said.
It was then that Yalka realised Verit was missing. Why hadn’t he helped her to move their things and fill the pails? Where was the little bugger when you needed him? She had last seen him when she and Syramos had first found the fire and started beating back the flames. He had been frightened and confused, but she hadn’t had the space to deal with him, so she’d pushed him towards the door and pointed in the direction of the edge of the clearing and safety. He must have gone there to hide.
For some time, they sought him. They called to neighbours, but all were distracted by trying to save their own lives and wouldn’t have noticed a skinny boy lurking in the shadows. They searched the riverbank and looked in a shallow cave at the edge of the woods where he would sometimes go to be on his own. They shouted his name, although he wouldn’t have heard them; he was deaf. Then it came to her. She knew where he would be. She let out a cry and ran back to what was left of their shack.
The fire had almost finished its work, but as they approached the spot where their shack had been, it was still unbearably hot. On the floor of what had once been their kitchen were four flagstones. In their centre was a metal plate. Syramos had dug out the space beneath it many years before to make a shallow trough where they could keep food cool in the summer and store other things of value. Verit sometimes hid there when he thought he was in trouble, or when he simply wanted to avoid people.
Yalka seized the ring on the plate. The hot metal burnt her fingers, but she ignored the pain and wrenched the lid aside. And there he was. She could just make him out in the gloom, curled in a ball at the end of the trough. Her grandfather came behind her, and they both looked down at the still figure. Syramos knelt, reached into the hole with both arms and pulled the boy out. Yalka grabbed his shoulders and tried to wake him, but his head flopped loosely to the side. Syramos put a hand on her arm and slowly shook his head.
She looked at her brother again. He might have been sleeping, but now she could see that he was not. He was dead. She felt his face, his arms, his hair. He was warm, and there was sweat on his skin. But he was dead. He looked whole and unhurt. But he was dead. Beyond the casual grime of a free-ranging eight-year-old, there were no marks on him. So what had killed him?
Her grandfather lifted the body and slowly carried him away from what had been their home. Yalka looked at the meagre pile of things they had managed to save, and she wept at the price they had paid.

Chapter 2
Yalka knew exactly where they should bury her brother. Syramos didn’t argue, even though he knew that it would be a struggle to get the body up the hill.
He started by cradling Verit in his arms, like a baby, but even though the boy was small, he was a dead weight, and after only a few steps Syramos had to put him down. He readjusted the coloured cloth they had wrapped him in and bound it in place with his belt. The man’s belt went twice around the boy’s small frame, but the arrangement worked. He was able to get the bundle onto his back, and that was better.
They climbed through the woods, leaving the remains of the fire behind them. Most of what was combustible had gone, and what had been a scene from hell was now reduced to no more than a series of smouldering heaps lining the ravine. On their left, the city rose above them. At first they could see plenty of activity in its streets, with lighted windows, milling pedestrians, and the flicker of burning torches. Then the track curved away around the side of the hill where the woods were thicker, and they were on their own.
Although the moon had risen, its light was dim under the trees, and as they went deeper it became impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them. The track was not as steep here, but the ground was rough. Yalka took the lead, alerting her grandfather to obstacles and holding back branches so that he was able to get through without losing his grip on his burden. Even so, the old man stumbled several times and once he almost fell. From time to time, they had to stop while he set Verit down and rested. Each time they started again, she saw that it was harder for him to lift her brother’s body.
They came out from the trees at the foot of a long, steep path. The first hint of dawn was just beginning to pale the eastern sky, and above them they could see their goal, the rear wall of the Citadel high on the rocky crest. The slope was strewn with jagged boulders, some of them huge. Syramos pursed his lips and gritted his teeth as he took the first few steps up the path.
Back in the River Settlements Yalka had struggled to understand what had happened to her brother.
‘He’s not burnt. So why is he dead?’ She’d wiped the back of her hand across her face, smearing the tears.
Syramos had spoken slowly, his voice dry and hoarse. ‘As the house burnt, the fire must have sucked the air out from the trough.’
Yalka had looked at her grandfather in wide-eyed horror. ‘You mean he was suffocated. Will it have hurt him?’
The old man shook his head.
‘It must have hurt him.’
‘No, I don’t think it would,’ her grandfather had said and then had to stop, wracked by a fit of coughing. Yalka had looked at him with concern and clutched his arm while he struggled with his breathing. It had been a while before he’d been able to continue. ‘But he would have been frightened.’
She didn’t know; neither of them did. If the air had gone slowly, Verit might have just passed out. But if he had known what was happening he would have been terrified. He would have been desperate to get out. He would have beaten on the hot metal lid of the trough, the energy draining from his weakening limbs as the fire drew out his life. It would have been a horrible way to die.
Syramos had said nothing to the stricken girl. Instead, he stroked her back and smoothed her hair, her yellow hair, tangled and smeared with soot. They both had to cope with the anguish and guilt they felt at not having noticed that Verit was missing, at not having realised that while they were struggling to salvage a few trifles, the boy was dying beneath their feet. Could they have rescued him if they had known he was there? Could they have fought through the flames to get to Verit’s hiding place? Perhaps not, but it would take a long time to dull the pain they both felt at not having tried. Probably more time than Syramos had.