Dream of a Vast Blue Cavern

Chapter 12: A Dangerous Decision: Stasia

 The steady red glow in the throne chamber never changed, and Stasia lost track of the time she spent in the tiny cage. At intervals, a great vibration passed through the walls, shaking the whole room slightly, but she was too miserable to try to measure the time between each vibration.  After her stomach began to crawl with a hunger so great it overcame her nausea, a human slave brought her water and food.  It was a Chraunian Semija, not a captive Iskaloner. Stasia tried to talk to her, but the slave acted as if she were deaf, and Stasia gave up, wondering how many of her own people were being turned into slaves like this one. The water was warm and stale, but she drank it. The food was peculiar, a soft, chewy meat that she told herself must be cababar.

 The lava continued to burn a tiny hole in her forehead. It hurt, but the pain was bearable, and it did not seem to be endangering her. The Flame whom Medoc had ordered to heal her had been thorough, and the lava and a thin-ness in the hair on half of her scalp were the only signs of her injury. Even the ghost-mesh scars on what she had begun to consider her “Flame side” were gone. But Flame healing was rough and hot, and it left her weak and ill, in almost as much pain as she'd suffered from her wounds. When the Flames were gone and she was alone again, she pulled as much heat from the lava on her face as she could bear, then tried doing simple tasks with it. She already knew she could enter another person's mind. She scraped her fingernail against the tender skin on her forearm, breaking it but not drawing blood, then tried to heal it. The small welt smoothed over as if it had never been.

 Excited, she continued, but that seemed to be the limit of her small power over the heat within. She could not create an external flame; nor could she shape the bars of her cage and free herself. She could not manipulate hot air, thickening it and dispersing it to create solid air; it slipped through her hands like water when she tried. All of these failures made her glad she had reached out for Medoc's mind instantly, rather than wasting time trying to fight the Flames.

 For all the good it had done. He, and the Fire King as well, seemed to have forgotten about her. Time crept immeasurably and maddeningly. With every passing moment she grew more and more worried about her people. What was happening beyond her lonely prison? Had Casser found V'lturhst? Had the Fire King slaughtered all of her Icers? Did Glace live, a slave waiting on some cruel Flame?

   Sleep was rare and brief, broken by the pain of cramped muscles and the choking stench of her own defecation. Stasia Dreamed, but they were not useful, informative Dreams. Instead, she dreamed of the burial chamber, of the copper woman beckoning her on, of being trapped in burial ice. She often woke up shouting that she wasn't dead yet. But that dream was utterly useless. Or was it a predictive Dream? Did it mean that she would die, and would be entombed in the Ice? Death seemed likely, but a proper burial was out of the question.

 Stasia was tracing her fingers over the surface of the bars of the cage, wondering if she would know the exact moment that she lost her mind, when the portcullis scraped open. The Fire King stood in the doorway, his dark silhouette framed in the brighter, orange light of Flame torches in the hallway outside.  A full cloak of dark fur hung from his shoulders all the way to the stone floor. He stared at her a moment, then stepped closer to peer intently through the bars.

 “What is that on your face?”

 Stasia remembered their last conversation, and the Fire King's belief that the Fire Spirit spoke to him. Perhaps she could use this knowledge to trick him. She attempted a smile, but it felt more like a grimace.

 “Your Fire Spirit came to me, from the river yonder. He touched my forehead with his finger and said that I was marked as his, and that I have his protection. He said he would punish you if you killed me.”

 She had hoped to get a reaction from the Fire King, but she was not prepared for what came next. Flames seemed to leap from his eyes, and his face contorted in rage. “Say you are lying.” His voice betrayed an undertone of danger. He was whispering, but she could see he wanted to shout. “Tell me you are lying right now, and I will forget this blasphemy.”

 Stasia supposed the smart thing would have been to apologize and then make up a new, more convincing lie. But she was intrigued by his overreaction, and curious as to how far she could push him. “I wish I was lying,” she said, as if unaware of his anger. “It hurt tremendously, and even now my forehead burns. He was not very gentle, this Fire Spirit of yours.”

 She braced herself as the fire in his eyes intensified. Veins bulged and pulsed on his forehead. She wondered how great her healing abilities were. If he beat her nearly to death, would she be able to heal herself?

 To her surprise, instead of raining fire down on her helpless body, he spun on his heel and stalked out of the room. The portcullis slammed shut behind him.

 Alone again in the dim red heat, Stasia ruminated on the Fire King’s strange reaction. She had expected to be beaten, to be screamed at, to have the lava wrenched forcibly from her forehead. She was startled to think that she would miss the burning pain; it gave her a strange sense of security. Why was he so certain she was lying? It seemed a plausible conclusion, if one believed in a Fire Spirit that haunted the river of Lava, to think that it could come ashore and mark the Fire King's prisoner. What had she said that made him so angry, and was it something she could exploit when he returned?