On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [99]
Kevla looked out into the crowd, desperate to find a kind face, and her eyes met those of Sahlik. The older woman looked ancient, and her eyes were red. Kevla smiled sadly. At least someone would mourn her passing.
Four men approached with lit torches, and the fear she had thought dulled sprang to life. Futilely, she squirmed against her bonds, found them far too tight, and sagged against them.
This is my fate. This is my destiny. Great Dragon, I still don’t know who I am.
The wood was dry, and the fire well-prepared. It lit almost at once. Tongues of flame licked upward, and Kevla felt their heat. Smoke began to rise, engulfing her in a black and gray cloud. Through the smoke she could see orange and red flames beneath her. The wooden platform beneath her bare feet began to grow hot, then it, too, erupted into flames.
The sa’abah was exhausted. It had been running for a full day and night with only infrequent, brief breaks, but Jashemi was merciless. Something was happening to Kevla, and every heartbeat was precious. He too was exhausted, but fear flooded his veins and kept him going.
They were almost there. The riverside and the road to the House were oddly deserted, adding to Jashemi’s apprehension. The beast grunted in protest, but Jashemi would not ease up on it. It surged up the hill, through the open gates, and into the packed courtyard of the House of Four Waters.
Jashemi cried aloud at what he beheld.
Kevla was tied to a stake in the center of the courtyard. Flames leaped around her, so high and so smoky that he could barely see her body.
“Douse the fires!” he shrieked, sliding off his mount. “I order you, douse the fires!”
But no one obeyed his orders. His own father’s guards seized him and shouted into his ear, “The kuli must burn!”
Jashemi was not a weak man, and his terror for his sister gave him added strength. He wrested his arm free from the guard and started pushing his way through the crowd. Two more guards slammed into him, knocking him down. He surged up, startling them, but their grip on him was firm. He used every fighting technique that Halid had taught him, but could not break free from three guards.
There was a mighty crackle from the deadly fire, and a new sheet of flame leaped skyward. The cheers of the crowd swelled gleefully, and Jashemi finally realized with a slow, sickening horror that he had arrived too late.
“No!” he screamed, coughing from the smoke, “No! Kevla!” Tears filled his eyes and streamed down his cheeks. He sagged forward in the guards’ grip and fell to his knees, sobbing. Whether from pity or contempt, he did not know or care which, they released him.
While the crowd around him celebrated and the deadly fire crackled as if shouting a victory, the khashim’s son knelt in the dust, lost in his rage and grief.
Kevla…Kevla, I should have kept you safe….
Suddenly, the crowd’s shrieks of delight fell silent. Shaking and wiping his wet face, Jashemi looked up.
The flames were beginning to die down. He could see through their red-orange curtain, expecting the agonizing sight of a charred skeleton. Instead, impossibly, Kevla stood untouched atop the blackened branches and logs. Even as he watched, her clothing twisted and burned, turning black and dropping off her unharmed body. She seemed as surprised as the crowd to find herself alive.
For an instant, Jashemi was so dizzy with relief that he could not move. Kevla lifted her head, stared at the crowd—and their eyes met.
“Jashemi!”
It was the sweetest sound in the world. Jashemi leaped forward like an arrow shot from a bow, rushing toward his sister. He struck and pushed his way through the press of people. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women carrying full earthenware water jugs, staring slack-jawed as Kevla strained against her bonds. As he raced past the oblivious pair, Jashemi grabbed the jugs and hurled them onto what was left of the pyre. The water splashed the hot wood and hissed. Everyone seemed too startled