Rosefire

Prologue

From the writings of Brother Ezra, Helper

Seventh day, sixth month, in the ninth year of King Saran’s reign

They tell me that roses burn sweet—that there is something of their scent that endures through the flames and rises in the wisps of dusky smoke. This is what they tell me, but I do not know myself. Rosefire has only ever been the province of the great Masters of the Ancient Writings, and it has been so long since a Master has practiced Rosefire that it has become a myth, except among the most faithful.

There are rules that prohibit novices from practicing Rosefire. Still, they are nearly unnecessary, for the Leg- ends wield great power among those who practice magic, and the Legends tell of great disasters that have befallen any who attempted the practice of Rosefire before they were ready. According to the Legends, not a single novice has ever survived the act. To my knowledge, none has tried in over a thousand years. And most think no one ever will.

Part One

A faithful account of the genesis and activities of the Followers, here written by Karan Adamaris

Chapter 1

Some might say it was coincidence that Anya arrived on our doorstep the very same night that the heir to the throne died, but I’m not sure I believe in coincidence anymore.

It was pouring rain that evening, storming harder than it had in years. From my window overlooking the cliff at the edge of my father’s estate, I could look almost straight down to the sea, and that night the breakers were crashing upon the rocks, echoing up to me in wave upon wave of clamor.

I tried to study, for my tutor had promised an exam the next day, but I found it impossible to do so in my room. I turned from my desk and looked around my quarters, taking in the tapestries on the walls, the plush carpet on the floor, the fireplace aglow with crackling flames, the bed and sofa covered with soft pillows and silk comforters. I wondered if Richard’s rooms were any quieter. My older brother often helped me navigate the bewildering passages in the Written Histories.

Wrapping a shawl around my shoulders, I slid my feet into my slippers and picked up my text. My feet made no noise on the soft carpet as I walked to the door. Slowly, I opened it, certain that if my father heard me about he’d order me back to study alone. I peeked out and, finding the hall deserted, tiptoed toward the broad main corridor. There, I found the page dozing at his post and breathed a sigh of relief. I wouldn’t have to convince a servant faithful to my father’s orders to let me break them. I hurried along to Richard’s quarters, the sound of the sea growing quieter as I went.

I knocked, and his voice bid me enter. I opened the door, stepped in, and shut it fast behind me, looking up in time to see Richard start at the sight of me. I smiled at him, my brother, the one who always protected me and looked out for me. Half the young noblewomen who had come of age in the previous two years had fallen in love with him—though some of that may have been due to his rank. He was taller, but otherwise, Richard took after our father in coloring and features, dark hair waving back from his forehead, dark eyes shining out from above high cheekbones. But Richard’s eyes always glowed welcome and encouragement, whereas my father’s tended to blaze with disapproval or anger. Richard’s countenance, I think, came from our mother. I barely remember her face, though the servants tell me I look like her with my blue eyes and dark hair, but I recall her smile and how it always made me feel safe. She died when I was only three. I think, perhaps, some of the anger in my father’s eyes came from that loss so many years ago.

Richard started up from the sofa where he was reading and came over to me. Karan, what are you doing here? he said. You know Father wanted you to study this evening. I nodded up at his concerned expression. I know, I said. But I can’t study in my rooms—the sea is too loud. I wondered if you’d help me.

Richard chuckled. He moved back to the sofa. You’re lucky you made it past the page. What did you do, bat your eyelashes at him?

I put my chin in the air. No, I didn’t have to.

Richard waved me over to the sofa. But you were fully prepared to, weren’t you?

I sat at the other end of the sofa, opening my text flat in the space between us. A little flirting with the servants has saved me from far more trouble with Father than you’ve ever been in, O Beloved Son.

And broken the hearts of two stable boys and a foot- man, if I’m not mistaken. Richard turned to face me. What are you studying tonight?

The Written Histories. I have an exam tomorrow on the age of the Kings. Will you quiz me?

Who was the first King?

Toran Aurelias.

And how did he come to power? Richard asked.

The power of the Priests weakened over the years of their age as their followers lost faith in the Ancient Writings. The land grew poor under their rule, and Toran Aurelias led an uprising against the Priests, promising prosperity to the people. He and his followers overthrew the Priestly line, and Aurelias took the throne.

Did King Toran deliver on his promise of prosperity?

He found gold in the north and opened the ports for trade, turning Asael into a prosperous nation of miners and merchants, I answered.

Richard continued to quiz me, taking me through a thousand years of history in about an hour, helping me to remember names and events. We went over the rise of the noble class, as well as the continued tensions between the nobles and the Keepers of the Ancient Writings. Finally, we came to the modern day.

And the current king is? King Saran Aurelias.

The greatest concern of his reign?

Lack of an heir. For almost a thousand years the bloodline of Kings had been unbroken, but for the majority of King Saran’s reign, he was without blood heir. After nearly forty years on the throne, he produced an heir, Prince Loran.

Richard smiled at me. And who’s had a crush on Prince Loran ever since she was five years old?

I picked up a pillow from the floor and threw it at him. I do not!

He’s too old for you, you know, Richard continued, ignoring my indignation. He’ll be twenty-five this year… then again, if it’s meant to be.…

I closed my text and stood. I don’t have to stay for this.

Richard went on. I know Father sent an invitation for your eighteenth celebration to the palace. Maybe Prince Loran will be able to make it.

I walked toward the door. Goodbye, Richard, I said. If he can’t come to your eighteenth, maybe you can get an invitation to court sometime soon. I could see if the Makrams could take you along next summer when they go. He continued talking as I opened the door to look out and see if the hall was clear. I was about to step out when the bell at our front gate began clanging. I know this sounds absurd—for how can a bell sound different than it ever has?—but there was an urgency to the tone that I’d never heard before. I think Richard felt it, too. He stopped mid-sentence and joined me at the door.

We stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. The bell continued to ring. Richard’s room was within easy distance of the entryway, and we listened for the footsteps of the servants in the front hall. I heard a maid’s shoes clicking across the marble floor and the noise of the heavy wooden door being pulled open. With that, the sound of the storm drowned out any clarity. I heard voices, but words were indistinguishable. The hum of the voices went on for some time. The quiet droning grew in volume, still undecipherable, but the tones sounded agitated. From our vantage point at Richard’s door, we could see the main corridor that led from the central stair to the back of the house. The page, who’d so conveniently been dozing ear- lier, went running past the end of Richard’s hall toward the entryway. Another page followed, and it sounded like other servants were joining them on the lower floor.

Out of the growing din, a voice, clear and sweet, rose up. Please don’t make me go! I have nowhere else.

The words seemed to jolt Richard and me out of our stupor. I dropped my text, and we ran together down the hallway to the wide main corridor. We came out nearly at the top of the central stairs above the front hall, looking down into a small crowd of servants, some of whom were trying to shut the door while others held it open.

On the steps, drenched from the pouring rain, was a girl. She might have reached her twentieth celebration, but it was difficult to tell her age. Her hair was dark, al- most black; it lay in dripping strands across her face. Her skin was pale. She wore a dress that was little more than rags; even in its drenched and bedraggled state, one could see it had been simply cut from cheap material. She was looking up into the face of the maid in the front of the crowd, her expression pleading.

She spoke again. Please, give me shelter.

Her voice was beautiful, delightful even. In the midst of the hubbub and confusion in the hall, even with the din of the storm surrounding her, it resonated like music. At the sound of it, those who were trying to push the door closed hesitated, and the servants keeping it open pushed harder. Richard and I stood silently at the top of the stairs, once again unmoving.

From below us, at that moment, my father entered the scene. I felt his presence before I could see him as every servant in the entryway tensed. He stepped out into the middle of the vestibule.

What’s going on? My father’s voice rumbled.

The servants scurried out of his way, leaving the maid who’d opened the door standing alone with the girl on the steps before her. The maid looked away from the girl to my father.

This peasant asks for shelter from the storm, she said, bowing and stepping aside.

My father stepped forward and looked down at the forlorn creature crouched before him. Her appearance should have softened the heart of the cruelest man, but my father put his hand on the wooden door and began to swing it shut.

I do not know what made me speak. Until that moment, I had never outwardly defied my father in anything. I was expert in avoiding his notice, fearing his rage more than anything in the world. Even my quiet rebellions were never about anything of great importance. But as my father started to move the door, I spoke.

Stop. My voice was quiet, steady.

The silent servants all looked up at me, and my father froze. He dropped his hand to his side and turned to face me, his eyes glinting, his jaw tight. What did you say? he asked.

Stop, I said. Let her in. I moved a few steps down the stairs.

I have reviewed the events of that night over and over again in my memory, and I have only ever found one explanation for what happened next. I did not know it at the time, but it was that moment that put me on the path to becoming a Follower.

I don’t know what I expected to occur. It was likely my father would slam the door shut on the girl. I was certain I would feel the results of my disobedience for weeks of hard stares and stony silences. But I continued down the stairs, strangely calm, and stepped forward to face my father.

Let her in, I said, looking directly into his glinting eyes.

His jaw not softening, his eyes unchanging, my father stepped aside.

I reached out my hand to the girl. What’s your name? I asked.

She looked up at me, the dark hair hanging in her face, framing bright green eyes. She reached up and put her hand in mine. Sephanya, she answered.

Chapter 2

Ipulled the girl to her feet and helped her across the threshold. She stood beside me as I closed the door and turned to face my father once again.

He breathed quickly, heavily through his nostrils. What are you doing? he asked.

I’m giving her shelter, I answered. Tonight, and for as long as she wants to stay.

I do not give free housing, my father said.

My miraculous bravery held. Then she can serve me as a personal maid.

My father’s face flushed. The girl beside me shivered. I stood still, awaiting judgment. I hadn’t heard Richard come down the stairs, but he appeared at my other side. Oh, let Karan keep the girl tonight at least, he said, not even looking at her, his tone casual. And if she wants to stay, let her stay. She’d certainly serve better than that old biddy Karan’s got right now. Anyone would.

Richard’s voice calmed the roaring seas. The vein that had been pulsing out in my father’s forehead receded as he took a deep breath. He scoffed. What does it matter? he said. You want the dregs of a stormy night? Take it. He flicked his hand at us, then turned on the servants who still stood around the edges of the entryway. Haven’t you all work to do? he said, ice in his tone.

The servants scurried away like mice, one or two looking back at Sephanya as they went. Richard gave me a sidelong glance and nodded his head toward the central stair. I put my arm around Sephanya’s shoulders and guided her up the steps. Glancing back from the top, I saw Richard turning our father toward his study and guiding him away.

I led Sephanya down the broad short corridor to its intersection with the second cross corridor. There we turned right toward my quarters. The once-dozing page had returned to his station and stood at attention in the main corridor. I stopped in front of him and asked him to have a bath drawn in my quarters and a maid sent with clean clothing. He nodded and departed. A few more steps and we reached my door. I turned the knob, opening to the plush carpet and vivid picture tapestries I’d left only an hour earlier. The girl beside me had not spoken since giving me her name on the doorstep, but she gasped as we entered my rooms.

It’s beautiful, she said.

I looked around, trying to take it in from her eyes. I found it impossible to imagine what it was like for a peasant to see a noblewoman’s quarters for the first time, so I turned quickly to watch Sephanya take in the room. She paused just inside the door and let her bare feet sink into the carpet, closing her eyes and wriggling her toes. Then she opened her eyes again and stepped to the wall, putting her hand up to finger the delicate stitching on the tapestry, as if marveling at the minute intricacy that created the greater whole. She glanced at the bed and sofa but made no move to sit down.

I cleared my throat, unsure what to say. My mind flitted aimlessly through the topics I typically covered with other noble girls when we visited the Capital, but none were appropriate for the moment. Finally, it alighted on a simple formality. My name is Karan, I said.

Sephanya. She repeated her name. You can call me Anya.

Anya. Why don’t you sit down?

She glanced down at her wet and ragged dress. Perhaps I should wait, she said.

A knock at the door interrupted my moment of embarrassment. It was two footmen carrying a bath, followed by a maid with a fresh set of clothing. The footmen set the bath in the tiled room off of my dressing room and quickly filled it, bringing buckets of hot water from a tank room at the end of the hall. They bowed at the door before going out and closing it behind them.

The maid guided Anya to the small tiled room and showed her the towels and clothes laid out for her before taking leave as well. While Anya bathed and dressed, I ran out to the page in the corridor again and asked for a cot to be brought to my quarters. By the time Anya emerged from my dressing room, a bed was set up for her by mine, complete with silken comforter and soft pillows.

I’d set two chairs near the fireplace, so Anya’s hair could dry in its warmth, and we could talk for a little while. She sank into one, sighing, and I sat in the other. Her hair, now clean and brushed, hung straight down her back without a ripple of curl. No longer covered by strands of dark hair, her green eyes jumped out of her pale face. The dress the maid had brought for her was a black gown of simple material, but the bodice hugged her figure and the skirt fell smoothly around her legs as she sat.

I shifted in my chair, then spoke. Where do you come from?

Anya looked into the fire for a moment before answering. I—I’m not really sure, she said.

Not sure? Are you lost?

I don’t know, she said. I can’t remember.

I blinked. Well, how did you end up on our doorstep?

The first thing I remember is walking on the bluffs this afternoon. Then it began to rain. I kept going as it grew dark, thinking I would find a town or shelter somewhere, but the first place I came upon was this. Where am I?

My father’s estate, I said. Marinel. My father is Lord Adamaris, one of the nobles of Asael. Do you know Asael?

Anya nodded. Yes. I do.

But you don’t know where you’re from?

I have no memory of my life.

I looked at her closely, not sure whether to believe her. There was earnestness in her face and truthfulness in her eyes. Judging from your clothing, you are a peasant, I said.

I suppose so, said Anya. You have nothing with you?

Anya reached up and pulled at a chain I hadn’t noticed around her neck. Tucked in the bodice of her dress was a pendant on the chain. She tugged it out and held it toward me. Only this.

I leaned forward and took the pendant from her hand, tilting it toward the fire to catch the light. It was exquisitely worked in plain silver, a knot of vines, covered with leaves, I assumed, with tiny flowers all along it. It’s lovely, I said.

I have no idea where it came from, but I was wearing it. She seemed unworried that her memory of her own life went back no more than six hours, and her ease spread to me.

I was about to say as much when a thought jumped into my mind. My text!

What?

I forgot my text in Richard’s room. And I’ll have to have it for my studies tomorrow.

Richard? My brother.

Can’t he simply give it to you in the morning? Anya asked.

There’s nothing simple about it. I wasn’t supposed to be in his quarters this evening. If my father discovers I was, I’ll pay for weeks. I have to go get it. I stood.

Anya rose. Can I help?

I smiled at her, as if we already shared the bond that, at that point, I didn’t know would grow between us. How quiet can you be?

We stole down the hallway to the main corridor and peeked around the corner to see the page. He was dozing again. On tiptoe, we traversed the empty corridors to Richard’s rooms. At the door, I knocked. It was late, but I knew he would still be reading.

Come. Richard’s voice was clearly audible through the door.

I opened the door, and we both slipped inside. I shut the door behind us and turned back to see Richard gazing at Anya. I looked again at the girl and saw how the excitement of the trip through the hallways had brought a rose to her cheeks. She was smiling over at me, a merry, bright expression on her face. She was beautiful, literally breath- taking. Anya shrugged her shoulders at me, a gesture that would soon become familiar, and turned to face Richard.

She paused, her eyes caught in the gaze of his dark ones. The smile gradually faded from her face, and she took a long, slow, deep breath. For a moment I felt as though I shouldn’t be there, like I was intruding on an intimate conversation, though not a word was spoken. They weren’t smiling, or talking, or moving at all, but somehow I felt that they were communicating the deepest parts of themselves through their shared gaze.

Richard broke away first, shaking his head a little as if to wake up from a trance. He looked over at me. Twice in one night? he asked. You really just want to make him angry, don’t you?

My text, I said. I dropped it earlier. I felt Anya break from her abstraction next to me.

Richard gestured to the sofa and chairs. Come in, sit. We crossed the room and seated ourselves on the sofa. He picked up my text from an end table and handed it to me. Be more careful with that, he said. Then he sat across from us in a chair and looked at me. Where did tonight’s display at the door come from? he asked.

The reality of what I’d done washed over me. My father was a hard man—a description that applied as much to his physical appearance as it did to his personality. He was not tall, but I never thought him little. I had seen him stand face-to-face with a burly farmer approaching with a request, and my father, though he had to tilt his chin up to look the man in the eye, stared him into a shrinking, cowering child. Mounted on a horse, he was even more imposing—his dark hair swept by the wind, his square jaw set, his head erect. He carried himself well in the saddle, back straight, every muscle chiseled, his thick arms in complete control of the reins. He would ride into the village, pull up at the door of Thayer the tailor, and demand his order—while demanding the lowest price.

He was a man with strict rules and fierce hatred. I never knew why he hated the old ways and the followers of the Ancient Writings so much; I only remembered his anger when he discovered that our old cook was a practitioner of magic. I was only a small child when it happened, the day he found her murmuring a spell as she wrapped my brother Richard’s finger with a bandage dipped in the oils and herbs she’d collected and combined.

Father didn’t abuse her with blows or rage against her with loud yelling, but his whole person grew rigid, his body tensed. He grew cold, drew himself up stiffly. His black eyes glinted—coal turned to crystal. The muscles in his face tightened, drawing the straight planes of it into even sharper angles. Quiet wrath emanated from every pore. He spoke, and his voice was flinty, the words chipping out, sharp, clipped. I will not have such things.

My Lord, said the poor woman, quaking already at the harsh expression he directed her way. It’s just simple spells!

Vile lies! Father spat the words at her. There is nothing simple about them. Take your disgusting practice and depart. He turned to stride out.

She began to protest once more. He wheeled around at her and, for the first time in the conversation, raised his voice. Now! His deep, resonant voice echoed off the stone counters of the kitchens.

The woman broke, and as he stared her down, she melted into blubbering incoherence. He watched her, an eyebrow raised slightly, his nostrils contracted as if he smelled something foul. His eyes didn’t soften at the mess of weeping humanity before him. Rather, he scoffed, called to Richard to follow, turned back around, and continued out of the room with his long, purposeful strides.

I was ignored.

And now, I’d directly defied my father and drawn my- self to his attention. I sucked in my breath and felt the blood drain from my face. My hand was unsteady as I reached out to pick up a pillow and play with the fringe. I don’t know what made me do it, I said, rolling the tiny silk ropes between my fingers. I didn’t even think; I just spoke.

Richard chuckled. Remarkable speaking it was. With one word, you saved a girl’s life, defied a nobleman of Asael, and impressed an entire household of servants. You should try speaking more often.

I looked up at him. It’s not a joke! I said. Is he very angry?

Yes, said Richard. But he won’t do anything. If he didn’t punish you in the moment, he won’t punish you at all. He paused, leaned back, and looked us both over. And, for some reason, he didn’t punish you in the mo- ment.

I glanced over at Anya. She had been sitting quietly, looking back and forth between Richard and me as we spoke. Perhaps it was meant to be, she said, her musical voice breaking between us.

I scoffed a little at her. What, He Who Knows Men’s Thinking ordained your arrival on our doorstep in the rain, destitute and without memory?

Anya nodded. Perhaps.

Richard turned a quizzical eye to me. Without memory? "She doesn’t know anything about herself earlier than

this afternoon."

Richard raised an eyebrow, turning to Anya. Nothing? Nothing at all except my name.

Sephanya, Richard said. But I’m called Anya.

In your non-existent past, said Richard. Richard! I admonished.

I’m sorry, said Richard. I’ve never met anyone with- out a memory. Are you injured? The court medics once published a text on how injury to the head can cause memory loss. Richard stood and moved over to Anya. He reached out his hand to her head. May I check?

Anya looked up at him, nodded. He put his hand on her head, like a Priest giving a blessing, and she closed her eyes under its weight.

Tell me if it hurts anywhere, said Richard. Once again I felt as though I was intruding on a private mo- ment. Richard ran his hand back over Anya’s head, almost a caress. He reached up with his other hand and started at her temples with his fingertips, slowly moving around until his fingers interlocked at the nape of her neck, under her hair. She opened her eyes and looked up at him, still for a moment. No pain? Richard asked.

None, Anya said.

Their eyes caught again, and Richard slowly drew his hands away, his fingertips tracing the line of her jaw from ear to chin. He tore his gaze from Anya’s eyes, asking, What is the necklace?

Anya reached up to the chain and pulled out the pendant again. I was wearing it. She held it out to him, and he examined it in the lamplight, his head bent close to hers.

Are those flames? No—is it leaves and flowers? he asked.

I can’t tell, I said. Perhaps.

The metal is plain silver, inexpensive, but the work is that of an artisan, Richard said. Work like that would cost dear. He handed the pendant back to Anya, and she tucked it away under her gown. Richard moved back to his seat. So, we have on our hands a destitute peasant with- out a past, who wears expensive jewelry and speaks with a more gently trained voice than half the ladies at court.

I looked over at Anya. Perhaps not a peasant after all, I said.

She gave