Amara

Before she had ever arrived at the place called Yarruck, Amara had followed the lead of the Voice with pinpoint precision over the past year. It led the way, but only she, it said, could decide what course to pursue.

The biggest village she’d ever encountered was tucked away on Averix’s east coast. Its name, she learned on the way there, was Lucent, so called due to the Lord of the same name who ruled the land.

"Lord of the land?" she asked as she stared up at the towering village gates, munching on some potatoes she’d pilfered from a tradesman on the road.

That’s right, the Voice whispered to her. One individual who provides protection to the people in exchange for their servitude. He provides guards, safety, and a legal system to the towns under his command. In return, they pay a tithe to the Lord every month, and ship vital supplies like food to his castle.

"Hmpf," she snorted, chewing away. "Seems like a pretty crappy deal. He couldn’t protect me from daddy. And he hasn’t protected anyone from me."

Very true, honey, the Voice said with a chuckle. But then, your father was a wealthy man, and you are a powerful woman. Wealth and power can both bend the law quite easily.

The guard at the door let her in with an indignant harrumph as she gladly paid the visitor’s tax.

"Eh, careful with that there gold, little missy," he said. "The streets aren’t safe this time o’ the day. ‘Specially not for young ladies."

He looked her raggedy form up and down, briefly inspecting the chewed cloak and bare, pale feet of the girl that poked out under it.

"'Kay mister!" she yelled, waving at him as she passed him by, silently sniggering as she felt the power of her flame dance through her.

GLANCE: 25/25

She knew she could burn everything here to a crisp if she wanted to.

This town was much like the others she’d seen. Since the day she’d woken up and beheld the glorious, blazing sunlight of morning, feeling its soothing touch on her skin, everything man made had seemed drab and wretched by comparison. The cobbled streets and thatched roofs could not survive an inferno . The little wooden signs on the craftsmen’s premises and marketplace stalls could do nothing against the hunger of a solitary naked flame. The stone castle that towered over this village was impressive, to be sure, but still – one flick on the shag rug carpeting of a single room, and the entire place would become nothing but a well-fortified charnel house.

She found the local cobbler after bumping her way through the crowded alleyways of Lucent and threw a bag of stolen money at him, requesting a pair of shoes to fit her feet.

He was an ageing, suspicious looking man – with a long nose and funny, furled white hair on his head. He screwed up his beady little eyes at Amara’s freckled, dirt caked face and her lithe body that reeked of forest filth.

"Young lady," he snorted. "Ye be needin’ more than just shoes."

His accent was so thick that Amara simply double blinked up at him from below the counter.

"Where’s yer mother?"

"Shoes," Amara said simply. "My feet hurt, mister."

He gave a heavy sigh. "Alright," he said. "Yer gold’s good enough for me. Let’s get you measured over here."

He motioned towards a rickety old chair in the dusty corner of the room and set about gathering his measuring stick, hammer and nails, and an old metal shoe. She cocked her head like a confused puppy.

"Well, don’t just stand there, little lass," he chuckled. "Sit down."

She did as she was bid, eyes tracking him like those of a hawk, scanning the room – noting where there was wood nearby.

Suddenly she felt his hand on her foot, and she kicked out at him with vicious force.

"DON’T TOUCH ME!"

The cobbler looked at her in confusion, keeping his distance and raising his hands high.

She focused as hard as she could on not allowing the sparks that were building up under her fingertips to fly. She looked away and bit her lip, her chest suddenly heaving uncontrollably.

Just breathe, honey, the Voice said. Breathe.

"Don’t," Amara murmured. She couldn’t look at him. "Don’t you ever touch me."

She heard the cobbler suck in his teeth and heave a heavy sigh.

"Look," he said. "I have to take your measurements for the shoe. Then, we have to see if it fits."

She grimaced, saying nothing. He sighed again.

"I got some gloves in the back," he muttered. "You want I should put ‘em on?"

She gulped, but he spoke softly. There was no hard edge to his voice like those of the cat-slavers or the guards at the doors of all the villages she’d seen.

"What do you think?" she whispered.

Up to you, The Voice said.

It was testing her, she thought. Just like a mother would.

"Ok," she mumbled.

The cobbler got his materials together and, with the exception of a few winces and hisses, Amara kept her feet still while he made his measurements. When he was done, she jumped down, concealing her bare flesh under her tattered cloak again.

"Alright," he said. 'It’ll take a bit of time, but I should be finished by the end of the day. Come back then."

He turned away and donned an apron from behind his counter. Seemed like he was about to get to work right away.

But before Amara left his shop she heard him shout to her again. She turned, and caught the bag of gold she had given him – a couple of coins shorter, but mostly intact.

"Gave me too much for the job," he said. "Only twenty five gold for a child-size. Got seventy real gold pieces in there. Don’t go throwing it around to just anyone."

He said it with his back to her, and she stood for a moment, completely confused. Finally, seeing that he was setting about his work, she left the shop and marched back out into the dark grey streets.

"Why didn’t he take all the money?" she asked.

He is a businessman, the Voice told her. He must keep his position respectable. If people learned he had taken all the money of a young child, he would be hated. So, he pretended he was being fair to you.

"Really?" she heard herself ask, surprising herself in her questioning of the Voice’s statement. It was the first time she remembered doing so. But the response was calm, and clear:

Yes, sweetheart. You have so much still to learn, and this will be one of our most important lessons: all mortal actions are guided by self-interest.

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Amara looked back at the old cobbler’s shop and saw him setting to work with his hammer and nails on her shoe already. She nodded once, asking no more questions but where she should go next.

Take a walk, dear, the Voice said. Till you find the tall building with the spires.

She obeyed, stopping only once to observe some dogs fighting over scraps of meat behind a butcher’s shop. She heard the slicing sound of his cleaver come down as she lingered by his doorway, and felt her stomach lurch with hunger.

A tiny spark flicked in the direction of the dogs was enough to chase them into the butcher’s shop and cause a commotion long enough for her to sneak in, grab a slab of what looked like mutton, and stuff it into the folds of her cloak for later. She’d fry it up good once she found a bed for the night.

Back outside she walked the winding streets as twilight began to descend on the town. Soon enough, she found the building the Voice must have been speaking of: a monolithic stone and brickwork structure with a circular window of stained glass, surrounded by tall pointed spires.

"This one?"

Yeah, honey. Head on in.

"And do what?"

Just listen.

She passed through the open door of the building without paying much attention to the brown-robed man who looked on her with scorn from beside the doorway. The building turned out to be far grander than the rest of the village – its walls dominated by paintings of winged creatures Amara had never seen before locked in combat with horned monsters bathed in flames. Long seats were set at regular intervals across the floor, and many citizens had gathered together with their heads bowed, keeping quiet in opposition to the still bustling streets outside.

At the front of the congregation a thin, spectacled man was waiting, his head bowed as he read over a book Amara couldn’t see. Then she noticed that his eyes were closed, yet somehow moving still under his eyelids. It made her shiver for some reason.

Regardless, she took a seat at the back of the room, prompting the woman she sat beside to sidle away from her slowly.

"Nobody’s saying anything," she whispered, stifling her laughter at the woman shifting uncomfortably away.

Patience, the Voice whispered in her head, and she felt it draw her attention to the man standing at the pulpit. His eyes flew open, and Amara watched the people raise their heads to meet him.

The doors were abruptly closed, shutting out the cold, and Amara felt only the warmth of the candles that were being lit along the chapel’s walls.

She breathed in deep, and she felt the flames of the tiny dancing lights flicker with more power as she did so. It was not enough to be noticed by anyone there on that night – nothing more than her little game she liked to play.

The spectacled man, pale of complexion, cast his eyes over the congregation and clasped his hands together.

"Praise Amarata," he said.

"Praise Amarata," the crowd intoned as one, making funny little gestures with their hands as they copied his precise words and tone.

"The Lady has walked among us today", the man continued. "As she does on every Harvest Day. She has observed your toils and your troubles in Her name, as we each walk our steps on the Star-Filled Path."

The man’s eyes grew dark all of a sudden. Amara leaned forward unconsciously, rapt.

"And yet," he said in a measured tone. "There are those among you who’s feet have wavered."

Sad whimpers ran up the crowd. The woman next to Amara stifled back a sob, like she knew what was coming.

"You have grown indolent," the man continued, unfazed. "And unruly. I know there are rumors that fly amongst you, flowing from the darkest recesses of your hearts, that our most benevolent Lord Lucent ought to be deposed. That life under our Lord’s rule is unjust, and merciless."

He shook his head slowly.

"For shame."

Amara was shocked to discover that the woman next to her had now actually started sobbing – real, deep, heavy sobs that wracked her entire body.

"You have the audacity," the man said, pointing a gnarled finger at a few members of the congregation. "The audacity to lay the blame for your troubles on one man alone. How our Lord does not sink under the pressure of carrying your burdens, we can never know. But feel them he does, and you turn away from him like spoiled children.

"I say children, because it is only children that dare to bite the hand that feeds them. I say children because it takes the mind of a child to deny the blessings of the All-Mother. I say children because you look at me with shame in your eyes, knowing you are wrong, and accepting your chastisement."

Amara couldn’t really follow what the man was babbling on about, but what she could see was the way the crowd moved with him, hanging on every word, like they were pliant candles moving in a breeze. They were eating out of the palm of his hand.

He knew it, too. For before he continued, he paused, and allowed himself a tiny smile.

"Let me tell you a story," he said. "Once, there was a little girl with no place in this world. She was an outcast – born into slavery, brutalized by her captors, and terrorized by the evil power they held. The power that still threatens us to this day."

A shudder of fear passed over the crowd in a wave. They were anticipating the next word.

"The Glance!"

The crowd wailed as if on command. Even Amara gasped, and now her ears perked up.

"The most vile, evil source of corruption that runs in the veins of every malignant being that walks upon our glorious Averix!’ The man roared as though possessed. ‘That power, which was used to subjugate all mortals, bringing them under the heel of heretic sorcerers for a millennia! In those Dark Days that the little girl lived in, a mortal man would face tortures the likes of which you could barely conceive!

"Yet, did she despair? Did she blame her problems on her fellow man? Did she look to the sky and damn some ethereal force that governed her existence?"

"NO!" the crowd roared, and Amara instantly felt smaller and more insignificant than she had ever felt in her short life.

"No!" the man repeated, spittle flying from his mouth. "No. She took up arms against a sea of foul magic and became the rallying cry of her brothers and sisters – those slaves who ushered in The Rattling. Together they slew the sorcerers that imprisoned them and banished those that bore The Glance to the very prison that they created – the great hole in the Earth that awaits all of us who sin before Her glory: The Everloft!"

Amara yelled with the crowd. Not through fear, but in raw astonishment. Every word of this old man was like a spike being driven into everything her mind knew to be true. Her reality was beginning to flicker and distort like the candles that burned on the chapel’s walls.

"Make no mistake, friends. The Everloft waits in the North, swallowing the unclean, the unjust, and the damned wielders of The Glance all. You know this – you know you live in a world forever teetering on the brink of annihilation, and yet you dare to complain that your crop yields are low, that your children are hungry? What is the hunger of one soul compared to the countless millions that the sorcerers of old put to their vile flames?"

Was what he said true? Amara wondered, feeling sweat glaze her brow. Was she truly such a beast? Was her power born of evil?

Should she have let herself die in that cellar, after all?

"Know this story, friends," the man droned on. "Know that the little girl, who had the weight of our entire world on her shoulders, faced the demons of the dark and pushed them back down into the depths of the earth where they belong. She endured so much, and she did it not for her own glory, or her fellow slaves – she did it for every mortal that walks our world. So we would never face the rule of magical tyranny again. I ask you now, people of Lucent: what was the girl’s name?"

The crowd was completely propelled by his conclusion, rising out of their seats and screaming their answer, each one trying to be louder than the other until the sound of their exhortations began to hurt Amara’s ears.

"Amarata!" They wailed. "Amarata! Amarata! Amarata! Praise Amarata! Holy Amarata!"

Amara felt the strength of the crowd’s cheers seep deep into her bones and almost felt encouraged to join them herself, swept up by their fervor. But as she looked around her, she saw the angered, primal faces of the villagers that only a few hours ago had been as plain as their drab surroundings. They were hurling their support for the man’s words – words that seared the very part of herself that she loved more than anything she’d ever known how to love. The frescoes around the room, of the winged women impaling fiery demons with their shining spears, sending them into the burning depths of the world, took on new significance. Those evil looking horned creatures were her – the people like her. The people who had this thing called The Glance.

She broke away from the uproar and dashed out the church, feeling the cold of night bite her bones. Tears began to stain her cheeks, and she ran until they stopped flowing, saying nothing, seeing only the dark.

When she found an empty alley, she slumped down by its wall and began heating the slab of meat she stole from the butcher, rubbing it gently, letting just a little of the power out of her. And for the first time, she felt the pangs of guilt for letting the flames trickle out from her fingertips.

"Is it true?" she asked in a tiny whimper. "Am I evil?"

The Voice was like a calming hug stretching round her neck.

No, honey, it said. You are nothing but a girl with a gift that will bring you greatness – one that will help you to survive in this world. Your first victim was your scumbag rapist father. Do you feel remorse for his death?

She shook her head.

Exactly, The Voice said. You have grown since that day. You have accepted the gift that lies within you as part of yourself. And now you know that the world fears you – people like you. This world of mortals is full of fear, and people who don’t understand any aberration of their so-called natural order. You will be hunted for what you are up here. You will never belong. But there is a place that is made for you.

Amara nodded. "The Everloft," she said.

Yes, the Voice whispered in satisfaction. There you will find the power you desire. The power to set this entire world aflame.

"I could do that?"

If you want, baby. The fires of the Chainbreaker were what threw the world into its current state of unrest. Your fire could sear away all of that wretched slave's mistakes. You could make this whole place nothing but a smoking ruin.

She bit into the hard meat and chewed slowly, spitting out pieces of the tendon that hadn’t been cut.

"Mom," she said with a smile. "That’s you in my head, isn’t it?"

If you like, honey. I’m here for you, that’s all that counts.

Amara smiled lightly and looked at the blood red moon that glimmered overhead, casting its grim light onto her pale face.

"I’m scared," she said. "I don’t know how I can fight them all."

The Voice draped itself over her and she felt its kiss upon her face. The kiss of a mother that lay at the very back of her mind.

You will learn, sweetheart, it said. You will learn.