Page 74 of Fire in Stone

Both women shook their heads.

“Humans need to eat more often than we do, don’t you?” Zenada removed her robe, then took off her dress.

As I’d requested, I was fed three meals a day. Except that the portions were significantly scaled down. Instead of a full bowl of whatever gruel was served that day, I got a cupful of it, along with a glass of water in the morning, another cupful at noon, and one more just before sunset. It had been enough to keep me alive, but I welcomed any addition to that scarce diet.

“Thank you.” I bit into the tough skin of the turnip. Its white flesh underneath tasted bitter, but the added weight of it settling in my stomach felt satisfying.

Zenada removed her embroidered shirt, which left her in just a strip of fabric tied over her breasts and a pair of long underpants. She then walked to the opposite side of the courtyard and produced a piece of chain from a wooden trunk with rusty hinges that stood there.

Taking a seat next to me, Ertee slid her hood off her head, then uncoiled her long, flaxen-blonde braid from around her head.

“What’s Zenada doing?” I asked, watching the other woman dip the ball attached to the end of the chain in a small barrel of something gooey like honey or sap.

“She’s going to practice her dance.” Ertee unraveled her braid. From her pocket, she took out a chipped comb carved from an animal horn. She glanced at me tentatively. “Do you miss having hair?”

My hand jerked, but I stopped it from touching my head under the hood of the red robe I now wore like everyone else.

“No,” I said promptly, keeping my voice casual. “It’s just hair.”

Despite my words, a slight twitch of envy pinched inside my chest as she unbraided her long hair, but I shoved it down to deal with later, when I felt stronger, or maybe never.

“I’ve never had long hair like yours, anyway,” I said to Ertee. “Never had the patience to let it grow.”

“It requires time.” She nodded, running a comb through it.

For the next moment or two, I ate my turnip in silence, watching Zenada as she let the gooey substance drip from the ball on the end of her chain into the bucket she’d dipped it into.

“Is she going to dance with that thing?” I asked Ertee.

She nodded. “Zenada is a fire dancer. She has to practice daily to hone her skills.”

“What exactly is a fire dancer here?”

Ertee tipped her chin at Zenada. “Just watch.”

The other woman held her hand next to the ball on the chain. A flame sprang up, instantly engulfing the ball.

“Wow!” I paused my hand with the turnip on the way to my mouth. “She can make fire?”

“No.” Ertee shook her head with a smile. “Women can’t create fire the way dragons do. But Zenada can generate enough heat to set a flammable substance on fire. The tree sap she’s using burns slowly but ignites fast.”

“I see.” I chewed on my turnip again as Zenada slowly swung the burning ball on the chain like a pendulum.

Her focus was fully on the ball. Her dark eyes followed its every movement as she swung it wider and wider, extending its trajectory. With a smooth twist of her body, she brought the ball up, making it go the full circle.

I gasped, but Ertee chuckled.

“Don’t worry. Zenada knows what she is doing.”

The other woman turned and stepped into a rare spot of daylight in the courtyard. A ribbon of puckered skin on her back came into view. As Zenada twirled again, I noticed more scars like that all over her torso. Lighter than her smooth, brown skin, the scars marred her upper arms, sides, and back like long, silvery ribbons.

“Her skill has cost her,” I pointed out. “Those are burn scars, aren’t they?”

Ertee released only a long sigh in reply.

“Are gargoyles not impervious to fire?” I asked.

Biting her lip, Ertee ran the comb through her hair with more force than before.

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