The Fire Wars Read online

  The Fire Wars

  kailin gow

  The Fire Wars

  Published by THE EDGE

  THE EDGE is an imprint of Sparklesoup Inc.

  Copyright © 2011 Kailin Gow

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For information, please contact:

  THE EDGE at Sparklesoup

  14252 Culver Dr., A732

  Irvine, CA 92604

  www.sparklesoup.com

  First Edition.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN: 978-1597484602

  DEDICATION

  For those who believe doors open when you take a leap of faith.

  Prologue

  The stones glowed brightly, seeming in their otherworldly light to mirror the gleaming of the stars. The night was black, as black as a squid's ink, but she was not afraid. She had the stones – their ancient power calling to her as she held them in her hands. She had the book, its pages seeming to grow warm upon her fingers as she turned them. And she had her love – and she knew that he would keep her safe.

  The crimson sunset had vanished into the black waters, and now all was still. They stood at the top of the volcano, a volcano that had not erupted in many centuries – since the old days. Since long before the Erosion had come to change the shape of the world.

  But she felt its power. She knew that deep within the volcano, the power of flame lay waiting, like a dozing beast, waiting for her to harness its strength, to let the force of the fire take over. She knew that she had the power: she would connect with the molten lava, with its heat, its beauty. She would make its strength her own.

  She was beautiful; she knew it now better than she had always known it. The stars and stones alike shone down upon her, casting her dark face and flashing eyes in their milky pale light. The stones were piled high – green and blue, yellow and red, precious gems from all corners of the island. She had found them all herself; they had called to her, each one, since she was a child. She had felt a connection with each tiny gemstone as she held it in the palm of her hand, pocketing it for her collection. Now, staring at the circle of stones she had made, she knew why. It was for this purpose that she had been chosen. It was for this purpose that her abilities had been formed.

  She sat cross-legged in the center of the circle, her book on her lap. It was the book of the Fire King, the god of fire, its ancient tongue intelligible to the Fire's children alone. She knew what her destiny was. She would bring back the Sacred Fire, its purifying force, its flames. She knew what the scientists knew and did not say – that the Erosion was getting worse, that soon the whole earth would be engulfed in water. The ice caps would melt; the tides would grow stronger. The people did not know; the Earth did not know. But she knew.

  And she knew it was her duty to stop it. The Sacred Flame would come, at once creator and destroyer, push back the waves and call from its molten depths new lava, new earth.

  And she was doing it with her love at her side. She gazed at him, her heart beating faster. She knew his beauty; his beauty floored her, as if she were seeing it for the first time. It was always like the first time. She knew the source of his flashing eyes, his powerful animal muscles, his broad shoulders. The power of the flames rushed through him. He drew his beauty from the source – like her, he called upon the volcano and its ancient ways.

  He was the Fire King, and for thousands of years he had been searching for his Queen, the goddess from whom he had been separated. The goddess who had more power even than he to destroy and to rebirth. The true power of the twin ways of flame – death and resurrection. And only she could regenerate the earth. Only she could rebuild its lost lands. He had searched for her, evermore frantic – knowing that he had to find her before it was too late. Before the Erosion grew too dangerous. Before the Calypticon. For the gods of Water would submerge the earth to suit their own ends – if the fire gods did not strike back.

  The girl knew the legends well. After all, she had grown up on the island. She had not mingled with the other outsiders, the generations of new settlers who peopled the island with fast cars and shiny beach homes. No, she was one with the Veteri – she sought them out. She knew their hiding places. She listened to their stories. And she knew the Fire God sought one born of a mortal, who would from her flesh reveal her powers. And she would win the love of the Fire God. The Fire God who had spent centuries seeking her, who had assumed human form, who sought out the one who loved him above all else. The one who loved him so much she was willing to die for him, and to be reborn. The one who would past the test.

  And she was that goddess. She knew that now, her heart beating faster with proud certainty. From the moment she had met him she had known him – seen past his brilliant blue eyes and cruel charm to the flame burning within. And she had wanted it so badly – for the tales to be true. For the legend to be real. To be his goddess. And it had been proven true. She had not run from him, from the danger of his desires. She had stood by him, borne his passion, burned to his touch.

  And now she would summon the Sacred Flame.

  It was time. She would fulfill her destiny. The great task of the stones – from these small, hot gems she would make the fire.

  But first she had to pass the test. A bonfire had been prepared for her in the basin of the volcano, drawing its strength from the volcano below. She would walk through the flames. She would stand in their heat.

  But she would not be burned.

  She would simply be reborn, her goddess form made clear.

  “Stop!”

  She whirled around to face him, and her face crumpled with compassion. She knew this man – she knew he was the enemy of her love. His ways were not her ways; he belonged to the realm of water. That shadowy cool force that only dampened her flames. She had loved him, once – but she could not think of that now. That was before she had learned who he was – that was before she had discovered her destiny as Queen of Fire.

  “Don't do it – it's too much a risk I can't save you from these. Even my power won't extinguish these flames. It's too much a risk.”

  The Fire King scoffed. “Some faith you have in her, cousin! Be off with you!”

  “Please – it's too dangerous. You're risking her life.”

  “I have found my love,” the Fire King said. “She has found me. She is the Goddess. Let not your petty jealousy blind you to that fact. She is mine now.”

  The girl's eyes were wide with sorrow. “I'm sorry,” she whispered to the man. “I'm so sorry.”

  But she did not hesitate. She turned and walked proudly towards the bonfire, which set the night blazing with its light. Flames licked at the hem of her dress; she could feel its scalding heat. But she knew it would not burn her. She knew it would not hurt her.

  She had to prove her faith. She had to prove her love.

  She had to jump in.

  No sooner was she in the midst of the flames than she knew something had gone wrong. Her skin was blistering; agony beat in her blood. She screamed and could not scream, for her mouth was filled with smoke, with fire.

  “Help!” The cry escaped her lips. “Somebody help me!”

  But there was nothing they could do. The greatest oceans in the world could not have put the fire out. She heard them yelling, screaming, calling her name – she saw, between the licking of the flames, them running towards her, repelled by the magic that guarded the bonfire, thrown upon their backs. Her screams choked into nothing
ness; her pain became nothingness too. She heard them screaming her name as she died.

  And then the flames were gone, carrying with them her body, turned to ash, and the ashes blew forth over the silent night. All that was left of her – scattered to the winds.

  “No...” The Fire King was doubled over. He felt her pain. He felt her burn. Tears were stinging at his eyes. “No!”

  “You killed her. You fool – you killed her!”

  “She was the goddess!”

  “She wasn't a goddess – she was a girl. My girl. And you killed her!” A punch, a blow. The Fire King did not bother fighting back. He let the Water King kick him, bruise him, spit upon him; he let his blood run freely into the earth. This pain was better, he thought. Anything was better than the guilt that was overtaking him.

  The guilt running alongside the fear.

  For he knew now, with terrible certainty – time was running out. The woman he loved was not his goddess. She was dead – gone from him forever. And if he did not find his goddess soon, then the whole world would suffer for it.

  Chapter 1

  Three Years Later

  The flames licked gently at the twigs, the embers gleaming red and orange beneath the night sky. The night – an endless black punctuated intermittently by stars – had taken on an eerie glow. I leaned in to feel the warmth from the fire. I couldn't take my eyes from the flames, each one bearing upwards towards the stars, flickering and lapping and licking, as if each of them was participating – too – in the dance. For they were all dancing, not just the fires but the girls, their hips shaking in time to the music. Their grass skirts elegantly shuffled from one side of their toned, graceful bodies to another; the leis they wore sparkled in the light of the flames. I had never seen so much color before. Green and red, yellow and orange – the flowers seemed to be dancing, too.

  The sight took my breath away. I had seen luaus on television, of course – ever since the Erosion they had become common all over the new islands of Europe – but this was the real thing, a Hawaiian luau, one dating back from the old days. Before the Erosion. Before the waters came.

  The dancers were the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. Dark-eyed, with smooth coffee-colored skin, they all seemed to belong to the same world as the flames and the flowers – exotic, mysterious. They were not from the California Isles – they were not the sort of people I was used to, overwhelmed by their smooth chrome gadgets and gliding cars. No, life here was simpler than that; I had discovered it already. The Cutter Imperial Hotel of Oahu did not offer, as the Angel Island branch had done, high-tech virtual reality rooms to their guests at dinnertime, in which those paying for the most expensive suites could adjust their walls to make it look like they were being served fois gras in Paris, or pasta in Rome. Instead, they offered the same evening entertainment they had done for decades, even centuries: an evening luau beneath the full moon. My mother had been Event Director for seven hotels in five different countries – I had long grown cynical when it came to the luxuries provided by high-end hotels. I had seen her clean up every VIP's mess; I had peered behind the scenes at every celebrity-studded affair or the corporate launch party of the latest microcomputer prototype. I was jaded when it came to the lavish, the over-the-top. But this was different. This struck me as none of the other events had struck me – this simplicity, this beauty. I felt something stirring within me as my eyes fixed on the flames, transfixed by their heated splendor. I belonged here, I felt, leaning my face into the flames. This place was meant for me.

  I laughed at my thoughts. How silly, I told myself. I had only been in Aeros a couple of days; I hadn't even gotten the lay of the land yet; I hadn't even started school. And Angel Island, California, had been my home for three years now – it was there that I had my friends, my old crushes, my teachers, my local pizza joint. And yet here I was, staring at the dying-down of the dance, feeling more at home than I had ever been in my life.

  What was this place?

  A new dance was starting up again. This time the male dancers sprang forth, their taut muscles rippling in the firelight, their bare chests exposing their handsome frames to the world. I felt my cheeks blush as I found, to my embarrassment, that I could no more easily remove my eyes from the ten buff men currently leaping and springing forth before me than I could from the flames.

  Luckily, my mother's laugh broke the spell, and I turned towards her. She looked younger than I knew her to be – one day in Aeros, I thought to myself, and she's already settled in. Her rosy cheeks had taken on a russet tint as a result of that day's sun; her pearly teeth shone as her mouth spread wide into a smile. I craned my neck to see the source of my mother's delight.

  My eyes widened with surprise. My mother was talking with her boss – a kind of fraternization that would certainly have been frowned upon by the far stricter staff of the Imperial Hotel Angel Island. But Antonio Cutter, with his long black hair and leisurely tan, didn't look the part of a stiff-necked employer. His brash good looks and muscular frame seemed to belong to a man who spent his days surfing and swimming, not cooped up fumbling over numbers in an office.

  “Mackenzy!” My mother summoned me over, waving her hands in time with the music. “Come here!”

  I approached, only slightly reluctant to leave behind the flames that had so transfixed me. “Mr. Cutter...” my mother began.

  “Antonio,” he smiled broadly, looking me up and down with a jovial air.

  “Antonio, I don't believe you've met my daughter yet.”

  “Miss Mackenzy Evers herself?” Antonio held out a hand to shake mine. I did so as politely as I could, my cheeks turning furiously pink. I had always done my best to stay out of the hair of my mother's employers – as the child of a single mother, I had learned early on that concierges and bell-boys made the best (and often only available) baby-sitters, and that my unofficial “day care” would continue as long as I avoided the glances of the higher-ups, who tended not to look so favorably on twelve-year-olds trading stories of celebrity sightings with the regular staff. But Antonio did not look at me, as my mother's old bosses had, as an unfortunate imposition, a blot on the otherwise impeccable record of the finest Event Planner the West Coast hotel industry had ever seen. Rather, he even looked pleased to meet me.

  “She's just as pretty as you said, Rose,” Antonio said. “And looks just like you.”

  My mother laughed. “Just the Asian side,” she said. “The Italian hair and those green eyes are all her father's.”

  Her laugh died out suddenly. She looked me up and down with a sudden concern, as she always did when she slipped up and mentioned my father, as if searching me for signs of childhood trauma. But there were none to be found. I had long come to terms with the story of my conception – a somewhat romanticized account of my mother's brief affair with an Italian financier who had passed through a Roman hotel early in her career – and although I knew little about him beside his green eyes and penchant for midnight gelato, I was perfectly content with the idea that my mother and I constituted a family all our own.

  “I'm glad you've come, Mackenzy,” Antonio said. “Are you enjoying the dance?”

  “Oh, very much, sir!” I exclaimed.

  “No 'sir,' here,” Antonio shook a mock wagging finger at me. “We like to keep things simple here, informal. I always tell my staff – what makes a luxury hotel isn't the fine napkins or the glitz and glitter in the lobby, it's the people who make a great hotel what it is. And we at Cutter Imperial are a family. We all care about the hotel. We all care about our guests. And that's what makes us the number-one hotel in Aeros.” He laughed. “But I'm boring you, talking business policy. You should be off with kids your own age. With my son, as a matter of fact. Arrived back this morning – but of course I haven't seen him for more than a minute or two. He's probably gone out to get himself in trouble. Not that I blame him, of course. I did far worse at his age.” He chuckled.

  “I'd like to meet him,” I said shyly. I knew that
it wasn't done for staff to mingle with the owners' children – but this didn't seem like an ordinary hotel. Besides, my senior year would be starting up in a couple of days, and – although I had been reasonably popular back home – the idea of finishing up my high school career alone and friendless seemed ever more likely as the start of the new term loomed closer.

  “He'd probably like to meet you!” said Antonio. “He needs to make some friends before he starts school.”

  “But surely he must have...”

  “Nah,” Antonio shrugged. “I sent Chance off to Eton years ago – he's been boarding in England and learning to take tea with counts and dukes. Not my sort of thing, of course – but he insisted.” He sighed. “Any school that teaches fencing as a varsity sport is irresistible to the ten-year-old mind. Plus, he has family over there – I thought it would be good for him to get a proper education, things being what they are in the U.S...”

  The Erosion had massively weakened the American economy, as transport between the current American Archipelago had grown massively more difficult and agricultural production in the ocean that had once been the American Midwest had all but stopped. The best schools – the best everything, for that matter – were increasingly in Europe.

  “What made him decide to come home?” I asked. Few who could afford Eton's sky-high fees would willingly choose an American school, although the town's Aeros Academy, to which I was being sent thanks to the death of an elderly and childless third-cousin, had a good reputation as one of the toniest schools in the U.S. A reputation that was growing more intimidating by the day.

  “Decide, kicked out – same difference.” Antonio spoke quickly, almost too quickly. “He got into a bit too much trouble trying to sneak girls onto school grounds. That ten-year-old swordsman didn't think too much about girls when he went up there – but by eighteen...ah, well. Some time in Aeros will be good for him. I don't trust the Brits, Rose – too formal for my liking.” Antonio grinned, but his smile no longer seemed genuine. It was plastic – almost forced.