Free The Fire Children by Lauren Roy Page A

Kell’s stories about the vengeful wind carrying people away didn’t seem so far-fetched.
    “All right,” she said, backing away from the door. “All right, I’ll stop. See?” Yulla stood in the middle of the kitchen. She peered around. Where did you look when you spoke to the wind?
    It didn’t answer, but it stopped howling.
    What now? she thought, and on the heels of that, Where did the Fire Child go?
    She whirled, but the only light in the house was the odd light of Mother Sun’s crown filtering in through the windows. Yulla tiptoed through the house, the wind swirling around her heels. The front door remained intact, if a little warm to the touch. Had the wind scared the Fire Child off? If it was protecting Yulla, why wouldn’t it let her go back down below?
    Maybe she could try other cellars, but it hadn’t let her into any houses along the way.
    She had to let someone know she was here, somehow, if only so they could tell her family where she was, and that she was safe.
    For now.
    She’d be hungry soon, too. A pocketful of figs and jerky wouldn’t keep her long. Maybe there was food left in the other houses—not offerings, but a stray loaf forgotten in a bread box, or a wedge of cheese in a pantry.
    “I’m going to look around the city,” she told the wind. “I won’t try to go down below. All right? Will you let me pass?” It wasn’t quite a lie; if she let the wind think she was exploring long enough, maybe it would leave her alone. She needed time to think, though, and now that her fear had subsided curiosity started gnawing at her: why was there only one Fire Child? Where were the others? Why had it left her alone? Why hadn’t it touched the feast tables yet?
    On her way through the living room, she paused. Aunt Mouse’s quilt lay draped over the chair where she’d left it. Its warmth tempted her. Yulla was dressed for the chill of the cellars, but up here, without Mother Sun shining down, she felt the cold keenly. She bit her lip. It felt wrong to take the quilt from the Fire Children; it was for them, not her.
    But she was cold, and if she was stuck up here when night fell, she’d only get colder. Forgive me, Mother Sun. I’m only borrowing it for a little while.
    Yulla wrapped the quilt around herself like a cloak. It smelled like Aunt Mouse: talc and desert flower and sage. It gave her comfort and courage. She stepped out into the not-quite dawn like the Brigand Queen leaving her hideaway. The wind trailed after her, now a breeze. It curled through a set of chimes the neighbors had left hanging.
    The tinkling pipes sounded like laughter.

 
    M OVING AROUND K ALADIM like the Brigand Queen meant being brave, but cautious. Yulla pressed herself close to the buildings as she crept along the street. Even though the sky lightened the higher Mother Sun rose, the shadows remained in abundance. Yulla kept to them, darting from one dark alcove to the next only when she was certain she was still alone. Sometimes, she closed her eyes and pretended she was in the tunnels again, listening hard for any sounds other than her own soft breathing and the wind’s gentle sshhhh.
    The world was washed in eerie grey light. The sky had brightened a little more, the morning grown a touch warmer, but both only incrementally. It was almost boring to look at, all the once-bright colors of her city turned drab. But when she looked up where the rooftops gave way to the sky, Yulla’s breath caught.
    So many stars. Plenty of times, on nights when Sister Moon had gone visiting the other side of the sky, Abba had taken Yulla and Kell up to the roof to go stargazing. He’d drawn the constellations for them, taught them their names, and showed them how to find their way home if they ever got lost.
    Yulla had thought there were a lot of stars on those moonless nights. Now, the familiar constellations seemed almost crowded. Hundreds—no, thousands —of new ones shone. So many that, for a moment, she was afraid it