Daughter of the Flames Read Online Free Page B

straight-faced.
    He narrowed his eyes. “No, thank you. Go on – before I change my mind and have you scrub the rust off my battle plate.”
    “Yes, namoa.” I bowed primly, handed him my staff and walked out of the ring. Only when I was out of sight did I allow myself to laugh.

CHAPTER
TWO
    By the time I had finished all my chores and got back to my cell, it was almost dark. The shoulder bruise had been numbed with a judicious application of Mira’s salve, but my head was pounding. I pulled the thick curtain of blue fabric across the doorway, blocking out both sound and draughts, and sat down cross-legged on my thick pallet of blankets and furs with a quiet whimper of relief.
    Closing my eyes, I concentrated, counting each breath until my mind was focused and I had fallen into a light trance. Gradually the bass thudding behind my eyes began to smooth out.
    By the time I stirred again, the silvery light at the window had been submerged in darkness. My head still felt a little tender and my hands trembled, but I knew that would pass soon. I’d been getting the headaches all my life and I was used to them. At least this one hadn’t been too bad. Sometimes the pain was so intense that I saw flashes of light, strange faces, and thought I heard voices. It was like going mad. When I was younger, Surya had nursed me through the fits. Now I tried to keep them to myself as much as possible. Surya had enough to worry about.
    With an effort I uncrossed my legs and kneeled up. I sat for a moment in the darkness, adjusting, then reached out for my candle and tinderbox. I lit the candle very carefully and placed the thick glass shield over the flame as soon as it caught, then set it on the windowsill.
    There was an earthenware jug of water and a basin on the little wooden table by the bed. I stretched out absently for the jug and poured the basin full, then realized what I was doing and set the jug down so abruptly that I slopped water onto the floor. I stared at the basin with something close to loathing, struggling against the urge to complete the ritual.
    It was a stupid habit. Stupid and childish. Most of the time, I didn’t even remember. But it was dark and I was alone and – as if the headache had stirred up emotions that at other times lay dormant – I couldn’t resist.
    The rich yellow light created strong reflections in the water as I bent over it. I raised my hand, cupped the trembling fingers over the left side of my face and looked down.
    I saw waving black hair, cropped at chin length. The movement of the water made it seem to drift around my face like a shadow. Skin the colour of toasted almonds, a right eyebrow that was thick but naturally arched, lashes a glossy frame to the slanting, amber eye. The nose was thin and hawkish, but balanced by the wideness of the mouth.
    I met my own eye, and saw the wariness there. Why do I do this to myself? My reflection had no answer. Sighing, I took my hand away.
    The scar began as a puckered white line cutting through the deep widow’s peak on my forehead, but it thickened as it curved, and was an inch wide by the time it trailed down over the top of the nose. It slashed across my eye and upper cheek, ending at the left ear, where it had seared away the bottom of the lobe. There were no lashes on the scarred lid of the left eye, only a ridge of pinkish tissue that made an S shape and created a lopsided, hooded effect over the eye that, by some miracle, had been spared.
    I brushed a finger over the scaly, uneven skin. In some places the scar tissue was so thick that I felt nothing; in others, so fine and delicate that even a faint breeze seemed to rasp against it. I stretched my mouth into a smile, and watched the way the normal skin around the scar wrinkled.
    Every time I looked into the water, or a mirror, I saw the same thing. The same old face, the same old scar. And yet, every time, I somehow expected it to be different. I didn’t understand myself. What did I really