Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

That was heresy, and we both knew it. If I repeated her words to Conor, Cara might be the one who burned, though my mother said there hadn’t been a burning in our village for a long time, not since before Conor had come here.

Either way, I knew well enough I wouldn’t repeat anything. Yet still I said, defiantly, “I’m not afraid of fire.”

“I am,” Cara said. “So promise. By Vkandis’ light.”

You couldn’t break an oath made by the God, or else you wouldn’t only burn in this world—you’d freeze in the next. “You have to promise you won’t tell either,” I said. What was the use in my keeping secrets if Cara only turned me over to Conor herself?

“I never tell,” Cara said. “How do you think I’ve lived this long?”

I had no idea what she was talking about. “Promise anyway,” I said.

Cara bowed her head, like in church. “I promise I won’t tell about your power or mine, not so long as I live.”

“What do you mean, your power?”

Cara laughed, a bitter sound. “Didn’t I just promise not to tell?”

I hadn’t meant not to tell me. I let that go. “And I promise I’ll be careful, all right?”

Cara nodded sharply. “By Vkandis’ light,” she said.

“By Vkandis’ light,” I agreed. Then, because Cara had just sworn an unbreakable oath, I carefully scanned the fields—no one else was anywhere in sight—cupped my hands in front of me, and called the small flame back again.

Cara looked into the light, and her expression turned incredibly sad. “Of course they’re not witchpowers,” she whispered. “Of course we’re not cursed. But they won’t know that, not for hundreds of years.”

By the fire’s light we tell stories. We pray. We dance. On a cool night, the flicker of flames is like laughter, welcome and warm.

Yet if we don’t add wood, if we forget to bank the coals, even the strongest fire burns out by morning.

We were careful, Cara and I. I didn’t call that small flame to my hands again, not even alone in the gray light of dawn, and Cara never, not once, spoke of what she saw. We hardly spoke to each other either, just like before.

Once a year, Conor gathered all the village children together. He looked at each of us in turn, searching for witchpowers. Yet his gaze was always kind, and it never lingered for long before he declared he saw nothing in any of us save for Vkandis’ own light. For three more years after Cara and I swore our oaths, no one was taken for the fires.

The fourth year was different. That year a red-robed priest visited our village. Conor called us together as always, but then the red robe himself began looking us over, one by one.

I told myself everything would be all right—only then I glanced at Cara. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and her face was icy pale. All at once I realized what Cara’s power was; I realized, too, just how much trouble we both were in.

The red robe’s eyes held no kindness, just a long searching gaze I was sure could see down into our very souls. When he touched Cara on the shoulder, she didn’t even look surprised. She just shut her eyes a moment, then followed Conor to the waiting carriage as the red robe continued examining us. He tapped my shoulder next, just as Cara must have known he would.

I felt a spark of anger. I could fight the priest. I could kick, scream, maybe even call flame—but Cara’s words echoed through my head. Promise you’ll be careful. I’d sworn a sacred oath, and attacking a red-robed priest wouldn’t be careful at all. It would be, as Cara said, stupid. Stupid enough that the priest might just burn me right there.

I forced my anger down, dousing it as surely as I’d once doused the flame I’d called into my hands. It’s not a witchpower, I thought defiantly, but I spoke not a word as Conor led me away. I caught a glimpse of my parents, both of them fighting not to cry. I heard Conor whisper, so low none but me could hear, “I’m sorry, Tamar.” Then I entered the carriage. Conor shut the door behind me, leaving me alone in the dark.

No, not alone. I heard Cara sobbing softly. As my eyes adjusted, she looked up at me, her eyes bright with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m trying to be brave. Only—”

“Only you knew what was going to happen.” Her power was invisible, yet no less forbidden than mine. She could see the future.

Cara nodded, not denying it, but not speaking the nature of her power aloud, even now. “It’s not so bad. We still have some time, I know.” Yet the bleak look she gave me made the carriage seem suddenly cold.

I had nothing to say to that, so instead I drew her close, not caring that she was a girl. She let me, not caring that she was a merchant’s daughter and I was a farmer’s son.

“I wish we could have lived in some other time,” Cara said. “There will be miracles in other times. But not for us.”