Mindless

Chapter 22 Sihya

Sihya eases the stone door open and peers for any presence in the hall before dragging the cauldron out of the passage. She moves slowly, more to muffle the heavy grating of cast iron against stone than from the weight itself. In the hall, with only the wooden doors between her and the crowd, Sihya can hear the individual words people are yelling. She can hear Jonah's voice ring out among them and a tight smile crosses her face. A false start to a frenzy, he had to maintain control and be the one to lose control.

Their noise covers the sound of the cauldron, and she dares to move a little faster. The oil distorts in sluggish waves but does not crest and spill.

The fury in the room begins to ease as the guards regain control of the room and quiet it. So close now, she can hear the individual words of Mahil's accusations. Vahela's response. Jerditch, Vahela, the lord, Jonah. Sihya stands just outside the door, waiting—she would not be able to hide if someone came out the door or around the corner. But she believes, without thinking, that every other body in the castle is in that room, and they will not leave it until this is over.

So close, she hears the moment it changes. The moment Vahela begins to cry. The moment she gives up. Sihya hears everything she doesn't say. Then, sooner than she was prepared for, Vahela delivers her judgement. Jonah yells, the room erupts, and Sihya presses the doors open with more force than she means to. It stops suddenly with a cushioned thump, and several bodies turn as a man yelps and tumbles into them.

It draws attention she doesn't want, though confusion stalls them, and the cauldron proves harder to tip than desired. The bottom is rounded, but together the iron and oil are heavy enough to hold it steady. She has to crouch down and push with her shoulder under the lip, but the contents do spill.

The viscous liquid splashes across the mostly even stones and streams through the crowd. It fills the lines between and follows them like rivers. A woman shrieks when she sees it—the oil soaks into the hem of her dress and weighs it down. Her shriek spreads the alert, and alarm follows—villagers try to leap away from the oil, leaping into each other: the result is an upset mess as their movement only looses the oil further and prevents their escape from it.

Careful not to dip her hem and sleeves in the mess, Sihya kneels down and strikes the flint over the soaked strips of blanket. Some of the crowd—those with the presence of mind to forewarn themselves of her intentions—see the sparks between flint and striker and vent their alarm. She glances up as a man starts towards her, then returns to her task with more force. She catches the heel of her palm with the striker and blood wells. The strips catch, and the oil drinks the fire with an open throat.

Sihya takes one of the strips by the dry end and slings it at the man coming towards her. It lands on his shoulder, and his attention immediately diverts. She throws the other strips more quickly—some land on more villagers and they cry out. The strips smolder as the oil holds onto the heat, but the fabric itself doesn't burn easily. Most blow out in the air and smoke harmlessly where they land. One falls perfectly between the people and lands in the oil on the floor. It blinks—the blacksmith is standing nearby and sees it, stomping on the smoke to keep it out.

But he is used to coals. He billows the dying flames: they flare briefly, then the room contracts. The strip becomes the new center.

The fire is immediate and everywhere. The oil carries it vigorously through the room and onto those it had touched. The room changes. Orange, flickering light casts the room into a sickness—shrieks turn into screams, fear amplifies into agony, and hysteria spreads faster than the fire. As children, the twins had tried to cook a hare by putting it in the campfire. She smells it again now.

A man points to her and yells something. She can't hear anything over the desperate panting of the fire and the screams. Dark forms move on the other side. One breaks for the left branch, the safest point to cross, and, stepping back, Sihya means to melt away—there's not a single speck of dust in this castle that anyone knows better. She means to go around the corner into a crevice only she knows until things calm. From there, she would away through the tunnels. But even as she's turning, Adalbert comes through the fire as if immune.