An Affinity For Fire

1. Tarragon

Bow in hand, Tarragon stalked along the edge of the lake. He squeezed the smooth, elm grip, palms sweating despite the crisp morning chill. There was no guarantee that he would find his intended prey and he had a lot of expectation resting on him to uphold his promise. When he'd started his hunt, the sky had been purple, tinged red and orange over the Eastern peaks. Now the sun had risen far above the distant hills, casting a silver shimmer across the still waters. Sadly, the rising sun did very little to warm the late autumn air. It only reminded him of how much time he had wasted.

Tarragon stooped to pass a tree whose heavy branches hung low over the water's edge. When he lifted his head again, he spotted what he'd been looking for - a swan. Three, in fact. One close to the shore and two further out, drifted elegantly across the surface of the lake. All three were gliding steadily away from him.

The boy raised his bow, nocked an arrow and drew back the string, shuddering at the cold. He aimed at the closest bird, hands shaking. Just as he was about to loose his arrow, another arrow flew from behind him, hitting one of the furthest swans and sending the other two hurrying off in a fluster of feathers. Tarragon spun sharply, bow raised in the direction of whoever had shot the arrow. The cause of his panic let out a high laugh.

He lowered his bow and groaned. "Clover."

The girl strutted over, flashing her teeth in a broad grin. "What? Don't look at me like that, you were never going to hit it."

"I might have done," he protested. "Anyway, I was aiming for the closer one. Now I have to wade all the way out there and get it."

He had barely finished his sentence before she started making her way into the lake. The Swan was floating above about a foot and a half of water. She bent forwards, her loose blonde curls almost dipping into the water, and grasped the creature by its slender neck. She carried it carefully back to the shore and held it out proudly in front of him. The arrow had passed straight through the bird's skull. The end would have been swift and painless, which was more than could be said for whatever death Tarragon could have delivered, if he had even hit the bird in the first place. As much as he hated to admit it, it was an impressive shot.

"Would you like me to pluck it for you now?"

He snatched the bird from her, not even half as amused as she was.

"Have fun hauling twenty pound of bird home. What do you even need wild swan for?"

"It's my family's contribution to Marram's engagement feast. I'm supposed to present my cousin with a prized delicacy, caught by my own valiant efforts. Now I've got a dead bird that someone else shot."

Clover gave him a nonchalant shrug. "No-one has to know it was me."

"Right, because my mother is going to believe a shot it that cleanly."

"Your mother is the most gullible woman in the whole bloody realm. Her belief will not be a problem."

Tarragon bit his tongue, struggling to repress his irritation. Discretion had never been Clover's strong suit.

"So, this guy Marram's getting married off to. What do you actually know about him?"

"Nothing yet," Tarragon responded, "Except that he's relatively high in the Dormisian royal family."

Clover snorted. "Thank the Fates I'm not important enough to get sold off to some poncy Dormisian."

"She is not getting sold off," Tarragon insisted, only partly believing his own words. His cousin Marram was sixteen years old and eighth in line for the throne of Ortus. I bright, compassionate young woman to most who knew her but, sadly, no more than a valuable political tool to others. Clover, on the other hand, was much further removed from the royal line. She was still related to Tarragon, but so distantly that neither of them could remember what their relationship was called. Fourth or fifth cousins, or something like that.

"Anyway, what are you waiting here for?" Clover asked. "Your prize has been won and your Princess awaits. I hope she's hungry."

Tarragon arrived at his cousin's house about half an hour later. The house was one of the smaller buildings in the Spine, the region of Ortus which was home to the royal family and their closest relatives. The front garden and doorway were already decorated with orange and yellow flowers - Dormisian colours - ready for the evening's celebrations, and the corridors were bustling with servants and early guests, all merrily doing whatever they could to aid the preparations. Ignoring the unnerved glances towards the large carcass in his hand, he headed straight to the kitchen where he found his mother waiting for him.

"Tarragon!" she smiled when she saw him. "Let me see it - oh, it's huge! And straight through the eye, your aim really is improving."

Tarragon didn't say anything. He forced his best convincing smile as his mother gleefully presented the bird to the head cook, a stern woman of about forty who catered for all the Royal festivities. She'd seen a fair range of Tarragon's hunting victims. She looked up, eying him sceptically. "You caught this?" Her doubt was more than justified considering that the last animal he'd presented her, a duck, had barely come back in one piece.

"Of course," he replied, hoping she wouldn't see through his cheerful grin.

"If you say so," she muttered, looking down. Convinced or not, she wasn't in the mood to argue.

"Now Tarragon, dear," his mother said, pulling a bag out from under a counter, "The staff are up to their necks in tasks so I've offered to help out with the meal. While I'm busy in here, why don't you go and get changed? I picked out something smart for you." She handed him the bag. "Marram's in her bedchamber, you can ask her which guestrooms are free."

Before he could respond, another cook pulled her aside to ask about one of the desserts. He squeezed his way through the hordes of people, out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

The first floor was considerably quieter. When he got to his cousin's room, he tapped lightly on the door with his knuckles. He heard a loud sigh from inside.

"If that's you again, Hazel, I told you, I've picked the dress and I'm not changing my mind and I don't care if it doesn't match the shoes!"

Tarragon opened the door a crack, not looking in. "It's not Hazel, it's Tarragon. Can I come in?"

The girl pulled the door wide open and dragged him into a tight hug, drowning his face in her sea of amber curls. "Thank the Fates it's you, everyone's driving me insane."

He squeezed her for a little while before pushing her away. "Let's look at you, then."

She stepped back, sweeping her hands in an extravagant gesture towards her green chiffon dress. The garment stopped just below her knees and rippled with her every move. She wore gold jewellery, adorned with malachite. Her fiery ringlets were pulled neatly to the back of her head, with the exception of her wild fringe, and her lips were painted a pale pink.

"You look beautiful," he concluded. She beamed at him, a giddy twinkle in her brown eyes.

"So, what do you know about this man so far?" he asked.

Her smile faded. "Not as much as I'd hoped. He's only eighteen, though, which is a relief."

Tarragon released his breath. Two years difference certainly wasn't too excessive. "What about his name?"

"Heleonne Monfort," she replied.

He thought for a moment. "Well... I've heard more pretentious names. That's not too bad."

Marram laughed.

At that moment the bedroom door swung open, revealing Hazel, a brown-haired girl in a light green frock. She groaned when she spotted her sister's outfit.

"I knew you'd pick that one. How many times, it doesn't match the shoes mother bought you!"

"I don't care," Marram said. "The other one doesn't match the necklace from Aunty Willow."

Tarragon took an awkward step towards the door. "I'll leave you two to it," he said. "Befere I go, though, is there by any chance a spare room I can use to change?"

His two cousins smiled warmly at him. "The small one at the end of the hall is free," Marram told him. He nodded in thanks and walked out, catching the pair turning their icy glares back to each other as he shut the door.

With his clothes changed and his messy mop of loose brown curls combed, he reluctantly returned to the growing crowds below.