(A/N: Bal'thjr is pronounced BALTH-yur. See my fic "Christening the Pirate" for more on this.

Additionally, Sjit is pronounced SYEET.)

Chapter 3: Bal'thjr

(Aeromoon, 653 OV)

Weeks passed. F'ran visited Djran's bower every day, always with a gift; a magnolia for her hair one day, a cane of bamboo carved into a flute the next. She spent a week gathering particularly handsome feathers and made them into a fan, and once, though her talent for music was scarce, she wrote a little song.

Djran accepted each gift with radiant gratitude, and kissed F'ran with more tenderness by the day. In truth, she had begun to enjoy the affection. "Fo'e" came from her lips easily now, but she did not feel it in the center of her chest, where she knew she should. This did not trouble her terribly. Surely, once they were wed, her affection and desire would blossom.

Would they not?

One particularly hot day, F'ran found that the camellia tree outside her bower had bloomed to its fullest, the golden stamens in the center of each bright pink blossom thick with pollen. She had always loathed the scent of these flowers, too sweet and yet with a hint of bitterness, like the skin of a walnut – but today she smiled to see them flourish. She'd heard Djran say the day before that she adored pink camellias; when she returned from the day's practice she would collect some for a bouquet.

F'ran's aim was as sure as ever that day. Her bow, Perseus, sang a crisp noteevery time she snapped the string, and every arrow she fired hit its mark with ease. The sound of arrow striking tree trunk is a satisfying one, she mused, chattering her teeth with satisfaction at each true hit of the marks on the trees. Thwunk. Thwunk. She felt her eyes dilating with the excitement of battle-focus as she moved from target to target; first the remains of a dead oak, then a slimmer birch, down to a little juniper, until she was loosing arrows into the desiccated trunks of dying aspens, slips of trees barely thick enough to hold their own against a passing breeze.

When her quiver of practice arrows was empty, she went looking for Mjith. She felt jangly, her skin humming with electricity. She needed to spar, to kick, to hone her muscles and sweat out her excitement. There was no one better to spar with than tall, strong, clever Mjith, who boxed with grace and speed, like a dancer.

Halfway across the target field, F'ran encountered Sjit, another archer; the woman was crouched behind a wooden screen, restringing her bow.

"Sjit, my sister, you will have seen Mjith nearby?"

Sjit looked up from her bow and smiled.

"Eih, sister. I believe..."

She froze and turned her nose into the wind; her round black eyes widened a fraction.

"A'liith."

F'ran sniffed. Camellias, the comforting constancy of evergreen pitch, a faint passing whiff of malboro's blood in the needlebrake... and beneath these, a faint whisper of a scent she could not immediately place; salt and metal, and burning cloth...

Humes... bearing fire.

They are here.

She turned to Sjit and drew a deep breath; as Sjit leapt to her feet F'ran let out a trilling call-to-arms.

"Trrrrrrrrrrrriii, yii yii yii yii yii!"

Within seconds, warders were jogging out into the field from every direction, bows and staves at the ready.

"F'ran, ba'anan, dr' seth?"

"F'ran! Ka mjr at!"

She shouted back to them.

"Ka Tchis! Hjum Bal'thjr e'!"

We fight! The Hume invaders come!

A war cry rose from fifty Vieran throats, and the unit fell into formation, ready and swift. As F'ran dashed through the south copse toward the needlebrake, arrow already to the string of her bow, she caught a hint of breadfruit on the breeze and heard a cry from one of the houses above her.

"F'ran! B'lhai! Tchis se ka'voth!"

Fight for us all... Good, pretty Djran.

As F'ran ran out of the village into the mouth of the needlebrake, a vision came to her.

Beyond the trees a fire burns that cannot be quenched!

Hush, fleet archer, stay your bow,

For your kindred have come at last.

You long for the mystery. Longing is life!

The flame of freedom sings on the wind.

Fly into fire, and burn!

In the murky haze of her mind's eye, she saw the fire again; it flowered beyond the wood, an inferno devouring the entire world. She shook herself and ran farther into the jungle, sniffing for the telltale sharpness of sweat and iron.

Then she heard the heavy clumsy footsteps of a Hume approaching, and ducked behind a thick bank of junipers for cover. The Hume's noisy feet clomped nearer, and she twitched her ears in annoyance at the commotion. After a moment, Sjit and Mjith joined her; she signaled to them in rapid finger signs.

Left and behind the trees; keep behind me. Stay low.

Mjith responded with finger signs of her own.

We ambush. I should kick face?

F'ran nodded and held up her hand. Wait… wait…

Sjit clicked her teeth in anticipation.

The Hume came into view then and F'ran dropped out of the tree like a cat, her comrades swooping in behind her like dark fire, silent and swift.

The three of them covered the fifty meters between their hideout and the Hume in about five seconds. Sjit darted one way, hissing to draw his attention, and F'ran went the other, muscles tense, ready and eager to wrestle the stinking Bal'thjr to the ground should the need arise.

Thrown off by their celerity, the Hume tried to watch both of them at once; this meant he failed to notice Mjith until she was already halfway through her roundhouse, aimed impeccably at the center of his helm. The visor dented, and he fell over backward, howling with surprise and pain.

Delighted, the three darted into the shadow of a cedar tree about twenty-five meters away, and climbed up into it for cover. The Hume struggled to his feet, visibly dazed, and removed his ruined helmet.

F'ran had never seen what lay behind a Hume's helm; she watched with interest as the soldier turned round to look for them; when she saw his face, her heart caught in her throat.

A'liith, how beautiful.

He had strange, pale skin, like the peachy center of a vanilla orchid, and ink-dark hair that skimmed his ears when he turned his head. What peculiar, small ears they were, like mushrooms; she wanted to touch them.

He looked up into the forest canopy, his strange blue eyes sharp and serious. F'ran felt her chest tighten with unexplained anxiety, but she quickly brushed it aside. There was no reason to be alarmed. She would not be seen . . . The tension in her chest returned in force, however, as the Hume's eyes flicked over the trees again and again. He was fascinating in the way he stood still like a stone, using his eyes rather than his nose to seek out his targets. She watched him turn slowly, his posture strangely heavy, as though he were tethered to the ground.

When another Hume approached him in a clatter of iron, he turned and spoke.

"Ghosts is what they are, I say. Three ambushed me not a minute ago and kicked my visor in, the fiends, and I'll be damned if I can find a one of them now."

F'ran understood not a word he said; regardless her heart jumped into her mouth. His voice was music.

Transfixed, F'ran crouched there in the cedar tree for a full five minutes, watching the two soldiers pace a tight circuit, scanning the trees. They were intent on finding F'ran and the others, stationed there in the shadows, but she didn't care. Even after his comrade left him to patrol alone, F'ran felt she could have gazed at the Hume all afternoon. Her body sang for him. She wanted to drop out of the trees and go to him, brush her lips against his vanilla-orchid face, and press her nose into his throat to better catch the scent of him.

But then a realization struck her, like a stone in the chest.

I stare at this Bal'thjr, pining for him as though he were a bird in song, and all the while his kindred kill my sisters? Aii, sweet Tr'Liith, I am bewitched.

It was the only explanation. He knew she was there; he had cast some sort of silent magick in her direction, immobilizing her and her sisters, making them all confused and hungry for him.

Twisted, hateful, duplicitous hume . . .

She would kill him herself.

In a flash she dropped out of the cedar tree, landing in the ivy below, and darted toward the hume on silent feet. He turned, his clear bottomless eyes round with surprise, as she drew an arrow from her quiver.

"What in ninth hell…?"

His voice ran through F'ran like warm honey. She took aim point-blank at his pale beautiful throat, gave a hiss of hatred, and fired.

He was dead before he hit the ground.

Relieved, she rolled him onto his back with her foot and waited for the spell he had cast on her to lift. His eyes still stared, radiant blue, from his face; she stared back into them, still transfixed by him even in death, and shivered when she realized she had slain something so perfect.

Confused, frightened, and nearly sick with desire, she spat into his beautiful face and cursed him aloud.

"Bal'thjr!"

From somewhere in the trees, Sjit called to her.

"F'ran, tior an!"

It was time to retreat into the village again.

"Eih," she called, and fled into the thicket without looking back.