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Beneath Quentaris
- Michael Pryor
More and more, I find that I’m thinking of Quentaris in historical terms. I see the city and its buildings as like Italian cities from the Renaissance. Thinking of history got me wondering about the stories of Quentaris that happened long before the stories we’re telling… These are the legends and folklore that people like Nisha would have heard of. Then I started thinking about how stories of the past are handed down through the ages. Sometimes it happens formally, through being written. Sometimes it’s as oral history. But sometimes the stories are passed down in other ways. It was then I remembered the urban legend of how the nursery rhyme ‘Ring-a-ring-a-rosie’ was a folk memory of the Bubonic Plague. The ‘ring of roses’ was supposed to be the rash, and ‘a-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down’ was supposed to be telling of the final stages of the disease, with sneezing and death. Research has shown that this is not actually the case, but it got me thinking that perhaps long, lost events could be preserved in the rhymes of children…
When a fire is deliberately lit in the city of Quentaris, Nisha Fairsight and her minstrel friend Tal investigate and soon uncover a plot threatening its inhabitants. Adding to the city’s woes is the threat of invasion from the vicious, insect-like Zolka, who are making it even more dangerous than usual to pass through the rift caves. Nisha must discover her fire-magic heritage and her place in Quentaris. Will she be able to save the city and her friends?
‘Nisha leaned forward. The wild draft rushed past, then over the coals and up the immense chimney. She stretched out, trying to grasp the sign, but fell far short. There was nothing else for it. She had to climb into the incinerator. Once she scrambled through the opening, she wondered why her clothes and boots weren’t burning. If her power extended to protecting them, what else could it do? Could she protect others, share this strength with them? Putting this notion aside, she concentrated on crossing the shifting surface of the coals. Her clothes and hair whipped around in the updraught, and a vast chuffing noise came from all around as she carefully placed each step. The further Nisha moved into the fire, the more the fire inside her sang. It bubbled and writhed, making little bubbles of joy, and she found herself skipping over the coals. Even though she knew her peril, she almost laughed aloud. When she neared the pool of fire, Nisha was glad to see that the sign was within reach. When she tugged, it skated easily across the surface of the liquid fire. She staggered backwards and almost fell onto the living coals.’ |
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