Moving Targets and Other Tales of Valdemar

One gray winter dawn the year I turned nine, I crouched in the loft where I slept, longing for the warmth I’d held in my dreams. My palms grew hot, and a tiny orange flame sprang to life in my cupped hands.

From below my father called me down to milk the goats. The flame disappeared in a wisp of smoke, leaving behind only a small red welt.

This time I told neither of my parents what I’d seen. I told myself they were afraid I’d burn myself. They didn’t understand that I was older now and knew how to be careful.

I didn’t call the flame back again that day. I longed to, though, even when the welt blistered, even when the blister broke and wept.

The day begins with fire. And fire begins with Vkandis, our God.

Every year the Sun’s bright rays light the wood our village priest, Conor, piles on the sacred altar. Every year we carry some of that holy fire home to light our own hearths.

As the flames burn in our hearths, they reach upward, yearning, always yearning, to return to the Sunlord once more.

Three days after I first called fire, Cara walked up to me in our village church. “Don’t be stupid,” she said.

I made sure no one was looking, then stuck my tongue out at her. It was a worship day, and we were supposed to be on our best behavior, but I knew well enough it was girls who were stupid.

“I mean it,” Cara said. She was nine, too, but she rarely spoke to me. My mother said that was because she was rich and we weren’t.

I didn’t care what the reason was. I stuck out my tongue again, then ran off to sit with my parents near the back of the church. Soon Conor entered the sanctuary in his brown homespun robes, and the service began.

Conor’s sermon that day was about witchpowers, and I fought not to yawn, because of course I’d heard it all before: how in faithless realms to the north demon-kin welcomed unholy witchpowers into their lives and rode ice-white demons sent from the coldest depths of Hell. Not here, though—here people with witchpowers were cleansed by holy fires that destroyed the powers, yet left the soul intact. As for demons, only trained priests called on them, and only as needed to protect our people.

As Conor went on and on, my gaze strayed from the altar fire to my own hands. I remembered the fire that had burned in them, and I wondered if I could call it back again.

I looked back to the altar. From her seat at the front of the sanctuary—because her family could afford to tithe more than mine—Cara glanced at me. I saw fear in her gaze—the same fear I’d seen in my mother’s eyes when I told my dreams. Cara turned swiftly away, but not before I wondered whether I really was stupid.

For until that moment I hadn’t realized that something as pure as flame—and hadn’t Conor just talked of cleansing fire?—might be a witchpower, too.

For a fortnight I wondered whether I should tell Conor. The priest said we must always report witchpowers, in others and in ourselves, for the sake of our immortal souls.

One spring evening I stood alone in the fields my family farmed. Winter’s ice had melted at last—soon it would be time to plant turnips and carrots and beans—but I barely noticed the mud coating my shoes. I watched as the setting sun turned the clouds to molten fire.

I cupped my hands together and imagined a tiny orange flame. My palms grew warm; the flame appeared, looking like a bright sliver of evening cloud. It danced over my palms, taking away the evening chill.

I blew softly, and the flame went out. Could such warmth truly come from an unholy power?

Conor would know. I should ask him.

“Don’t be stupid,” someone said, as if reading the thought.

I whirled to see Cara trudging through the fields. I’d been so focused on my flame—on my thoughts—that I hadn’t heard her coming. Her shoes and the hem of her embroidered dress were stained with mud, and sweat made her dark brown hair escape its braid to curl around her face. I’d never seen Cara dirty before.

“I’m not stupid,” I said, even as my heart began to pound. Had Cara seen that flame? Would she tell Conor?

“You need to be more careful,” Cara said. “It won’t save you in the end, but it’ll at least buy you a little more time.”

I scowled, even as I realized she had no intention of telling. What if Conor was right, and I was putting my soul in danger by keeping this power secret?

Cara kicked a stone, splattering mud on us both. “Don’t you dare tell. Promise you’ll be careful, Tamar.”

“You’re asking me—” I spoke slowly, even as I wondered why Cara had come here at all, “—to keep a secret from one of Vkandis’ priests.”

Cara nodded soberly. “Even a priest can be wrong.”