Days passed, and I lost count of them. It seemed as if I had slipped back into my old way: the goatskin tents were my home, and the grey existence of the Quelled had become again my life. Yet all was different. Most of the time I forgot my new-found power, involved as I was with ordinary everyday things, but sometimes the memory would break through like a burst of flamelight in the dark, and I’d stand astounded, surprised and overwhelmed by joy.

And another thing happened while the Firelord was away, to change my life. It happened the day they brought Kiran home early from the mine. Two men carried her, and Ridha ran alongside, wringing his hands and crying, and cursing the Chosen. They carried her into the tent and put her on her sleeping mat beside the fire. She was filthy with dust and sweat and blood, and moaning terribly, and her baby, lifeless, lay cold across her chest. Dannii pushed me outside with Lori, and told me to take the child away for a while. So I did.

When we returned later to the tent, Kiran was sleeping, and Ridha was sitting by the fire bent over a small bundle tied in a shirt. He was crying, and the sound was terrible to me.

“Kiran’s time came early,” Dannii whispered to me. “The overseer didn’t believe her, and whipped her, and made her carry on. She gave birth at the mouth of the mine, carrying out a basket of firestones. The babe fell on the stones, and died.”

Later I took the tiny bundle out to the rubbish pit behind the tents. The Chosen had elaborate funerals for their dead, raising them high on altars and burning them; but the dead of the Quelled were wrapped in rags and thrown into the rubbish pits. But this evening the wolves were already in the rubbish, snarling and snapping over the choicest bits. I carried on past them, went higher up the slopes, and found a crack between two rocks. While I was placing the bundle there, one of the leather thongs tying it broke, and the shirt fell open, exposing a tiny hand. I stared at it, astounded. The hand was exquisite, the fingers slender and softly curled, and with minute shining nails. I took the parcel out, crouched on the icy stones with it, and unfolded it.

The child lay pale in the twilight, perfectly formed, peaceful, unbelievably tiny, and utterly beautiful. The back of its head was cut and bruised, where it had fallen on the stones; otherwise, in every part it was flawless.

Rage swept over me. I stood up. There was no wind, and the evening was still – still as the child’s heart. I could hear sounds from the tents below me: children laughing, and music, and from Ridha’s tent the unbearable sound of mourning. I raised my hand in the cold dark, and I made a vow.