The Lady at the River's Edge

27 - A Steppe Untrod

The mountains were relentless. Small though they had appeared, climbing them set fire to Erzsebet's calves, and by the time night fell and they settled into camp her feet ached with such fierceness that even a pack of wolves wouldn't be able to rouse her to run.

With the sun's slow departure, the spring air cooled. While Erzsebet rested her feet, Janos gathered some wood and kindling, cleared a small space, then fell still and stared at his little pile.

"What are you waiting for?" Erzsebet asked. She took a sip from their waterskin, refilled from a public well in Bukkofac, and frowned at the metallic tang.

Janos turned to her, hardly visible in the twilight. "I don't have a fire striker."

"So you rub the wood together, even I know that!" She mimed spinning a stick with her hands, then realized her mistake. "Ah, your arm, of course." She set the waterskin atop his pack and, grimacing, stood up. "I'll do it, then."

"My lady, are you sure?"

"I'm sure I don't want to go without a fire!" She came to kneel next to his small pile of wood, trying to recall what little she knew of firemaking. Sifting through the sticks, she found one that was mostly straight. "You have a knife, don't you? Do you think you could cut this to a point, maybe smooth the sides? Or would that be too much for your arm?"

"I can manage that much," he said, sounding a bit affronted, a bit ashamed. He took the stick from her and walked to the pack. She found a piece broad enough for a base, and once Janos had finished whittling she set to work, spinning the stick back and forth, its point jammed into a groove in the base. Even after a minute's work she could feel heat when she touched the stick's point, but when she pressed it to the kindling, nothing happened. She sighed and returned to her spinning.

Another minute passed, and again she added kindling to no effect. It was then Janos took something from the ground near her–it was now too dark to see what–and pressed it on top of the stick. "Try spinning now," he said.

"With you pushing on it? That makes it harder!"

"Harder for you," he agreed, "but also harder on the wood. More friction, more heat."

She sighed. "I'll try. You didn't carve this stick very smooth, by the way. I'll have calluses tomorrow."

"Apologies, my lady. Even with both arms, I am no woodworker."

"No matter. Let's get this done–don't push too hard now!"

And so they strove, the pair of them bent close, focusing all their effort into something as simple as making a fire. Erzsebet might have laughed at the absurdity of it, were she not facing the very real possibility of a night in the cold and dark. Instead she labored on, working until her hands ached as much as her feet, until her back was stiff from bending, until she felt sweat on her brow despite the growing chill of night.

And at last, she saw a glow, an orange pinprick in the black.

Excitement took her, and she jerked the stick up out of the groove. She heard Janos stumble from her sudden shove but already she was grabbing kindling and pressing it near the groove. Warmth seeped through the pad of tinder to reach her skin, a hope, a promise. She took care not to smother it, blew gently on it to quicken the embers. With satisfaction she saw the glow brighten; with elation she saw the first flame catch.

They both whooped for joy, but they did not indulge in celebration long, instead setting quickly to building the fire, working in tandem to feed the flame without extinguishing it, letting the fire grow between them until it was hearty enough to live on its own. Only then, with vivid light bathing them both, did they cease their labors and sit back, looking with pride upon one another. Only then did Erzsebet allow herself to claim a victory over the world.