The Hidden Fire (Book 2) Read online

  THE HIDDEN FIRE

  James R. Sanford

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by James R. Sanford

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author. This e-book has been published without Digital Rights Management software installed, so that it may be read on personal devices.

  To CJ

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1: A Two Headed Coin

  CHAPTER 2: Desert of Light

  CHAPTER 3: Remnants of a Dream

  CHAPTER 4: Cat’s Eye

  CHAPTER 5: A River of Blood

  CHAPTER 6: Ghosts of a Recent Past

  CHAPTER 7: Secrets of the Jungle

  CHAPTER 8: Killers

  CHAPTER 9: Dreamers

  CHAPTER 10: Slaves

  CHAPTER 11: Dreamlands

  CHAPTER 12: Where All Water Flows

  CHAPTER 13: Venom

  CHAPTER 14: The Storm Dragon

  CHAPTER 15: Islands in the Sky

  CHAPTER 16: Falling Star

  CHAPTER 17: Judgment of the Blossom

  CHAPTER 18: Open Sea

  CHAPTER 19: Crossing the Line

  CHAPTER 20: Perfect Darkness

  THE WEST

  THE EAST

  CHAPTER 1: A Two-Headed Coin

  The Knights-Commander of the Order of the Dragon’s Blood paused at the door to his library and willed the veil of power to enclose his spirit. It was easier to speak to the Master that way, not feeling that he read the signs of every intention, not feeling that he judged each link in the armor of one’s essence. Most of the others broke into a sweat, or began to stammer in his presence. Even Andemin ducked around a corner when he saw the Master coming. Love is one matter, to stand before a godling quite another. He pushed through the double doors of fine mahogany and closed them behind him.

  The Master turned away from the window and looked at him. “Keldring. You have word from Aeva?”

  Keldring. Stormblade in the Essian tongue. He was proud of that name. He had certainly earned it. He had once been Liopol, but a score of years had passed since he suffered the frailties with which Liopol had been born.

  The Master was wearing his eye patch, but Keldring could see the light of the Pyxidium leaking from the outer edge. He never wanted to look into that eye again. It had been like looking beyond the stars, into a forbidden place in the soul of the universe.

  “Yes. The courier arrived in the middle of the night. I have only now decoded the Watcher’s message. He reports complete failure.”

  “I already know that Deathadder and Blackwind have been killed — I saw them die by the flaming blade. What else does he report?”

  “Three squires-in-training were killed as well. One of them was nearly ready. We had planned for him to kiss your hand at the end of summer. Senator Lekon has now retired from public life, and the charts of the Spice Islands have disappeared. Taken to Esaiya no doubt. As I said, utter failure.”

  Master Cauldin’s mouth twisted into what Keldring had come to recognize as an ironic smile. “You do not see the subtlety of my stratagem. It is like the toss of a coin which bears a head on each side. My designs are such that even in failure my will is done. When my hand reaches into the mundane world it is only a matter of time. A mere idea can easily become insidious. The idea that the lost Spice Islands can be found has already been planted. Did Deathadder not show the rudders to certain Senators?”

  “A few.”

  “One would be enough. They now know the region of the ocean where the islands lay. Secrets have a way of getting out. The great houses of Sevdin and Kandin will soon know. Brave explorers will be sent, and some will return with news that the Baskillians already control Mokkala and reap the wealth of the spice. Then the Avic lands will make war across the line, which is no less than we intended by controlling the Aevan Senate.”

  Cauldin’s eye roved the library, his gaze falling on the ornate tapestries, the inlays of rare wood, the priceless artwork, as if seeing his surroundings for the first time since his arrival. “You allow yourself too much finery, Keldring. Take care it does not draw your attention from the realm of power. A Knight of the Flaming Blade would live the winter in an icy hole for the sole purpose of leaping upon you as you pass in the springtime thaw.”

  “As you have said, Grandmaster. None of us can match your own austerity, but I have not forgotten the year you left me stranded on Ismbar, moss and driftwood for my bed, the bones of Aumgradmal my only companions.”

  “That year made you what you are, made you worthy to sit at my right hand.”

  Keldring bowed to his master. “You taught us that the acquisition of wealth, and participation in the game of houses were only tools to smooth the way, and that we must not step too far forward lest it draw the suspicion of our enemy. I have not forgotten that as well. But these estates we have established make such excellent recruiting grounds. There is an excess of young men eager to join a rising captain of business and politics. All this finery is the promise of wealth and influence made flesh. They cannot resist it. It helps us manipulate their beliefs, and draws them into your plans in much the same way that the city-states of the West are drawn by the wealth of spice.”

  Cauldin acknowledged the truth of his words with a slight nod. “And that is why it is impossible for us to fail.”

  CHAPTER 2: Desert of Light

  So Kyric turned away from Esaiya and retraced his steps back to Aeva, and all went well at first. He got a job as the day cook at a run-down hotel in the old city called The Copper Squid. It was more like a bar with rooms for rent, and his pay included a closet with a cot near the door to the back alley. He sold his silver arrow and used that money for lessons with a sword master. Sleep became a cool dark place. He didn’t dream.

  He wanted to look up Sercey and Jela’s other friends, but every time he made to do so floodwaters of loss rose up to drown him, and he couldn’t go through with it. He became friendly, if not friends, with most of the hotel staff. One of the waiters introduced him to a young lady named Tathee. He spent most of what remained of his arrow money on some decent clothing and an evening with her at the Hotel Lions. He enjoyed Tathee’s company well enough, but his conversation was awkward, and as they danced after dinner he realized that he really wanted to be alone. He sent her home in a cab and went to a Commedia house by himself, making sure that Captain Bombasto was featured in the piece they were playing.

  As the summer wore on, he felt like a spiritless shadow had followed him back from the narrows. It rained little, and in the heat of the afternoon the stench of the old city nearly made him sick. The gossip of the hotel staff began to bore him. His cooking became sloppy. The waiters’ petulant demands such as, “Why isn’t my order ready?” or “This is overcooked, make another!” stretched his nerves and he returned their complaints with a glare and told them to shut up. He started drinking a bottle of wine every evening, then it became a bottle every afternoon.

  When Narel, the night cook, had a fit over a dirty cutting board left at the end of the day shift and threated to have him fired, Kyric bounced a soup ladle off his forehead, so that his dismissal would come from his own merit. When Narel took a swing at him, Kyric shocked himself by pummeling the man to the floor and leaving him there with a broken nose. It was the first fistfight he had been in since the age of ten.

  As he walked away in a fury, one of the maids, a curly-h
aired girl name Devra, caught up with him saying that she had quit the hotel too. They went to a bar, then back to the room she rented. Kyric had to climb in the window so the landlady wouldn’t see him. The bed creaked louder than a broken windmill, so they did it standing against the wall. That was how he lost his virginity.

  It turned out that day cooks at cheap hotels constantly came and went, and he had little trouble finding the same job at the Hotel Renlaria near the new harbor. Living in the new city made him feel better. Not having to walk streets made familiar in the days of the games seemed to lift his spirits a little and Kyric began to think that he would be alright. So he was surprised one night to find himself walking a dark waterfront street for no reason, his wheel-lock loaded and ready in his sash.

  But somehow he wasn’t surprised when he stepped into the lobby a few mornings later to find Aiyan sitting there reading a newspaper.

  Kyric went and stood in front of him without a word. Aiyan didn’t look up from his paper, saying casually, as if they had seen one another the night before, “Do you speak Baskillian?”

  Kyric fumbled for an answer. “Well, er, I can read and write it. But I’ve never spoken to a real Baskillian. I never saw a Baskillian before the games.”

  “Close enough,” said Aiyan. “Go pack your things. We sail on the evening tide.”

  “Sail? Where are we going?”

  “To find the lost Spice Islands.”

  It was a company ship, and it made a regular run of passengers and cargo to the cities of Rhyjusa, Isskiv, Ularra, and back. Aiyan explained that they would take her all the way to the straits of Terrula and engage an intrepid trader who fully owned his ship.

  “That’s it?” said Kyric. “That’s the plan, just go there and find a ship captain willing to sail into the unknown?”

  “Something like that. If one can be found, Ularra would be the place.”

  “And you have the rudders with you?”

  “A much smaller copy.”

  Kyric gave a low whistle. “You are going to make some independent trader very rich.”

  Aiyan returned a grim smile. “Or very dead.”

  “So why are you bringing me? Wouldn’t you be better off with Teodor or one of the others?”

  “I’m only going for a look around,” Aiyan said. “To see what’s there.”

  They had a tiny cabin with an overhead of less than five feet, no porthole, and three narrow bunks stacked against the long wall. Aiyan gave Kyric choice of bed and pulled a hammock out of his duffle. Later when they were at sea, Aiyan would swing in peaceful sleep while Kyric was tossed in his bunk.

  Aiyan removed two long objects from a case and unwrapped them. They were wooden swords.

  “The captain gave me permission to practice on deck when all is quiet,” he said.

  Kyric stood up in his eagerness, bumping his head sharply against a beam. “Ow. Mustn’t do that.” He felt for the lump. “Did I tell you I’ve been taking sword lessons on my own?”

  “No,” Aiyan said blankly. “Perhaps you won’t have much to unlearn.”

  “So this is it,” Kyric said. “I am your squire now. You’re going to teach me. You’re not going run off without me anymore, or leave me stuck somewhere for months at a time. If this is not so, tell me now before we put to sea.”

  Aiyan let out a long breath. “All I can say is that I will do my best for you. But I cannot promise what the future may force me to do. Like everything else in life, you take a chance with me despite my honorable intentions, and please remember that I take the same chance with you.”

  He held up one hand. “But know first, Kyric, that you cannot go very far on this path before you reach the point where you can’t turn back, not without harm. When you step into this circle, you’re in, for better or worse and for the rest of your life. Consider this before you ask me to be your master.”

  A couple of days passed at sea before the ship cleared the southern tip of Aessia and settled on a reach to the northeast. Aiyan tried to pass the time teaching Kyric the Cor’el Patois, the trade language of the East, a combination word and sign language with guttural words no longer than two syllables, and gestures that could get more complicated than drawing pictures in the air. Kyric had always taken to languages, but he got seasick and spent the first day in bed with a bucket on the floor next to him.

  When he finally got hungry he found that Aiyan had brought a sea chest full of cheese, pickles, dried fruit, hardbread, and jerked beef for quick meals in the cabin. Aiyan had also paid extra for one hot meal a day, supplying the cook with a sack of rice and a crate of chickens. After his first dinner from the ship’s cook Kyric said, “If it’s alright, I’ll do our cooking from now on.”

  On his first day of sword practice with Aiyan the wind was up and the ship heaved in the choppy seas. Aiyan produced two light leather helmets before they went on deck and handed one to Kyric.

  “This is all the practice armor I have,” he said. “We’ll have to go easy.”

  Out on the main deck, Aiyan stood beyond sword reach and faced him saying, “Watch carefully and do what I do. Follow me as if you were looking into a mirror.”

  He stepped forward. He stepped back. He slid to one side, then the other. He pivoted on the balls of his feet. He pivoted on one foot, sliding his other leg behind him. He showed Kyric a few more sliding movements then began showing him cuts and slashes, several from high to low, a few from low to high, then a thrust, then a lunge. Kyric imitated him as precisely as he could, but some of the moves felt awkward.

  Aiyan stopped, lowering his practice sword. “I have now shown you every fighting move of the Way of the Flame.”

  “What?”

  Aiyan didn’t smile. “That’s all there is.”

  “What about parries?”

  Aiyan raised his sword as if to strike. “This is the parry for a high attack.” He slashed down. “This is the parry for a low attack.”

  “What about the art of deflecting the blow?”

  “It sounds like you already know about that.”

  “I saw your fight against Morae,” Kyric said. “It was much more complex than that.”

  “No, it wasn’t.” Aiyan raised his wooden sword and began to move. “I only did this, and this, and this and this and this.”

  Kyric stood with his mouth open. The complicated and deceptive flow of attack was merely clever combinations of the steps, slides, and strikes he had shown. Kyric felt like a light had been struck inside him.

  “It’s like a child’s building blocks,” he said in his excitement. “There must be hundreds of possible combinations.”

  Aiyan’s eyes sparkled. “They are infinite. There is no beginning and there is no end.”

  They practiced three hours each morning and two more in the afternoons. Aiyan would begin by repeating the basic movements and some simple combinations while Kyric mirrored him. Then he would show Kyric an attack, then have him execute it. Aiyan would invariably respond in a way that ended with Kyric cut on the head or chest, or else lying on the deck with Aiyan’s sword at his throat. Then they would switch roles and Kyric would attempt to defend himself using the same techniques. With any given attack, such as a straight cut to the forehead, there seemed to be endless responses. Aiyan might ignore the attack, making a lightning strike to Kyric’s head before he was hit himself. Or he might slide to the side and parry as he entered a circular motion that included counter-cuts to Kyric’s sword arm and finished with Aiyan behind him stabbing him in the back.

  Kyric had thought himself to be strong and fit, but five hours of sword work was brutal. He felt broken as he dragged himself to his bunk, his muscles screaming. After an hour of rest he could sit up and eat a light meal before falling back for ten or twelve hours of uncomfortable sleep.

  Aiyan seldom said a word as they practiced, but he always wore a subtle smile, like this was all very amusing. When Kyric asked him a question about a technique, he would say nothing and simply show him again, ve
ry slowly. After a few days it began to dawn on Kyric that Aiyan wasn’t really teaching him in the conventional sense. He was simply allowing him to observe and — Kyric groaned as it suddenly became clear — learn. His progress had nothing to do with Aiyan teaching him. Learning was fully incumbent upon himself. In a way, he was on his own.

  They approached a rocky shoreline the next evening, and anchored as the moon set and the sky turned black. Kyric walked the deck alone to get away from Aiyan’s relentless lessons in Cor’el. He stared into the darkness beyond the rail but could see nothing of the land.

  He made himself still and found emptiness. He invited the eternal moment to come upon him, but it refused.

  He had been going down back in Aeva. Going under. He could see that now. He had been angry before, but his anger at Jela’s murder had driven him to purpose. When it was over, and all had been done what could be done, he acquired another anger, one that had been driving him to destruction.

  Was this why he followed Aiyan, why he wanted a flaming blade, so that he could die a clean death, venting his anger on the men of the dragon’s blood? He thought about all the wounds that Aiyan bore. When Kyric had suffered as many hurts, would it pay the debt he owed to his humanity?

  It was good to live and see the next day, even not knowing what it would bring. It was good to travel and be far away from everything he knew about life and himself. Was it possible to begin anew in a new world? He was traveling to the fabled Straits of Terrula, where the West and the East met in a clash with a dozen native cultures. And beyond that, what could anyone know?

  He awoke early the next morning and went out on deck as the sun first peeked over the horizon. No one was there — not one sailor. The sheets and sails hung loose in the motionless air. And the ship rested in a desert of sand and stone, as if the sea had simply boiled away.