Call Of The Flame (Book 1) Page 6

  “I see you. You bear an essence all your own.”

  “As did Elistar. As will you. Those with destinies such as ours must always stand apart. Do not be afraid. It takes only a moment. We could do it here and now.”

  Sorrin felt beads of sweat at his temples. He closed his eyes.

  “You feel it. I know you do. You sense what you will become — that which you sought when first you came here.”

  “Please,” whispered Sorrin, “please do not — “

  “Here,” Cauldin said, “let me open a vein for you. Drink of my blood.”

  “No,” said Sorrin, backing away. “I do not want this.”

  Cauldin smiled grimly. “That is because you do not understand it. Listen to me Sorrin. With the dragon’s blood you will feel no separation from the realm of power. You will live in it. I do so at this moment— we will be the heroes of the new myths to come. We will look into the hearts of the Powers themselves.”

  Sorrin held his head up and let the fear of temptation pass away. “I have fought and suffered for years to be the man you see today. I wish to be nothing more.”

  Cauldin withdrew his hand. “Everything has changed. I do not even know if I can remain in the order. I have an important question for the Council and must see them at once. I only wanted to see you first. Do not worry, my brother, we shall speak again soon.”

  And he went.

  Sorrin laid down his sword and blinked the sweat from his eyes. Turning to the window, he threw open the shutters and let the cool sea air fill his tiny room. A low fog had risen, a mirror image of the overcast sky. He laid his arm across the sill and rested his head there, but shadow figures came out of the fog, pointing at him, mocking.

  Have you no fear of death?

  He closed his eyes and listened for the sea, for the sound of breaking waves, and when, at last, the voice of the shadows had been driven away, an echo rang in the corridor, a shriek carried on a voice sick with fear.

  Then the booming voice of Zahaias. “An enemy is in the council chamber! Everyone to arms!”

  Sorrin took down his longbow and strung it in one motion, drawing a single arrow from the quiver. The arrowhead, razor edged and the color of sapphire, had been carved from the tooth of a firebird.

  Now through the doorway, sprinting along the corridor. A few steps up and across the long hall. Shouts. The clangor of steel striking steel — rapid blows. Narrow shafts of dim light. The heavy oak doors of the council chamber, open. The threshold slick underfoot. A bright metallic odor, like copper.

  A few twisted forms in blue tunics lay inside the chamber, one writhing and sobbing in pain. Another warrior knelt before the crescent table, hands across his eyes, mouth open in a wordless cry, his sight forever gone. Lying sprawled across the table, or crumpled underneath like dogs crushed by a cart, the sages of the council lay still in their own blood. The Magus Archeus, even more frail in death than she had been in life, had run the length of the chamber before a sword impaled her from behind.

  Entranced, blood still dripping from his sword, Cauldin stood behind the Pyxidium, seeing it alone. He reached out as Sorrin nocked the arrow, and plucked the crystal from its setting, holding it up so that its light fell upon his face.

  Sorrin pulled back the bowstring, his fingers brushing his cheek, and let the arrow fly.

  It struck the Pyxidium and split it cleanly, in perfect symmetry. Cauldin kept hold of one half, even as the arrow pierced his right eye, coming to rest deep within. It knocked him back and he staggered but did not fall.

  He straightened and took a deep breath. With a shout of defiance, he yanked the arrow free and tossed it to the floor. A few drops of viscous fluid leaked from the empty socket. Grinning with an insane mouth, he raised the shard of the mystic crystal and tried to push it into the empty socket. It didn’t quite fit. He pushed harder and it popped in, a grotesque imitation of a glass eye.

  A bell clanging wildly in a nearby courtyard shook Sorrin from his daze. Casting his bow aside, he reached down and took a sword from the hand of a fallen knight.

  Cauldin unhooked the helm from his belt and thrust it onto his head. Both hands on the grip, he held his sword ready in a high guard.

  Sorrin attacked — spring toward him, quick steps, extend, blades clash, rush past, stop and turn.

  Cauldin spun to face him. His sword shone coldly, and misty ghosts flickered along the edge of the blade. Behind one rectangular slit, a strong light came from within his helmet.

  “Do not try to stand against me, Sorrin. You did not destroy the Pyxidium, and this half that I hold is giving me a strength you cannot imagine.”

  The bell no longer sounded. Sorrin motioned toward the open doorway. “All the knights of the order are coming. No man is an army. And for what you have done, there is no redemption.”

  Cauldin leapt forward with a furious two-handed slash. Sorrin jumped back, and the air whirred with the blade’s passing.

  Sorrin saw the opening and stepped up, blade flashing, but the move had been a ruse to draw the attack. Cauldin returned his swing backhanded and his sword clove Sorrin’s blade like an axe through a brittle twig.

  Sorrin closed with him, to use the broken blade like a knife, but Cauldin seized his throat with one hand, lifted him off his feet, and shook him. Gurgling, legs flailing, Sorrin stabbed wildly.

  Cauldin bellowed, a cry of agony and surprise. The broken sword had sunk deep into his chest.

  He threw Sorrin aside, slamming him into the wall. Then, growling with each tug, Cauldin worked the blade from his torso.

  As Sorrin staggered to his feet, the war cries of a dozen knights echoed in the corridor outside. Cauldin lurched to the doorway, then through.

  Sorrin took a step, wobbled, and had to hold himself against the wall to keep his feet. Moments later the knights burst into the room.

  “Where is the enemy?” shouted one of them.

  “Fled,” answered Sorrin. “Is anyone guarding the gate at the bridge?”

  “An entire company. We thought that there was an attack from the land.” Then the knight saw the murdered sages. “How? Who did this?”

  “Listen to me,” Sorrin said to all of them. “The Pyxidium is now divided. By my arrow it was split.” The arrowhead lay at his feet, melted into formless slag, its enchantment undone. “After attending the injured, search this chamber well, for one half is here, somewhere. The other half was taken by Cauldin, who is now our enemy. I shall pursue him. But remain watchful — he may still be within these walls, or he may return.” And he strode quickly from the room, taking up his bow as he went.

  In the corridor, he felt Cauldin’s presence receding. Galloping into sight from around a bend in the passageway came a long-limbed youth, wearing the peasant shirt of a candidate of the order. “Master Sorrin,” he said, sliding to a halt, “Master Sorrin, a tall man all in black is stealing one of our boats.”

  “Do you know the way to my cell?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go there, fetch my sword and my quiver, and meet me at quayside. And hurry.”

  The young man nodded and dashed away.

  Sorrin went to the gate above the harbor.

  The ground fog, beginning to clear, blew in wispy tufts across the waters of the tiny port. The wind came lightly, but Cauldin had already passed beyond bow shot, completed his last tack, and now ran for the open sea. Sorrin leaped into his own boat and began to make ready.

  The lanky youth, breathless, stumbled through the shifting mists to give Sorrin his blade and arrows.

  “Well done,” said Sorrin. “Now help me raise sail.” Moments later he said, “Good. Now jump off and give me a push.”

  After he had started under way, the wind rose enough to fill the sails of the two boats, but it was mild, and they loitered on the water, inching along as if time had slowed. Clearing the harbor, they turned to run before the breeze. The endless morning stretched on. To Sorrin, watching through a veil of mist, it seemed that his boat
had gained a little in the few leagues he had chased. Then the fog rose anew on the land, spilling onto the ocean in a thick roiling cloud.

  The front door slammed and Sedlik walked into the kitchen, dressed for business in a conservative grey doublet. He tossed his cape over a chair, and sat down opposite Aiyan.

  “First,” he said. “You owe me a big lump of gold.”

  “I thought this one didn’t need bribing,” Aiyan said.

  Sedlik offered him a grim smile. “For this I had to cancel his gambling debt and then some. What is happening now is all about the spice trade.”

  After Aiyan’s story, Kyric could barely follow the conversation. The one covered in dragon’s blood, this Cauldin, he had been the man in last night’s dream.

  Sedlik took off his hat and ran his hand through the bristle covering his scalp. “In almost complete secrecy, Senator Lekon has been collecting allies for the purpose of forming a new trade company — the Spice Islands Trade Company. This company would be authorized to bypass the Baskillian spice merchants and deal directly with the chiefs of the islands.”

  “Which would take us to the brink of war with the Baskillian Empire,” Aiyan said.

  Sedlik nodded. “The Senate was set to vote on this at their next session, three days after the games close, Lekon in place to win the directorship with six other Senators backing him. Until yesterday, when two of them switched sides to join with Senator Ulium’s triumvirate, making it a five to five impasse.”

  “Did the magistrate know why?”

  “The two that defected were waiting to see some sort of proof that this scheme would work, and suddenly Lekon couldn’t produce it. There are some rumors as well. A thief was discovered at a masquerade ball at Senator Lekon’s estate three nights ago. He escaped in a running swordfight. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you?”

  Aiyan didn’t blink. “Go on.”

  “And the celebrated captain who just returned from Baskillia in Lekon’s spice galleon has gone missing.”

  Aiyan glanced at Kyric. “That news certainly traveled fast.”

  Sedlik put his hand over his face. “Good goddess. It is you. You’re fully embroiled in this. Let’s see: Burglary. Swordfighting. Missing person. Yes, that sounds like you, Aiyan.”

  “So, is the vote to be cancelled?”

  “By law it cannot be cancelled so long as a quorum of senators are present. If the vote is a tie, they must vote again in fortnight. If it passes or fails, the issue cannot be tried again for one year. That brings up one last item. The magistrate told me of an obscure law that allows the prince to attend any meeting of the Senate and cast a tie-breaking vote if he so wishes.”

  “The prince is only nine years old,” Aiyan said.

  Sedlik nodded. “But as mother-regent, Princess Aerlyn is allowed the same privilege.”

  “I would guess that Lekon knows of this law as well,” Aiyan said. He fell into a brief reverie then, letting out half a chuckle with half a smile. “I saw her once. Up close, I mean. It was at the theatre — she was leaving the royal box as I was passing in the hallway. She smiled at me.”

  He pulled himself away from the memory, coming to some kind of decision.

  “Sedlik, I’m afraid we have to stay here until the games are over. And I need you to keep something for me in your vault.”

  They went down to the basement, and when Aiyan handed him the book of rudders he open it first and tore off a corner of the front page. Sedlik’s eyes went wide.

  “This is it,” he said, his voice shaking. “The proof. This is what Lekon’s troops are searching for everywhere. Look, it’s a book of maps. Maps to the Spice Islands. And you brought it here.” He turned to Aiyan, spitting the words out angrily. “What were you thinking?”

  Aiyan spoke evenly. “I was thinking that I needed the best help I could get. Because this is even bigger than it seems. The ship captain was a Knight of the Dragon’s Blood, and Lekon’s business partner, Mr. Morae, is one as well.”

  Sedlik shook his head violently. “I told you I never wanted to hear of them. I can’t hear of them.” But he opened the door to the vault and placed the book in a cubby hole inside along with some old scrolls and a few golden statuettes.

  After he locked the door and turned back to them he suddenly looked too tired to be angry. “I’m doing this, Aiyan. But after this we are even; I owe you nothing.”

  Aiyan looked hurt. He placed his hand on Sedlik’s shoulder and said, “You have never owed me anything.”

  As they shuffled up the steps Sedlik said, “If they come to the house I will give it to them. I won’t even wait for them to question me — I’ll simply open the vault and let them take it. I swear that I will.”

  “Of course,” said Aiyan. “That is exactly what you should do, what I would want you to do. I wouldn’t dare leave it here if I thought you might try to play the hero. But it won’t come to that. We’ll be very careful.”

  While Sedlik changed clothes Aiyan asked Kyric to fetch his bow and quiver. After stringing it, Aiyan took a few pulls on it, hampered by his injured ribs.

  “The archery tournament is day after tomorrow, right? Hmm. It’s tightly strung. With my two wounds, I don’t know if I can pull this all day. Are you good with it?”

  “I don’t know,” Kyric said. I’ve never shot against anyone.”

  “Let us go out to the alley and set something up.”

  Aiyan had him shoot at the spokes of a broken wagon wheel, backing him farther away with each shot. The tightness of the bowstring against his fingers was a comfort to him, the brush of the feather against his cheek a caress. After the chaos of the last few days it felt good to simply shoot, to be so lost in the precision that nothing else existed. When he no longer knew who he was, he could relax and find the quiet place inside himself.

  “How did you learn to shoot like that living in a rune convent?”

  Kyric smiled. “I’m having one of my better days.” He went to collect his arrows. “There was this old fellow, a stout yeoman type, who lived in a shack on convent lands and kept the grounds for them. I helped him when I didn’t have other chores. He told me that he had served in the Prince’s Own Royal Archers before they were disbanded. He couldn’t pull his bow anymore, so he gave it to me. He spent a lot of time teaching me how to use it.”

  Aiyan nodded. “So you had a kind of grandfather in your life. That’s good.

  “Yes. I miss him.”

  They went inside and Aiyan called Sedlik down to the kitchen. “We’re going to need suits, nice ones, fit for a royal reception. And they must be ready in three days.”

  “Good luck,” said Sedlik. “I suppose we can have one of mine altered to fit you, but getting one cut for Kyric will be impossible right now.”

  “But we need clothing for him most of all.”

  Sedlik scratched at his bristle. “I know a woman who handles estate sales, maybe from her.”

  “Find out tonight,” Aiyan said.

  “Why do you need fine dress for the kid?”

  “He’s going to win the gold arrow in the archery tournament.”

  Kyric sat dumbfounded. Sedlik looked from one to the other.

  “The winners of each event,” Aiyan explained, “are invited to a royal reception hosted by Princess Aerlyn on Solstice Eve, the last night of the games. And they are allowed to bring a friend.”

  “And just how am I going to win the gold arrow?”

  “I’m not sure,” Aiyan said, selecting an orange from a basket of fruit. “I’ll leave that up to Pitbull.”

  “A dog?”

  “A magician.”

  CHAPTER 7: The Way of the Flame

  They had to be off to the tailor the next morning with hardly a chance at breakfast. Aiyan had Kyric carry his knapsack, empty but for the double-barreled wheel-lock.

  Jela had come home at twilight, gushing about a gorgeous young man from Oriana who won the spear throwing. Sedlik was out until late, but all the arrangeme
nts for dress clothes had been made.

  Out for the first time in daylight, Kyric couldn’t help but stop and turn, taking in the city and people. Aeva spent most of its life in the sun, and all the houses and walls stood covered by plaster and whitewash. The local folk went out in house dress during daylight hours, light tunics and short sundresses, with the occasional old fellow in an archaic toga. Statues ornamented the larger buildings of state. Looking down cross streets earned Kyric glimpses of the palaces. An enormous open lot held a dozen large tents, a combination fair and circus underway there.

  After they had been measured at the tailor’s shop Aiyan sent Kyric back to Sedlik’s house, saying that it was better he went alone to find Pitbull. “And go straight back,” Aiyan said. “You don’t want to risk running into him today.”

  Kyric agreed, but couldn’t pass by the circus. To his surprise, the circus was free, even the act in the big tent where a huge Jakavian with a sculpted musculature was wrestling a lion that must have weighed five hundred pounds. Kyric sat stunned as the man locked his arms around the beast and threw it to the ground. The lion sprang at him, a great paw sending him flying backward where he lightly rolled to his feet, apparently unharmed. In the end, he pinned the lion’s head to the floor amid claps and whistles from the audience.

  Kyric ran around to the cage door and caught him coming out. “That was incredible,” he said after introducing himself. “How did you learn to master the great cats like that?”

  The Jakavian, whose name was Jazul Marlez smiled sheepishly. His wild thick hair gave him a mane as long as a lion’s. “I raised Bruli from a cub.” He spoke Avic with a thick accent. “It’s just an act — he could kill me if he wanted to. But I have a feel for lions, and I like them very much.”

  “Are you going to wrestle in the games?”

  Jazul smiled again, a huge happy smile filling his big face. “To tell the truth, I am not fond of wrestling — it reminds me of a bad time in my life. But I intend to win the gold bar in weightlifting. I am strong.”

  Kyric laughed. “I can see that you are.”