Call Of The Flame (Book 1) (18 page)

In his dream, Kyric stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking
a vast ocean.  A speck of light brighter than the setting sun streaked toward
him.  It was a firebird, its crimson and gold feathers shining like metal, the
scales of its breastplate glowing red hot.

It bore down on him.  It carried something in its armored
talons.  A sword.

It laid the sword at his feet, a blade inscribed with
ancient symbols, polished to the likeness of a mirror.  He saw his reflection
in it.

The firebird opened its sharp beak as if to give a great
cry, and breathed fire over the sword.  It burst into flame.  The blue-white
flame of the secret fire.

It looked down on him with eyes he had seen many times in
his dreams.  And it spoke to him.  Not aloud, for they do not speak that way. 
It spoke in thought.

Time is long, and time is
short.

Kyric sat up in bed, instantly awake.  He flew to the open window
and looked out.  The first light of day glimmered faintly along the eastern
horizon.  He dressed and packed quickly.  Descending the stairs two at a time,
he laughed.

It was so simple.  Aiyan had tried to tell him without
telling him — one of their rules, no doubt — and he hadn’t seen it.  But now he
did.

No man may come to that island by the hand of another . .
. I cannot say . . . the most naturally gifted . . . we will meet again very
soon . . . very soon.

It was so simple.  All he had to do was go there.

It was only a mile to the west gate.  He found a bakery
along the way and bought a loaf of bread.  He hadn’t eaten dinner the night
before, but he was too excited to eat now.  He would save it for his lunch.

The sun was barely up by the time he passed the west gate,
but it was already warm.  It would be a hot day.  A well sat beside the road in
the first village, and he stopped and drank all that he could, drank a bit
more, then filled his canteen.

He shortened his stride and set an easier pace for himself,
knowing that it was pointless to push and walk the whole distance in one day. 
He would be exhausted when he got there.

The road was nearly free of traffic.  He passed a few hay
carts on their way to Aeva, but that was all.  He plodded past wheat fields and
olive groves.  By afternoon the sun was punishing, and dust devils ran the
road.  Coming to a rocky uncultivated area, he threw himself down under a
scrawny oak and rested.

It had only been a fortnight since he started down the
highroad to the Games of Aeva.  How could that be?  He felt like he had lived
years since then.

The rocky ground gave way to grasslands, and he came to the
town of Wyrrah late in the day.  There was nothing like a hotel or inn, but he
found a bar that served a good bowl of shellfish stew.  Tired though he was, he
was too restless to stay there.  A clear moonless night was falling, so he
walked another mile and bedded down behind a line of trees.

He lay on his back, watching the great river of stars wash
across the sky.  Worlds above, worlds below.  It made him feel very small.  And
he found comfort in his smallness.  The hurts and transience of his life seemed
less important when held against the vastness of the universe.  He fell asleep
easily in that quiet place, but still he slept by fits, up and heading west
again as soon as the eastern stars faded with the dawn.

He reached the narrows by midmorning.  He noticed in the
last mile that scattered paving stones thrust up though the loosely-packed
earth of the road.  This had once been fully paved, like the highroad.  There was
nothing here now, not even a shepherd’s cottage.

When he got to the edge of the cliffs, he looked down to
find that stumps of stone and concrete peeked over the waves, stubby fingers below
the sea.  A great bridge had once spanned the narrows.  Part of it still jutted
out from the castle side of the straits.

The castle was faced with weathered stones, grey as storm clouds
and larger than he expected, half as wide as the little island, with a dozen
towers rising from the walls and the keep.  It could have housed several
hundred men in its day.

He found a path running down to the shingle of grey stones
that lay at the base of the cliffs.  At its edge, the sea was less calm than it
had seemed from above, and wavelets lapped hard against the shore.  He placed
his knapsack and all his gear behind a large round rock.  When he came to his
bow he hesitated.  He didn’t want to try to swim with it.  Surely they had some
little boat that would come and fetch his things.  A small wooden structure sat
above a sandy spit on the opposite shore, probably a boat shed.  That made
sense.  They would need to ferry to the mainland from time to time.

He sat down and removed his boots.  He stripped to his
underwear and stopped there — he wasn’t going to be naked for his first step
upon Esaiya.

He picked his way across the smooth round stones to stand at
the edge of the water.  The warmth of the sun felt good on his bare skin.  It
was a long swim, but not more than a quarter mile.  He had swum farther in the
lake near the convent.  He wondered if the waves would make it harder.

Above the castle gate, behind the parapet, a lone figure
stood silhouetted against the sky.  Kyric felt that he was being watched. 
Somehow, he knew it wasn’t Aiyan.

He waded into the ocean with long strides, and the shingle
fell away sharply.  The coldness of the water on such a hot day surprised him. 
He struck out, swimming slowly, bobbing with the swell of the waves.  He felt
strong, and knew he wouldn’t tire before reaching the island. 

He swam on, utterly alive, his senses taking in everything
at once — the taste of salt on his lips, the cries of the gulls, the deep
vibration of the sea.  Then a great wave rose before him, a mountain of water
that lifted him and carried him back, and he tumbled helplessly in its grip. 
It threw him onto the shingle, and he sat up gasping, the foam of the wave
thick upon the rocky shore.

He stood and looked across the narrows.  The waters were
calm.  The figure on the battlements had gone.

End of Book I