Call Of The Flame (Book 1) (6 page)

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.”

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 arrangements 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.”

They chatted a bit about places they had seen in the city,
but soon Jazul had to go, saying he hoped they would meet again.  After the big
top, Kyric strolled through the fair, trying not to laugh when the merchants
told him bald-faced lies about their wares.  On the way back to Sedlik’s house
he bought a melon.

When Kyric got there Sedlik was gone.  He found Jela in the
kitchen, standing by the window in bright morning sunlight, packing a basket with
bread and cheese.  She wore a light sleeveless top with a very short skirt
attached to it, and when he looked at her it made him feel like he was gawking
at a girl in her underwear again.  The girls where he came from didn’t dress
like this.

“Are you going to the games today?” she asked him.

“I thought I would stay here and practice.  For tomorrow.”

“I’m going every day with my friends.  We have so much fun. 
Maybe you could come with us on the last day.”  She stood close to him, looking
him right in the eye.

“Maybe so,” he said, turning to busy himself with his melon.

Here he was again, acting nervous and awkward with someone
who’d had a normal upbringing.  She was pretty and clever and full of life, and
he wanted to be comfortable with her, so that she would be comfortable with
him, but he never knew what to say to anyone, much less a girl his own age.  So
he said the first thing that came to his mind.

“Is Aiyan your father’s brother or your mother’s?”

Jela giggled.  “Neither.  Aiyan isn’t family — he’s much
more than that.  Better than that.  I was ten years old when my father met him,
and he’s always been Uncle Aiyan to me.  He saved my father’s life, but that’s
not why I love him.”

“Why then?”

“Because he’s kind and noble.  And he laughs and enjoys the
little things in spite of the life he leads.”

Kyric offered her a slice of melon.  “What kind of life does
he lead?”

“You know,” she said.  “He hunts them and protects us from
them.  And all the while our leaders and great families will not accept the
truth of the men of the dragon’s blood.  The Knights of the Flaming Blade were
once the most honored men of the realm.  Now they must pretend to be monks, and
hide their true power and purpose so not to arouse superstitious fear or
accusations of vigilantism.  The men of Esaiya are truly alone in this world.”

“Did Aiyan tell you all this?”

“Over the years he’s let slip enough hints about it.  And
after he freed my father from the dragon’s blood he had to tell him the story
how it came to be, so he would know what had happened to him.”

Kyric sat down at the big oak table.  “So that’s what your
father and I have in common.”

Jela put her hand over her mouth.  “You have taken the black
blood and were possessed by the love of evil?”

“It was only for a short time.”

“When was that?”

“The night we arrived here.”

Her nose wrinkled in puzzlement.  She looked closely at his
face and at his hands, turning them over to see his palms.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I’m sorry.  It’s just that they tortured my father for an
entire day before he would take the blood.”

“He had a pistol aimed at my belly,” Kyric said, a little
annoyed at her tone.  “He would have shot me.  Then he would have given me the
blood anyway.”

“Oh.  Then you don’t know,” she said apologetically.  “He
could not have done that.  For the spell to work you must take it willingly.”

“Aiyan didn’t tell me.”

She seemed puzzled again.  “Isn’t he your master?  Aren’t
you a knight in training?”

Kyric laughed loudly.  “I broke him out of jail three nights
ago because one of them was coming to kill him.  We ran until we got here.”

“I didn’t mean to assume,” Jela said.  “It’s just that I’ve
never seen him travel with anyone.”

“I wonder why.”

“It goes back to what I was saying about the life that he —
that they all — must live.  Listen to me:  Aiyan is an honest man.  Yet he
hardly goes a day without telling a lie.  At times he must cheat or steal in
order to protect us from them, or is even forced to kill those who have taken
the black blood, people he thinks of as victims, whom he would rescue if he
could.  That life would tell on anyone’s heart.  But the worst part is:  He
feels like he places folk in danger simply by knowing them, the closer to his
heart the more danger.  He’s afraid to make friends with anyone.  He would
never dare court a woman or allow himself to fall in love.  I can’t imagine how
that feels.”

Kyric stared into his melon.  “My mother once said to me, ‘We’re
not allowed to choose whom we love and whom we don’t love.’  It was one of the
few times she spoke the truth to me.”

Jela pulled up a stool.  “Where is she now?”

“I don’t know.  She sold me into servitude when I was ten.”

Jela’s eyes went wide.  “Your mother
sold
you?”

“To the sisters of the rune convent.  Ten years of
indentured service.”  He shrugged.  “They didn’t lock me up or beat me or
anything like that.  I got to go to nearby towns on errands.  It’s not the same
as being a slave.”

Jela glared in outrage.  “In what way?”

“They gave me an education.  And when I turned twenty, my
freedom.”

“What did they have you do?”

“Everything.  I worked hard from morning till night every
day I didn’t have lessons.  They had me cook quite often my last few years
there, but mostly I swept, cut hay, unloaded wagons, repaired walls and gates,
milked the cow, took care of the mule, dug ditches, chopped wood — loads and
loads in the autumn.”

“No wonder you’re so fit.”  She said, looking at his arms
and chest and shoulders.

He went back to his melon, suddenly not knowing what to say
again.

“You haven’t talked to many girls, have you?” Jela said.

“No,” he said, managing to look at her.  “There was this one
girl in the village near the convent.  She would come out and talk to me
whenever I walked by.  I even kissed her once.”

Jela laughed.  “Oooh, you’ve kissed a girl!  You must be
quite the wolf.”

“Well,” Kyric said with a shy grin, “I think it was really
she that kissed me.”

“So what was it like?”

“To be honest, I was in such a panic that I don’t remember.”

They both laughed at that.  Then they stopped and regarded
one another in silence.

The front door slammed.  Sedlik was back.  They listened to
him climb the stairs.

“I have to be off,” Jela said, picking up her basket.  She
smiled at him.  “Good luck tomorrow.”

An hour later Aiyan came in through the alley carrying a powder
horn, a sack of lead balls and patches, and a keg of gunpowder about the size
of his head.  He also pulled a pistol from under his vest that was no bigger
than his hand.  “It’s all set with Pitbull.  We meet him at sunrise in front of
the Palace of the Old Kings.”

“What’s the powder for?” asked Kyric.

“Pistol practice this afternoon.”

“Shouldn’t I practice the bow?”

“You’ll be fine with that.  This should be diverting.”

Aiyan improvised some targets against the stone wall at the
end of the alley.  Kyric had heard fireworks going off sporadically since
yesterday and figured that gunshots wouldn’t attract much attention.  Kyric
fired both the pistols they had acquired at the ruins, and the new pocket
pistol.  Aiyan showed him how to work all the mechanisms and how to reload. 
Pistol shooting was easy if not entirely precise, and after only a dozen rounds
with each weapon Aiyan was satisfied with his accuracy.  “Remember,” he said,
“that with the pocket pistol you have to hit a vital place to bring them down.”

Aiyan suggested that they go to bed right after sundown, for
tomorrow would be a long day for Kyric.  Sedlik had offered them the spare bed
chamber the second night, seeing how they were bathed, and Aiyan gave the one
narrow bed to Kyric and was content to sleep on the straw in the cellar.

As Kyric sat on the bed in the deepening dusk, listening to
the sounds of nightlife beginning to drift up through the open window, Aiyan
came to the door.”

“I forgot that I never finished the story,” he said.  “There
may not be time after tomorrow.”

“You mean there’s more?”

“Just a bit.  I’m almost done.”

“Has he spoken?” asked the young knight softly.

The older man, a dark-skinned warrior named Wyram let out a
shallow breath as he placed the last of his medicines in a clay jar.  “Only to
say that he will not move until Lord Sorrin returns.”

“His eyes are blind.”

“Yes, but he suffers from a deeper wound.  It was he who kept
the sea watch last night.  He let our enemy pass into the castle unchallenged.”

The young knight looked down at the blind man.  “He was a
master of the order.  I do not hold Zahaias at fault.”

“Nor do I,” said the older man.  He glanced at the far side
of the chamber where a score of knights stood in a circle speaking earnestly. 
Dozens more gathered in the hall outside.  “Nor does any of us.”

“I beg you, Zahaias,” said the young knight, “let us take
you to a sickbed.”

The blind man said nothing.

“Could not a healer-mage aid him?  Restore his vision if
naught else?”

“His eyes have not fallen ill — they have been destroyed. 
His nights at watch are done.”

“No,” said Zahaias, “my watch had only begun.”  His voice
had changed.  Soft, yet rasping.  “It shall not cease until the Pyxidium is
made whole.  This is my punishment.  And it is my rapture.”

“You are very tired, Zahaias,” said Wyram.  “You need bed
rest.”

“Zahaias, listen to him,” said the young knight.  “It is now
only twilight.  Master Sorrin may not return for many days.”

“Sorrin,” pronounced Zahaias, rising with perfect balance
and laying his sword belt over one shoulder, “comes now.”

As if cued by the words of Zahaias, the gangly boy appeared
at the entry, saying between breaths, “He’s arrived.  At the harbor.  He says
all who can stand are to meet him here in the council chamber.”

“All are present,” said Mecaithen, a barrel-chested knight
with grey hair.

The boy nodded and ran off.  All the knights but Zahaias
gathered at the doorway.

Then Sorrin was there among them.  He walked past them,
staring ahead with frozen eyes.  His tunic was pierced in a dozen places,
purple-red and wet with his own blood.  Each step a labor, he made his way to
the stand that had held the Pyxidium.  He found it empty.

“Where?” he said numbly, turning to the gathered knights. 
“Where is it?”

“Master,” said Mecaithen, “you are grievously wounded.”

“No,” said Sorrin.  “I have already been killed.  Tell me
where it is.”

“We could not find it.  We think the power of your arrow
annihilated it.”

Then Zahaias spoke in his unearthly voice.  “It fell into
the brazier.  Returning our half of the Pyxidium to its resting place is your
final burden, Master Sorrin.”

Sorrin went to the brazier and held his hand over it,
feeling the warmth of a deeply-buried coal.  He plunged his hand into it, and
from the ashes pulled forth the second shard of the Pyxidium.

Sorrin raised pained eyes to his brother warriors.  “I could
not take the other half from him.”