Call Of The Flame (Book 1) (7 page)

The white light of the crystalline half-sphere played upon
Sorrin’s face.  For a moment he looked past them, as if seeing something far
away, then he spoke with power — an inner fire rekindled.

“Hear me now, my brothers, and know this for truth:  Cauldin
had gained a power beyond immortality.  My arrows struck his heart many times. 
Yes, he bleeds and feels pain, but he cannot die.”  He looked at the shard in
his hand.

“The power of the Pyxidium is such that as long as one holds
even half of it he cannot be killed.  He will live.”  His voice dropped to a
whisper.  “Even as I do now.”

“Then do not let it go,” said Mecaithen, “until you are
healed.”

Zahaias stood very still.

Sorrin began quivering, as if straining to hold up a great
weight.  “I cannot become what this would make of me.  This was not meant to be
held,” he said, tearing the words from his throat.  “It can be touched . . .
but never held.”

He placed the shard on its setting and let go.  He staggered
to the brazier and drew his sword overhand, as if to thrust it into his own
breast.  Grasping it firmly with both hands he drove the blade downward,
through the brazier and deep into the pedestal.

Slowly, he sank to his knees.  Then he died.

A fierce blue-white flame shot upward, streaming from the
edge of Sorrin’s blade.  The knights watched in silence.  The werefire burned
steadily.

Zahaias went unerringly to Sorrin’s still form, reached down
and brushed his eyelids closed.  “Farewell, my brother,” he said softly, “until
we meet again.”

Then standing, he ripped the bandages from his eyes.  They
were still there, but they resembled nothing human.  Diamond shaped, shining
like sapphires, they burned with their own fire.

“By surrendering his life Master Sorrin has given us the
gift of a new Way — a Way for the age to come. 
The Way of the Flame
.”

The being who had once been Zahaias drew forth his sword and
touched the blade to the spirit fire.  The flame caught and ran the length of
the cutting edge.

One by one, all the knights stepped forward to try their
blades.  And one by one, they saw their swords flame.

Hailstorms followed the rains of spring that year, and
summer mornings soon saw frost upon the vineyards of the Aessian kingdom.  The
end of warm days coming early, dark-eyed folk watched snow swirl in a night sky
lit by the harvest moon.  Autumn was a time of ice, giving way to a raw,
glacial season which punished and imprisoned.

The year turned, and as the days known before as springtime
melted into another summer, so the banked snows ran away in streamlets, leaving
the soil soft for a brief warm fortnight.  But the cold came again too soon.

This was the beginning of the Long Winter.

They left Sedlik’s house at first light and were standing
near the gate of the Palace of the Old Kings before the sun rose above the dome
of the Senate.  Kyric could only stand and stare.

“It’s been abandoned since the end of the Long Winter,”
Aiyan said.  “The Royal Library is all that remains in there — it’s a vast
collection of Aessia’s oldest tomes and scrolls.  Every book is hand written,
and there’s history in there you won’t find in the Eddur.”

A donkey cart driven by a long-haired boy came to a halt in
front of them, and a midget with a longbow arrow in his hand climbed down. 
“Pitbull,” said Aiyan, going to him.

Kyric had seen midget performers the day before at the
circus tent, but they had not looked like this fellow.  Pitbull was bigger.  Beneath
thick spectacles, he had the face of a grizzled bulldog and was built like a
tree stump.  His skin looked more like hide, and thick arms grew from clusters
of muscle that served as shoulders.  A barrel chest atop legs that seemed
carved from stone made Kyric think that this man could not be easily knocked
aside.

The games pavilion lay nearby between the palace and the
royal residence and they talked as they went.  Pitbull handed Kyric the arrow. 
Steel tipped with white feathers, it looked well made.  The fletching was
shield cut and offset, like his own, and the balance point a little forward of
center.  He would have no problem with it.  Symbols that Kyric didn’t recognize
had been painted along the shaft.

“This arrow has a deep enchantment laid upon it,” said
Pitbull.  “It is a magic arrow but it doesn’t work on its own.  If you can
reach out with your spirit self and touch the arrow, it will allow your
intuition to guide it, and you cannot miss.”

“Do not use it in every round,” Aiyan said.  “Save it for
when you really need it.  You’ll still need to shoot as well as you can.”

“This is it?  This is how I’m going to win?”

Pitbull grinned.  “There’s other spells I’ll be using.  Do
not worry, my boy.  You’ll soon have the gold arrow in hand along with all the
buxom girls you can manage.”

They crossed a paved square with an enormous fountain in the
center, and came to a three-story structure that stretched along the field of
contest.  The upper floors were private box seats and the lower floor, built
openly with wide arches, served as a place for the athletes.  Clusters of men
with all manner of bow converged there along with some heavily muscled fellows,
weightlifters or wrestlers.  Kyric looked for Jazul Marlez but didn’t see him.

One of the bigger ones spat without looking, and suddenly
Pitbull turned on him growling, “Spit that close to me again, buddy, and I’ll
tear your leg off.”  The man shuffled away from him.

Aiyan pointed across the field to the stonework terraces
where the commons were seated.  “We’ll be over there.  It will be a long day,
do you have enough water?  Then good luck, Kyric.  I know you can do it.”

Kyric walked into the pavilion alone.  He didn’t like this. 
Cheating with magic.  And this Pitbull didn’t act like he thought a magician
would.  But Aiyan had insisted that the very life of Princess Aerlyn could be
the prize here.

Mother Nistra had once said something about magic, that it
still existed after the War of Mages in a lesser form.  Rather than contradict
nature, it could only reinforce the natural, push it along so to speak.

And this story Aiyan had told him shook Kyric hard.  He had tasted
the black blood and seen the flaming blade and there was nothing for it.

He waited in line to have his name written down and be given
a wooden medallion with a number burned into it.  Those who already had numbers
began stringing their bows.  Finally they were marched to one end of the field
where a dozen targets stood.  At least two hundred men, and a few women,
gathered there.

This was the qualifying round.  Each target had three rings
and a shot inside each ring scored a point.  Each archer was required to score
six points with only three arrows or be eliminated.  The distance was a hundred
paces, far enough to raise a question in Kyric’s mind with the added pressure
of only three shots.

Half of those who shot ahead of him failed and were
dismissed from the field.  When his turn came he told himself he could place
all three in the center ring on a good day.  But his first shot hit just inside
the outer ring.

“One point,” called the judge.

Kyric felt like everything was off.  His breathing wasn’t
steady and his form was slack.  If he did that again he wouldn’t get a third
shot.

He slowed his breathing and shot again, hitting inside the
middle ring.

He now had to hit inside the center ring to qualify.  He
reached for the magic arrow.

He didn’t know how to touch an enchanted arrow with his
spirit.  He tried for a feeling of confidence in his gut that the arrow knew
where to go then let it fly.  Kyric felt like the magic didn’t work, but he hit
inside the center ring anyway.

He heard a cheer and looked to see Aiyan and Pitbull on the
front row of the stands among a quickly growing crowd of spectators, slapping
each other and whooping like he had just won the gold arrow.

Now began the tournament.  The next round would be groups of
four, a dozen shots each, the two best scores advancing.  Kyric’s first few
shots hit the outer ring, but then he found his focus and his arrows started
landing in the center and he finished with a fair score.  He stood in second
place with the last man to shoot, a young Jakavian with fiery eyes.  With one
arrow left, the Jakavian needed only a solid hit in the middle ring to finish
ahead of Kyric, but just as he released, his arm jerked and he yelped in pain. 
His shot missed the target entirely.

“Stung by a bee!” he cried.  “I got stung by a bee!  No fair
— I should get to shoot again.”

Kyric glanced over at the stands.  Pitbull was laughing so
hard he nearly fell over, and Aiyan had to hold him up.

The judges examined the Jakavian’s arm and found no sign of
a sting or any other injury and pronounced that the shot would stand, and that
Kyric would advance.

Now he only had to survive five head to head matches to be
one of the final pair.  They brought out new targets with four rings and bulls-eyes
painted in blue and set them back another fifty paces.

They paired him against a soldier from Sevdin.  Kyric found
his range on the first shot and won easily with one arrow in the bulls-eye and
eleven arrows surrounding it.  He shot just as well in the next round, but his
opponent was very good and he barely won.  He flubbed a shot in the next
pairing, but he won by default when the man he was shooting against developed a
cramp in his hand and violated the time limit trying to work it out.

Once again, Pitbull roared with hilarity, elbowing Aiyan,
who sat still with a quiet smile, simply enjoying the games.

Kyric paced an angry circle.  Why did the little man have to
enjoy his power so much?  The way he celebrated each of his dirty tricks was so
arrogant
.

He stepped up to the line for the next round with a hot head
and loosed all his dozen in quick succession, hardly pausing to aim.  He won
with two bulls-eyes, and the crowd cheered for the show of rapid fire.  Kyric
looked around for the other contestants and found only three — an old greybeard
with a straw hat, a tall strong-looking girl about his own age, and a pale
fellow dressed in red leather boots and a lacey silk shirt.

The judges called a recess so that they could hold the
stone-throwing, and Kyric went to the pavilion and sat on the grass outside. 
Aiyan found him there a few minutes later.

“What are you so angry about?” he said.

“The way we have to make a mockery of these games so that
you can meet a princess.  By using magic to deprive these men of their chance,
we dishonor them.”

Aiyan gave him a hard look.  “We aren’t a couple of kids
pranking the Games of Aeva.  We are at noble purposes here.  You know the truth
of the threat — you’ve
tasted
it.  If you find your part in this
unpleasant, let me tell you that this is
nothing
.  It gets
much
worse than this.  So whatever this is really about, just stop it.  Step up and
be the man you know you can be.”

Kyric let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head.  “I don’t know
why I’m so angry today.”

Aiyan’s tone softened.  “I know why.  It’s the black blood. 
Even if only for a moment, you were used on the deepest level, in the core of
your heart.  No one recovers from that in a few days.

“Remember that for a true warrior, all battles are battles
of the spirit.  When we burn, it is not with anger.  We burn with our own inner
fire.  I know that you know how to do this.  I
know
it.”

Kyric didn’t say anything, and they watched the stone-throwing
for a time.  At last Aiyan said, “The one who’ll give you trouble is the fellow
in the red boots.  I’ve been watching him.  He uses an old Baskillian war bow —
wood and horn composite — and he’s an exceptional shot.”  Aiyan paused for a
moment and his eyes narrowed.  “There’s something about him,” he murmured.  “I
would like to get a close look at that one.”

He pulled an orange from his pocket and gave it to Kyric. 
With a final nod, he turned and left him alone.

The stone-throwing ended and a judge called Kyric back onto
the field along with the three others.  Someone loudly announced their names to
the crowd.  Kyric swallowed.  Half of Aeva had just heard his name.

They had replaced the old targets, the new ones having a red
spot in the center of the blue bulls-eye.  If they had used these earlier,
Kyric was sure that all his bulls would have been in the blue, the outer
portion.  They paired him with the greybeard, whose name was Orpa Tomae.  Tomae
shot like a machine, every movement precise, and he scored as high as one could
without a single bulls-eye.

When Kyric stepped up to the line he selected the magic
arrow and closed his eyes, seeing himself in the clover field at the convent,
losing all self as he raised the bow, but the clover field became the place of
his dreams and the wind that blew there became a wind of the spirit, and it
blew through him and along the arrow.  He opened his eyes and loosed it without
hesitation.

It struck the red spot.  Kyric tried to remain in the spirit
field, and vaguely aware of the roar of the crowd, he shot his other arrows and
finished with two more in the blue.  He was one of the final pair.

When the girl, Elmi Hilake, was called to shoot, the crowd
applauded wildly, and they shouted encouragements to her as she went to the
line.  She shot as well as Kyric had against Tomae, but it wasn’t enough as the
man, Stefin Vaust of Drendusia, scored seven outer bulls to win easily.  The
crowd cheered him politely, but their hearts had been with Elmi.

The judges announced that for the final round they would trade
shots at the same target.  Then they moved the line back another fifty paces. 
The flip of a coin decided that Kyric would shoot first.

He estimated the distance to be about a hundred and thirty
yards.  He would need to use a little more arch than he was used to.  And with Vaust
standing at the same line watching, Kyric felt a bit uneasy.  He took a deep
breath and loosed his arrow in the place of spirit.  It struck near the
bulls-eye, but not quite in it.  Vaust hit the outer bull at the edge of the red.

Kyric’s next ten shots alternated from just inside the blue
to just outside of it, and with every answering shot Vaust one-upped him, so
that with one arrow remaining, Kyric was far behind.  To win, he would have to
hit the inner bull and Vaust would have to nearly miss the target.

Kyric drew the magic arrow from his quiver.  Vaust took a
step toward him.

“Is that an enchanted arrow?” he said with a curious smile
and a bit of a dialect.

Shocked, Kyric didn’t know what to say.  “Whatever do you
mean?”

“Well, there’s little magic symbols painted on the shaft.  I
thought maybe you were superstitious and bought a supposed enchantment from one
of those fakirs.”

Kyric grinned in embarrassment. 
Stop it.  That’s the
most obvious of all the signs
.  Surprised, he found that he was entirely
unpracticed as a liar.

“Not at all.  Those were already on the arrow when I found
it.  Everyone knows there’s no such thing as a magic arrow.”

“Indeed,” said Vaust with a polite nod.

The line judge called out, “No speaking to the shooter while
he’s at the line.  Step away and give him some room.”

Vaust backed away and Kyric had to close his eyes and simply
breathe for a moment.  He stepped into a waking dream where the red spot on the
target became a glowing eye.  The spirit wind filled him and nothing of his
self remained.  Strings of power connected the arrowhead to the glowing eye. 
All that Kyric had to do was let go.

The arrow struck the red spot dead center.

The crowd screamed as one, and a sliver of light sparked in Vaust’s
eyes.  He gave Kyric an examining look.  “Now that was a remarkable shot,” he
said coolly, nocking his last arrow.  “I will certainly remark upon it.”

Kyric edged to the side and scanned the crowd, finding
Pitbull standing in his seat next to Aiyan.  He had removed his spectacles, and
now he tapped at his elbow with one finger, and he appeared to be speaking
furiously.

Vaust drew the bowstring back, held for a moment, then as he
released, his face clenched in pain, but that was all.  His shot landed on the
edge of the blue and he was the winner.

Pitbull staggered to one side, his mouth open.  He said
something to Aiyan then sat down, shaking his head and making futile gestures
to the sky.

Vaust touched his elbow gingerly.  “It’s all right now,” he
said to Kyric.  “Had a sharp twinge there just as I released.”  He smiled,
barely suppressing a chuckle, a curious light in his eyes.  He looked at Kyric
strangely.  Knowingly.  Like he knew the arrow was enchanted, and that a spell
had been cast upon him.