Call Of The Flame (Book 1) (9 page)

Aiyan nodded.  “That all changed when I was seventeen and
Jakavia went to war with Sevdin and Kandin.  We were trapped in Sevdin during
the siege, and the Jakavians were firing bombs into the city.  Everyone was
afraid and food became scarce, so it seemed sensible for me to volunteer for
the army.  One night while I was on sentry duty, a shell hit my parents’ wagon,
killing them both.”

Kyric could see a momentary blankness cross his eyes,
remembered feelings of helplessness.

“Soon after that,” he continued, “I heard about a man named
Thurlun, a mercenary captain employed by the Doge to raise a small band of
raiders.  I went to him at once.  He must have thought me a bloodthirsty kid
because he signed me without a question.  His idea was to have small boats land
us behind the siege lines at night, and for us to attack supply depots.  But
the depots turned out to be too well guarded, so what we ended up doing was
killing soldiers with important skills.  We would sneak into the camps and
quarters of artillerymen, sappers, junior officers and the like and kill them
as they awoke in confusion.  We began staying out for a week at a time, hiding
in the woods by day and killing and looting at night.

“The Jakavians started sending out night patrols against us
and the game got trickier.  We learned to move silently and leave no trace, and
to paint our faces and be invisible.  Thurlun was a master hunter.  We set
ambushes that left no one alive, and I shot plenty of men in the back on those
nights.  At length, the Jakavians learned our art, and one night it was us
caught in an ambush.  It was a clumsy one and most of us survived, but after we
started taking casualties of our own it got even uglier.

“But at last the war ended in something like a draw, and the
Jakavians went home.  And in thanks, the State of Sevdin accused Thurlun of war
crimes and refused to pay us for our months of killing in its name.  Many of us
had no home to return to, so we became brigands of a sort.  At first just
stealing food so we could eat.  Later, outright robbery.  It all came to a head
when my friend Jussin killed an elderly man who tried to hit him with his cane. 
He didn’t have to shoot the old guy; he could have simply pushed him down into
the dirt.

“They sent the cavalry to hunt us down, but Thurlun proved
to be a clever devil and we eluded them for some time.  In the end a man named
Bortolamae helped them trap us in the hills after a running fight.  He had
known the old man that Jussin killed.  Half of us were wounded and I had one of
his arrows in my gut.  He told us that if we would name the man that had killed
the old fellow and lay down our arms, the rest of us would be granted amnesty. 
He also said that if any of us sought redemption for what they had done, he
would lead them to it.

“I was badly hurt and filled with regret.  Jussin had saved
my life twice, and there had been a time when I would have stepped in front of
an arquebus for him.  But when I saw that no one else would do it, I named
Jussin and begged for redemption.  I was barely eighteen and had killed more
men than I could count.

“I awoke alone in the back of an open wagon, a nicely sewed
spot where the arrow had been.  I remember that it was a cold grey day and Bortolamae
was driving us into the highlands.  Snow flurries swirled on the wind.  He took
me to an old magician named Niebo and told me he would return in a few months when
I had healed.  Pitbull was his only student and that tells you how long he and
I have been friends.  Niebo told me the saga of the Knights of the Pyxidium and
introduced me to the weird arts and other non-magical ways.  The knowing of
moments and places.  He was hard on Pitbull and easy on me.  We all liked a
funny story and I remember laughter in the evenings, and when the springtime
flowers bloomed more than my wound had healed in me.

“Bortolamae came back on the last day of spring and I spent
four years traveling with him and learning from him, and hardly a single day
passed without him drilling me mercilessly with longsword or bow.  He would
lead us headlong into ugly situations, and we were in some very bad fights.  In
time I came to see his blade flame and to see the black blood, and I came to know
much of the truth that lies beyond the veil of reason.  Then one morning in the
middle of practice, he stopped and asked me what I was doing still following
him around.  I left for Esaiya that day.”

“What happened to him?” Kyric asked hoarsely.

“He is now a master of the order and lives on Esaiya as a
teacher.”  Aiyan’s voice dropped to a low whisper.  “If no one else, I thought
that
he
would come to my aid.”

Anticipating a long night, they rested a time before
beginning the elaborate task of bathing, shaving, and dressing to meet a
princess.  Aiyan shaved all his beard except for a tasteful spot on the tip of
his chin to go with his moustache, and left his hair unbraided, letting it fall
to his shoulders in chestnut waves.  When every button had been fastened, and
all cravats and sashes fashionably tied, Aiyan removed his sword from its belt
and carefully unwrapped the weathered deerskin from scabbard revealing a rich
dark wood lying beneath.  A splash of seed oil on a cloth and it ran with
streaks of light.  Peeling away the old leather from the grip unveiled a hilt
of polished ivory inscribed with fine lines and set with pearls.  It looked
like a different sword.

He threaded his locket beneath the doublet and tucked it into
his sash, then he slipped the sword through the silver sash and stood before
Kyric and Sedlik.  “It feels out of place with this costume.  Does it look
awkward?  Is the hilt too long for dancing?”  For a moment the warrior was
disarmed and he became a nervous actor on opening night.

“It’s not as subtle as the dress sword currently in fashion,
but it is surprisingly elegant,” Sedlik said, his voice edged with amusement. 
“Less gaudy than those ceremonial sabres that the military men will be
wearing.”

Kyric thought of Elistar, the mythological warrior who rode
to Aerth on the back of the eldest firebird, armored in light.  “You look
magnificent,” he said.

Sedlik examined Kyric, adjusting his cravat.  “Are you not
going to wear the silver arrow?”

“Yes, wear the arrow,” Aiyan said.

While Kyric hung the arrow around his neck, Aiyan found his
pocket pistol and hid it in the small of his back, under the sash.  “I need
both of yours as well,” he said, turning to Sedlik, “for Kyric.  I know you
have a matched set.”

“Yes,” Sedlik said, going to get them, “you gave them to
me.  And I’m glad to never have used them.”  He handed the little pistols to Aiyan. 
“Going armed to royal receptions — I so envy your social life, Aiyan.  You must
let me toady along next time.”

Aiyan loaded the pistols and showed Kyric how to tuck them
into his sash so that they did not show.

“By the way,” said Sedlik, “they’ve stopped searching
everyone at the gates and docks.  You can take that book and leave the city
anytime you want.  Tomorrow if you want.”

“Tomorrow then,” said Aiyan.  “Or maybe the day after.  And
thank you.”

Sedlik handed Aiyan a handkerchief to carry in his sleeve. 
“I never meant to say that I was merely repaying a debt, Aiyan.  That was
foolish of me.  I am your friend.”

Aiyan took the handkerchief.  “I’ve always known that.”

Going to a front window, he peeked out.  “Probably
impossible to get a cab at this hour.  We’ll slip out the back alley and walk
there.”  Turning to Sedlik he said, “Bar the door after us.  In fact, keep all
the doors and windows locked at all times until this is over.”

Sedlik nodded.  “Already done.”

The games had closed and there was a party in every street
as they drifted westward in the flow of the crowd.  Kyric declined the offer of
a drink from a stranger’s wine bottle.  “I wonder how much wine Sedlik sold
this week.”

“Enough to make his whole season,” Aiyan said loudly over
the pop of firecrackers.

A new tent large enough to rival the big top of the circus
had been erected at one corner of the fairgrounds, a hastily thrown up fence
separating it from a row of booths on one side.  It lay somewhat open to the
sky, using netting rather than canvas for the top, with the royal banner of
Aessia flying from its crest.  A handful of royal guardsmen flanked the huge
opening that served as the door of the tent, and a few more stood at the gate
to a wide street jammed with ornate carriages.  Beyond lay the fair, bright
with the light of hundreds of lanterns and many bonfires, the crowd there a
writhing mass in the glow of a thousand paper lamps.

Kyric showed the invitation to the protocol master at the
entry.  He wrote their names on a list.

“Sir,” Aiyan said to him.  The man looked up.  “That’s me,
Sir
Aiyan,” he said pointing to the man’s list.

He gave them each a stiff piece of paper. 
Kyric Ospraeus,
Esquire
was written on Kyric’s card.  He didn’t know what to do with it.  They
were ushered in without any announcement.

The floor of the tent lay covered in hardwood, and dozens of
lamps hung from the netting.  The walls were painted by a landscape artist, and
they depicted an archaic pastoral scene including well-groomed fields and
spotless ruins, nothing like Karta.

The place smelled good, like wild roses in the forest.  Pedestals
blooming with flower arrangements stood at every station and most of all in
front of a screened area to one side where no doubt the princess and her party waited. 
A small orchestra played at the back, and at the other side stood huge cages
filled with exotic birds.  In the center lay an open stone hearth where a small
fire burned in imitation of the traditional bonfire.

Over a hundred guests were there, mostly standing in little
circles, the ladies all fanning themselves furiously.  The athletes and their
friends were easy to spot — their clothing just didn’t have that light, airy,
seasonal touch that the aristocracy enjoyed.

Aiyan casually looked around.  “Most of the Senate seems to
be here.”  Then he stopped.  “Elistar’s breath.  There’s Morae standing right
next to Lekon.”

Kyric didn’t look.  “Won’t they recognize you?”

“I wore a false beard and spoke with a Keltassian dialect when
playing the trader with Lekon, so I don’t think he will know me.  Morae has
only seen me as Captain Bombasto, but if he gets close he will know me no
matter how I’m costumed.”

He stroked the tuft of hair remaining on his chin.  “I’m
going to mingle with the athletes.  I’ll have my back to Morae, so signal me if
he starts moving my way.”

With his blood red doublet, Morae was easy to track in a
crowd.  Kyric tried to watch him without looking at him, and so distracted
himself that he didn’t see Stefin Vaust until he was almost upon him.

“You did not honor our agreement,” Vaust said sharply.  “I
should take one of your ears for that.”  He held Kyric’s eye for a moment,
allowing, at last, a thin smile to form.

Kyric bowed politely while he thought of what to say.  “Good
evening, Mr. Vaust.  I, ah, regret that Jela wasn’t able to accompany me.  You
see — “

“Ah!” Vaust piped, “here she comes now.  And on the arm of
the lion-wrestling Jakavian.  Don’t tell me you’ve had a falling out.”

Kyric turned and stared in disbelief.  There she was in a
gown of lemon and fern, beautiful and tiny next to Jazul Marlez.  Jazul stood
imposing in simple black with a lion’s skin cape over one shoulder, his own
mane of hair tied back loosely.  His big smile got bigger when he saw Kyric and
Vaust approaching.

“Hello friend,” he said to Kyric.  “I foretold that I would
win the gold bar.  Did you win your contest as well?”

Kyric shook his hand.  “No.  I finished second.”

“To tell the truth,” Jazul said, lowering his voice, “I
finished second, but the winner died on his last lift.”

“He
died
?”

“Yes.  He tried much more weight than he needed to win —
more than I have ever seen.  He got the weight over his head and held it, then
he fell backward, dead.”

“It was terrible,” Jela said.

“Terrible?” said Jazul.  “It was the best part of the whole
games!”  He roared with laughter.

Jela explained how she and her friends had seen Jazul
sitting alone at the games and how he didn’t know anyone here, the circus just
being a venue for his act.  They had taken it upon themselves to see him
properly entertained in Aeva, and she had taken it upon herself to see him
properly escorted.

Vaust took Jela’s hand, bowing over it in his finery of
mahogany and wheat, and kissing it lightly.  His slicked-back hair and shaven
face accentuated his angular features.  “I hope you will honor me with a dance
tonight,” he said to her.

Something caught Kyric’s eye and when he turned he saw Aiyan
watching from across the floor, almost quivering in anger, his face slowly
turning red.

A clapping of hands turned everyone to the center of the
floor.  The orchestra stopped playing.  The master of protocol called everyone
to form a line where he had laid a velvet rope.  The games winners were to be
first, then the nobility.  Deliberately avoiding Jela, Aiyan pulled Kyric to
the end, so that they would be last.  The protocol master started with Aiyan,
going down the line collecting and stacking each name card.

When he was done she came from behind the screens and he
announced, “Princess Aerlyn of the house Quytis, Mother Reagent of the Realm.”

They all stood taller and leaned forward to see her better. 
She wore a sliver of a tiara in her umber colored hair, a delicate gown of
lavender and cream, and she moved with practiced grace.  As she came closer
Kyric saw that she was not quite the princess of fairytales.  She was too tall,
and her nose was too big, and she had a bit of a cleft to her chin.

Kyric was about to say this when Aiyan said, “More lovely than
the forest in springtime, fearless as the sea in winter.  In the summer of her
life, I would fall before her as the gentle rain of autumn.”

“Aiyan,” said Kyric in wonder, “you’re a poet.”

“It’s from a play, but it fits here.”

A young boy and an even younger girl followed her, along
with an older man wearing a heavy bronze medallion of office.

“Who’s that?” Kyric whispered.

“Lord Porlien, the Chancellor of the Realm — a ceremonial
title these days.”

Rather than stand and let the line move past her, Princess
Aerlyn elected to walk along the line.  She spent a minute or two with each
athlete, and seemed genuinely pleased to speak to them.  She rushed through the
nobility and the senators and their wives with perfunctory politeness, and
offered a smile and a nod to most of the other guests, stopping a few times for
a short chat with one of them.  Blushing nervously, Jela managed to curtsey and
mumble, “Good evening, Your Highness.”

It took some time, and most everyone was restless and
whispering to one another by the time Aerlyn made it to the end of the line. 
The master of protocol read from his last two cards.

“Kyric Ospraeus, esquire.”

The princess smiled and Kyric bowed.  “A pleasure, Your
Highness.”

“Sir Aiyan Dubern.”

Their eyes met, and the two of them stood in perfect
stillness as the rest of the world hummed restlessly about them.  The sense
that one recognized the other fell so strongly upon Kyric that he too could not
move.  The master of protocol checked his pocket watch.  Aiyan bowed deeply and
solemnly.

“Sir Aiyan,” said Aerlyn, her woodwind voice resonate, yet
absent of force.  “Were you knighted by the Prince my late husband?”

“I was not, Princess, but I understand that he was familiar
with my order.”  Aiyan spoke clearly yet softly.  Kyric doubted that anyone
more than a few places down the line could overhear.

“Which order is that?”

“The Order of the Flaming Blade, Your Highness.”

Her gaze turned inward in puzzlement.  “I thought that I
knew all the chivalric orders of the Aessian realm.”

“Many years ago we were knights of this realm, but now we
are an international order.”

“You hold no allegiance to any state?”

Aiyan hesitated only a moment.  “We do not concern ourselves
with the arguments of nations, Princess.  We are dedicated to serving all of
humanity.”

“A noble aspiration.”

“It is,” said Aiyan, plunging on, “but we served the Aessian
kings long ago and we have not forgotten this.”  Something about him held her
eye.  “
Lomin te aeicath
,” he said, as if they were words of power.

It was Old Essian —
Know this for truth
.  Kyric could
see that Princess Aerlyn knew it as well.

“Know this for truth, Princess.  To this day we are pledged
to protect your family from harm, and your noble house from any darkness which
would descend upon it should you ask.”  His look to her said a thousand words
more.  His voice dropped to a whisper.  “You need only ask.”

Kyric looked down the line to see Morae leaning out with a
clouded brow, staring at Aiyan and the princess.  Suddenly Kyric was afraid for
them and searched for a distraction.

He dropped to one knee in front of the two children. 
“Hello,” he said loudly to both of them, “my name is Kyric.  What’s yours?”

The boy gave an abrupt bow.  “I’m Prince Eren.”

“And I’m Lady Kaelyn,” said the girl, playing with a strand
of her strawberry hair.  She looked about seven years old.

“I’m pleased to meet you both,” Kyric said.

“Have you seen the baby elephant?” said Kaelyn

“Pygmy,” her brother said, correcting her.  “Not baby.  A
pygmy elephant.”

“No, I haven’t.”

She frowned at Eren, and turned back to Kyric.  “We want to
see it.”

The spell was broken.  The master of protocol cleared his
throat, and the princess said to Aiyan, “I believe we must move on to the next
part of the evening.  But let us talk more before the night is through.”  She
smiled then, but for the briefest moment Kyric saw a flicker of distress in her
eyes.  “Please.”

Aiyan bowed again.  “As Her Highness wishes.”

Princess Aerlyn went to stand in the center of the floor and
presented the games winners.  Everyone in line applauded, the orchestra began
to play, everyone scattering as an army of servants invaded the tent.  They set
up tables and chairs, and wheeled in carts laden with sliced fruit and
vegetables, oysters and other fruits of the sea, all resting in beds of ice.

Aiyan went straight to Jela, his hands clasped behind his
back.

“Uncle Aiyan,” she said through a giddy grin.  “Did you
see?  They have ice — chilled food in the middle of summer.”

“That must cost plenty,” said Jazul, joining their little
circle.  “The nearest icepack is a thousand leagues to the north.”

Aiyan lead Jela aside, but Kyric could still hear his harsh
whisper.  “You think you’re very clever, but you’re acting like a foolish
girl.  Have you no regard at all for my knowledge and experience?  Am I someone
whose opinion doesn’t matter?”

Jela looked at the floor.  “No.  I simply didn’t think of it
that way.”

Aiyan let out a breath.  “Just stay with the big guy and
don’t go near Vaust or Morae.  I expect you to become fatigued long before this
soiree is done.”

She made a sullen sound.  “Alright.”

Aiyan casually looked the room over.  Lekon and Morae were
speaking with the princess, so he drifted in the other direction, mingling
briefly and slowly circling back when they moved away from Aerlyn and were
replaced by Senator Ulium and a man in a military uniform.  The orchestra
struck up a lively tune, and Jela dragged Jazul to the open floor where a few
couples already danced.  Waiters sped gracefully among the guests with glasses
of chilled white wine.

Kyric watched as Prince Eren and Lady Kaelyn were led to the
bird cages by a lady in waiting and started toward them, thinking that it might
be easier to socialize with children, when someone called his name.

It was Morae.  He had traded his hat for a thick black wig. 
His face was long and thin, his eyes sunken and darkly rimmed.  “Kyric Ospraeus,”
he said, not offering to shake hands.  “I was impressed by your fine shooting
in the games.”

Kyric swallowed.  His nerves surged, but he held down the
fluttering panic in his gut.

“Thank you,” he managed to say.  “Still second to Stefin
Vaust.”

Standing close to him, Kyric could see that Morae’s height
made him look deceptively thin.  There was some muscle beneath the doublet, and
he sensed physical prowess in the way he moved.  And he sensed something in Morae
that he had never felt in Aiyan, that this man had murdered in cold blood.

“I have never seen Stefin make the perfect shot as you did.”

Kyric tried to sound casual.  “I was just lucky.”

“You meant to do it.  That isn’t luck.  Men like me believe
the only luck is that which you make for yourself.”  Morae looked down at him
curiously.  “I am always interested in young men of exceptional talent.”

Morae seemed to look into him, and Kyric couldn’t look away
from his eyes.  He could almost taste the black blood again.

“I reward men in my service most handsomely — ask Stefin —
and the work is anything but dull.  And for those who prove loyal, there exists
profound opportunities.”

“That would be worth considering,” Kyric found himself
saying.  He didn’t mean to say it.  He had to stop looking at Morae.