The Firebrand Legacy

T.K. Kiser

Saint Pancratius Press

Copyright © 2015 by T.K. Kiser

Cover art by Ami Leshner and property of Saint
Pancratius Press

Smashwords Edition

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Saint Pancratius Press

P.O. Box 26491

Greenville, SC 29616

ISBN: 978-1-943835-00-3

0 1 1 2 2 0 1 5

For my confirmands,

Stephen and Jacob.

You are called to greatness.

Use your powers for good.

Carine Shoemaker never liked Festival. She
traded her last few rimecks for a loaf of bread and tucked it into
the wicker basket on her arm. A breeze stirred the hood of her
cloak. It flitted through the strings of indigo pennants that hung
across the marketplace for Festival. It shook ships at port and
rang the bells at the top of the masts as if to announce that
something was coming.

Something
was
coming.

Carine hugged the worn edges of her faded
green cloak. Around her, stringed instruments twanged as men and
faunfolk tuned their lyres and harps. The marketplace brimmed with
extra stalls and throngs of buyers. The perfume of honey-almond
sweetbread filled the air.

Unlike Carine, other Esteners skipped through
the streets smiling. They braided their hair to mimic the scales of
a dragon’s tail. Unlike Carine, they splurged on toys and outfits
for the great street dances that began tomorrow. They piled up
their odds and ends in wishpiles, hoping that those normal objects
would gain magical enchantments by week’s end. Unlike Carine, they
celebrated.

But Carine could not forget the truth.
Festival was not a simple celebration. It was the time every year
when the ash dragon Kavariel spewed his fire into the city. The
streets filled with heavy black smoke as homes and people burned.
Even those who escaped the dragon’s fire still had to look out for
his teeth.

Carine would not dance and sing until he
arrived. She would not cheer for the beast. She refused to pay
tribute.

At the city’s edge, amid the whitewashed
homes of South Esten near the castle, a limestone beacon spiraled
up to the sky. The torch tower, Esten’s most famous landmark, was
built by menfolk, fauns, and centaurs hundreds of years ago to
prove the kingdom’s strength. But it was Navafort’s threat, not its
pride, the tower illustrated. Winding its way up to top, where
Kavariel’s flame from last year burned in its last hours, the
builders had sculpted a dragon. Kavariel’s limestone jaws opened at
the pedestal, as though he were breathing that flame.

For now, the flame meant that Carine was
still safe from the beast that had killed her sister years ago.
That dancing light meant she still had time to run home with the
rations to feed her parents until Kavariel came and left. But as
the strings played and Esteners haggled over treats, as children
ran with indigo ribbons and sisters braided each other’s hair,
Carine glimpsed a change in the corner of her eye.

Far above the decorations and dancing, a
dragon’s statue opened its jaws to the torch.

The flame flickered and danced, as if
perturbed by the wind, but before Carine could dash into a run, the
flickering light snuffed out. Its black smoke ribbon curled, rose,
and vanished.

Carine’s heart stopped.

Any moment now the dragon Kavariel would
appear as a growing black dot over the sea. At any moment it would
roar over the marketplace. Its wings would whip open and its hind
claws would pound onto the street and crush the cobblestone.

A woman with patriotic braids lifted her
pointer finger. “Look!”

Carine pushed past her, frantically bumping
against the Esteners who turned to see the torch. Like a fish
squirming upstream, she squeezed through throngs of bejeweled South
Esteners, who didn’t budge for the North Esten girl in faded
clothes.

An Estener whooped, and suddenly cheers
clapped into the open air. A lute strummed. Music sprang up.

“The Ten Dragons Festival has begun!” they
cried with such glee that Carine held back tears. Years ago, she
and her older sister Louise had greeted these few days of the year
with the same delighted shrills.

Carine pushed past them, her basket pressing
into her arms and chest, wanting to shake every one of them and
announce what they already knew: this dragon murdered—on
schedule—every year.

He was nothing to celebrate.

As the marketplace gave way to a maze of
haphazard brick houses crammed together with shared walls, Carine
pulled her hood lower over her face and dodged overhanging laundry
and pennants. She passed dragon-shaped door knockers, fragrant
spices from upriver, and baskets with braided handles. Fiddlers
played, and moments into Festival, dancers already surrounded
them.

Carine broke into a sprint, the boots she’d
made with her father clopped over the street. She didn’t care what
the braided townsfolk thought when her hood flew off, and her long
auburn hair billowed out.

“Hey, you!”

Carine’s neighbor stepped out from the brick
wall. His siblings and friends followed, arms crossed and scowling.
She reeled back, pulling the food close to her chest. Without her
hood, she felt vulnerable, but to reach back now would only delay
her. She ducked her head and plowed forward.

“Not so fast, Shoemaker.”

The boy’s shoes pointed at her as he
outstretched a grubby palm. These were people she hadn’t played
with since she was five. Now, over eight years later, they stood
between her and the only two family members she had left. Carine
nudged past his arm onto her street. Her father’s shoemaking sign
hung at the very end.

Her neighbors followed her.

A girl said, “You’re not the only one who
lost someone during Festival, you know. You don’t see the rest of
us cowering inside during the best part of the year.”

“Yeah,” sneered her brother. “And everyone
else pays tribute to the dragon.”

Carine kept walking. Her legs felt stiff. All
she wanted was to be safe inside with her family.

A third one spoke up. “If Kavariel didn’t
come to Esten every year, we wouldn’t have his enchanted flame to
protect us. What do you think about that, Shoemaker? We’d have no
defense against the Heartless Ones. Doesn’t that mean anything to
you?”

Carine clenched her jaw. Everyone always used
the Heartless Ones as an excuse. But just because Kavariel’s flame
kept dark magicians out of Esten didn’t mean that the enormous
sacrifices were worth it.

The girl yanked Carine’s arm. Carine spun in
shock and pulled the basket to her chest.

“Tell your parents not to board up your house
this year,” she demanded coldly.

Carine’s blood rose in her cheeks. She didn’t
look any higher than the shoddily-made shoes the girl was wearing.
Not only did her neighbors gossip about her family, but they
avoided the shoe shop on their own street.

“No,” she said. The word was quiet and simple
but enough.

Carine wrenched free from the girl’s grasp.
She turned; they followed.

“We’ve all been talking about you,” the girl
continued, keeping pace. Carine wished her father’s shop wasn’t at
the end of the street. “You have to stop. Even the adults are
saying this has gone on too long.”

“Yeah,” said her brother. “If you board up
your house and Kavariel doesn’t get you, everyone else will.”

Carine’s face burned. Before she could stop
herself, she turned to confront them. But she couldn’t raise her
gaze. Her heart pounded as she searched for words. This was the
moment to stand up for her family. For her mother, who was her
comfort and teacher. For Didda, who worked tirelessly to earn her
meals and never went without a smile. Her parents were her world,
and this was her chance to defend them.

“You can’t barricade yourselves without
food.” The grubby boy yanked the basket away.

Carine reached, hurtling for the food her
family needed, but he and his friends dashed down the narrow
alleyway under the same open sky that beckoned forth the beast.

Carine’s fingers balled into fists. The flame
had already gone out, and she was mere feet from safety. But if she
didn’t get that food back, her family would starve this week. With
a final glance at the shoemaker’s sign that marked her home, Carine
picked up her skirt and raced after the thieves.

Their footsteps clapped as they wound through
the roads. Carine pushed away the overhanging laundry and leapt
over the sales blankets. The lively street music grew louder and
faded as she passed.

The thieves turned a corner.

“Stop!” If people weren’t staring before,
they were staring now. She was a raggedy Grunge dweller—not wearing
Festival attire, not wearing the patriotic braid—frantically
zig-zagging through the streets.
“Stop!”

They ignored her. Carine skirted down an
alleyway, hoping she could cut them off. When she popped out, they
nearly collided into her. Their eyes widened when they saw her, but
as Carine stood panting, they fled giggling and laughing. To them,
this was a game.

Carine grunted and rounded another corner
after them. If she lost them, her family would have nothing. If
they got away with the food, she and her parents would either
starve inside or one of them would have to brave Festival. One of
them would risk getting burned to death, just like Louise.

One of the trio glimpsed back. Carine was
only a few feet behind. She stretched out her fingers. They grazed
the wicker.

Trumpets interrupted the street music.

They turned another corner, and Carine ran
face-first into the kids’ backs. They halted in front of the river,
where a crowd flocked around a line of royal carts that crossed the
bridge into the Grunge.

The indigo flags embroidered with golden
lines flapped in the evening wind. Knighted centaurs blew bugles to
lead the procession as all eyes fell on the young man in the second
cart: the eldest prince. His golden hair flowed in soft locks
around his head, and his smile gleamed. It wasn’t often that
princes ventured into North Esten.

“
Prince Marc-e-e-e-l!”
Carine’s
neighbor shrieked, her voice piercing through cupped hands.

“Glory to the Great Marcels!” yelled the
boy.

Carine’s vegetables and bread spilled over
the cobblestone when the boy dropped the basket. Now that Prince
Marcel was here, he’d lost interest in the torment.

In the next cart were the younger princes,
fraternal twins about Carine’s age. Prince Giles stood in the cart
with his arms clasped behind him, nodding to acknowledge the
people. Prince David sat back on the bench smiling broadly and
waving in large, enthusiastic strokes.

Carine knelt, but not for the princes. With
all the danger the royals allowed, even celebrated, Carine had no
interest in paying homage. Instead, she gathered the food. Someone
stepped on her hand by accident. Someone else squashed the sweet
peas. The crowd cheered and sang as the procession ran on.

Their mirth faded behind her as she dragged
herself home, more grateful than ever for the people she would see
there. Even though they faced darkness and silence for the next
several days, a tiny home with love was better than a world without
it.

“Carine!” Mom yelled from the open doorway.
She had long, unbraided hair and sparkling, nut-brown eyes like her
daughter. When Carine reached the doorway, she wrapped her arms
around her. Even though Mom spent all day inside their
leather-infused home, she always smelled like fresh picked
flowers.

“There you are! Thank the flames.” Didda
appeared in the doorway with a hammer and nails in his hands. He
had a small frame and a way of standing that made him look even
smaller, but he was more loving and self-sacrificial than anyone
Carine knew. His eyes sparkled with the full, understanding love
between father and daughter. Just seeing his smile eased the
heartache from earlier today.

She threw her arms around him too. “Come
inside quick. The flame has gone out.”

Happy to be home, Carine closed the door
behind her, locking the bolt so no one—or nothing—could come in.
Carine and her family were all together—and safe.