Children of Fire (21 page)

Keegan had nearly died today; they both had. A second more and Rexol himself would have been consumed by the surging Chaos; he had been forced to unleash the unbound magic out upon the world to survive. Who knew what consequences the backlash of that savage storm would bring?

With hardly any effort, he climbed the stairs to the servants' quarters. Disaster had been narrowly averted, but all was not lost. The lesson had been far more harsh than he had intended, but it was a lesson Keegan was not likely to forget. The Chaos had nearly devoured him, and only the intervention of his master had saved his life.

Outside the storm still raged.

Scythe studied the small one- and two-story buildings of the town with disdain as the storm pelted them with cold, stinging drops. Her horse walked with its head down, beaten into submission by the relentless rain, plodding slowly through the thick mud of what passed for the main road in the hamlet.

“There.” Norr's deep voice cut through her thoughts.

She glanced in the direction he pointed at the faded sign of the Singing Dragon Inn and simply nodded. They had eaten just after dawn, barely two hours ago. Had they known this town was so close they would have ridden on last night instead of making a rain-soaked camp in the surrounding forests. But this burg was too small to even warrant a mention on the map they had purchased at the last town they had stayed in.

The weight of their recent breakfast was still heavy in Scythe's stomach, but at the sight of the inn Norr was ready to eat again. She had come to realize in their year together that he ate whenever the opportunity presented itself. The barbarian was at least three times her size, so it was only natural he would eat far more than she—and far more often. And she didn't expect him to change. Norr's girth was as much a part of him as his long red hair, bushy, fiery beard or perpetually sun burnt skin. Her lover was a tribesman of the Frozen East; a savage, a barbarian; wild, free and given to lusty appetites—in all things.

She had learned this their first night together, after she had rescued him from the Enforcers in Callastan. Hidden safely away in Scythe's secret refuge beneath the city streets their coupling had been primal and furious, raw animal heat. But Norr could be gentle, too. Later he had entered her again with an almost shy tenderness, his beard scratching softly against her neck as his parched, cracked lips kissed her scarred shoulders. His callused hands had caressed the marks left by the whips and knives on her back and thighs, and his wide blue eyes had welled up with tears.

Norr never asked her about her wounds, the deforming scars that marred her naked beauty. He hadn't even asked her name that first night. It was she who had offered it, though why even now she couldn't say. He was not the first stranger she had lain with, not the first exotic foreigner to share a night of pleasure with her. But he was the first she had ever given her name, whispering it like a profession of love into the darkness while he had slept beside her: “Scythe.”

Between his heavy snores he had grumbled “Norr” in return.

Maybe that was why she was still with him. He accepted her for what she was now, in the present. He cared nothing about her past. He had never once asked her about it, as if it didn't matter. As if she had been born again, freed from her own history by their first night together.

The barbarian's own past was as much a mystery to Scythe as hers must have been to him. He had told her once he would never return to his homeland but hadn't elaborated. She was briefly tempted to ask him why; she suspected it had something to do with the fact that he never wore a weapon at his side. But in the end it didn't matter. They were together now, and life was good.

Good, but not easy. Their partnership was not without its trials, though Scythe had never considered leaving her lover. She was irresistibly drawn to Norr: his great size, his exotic appearance, his unknown past. But it was more than curiosity that drew her to him. Around Norr, she didn't always have to be on guarded edge. When they were together she could feel the tension in her shoulders slipping free and the sharpness of her ever-alert gaze giving way to half-lidded eyes of dreamy contentment.

It wasn't that Norr made her feel safe; Scythe could take care of herself. She had done so ever since she had escaped the brothel she had been forced to work at on her arrival in Callastan. If anything, Scythe felt she was the one who had to protect Norr when they were together: He seemed so innocent, so naïve about the often ruthless culture of the civilized Southlands and its people. Scythe was tough and strong and hard and she didn't need any man to make her feel safe. But Norr didn't make her feel safe, the barbarian made her feel … soft.

Scythe had been given her first glimpse of what future awaited her and Norr while still in Callastan. No one had died in the brawl in the streets but the Enforcers had been humiliated and they were determined to apprehend those responsible so they could make a harsh lesson of them. The reward for Norr's capture had been substantial, and his description had spread quickly through the city. Even in the cosmopolitan culture of Callastan, the big man was impossible to overlook.

The darkest, dankest corners of Callastan's underworld slums couldn't keep him from being discovered. With the reward being offered Scythe knew the thieves and cutthroats she counted as her friends wouldn't think twice about betraying the savage's location to the authorities. The unspoken trust among those who operated on the far side of the law in Callastan didn't apply to Norr; he was a stranger, a foreigner, an interloper.

And so they had left, together.

A tip from a young harlot Scythe had once saved from the hands of three drunken soldiers on leave gave the pair just enough warning to pack some meager belongings, steal a pair of horses, and ride out under the cover of night before a score of guards had descended on the hidden sewer sanctuary they had been living in beneath Callastan's market square.

There had been no regret in leaving the city behind, not on Scythe's part. And Norr had been eager to move on, too. He had arrived seeking work as a guard or hired mercenary and instead had been assaulted by civilians and the authorities alike. They had ridden off side by side, laughing together at the rush of adrenaline as they escaped into the concealing mantle of the night, determined to make a new start somewhere else in the Southlands.

But their new life had been much like their old. Scythe was afraid the Callastan authorities would send messages via their court mages to the Seven Capitals and any other city of note, so they had avoided the larger metropolises of the Southlands. But the smaller cities came with their own dangers.

Everywhere they went she and Norr were treated with suspicion and mistrust—it was impossible to hide her Islander heritage, or his Eastern blood. Thinly veiled prejudice and not-so-thinly veiled hatred often greeted them. In smaller towns their presence was tolerated for a few weeks at most before stores and inns simply refused to serve them. In some cases they had been driven out by threats or armed vigilante mobs eager to rid their tiny community of the barbarian in their midst. Once or twice things had gotten ugly, if more so for the townsfolk than for Norr or Scythe. Even though he carried no sword or axe the barbarian was more than a match for as many as dozen untrained farmers and store owners wielding wooden planks, farm implements, and other makeshift weapons.

Usually Scythe would stay back and let Norr have his fun with those mobs foolish enough to take him on—the fighting seemed to take away some of the big man's sting at being driven out like a diseased beggar. Yet on those few occasions when Norr found himself overmatched or overwhelmed through sheer numbers Scythe would have to intervene—much to the ultimate dismay of the vigilantes.

Norr fought with his fists and bare hands; to him it was little more than a roughhousing game. Scythe fought with weapons, her razor-sharp daggers used to injure and maim, though Norr had asked her not to kill anyone if possible. So far she had been able to fulfill his wish, though the price of an ear or an eye had been paid many times over in the small farming communities Scythe and Norr had passed through.

The larger towns were better. Cities where strangers were many and travelers were common allowed Scythe and Norr to blend into the transient population—as best Norr could ever hope to blend in, anyway. People in the larger cities tended to mind their own business, with few of the residents going out of their way to make trouble for the odd pair walking their streets.

Often they could stay several weeks in such a place. Norr would seek work as a laborer, a soldier, a mercenary, a bodyguard; all in vain. Nobody respectable would hire him, convinced he was little more than a beast; an animal in human form. Scythe knew the intelligence behind his brutish exterior. He had learned the common language of the Southlands in only a matter of months, though he still spoke with a gruff, thick accent. And she knew how it tore at his insides to be rejected day in and day out, denied a chance to earn his living, barred from earning his way through honest sweat.

At least Scythe could find work in the cities. She would work the crowds of the local markets, deftly removing purses and pouches from unsuspecting marks. Norr had once suggested he work with her but like all the others she had refused him.

His mere presence would draw attention, make people suspicious, and put them on guard. He had pointed out he could provide protection in case she was ever caught in the act but Scythe was never that careless. The only protection he could give would be against the groping, grabbing hands of the dirty old men who sometimes pawed at her from the anonymity of the crowd. And even these Scythe preferred to handle on her own with a sharp chop of her fist that could easily numb the fingers or break a thumb.

Besides, Scythe suspected Norr wasn't comfortable with her chosen profession. Barbarians had little use for theft, constantly surrounded by the members of their own tribe. The tribe was family; you didn't steal from your family. The possessions of other tribes, Scythe imagined, would be the spoils of war. You earned your claim by right of the sword, not by stealth and cunning. Theft had no place in such a culture.

So she would support them with her ill-gotten gains while Norr tried in vain to find legitimate employment. She knew he hated that life, but Norr never complained. He never turned his frustration or anger toward her.

Eventually, Scythe would draw the attention of the local operators. Sometimes they would give her a warning: Join them, or leave town. But she knew the cut the established operators took from newcomers was in itself a crime. She had paid her dues long ago, and even though that counted for nothing outside the borders of Callastan professional pride wouldn't let her hand over four-fifths of her take like some green cutpurse.

Sometimes the local underworld wouldn't give her the courtesy of a warning. The first attempt on her life was inevitably sloppy, an amateur sent to earn a reputation by disposing of the troublesome newcomer. Scythe was a survivor; she had an instinct for traps and danger. It was only because of her promise to Norr that the would-be assassins managed to escape with their lives to report back to the higher-ups.

Scythe was brave but she wasn't foolish. She knew better than to stay in a city long enough for a second, well-planned attempt to be made on her life—or on Norr's. And so inevitably they would be forced to leave the larger cities just as they were always forced to leave the smaller towns.

It had been that way ever since that night they had fled Callastan together, but Scythe wouldn't have traded a minute of it for anything. In Norr she had found something she hadn't even known she was missing, and the travel and the danger only made things more interesting. And if Norr didn't like it, at least he didn't complain.

They were nearly at the inn when a matronly woman poked her head out of a nearby door to get a better look at the strangers riding through the storm and into town. Scythe, ever aware of her surroundings, turned in her saddle to meet the townswoman's eye with a challenging gaze.

To Scythe's surprise the woman didn't duck back into the safety of her home, but instead met the challenge with a smile.

“A wet and goodly morning to you,” the lady called out cheerily, “welcome to Praeton.”

“We're just passing through,” Scythe answered quickly. “Trying to ride out the storm. Do you know if there's any room at the inn?”

“Always room for guests at the Singing Dragon,” the woman replied. “Good food, clean rooms, and fair prices.”

When Scythe didn't bother to say anything in reply, Norr chimed in with his deep baritone. “Your kindness is much appreciated.”

“Think nothing of it. We have a saying in Praeton—
Kindness is free and plentiful, so spread it around
.”

Scythe struggled to keep from rolling her eyes, but Norr laughed heartily.

“A fine saying.”

“One we take to heart,” the woman assured him. “Hope you find Praeton to your liking. Could use a strapping lad like you around here during harvesttime, if you decide to stay awhile.”

Much to Scythe's surprise, Norr said, “Maybe we will.”

A heavy crack of thunder woke Cassandra. She lay motionless on the thin sleeping mat in her otherwise empty room, peering up at the ceiling through the total darkness with her mystical second sight as the rain fell and lightning split the sky above the Monastery.

This was no ordinary storm; at its heart she could sense the sinister echo of the Chaos that had spawned it. The dark clouds had swept across the Southlands, causing massive flooding. Like many of the other Seers, she had seen the cataclysmic aftermath of the storm in her dreams as it approached—crops and even homes washed away by rivers that had jumped their banks; bloated corpses of drowned livestock left rotting in the fields as the waters receded. But tonight her sleep hadn't been plagued by visions of the flood. Tonight she had dreamed of her old master and a wondrous crown.

Dreaming of Rexol wasn't unusual—it happened so frequently she no longer attached any real importance or meaning to it. But the crown was new. There was something special about the crown. Something significant. It wasn't forged from gold or precious metal—it was made of iron. Simple and plain, but it burned with a radiance so intense it had blinded her to everything else.

She rose from her mat and crossed to the door of her room, her steps confident and sure despite the darkness.

Interpreting dreams—even her own—was not her responsibility. She had to tell the Pontiff. He had the wisdom to help her understand the vision.

I must tell him about Rexol, too,
she thought as she made her way slowly down the halls of the Monastery's barracks.
He was part of the vision. His presence may be significant.

Her arm began to itch and she scratched at it absently, unaware of the invisible mark the wizard had left upon her.

The door to Nazir's chamber was closed; a purely symbolic gesture. Had she wanted to, Cassandra could have easily reached out with her second sight to peer beyond the wooden portal. However, doing so would have been a gross violation of the Pontiff's privacy. Instead, she curbed her awareness at the threshold and knocked instead.

“Come in, Cassandra,” the Pontiff's voice called out from the other side.

She pushed the door open and allowed her awareness to extend into the room. Only then did she realize the Pontiff wasn't alone—Yasmin was with him. The elderly head of the Order sat cross-legged on the floor, his features a mask of eternal calm. The Prime Inquisitor towered over him, her face twisting into an expression of contempt as Cassandra entered the room.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

Cassandra hesitated for a second, wondering if she should address her or the man she actually wanted to speak to.

“I seek interpretation of a dream,” she said pointedly. “As is my right as a Seer.”

She had learned long ago that calling on the ancient customs and traditions of the Order was the best way to blunt Yasmin's rage. With a curt nod of her bald, scarred head, the taller woman deferred and stepped back.

“Tell me of your vision, Cassandra,” the Pontiff encouraged, motioning for her to approach.

She came farther into the room, scratching at her arm. Her earlier resolve to tell the Pontiff everything about her dream wavered. Yasmin already considered her to be tainted from her time under Rexol's charge. Mentioning his presence in her vision would only give fuel to the fires of her mistrust.

Rexol isn't relevant anyway,
she thought.
The crown is what's new.
The crown is the important part.

“I saw a crown,” she said. “It was made of iron, but it glowed with the power of Chaos.”

“That's it?” Yasmin said with a sneer. “A glowing crown?”

The Pontiff held up a hand to silence her.

“A crown can represent many things,” he said, speaking slowly as if choosing his words with great care. “It can signify a king, or a general. Any type of leader or authority figure, really … even me.

“Was there anything else significant about the dream?” he pressed. “Were there any other details?”

Cassandra opened her mouth, determined to tell him about Rexol despite her misgivings about Yasmin. But to her own surprise, she promptly shut it again and remained silent. Rubbing her arm, she gave a shake of her head.

“I'm sorry, Pontiff. All I saw was the crown.”

“While the storm looms over the Monastery, we are under the veil of Chaos,” the Pontiff said by way of reassurance. “Much is obscured or hidden.

“I will speak with the other Seers,” he continued. “If your dream was fractured by the storm, others may have seen pieces that will help make the vision whole.”

“The storm can also twist and corrupt the power of those who are weak,” Yasmin chimed in. “While it persists we must be wary of false prophecies that will lead us astray.”

“My visions are pure,” Cassandra declared, clenching her teeth but keeping her voice calm.

Again the Pontiff held up his hand, cutting off any further argument.

“The storm will pass soon,” he reminded them. “Once it is gone, Cassandra may dream of the crown again. She may see her vision more clearly.

“Or perhaps the vision will simply fade away when the storm recedes, and we will know the crown was a meaningless fragment spawned by Chaos.

“But there is nothing to be gained by arguing over it now,” he concluded.

Realizing she had been dismissed, Cassandra nodded in acceptance of his wisdom and turned to go, closing the door behind her.

After Cassandra left, the Pontiff could sense Yasmin's blind gaze hovering on him. She was his right hand; she knew him better than anyone, and she was trained in the arts of detecting lies and half-truths. She sensed he had been holding something back.

“You think there is meaning behind her dream,” Yasmin declared.

I think the Chaos of the storm has heightened her powers,
the Pontiff thought.
I think she senses the Talisman locked away beneath the Monastery.

“Cassandra is one of our strongest and most reliable Seers,” he said aloud. “I would be a fool to dismiss her visions out of hand.”

Yasmin did not know about the Crown. That knowledge—the Talisman's power, its potential, and how to safely use it—was reserved exclusively for the Pontiff. When Nazir's reign ended and the True Gods called him home, his successor would learn of it through the archives of his personal writings, just as he had learned of it when he unsealed the archives of his predecessor upon ascending to his current position.

I've assumed that successor would be you, Yasmin,
he thought, his attention focused on the tall woman with the bald and badly scarred scalp.
But maybe this vision is a sign that Cassandra will be the one to eventually take my place.

Cassandra was young, but so was Yasmin. They both had the strength to one day lead the Order, though Nazir knew they would do so in very different ways. With the Legacy weakening, he'd thought Yasmin's fierce zealotry might be needed to lead them to victory in a war against the Slayer's followers. But maybe Cassandra's quiet resolve would serve the cause better. Perhaps the Legacy could be preserved and war avoided altogether.

“This storm has blinded the Seers,” Yasmin noted, interrupting his train of thought. “All they can see is floods and destruction. So why is Cassandra still having other visions?”

“Do you think Cassandra is lying?” the Pontiff wanted to know. “Do you think she can no longer tell the difference between a true vision and a regular dream?”

These were serious accusations to level against a Seer, and Yasmin was quick to back away from the implication.

“I am not making any formal charge,” she insisted. “As always, I defer to your wisdom, Pontiff. I only ask that you remember the source of this storm when you consider her vision.”

The Pontiff sighed. “We have no proof Rexol is responsible.”

“But if he was, it would make sense that his former apprentice would be the only Seer able to see beyond it.”

“You overestimate the wizard's influence on Cassandra,” he said. “She has been with us far longer than she was ever with him. Her only connection to him now comes through your suspicion and accusations.”

Though it's possible she has some connection to the Crown. Is it calling to her? Is that why she saw it in her vision? Will she be able to master it and use its power in ways even I never dared?

“As Prime Inquisitor it is my duty to question,” Yasmin reminded him.

“But the final judgment is mine,” he countered. “Cassandra's loyalty is not in doubt. You should focus your attention on a real traitor.”

“Jerrod,” Yasmin said, the name dripping with bile and venom.

“That is why I summoned you,” the Pontiff reminded her. “We have reports from Pilgrims in the North. Someone is spreading the heresy of the Burning Savior in the Free Cities.”

“So he's finally crawled out of his hole,” Yasmin said with a predatory smile.

“Not him, but new disciples he has recruited to his cause. Their numbers are growing.”

“I will send Inquisitors to the North,” Yasmin declared. “We will hunt down these heretics and crush them. We will root out every one of his followers until one of them leads us to him.

“With your permission, of course, Pontiff,” she hastily added.

“On the matter of Jerrod,” the old man assured her, “we are in total agreement.”

“This time,” Yasmin vowed, “the traitor won't escape.”