Children of Fire (28 page)

They were gone, like fugitives into the night. Running like the thieves they were. Rexol had paid for his crimes; in her mind Cassandra had heard the screams of her former master as the Chaos consumed him. But the others—Jerrod and the apprentice—had escaped.

Cassandra stood in the courtyard staring up into the blackness of the night sky. Two days ago, the ground had been littered with the bodies of her fallen brothers and sisters, slain by Jerrod and the traitorous monks who followed him. The actions of the rebels were punishable by death; treason was a capital crime among the Order. Not that it mattered. None of the dissenters had surrendered. They had given their lives to aid Jerrod's escape, willingly sacrificing themselves to buy him and his companion a few more precious seconds to get farther beyond the Pontiff's reach.

By the time someone had come to free Cassandra from the dungeons that night, the brief rebellion was already over, put down by Yasmin and her Inquisitors. They were gone now, too—setting off within hours of the battle's end to pursue Jerrod on foot. And though the traitors had a head start, Cassandra knew it was inevitable they would be caught.

Messenger birds had been sent out ahead to all the Pilgrims and servants of the Order scattered throughout the Southlands and the Free Cities, warning them to be on the watch for Jerrod and the young man traveling with him. Wherever they fled, Yasmin would soon get word of their presence. Eventually, she would find them. And when she did, their punishment would be swift and just.

As for her own punishment, Cassandra knew she deserved no mercy. She had aided Rexol and Jerrod's escape; she had been the catalyst for all the death and carnage within the Monastery walls. The Pontiff had no choice but to charge her with heresy, and she had no intention of disputing the charges.

“Cassandra.”

The voice at her shoulder startled her; she hadn't noticed the Pontiff's approach amid her guilt and self-loathing. She didn't bother to turn her dead eyes toward the speaker, didn't even dare to use her Sight. She was blind, alone in the darkness. A just punishment.

They were coming to take her back to the dungeons, where she would remain locked up until her trial. She had expected this; she was surprised it had taken them this long.

“I'm sorry for my part in this,” she said in a soft whisper, her voice on the edge of tears. Not an excuse, nor a plea for mercy. Just the truth. But even as she said the words she knew how hollow they sounded. “I'm sorry for what I have done.”

“What has been done here cannot be undone,” the Pontiff said, though his voice was bitter. “And the consequences may be far greater than you can imagine. A second Cataclysm is coming and I am powerless to stop it.”

Cassandra felt the hot sting of tears down her cheeks, her eyes no longer able to detect light or shadow but still able to weep in grief.

“It was my fault. I was weak. I should have fought against the wizard's spell.”

The Pontiff made no offer to console or comfort her. “What you have done—what you were a part of—carries a terrible sentence.”

“I … I'm ready, Pontiff.” She hated herself for the tremor in her voice, for being weak in the face of her imminent execution. She took a deep breath and added, “I can bear the weight of my crimes.”

“I hope you can, Cassandra. For all our sakes, I truly hope you can.”

Something in his voice puzzled her. She let the black veil slip from her senses, allowing the Sight to make her aware of the surroundings. The Pontiff stood alone behind her, his gnarled hands gripping the reins of a magnificent black horse.

“Is he injured?” she asked, her supernatural awareness sensing that something was wrong with the animal.

“The heretics hobbled all the horses in the stables. This mount was always strong, and I have used my power to heal him as best I can. This is the best ride I can offer, it will have to make do.”

“Ride? I … I don't understand.”

“The wizard has opened a door to another world, Cassandra. A great evil has come through—twisted servants of our ancient enemy.

“They seek to tear down the Legacy so that the Slayer may return. But to do this they need the power of Old Magic. I have seen them in my visions, crossing the desert far to the south, heading toward the Monastery to claim one of the ancient Talismans.”

“The Crown,” Cassandra gasped. “The one I dreamed about!”

The Pontiff nodded. “For centuries we have kept it hidden here in the Monastery. But Rexol's actions exposed our secret. The Slayer's Minions know the Crown is here, and I fear we are no longer strong enough to defend it.”

“Let me stand with you when you fight them!” Cassandra declared, her own recent betrayal of the Order forgotten in the sudden passion she felt welling up inside her. “We will destroy them or dispel them or banish them back to the world they came from!”

The Pontiff shook his head.

“The Minions are creatures bred in a world where Old Magic still reigns and the Chaos Spawn walk the land. Their bodies are born from Chaos itself; it thickens their blood and strengthens their bones. They wield magic not seen in the mortal realm since the Cataclysm.

“The battle with Jerrod's followers thinned our ranks, and Yasmin and her Inquisitors are too far away to return in time to reinforce us. And even if they were here, I doubt we'd have the strength to withstand the coming siege.”

Cassandra noticed that the Pontiff carried a saddlebag slung over his shoulder. With her Sight she saw food and water packed inside … and something else. Something that burned so bright it made her mystical vision recoil. The Crown.

“Then you must flee!” Cassandra insisted. “Take the Crown and go, take it where they will never find it.”

“Not me,” the Pontiff replied, handing the saddlebag to her. “I am too old for such a journey. My limbs are weak with age. No, Cassandra. It must be you.”

“But … but I am not worthy!” she protested. “I betrayed the Order! I helped release this evil! I have brought ruin upon the Monastery.”

“You are linked to the Crown,” he told her. “Its power kept it hidden for centuries. In all that time, no Seer ever sensed its presence … until you dreamed of it.

“Since then,” he added, “I have had visions of my own. I have seen your flight, the Crown at your side. Only now do I understand what those visions foretold.

“Your fate is entwined with that of your old master. I thought I could free you from that curse, sever the bond linking your destiny to his. In that, I failed you.

“Rexol is dead, but his actions have begun a series of events that have the potential to destroy us all. It is up to you to try and prevent this, Cassandra. You must atone for what you have done. It was not clear to me before, but now I understand: You alone can stop the Cataclysm.”

She nodded slowly, her mind spinning out of control. But she put her faith in the Pontiff and his wisdom, accepting what he said as absolute truth. “What must I do?”

“The Minions will come for you, once they learn the Crown is not here. They will seek you out with their spells and hunt you down with their foul magic. For the sake of the mortal realm, they must not find you.”

“Where will I go?”

“East,” the Pontiff replied. “East to the ends of the earth. Seek the Guardian beyond the mountains at the end of the world. Let your Sight be your guide, Cassandra. The Crown will direct you through your dreams, but do not be so foolish as to put it on lest you suffer the same fate as the wizard.”

She bowed her head in supplication, knowing further argument was merely a waste of valuable time. The Pontiff's decision had been made. She secured the saddlebag in place on her steed and swung herself up into the saddle.

“I will go at once,” Cassandra said, her mind a mix of guilt, fear, and a fierce determination that threatened to overwhelm her. “I will not fail you!”

“We will hold out as long as we can,” the Pontiff promised. “But we will surely fall. We are giving our lives to protect the Crown. Do not let our sacrifice be wasted.”

There was a crack like thunder, and the ebony gates of the Monastery flew open. Cassandra spurred her mount through the opening, racing off through the desert night with the terrible words of the Pontiff ringing in her ears and tears of desperate shame streaming from her eyes.

“We'll stop here,” Jerrod said, pulling his weary horse to a halt. “It will give us a chance to decide what to do next.”

The mounts had been bred to travel long distances in the harshest conditions, but their prolonged flight had reduced the beasts to a slow walk at best.

Keegan slid from his saddle and nearly collapsed onto the soft desert sand. They had ridden north for three days with hardly a break. The Monastery was at least a hundred leagues behind them, but they wouldn't leave the desert wastes behind them until sometime tomorrow.

During their desperate flight, Jerrod had barely spoken to him. The long silence had given Keegan a chance to sort things out for himself. Rexol, his master, was dead. He didn't feel grief, exactly—not like when his father had died—but there was a definite sense of loss. And now he found himself a fugitive from the Order, a heretic fleeing with a man he had just met and knew almost nothing about … apart from the fact that he was crazy. That wasn't surprising; the religious fanatics who served the Order were all a bit mad. But Jerrod seemed to suffer from a very particular and specific delusion: one in which Keegan was supposed to be some kind of savior.

“Have something to eat and try to rest. We can only stay a few hours before we have to start moving again.”

“Are you afraid the Inquisitors will catch up with us?” Keegan asked as he rummaged through the supplies on one of the pack horses. He found bread and cheese in one pocket, a bottle of wine in another.

“No, but not all the servants of the Order are within the Monastery,” Jerrod explained as he unrolled a pair of trail blankets. “Once we reach the borders of the Southlands, the Pilgrims will be searching for us as well. Though not as dangerous as Yasmin's trained killers, they are still formidable foes.”

Keegan took the food and drink from the saddlebags and sat down on one of the blankets. He tore a chunk of bread from the loaf and passed it to the monk as Jerrod sat down on the blanket beside him.

“I realize this must be confusing for you, Keegan. I'm sure you have many questions. Ask them, and I will do my best to answer them for you.”

For a minute, the young man wasn't sure what to ask. He chewed thoughtfully on the bread, then washed it down with a swig from the wine bottle.

“How did you and my master know each other?”

“We used to be allies, of a sort. He wanted a worthy apprentice: a child touched by Chaos. I needed to find a champion—someone with the strength to stand against the armies of the Slayer when the Legacy crumbles.”

“Meeting you in that cell wasn't just coincidence, was it?” Keegan asked.

“No. I had seen a vision. I knew the Pontiff was going to summon Rexol. I knew he would answer. I knew he would bring you with him. So I allowed myself to be captured.”

“You let the Inquisitors imprison you just so you could meet me?”

“You are the champion we have been waiting for. In my visions, I saw that your master would die in a blaze of fire within the Monastery's walls. I thought the only way to save you from a similar fate was to be there myself.”

“So you arranged for your own capture, knowing you had loyal followers who would help you escape?”

The monk nodded. “It was a gamble, but one I thought was necessary. I have searched too long for a savior to let you be burned as a heretic.”

“And what, exactly, am I supposed to be a savior of?”

“Everything, of course.”

Keegan snorted and took a bite from the block of cheese. This time he didn't offer any to his companion.

“A time of great danger is drawing near, Keegan. The Legacy is fading, and an army of monsters will soon pour forth from the Flaming Sea to overrun the land.”

“The Chaos Spawn are extinct,” Keegan said matter-of-factly. He had studied under Rexol long enough to realize what the monk was talking about. “They died out long ago. All that remains are their bones.”

“Not extinct, merely banished by the power of the True Gods. One day soon they will return. For many years I and my followers have been preparing for this day,” Jerrod explained. “We have been searching for a champion: a mage with the power to stand against them. For a long time Rexol was helping us in our search, until we went our separate ways.”

“Why didn't you just ask Rexol to be your champion?”

“The wizard was strong,” the monk admitted. “But much of his strength came from knowledge and study. He had mastered his craft, but his talent had reached its apex. He did not have the raw ability; he lacked power to stand against our enemies.

“We knew there were others. As the Legacy has weakened children have been born with Chaos in their blood. Children with the ability to go far beyond anything Rexol could ever hope to accomplish. Children like you.

“But Rexol could never accept this. We wanted him to train our champion, to create a savior for the entire world. But Rexol did not believe in our cause. He only wanted power for himself. He was dangerous; his selfish ambition was a threat to our plan.”

“Is that why you let him die?” Keegan asked the question without bitterness. He was too tired to be bitter.

“I tried to warn him. I tried to tell him that I had foreseen his death in a blaze of fire, but he would not listen. His pride destroyed him. There was little I could have done to change that.

“In the end it didn't matter. I did not come for him. I came for you. The savior.”

The young man just shook his head. “I'm no savior. I'm just an apprentice.”

“Chaos is strong in your veins,” Jerrod assured him. “You have the Sight, you have the Gift. All you need is to learn how to unlock your potential.”

“And how am I supposed to do that now that my master is gone?”

The monk was silent for a time, trying to come up with an answer. “Rexol had other students before you. Many of these completed their training and now serve in the noble courts. Perhaps they can help.”

“Sure. All we have to do is head to the nearest of the Seven Capitals and ask the resident court mage to finish my training so I can save the world. I'm sure they won't mind.”

The monk reacted as if he hadn't noticed the sarcastic tone of Keegan's suggestion.

“No, the Order holds too much power in the Southlands. We cannot look for help there.”

Keegan gave a weary laugh. It all sounded so ridiculous, so unbelievable. He was no savior. But what other options did he have? He wasn't stupid enough to even think about going back to Rexol's manse: The Order was probably already there waiting for him. He was a heretic now, a fugitive with no home and no one to turn to but this crazed fanatic. Whatever else he might think of Jerrod, the monk was his only hope of survival.

“Where, then? You're obviously the one in charge here. You tell me where we should go.”

“The Free Cities. They have no love of the Order; I stayed there often while I was in hiding from the Pontiff and his followers.”

“That'll take weeks,” he protested. “We'll have to cross the entire breadth of the Southlands!”

“Yes,” Jerrod agreed. “And the Order will be hunting for us the entire way. We'll have to avoid the larger settlements and the more traveled routes so that reports of our passing are not relayed back to the Pontiff.”

“We do make a rather conspicuous pair.”

The robes they were still wearing from their escape were plain enough, but Rexol's staff destroyed any illusion that they might be simple travelers. It was strapped to one of the pack horses, the empty eyes of the gorgon's skull staring out and marking at least one of them as a wizard to any who saw it.

“We can always hide the staff,” Jerrod said, as if he were reading Keegan's thoughts. “And I have learned to alter my own appearance in subtle ways.” His unmistakable eyes shimmered and slowly transformed into a common brown. “A simple illusion that helped me conceal my identity during my years in hiding.”

“Magic?” Keegan asked in surprise. “I thought the Order disapproved of such things.”

“You will learn that I am more tolerant than most of my kind on this subject,” Jerrod replied with the hint of a smile. “In any case, my skill is a simple alteration of myself. The power comes from within, and it is wholly contained. My talent is far more limited than the act of unleashing Chaos upon the world.”

“Which is why you need a wizard like me to be your champion,” Keegan said, slowly wrapping his head around Jerrod's mad reasoning. “Even if you had the power, you don't know how to unleash it.”

“You need to sleep,” the monk said by way of reply. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

Keegan lay down, burrowing his body into the soft sand until it shaped itself to the contours of his body. He closed his eyes and immediately felt sleep overtaking him. Before he slipped away he managed to ask one final question.

“You still didn't tell me where we're going,” he mumbled. “Which of the Free Cities?”

“We'll go to Torian,” came the reply. “One of Rexol's former students was recently given a prominent position there. A man I met once long ago, though only briefly. A man named Khamin Ankha. Hopefully he will help us.”