Children of Fire (31 page)

It had been three weeks since the night of Rexol's death. Three weeks of constant flight, with only the briefest of rests. Jerrod had insisted they avoided the main roads and only stopped at villages long enough to acquire more provisions, and he refused to stay at an inn. Instead they slept in makeshift camps in the woods.

The routes they followed couldn't even be called roads; most were overgrown trails long abandoned by any respectable travelers. Some, like the one they were on now, seemed to cut right through the thickest parts of wild, untamed forest. The uneven ground and overgrown roots made the horses stumble along the path, and Keegan's hands and face were covered with cuts and scrapes from low-hanging branches and encroaching shrubbery. Despite all this they were making good time. Though they had seen no hint of their pursuers, Jerrod pushed the pace like a man possessed. Like a fanatic.

Which was exactly what he was. Neither man was much for conversation, but during their endless journey Keegan had realized that much about his traveling companion. He was utterly convinced that Keegan was destined to be the savior of the world. And mad as that might seem, Keegan understood his companion's unshakable conviction. Jerrod had the Sight, and he had seen Keegan's future in his visions.

Keegan also had the Sight. He could appreciate how vivid and powerful a vision felt; it burned with an intensity that dwarfed the waking world. It was easy to understand how the visions could have driven the monk to devote his entire life to a single cause despite all opposition.

But Keegan had also seen visions that did not come to pass. He understood that the future was malleable. And through Rexol, he had learned enough about Chaos to understand that what seemed to be so clear and real was often a confusing mess of symbolism, hidden meanings, and obfuscation.

Despite Jerrod's insistence, Keegan didn't see himself as the heralded savior. But the prospect didn't seem quite so ridiculous now as it had three weeks ago. Chaos was strong in him; even Rexol had admitted he had the potential to be the greatest wizard the Southlands had ever known. If the Legacy were to fall, how much more power would Keegan have? Maybe he really would be able to stand against the Slayer and his invading horde.

He laughed softly to himself, reflexively ducking and turning his head to avoid a twig that seemed determined to put out his eye. These were the thoughts of an unbalanced mind. The product of travel fatigue and the effects of the witchroot he had started taking again the day after their escape. The root was stronger than he was used to; he had found four vials of Rexol's distilled extract among the mage's possessions on one of the pack horses. He'd been taking a few drops with every meal; dangerous, but if the Order ever caught up to them he wanted to be able to unleash his full power. He just had to be aware of the potential side effects: reckless inclinations; delusions of grandeur; the belief that he really was a savior.

He brushed away the thorns clawing at his legs as his horse bravely pushed its way through a thick wall of gorse that had grown across the path, then suddenly spat out, “I'm sick of this!”

“Sick of what?” the monk asked calmly.

“Crashing our way through bushes and brambles and trees! Sleeping on the cold, hard ground. Going weeks without a chance to bathe.”

“Would you rather spend your time shackled to the wall in one of the Pontiff's dungeons?”

Keegan ducked to avoid another branch then cursed as it scraped along the back of his neck, leaving a burning furrow. “That's a chance I'm willing to take. I'm tired and dirty and I think I'm losing my mind. I can't keep this up!”

The monk considered his request.

“Perhaps I underestimated the toll this is taking on you. I can sustain my own mind and body as I ride through my meditations, but you have not shared in that training. And there isn't time to teach you. I suppose for your sake we could risk a single night in a small settlement.”

There were some benefits to having a companion who thought you were destined to be the savior of the world, Keegan mused, rubbing the welt on the back of his neck. It made him much more willing to listen to your suggestions.

“If I remember correctly there's a small village only a few hours' ride away,” Jerrod said. “We can stay there tonight.”

“What's it called?” Keegan asked, throwing up his arm to protect himself from a tangle of leaves and vines that suddenly appeared before him.

“I believe it's called Praeton.”

“Can I get you anything, Scythe?” Julia asked.

Scythe glanced past the young barmaid and over at the group of five men standing together leaning on the bar. She couldn't hear them across the crowd of patrons, but she could clearly make out her lover through the haze of the fire. Norr's frame towered above the others in the group as he laughed and shook his shaggy head back and forth in comic disbelief. From experience she guessed Herrick was regaling the group with another of his ridiculous tall tales about his latest trip to Argot, the nearest of the Seven Capitals. Either that or Gil was sharing another of his bawdy ballads in his painfully out-of-tune voice.

On the bar beside her lover was a heavy tankard, drained of its contents and flipped upside down—an Eastern custom Norr hadn't yet broken himself of.

“I think we'll be going up to our room soon,” Scythe answered.

Julia gave her a wan smile. “Don't count on it.” She tilted her chin down toward the tray of foam-topped ales she was carrying. “One of these is his, and he's already told everyone he's buying the round after this one.”

“I think I'll just go out for some air,” Scythe replied, giving the young woman a smile of her own.

Julia nodded and vanished into the crowd, artfully maneuvering the overbalanced tray through the crowd that always seemed to gather at the Singing Dragon, the undisputed center piece of social life in Praeton.

It had been almost a year since she and Norr had stumbled across the sleepy little town, and over the past months Norr had become a regular feature at the tavern. The rooms they rented were on the floor just above, so it was common for the barbarian to come staggering up the stairs several hours past midnight—invariably waking Scythe as he blundered into the room, too drunk and clumsy and big to have any hope of sneaking into bed unnoticed.

Amazingly, the small town of Praeton was able to provide Norr with everything he had looked for and failed to find in cities twenty times its size. Here the big man had found work and a chance to earn some money. During the harvest he'd been in constant demand, doing the work of three regular-sized men. And when he wasn't busy in the fields, he did odd jobs around the inn. Sometimes he helped Herrick with his inventory. Occasionally he worked with Yusef in the smithy. Norr's easygoing nature, his willingness to share a drink, and his ability to work hard from sunrise to sunset without complaint were fast making friends among the men of the town.

Not town,
she silently corrected herself. Praeton was little more than a village. Less than a hundred people lived in and around the small cluster of buildings the nearby farmers referred to as “the city.” The population and size of Praeton hadn't significantly changed in almost a hundred years, the townsfolk had proudly told her once when she had been foolish enough to ask. Most of the residents were fourth or fifth generation: sons who inherited the family farm or business, local girls who married the neighbor's son. Almost everybody living here was born here. Nobody ever moved to Praeton.

Yet strangely, the community was anything but closed. As both Scythe and Norr had learned that first day, the town welcomed strangers with open arms—no matter who they were or where they might have come from. A few days after their first arrival, Scythe had suggested to Norr that the hospitality was the result of everyone being sick of seeing the same faces day after day after day. Her lover had just given her a disappointed look and countered by saying, “Maybe they're just good folk.”

It turned out Norr was right. Praeton was nothing if not “good folk.” Norr hadn't just found work in the hamlet. He had found tolerance and acceptance. They didn't mind his pale skin or his flaming hair. They couldn't care less about his thick accent. They didn't see him as a brute or savage. They considered him a friend, a part of their community. Scythe had been accepted just as easily, despite her own exotic appearance. Islander, Easterner: All seemed welcome in this quaint little village.

As she watched Norr laughing and drinking with the others at the bar, Scythe realized he could build a life here in Praeton. He could settle down and raise children and go to the festivals and celebrations and spend his days working and his nights here in the tavern with his neighbors; good, honest folk each and every one.

Scythe hated them all.

She shoved her chair back from the table and sprang to her feet, desperate to get some air. A barrage of friendly greetings, pleasant waves, and warm smiles assaulted her as she pushed her way through the crowd of men and women between her and the door to the outside. It seemed the entire town was here tonight, and they all seemed to know her name—though she had made a point to learn as few of theirs as possible.

She nodded and waved and smiled in return, though if any of the town had looked deep into her eyes they would have seen an emptiness that revealed how hollow her gestures were. But people saw what they wanted to see, and a pleasant manner and bland smile could hide the seething hatred beneath the surface.

She had learned the art of affectation long ago, during her days selling herself in the streets of Callastan. As stupid as she knew it sounded, that was what she felt here in Praeton. Only now she wasn't selling her body, but her soul. And every day she stayed in this tiny village she felt a small part of her spirit die.

Where Norr saw peace, she saw only boredom. Where Norr saw comfort, she saw only complacency. Where Norr saw security and a possible future, she saw a trap of mind-numbing monotony.

Survival. It was all about survival. Scythe prided herself on being a fighter. She reveled in the daily struggle to survive; the constant hum of mortal danger in the background invigorated her. Life was a brutal contest where the weak were left dying in the street, a knife blade snapped off in their belly for the simple mistake of getting caught with their hand wrapped around a mercenary's coin pouch. Growing up on a ship sailing the Western Isles and her years in Callastan had honed her survival instincts to a keen razor's edge.

Now she was losing that edge. Praeton was dulling her senses little by little, bit by bit. And as she lost that edge, she was losing her identity as well.

The night air was cool against her skin, and the wind blowing through town smelled sweet with the scent of freedom and mystery and opportunity.

She had told Norr nothing of her feelings. He was happy here—happier than she had ever seen him. And he had never complained once while they lived the life of vagabond thieves, though she knew he hated it. It was only for him that she had stayed as long as she had. But she didn't think she could endure this torment much longer.

There wasn't even anybody to steal from here. Scythe had no qualms about stealing from the people she exchanged banal small talk with every day. She had no feelings toward them but contempt, anyway. But she knew Norr would object to robbing their new neighbors, so she hadn't even brought it up. Not that there was anyone in Praeton wealthy enough to make the effort worthwhile anyway.

Any travelers passing through the town had been relieved of a few minor items, just for the sake of practice. A small relief to the boredom Scythe felt constantly dragging her under. But travelers were few and far between, and it was difficult to keep herself from succumbing to the depths of despair with such sporadic relief.

She did her best to hide her feelings from Norr. She wanted him to be happy. But lately he had begun to sense that something was wrong. It wouldn't be long until her misery began to ruin his own blissful mood. And then she would have two choices: ask him to leave his life in Praeton behind and come with her, or slip away in the night alone. She honestly didn't know which was worse.

The faint clopping of horses' hooves snapped Scythe out of her black mood. She peered into the dark streets, anxious to see who was on the road at this late hour. Probably one of the local farmers making his way to the Singing Dragon after finishing some repairs on his barn. Nothing to get excited about.

Her heart began to pound with exhilaration when two strangers on horseback materialized out of the night's gloom. She moved forward to greet them, eager to scope out these potential marks.

“We need lodging for ourselves and our horses,” Jerrod said to the exotic young woman who emerged from the shadows beneath the sign of the Singing Dragon Inn. “I hope you have room for us.”

The monk's eyes had taken on the illusion of a completely normal appearance. Rexol's staff had been covered in tightly wrapped cloth and tied onto one of the supply packs. It looked like nothing more than a large bedroll, and the pair of them looked like simple traveling merchants.

“I don't work here,” the woman replied, perhaps a bit more sharply than was necessary. Then, in a much more pleasant voice she added, “But I think there are rooms available. And I can guarantee that the beds are clean and the food is fresh. Take your horses around back and tell the stable boy Scythe sent you. I'll go inside and let Gavid know he's got a couple of customers.”

She slipped away through the tavern door as Keegan and Jerrod slid from their saddles.

“She seemed quite helpful for someone who doesn't work here,” the young man commented.

“A little too helpful,” Jerrod replied. “And did you notice? She was an Islander.” Keegan had, in fact, noticed. “Islanders don't usually venture this far from Callastan. Normally the Southlands aren't tolerant of foreigners.”