Prelude to Fire: Parts 1 and 2 (17 page)

H
e slept
.

Lacertin lost track of how long he slept, only that he’d collapsed after pacing his cell. Dreams came to him and taunted him with visions of the kingdoms. In his dreams, he saw the wide, sprawling mountains of Galen, the rolling plains of Ter, the ships and oceans of Vatten. Even Nara made his dreams.

When he awoke, he saw nothing but darkness around him.

Pain remained absent.

Time passed. Lacertin slept and awoke. Each time, there was no return of the pain. Each time, he expected it and knew relief when it didn’t return.

After a while, he began to wonder if they had finished with whatever test they had for him. Hunger began to set in, and he realized that he hadn’t eaten in… How long had it been?

Time had no meaning, not with what he’d been through. It might have been hours, it might have been days. But the rumbling in his stomach was new. Always before, one of his tormentors made a point of bringing a tray to him. Usually it was a strange, tough meat and some bread. Other times, he was brought vegetables that he could never see well, not without shaping light, which he refused to do. Lacertin ate everything, knowing that he needed the nutrients or he would not survive.

Now there was none.

Perhaps they had abandoned him, leaving him to die, simply to waste away here, much like Ilton had wasted away in his final days. Fitting to have the king’s First Warrior suffer the same fate, if not the same poisoning.

After waking again, he decided to crawl to his knees, shaping a trail of light. As he did, he realized the door to his cell was open.

How long had it been like that?

Lacertin managed to stand and leaned on the walls, no longer minding the way they burned and tore at the remnants of his shirt. His arms scraped against the stone and he felt as if blood ripped free, but he ignored it, staggering down the hall using the shaped light to see.

Other doors lined the hall but were closed. Lacertin paused at one, listening to see if there might be someone else on the other side, another person like himself, but he heard nothing. Each door was as silent as the next.

At the end of the hall, a door blocked him from going any further.

He tried the handle, but it was locked.

A part of him knew that he should return to his cell, wait for the torture to return, but what if this was all part of the test? What if they
wanted
him to make it out?

He licked his lips, running his hand along the door. The lock was metal, and not any more complex than any other door. A simple shaping would snap the lock, but then he would reveal the extent of his abilities, if he had not already.

Then again, he had come to Incendin, shaped himself across the waste, and carried a warrior sword. What greater declaration did he need for Incendin? If they didn’t know he was a warrior already, this wouldn’t make any difference.

Using earth and fire, mixing two contrasting elements, he twisted the lock. He had used a similar shaping often enough that he found it easy enough to do. The door opened with a soft
snap
and swung slightly inward.

He took a deep breath and pulled on the door.

Lanterns burned on the other side, giving more than enough light to see. He let his fire shaping fade and started down the hall.

At the end, he sensed a change in the air. Heat began to increase, pressing against him.

They knew he was here.

Lacertin ignored the heat, much as he had learned to ignore the shapings they used on him, and pushed forward until he reached the end of the hall.

This time, rather than a door, it opened up into a wide room.

Additional lanterns were set all around the room, but they were the only decoration within it. Chains ran into the stone, ending in metal cuffs. None were attached to anything, leaving the chains stretched across the floor as some sort of reminder of the fact that Incendin was willing to confine him in such a way. Scorch marks burned into the stone, almost regularly, and it took Lacertin a moment to realize that they were near the chains.

What was this place?

“You have come to a sacred place in the Sunlands.”

Lacertin spun, already forming a shaping that he had to tamp down. Shaping someone here would do him no good, not if what he wanted was information. He needed to look and act the part of the compliant prisoner, not that there was much else that he could be, not within the Fire Fortress and as weakened as he was.

A tall, thin man stood across from him. He had balding hair, and what remained was shorn close to his scalp, revealing a series of scars and burns. Thin spectacles hung from his nose, and he clutched a thick, leather-bound book in hands that barely protruded from the sleeves of his long, thin cloak.

“What is it?” Lacertin asked.

The man took a step toward Lacertin and smiled. Rather than the harsh, angry expression he had seen from all of his tormentors, this was warm and almost welcoming. In some ways, it reminded him of the way Ilton used to smile at him. That made it all the worse.

“You look thirsty. Come.”

He walked past Lacertin, the hem of his robe brushing against the ground and making a soft hissing noise. When he reached a small door on the other side of the room, he pulled a key out of his pocket and opened it.

“You should not remain here,” he said. “It would be dangerous for you.”

“It’s dangerous everywhere for me,” he said.

“Not everywhere.” The man disappeared into the hall, fading into shadows.

Lacertin trailed after him but had a hard time keeping up with him. When he reached him, the thin man glanced over before tipping his head, the glasses sliding on his nose, and he pushed them up with the hand holding his book.

“Where are you taking me?” Lacertin asked.

“As I said, you look thirsty.”

The hall was narrower than some, and they passed several doorways before stopping at one. The man pushed the door open, not needing a key this time, and waved for Lacertin to follow.

Lacertin stood in the hall, uncertain. His legs began to feel stronger the longer he walked, as did his awareness of the elements. Whereas he’d only detected fire before, and some hint of wind, now he noticed earth pressing all around and the distinct draw of water.

The dryness in his mouth pulled him forward as much as anything.

The other side of the door looked like any village home that he’d ever seen, from the wide and glowing hearth to the plush carpet spread across the stone. Even the decorations on the walls appeared like they belonged in the kingdoms rather than anything from Incendin.

Lacertin looked at the man with renewed interest. He had disappeared behind a small doorway and appeared with a large mug, which he set down on a table near the hearth. He motioned to Lacertin, inviting him to sit.

Lacertin glanced over his shoulder, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else following. As he eyed the mug of water, he looked over at the man. “What kind of trick is this?”

The man shook his head. “No trick.”

“How long have I been locked up?”

“Locked? You think you’ve been a prisoner here?”

Lacertin rubbed his wrists. He’d never worn chains, but hadn’t he been a prisoner? “Why would you say that I’ve not?”

The man motioned for Lacertin to sit again and he did so, but reluctantly. He took the mug and sniffed it, bringing it to his lips cautiously. The thin man smiled and pulled the mug away and took a long drink before wiping his arm across his lips.

“There is nothing in it.”

Lacertin sniffed it again, still struggling to believe that this wasn’t some kind of trick. He’d been trapped for weeks… months… and now they suddenly decided to release him? What had changed?

The mug had no odor, and water sensing told him that the water was clear, not that he’d be able to detect much if it weren’t. Unlike some, that was not his gift with water. His ability with water was limited.

Lacertin took a long drink. When the water first hit his throat, he coughed, choking from the dry and painful burning that he’d suffered through. The coughing fit passed and he drank hungrily, filling himself with water. He didn’t know when he’d get another chance to drink.

The man simply watched him, an amused expression on his face.

When Lacertin finished, he set the mug down on the table next to him and stared at the man. “Who are you?”

The thin man clutched a book on his lap. He folded his hands atop it and fixed Lacertin with an expression of warmth. “The answer to that will come in time. The question is really who are
you
.”

Lacertin leaned back in the chair, and stared at the hearth. He laughed bitterly.

“Why the laughter?” the man asked.

“All this time that I’ve been here, and this is the first time anyone has asked who I am.”

“You think the timing suspect.”

He glanced over. The man held him in the same warm expression that disarmed him, reminding him far too much of Ilton.

A tingle of worry ran through him. What if they knew who he was and why he was here? Ilianna had proven to him that spirit shapers existed, something that most in the university would have said was impossible, or at the least unlikely. Spirit shapers—even strong spirit sensers—were said to be able to read one’s mind.

“I think you already know who I am.”

The man smiled and tipped his head slightly. “We have known.”

“Then why…” He didn’t know how to finish. They had tortured him no differently than the kingdoms would have tortured one of the lisincend, were they to somehow capture one. This was a time of war. Why else would they torture him?

“Why haven’t we simply killed you?”

The man said it so matter of factly that it caught Lacertin off guard. “Yes.”

“I admit that when you first appeared, there were some who thought that we should. They were convinced that you came to spy, but what sort of spy announces their presence?”

Lacertin remained silent. He no longer knew how long he had been in Incendin, but this was the closest he had come to connecting to someone, rather than simply being tortured. If he could get to this man, he might have the potential to learn what happened to Ilton. He might find answers as to who had betrayed his king.

Then he could return to the kingdoms.

“Why didn’t they?” he asked.

The man smiled. “There were others who thought to question you, perhaps turn you against your king, as if such a thing were possible with the great Lacertin.”

He tensed at the mention of his name.

“I was tortured,” Lacertin said.

“You were tested,” the man countered. “And you have shown a surprising propensity for fire. Given your heritage, that should not have come as too much of a shock, but to some, it was.”

Lacertin didn’t want to argue with this man about his heritage. Most within Incendin felt that Nara rightfully still belonged to Incendin, a disagreement stretching back hundreds of years, an argument so old that most no longer questioned. It was the reason for the current war, and the reason that Lacertin had lost his family. First his brother to Incendin, daring to make the crossing, and then his mother to the effects of war.

“Fire came to me first,” Lacertin answered.

He didn’t know why he did. He owed this man nothing, though he had shown him only kindness. They were still enemies, and one that Lacertin would use if he could in order to learn what he needed.

“You are of Rens,” the man said. “Of course fire comes to you first.”

Lacertin turned his attention back to the hearth. “Rens is no more.”

The man sniffed. “Perhaps. But the spirit of Rens remains, else you would not be here.”

Lacertin tensed, waiting for what the man might say next. Had Incendin discovered spirit shapers as well? That alone would turn the tide of war and might even explain what had happened with Ilton.

“We know that the king is gone,” the man said simply.

Lacertin nodded.

“You were his First.”

“I was.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Why are you here, Lacertin Alaseth?”

He said the name with the accent on
Ala
, hinting at familiarity with old Rens. There weren’t many still familiar with it any longer. Much like
Ishthin
, the language used by the ancient shapers, one that carried power with it in ways that few still understood, old Rens was almost a part of the land.

Lacertin had only learned to understand old Rens after going to Ethea. When serving Ilton, he had an interest in ancient politics and leaders, hoping to learn something that might help them now, but all he had found were more questions. He had learned some of old Rens, even less of
Ishthin
, but enough to know that it had once been a beautiful language, one that fit the land and the people. There were words that he’d learned in Rens that had no good comparison in the modern dialect, ways of speaking—and, he suspected, of thinking—that had no modern equal.

“The king is gone,” Lacertin said.

“That cannot be why you have come to the Sunlands.”

It was not, but he couldn’t tell the man his reason, nor could he explain what had happened to Ilianna. That opened up too many questions, and he didn’t think that he could answer them convincingly.

“Why was I tested?” Lacertin asked.

The man tapped his fingers on the book on his lap and studied the leather cover. “Do you have faith, Lacertin Alaseth?”

Lacertin thought it a strange question, especially with what he had been through. “I believe in the Great Mother,” he said carefully.

The man breathed out softly. “The Mother. In your kingdoms, she is worthy, is she not? A representation of all the known elements, binding them in her spirit.”

Lacertin tensed again at the mention of spirit.

The man didn’t seem to notice, and if he did, he made no expression. “We are in the Sunlands, once Rens. Here we do not worship the Mother. We recognize the strength that she offers, and understand her importance, but there is another who sits over the mother.”

“Issa sits beneath the Great Mother,” Lacertin said.