Rising Fire (2 page)

Late winter, AD 1286
An island off the Scottish coast

M
arcus woke from a deep sleep with a scream tightening his throat. He caught himself before the sound escaped and sat up on his pallet. Sweat poured from him, and he pushed his hair back from his face as he climbed to his feet. Staggering in the dark of his hut, he found the jug of ale and downed a good portion, trying to ease the terror inside him. His heart raced in his chest, and his thoughts filled with danger and turmoil . . . and fire.

He pushed open the door and walked out into the cooler, misty air of night, hoping to regain his calm and clarity. Taking deep breaths did not help, and he found himself shaking as sheer and absolute terror filled his mind, heart, and soul.

This could mean only one thing, and he dreaded even thinking of such a possibility. Marcus shook his head, denying the thought before it could form
completely. The crunching of leaves underfoot startled him, and he turned toward the sound.

And her.

Aislinn stood before him, her eyes glazed over and her body not her own. She was a seer of immense power, sent by her mother to him when still a child to train in the old ways. Her skills and power grew as she matured, and now she began to speak in the language from ages ago. The language of the time when priests like the two of them had served the old gods. The words floated into his mind, and he memorized them as she spoke them in the singsong voice of prophecy.

“When the threat is revealed, the sleepers awaken. A Warrior seeks the truth while Fire burns away the deception. Begin in the East, then North, then South, then West. . . . Find the true gate among the rest.”

Marcus's rising blood told him that this was the moment they'd trained and prayed for throughout their lives and the lives of the generations of priests before them. Now he waited for the rest of the words that would give them guidance in their task to save humanity from the darkest evil they would face, but none followed. Instead Aislinn opened her eyes as if she were waking and stared at him in fear. She rarely remembered the prophecies or knowledge she gained, but she understood the import of what had come to her this night.

“Marcus? Is it begun?” she asked, walking to his side.

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close, both giving and receiving comfort in the physical gesture. “Aye, I fear it is.”

“And she is . . .” Marcus put his fingers to her mouth
to prevent her from speaking about her prophecy anymore. They could not afford to discuss it openly.

“Aye,” he repeated.

In the silence, he felt the heat of his powers rising in his blood. It replaced the fear and gave him the clarity to know what they must do, or at least whom they must seek. He knew that Aislinn would lead them throughout their quest, and as he watched the emotions flash across her face, he realized she must be feeling the same thing.

They had valuable weapons for their battle against the ancient evil one. For thousands of years, they'd prayed and worshipped the gods who had been forgotten or transmuted by other, newer religions. They'd studied the old legends. Marcus doubted that anyone in the outside world was as prepared for the bloody battles and tremendous displays of power that were about to unfold.

Suddenly, the skin of his forearm burned, and he raised his arm to look upon it. Aislinn did the same. A mark appeared in the same place on both of them.

They watched by the light of the moon as the ancient image of a small man burned a patch into his skin. Hissing against the searing pain, he nodded as others left their dwellings to join them in the center of their village. Each held out their arm as they were marked with the symbol of their power. Only Aislinn's was different—the silver crescent moon marked her skin. Would she be for some higher purpose than the rest?

“It has begun,” he said, meeting their gazes and then closing his eyes in silent prayer. “Ready yourselves for the journey.”

As he watched his followers obey his instructions,
he knew that some would fall, some would stand, and some would die in this war against true evil. Marcus offered up new prayers to the old gods, hoping they could still hear the pleas of those who remained faithful to the old ways.

By daybreak they were ready to leave their island for the first time in generations. Standing on the shore, staring into the thick mist that protected them from discovery and kept outsiders forever away, he uttered the words to disperse that fog. Four boats—twenty men and women—would leave on this perilous journey while the rest remained hidden here, protecting their knowledge from the outside world.

Marcus watched the island disappear from view as they crossed the miles to the mainland, where they would face dangers unlike any they had faced before. As he turned away from the island, he realized one cause for his fear—the seer had never finished her prophecy.

Gods help them all.

When the threat is revealed, the sleepers awaken,

A Warrior seeks the truth

while Fire burns away the deception.

Begin in the East, then North, then South, then West . . .

Find the true gate among the
rest.

Late winter, AD 1286
Yester, Scotland

W
ith the morning's cool mist long burned away by the strong rays of the midday sun, Brienne waited until the villagers were all seeing to their daily chores and tasks before deciding that this was the day.

And it was—she could feel it in her bones and in her blood. Something called to her, and some growing urge within her pushed her feet toward the place where she would find out the truth about what lived inside her. There had been tiny glimpses at what it might be, times when fire seemed to answer to her, but she would attempt something this day that she had not dared before.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the latch and tugged the heavy door open a crack. It creaked on its hinges as she eased it open only wide enough for her to slip inside. Then, after stepping inside the smithy's dark cottage, Brienne closed the door behind her, wanting no interruptions. Since her father was off on an errand, she expected none. Entering into the small building that
served as his workshop, she circled the fire pit and tossed in more wood, watching as the existing fire licked at the new pieces and then consumed them. She leaned over and pressed down on the bellows that fed air to the fire, encouraging it to spread and grow hotter and hotter with each breath of air that blew from the pump.

The flames flared higher before her and she could not resist the urge to look deeper into them. Brienne tried to fight their call, tried to fight the strength of it, but lost the battle. She inhaled slowly, trying now to control the fear that simmered in her belly while she moved closer to the fire's heat. As it called to her, icy tendrils slid along her skin in spite of the heat in the smithy. Shivering and sweating at the same time, she lifted trembling hands from her side and held them out.

Not knowing how to do what she planned, Brienne stretched her fingers, wiggling them, and watched as the flames did the same. Then she flexed each finger separately, and single bursts of flame followed each movement. When she twisted her hands, the reaction of the fire was overwhelming.

Each flame danced before her, swirling and dipping this way and that before joining the others in the growing swarm of heat and light. Even when she dropped her hands and closed her eyes, they remained vivid and shifting in her mind.

They danced for her—
they danced for me!
—moving in every direction when she simply thought it, and the sound of their movements surrounded her. Holding her arms out over the fire, she wiggled her fingers over the hearth and laughed as the flames writhed and swirled in answer to her gesture. This was not new to her. She'd done this many times before.

What she planned to do next was different and daring.

Moving her hands in a gathering motion, Brienne pulled the flames together and then spread them out until they filled the space before her, no longer limited to the fire pit and no longer dependent on wood or peat to fuel them. Staring into them, she searched for the center of the brightness and heat and waited.

“Mine.”

She strained to keep her eyes on the fire and listened as the whispers came from the heart of it again.

“Come to me.”

A shudder coursed through her body, and the fear overwhelmed her as the whispered words surrounded her, enticing her, entreating and tempting her. The back of her neck tingled, and her skin burned as the heat of the flames—nay, the flames themselves—encircled her. Keeping her body still, she waited to hear more, waited to recognize the voice or to learn who called to her through the fire. From deep within her soul, she drew the strength she needed to regain control over the flames and, standing within their embrace, she listened and waited to hear more.

“Daughter of my blood.”

Brienne laughed aloud, feeling the power course through her, stronger and stronger each moment. The voice, the words, the flames at her command all confirmed her suspicion that she could control the fire. After hours or minutes—she knew not which—of her standing untouched within the flames, they began to sway and spark around her. As she gathered them once more under her control, they parted for her to move away.

When the voice disappeared completely, when she knew that presence was gone, her fear heightened. The heat began to burn her skin, so she tamped down the flames, guiding them back to the hearth of the smithy, easing them back into the coals of burning wood there so that they would be ready for her father's use. A smile teased the corners of her mouth as inappropriate pride flooded her.

She had done it!

Each time she dared, her power over the fire seemed to grow. And grow stronger. But this day, this time, she had stepped within them without dire consequences. Next time she would—

“Brienne.”

She jumped at the interruption and spun around to face the door to the small building. Her father stood there, staring at her. Had he seen her move the fire? From the blank expression on her father's face, she could not tell. Pressing her now-sweating palms on her gown and adjusting her veil back into place, she waited for his reaction.

He closed the door quickly behind himself and checked the shutters, just as she had before attempting to call forth the ability to command the flames. But she'd not barred the door, so he could have seen everything she'd done. Would the flames follow her commands if another were present, or was this something she could do only in secret?

Brienne watched as concern and wariness entered his gaze. Leaving some tools near the doorway, he walked slowly toward his hearth, glancing between it and her several times.

“Are you injured? Are you burned?” he asked as he
took one hand of hers and then the other in his larger ones, searching for signs of damage. Then he met her gaze. “How is this possible? What have you done?”

His suspicious, accusatory tone hurt her, but Brienne understood that he was worried about her. She stepped away from him and away from the constant draw of the flames before answering.

“I . . . ,” she stammered, not truly knowing how to explain it all to him. Brienne glanced at him, imploring him to understand.

“Come here, lass,” he said softly, opening his strong arms to her as he always did.

Embraced by him, she felt safe . . . for the moment. These feelings, these powers, these changes that grew stronger and stronger with each passing day frightened her. There was no one she could speak with about them. No one who could understand or accept that she was more like her true father than anyone had guessed. Even though Gavin the blacksmith had raised her and loved her as his own, she was not.

She shuddered at the thought of her true father, and Gavin responded by hugging her even tighter. The tears gathered in her eyes as she kept silent.

“I will keep ye safe, Brienne,” he promised. His words and warm breath tickled her ear, and she nodded, accepting his pledge even if it were not the truth.

“I know you will, Father,” she said, nodding her head and granting herself another moment of comfort before moving out of his embrace. “I have so many questions.”

As always, her words stopped him. Gavin hated her questions. He hated the reminder that she was not his, that there was another who could step in at any time and take her. And though years had passed since any
interest had been shown, all it would take was the untoward word and unguarded action to draw the wrong attention.

“I fear there is little I can add to what you've heard from your mother or ken already, lass. The lord had you brought here to us when you were but days old, giving you into our care. He gave no explanation, no instructions other than to care for you, and he has not interfered since that day,” he said. Staring off into the corner, Brienne knew he was thinking on that long-ago day. Turning back to her, he shrugged. “We never had the courage to ask his reasons or why he gave you to us for fear he would take you away.”

Brienne smiled at his admission. She knew of no one in Yester Village or in the area who would question Lord Hugh—or anyone who had survived questioning him. A shiver traced a path of icy sparks along her spine. She'd never even had the courage to approach him before, but now, now that she was discovering these powers and understanding he was the only person who could answer her questions, she might.

“Do not!” her father warned, taking hold of her arm and drawing her close. “Do not even think about speaking to him on such”—he glanced at the fires now banked low in his hearth—“such matters as these.”

The fear gazing back at her from his eyes should have been enough to steer her from such a path. The whispered warning should have been sufficient to caution anyone not a bairn or a fool. The need that grew ever deeper and stronger within her pushed her in that dangerous direction. The desire to know her origins and the extent of these strange powers that inhabited her never diminished.

Words drifted to her in that silent moment, and she shivered. The power in them tempted her and called to her deepest longings.

Mine. Come to me.

Daughter of my blood.

Brienne, who had belonged to no one, who could call none family or kin, longed to be part of something. And this whispered invitation called to that deep need within her. She tried to shake off the fear and the temptation, but it all settled within her, keeping her blood heated and that unspoken need stoked. Gavin's sad expression called her back to this cottage and this moment.

“Nay, you are right, Father. 'Twould be foolish to speak to him,” Brienne assured him, nodding her head.

Gavin kissed her on the top of her head, just as he always had when reassuring her, and released her from his arms.

“You should be thinking about that offer from Dougal's son James rather than . . .” He nodded his head, lifting his chin in the direction of the hearth. “Marriage and bairns should be your concern now, lass. Surely your mother has spoken of such matters to you?”

Brienne smiled, trying to convince him that such matters did interest her, while her heart broke over her deception.

“Aye. She has spoken of little other than Jamie's offer.” That much was true. “I have taken her counsel on it seriously.” A truth, but getting closer to the lying. “It is appealing to me.” There was the lie. Would he believe it?

“Any man would be proud to have you to wife,” he said. “Your weaving skills do you much credit.”

No matter that the skills she wanted to practice and develop did not involve a loom and threads. Brienne let this lie stand between them as well.

Noises began to leach into the cocoon of silence that surrounded them, warning them of the approach of others and the return of their everyday tasks and chores. Gavin walked to the window, unlatched and opened the shutters, throwing them wide to allow the cooler breezes in. Though the cold air of winter had barely warmed these last weeks, Gavin could not work the smithy without a flow to feed the flames.

Strange. The flames needed no such flow when she called them forth. Even with the shutters and door closely firmly against intrusion, they grew stronger and higher at her command. Her fingers tingled, reminding her of the power that had directed the heat from within her. Shaking them for a moment, more to erase the memory than to ease any tightness, Brienne reached for the two buckets by the door.

“I will get water,” she said, tugging open the door. She found comfort in the ritual of helping her father work.

Brienne stepped into the path leading from the smithy to the well at the center of the small village, which was not as large as Gifford itself. Those who lived here worked the lands owned by Lord Hugh or provided some necessary service to those in the keep. Now, as she made her way through the village for the noon meal, she nodded to everyone who passed her by. Reaching the well, she chatted with the women there as she tossed the dipping bucket down and then tugged the rope up until it peeked over the stone wall's edge.

An eerie feeling invaded her body and soul at that moment, just when everything around her seemed so
much the norm as it was each day. Instead her blood raced through her veins, and Brienne could feel it as it moved through her. Her heart pumped so strongly that she was certain others must hear it. Glancing around at the gathered women, she saw that they took no untoward notice of her. Then her skin began to heat, and she was tempted to pour the cool contents of the recently filled bucket over her to ease the growing warmth that seemed to control her.

Only when the pounding grew too loud to ignore did she realize it was not her heart making the ground shake beneath her. A group of mounted knights broke through the bushes and headed along the pathway to the keep. Twenty armored men, none taking notice of the villagers as they passed—save one.

Her.

The one who led the group slowed his horse before passing the well and met her gaze. Brienne quickly lowered her eyes, whether out of respect or out of fear she knew not, but when Lord Hugh rode through the village, no one dared look directly upon him.

Now he directed his horse toward her. She watched as the other women began to edge away from the well and from her. No one wanted the lord's attention, for it usually ended badly for anyone involved. Over the years she'd heard the warnings from her parents about the rumors of the lord's powers and his attitude toward the women under his control, so Brienne tried to blend in with the others, lowering the buckets to her sides and shuffling back away from his approach. This time it did not work. Glancing up, she saw Gavin walking toward her from the direction of the smithy, but when the lord moved closer to her, Gavin stopped.

She put the buckets down and waited for Lord Hugh to say or do something. Silence filled the area, and she knew that many watched this encounter from safer distances and from behind cover that would keep them from their lord's sight. No one wanted his molten-silver gaze to fall on them.