The Flame of Wrath (31 page)

             
Seeing the resolved faces of all those present, Maven's shoulders rose. She nodded. “All right. We move out at dawn.”

             
With these words, the room erupted into joyous cries. The sound of cheers soon gave way to the quiet solace of shared embraces. After all that had happened, the lost friends had been reunited.

             
Among the boisterous reconnection, Angelos drew close to a woman in sienna. He spoke directly into her shell-like ear. “Remember our arrangement,” he said.

             
The woman glanced at him quickly over her shoulder. “I've forgotten nothing. Gold beyond my wildest dreams, if I report directly to you.”

             
Angelos dipped his head in agreement. He did not remain long after the exchange of words. He breezed past her, avoiding drawing any attention to himself or his newly purchased informant.

             
The Empress too had lost herself among the embraces. She spoke comforting words to each man and woman she said was 'brave enough to embark upon this virtuous endeavor.'

             
The golden ruler turned to see King Angelos drawing nearer to her. Aurea opened her arms to Angelos, hugging him in manner purely for show. While they were close, she spoke behind a smile. “Is it done?” she asked.

             
As he pulled away, the King smiled confidently.

             
The Empress turned away. She took in the merriment around her with a great weight lifted from her shoulders. Now no matter what Maven found, she would know of its existence whether Maven meant to share its power or not.

********

              Life proved its immortal majesty within every vibrantly green aspect of the Pyrosian jungles. The animals alive within its lushness only furthered the feeling that this world of harlequin had eyes.

             
A sword sliced without patience through the vines impeding her path. Maven's skin had grown tan by the scorching sun. Her cheeks were flushed by the climate's humidity. Still as her long blond hair fell from its ponytail to cling to her sweat-lined cheek, she looked alive. She and her men had been inside the heart of the jungle for almost three weeks. During that time, they had found tombs from various times within Pyrosian history. They had discovered treasures which they had seized as gifts for the Empress, but to Maven the real treasures came in the form of the parchments, scrolls and tablets she often found within the ruins.

             
A symbol had come to be her dearest friend. She had first seen it on Logos. She had not understood the true meaning of it or even its name. She had seen it again as it burned itself into her side. That mark had since faded away to nothing, but she felt it sting and throb with each new clue she found inside the jungles.

             
The symbol, she had learned, was called the Eye of Wrath while in other texts it possessed other names. The Mark of Wrath, the Seal of Wrath and even the Flame of Wrath were touched upon again and again. Each mention was filled with impending dread. It was clear that the more Maven learned, the more she realized that the Eye of Wrath was something that the ancient druids greatly feared. She pressed onward certain that the very weapon which Aurea sought was also the very thing which Logos meant for her to understand.

             
One riddle led to another and another until nine months had passed. All these things had come to a climax. Now, their blind search of the jungles would either prove profitable or a waste.

             
Nightfall was fast approaching. She held a torch to the sky, standing as a weary company's hope for salvation when Fate had turned its back upon them yet again. She peered with emerald eyes into the darkness. The sparkling treasures of her eyes might have been the riches her expedition sought, but she knew that what they had come for would far outshine any material wealth one could possess. This wealth, she knew, would be one of the mind.

             
A stone door stood between herself and what she desired. She narrowed her eyes upon the red symbol peeking through overgrown vines and moss. The symbol was all but indiscernible among the jungle. 

             
“Clear it,” she commanded.

             
“Immediately, Queen Maven,” a soldier answered. He stepped forward then tore at the abundance of vines until; at last the doorway was exposed.

             
Maven felt her heart pound. She touched her hand lightly to the crimson seal. “The Eye of Wrath,” she whispered. Her longing emerged from inside the depths of her eyes. As it did, a stinging heat throbbed in the symbol she could feel against her side.

             
The seal was a large circle of blood red. Another circle existed within it, slightly smaller in size.  Those two rings were separated by a series of thirteen golden dials. The ancient symbols along their surface indicated a code of some kind, but what that great unlocking mystery might be was as of yet unknown. Within the very heart of the rings, a triangle burned in the depiction of red flame. It shielded the closed eye sitting like a nurtured jewel in the very heart of the mark.

             
Together, Maven and her men had searched for so long.

             
With a trembling hand, Maven reached to her side. Blindly she accepted the bottle of wine offered to her. She brought it to her lips, unable to look away from the enigmatic symbol.

             
“Lady Maven?” the soldier began timidly.

             
Maven placed the torch in the line of her mouth. Then like a dragon of myth, she expelled the wine from her lips, spraying the mark with a hellish fire.

             
An ominous silence filled the air. The Queen stood with moistened lips, breathing deeply as she awaited her reward.

             
Around her, her men gasped.

             
Reacting to the flame, the eye opened with a sudden jerk. It blinked rapidly at the age to cloud its vision. Then menacingly it narrowed its sight upon Maven.

             
“And fire shall be its waking kiss,” the blond recited dreamily. It was all precisely as she had read. The scrolls had not steered her astray. This had to be the temple, the temple which held her most coveted desire.

             
She held the eye's gaze even as her insides quivered. Her hand reached outward. As she turned the dials in their corresponding order, she voiced their key aloud. “Pay homage.”

             
She shivered with a flash of Rapier's face and a screaming voice.
“Go to the jungle where the sun sleeps!”

             
“The son consumed all life before restoring it to the world,” Maven said.

             
Maven had all but completed the alignment when she realized a problem. Her brows knit together in an anxious frown.

             
“Highness?”

             
“The key was supposed to be as I had just said, but there is no symbol for the word 'son'.”

             
She sighed loudly then looked away. She had not come this far only to be denied when all she had worked toward was within her reach. Her eyes fell upon the burning brilliance of her torch's light. The light burned intensely at her sight like the very sun. Suddenly she tensed in epiphany.

             
Her mind flashed to a voice which never drifted far from her thoughts.

             
Go to the jungle where the sun sleeps.

             
Maven had thought that Rapier referred to the son. In every fragile bit of ancient text Maven had seen there again was the constant reference to a son. And yet as Maven stood before the temple, she found herself at a loss. There was no son. What if she had misunderstood? What if Rapier's clue had not been 'son' at all?

             
Maven examined the symbols more closely. Her head fell forward, sending her long golden hair tragically around her face.

             
“My Lady, we will find another way,” the soldier promised. “We could attempt storming the temple.” A sickening feeling filled his entire company as Maven's shoulders began to shake.

             
Maven snaked her hand toward the last unsolved dial and turned it toward the final hieroglyph. She lifted her head, still laughing. There was a certain wildness alive inside her eyes. “It isn't 'son' at all,” she murmured. “It's 'sun'!”

             
The organized marks lit like glowing stars. Fearfully, the soldiers took steps backward.

             
A slow smile spread erotically over Maven's lips as the door opened. She motioned with her chin toward the opening. “Bring me the book,” she ordered, “but help yourself to any spoils.”

             
Her eyes followed the soldiers racing inside. Nervously, she held her breath.

             
It felt like countless eternities to the Queen of Whispering Winds. She intensified her gaze on the direction of the darkened opening.

             
When at last her men emerged with a book swaddled inside one of their crimson capes, Maven exhaled forcibly. She traded her torch for the large book.

             
It was a thick monstrosity that glinted under the torchlight. At first the hue seemed almost black. Her trembling fingertips traced over its surface. She studied the color more closely. The book wasn't black at all. Its color was actually red. The book shimmered with a multi-tonal dimension that rivaled fire. Her shaking fingertips continued to traverse the surface. Beneath her fingers she felt the thick density of leather, but in some ways it felt coarse like----

             
Her breath left her in a whisper. “Scales.”

             
“My Lady?”

             
Maven's eyes met with a concerned pair of brown. The Queen favored the soldier with a reassuring gaze. Words were not necessary. The very instant that she looked into him, he understood. They were going home. They had what they had come for. At last, there would be rest for these weary travelers. That understanding passed quickly throughout the soldiers emerging from the temple.

             
The cheers which erupted to fill the air mirrored the overpowering sense of pride swelling inside Maven's chest. She looked down to the book she held tightly to her breast. Maven released a wavering breath while the men around her began preparations to leave for home. She whispered so faintly that it was lost in the wind.

             
“I do this for you, my Love. All this struggle... it has been for you.” Maven lifted the book over her head in an offering to the moon piercing through the canopy. Her voice rose to meet the moon. “For you!” she screamed.

             
The voice which rose up through the night was the very same spark to birth the fires of dread.               Throughout the Pyrosian land all those bearing the gift of prophetic sight wailed in absolute lament. Their cries could be heard in every corner of the colonized world. From highest peak to lowest dale, their haunting voices shattered the tranquility of night. Something was horribly wrong in the world of magic.

             
On the night which chaos struck, the rebellion's leaders had come together in meeting. It was deep within the tunnels traversing Angels’ province that Myth writhed in utter agony. Her father held her tightly, trying to stop her flailing.

             
The fear written across his face was clearly read, even in the eerie light of the moss. “Daughter, what's wrong?” Frost pleaded.

             
Myth's face upturned to the tunnel ceiling. She stared to it with glassy eyes. What she saw was not the subterranean world around her, but rather something else entirely. She witnessed the horrible visions plaguing all seers. As her body broke out in a deathly pallor, her voice escaped her.

             
“Stop her!” she screamed. “Stop her before she gets any more powerful!”

             
“Who?” Frost asked frantically. “What do you see?”

             
Myth's voice rose up to join the chanted voices of other seer's speaking as one. She sang the song while lost in an otherworldly oneness overtaking all seers. “Wrath,” she rasped again and again.

             
Soren looked to the woman with horrified eyes. He had sensed the great unease of the magical world, but he could not have seen it as the women of the land had seen it. He could not have felt the strong powerful connection which the Oracles and psychically attuned women of the land had seen it. Instead, he stood motionless, unable to act. His quaking body relied heavily upon the staff he gripped with an anxious passion.

             
When he could, the druid's voice left him as a hoarse thing. “It's coming,” Soren said.