Knight of Flame

by Scott Eder

  Finishing the tour, right hand lingering on the head of his four-pound cross-peen hammer, his chest felt tight.

  What the hell am I doing? I just said goodbye to my freakin’ tools. I’m going crazy and it’s only been a few hours.

  Big Magnus filled the doorway, solemn and quiet. Dressed in his Knight of Earth finery—dark brown surcoat over thin, flexible Quinsteele hauberk that hung to his knees, full-length tan cloak trimmed in the color of rich loam, and high-gloss, sturdy black boots. The handle of his elemental axe jutted over his right shoulder.

  “Hey, man, what’s the word?” Dev asked.

  “The Order has convened in the Womb,” Magnus intoned, eyes staring straight ahead, back and shoulders rigid. “I am to escort you there.”

  Dev licked his lips. This was big. Magnus only did the whole knight-in-armor thing for official occasions.

  “Um, okay.” Dev scrambled for a clean white shirt. It wouldn’t do for him to enter the Womb half-naked.

  “What’s up?” As they walked down the hall, Dev finished buttoning his shirt. Magnus kept the pace slow so the injured Knight could keep up. The tempo of his heartbeat increased the closer they got to the Womb until, at the entrance to the command center of the Knights Elementalis, it thumped heavily against his ribcage. The Womb was open to all members of the Order at any time, but only official functions like new investitures or disciplinary hearings required the formality of regal dress.

  Stillman stood at the head of a horseshoe-shaped table made of smoky quartz. Cyndralla and Dronor, decked out in their knightly regalia—white for Cyndralla, blue for Dronor—had already assumed their appointed positions to Stillman’s left. To his right, Magnus’s and Dev’s seats remained vacant.

  The magnificence of the Womb never failed to impress the Knight of Flame. Clear, luminous crystal made up the floor and ceiling of the circular room. The walls, black marble inlaid with veins of copper, silver and gold glittered in the perpetual light that prevented the existence of shadows.

  Magnus marched Dev to the opening of the table then stood by his seat at Stillman’s right hand.

  Dev stared at a miniature model of the Earth that spun on its axis in the open space between the table’s legs. Mountains stood out in variegated relief while invisible winds dictated the movements of dense cloud pockets. Four pinpricks of different colored lights—red, blue, brown, white—a different color for each Knight, clustered around a spot in central Wales.

  Stillman, dressed in black surcoat, and cloak trimmed in jet-black fur, raised his hand and the globe floated up to the ceiling, so as not to obstruct anyone’s vision. He cleared his throat.

  “This official conclave of the Order Knights Elementalis has been called to address the flagrant aggression and disregard for the safety of those we protect by Develor Quinteele, the sixth Knight of Flame.” With a rustle of heavy fabric, he flapped his cape behind him and sat down.

  The other Knights followed suit.

  A chill washed over Dev’s skin at the formal opening, but the cold sensation was quickly banished by a flash of heat as his element stirred.

  “Due to repeated, uncontrolled, violent outbursts as witnessed by members of this Order, you, Develor Quinteele, are hereby re—”

  “This is ridiculous.” The volume of Dev’s voice increased with each word. “Repeated. Uncontrolled. Outbursts.”

  Dronor leaned forward, lent his swarthy voice to the mix. “Don’t forget violent.”

  Magnus pinned the Spaniard back into his seat with a glare.

  Dev growled at Dronor, who smiled in return.

  “Granted, there have been some fights lately,” Dev said, “But none out of control.”

  “The fights were not out of control, you were,” Wren spoke up from the doorway. All heads turned in her direction.

  Her words felt like a slap in the face. “You too?” Dev asked.

  Against the other Knights, Dev would argue until his throat dried up and his tongue fell out, but Wren knew the truth, had seen everything. Even so, he never expected this.

  The fight in him slithered away to die. I’m doomed.

  Stillman addressed Wren. “I told you not to come.” His tone was low and charged with a father’s desire to spare his child pain.

  “I had to, sir, and will present myself for disciplinary action when this meeting has concluded.”

  “As you will.”

  “Dev,” Wren spoke to him as if he were the only person in the room, “I’m sorry, but you’ve left me no choice.”

  She recounted each and every hairy moment. From the shoving match in the express line at the supermarket, to the daily fights in the shipyards, to the near murder outside Daegon Gray this morning, Wren told them all with a matter-of-fact, news-anchor worthy delivery.

  As she covered the countless dates and facts, Dev surveyed the others. Magnus looked bored, but chuckled when she described how the old lady in the express line beat Dev off with her purse. Stillman looked sad and old, the weight of his responsibility sitting heavy. Cyndralla stared at Dev, her lavender eyes cool and calculating. Did she support him or not? He never could get a good read on her. And Dronor, that bastard, devoured every condemning word like it was covered in custard. Today was probably the best day of his damp life.

  At the three hour mark, Stillman held up his hand. “I think that’s enough. Wren, your report has been thorough and unclouded. Thank you.”

  Wren bowed, turned stiffly, and marched from the Womb.

  Stillman stood. The sound of his chair scraping against the stone floor echoed in the silent chamber. “Develor Quinteele, the evidence presented is incontrovertible.” Stillman looked at each of the Knights in turn, and waited for a nod.

  Dronor nodded with short, energetic bursts.

  No surprise there, but I could do without the face-splitting grin.

  Cyndralla’s sharp features softened as she looked at Dev, commiseration shining in her purple-hued eyes and sad smile. She, too, nodded.

  Thanks, Cyndy.

  Magnus took a long time, but eventually closed his eyes and lowered his head.

  You didn’t have a choice, brother.

  Stillman took a deep breath. “Knight of Flame, you are hereby restricted to the halls of the Cradle until such time as you have shown significant control of yourself and your element.”

  “You can’t be serious.” The air left Dev’s lungs as fire filled them. “Shadow is back.”

  With the formal proceeding over, the Knights stood. Magnus stepped toward Dev, but Stillman waved him off and came around the end of the table.

  “If you please,” the Precept addressed Dev’s peers, “give us a few moments.”

  On his way to the door, Dronor turned to Dev. “You have been defeated. We’ll take it from here.”

  You smug son of a bitch. I’ll kick your…

  Dev lunged at the Water Knight, but didn’t get more than two feet before an invisible force rooted him to the spot.

  Cyndralla. She caught him by surprise. He fought her spell, but her control was flawless.

  “If we fight amongst ourselves, the forces of Shadow win.” Cyndralla released Dev only after the Knight of Water had disappeared from sight. On her way out, she squeezed Dev’s shoulder.

  “We’ll catch up later,” Magnus assured Dev as he left.

  Dev stared through the empty doorway to the rest of the Cradle.

  “What would you have done had Cyndralla not stopped you?” Stillman asked, his voice casual and calm.

  Good question.

  Dev turned to his commander. “I would have tried to hurt him.” Just thinking about Dronor’s comment stoked the fire in his soul.

  “I believe you.” Stillman studied Dev, watching the heat ripple across his face.

  “Sir, you need me.” The thought of his fellow Knights fighting Gray without him sent his element racing through his veins. “I’m a warrior. I fight. It’s who I am.” Anger gripped his heart.

  Stillman sho
ok his head. “I disagree. You are so much more than a walking battle zone, Knight of Flame. I need you to understand that.”

  I’m in no mood for games, old man.

  “What more is there to understand?” Dev’s words came out hot. His hands ignited and he curled them into blazing yellow fists. “Do not speak to me in riddles. If you know something, spit it out.” He stepped toward the Precept.

  Unconcerned, Stillman hitched one leg up on the table and folded his hands in his lap. “Are you going to attack me now?”

  The question hit Dev like a fire hose, extinguishing his internal blaze.

  “What?” Dev’s hands winked out as his mouth opened wide. “Sir, I—”

  I lost it again. Over what?

  Stillman waved off Dev’s shock and the apology forming on his lips. “I will help you any way I can, Develor, but I cannot give you the answers.”

  “Can you at least give me the question?”

  Stillman gave him a small smile. “My son, sometimes that’s the hardest part to figure out. Think on it. We will talk again soon.”

  Chapter 20

  ONE FINAL SPRITZ OF HAIR SPRAY and her long auburn hair lay perfect. A light foundation with a hint of blush, and lip gloss applied just right…Cassidy stepped back from the vanity mirror in her bathroom and gave herself an approving smile. It wasn’t every day she got invited to a major event by one of the most powerful men in Tampa, and she wanted to look her best.

  Fifteen minutes. Will Mr. Gray come to the door? No, probably not. He has people for that. Or, will the car simply stay parked at the curb until I deign to appear?

  Silly thoughts like that had flipped through her brain all morning. She applied a second layer of antiperspirant, against the heat she told herself, but knew deep down that she was coating herself against the beehive of nerves buzzing around in her stomach.

  What am I so nervous about? Alexander Gray is just a man. I’ve been asked out before. So, really, there is nothing to be nervous about.

  The doorbell chimed. She ran to the door, patted her clothes and hair one last time, took a deep breath and opened it. Mr. Gray stood on her doorstep, one hand in his pocket, his other poised to ring again.

  “Good morning, Ms. Sinclair.” Alexander’s beguiling smile brightened her morning. “You look lovely. Are you ready?”

  “Uhhh…yeah.” Cassidy stammered, “Just…let me get my purse and notebook.” She found it difficult to focus as she grabbed her bag and stepped outside. She turned to close the door, but stopped when Mr. Gray cleared his throat.

  “It would be a shame to ruin your beautiful ensemble by showing up to the event barefoot, my dear.”

  She expected to hear a sneer or some other condescension embedded in his tone, but she detected nothing. For everyone else, she got a sense of the emotions behind their words, but not with Alexander Gray. Ever since she caught that unguarded view into his fury when they first met, his emotions seemed blank.

  “Duh. I’ll be right back.” She raced into her room and slipped into the conservative, yet sexy, black heels. With a final glance in the mirror—why am I blushing?—she headed out the door.

  The limo ride to the hospital seemed to be over in an instant. Mr. Gray spent the ride on his cell phone making sure all was in order for the ceremony. He mentioned something about a package being in place, but she lost interest in the conversation when the façade of St. Matthew’s hove into view.

  Elegant Spanish archways, porticos and old stone marked the turn of the century construction. It looked more like an upscale hotel than the oldest hospital in the south. Not big by modern standards, it towered over Cassidy’s life like the Empire State Building. An overflow of news vans, taxis and limos spoiled the quaint image.

  Her heart dropped into her stomach when Gray’s living room on wheels drove under the great stone archway and glided to a halt opposite the red carpet that led to the front doors. She’d made that same drive two years ago under much different circumstances, and hadn’t been back since.

  Seeing the place up close, the memories popped into sharp focus. The dread that had governed her prior visit closed in upon her. She had to get out, get some fresh air. Hand trembling, she pulled on the handle, but the door didn’t open. She pulled again, harder, with similar results.

  Why won’t you open? The limo’s tight walls edged closer. Can’t breathe.

  The door slid open and a white-gloved hand reach in to her. She grabbed on and let it pull her to safety.

  Out in the open, she sucked in the sweet taste of Tampa, filling her lungs with its hot moist flavor. With it came a renewed purpose.

  I can do this. Get the story and get out.

  Distant clouds threatened rain, but over St. Matthew’s the sun beat down on the media horde outside the shade of the covered walkway. They lined the red carpet. Jostling, butting shoulders, inching forward, they vied for position to get a clean pic or to shout their questions. The big guys, well-known reporters and local royalty, waited inside for the man of the hour to arrive and the tour to start.

  “Come, my dear,” Alexander offered his arm and led her through the gauntlet accompanied by the digital chchk of hundreds of cameras. Cassidy marched by Alexander’s side, eyes downcast, matching her step to his.

  “Smile and wave.”

  Not wanting to disappoint him or seem unappreciative, she painted on a broad smile, held her head high, and waved to the crowd. She looked everywhere except at those doors. With each step, though, they got closer. Her resolved flaked around the edges and her steps faltered until she felt a tug from Mr. Gray that pulled her forward.

  I’m okay. I need to do this.

  The doors whispered open at their approach. A blast of cold air escaped the confines of the hospital and charged up her spine.

  Aside from the people, the lobby looked identical to the frozen image in her mind. Same white marble floor and spoiled cream colored walls. Same low, black leather and metal chairs and tables. Same seasonal collection of silk flowers sprouting from faux onyx vases.

  How dare this place not change!

  Even the nurses seemed the same. Cassidy recognized the one behind the counter—stern face, uncaring eyes, hair flipped back, starched white uniform. A modern day Nurse Ratched. But she knew better, knew it was all a big act put on for the circus that invaded the head nurse’s territory.

  Alongside her host, Cassidy ignored the mumbled discussion that buzzed around her as the tour began, but maintained the presence of mind to respond with an inane nod or vapid smile when addressed directly. For the most part, she kept her head down and focused on the shoes of the person ahead of her, stopping and starting when they did.

  No landmarks marred the linoleum, just one anonymous square after another. She could almost imagine herself walking through Home Depot or the mall. Almost. When she hit five hundred, she stopped counting.

  What? Her empty stomach turned summersaults. Did someone say second floor? The shoes ahead of her climbed the stairs. She had to do the same.

  A wave of grief hammered into Cassidy. Oh God. I thought I could do this, thought I was past the worst. She turned around, but Mr. Gray tightened his grip.

  “Please, I need to go,” Cassidy whispered, trying to peel back the fingers around her arm.

  “No. Stay. It will be over soon and my driver will take you wherever you want to go.”

  “But…”

  Mr. Gray faced her. Did she just imagine that? Did his eyes flash black?

  “You WILL see this through.”

  The clamp on her bicep hurt, but she didn’t want to make a scene and prolong her time in this awful place, so she stopped struggling and let herself be guided through the halls.

  Maybe they won’t tour the whole floor. Maybe the new area is just outside the stairwell.

  At the top of the stairs, Cassidy risked a glance. The Mayor walked ahead of her, talking over his shoulder to Mr. Gray who listened and nodded. She realized it was the Mayor’s sycophantic mumble
s she’d tried to tune out for the whole tour. Figures.

  “Ah, Stephen,” Mr. Gray spoke up, “Allow me to introduce the lovely Ms. Cassidy Sinclair. She works for the Weekly.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Sinclair.” Mayor Stephen Green aimed his best vote-getting smile at Cassidy and stuck out his hand. “I’m a big fan of your publication.”

  She shook his hand and felt his lie through the contact. “Likewise, Mr. Mayor.”

  Obligatory action completed, he turned back to Mr. Gray. “Alexander, I’ve been meaning to…”

  The Mayor’s words drifted into the background clutter.

  Down the hall, beyond the Mayor’s bobbing head, she hoped to see some sort of temporary seating area, a place for the speeches and the blue ribbon cutting. But there was nothing like that, only walls and halls…five of them. Eyes down again, aimed at the Mayor’s feet, she named each one as they passed its entryway and prayed the procession would stop before she called the fourth.

  Radiology. Oncology. The names rattled off the top of her head without hesitation.

  Cardiology. Cassidy felt cold, freezing, and so alone. Her entire being wanted to stop, turn around and sprint in the other direction, but Gray drove her forward with the rest of the media herd.

  The Mayor stopped midway to the next hall. Cassidy had to put on the brakes or end up in his back pocket. Mr. Gray released the vice-grip that held her in thrall to clasp hands with Hernst Borgash, the Director of St. Matthew’s, who promised that the ceremony wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Rubbing some feeling back into her arm, she spied the makeshift presentation area set up by the last wing. Neat rows of multi-colored plastic chairs and a portable lectern occupied all the available space in the north end juncture. Above the new wing, a freshly painted sign in large blue letters named it Neurology. Below that, a large blue ribbon with a giant bow stretched across the entranceway.

  Platitudes exchanged, the men humphed, grumphed, patted each other on the back and moved on.

  Don’t look. Walk past. Ignore it.

  Cassidy listened to her own advice. Head down, she followed the Mayor until the linoleum pattern to her right opened into a darkened hallway. Her feet quit moving and she raised her head.