Call Of The Flame (Book 1)

by James R. Sanford

  The floor of the tent lay covered in hardwood, and dozens of lamps hung from the netting. The walls were painted by a landscape artist, and they depicted an archaic pastoral scene including well-groomed fields and spotless ruins, nothing like Karta.

  The place smelled good, like wild roses in the forest. Pedestals blooming with flower arrangements stood at every station and most of all in front of a screened area to one side where no doubt the princess and her party waited. A small orchestra played at the back, and at the other side stood huge cages filled with exotic birds. In the center lay an open stone hearth where a small fire burned in imitation of the traditional bonfire.

  Over a hundred guests were there, mostly standing in little circles, the ladies all fanning themselves furiously. The athletes and their friends were easy to spot — their clothing just didn’t have that light, airy, seasonal touch that the aristocracy enjoyed.

  Aiyan casually looked around. “Most of the Senate seems to be here.” Then he stopped. “Elistar’s breath. There’s Morae standing right next to Lekon.”

  Kyric didn’t look. “Won’t they recognize you?”

  “I wore a false beard and spoke with a Keltassian dialect when playing the trader with Lekon, so I don’t think he will know me. Morae has only seen me as Captain Bombasto, but if he gets close he will know me no matter how I’m costumed.”

  He stroked the tuft of hair remaining on his chin. “I’m going to mingle with the athletes. I’ll have my back to Morae, so signal me if he starts moving my way.”

  With his blood red doublet, Morae was easy to track in a crowd. Kyric tried to watch him without looking at him, and so distracted himself that he didn’t see Stefin Vaust until he was almost upon him.

  “You did not honor our agreement,” Vaust said sharply. “I should take one of your ears for that.” He held Kyric’s eye for a moment, allowing, at last, a thin smile to form.

  Kyric bowed politely while he thought of what to say. “Good evening, Mr. Vaust. I, ah, regret that Jela wasn’t able to accompany me. You see — “

  “Ah!” Vaust piped, “here she comes now. And on the arm of the lion-wrestling Jakavian. Don’t tell me you’ve had a falling out.”

  Kyric turned and stared in disbelief. There she was in a gown of lemon and fern, beautiful and tiny next to Jazul Marlez. Jazul stood imposing in simple black with a lion’s skin cape over one shoulder, his own mane of hair tied back loosely. His big smile got bigger when he saw Kyric and Vaust approaching.

  “Hello friend,” he said to Kyric. “I foretold that I would win the gold bar. Did you win your contest as well?”

  Kyric shook his hand. “No. I finished second.”

  “To tell the truth,” Jazul said, lowering his voice, “I finished second, but the winner died on his last lift.”

  “He died?”

  “Yes. He tried much more weight than he needed to win — more than I have ever seen. He got the weight over his head and held it, then he fell backward, dead.”

  “It was terrible,” Jela said.

  “Terrible?” said Jazul. “It was the best part of the whole games!” He roared with laughter.

  Jela explained how she and her friends had seen Jazul sitting alone at the games and how he didn’t know anyone here, the circus just being a venue for his act. They had taken it upon themselves to see him properly entertained in Aeva, and she had taken it upon herself to see him properly escorted.

  Vaust took Jela’s hand, bowing over it in his finery of mahogany and wheat, and kissing it lightly. His slicked-back hair and shaven face accentuated his angular features. “I hope you will honor me with a dance tonight,” he said to her.

  Something caught Kyric’s eye and when he turned he saw Aiyan watching from across the floor, almost quivering in anger, his face slowly turning red.

  A clapping of hands turned everyone to the center of the floor. The orchestra stopped playing. The master of protocol called everyone to form a line where he had laid a velvet rope. The games winners were to be first, then the nobility. Deliberately avoiding Jela, Aiyan pulled Kyric to the end, so that they would be last. The protocol master started with Aiyan, going down the line collecting and stacking each name card.

  When he was done she came from behind the screens and he announced, “Princess Aerlyn of the house Quytis, Mother Reagent of the Realm.”

  They all stood taller and leaned forward to see her better. She wore a sliver of a tiara in her umber colored hair, a delicate gown of lavender and cream, and she moved with practiced grace. As she came closer Kyric saw that she was not quite the princess of fairytales. She was too tall, and her nose was too big, and she had a bit of a cleft to her chin.

  Kyric was about to say this when Aiyan said, “More lovely than the forest in springtime, fearless as the sea in winter. In the summer of her life, I would fall before her as the gentle rain of autumn.”

  “Aiyan,” said Kyric in wonder, “you’re a poet.”

  “It’s from a play, but it fits here.”

  A young boy and an even younger girl followed her, along with an older man wearing a heavy bronze medallion of office.

  “Who’s that?” Kyric whispered.

  “Lord Porlien, the Chancellor of the Realm — a ceremonial title these days.”

  Rather than stand and let the line move past her, Princess Aerlyn elected to walk along the line. She spent a minute or two with each athlete, and seemed genuinely pleased to speak to them. She rushed through the nobility and the senators and their wives with perfunctory politeness, and offered a smile and a nod to most of the other guests, stopping a few times for a short chat with one of them. Blushing nervously, Jela managed to curtsey and mumble, “Good evening, Your Highness.”

  It took some time, and most everyone was restless and whispering to one another by the time Aerlyn made it to the end of the line. The master of protocol read from his last two cards.

  “Kyric Ospraeus, esquire.”

  The princess smiled and Kyric bowed. “A pleasure, Your Highness.”

  “Sir Aiyan Dubern.”

  Their eyes met, and the two of them stood in perfect stillness as the rest of the world hummed restlessly about them. The sense that one recognized the other fell so strongly upon Kyric that he too could not move. The master of protocol checked his pocket watch. Aiyan bowed deeply and solemnly.

  “Sir Aiyan,” said Aerlyn, her woodwind voice resonate, yet absent of force. “Were you knighted by the Prince my late husband?”

  “I was not, Princess, but I understand that he was familiar with my order.” Aiyan spoke clearly yet softly. Kyric doubted that anyone more than a few places down the line could overhear.

  “Which order is that?”

  “The Order of the Flaming Blade, Your Highness.”

  Her gaze turned inward in puzzlement. “I thought that I knew all the chivalric orders of the Aessian realm.”

  “Many years ago we were knights of this realm, but now we are an international order.”

  “You hold no allegiance to any state?”

  Aiyan hesitated only a moment. “We do not concern ourselves with the arguments of nations, Princess. We are dedicated to serving all of humanity.”

  “A noble aspiration.”

  “It is,” said Aiyan, plunging on, “but we served the Aessian kings long ago and we have not forgotten this.” Something about him held her eye. “Lomin te aeicath,” he said, as if they were words of power.

  It was Old Essian — Know this for truth. Kyric could see that Princess Aerlyn knew it as well.

  “Know this for truth, Princess. To this day we are pledged to protect your family from harm, and your noble house from any darkness which would descend upon it should you ask.” His look to her said a thousand words more. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You need only ask.”

  Kyric looked down the line to see Morae leaning out with a clouded brow, staring at Aiyan and the princess. Suddenly Kyric was afraid for them and searched for a distraction.

&n
bsp; He dropped to one knee in front of the two children. “Hello,” he said loudly to both of them, “my name is Kyric. What’s yours?”

  The boy gave an abrupt bow. “I’m Prince Eren.”

  “And I’m Lady Kaelyn,” said the girl, playing with a strand of her strawberry hair. She looked about seven years old.

  “I’m pleased to meet you both,” Kyric said.

  “Have you seen the baby elephant?” said Kaelyn

  “Pygmy,” her brother said, correcting her. “Not baby. A pygmy elephant.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  She frowned at Eren, and turned back to Kyric. “We want to see it.”

  The spell was broken. The master of protocol cleared his throat, and the princess said to Aiyan, “I believe we must move on to the next part of the evening. But let us talk more before the night is through.” She smiled then, but for the briefest moment Kyric saw a flicker of distress in her eyes. “Please.”

  Aiyan bowed again. “As Her Highness wishes.”

  Princess Aerlyn went to stand in the center of the floor and presented the games winners. Everyone in line applauded, the orchestra began to play, everyone scattering as an army of servants invaded the tent. They set up tables and chairs, and wheeled in carts laden with sliced fruit and vegetables, oysters and other fruits of the sea, all resting in beds of ice.

  Aiyan went straight to Jela, his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Uncle Aiyan,” she said through a giddy grin. “Did you see? They have ice — chilled food in the middle of summer.”

  “That must cost plenty,” said Jazul, joining their little circle. “The nearest icepack is a thousand leagues to the north.”

  Aiyan lead Jela aside, but Kyric could still hear his harsh whisper. “You think you’re very clever, but you’re acting like a foolish girl. Have you no regard at all for my knowledge and experience? Am I someone whose opinion doesn’t matter?”

  Jela looked at the floor. “No. I simply didn’t think of it that way.”

  Aiyan let out a breath. “Just stay with the big guy and don’t go near Vaust or Morae. I expect you to become fatigued long before this soiree is done.”

  She made a sullen sound. “Alright.”

  Aiyan casually looked the room over. Lekon and Morae were speaking with the princess, so he drifted in the other direction, mingling briefly and slowly circling back when they moved away from Aerlyn and were replaced by Senator Ulium and a man in a military uniform. The orchestra struck up a lively tune, and Jela dragged Jazul to the open floor where a few couples already danced. Waiters sped gracefully among the guests with glasses of chilled white wine.

  Kyric watched as Prince Eren and Lady Kaelyn were led to the bird cages by a lady in waiting and started toward them, thinking that it might be easier to socialize with children, when someone called his name.

  It was Morae. He had traded his hat for a thick black wig. His face was long and thin, his eyes sunken and darkly rimmed. “Kyric Ospraeus,” he said, not offering to shake hands. “I was impressed by your fine shooting in the games.”

  Kyric swallowed. His nerves surged, but he held down the fluttering panic in his gut.

  “Thank you,” he managed to say. “Still second to Stefin Vaust.”

  Standing close to him, Kyric could see that Morae’s height made him look deceptively thin. There was some muscle beneath the doublet, and he sensed physical prowess in the way he moved. And he sensed something in Morae that he had never felt in Aiyan, that this man had murdered in cold blood.

  “I have never seen Stefin make the perfect shot as you did.”

  Kyric tried to sound casual. “I was just lucky.”

  “You meant to do it. That isn’t luck. Men like me believe the only luck is that which you make for yourself.” Morae looked down at him curiously. “I am always interested in young men of exceptional talent.”

  Morae seemed to look into him, and Kyric couldn’t look away from his eyes. He could almost taste the black blood again.

  “I reward men in my service most handsomely — ask Stefin — and the work is anything but dull. And for those who prove loyal, there exists profound opportunities.”

  “That would be worth considering,” Kyric found himself saying. He didn’t mean to say it. He had to stop looking at Morae.

  “We could step out to my carriage and discuss the specifics.” His voice almost echoed in Kyric’s mind, becoming hypnotic. Break the spell, he shouted to himself. Move!

  He found that he could bow. Bowing deeply he broke the lock that Morae’s stare had held.

  “Another time, perhaps?” he said, finally able to breathe again. “I’m still unsure of my future.”

  “Very well,” Morae said patiently, “another time.”

  When Kyric looked up Morae was gone. Aiyan faced him from the other side of the tent, holding his locket in one hand. He waved Kyric over to his side.

  “What did he do to you?”

  “It was like the last time I looked at him, only not as strong. Kyric took a deep breath. “He actually tried to recruit me into his service.” He felt sweat on his brow and reached for his handkerchief. “I need to stay away from him.”

  “I’m surprised he’s exposing himself like this,” Aiyan said. “They usually stay far in the background as possible. He must have had compelling words for Princess Aerlyn. She looks upset now, and Senator Ulium isn’t making it any better. Come along and watch my back while I speak with her.”

  Aiyan stopped a respectful distance from the princess and waited for her nod, which she gave immediately. As they approached Kyric could hear Senator Ulium saying, “ — did not vote, the deadlock would give them a fortnight to reconsider their greed.” Ulium was old and lined and his skinny arms flailed a bit when he spoke.

  “And if they did not change their position?” she asked him.

  “Then I and my faction will oppose them with all our influence.”

  She looked to the military man, a navy captain Kyric thought, then back to Ulium. “Thank you, gentlemen. We will speak again tomorrow.”

  Aiyan approached her as the other men turned away. “Your Highness. You have met my squire, Kyric.” Not knowing what to do, Kyric bowed.

  “I thought that knights with squires went out of style with the joust,” Aerlyn said playfully. “Do you polish his armor and curry his horse, squire Kyric?”

  He hadn’t expected her to address him, but after speaking to Morae a princess wasn’t so frightening. “I only follow him around out of curiosity. He must do his own chores.”

  She laughed politely at the counter-play, and Aiyan chuckled a little, just the right amount before continuing. “I must compliment the Princess. The reception is lovely.”

  She smiled somewhat sadly. “You need not speak to me that way. I am a princess in name only.”

  Aiyan acknowledged her with a curt bow of his head. “I’ve watched the politicians court you this evening. They don’t do that with those who are powerless.”

  “For one brief moment I have a say in a government decision, nothing more.”

  “The Senate is deadlocked,” Aiyan said as if discussing the weather, “and you have the power to break it. Because the issue concerns more wealth than can be counted, each faction pushes you to side with them using as much fright as can be mustered.”

  Aerlyn looked at him for a long moment. “I see you keep up with politics,” she said. “The difference between the two sides has more to do with method, timing and the division of spoils, than with what is right. And it is shaded by my own financial complications. Lekon has offered me a share in the company, if formed. He has also offered to ruin my investments in the cloth trade if I vote against him. But my chief concern is what it will do to my people.”

  “A needless or unjust war is never good for any people,” Aiyan said.

  “I’ve been told that the Baskillian Empire would not go to war over this, the alliance with Sevdin and the Syrolian states being the deterrent.”
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  “Whoever said that is either misinformed or heavily invested in war materials.”

  Her eyes narrowed and Kyric could see calculation in them. “I am well aware that the four closest to Lekon own cannon foundries and gunpowder factories. But even Ulium says this, and he’s heavily invested in peace.”

  “Perhaps he has been blinded by the unbelievable wealth of the spice trade. It remains, however, that the Baskillian fleet is triple the size of the alliance squadrons.”

  Aerlyn stiffened a little. “They have sailed against us twice in the last century, and twice we have stopped them in the Straits of Terrula.”

  “Princess, you are only repeating what your advisors have told you. What do you feel in your heart?”

  She looked away. “I feel threatened in a way I cannot explain.”

  Aiyan was silent for a moment. The orchestra started a waltz, and when Kyric glanced at the dance floor he nearly bit his lip. Jela was dancing with Stefin Vaust.

  “What you feel are the secret forces at work here,” Aiyan said to her. “I need to tell you something of which I have no proof, Your Highness, and I do not say this lightly. Senator Lekon is but the puppet of Kleon Morae. And Morae is the agent of . . . a foreign power. I cannot prove this, but I swear it is true.”

  Aerlyn stood wide-eyed in shock, but only for a moment. “If you have no proofs how do you know it?”

  “I know it from the captain of Lekon’s trade galleon, the one who has gone missing. He possessed other proofs that are missing as well.”

  “Do you think he was killed?”

  Aiyan’s expression didn’t change. “I’m sure of it.”

  Aerlyn fanned herself lightly while she considered this. “What is your part in this, Sir Aiyan? Who is your patron and who are your friends?”

  “I have none, save those in the Order of the Flaming Blade.”

  Aerlyn snapped her fan closed. “Name one man in your order that I know. Name one aristocrat who can witness for you.”

  “I cannot.”

  “In which cities do you have chapterhouses? Where do you meet?”

  “We have only one meeting place, the castle on Esaiya.”