Keepers of the Flame

by Robin D. Owens

  He’d seen the plant often. Something Exotique, or something worse? Something else sent from the Dark? Like the horrors. Like the sangviles. Like the frinks.

  The frinks that fell with the rain. Small metallic worms, most of which died when they hit the ground. Some that didn’t. He’d always been the most wary of men with regard to the frinks.

  He narrowed his eyes, picked up a long branch and combed through the sprigs of the plant.

  A puff of spores released, glinting in the evening. Sickness could be caused by plants, couldn’t it? The runny eyes and stuffed nose and headaches some people experienced during the spring and fall. He worked at the plant, uncovering the top tangle of leaves to see underneath where nothing else grew. Bare earth was revealed, along with the shine of something metallic that caught the last ray of the dying sun.

  With his stick, he separated it out, a small circular section of a frink.

  His heart lurched, settled, but fear poured through his veins.

  Animal couldn’t turn to vegetable. Not usually.

  But the frinks weren’t animal, they were horrors. Who knew the limits of the Dark? Certainly not he. Couldn’t a frink carry a seed with it? Embedded in its body, perhaps?

  He had to tell others about this. Now.

  His jaw set. The sooner he reported this to the Castle, the sooner the whole of Lladrana could be on the watch for this demon-weed and eradicate it. They’d have to find a way to destroy it. Now. Fast.

  It seemed even as he watched, new sprigs unfurled from the main stem. How much of this stuff was in Lladrana?

  He shouted for his coachman, and the man came running. Stopped several feet from him, looking wary.

  “I must return to Castleton immediately. I can’t wait for you. Come later at your own speed.”

  “But…but…” the man sputtered.

  Sevair cut him off with a gesture. “Warn the farmer and his family to avoid these patches of vegetation.” Sevair pointed to the inoffensive-looking plant. “Frink spawn.”

  His coachman, who had been peering bewilderedly at the spot, snapped upright and took a step back. He saluted, old habits of a Castle soldier. “How will you—”

  But Sevair’s mind had already solved that problem. He called mentally Mud!

  There was a slight hesitation, then a cheerfully excited, Citymaster? from the volaran.

  I need you here, now! Can you come to my Song?

  Ayes! Night flying!

  He thought he could almost hear her hooves kick against the latch of her stall, open the door.

  I come!

  The rest of Bri’s meal passed in good company, and with her openness, Chevaliers came and went at their table. As light globes came on in the corners of the room, Bri knew that time passed. The door opened and let in darkness and cold air. Koz finally left since he was on rotation to fly to the next battle, making it evident with a kiss on her hand that he wanted to be more than friends.

  With a challenging gaze, one of the male Chevaliers said, “This isn’t the only tavern in Lladrana.”

  She stared at him. Obviously a test of her mettle. A pub crawl. She snorted. As if she hadn’t done that a few times. She shoved her mug away. “All right.” She stood and he did, too. He was much taller. “Show me,” she said.

  The tavern roared with laughter and bets. Bri had no intention of getting drunk, she’d just buy—have someone else buy—a drink and take a swallow or two.

  On her way out she stopped and looked up again. The magic light let her study the monsters, assess their size, all larger than men, and their danger—deadly.

  Then she was swept away. The hour—hours?—grew later and the stars shimmered through mist veiling them and the velvet black sky.

  Most of the other off-duty Chevaliers, including her challenger, lasted through four taverns, and Tuckerinal had dragged along.

  When Bri and the ex-hamster exited the last club alone, she giggled in tipsy triumph. Blinking, she realized she had no idea where she was.

  Before she could ask Tuckerinal, a large hawk lit on the top of a nearby fence and chittered at him.

  My mate, he said.

  I am Sinafinal, the bird said.

  Bri blinked at the hawk. Its feathers seemed to have a deep blue sheen like nothing she’d seen before.

  The bird clacked her beak, sending Bri a beady-eyed stare. Tuckerinal should have returned an hour ago!

  “Not my problem,” Bri said thickly. “Didn’t know that, did I? No.” She shook her head.

  She and the hawk stared at each other. Then the world tipped a little and Bri steadied herself with a hand against the cold stone wall of the tavern. A flapping noise came and she watched another hawk land beside Sinafinal. This one had a dark red magical color to its feathers. Tuckerinal.

  The two seemed to glow oddly, a dark glow, as if they gathered starlight and absorbed it and the absence of the light wavered around them.

  It was a good night, Tuckerinal said.

  We will talk later, Sinafinal said to Bri, then lifted into flight. It is time.

  Bri watched the two fey-coo-cus spiral up into the night sky and her breath caught. They were very magical with that dark glow surrounding them, very beautiful. As was the sky, with a brilliant arc of stars that could only be a tiny portion of an arm of a galaxy. Twinkling points of light flung across midnight blue like glittering diamond chips on a gauzy scarf. She stood there gazing into the sky long after the birds disappeared.

  Loneliness invaded, for home, the dry air and dim stars of city life. Bri bit her lip. Her former homesickness was nothing like this on Earth. She’d never been in a place or situation she couldn’t leave to go home. To run away to, a little voice said in the back of her mind that she didn’t want to heed. But she was coming to understand that was her greatest fault. When things got sticky, she ran.

  Sometimes that was right. What she hadn’t told Elizabeth was that the rock star had gotten violent. Only one blow, and dodging, she’d taken it on her side instead of in her stomach, but one blow was enough.

  Two strong arms grabbed her. One around the waist, one on a choke hold around her neck. She struggled, but couldn’t break the man’s grip.

  There were times running didn’t save you.

  15

  Mud arrived quickly, but Sevair didn’t get away until late since the farmer called a conclave of his fellows.

  He and Mud flew through the night and Sevair practiced speaking with her with small words and images in Equine. Just as the first time he rode her—partnered with her—that morning, he thought he could feel the pathways of his Power widen at new use, his hair turn silver.

  Fear lived in his gut. He didn’t often anticipate disaster, but anxiety about the frinks gnawed at him. He’d been the one charged with finding out about the frinks, had contacted the Marshalls, then the Circlet Jaquar. But Jumme had intercepted his letters. Now everyone paid for his poor judgement.

  Frinks. He’d known they would be deadly.

  The Marshalls and Chevaliers would be awake and lively after sunset, as usual. He’d talk to them, but only after he rang the guildhall emergency bell. His people must be warned first. No frinks would fall with the rain where Exotiques lived. So there were no plants like this on the Castle grounds, but they were multiplying in Castleton.

  They landed in City Square and Sevair hurried to the bellpull and yanked hard three times, sending long, low tones throughout the town, notes the Citymasters and guild masters were attuned to. Immediately doors opened around the square. Some of the heads of the guilds occupied the homes reserved for those of their station, which were clustered around the city square and the guildhall.

  He nodded to them, then Sang the key to the door of the guildhall and the small council chamber just inside, Sang the lights on, and took his seat.

  They were all gathered in minutes, not only the Citymasters, but the mistresses and masters of each guild, too. This year slightly more women held such titles than men.

&n
bsp; “I think I have discovered the source of the sickness,” Sevair said.

  The door opened and Circlet Jaquar walked in. Sevair wasn’t the only one who stiffened in his chair.

  Jaquar closed the door behind him and bowed. He wore a long velvet robe and his circlet around his brow. Sevair thought he wasn’t the only one who felt shabby beside the man.

  “With your permission, I would like to stay. I heard the town bell and knew it signified something important. In times like these, all knowledge should be shared.”

  Sevair felt heat rise in his face. He’d accused this man of not answering his concerns. Apparently Jaquar would not be put in such a position again. Sevair glanced around the table, but most were still staring at the Circlet. “You are welcome. Take a seat.” He gestured to a couple of empty chairs.

  Inclining his head, Jaquar sat and said, “My thanks.”

  After clearing his throat, Sevair began again. “I think I have found the source of the sickness.”

  When oaths and exclamations died down, he explained.

  They were all discussing the matter when a strum came on the door harp and the assistant to the head of the Inns and Taverns guild entered, frowning. She dipped a curtsey to them all, eyes widening at Jaquar, then addressed herself to her guild mistress. “I did as you requested and went to the Exotique Medica’s house to bring her here.” She drew in a large breath. “She isn’t there. I heard from a neighbor that she went out late this afternoon, but I haven’t found her.”

  Babbling concern erupted. People shot to their feet.

  Sevair’s head ached. He closed his eyes and rubbed them.

  When he opened his eyes he saw Jaquar smiling. Sevair scowled. “Can you find her?” he cut across the clamor.

  Jaquar’s eyes widened, narrowed. He tilted his head as if searching for Bri’s Song, then sighed. “No. I have not been with her so long as to recognize her Song.”

  How hard could it be to find one Exotique’s Song in Castleton? Sevair didn’t ask aloud. “Thank you, anyway.”

  Shrugging, Jaquar said, “Exotiques. Who knows what they will do next? And she has purple hair. How difficult will it be to find a pale woman with purple hair?”

  Awful.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you. I jus’ want you to listen to me. You must listen to me!” Bri’s abductor was big, with a straining belly under rough linen shirt and corduroy pants, and he stank of alcohol. They sat in a tiny room behind one of the seediest bars Bri had ever seen. There was a lopsided table and two three-legged stools. He’d closed the inches-thick door and locked it with magic. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

  She’d tried to get out, but couldn’t. She’d banged on the door, but the noise beyond drowned out her cries. The grime-encrusted window was too small for her, too small for Alexa.

  She’d attempted to call her twin, but the drunk had some sort of smothering mind-shield on her. He’d yelped when she’d tried to contact Elizabeth, but had held her thoughts at bay. He’d also taken her bag and the little crystal ball, which he’d grunted at and pocketed himself. Otherwise he hadn’t touched her after they’d arrived.

  His erratic Song rang with single-mindedness. Bri sensed no physical threat. She kept her distance, figured she could push him down and break a stool over his head. He wasn’t too steady on his feet. They’d fallen against a few walls on the few blocks, walk to this place, but his grip had been desperate—asexual and panicked.

  “Listen to me, Exotique Medica,” he said and his tone, his very manner changed. He stood straight and glared at her with a laser-like gaze from amber eyes. She noticed that though dirty, much of his scraggly shoulder-length hair was golden. The streaks denoting magic were so wide there was only a little black in the center of his head. She hadn’t needed the golden color of the streaks to tell her he was old. The deeply carved lines on his face did that, and his eyes. They held years of suffering.

  Still a strong and vital man, he’d once been well-educated, she’d bet on that. Once been in a position of authority if that tone and gaze were any indication. Her mother had that voice and stare mastered, as did other medical doctors she knew, and her honorary uncle who was a federal judge.

  So she sat on the wobbly stool near the table and watched him.

  “Merci,” he said.

  A thought brought a spurt of fear. “My understanding of the language and the ability to speak it will fade soon.”

  He grunted. “Just listen.” He tapped his barrel chest. “What I have to say to you won’t take long.”

  She waited, discovered all her muscles were tense, duh! Relaxed them one by one, keeping her own expression impassive. He went to a shelf and grabbed a bottle, pulled out the cork and took a long swig. Another layer of the odor of yeasty ale was added to the atmosphere. Then he clomped back to the small table, sat on the stool across from her, put down the bottle with a clank and pointed a fat, grubby finger at her.

  “You are the Exotique Medica, Summoned to help this town with the worst medical crisis this country has ever seen. Since we have monsters invading from the north and ripping people to shreds, that’s saying something.” He belched, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, muttered, “Pardon.”

  He shifted on his seat and Bri got the idea that not only was his stool as wobbly as her own, it was too small for his butt. She kept her sarcastic smile inward. Shoving the bottle aside, he leaned forward and Bri saw golden, gray and black bristles on his grizzled face.

  “The medicas here in town and up at the Castle are goin’ about healing this sickness all wrong. If the epidemic gets worse we’ll all be in deep trouble.”

  His finger pointed again, wagged. “They’re used to listening to the chimes and healing a person chime by chime, energy by energy. That hasn’t worked.” Another belch, but this time he was so concentrating on making her listen that he didn’t excuse himself. “The medicas don’ take a whole-body approach, healing all the chimes at once, slowly, steadily. An’ they pay little attention to the chime at the crown of the head.” He tapped his own skull, the parietal bone. “The spiritual chime. I think the Dark attacks that first, weakens it, then the evil snakes through the body to the weakest point, invades and attacks that. Jus’ like the monsters in the north.”

  Bri stared some more. “If that’s true, why haven’t you told them that?”

  “I have!” he roared, standing and knocking his stool over, waving his arms. “I have!” Then he turned on her and his voice was rough, bitter. “But they won’t listen to me, will they? Not Zeres the drunk and the fool and the failure.”

  His words poked at her own lack of confidence. She knew the feelings of frustration and anguish all too well, couldn’t stop her words, “Don’t call yourself that.” She stood and caught a meaty hand in her own. It staggered her, and not just from the force.

  Clear, true tones of Power resounded through her. The cleanest, strongest Power she’d heard from anyone.

  “Ayes,” he sighed, then smiled. He moved faster than she’d thought he could, caught both of her hands in his, forced them up palm-to-palm, then linked their fingers.

  She couldn’t break his grip—more, she was whisked into a great blackness with flashing bright smears of light. Whirling, swirling, spinning. She didn’t know the right word for her sensation, not falling, but sucked. The pressure of the passage of air around her.

  Her heart thundered in her chest, darkness shrouded her vision. But her hearing expanded until she thought she could hear all the sounds that ever were in jarring notes, somehow interlaced, but the cacophony staggered her.

  She was sitting down again, hard flat seat against her butt, blinking at the old man who slurped deep of his bottle of ale, some of it dribbling down his chin to join other stains on his shirt. She shook her head to clear the aftereffects of the Songs, even as she yearned to hear it again. But the experience was so powerful—as if she’d been plugged into the universe—that she didn’t know if she could handle it. For a minute she wante
d a good slug of alcohol herself.

  When he put the empty bottle down, it hit the edge of the table and toppled over. This time he wiped his whole arm across his mouth before he sat. Once again an amber gaze met hers. “We’re connected, you and I.” He snorted. “Obvious now why the Song hasn’t ended my miserable life before now.”

  “You are a medica.”

  He snorted. “Was a medica.”

  “Your life isn’t miserable.”

  Tapping his temples with his forefingers, he said, “You aren’t looking out at it from these eyes, from this bloated body.” Then he rubbed his temples. “Thank the Song that won’t happen again. Not so pure for a long time. Thank the Song.”

  He twined his fingers before him and leaned forward, serious. All these people were so deadly serious—except for the Chevaliers, who’d laughed in the face of death, and that wasn’t true humor. How was she going to stand it?

  With a fist he rapped the table. “Pay attention.”

  She folded her own hands on the table. “Yes, master.”

  His mouth stretched in a smile that revealed good teeth and the remnants of an attractive face. “Very good, pupil.” His expression closed. “But those medicas will want to train you, and they’ll train you all wrong for this time. I sense that you know instinctively how to cure this disease. With my help, you’ll figure out how the Dark is causing it, and how to stop it from invading humans, stop it from killing those who already have the sickness.” He sighed. “Sometimes the Song is good.”

  “You said the medicas can’t solve the problem of the sickness, or cure it with their usual methods.”

  “True.”

  “What of the Marshalls?”

  “They heal when they have to, when they deem it a priority to them and theirs. So do the Circlets, having learned from the Marshalls and the Exotique Circlet Marian. But that great healing is more a matter of faith in the Song.”

  “Spiritual, as you said.”