Keepers of the Flame

by Robin D. Owens

  She thought of last night’s dream and shuddered. It wasn’t one about ships. No, the nightmare held overtones of the greatest mistake of her life.

  She was in her Granny Fran’s attic staring at The Mirror. The Mirror had fascinated her from childhood, mostly because of the carved gilded frame. That frame didn’t look like any she’d ever seen, not stiff flowers and garlands, but graceful curves that reminded her of rolling waves out on the ocean.

  Perhaps that’s why her great-grandfather had brought it back from his two-week-long trip to France. He’d moved from Boston to Best Haven, Connecticut, and founded the shipbuilding business. Then the Lindleys had prospered.

  In the dream, Raine hunched down as if she might step through the frame.

  Don’t do it. DON’T DO IT! Raine shrieked in her head.

  At home The Mirror had haunted her so much that she’d decided to give it to her newly engaged brother. She was transporting it on the new boat she’d designed. The wind had come up with the half-heard singing that had reverberated through her night and day for a week.

  When the storm had arisen, it had whirled her small boat, her, and The Mirror all together, then her through The Mirror. She’d watched the boat splinter, The Mirror shatter into tiny shards, then had landed in a cold, seething ocean of green. Here.

  Not on Earth anywhere.

  She tried not to think of home, of her brothers and her father who would be grieving for her. Of her old, incredibly wonderful life she’d been so bored with.

  The kitchen door opened. “Well, what do we have here?”

  It was Travys. He grinned with broken-toothed hatred. An atavistic fear crawled up her spine. She always dreaded that he might bite her and if he did, her heart would give out.

  She’d done nothing to deserve his hatred, but he’d taken an instant dislike to her. Since she was a pot-scrub girl and he was a valued client, she could do nothing but avoid him. She knew instinctively that if she fought with him it would be to the death. He was a big man for a Lladranan, and they were bigger than Earth people.

  Always bad luck when he saw her. This was the first time he’d actually come into the kitchen.

  He loomed over her, massive and sneering. “Lookin’ as ugly and feebleminded as usual.” He sniffed. “Stink, too.”

  He should talk. He reeked of fish guts and some horrible seaweed he chewed. Grabbing her hair, he stared at her.

  She quivered and he smiled.

  The door swung open again and the dour woman who owned the tavern entered. “Please, Travys. She has work to do, a sink full of pots.”

  Eyes narrowed, Travys looked at the woman, then back at Raine. He hacked up a gob of phlegm and spit into the sink water, then strolled out.

  What was she going to do?

  When she’d first awakened on the beach one winter night she’d thought she’d somehow crossed the Atlantic and landed in a backward costal town of France. The language was sort of French.

  But that hadn’t happened. She spoke a little French and no one could understand her.

  It had taken her a full month to understand and believe she was no longer on Earth.

  This was the third, and best, place she’d found. The owner of the Open Mouthed Fish gave her food, shelter, clothing, a job. No money—but not many people had hard coin. Travys did. He was the caretaker for the grounds called Seamasters’ Market, where fairs were held twice a year. A wealthy man in the one-street village off the pier.

  Then there was her sickness. If Raine got more than a couple of miles away from the ocean her strength and energy faded, nausea claimed her stomach and throat. Once she’d pushed herself a few steps too far up a hill and had passed out. She thought rolling back down was the only thing that had saved her. This tavern was built on a pier and she felt almost normal.

  She didn’t want to put her hands back into the water where the slime of yellow phlegm-spit still floated.

  She had no choice.

  The tavernkeeper was watching. Forcing her gorge down, not daring to use the rag, Raine flicked the congealed saliva out of the sink. It dribbled down the side of the rough wooden cabinet. Raine rubbed it with her own skirt.

  The woman nodded. “Watch yourself,” she said, then left, shaking her head and muttering “Half-breed half-wit.”

  Elizabeth woke before dawn to a man’s knowledgeable touch on her breasts, passion sizzling through her. Faucon. He explored her, and she let her own hands roam and stroke and arouse, and they joined and shattered together.

  Limply, she stared at him, lying panting with closed eyes. How beautiful he was. He came from a beautiful race, that golden skin, the slight slant of eyes and sculpted features. Irises that ranged from amber to near black, hair that was black, but held shades of dark red, brown, bronze.

  He opened his eyes—brown like bittersweet chocolate. His lips curved. Picking up her fingers he brought them to his lips. “You are thinking. Don’t.”

  “I—” She didn’t want to say any of the things she should. I won’t be staying. My life’s not here. You’re not the man I loved—and how that would hurt this man. A tiny flame of emotion flickered in the depths of her. Perhaps he could be a man she loved. She extinguished it.

  He set her hand on his heart—still pumping rapidly after their activity—and stroked her cheek. “Let us live in the moment, Elizabeth. I am Chevalier enough to do that.”

  Memories of the long and hideous night before flashed back. Four dead in battle, a small casualty of war, but she mourned wasted life. Her entire being fought against wasted life. She hadn’t truly enjoyed her life, for far too long.

  Her muscles were loose, her body well pleasured, but heat rose. She slid her hand down him and liked how his breath caught, how his cheeks tinted red under that beautiful skin and his eyes gleamed. “I think we’ll find moments like this often,” he said.

  Why not? Too many why nots. She wanted more of the expression she found in his eyes when he made love with her, looked at her.

  She kissed him again and when he pulled her next to him and she felt the warmth of him and strength of him and smelled the exotic scent of him, she smiled and slept.

  Bri grunted as she rose from the floor. She was less sore than the morning before. Since the tower floor was equally hard as that of the tavern, she decided that the lingering magic here somehow cushioned her. Or the simple fact that she was in a place that felt “right” eased her mind as much as the floor made her muscles ache. Though the morning was cold outside, it was pleasant in the wood-paneled room.

  She’d rolled from the corner where Zeres still snored. When she stood and shook herself, shock ran through her as she saw she’d slept in the center of a pentacle. Looking around, it was evident that this was a magical workroom. She sniffed. It smelled of old incense, cool morning coming from a broken window, and roc.

  “Roc,” she called. There was the rumbling of a being fending off waking and huddling into sleep, but nothing else. She decided the roc wasn’t a morning person. Neither was she, usually, especially not unless she had a solid seven hours of sleep, but the air in here invigorated her.

  She sent a gently questing probe to Elizabeth to reassure and discovered her twin sleeping in a man’s arms.

  Bri sat down hard on the floor. Shit. Did Elizabeth know what she was doing?

  Of course not.

  Should Bri say anything to her?

  Definitely not.

  But Bri bit her lip as her heart twinged. Elizabeth had loved and admired and respected Cassidy. When he’d dumped her, her self-image had taken a blow. Not to mention that she was coming off the end of a long, stressful program of study.

  Bri wondered who Elizabeth was with and only one name came to mind, Faucon Creusse. His name brought his image and Bri admired Elizabeth’s taste. Bri only wished she didn’t see heartache for one or both of them at the end of the road.

  Elizabeth would never give up her life on Earth for Lladrana, would she?

  Bri didn’t know. S
he went to the window and looked out on the green plains rolling to green hills rising in the distance. Lladrana was beautiful. The sound of wings came as a volaran and rider flew past. And fascinating.

  But deadly.

  The scrape of the door on the lowest level shot anxiety up her spine.

  “Bri?” It was Sevair, and she wasn’t quite ready to meet him. When she’d realized Elizabeth was wrapped around some guy and loose with the boneless sleep of after-excellent-sex, an image of herself had come to mind. With the very strict and upright Sevair. Of all people.

  He couldn’t be less like the rock musician, whom she’d thought, once, was perfect for her. A ripple of an idea that Sevair was as thorough and deliberate in his lovemaking as he was in everything else sent warmth down her nerves.

  She squashed it. Neither Elizabeth nor she needed the complication of a Lladranan lover.

  Absolutely no. She cleared her throat and answered, “Upstairs.” More wariness welled. How would the Citymasters feel when she told them that she didn’t want the pretty town house, preferred this tough old tower in the city wall?

  Another scan of the room soothed her. It was beautiful, wooden wainscoting at the bottom, cream-colored finished stone above, windows. Simple, natural material. No fuss. Just to her taste.

  Sevair climbed the stairs rapidly, a man in great shape. No, she wouldn’t think about the shape of any of him.

  “Sangvile.” He sucked in a shocked breath on the floor below, raced up. He’d recognized the remnants of the monster?

  Then he was in the room, lifting her off her feet, keeping her close as he scanned the room.

  These Lladranan men moved fast.

  He sure was solid. Not a pinch of fat on the man. And he was big, shoulders, length of leg. Hard, too, her fingers on his biceps barely dented the muscle.

  “At least you weren’t totally alone.” He stared at Zeres, who was wheezing and struggling to an elbow.

  She stared into Sevair’s brown-black eyes. “I, uh.” May as well just come straight out with it. Lladranans should understand, shouldn’t they? Who the hell knew? With all the events her judgement was totally screwed.

  “This place called to me. I like it.” She cleared her throat and beamed her brightest smile. “I’ve found my spot in Castleton.”

  He didn’t slide her down his body, too bad. Plunked her on her feet. He was frowning, but a quick check of his personal Song showed it was calm, if a little irritated.

  When he glanced at her from under lowered brows, Bri noted that the fierce look made him even more attractive. Nice.

  Rubbing his temples with one large hand, Sevair sighed. “Why should we have thought an Exotique would want what we made for her?” He shook his head. “As unpredictable as a fey-coo-cu.”

  “It’s a lovely house. A beautiful house,” Bri assured him. “It’s just not for me.”

  “We’ll keep it for you and Elizabeth. Let me look this tower over.”

  Bri gave a little cough. “There’s a roc nesting atop the stair tower.”

  Sevair stopped examining the room and turned his head slowly to stare at her. He closed his eyes. Opened them. The stare returned. “Of course there is.” He flung up his arms in a gesture of surrender, went to door and leaned on the threshold, this time rubbing his whole face.

  Then he sent her one last cool glance and tromped down the stairs. His footsteps were hard and steady, like the man, ringing against the stone steps. His disgusted noise floated up along with some loud thumps, probably messing with the broken outside door.

  Bri looked at Zeres, but he didn’t meet her eyes. “Too early for me.”

  She tapped a toe. “You are the strangest mixture of coward and hero.”

  “Ha!” He gathered his cloak, rolled over. “I’m human.”

  She found Sevair in the dark strip of kitchen in the back of the first floor, surveying the “appliances.” Without the spells to keep food hot or cold or whatever, they were simply cabinets.

  As she watched, he spread his hand on one and Sang a slow, brittle tune. The cabinet glowed blue for an instant, then subsided. A refrigerator, cold box, Bri deduced.

  Then he moved on to the next and a fast, bumpy tune—hot box to keep things warm. Excellent.

  When he looked up, beads of sweat showed at his temples. He’d used more Power than he was accustomed to, then. To make the tower better for her. She thought of all the hard work everyone had put into the house and winced inwardly. “Merci.”

  He grunted, reached for the hobo bag slung across his chest and hanging on his hip, and pulled out two packets. Delicious scents came to her nose. He handed one to her. At least she could eat here, not like yesterday, and alone with Sevair, not a bunch of judging medicas.

  Her mouth watered as she removed rough paper from the wrapped food, found a thick pastry pocket. When she bit in, the tang of eggs and crunch of bacon exploded into her mouth. She chewed the first mouthful fast, swallowed. “Merci.”

  He sent a level gaze at her. “When I realized you weren’t in your house, I considered that you’d been out all night again.”

  He was taking care of her. And laying a guilt trip on her, too. Like her parents would. Her parents! She sent a mental probe zinging toward the Castle. The Circlets weren’t there.

  Sevair was leaning on the counter, eating, watching her. Nope, nothing like her parents except he was a responsible, caring man.

  Don’t go there.

  Another swallow. “Merci again. I was just checking whether Marian and Jaquar are back from—”

  “Bossgond’s Island. I asked Exotique Alyeka to keep me informed.” Strain lines bracketed his mouth. “I don’t depend on anyone else.”

  Alexa. The Lladranans said her name funny, and Sevair had lost a trusted assistant to the Dark.

  “You aren’t the only one to be betrayed,” she found herself saying.

  Their eyes met and in that moment they shared hurt. Then he looked away and tidied up his wrapper, took hers and put it in his bag that he lifted off his shoulder and set on the counter.

  Hands on lean hips he glanced around the room. “This will need work.”

  Did she catch a tiny sigh? “You don’t have to—”

  He raised his brows. “The care of the Exotique for the Cities and Towns is the charge of the heads of the guilds and the Citymasters. We will provide for you. Perhaps Elizabeth will use the house. She won’t stay up at the Castle under the Marshalls’ thumbs forever. She is a medica, not a Chevalier.”

  Bri thought of Elizabeth and Faucon. “I wouldn’t bet on that.”

  Sevair narrowed his eyes. “Something else has happened.”

  Straightening, she nodded. “My sister.”

  His mouth tightened. “I rarely told secrets on my little sister, either.”

  “I’m the younger,” Bri said, irritated.

  His grin flashed.

  She lifted her chin. “By two minutes.”

  With a chuckle he shook his head and left the room.

  There was a melodious “caw,” the clatter of claws on the street outside, Sevair’s gasp.

  Bri hurried from the kitchen, past Sevair whose mouth was hanging open as he looked out the door, and into the cul de sac where the roc stood, stretching, preening.

  In the small, paved area they stared at each other. The sun had risen, but they were in the shadows. It would be midmorning before direct sunlight touched this place.

  Still, the roc seemed to glitter. No, that wasn’t quite the word. Neither was glow. It was more as if light was drawn to it and reflected off its feathers to give it a larger than life, more colorful, appearance. Though it was large enough, twice Bri’s height for sure, and she and Elizabeth stood five feet eight inches. They were shorter and slimmer than most Lladranans. But the roc…Bri closed her mouth.

  She and the roc were the only ones in the small courtyard, but she sensed others watching from safely inside their homes.

  I am Nuare.

  I am
Bri.

  It shifted, opened wings longer than its body.

  I am female.

  Bri swallowed. Will you be raising your young in the tower? She liked the place, had slept well there, wanted it for her own, but in a fight between a big alien bird and herself, she figured she’d be running to the pretty house.

  I will not lay eggs this year, though I may mate in the autumn.

  Something in her mind tone made Bri take a step back. Ayes?

  This year you Exotiques will fight the Dark. Either you will win, or you will die and the country will be overrun by monsters. I and my kind will leave for another land.

  Bri swallowed hard, stood straight. I do not stay. We, my sister and I, will find the cure for the sickness affecting the people here, but our parents will grieve for us if we do not return.

  The roc clicked her beak, but said nothing. Once again she took a couple of steps and opened her wings.

  Sevair cleared his throat. She angled her body so she could see him and keep the roc in view.

  He bowed with much elegance and flourishing. “My apologies for interrupting your conversation, Madame Roc. Your lovely Song graces our city. Welcome.”

  Smooth talker. Bri hadn’t expected that.

  Nuare preened. Thank you, He-Who-Shapes-Stone-In-The-Sky.

  Sevair blinked. “Sevair Masif, at your service.”

  Sevair Massif. I will roost on the tower roof, above the Exotique’s nest. Bri, we will fly together later. Now I am hungry and I will hunt. She spiraled beautifully up into the sky, cast them in shadow, then flew over the wall. Bri heard her heart pounding.

  “A young, female roc has come to roost in Castleton,” Sevair said thoughtfully. “You Exotiques are certainly interesting.” He scrutinized the square stone building jutting out at a right angle from the city wall.

  “Ronteran’s tower. I should have known.”

  “What? Who?” Bri asked.

  Sevair lifted a shoulder, dropped it. “Supposedly resided in by the Circlet who helped found and build Castleton. It is said to be haunted, or cursed.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Or blessed.”