The Fireblade Array: 4-Book Bundle

by H. O. Charles

  saw an eisiel.”

  “Your mother’s face then?”

  She punched him harder this time. “No, an eisiel.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “No.” She looked strangely as if... as if she were telling the truth. How odd. “It’ll come for you in your sleep if you do anything else like you did yesterday. I’ll lead it to you. It hides well in the shadows – like it’s made of shadows – and its teeth...”

  Morghiad felt a shudder take hold of his spine, but managed to force a frown of disbelief in spite of it. “If you really had seen one, you’d be

  dead.”

  “We got away. Anyway, what are you doing hanging around here like an idiot with a lump of dung for a brain?”

  “You have to come with me. Someone wants to see you. He says the man in white has something to do with it.”

  Her features dropped instantly. “Who?”

  Morghiad shrugged. “Sisomething. Burned if I know. Man in white was all he said. Coming?”

  She hesitated, blinking away some unspoken thought. “I’ll come, but you will stay twenty paces ahead of me.”

  He grinned at her. If he had been planning something fun, he would surely have arranged for her to be picked off from behind him. “Follow,” he commanded, and sprinted off toward the sands once more.

  Silar was lying on his back when they arrived, apparently basking in the inferno of the sun. Renward was sure that this man must be a lord of some kind: his clothing was heavy and richly embroidered with thread that shone in the light. His sword looked to be highquality steel, too. And he looked high

  born in his features. Artemi would not be able to see that, of course, but Renward could tell.

  The man spoke to them without opening his eyes. “Glad you both made it. Sit down, I have many things to tell you and they are very important.”

  Renward sat cross-legged, careful to maintain a good distance from Artemi, and she seated herself also. She wore the same expression of distrust that he had seen upon her features during many of their encounters. With any luck, this Silar would perform more of his mindreading tricks upon her and reveal

  something useful.

  The Lord Silar rose from his pretend slumber suddenly, and adopted the same seated position as his audience. He spent some time looking at Artemi, that curious grin of his rapidly spreading across his face. “I cannot explain how amusing I find this, children.”

  “How did you know the man in white?” Artemi asked in a tone that lacked any sort of humour.

  “His name is Dorlunh. I met him oh... ninety years ago. He made a mistake once, but he’s not as bad as you think. He did the right thing in

  getting you sent here.”

  Artemi looked puzzled, and her dark eyes dropped to the ground.

  “Anyway. Dorlunh is not what we need to think about now. I would like to tell you both to overcome your differences, but I can see that any words to that effect will be lost on you.” His face became more serious, and his lips thinned as he looked more carefully at Artemi. “Morghiad, burning her hair is something that will make you shudder in the future.”

  “My name’s not M-”

  “Bloody-” Lord Silar caught himself. “Of course it is. Everyone

  knows that’s what it is. Get used to it and use it to your advantage.”

  How, in the blazed lands of Achellon, was he supposed to use such a name, a name that was so reviled in his home country, to his advantage? He hardly wanted everyone to hate him. Perhaps this Silar knew nothing at all.

  “I know some things,” the man replied.

  Blazes! He could read minds!

  “As I was saying, there are important facts you two need to know before I... go on my travels. The first is that I have written letters for you. It is vital that you read them when they

  are delivered to you. The first will come when you are almost nineteen years of age. The second will be waiting for you in Gialdin, and will be given to you when the time is right.”

  “Both of us?” Artemi asked, her expression becoming more perplexed by the minute. “Why would we both want to go to Gialdin?”

  “That is something I will leave you to work out for yourselves. The second thing you need to know is that I cannot make the immediate future easy for you. I am sorry for it, very sorry. But certain events cannot be avoided.”

  Renward felt his feet begin to

  itch with impatience. “What events?”

  “If I told you, you would try to find ways to prevent them, and that would not be a good thing. The third piece of information is about the secrets you must keep. You must not speak to anyone about my visit today, nor describe me nor repeat the words I have said. This is your secret and no one else’s. Do you understand?”

  They looked at each other, and nodded slowly. After all, he would hear it if they even thought to disagree.

  “Finally, the details. Artemi, in nine years you will be called home...”

  Silar leaned back and stabbed one of his pens into the surface of the desk. Whenever Morghiad and Artemi were thrust together, there was always that chance - that possibility - that she would burn her former husband to a cinder before she knew what she was doing. And after that, Morghiad would rise as one of the world’s nastiest eisiels, ready to rip apart anything that

  stood in his way. That vision tended to cloud Silar’s mind horribly. It led to other visions that were more terrifying than they were clear: jumbled emotions and sensations and smells of burning bodies. The repercussions of it would be far worse than the single event of Morghiad’s death.

  It had become evident to him that both parties had to realise they cared for each other before they shared a bed, or all sorts of horrors would be unleashed. It was just his luck that Silar had to be involved in such intimate details of their relationship! Just his blasted, bloody awful luck that he

  cared at all about either of them!

  That was a long time in the future, of course, what with them currently looking like dwarfed versions of themselves. He still found their appearance astoundingly funny. Had it really been so long since he had known the first boy-Morghiad? His smile faded.

  The trouble was, something had tipped Morghiad’s personality on its side, and he and Artemi had chosen to be utterly vile to one another. The only chance they had to see the error of their ways was to face a crisis. Silar could do the right thing by other people now... he could set them free, save lives and put an end to a very bad business that was going on in Hestavos... or he could allow his friends to face the difficulty that they so badly needed to face. And then the job of clearing up the mess that he had left unchallenged would be theirs to deal with.

  As much as he prodded around with the future, it simply would not budge in any sensible way. Either a few people suffered and died, or Morghiad did and the world burned. What alternative was there? He had to leave them to their own battles this time. He

  had to leave the vileness in this blazed city as it was.

  For the first time, his view of the future was remarkably, if quite painfully, clear. Without his influence upon an adult Morghiad, or that of The Daisain, there would be no attempts by the former king at hiding his intentions with chaos. Morghiad no longer threw a shroud of mystery over proceedings, at least, not with Silar’s current plan in place.

  Silar had to leave. He had suppressed all thoughts of it for far too long. His conscience demanded it, and so did his heart.

  Artemi would have to be the one to deal with her husband’s problems, but Silar had no doubt that she could. Would those problems grow worse in the next life? It was impossible to see that far, and it was not his concern anymore. The things he could fix, he would fix. The others would have to be faced by his friends on their own, without him.

  But there was something he still could do for Morghiad and Artemi in the future, and that involved their eldest son. It broke Silar’s heart just to think of it, and he had spent most of his nights crying about it, qu
ite

  unashamedly, as he had journeyed here. Tallyn was as good as a son to him, and yet prevention of his fate was impossible. It was always the same conundrum, and it was clear that other people were not born with the ability to predict the actions of men and women for a very good reason.

  The Daisain had been right in some of his words.

  You will understand what is necessary.

  Silar understood.

  The letters were written, signed and sealed. He was not as good at conveying affection as he would have

  liked to have been, but he was confident his friends would recognise his intentions and accept them. He picked the folded papers up, rose from his seat and marched to his door. On the way, he caught sight of his reflection. He was certainly looking less like a piece of gnarled boat wreckage than he had two months earlier, but was still not back to his former self. He fully intended to be at his fittest when he set the final part of his plan in motion; he was going to need every ounce of strength that he could muster. Bloody burned light, but he did not want to go! He sighed and placed

  his hand on the door’s latch. Tonight he would allow himself some time for the sort of fun he had not enjoyed in a long while. He was no longer repulsive enough to frighten women. Perhaps he could take courage from a pint of beer or two... well, alright, maybe something more sensible than beer... and try his luck flirting with one of the Sunidaran bar maids. He had heard courting was quite a different affair here. It wouldn’t hurt to educate himself in more depth about the Sunidaran culture, surely? He grinned, and made his way toward the tavern’s bar.

  Artemi pulled the sheets over her head again. She did not want to get up. Not now. Surely there was another hour to sleep? In the near distance, a bell rang again, answering the question she did not want answered. She had only just closed her eyes! After that curious meeting with the strange, blond man yesterday and the eisiel the night

  before, her thoughts had kept her awake and restless or full of nightmares. The foreigner had instructed her not to go to her home town in nine years’ time. What sort of an instruction was that? Did he really expect her to remember such a thing over that length of time? She was beginning to realise that sometimes adults could be stupid too.

  She flopped out of her bed and stumbled to the papers on her desk. She had been given high-quality parchment to produce her work with, which would certainly be noticed as absent if she chose to use it for any

  other purpose. Her eyes flicked to the books on her shelves. Her favourite, a book telling the tale of the Torvalen Hunt was wedged onto the middle shelf. She pulled it out and opened the front cover.

  Her hand was not the most elegant by any means, and certainly not with a quill that was half-dried out, but she scrawled to the best of her abilities, anyway.

  Don’t go home in nine years. And then she added: (3314)

  That ought to do it. Would she still be reading about The Hunt nine years from now? Probably not, but it

  was the best she could hope for. Perhaps Morghiad would remember, and do everything he could to get her to defy the instruction. She could rely upon him getting her into trouble, at the very least.

  Once bathed and dressed, she presented herself at the entrance to the courtyard. There were at least another seven-hundred cadets and students there, boys and girls from the very small to the very tall. She found her place next to Ulena, and unfortunately, Morghiad. Such a shame that they were identical in age, else she might be able to stand beside someone more

  civil. He kicked at her heels as she walked past, causing her to stumble a little. Her response was to curse loudly and round on him to throw a good, hard punch at his stupid, smug face.

  Someone caught her arm before she could release it.

  “I don’t think we’ll be having any of that, Fevtari.” It was Master Rollow. “Stand in your place and be sensible.” He had a pleasant enough face for a sword master, and no knots in his long, golden hair. But he was far too strict for her liking; he was forever telling her to ‘rein it in’ or ‘learn some control’. Morghiad was the one who

  needed to learn those things, not her. He was just better at looking innocent than she was, and it probably helped that he was the son of a lord.

  Artemi refused to make any show of contrition. It was just not fair! She scowled as she took up her place, and further glared at Morghiad once the master’s attention was drawn elsewhere. He smiled back. Insufferable boy!

  It was only when Rollow turned that she noticed the fresh wound that ran down the back of his neck. It had been stitched, but it looked as if it were in no rush to heal. Had the rampant

  eisiel done that to him? Artemi counted the sword masters present in the yard. One was missing. Dead?

  Once all cadets were able to confirm their presence, and those not present had been hauled from their beds, it was off to lessons and training. Artemi’s first session was to be an exam on the history of Sunidara. Unfortunately she had not prepared as well as she would have liked. Quite apart from the fact that such lessons gave her a headache, recent events had not given her much opportunity for learning the facts she needed to learn.

  She sighed heavily as she took

  up her sheaf of parchment and quill. Morghiad was in the row behind her, no doubt plotting how to throw things at her when their tutor was not looking. She tried to put him out of her mind and concentrate on some of her nation’s history.

  Country of the Sands: where the people are hardened by the sun and carved by the winds. Land of fire hearts and stone wills.

  Gilkore looked exactly like such a person. He was one of the few native Sunidarans she had ever seen with his hair cut short. It was an honour accorded to only the most distinguished fighters of the previous centuries. You lost a knot for each major battle that you attended and were victorious in, then you had the whole lot cut short. That had been the way for centuries, but nowadays generals and captains tended to leave it long once they lost all their knots. It reminded them that they were Sunidaran, or so General Collete had claimed. He and his knotless ponytail had visited the school earlier in the year, and she remembered his conversation with Gilkore.

  Leg still troubling you, Gilkore?

  Gilkore had pulled a face at the

  general, and then passed him one of his cigars. Some wounds never heal.

  Like eisiel wounds. What had happened with that eisiel? Gilkore did want to go after it... It must have been caught, or more than a single sword master would have gone missing.

  Artemi blinked. The tutor had asked the first question of the exam. What had it been? Something about the Frontier Union? Blazes! She looked around. All of the other cadets were writing furiously, all except her. Burn everything!

  Cautiously, she dipped her quill in the ink well and began writing all she knew about the Union and the dates in which the major changes had taken place. She really had no idea of the object of the question, but writing something ought to be better than idling and staring out of a window. By the time she reached the part about the confusion over the treaty with Jurini, the tutor announced that he was about to ask another question.

  Artemi was sorely tempted to look out of that window. What was the weather doing today? Stupid girl! The weather was always the same: hot and arid! Concentrate, Artemi!

  Something was happening to her

  left. She looked, and was amused to see Kethin picking up his sheaf of parchment in confusion. He certainly was not the brightest in their year; both sword tutors and academic teachers found his inability to learn frustrating enough to regularly grow angry at him. It was a shame really, since it was not his fault he was slow. Son of an army captain, or so he claimed.

  Kethin began eating his papers. Not simply taking a bite out of one edge, but eating them, as if they were made of honey-glazed boar and roasted tubers. The entire sheaf of parchment was stuffed into his mouth, which was

  quite a feat given its thickness. He chewed briefly, and then grinned as if quite satisfied w
ith his repast.

  Their tutor hesitated only a moment at the spectacle, shook his head and proceeded with the next question. There would be no escape from this for any of them.

  Two long hours passed in which Artemi thought variously of eisiels and made plans for her retaliation against Morghiad. She also thought a great deal about the sword moves she wanted to practise today, assuming she was given the chance. Very little of her concentration was focussed on the

  exam she was supposed to be completing. She grimaced as she handed it in. The page was covered in scrawls and crossings out. No doubt Morghiad’s would be a fastidious, neat and lordly affair.

  “Miss Fevtari, please see that your desk is properly arranged before you leave,” the tutor instructed, arching an eyebrow.

  But she...

  Artemi turned to look back at the room. Her desk, which had been left in good order, now had a slowly growing pool of black ink spreading across its surface. The well had been

  upturned, and the quill lay ruined amongst the mess.

  Morghiad brushed past her with a sneer on his face. He looked far too pleased with himself.

  “Take this, and don’t leave until it’s clean.” The tutor handed her a board cloth to mop up the puddle, and returned his eyes to the numerous documents at his own desk.