Die for the Flame

by William Gehler

  They cantered through the Karran countryside, enjoying the camaraderie, the tilled fields, the pastures, the pleasant villages, and the pure water streams rushing through clusters of willow. Each pretended to feel only friendship, hiding deeper emotions for the other and hoping the world would allow them a chance for happiness. Behind those hopeful notions lay visions of past death and mayhem, lurking like shadows collecting in a dark place with no light.

  Late in the day, they left behind the last rolling farmland and crested a low ridge. They rested their horses and gazed out at a seemingly empty land that stretched without end to the farthest horizon, flat and nearly treeless, a great sea of silver-green grass.

  “So, that’s the Great Grassland?” she asked.

  “Yes. And what’s known as the frontier. Not many people out here. Some settlements, scattered lonely farms, and herdsmen.”

  “It’s a beautiful thing, Clarian.”

  “I love it. It’s my home.”

  With gentle urging, they pointed their horses down the narrow dusty road that carved its way through waving tall grass, in some places taller than a horse’s head. There were no landmarks that Neevan could discern, but Clarian seemed to know how far they had traveled. Small wildflowers, yellow and white, grew by the edges of the road, and butterflies flitted by. When they approached streams, birds appeared clustering in the willows lining the waterway.

  Clarian chose a less-traveled road through the Grasslands that swung to the north, avoiding villages. He did not want to risk anyone confronting Neevan and having an unpleasant situation because she was one of the dreaded Maggan.

  The land was not as flat as it first appeared; it rose and fell in a rolling fashion, so that at one moment one could see for a great distance from the top of a swell and shortly afterward one could be swallowed by a depression, surrounded by the tall grass. The road did not run straight but meandered to the right and then to the left. Some streams were deep, and they had to ford water almost deep enough for the horses to have to swim. There were occasional pools of crystal-clear water and beside them signs of past campfires and horses, indicating that travelers had stopped to rest or spend the night.

  Neevan’s eyes were often on Clarian, especially when he was not looking. She admired his tall frame and rope-like arms, which she guessed developed from pulling the ferry across the river. She had never seen a ferry, but he had described it, and she looked forward to a ride across that great river he was so proud of. She missed the dark forest of her home and the security of the cave, but she realized how that narrow life was and that there was beauty out from under the canopy. She had never dreamed of a land of grass as far as the eye could see. Are there any caverns out here? she wondered.

  The western sun, dipping out of the sky fast, illuminated them in soft pastel colors. Clarian turned in the saddle to check on the packhorse, and he smiled at Neevan. She smiled back, and her heart grew warm in her chest.

  “Do you want me to hang on to that packhorse for a while?” she asked.

  “No, I’m fine. We’ll be coming soon to a line of willows and a stream where we can stop for breakfast.”

  “My breakfast, your dinner,” she laughed.

  “I’m starting to get my days and nights mixed up.”

  “You’re not the only one.”

  They camped for an hour by a bubbling stream, its clear water sliding over rounded rocks and smooth, colored pebbles shaded by slender, pale-green willows. They let the horses drink and graze while they ate a meal of bread and cheese washed down with the cold water. By the time they saddled the horses and were on their way, it was twilight, and soon a curtain of darkness fell, and a partial moon appeared among fresh stars in the black sky. There were no farms or settlements near the road, but occasionally the road would fork off, a branch disappearing into the grass, suggesting that someone lived out there. Clarian explained that there were villages and farms and herder camps some distance away, where water was more plentiful in the dry summer season and supported large numbers of cattle and horses as well as crops.

  The wind picked up, carrying a slight chill, and they drew on their jackets. The air smelled fresh, as if blowing in from freshly mowed fields, and as the night progressed, the stars popped out in great numbers. Neevan sang a childhood tune for Clarian in a lovely voice. She was pleased when he asked for another but felt a little self-conscious. She first sang simple songs she had learned when she was a young girl. Then she sang happy songs her mother used to sing in the kitchen or when out in the gardens picking vegetables. Then she sang love songs, blushing unseen in the dark. Clarian knew they were for him.

  He felt glad that she could not see his face and read his thoughts. But he was wrong. She could see his face with her luminous night eyes, and she saw the soft passion there as he gazed at her, and she was glad as she maneuvered her horse closer to his.

  They rode through the night and into a glaring morning sun. Finding a good place to camp, Clarian stretched a canvas cover over her to protect her from the harsh light, but it crept about her as the day hurried in. With the daylight, grassland birds swarmed into the willows by the stream where they camped, keeping up a crisp chatter. Clarian was up tending the horses, trying to be quiet. Neevan gave up trying to sleep. She sat up from under her blanket and looked around, squinting.

  “I can’t sleep in all this light. I’d rather just saddle up and go,” she announced.

  In a few moments, after she knelt down by the stream, splashed water over her face and neck, shocking herself into alertness by its coldness, and took a big drink, they were on their way. Clarian urged the horses on, and at midday, they stopped to rest by a shallow brook that cut the road north to south. There were no trees for shade, and the sun was warm on their shoulders. He hobbled the horses, unsaddled the mounts, and unpacked the packhorse and then rubbed down all the horses, watered them, and let them graze. Neevan sat on the grass, her jacket pulled over her head to shade her eyes, while she ate a cold lunch that Clarian provided. He sprawled out on the grass, his head on a saddle, his arm over his eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

  Neevan sat stoically, a bit hot under the grassland sun, waiting for Clarian to awake. After an hour he groaned and pulled himself up, grinning at Neevan. “I have a surprise for you today. I’ve something to show you as soon as we saddle up and get down this road a piece.”

  After he splashed a dash of water on his face, he fetched the horses. They each saddled their horses—the packhorse last to be loaded—and in moments were moving briskly down the dusty yellow road.

  “Where’s the surprise?” she asked.

  “Just a bit farther.”

  “Is it a cave?”

  “It’s better than a cave, night woman,” he said, laughing.

  She began to get excited. What could there be out here in this endless rolling expanse of grass that could surprise her? Clarian had a big smile on his face, and his eyes were snappy-bright and laughing at her. The road angled up a long, low rise in the land. As they topped the rise, Clarian pulled up and pointed to the west.

  “What?” Neevan asked. She looked out across the vast sea of grass but noticed nothing. She looked at Clarian with a puzzled expression. He pointed again, grinning.

  “Look way out there. Look up!”

  She looked out across the shifting grasses bending in the light wind. She looked hard and saw nothing. She lifted her eyes to the horizon. Nothing there. Wait! And there it was. Mountains. Far distant, to be sure, but in the clear light from the rays of the sun, tall blue spires of ice sparkled. “Are they what I think they are?” she asked, her voice catching.

  “They are. The Crystal Mountains of the Immortals.”

  “Oh, Clarian!” she cried. Tears flooded her eyes, and her shoulders quaked as she was overcome with amazement and joy. She covered her face with her hands and wept. Guiding her horse next to Clarian’s, she reached a
cross and hugged him, holding him tight as the horses fidgeted, her tears on his neck. He laughed gently, his right arm around her waist.

  “Hey, we better get going. I think those mountains are calling you, Neevan.”

  Regaining composure, she tied her hair back behind her neck, wiped her eyes, and with a warm light in her eyes, she kicked her horse into a canter, leading the way down the road through the tall grass toward the mountains of her childhood myths.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The weeds were thick in the garden after the frequent rains. Ranna and Helan were on their knees in the rich brown soil between rows of vegetables, pulling and clearing out the interlopers. It was hot, the sun slanting in hard and the breeze warm off the desert from across the river. Ranna wiped the perspiration from her brow with her handkerchief. At that moment, the two yellow dogs, always close by, stood up and raised their noses into the air, sniffing, ears rotating. It must a traveler, she thought.

  The dogs quivered as they sniffed, trying to take in the scent. A puff of air, light as a feather, drifted in from the east. The dogs exploded, baying frantically, dashing off down the road, their lean bodies stretched out in full gait.

  Helan pushed up from her knees and stood shading her eyes, peering down the long road. “Somebody must be coming. The dogs don’t usually take off like that.”

  “The dogs never go off like that,” answered Ranna. She stood up, glad to straighten her back. “Can you see anything?”

  “Not yet. Well, maybe.”

  There in the distance, two faint figures—no three—were silhouetted against the skyline for a moment before they dipped down into the grass swales. In a few moments the figures reappeared: two riders and a packhorse. The baying of the dogs drifted back as they raced down the road toward the riders. Within a short time, the riders appeared more sharply, now seen coming at a lope. The baying changed to joyous barking as it became evident the dogs had intercepted the riders.

  “You don’t think…” asked Ranna.

  “I can’t quite see who it is, Ranna. He’s waving!”

  “It’s Clarian! Oh!”

  The riders were urging the tired horses on, and the distance closed quickly. Ranna and Helan hurried down the garden path to the courtyard in front of the cottage where the road passed down to the river and the ferry. Ranna pulled hard on the bell rope, signaling the welcome.

  Wiping hands on aprons and brushing aside tears, they clutched Clarian as he jumped from his still-moving horse, laughing and lifting each one of them in a great hug. It was several moments before they realized that Clarian had a companion. The tall, raven-haired woman dismounted and stood by her horse with a shy expression on her face. All the while the dogs were crowding Clarian for attention, pushing into his legs.

  “This is Neevan,” Clarian announced. “She is my friend.”

  Ranna and Helan both extended hands to her, and at that moment, they noticed her strange eyes.

  They put Neevan up in Clarian’s room on the north side of the house and pulled the curtains tight to block out the light. While Neevan washed up, Clarian, in the main room, explained that Neevan was Maggan, which drew exclamations of shock from Helan and raised eyebrows from Ranna, who had heard stories of the Maggan. Neither had ever seen one. He spoke of the fragile peace between the Karran and the Maggan and that Neevan was the Maggan emissary. Neevan had wanted to see the Great Grasslands and Clarian’s home, as well as the Crystal Mountains. He said he had become homesick, and she had wanted to come, so he brought her along.

  Neither Ranna nor Helan missed the warm looks that passed between Neevan and Clarian. Well, thought Ranna, look at what happened to Orlan and me. Strange things happen on the frontier, she mused as she turned to the kitchen.

  While Ranna and Helan cooked a lavish meal of fresh vegetables and fish, Rostan came up from the ferry, and he and Clarian embraced. Clarian promised to come down to the ferry in a little while. He introduced Rostan to Neevan, and when he looked into her eyes, he jumped. Everyone including Neevan laughed, and Rostan, embarrassed, mumbled something and ducked out to go back down to the ferry.

  After the meal, Neevan was tired, and Clarian suggested she retire. With a wave of thanks, she disappeared down the hallway to Clarian’s room. After she left, Clarian told them they should not be surprised to find Neevan up and about during the night hours, that being her natural time to be active. He further explained that, in trying to accommodate her, he and Neevan split the day and the night so that he would stay up late at night, part of her day, and she would stay up late in the morning, part of her night. He admitted that it did not always work out.

  They asked about her eyes and he smiled, saying only that she could see at night, as long as there was any light, as well as they could during the daylight. The bright sunlight was hard on her eyes, he admitted, and yes, the Maggan lived underground in caves, but Neevan seemed fine above ground as well. The women did not press him about what might happen if there was another war. They accepted his unusual friend as frontier people accept unexpected circumstances, although Helan was a bit stiff with Neevan.

  Hurrying down to the ferry landing, Clarian joined Rostan and inspected the ferries. He was more than pleased when he saw that the cables, pulleys, and craft had been well cared for, and he told Rostan so, much to Rostan’s pleasure. Rostan was delighted to see Clarian after the long absence.

  The biggest problem facing Rostan, as he showed Clarian the new lumber that had come in for a new ferry, all stacked in the barn out of the rain, was that he could not build the new craft alone. Now that Clarian was home, perhaps they could start work on it together.

  “But I have another problem, Clarian.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to get married.” He explained he had met a girl from a village during the war, but work at the ferry kept him from seeing her.

  After listening to Rostan, Clarian inquired as to how Rostan would go about settling down and raising a family. Rostan didn’t know, but he thought he could get work driving a wagon hauling goods to the Citadel.

  “Why don’t you think about settling down here, Rostan? Bring your bride here to the ferry. We could build a cottage for you, and you could farm the land to the south and work the ferry with me.”

  It was a welcome offer that Rostan readily accepted, and they shook hands to seal the deal. Clarian and Rostan walked down along the high river embankment past the ferry road south of Clarian’s house. After a short walk, they found a level spot back from the river but close enough to see the landing on the other side of the river and within shouting distance of the main house. Across from the plot there was high grass that could be plowed and put into crops and pasture.

  Clarian had known that he would most likely be called away from time to time to go to the Citadel—not to war, he hoped—and that Ranna and Helan would be left alone. They could not handle the ferry themselves, and there might be no one to operate the craft and carry travelers across the river. This would be a good solution to a problem that had been sitting at the back of his mind for some time. He clapped Rostan on the back, waved, and hurried up the hill to tell Ranna and Helan the good news.

  The days drifted by seamlessly. Clarian and Rostan began construction on the second ferry in the mornings and laid the foundation for Rostan’s new cottage in the afternoons. They hauled in stones from the riverbed in a heavy wagon and placed them into the trenches and dragged timbers down from north of the ferry.

  Neevan would come out and watch in the mornings and the late afternoons. During the day she slept. She marveled at the force and speed of the river and its turquoise color. What she really loved was when travelers would ring the bell on the far side, and Clarian would invite her into the craft. She thrilled as the tug of the river grabbed the craft and propelled it out into the current, laughing as sprays of water cascaded over the bow, sometimes soaking the passenge
rs. She enjoyed helping with the crossing by pulling on the cable lines that anchored the ferry to each side of the river.

  A number of traders crossed over each day now that the war was over, some heading into the desert lands to Madasharan, and some from there trekking into the grassland villages to barter for horses or cattle. The conversations were lively, and the travelers were full of stories and bizarre tales. All took a second look at Neevan, first for her beauty, but then at those large, glowing eyes. When they learned from her that she was a Maggan, some became reserved, but others asked probing questions like what do the Maggan eat, do they eat children, is it true they live deep in the ground, can they really see in the dark? Neevan, smiling and sometimes laughing, patiently answered them all. Clarian was pleased that she did so with grace and good humor. And she had her questions, too. Had they ever been to the Crystal Mountains? Did they ever talk to someone who had? What did they know about the Crystal Mountains? Had anyone ever seen an Immortal One?

  “Where do these questions come from about us eating children?” she asked.

  “We have always heard the Maggan eat captured children,” Helan replied, her eyebrows raised.

  “That’s horrible! It’s not true. Who starts tales like that?” Neevan was disturbed by the whole idea and shook her head in disgust.

  Clarian looked away and said little, vividly remembering the massacre of the children by Ferman, a sight he would never forget.

  Sometimes Ranna heard noises during the night and coming out of her room into the great room, she would be startled to find Neevan moving about in the dark, making a meal or filling a teakettle to boil water. Clarian heard stories from his mother or aunt about coming out of their rooms at night and at first seeing nothing and then shrieking and almost jumping out of their nightgowns when they saw the gleaming eyes peering out at them out of the darkness. It made for a good laugh the next morning. In time, everyone adapted to Neevan’s sleep cycle, and it became something humorous.