The Cleansing Flame

by Alec Hutson

  Now Bell does turn to me, her gaze heavy with contempt. “You give your loyalty too quickly. She doesn’t really care about you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bell swats in annoyance at some buzzing insect bumbling around her face. “Let me tell you a story about a lamias and the harm they can do.” She stares off into the distance for a long moment, as if ordering her thoughts. “My papa used to be a member of the faculty in the Collegium of Varakesh,” she finally begins, sounding almost tired. “Most of them were stodgy old men, drifting around the campus in their black robes, concerned above all else with their petty academic rivalries. Well, one winter a little-known ethicist named Belagin – at least, I think that was his name – published a book that advanced a new framework for understanding human morality. Now, this fellow was so obscure that most of the philosophy department had thought he’d died years ago, but in fact he’d been recessed away in the deepest archives of the library formulating his theories. Somehow what he’d written caught fire, and suddenly his ideas were being discussed in every salon and coffee shop in the city. I remember seeing him being mobbed by undergraduates one day when he ventured outside the philosophy building, the shock and terror in his face, the shabbiness of his clothes and his halo of frizzy white hair. He looked completely unprepared for his new stature as a figure of some renown.” Bell twists the reins in her hand. “But it was the lamias that broke him.”

  “What happened?”

  “One of them appeared in the city, drawn by the stories of Belagin’s brilliance. She was from a different caste than this one, probably a philosopher, but she looked much the same – they’re all beautiful. After all, the viability of their kind is conditioned upon their ability to seduce the males of other species. And it has worked – throughout most of the world, being chosen by a lamias is seen as a great honor. Men are slaves to their ego and having a lamias at your side is very visible proof that you are at the absolute pinnacle in your respective realm, be that writing philosophical texts or leading armies or cultivating exotic flowers.

  “So they became lovers, Belagin and the lamias. Can you imagine, this aging, nebbish professor who probably hadn’t spoken to an attractive woman in years, and now suddenly he’s caught up in a passionate tryst with someone who wants him for his intellect? He became besotted. He fell in love with her.” Bell looks at me intensely as she says this, and I can hear the scorn dripping off her words.

  “But it didn’t last?”

  She shakes her head vigorously. “Of course not. Perhaps if the lamias had merely gotten with child and returned to her isle the story wouldn’t have ended tragically. After all, that was the entire reason for her travels. Maybe he could have accepted that.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “A rebuttal.”

  “Huh?”

  “Another book by a different professor, one that systematically undermined, uprooted, and obliterated the central arguments advanced by Belagin. It was such an exhaustive response, so unassailable in its logical consistency, that there was nothing he could do. His reputation was ruined. He was like a candle that had flared brightly, but then someone had come along and snuffed him out.”

  “And the lamias?”

  “She left him, of course. To be with the ethicist who had demonstrated his intellectual superiority. Belagin was crushed. Despondent.”

  I think I know how this ends. “So he killed himself?”

  “No. Even worse – he murdered his rival, pushing him from a balcony when he was giving a speech to his admiring supporters. Ironically, this act was done in direct contradiction to the moral framework Belagin had once espoused. So he killed not only his romantic rival, but also any hope of his ideas being exhumed and rehabilitated by some future philosopher.”

  “That’s . . . certainly a cautionary tale. What happened to Belagin?”

  “Executed.”

  “Hm. Well, I wonder if in the end he regretted anything.”

  Bell glances at me in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “If a god had suddenly appeared and offered him the chance to take it all back when he was sitting in his cell awaiting the headsman’s ax – say, that he could remain in his little corner of the library forever rather than experience everything that had happened to him since the publication of his book – if he in fact would.”

  “Of course he would!”

  “I think you might not know men all that well. I believe most would choose fleeting glory over a lifetime of obscurity.”

  Bell blinks, obviously shocked that this is the lesson I’ve drawn from her story. “Men are stupid,” she says vehemently. She looks away, silently fuming, but after a few long moments she can’t resist turning to me again.

  “It all comes back to trust. You can’t trust her, Talin. She won’t love you. For her this is a transaction – she gives you something you want, but in the end, this is only about bringing your strength back to her people. If you’re killed by another warrior there won’t be any tears shed. She’ll just see it as an opportunity to make the daughter she’ll have one day stronger.”

  “She has more to offer than just companionship,” I say defensively. “Her last lover was working for the Trust. She could know valuable information about what their plans might be, and how strong their position is.”

  I flinch at the disgust I see in her eyes. “Well, just remember this – every warrior we meet will see her as the ultimate prize, and they know that if they kill you, then she’ll be theirs. I hope you’re ready.”

  With this she kicks her nag and gallops ahead, leaving me speechless behind her.

  We stop for the night at another roadside inn, and though it’s far humbler than the Warrior’s Rest it’s still tremendously preferable to where I’d spent the previous night, among the stale rushes scattered about the floor of Soril’s gaol. Excited whispers and gasps greet us as we step into the common room, and I can’t help but remember what Bell had said about how others might try to prove themselves worthy to Deliah. None of these commoners in their homespun clothes hunched over their ales, however, look to be much of a threat, and after sweeping them with a hard stare they lower their eyes to their drinks again. A thin and stooped innkeeper rushes out from behind the bar, greeting us with several honorifics that do not apply. Apparently, those traveling with a lamias are assumed to be of a certain quality.

  He can’t seem to take his eyes from Deliah as he nearly abases himself before her, and from the expression on her face this is a reaction she’s seen before.

  “We will take two rooms,” she says, cutting through his babbling.

  I clear my throat. “Three rooms.”

  Deliah arches her brow but she doesn’t say anything. Bell is looking at me like I’ve just claimed that I’ve seen cows drifting through the sky. The innkeep’s eyes are bulging, his jaw halfway to the floor. I can imagine he thinks I’m utterly mad.

  “I need some good rest,” I say gruffly, before affecting a yawn.

  Deliah crooks a smile at this and reaches into her purse.

  13

  The land has grown more tumultuous as we approach the imposing, cloud-bedecked mountains of Hesset’s Wall, with the horses starting to labor as they follow the road over the hills. Finally, after most of the day has passed, we crest a bluff and find the city spread below us. It hunkers against the sheer rock flank of the Wall like a child clutching at its mother’s skirts, though tendrils of buildings and streets slither away into the surrounding valley. The center is a silvery lake at the mountain’s foot, its edges encrusted with some of the oldest and richest-looking stone buildings. A glittering spume tumbles from thousands of span higher up the mountain, and this waterfall shrouds the far side of the lake in mist. From the lake a river meanders through the city, spanned by dozens of bridges, including covered wooden footpaths and massive arches of weathered stone large enough for several wagons to trundle across at once.

  My first impression of Ysala is that it looks
like a capricious giant has smashed together several cities from very different architectural traditions. There’s the ancient stone buildings around the lake, large and imposing and decorated with all sorts of flourishes. Elsewhere I see a collection of green domes bubbling up from among smaller structures. Towers of varying sorts rise up from different neighborhoods: square keeps topped by crenellated battlements, slim ivory minarets, squat circular citadels with peaked red roofs. But the structures that draw my eyes are clustered in the western reaches of the city. They look like simple towers of gray stone, but there is something diaphanous binding their upper floors together that flashes in the daylight. It almost looks like a web.

  “What’s that?” I say, gesturing at the strange towers.

  Bell follows where I’m pointing. “That’s the arachnia ghetto. Spider-kin. They arrived a hundred years ago, emerging right out from under the mountains, and begged for sanctuary. Took over those towers. They don’t let many folks within, but I knew someone who was working for one of their matriarchs and she said the insides are gutted and now just filled with webbing.”

  “Spider-kin,” I whisper.

  “They can look a bit frightening, but don’t let their appearances deceive you. Most I’ve met have been good people. One of my best friends is a spider.”

  She nudges her horse and starts on the steep switchback trail leading to the closest gate. After another moment of drinking in the city’s sweeping grandeur, I follow her.

  “Are there many different creatures living in Ysala?” I ask loudly over the clatter of hooves.

  “There are,” Bell says over her shoulder without turning around. “Most of the city is human, as is the entire leadership of the Trusts. But there’s some sizable communities from other species – the arachnia, the ko-kalak, the avasynians. There’s even a colony of dagoni living in Coldmercy Lake. Probably every species on the continent is represented somewhere in the city.”

  “Do you have a plan?” I ask, changing the subject before she can wander off onto a del Alate digression.

  Bell snorts. “I thought you were going to knock down the walls and kill everyone who gets in your way? You know, show your strength.”

  “Let’s hold that plan in reserve. Try it your way first.”

  Now that we’ve descended a bit I think I can see tiny dark shapes speckling the webbing stretched between the gray towers. The arachnia?

  “First, we take some rooms, someplace the Trusts don’t bother with.”

  “And you have such a place in mind?”

  “I do.”

  “And then?”

  “We start asking around, try to figure out what the Red Trillium Trust wants the glitter for. If we find out we may be able to use this knowledge to free Papa.”

  “You know the city well, then?”

  “I’ve lived here for five years. It’s my home now, even more so than Varakesh.”

  That comforts me. The sheer magnitude of the city spread below us is almost overwhelming, and I can’t imagine trying to navigate this sprawl without someone who has intimate knowledge of its streets and neighborhoods.

  “Deliah!” I call to the lamias trailing behind us. “Are you familiar with Ysala as well?”

  “Barely,” she replies. “R’znek and I arrived here a little more than a month ago, and almost immediately we were hired by the Red Trillium Trust to wait for the scientist in Soril. I made few friends . . . I think most of those we met were intimidated by R’znek. He could be a little imposing.”

  I remember the avalanche of scales and claws and spines rushing across the ring at me and silently agree with her. “What was it like working for the Trust?”

  A moment’s silence. I steal a glance over my shoulder to see from Deliah’s expression if she’s afraid to answer, but from her face it looks like she’s simply taking time to formulate her response.

  “They were . . . professional. Better trained than the mercenary bands we served with before. But at heart they were still soldiers – they laughed and drank and cared for each other. Except for Fen Poria. She was different.”

  “The pale girl?”

  “Yes. There was no fear in her, even when she was confronting R’znek about something. The other Trust warriors were intensely loyal to her, almost like they loved her, and yet they were also very afraid. An odd combination. Commanders usually rule through either fear or love, but rarely both at the same time.”

  “And the head of the Trust . . . someone called him the Marquis?”

  “I never met him. R’znek did, and said he was formidable. It was rare when he gave such respect.”

  I mull that over as we continue down the steep hillside. Up ahead, at the base of the hill, the path merges with a larger road coming from the west. I can see a few wagons and travelers on foot, though not as many as I would expect given the size of Ysala. They are all approaching the city gate, which has been designed to resemble the giant face of a goblin. Slanted eyes and a great bulbous nose are carved above the arched entrance and pointed stone teeth covered with green moss hang from above, making it seem like those entering the city are marching down the monster’s gullet.

  We join this stream of travelers, slipping behind a line of brightly colored wagons. The bored-looking guardsmen leaning upon their halberds at first do not spare us any attention, but then one catches sight of Deliah and shakes the arm of the guard closest to him, pointing at the lamias. Soon they’re all watching her – leering, more like it – though now they are all standing straighter with their shoulders thrown back.

  I’m beginning to think it’s going to be hard to be inconspicuous with Deliah as a companion.

  Beyond the gate is a large open space with wooden stalls set up around its edges. The travelers passing through the goblin gate are all drifting towards these booths – some seem more popular than others, with large crowds that obscure whatever it is that’s happening. Others seem to be almost ignored, and the stall closest to us is one with few travelers. It’s a simple table covered by a frayed awning and nailed to the base of the booth is a large carving of what looks to be the head of a fox or wolf. The beast is painted black, except for its eyes, which are little yellow slits. Bell slips from her horse and moves in the direction of this booth, and I follow.

  A rat-faced man in rumpled clothes stirs in his seat as we approach, lifting his head from his pillowed arms. He eyes us in mild surprise.

  “Greetings, travelers,” he says, his gaze lingering on Deliah. “Welcome to Ysala.”

  “Well met,” Bell says, scattering a few coins upon the table. “We’d like to claim the protection of the Shadow Fox Trust.”

  The man scoops the coins up and dumps them in a wooden box. Then he lays down three dark brooches that resemble the carving of the fox’s head nailed to the front of the booth. “An excellent choice. We are pleased to be your patron during your stay.” He touches his forehead with two fingers and bows his head slightly.

  Bell offers a small nod of thanks before grabbing the brooches and turning away. As we lead the horses towards a huge, low building that has the look of a stable she hands one of the little fox heads to me and one to Deliah.

  “Put it on your shirt,” she says, and I notice there’s a metal pin affixed to its back.

  “What is it?” I ask, turning it over in my hand. It seems to be carved of some light wood, so fragile I could easily snap it in half.

  “Safety,” Bell says, pinning the brooch to her dress. “Everyone in Ysala is under the protection of one Trust or another. If we were to walk past those stalls without buying a brooch we’d be robbed before we took another hundred steps into the city, and since there is no judiciary or magistrates like in other cities we’d have no recourse. But now a thief who steals from us will bring down the anger of the Shadow Fox Trust.”

  “Not a particularly feared Trust,” Deliah says.

  Bell grimaces. “This is true. But we’ll be staying in a neighborhood that has long paid tribute to the Fox, so I
thought it best.”

  “I wonder if the Fox’s Duke has finally died. Before R’znek and I left for Soril there were whispers in the city that he was on his deathbed.”

  “We will know soon enough,” Bell replies. “If he has, it will be on everyone’s lips.”

  A fat, sweaty man hails us as we draw closer to the stables. After a quick negotiation with Bell he claps his hands and a trio of scrawny boys materialize from somewhere and take the reins of our horses.

  “I’ve booked a stall for a month,” Bell says as Deliah takes her stallion’s head in her hands and whispers something that causes its tail to swish irritably. “Now let’s get to the Blight.”

  “The what?” I ask, but Bell has already turned away and is hailing one of the rickshaws drawn up near the stables. A bearded man squatting in the dirt throwing dice leaps to his feet and clambers up into the driver’s seat, then flicks a leather flail lightly across the back of the giant cockerel drowsing in the sun. The great bird stretches its red and gold wings and lets out a challenging screech, then surges forward, pulling the rickshaw alongside where we’re waiting.

  “Where to, lovelies?” the driver asks, flashing a smile with more gum than teeth. The cockerel turns to regard us with glittering black eyes.

  “The Blight,” Bell says as she pulls herself up into the carriage. Watching the great bird’s curving beak warily I follow her, finding a seat on the faded velvet bench. Deliah squeezes in beside me, removing the weapon from her back and angling its haft so that it fits in the small space with us, and as soon as she’s settled the driver lashes the bird with his flail again, sending us clattering forward.

  “The Blight, eh?” the driver says, turning to spit a wad of red juice onto the flagstones beneath us. “What are you nice young folk gonna do in a place like that?”

  “None of your business,” Bell retorts, and the driver chuckles. He doesn’t sound the least bit offended.