The Keeper's Flame (A Pandoran Novel, #2)

by Barbara Kloss

  “You’re angry,” I said.

  He paused, his back to me. “No, I’m not angry. I’m a little annoyed because Grool has turned my entire living room into a laboratory, bound and determined to replenish what was stolen, which has resulted in an inconvenient number of fires and explosions. But more than that, I’m worried. What you’re doing”—he looked over his shoulder at me—“it’s too dangerous. You will die, child.”

  He was quiet while the weight of his words sunk in.

  Die?

  He hadn’t said “might” or “could” or “you’re an idiot.” No, he’d said will, as in the result was final.

  I swallowed and looked away. “I have to try. I can’t let them hurt Fleck anymore.”

  Tran studied me a long, silent moment. “I understand,” he said at last. “I’ll return this evening to stay with your brother. Someone needs to be here to explain to him why everyone thinks he’s you.”

  I paused. “So you think he’s going to wake this evening?”

  Tran tilted his head, studying Stefan. “I’ll give him something to wake him up, but I can’t have anyone around when he does. It’d be too confusing—for everyone, especially him.”

  “Thank you, Tran,” I said.

  “Don’t thank me, child. Just stay alive.”

  With that, he vanished.

  ****

  The ceremonial hall was perfectly round, made of glossy black tiles. The walls rose tall, curving into a grand dome overhead, and even though they were all black, even though there were no torches in the room, there was an ethereal white glow reflecting from every surface and every tile. The glow came from a small object hovering above an ornate iron pedestal that stood in the center of the room. It was a stone no larger than my hand, but it wasn’t the stone that was glowing. It was what was inside: a fine white mist, swirling and pulsing within compact walls of glass. It illuminated brighter with each pulse, radiating with power, beautiful and captivating.

  Behind it hovered a gleaming golden shield. The shield wasn’t together, though; it was suspended into seven separate pieces, just like Cicero had told me months ago. Each piece hovered mere inches from the ones beside it, like puzzle pieces laid in respective places, waiting to be pushed together. And, just like a puzzle, on the surface of each piece were engravings.

  Each scene was broken, but the intended picture was easy to make out: one quadrant of swirling clouds, one of towering mountains, one of blazing flames, one of rushing water.

  The elementals.

  My gaze lingered on the clouds shining beneath the light of the stone. Such smooth lines and so much power, never to be contained, not even by the shield that carried them. They held their own power, separate from the others. It was a power I could feel and taste. A power I could smell and, as I stood, hypnotized by them, I thought I saw the smooth lines swell and roll.

  Like they were real.

  Lined in front of it all were the iron bowls I’d seen at the dance. Only this time, I counted seven. Pendel was at the far end.

  I followed Dad and Sir Armand de Basco farther into the room, threading our way through dense clusters of spectators, until we stepped into a section decorated in greens and blacks and silvers. An emerald green flag hung overhead with an emblem of a black dragonhead in the center: the symbol of Valdon; the symbol of power.

  “There you are, Stefan.” The king appeared, sounding pleased, but his eyes communicated something different. They were colder than usual, despite the sweltering fire burning inside of him. He looked past me, past Dad, past Sir Armand, and his lips turned down. “She’s still not feeling well, I presume?”

  Dad’s defenses peaked, but his face revealed nothing but perfect control. “No, Father, though I am hopeful—as is Gaius—that she’ll be present for the games.”

  A shadow crossed the king’s face. “You’d best hope that she is.”

  Dad held the king’s gaze a moment and said, “Yes, sire.”

  “Good,” the king said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” The king stood at the foot of the room and the whispering died. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the king’s voice bellowed. “I present to you the members of the guild.”

  Doors opened on the opposite side of the round room. Standing in the doorway were two figures. Their frames were veiled beneath crimson robes that pooled on the shiny black floor, their faces hidden in the shadows of a bulbous hood, and the power emanating from them hit me like a bolt of lightening.

  In pairs, they stepped into the room, smooth and steady as though they were floating, but once they reached the center of the room, the pairs split, each going in the opposite direction around the center display until they joined at the other side.

  After a few moments, the center display was lined with a perfect circle of red-robed figures, the air thrumming with their conflated power. One of the figures moved forward to stand beside the king and lifted his hood. Headmaster Ambrose. His face looked deathly pale from the ethereal white-blue glow of the unity stone. His eyes were set back further in his head and the bones in his face were sharp, making him look skeletal. A skeleton dressed in blood.

  The crowd waited in silence.

  “People of Gaia.” The headmaster’s voice filled the chamber. “The significance of this night is perhaps the greatest Gaia has ever seen. The prophecies have spoken of a time when Galahad’s shield shall be reunited and a true heir may reclaim the throne.”

  The headmaster turned from the crowd and approached the unity stone, pausing before it. He held out a pale, bony hand, letting it hover over the stone; the stone pulsed white.

  “For centuries,” he continued, “the guild has protected the unity stone until the day a champion may come forth and unleash its power.” He turned to the crowd, his dark eyes narrowed. “Tonight we will bind each of your elected champions to the stone, but know this: The games are no simple matter. They have been designed to test your strength and ability, your character and integrity. The challenges you will face will be, perhaps, the greatest challenges you will ever face, and the most deadly. Some of you—” he paused “—may die.”

  I swallowed, and the room was silent.

  “Once bound to the stone,” he continued, “there is no turning back. If even one of you walks away there can be no victor. The power of Gaia will then fade into nothing, and this world will know nothing but darkness.”

  He slowly walked to the iron bowl on the far left, the one with Orindor etched along the rim and blood-red gems like rubies gleaming from within.

  What had I gotten myself in to?

  Tests of strength and ability? Sure, I might be able to fight and use my daggers, but I certainly wasn’t strong, and my ability? I couldn’t do magic in a magical world. My chances were better sneaking Fleck out of here.

  But if I didn’t have the strength to fight in the games, I certainly didn’t have the strength to protect him.

  “Danton Pontefract of Orindor,” said the headmaster.

  Danton emerged from the crowd. His blue eyes looked bluer from the eerie light of the stone as he walked forward with pride. He stopped before the headmaster and extended his arm. Headmaster Ambrose slid a jeweled dagger from the folds of his cloak, and then he pushed Danton’s sleeve up to his elbow.

  The headmaster traced the tip of the dagger along Danton’s forearm and pulled it back; the edge was coated in red.

  Blood.

  My stomach turned, and my forearms started hurting.

  “One for the bowl.” The headmaster held the tip of the dagger over Orindor’s bowl. Danton’s blood trickled down the blade until it bubbled at the tip and dropped onto the red gems.

  “And one for the stone.” The headmaster took the blade to the unity stone and holding it over until a drop of blood fell upon it. But rather than slide down the side, the unity stone absorbed the blood and pulsed with red light.

  A small flame appeared, hovering in Orindor’s iron bowl, rising from the red gems, and as I watched, fire-gol
d letters burned along the rim, just below “Orindor”:

  DANTON MARCELL PONTEFRACT

  As fast as they had appeared, they faded and were gone.

  But the flame remained. The keeper’s flame. So that was what Thad had been talking about.

  The headmaster nodded at Danton. Danton pushed down his sleeve and rejoined his father in the crowd.

  “Ehren Venia of the Arborenne.” Headmaster Ambrose moved to the next iron bowl—the one with Arborenne etched along the brim.

  The headmaster repeated the ritual for each contestant, and each time he stepped to the appropriate gem-filled bowl. The angry half-sized boy named Kenley, then Vera, and Steerforth. Steerforth even winked at Isla Justine, who was standing near me, while the headmaster dug into his arm.

  Five flames burned in their respective bowls.

  There were only two left: Valdon and Pendel. Which really meant I was the only one left.

  “Prince Stefan Regius of Valdon.”

  Part of me screamed to run. Run away from this room, these people. Anywhere but seal myself to this fate.

  “Prince Stefan Regius,” the headmaster repeated, a little sharper this time.

  Dad nudged me in the side.

  With a deep breath, I walked to Valdon’s bowl, feeling every eye on my back.

  “Your arm,” the headmaster said coolly.

  I extended my forearm. The cool metal touched my skin and I winced. With the softest pressure, the dagger’s tip made a dimple in my skin and, with a sharp prick, blood pooled at the cut. The headmaster pulled the dagger away and added my blood to the emerald-like gems.

  He moved to the unity stone and let a drop of my blood fall. As soon as my blood touched the surface, a surge of power exploded through the room, and with a stiff breeze the candles died.

  All but for the flames in the bowls.

  The crowd whispered as their confusion surrounded me, and then a flame rose from the deep green gems in Valdon’s bowl.

  It was tiny, much smaller than all the other flames, and unlike the other contestants, no name appeared outside the bowl. The headmaster studied it, perplexed, and glanced at me, searching.

  Letters began to appear, the same fire-gold that had appeared on every other bowl for every other contestant. But this name didn’t begin with an “S”.

  It began with a “D”.

  Oh, no.

  My heart thudded and the crowd’s curiosity slammed into me, nearly knocking me down.

  “Daria Pandor Regius?” whispered someone in the crowd. “But how…?”

  The headmaster’s gaze seared and sweat began dripping down my temples. The king stepped forward, eyes narrowed at the bowl, mouth twisted in fury.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.

  My dad stepped forward, furious. “There has to be some mistake.”

  Headmaster Ambrose glowered at Dad. “The Keeper’s Fire cannot lie.”

  “I know,” Dad exclaimed, “but you can see as well as I…Stefan?” He watched me with a terrified look on his face, and my body started feeling…strange. My skin tingled all over like it was going numb and my insides felt bubbly and warm. After a few seconds, the sensation passed and it was followed by a sharp gasp from the crowd.

  The king’s eyes widened, and I knew.

  My disguise—the potion. It had worn off.

  Chapter 15

  From Bad to Worse

  Dad jerked me from the room of angry people faster than I’d thought possible. It didn’t, however, prevent me from hearing all the comments and accusations. “I knew she had magic!” “King Darius did this on purpose!” “They’ve been lying to us all along!”

  But the most painful comment came from my dad, once he had me safely out of the room and into a mostly empty corridor. “What is wrong with you?”

  My throat tightened.

  His gaze burned. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He was so angry, little droplets of spit flew in my face when he spoke.

  “Dad, I—”

  “I can only imagine why you did it”—he gripped my arm tighter—“to save Fleck. But to go to this extreme…this is foolish, Daria. Not even I can save you from this.”

  I glanced away, trying to hold myself together. It was difficult enough going through with this, let alone having my own dad act like I was marching myself straight to death.

  “Did Stefan agree to this?” he snapped.

  “No,” I whispered.

  He gripped my arm tighter. “Where is he?”

  “My room.”

  Dad’s understanding surged and he jerked me after him, down the hall toward my room. The guards looked very confused as we approached, then looked at my door like it might start growing legs.

  Dad shoved the door in.

  Stefan was sitting upright on my couch, staring absently at a pendulum sitting on my coffee table, while it click-click-clicked.

  “Stefan,” Dad growled, but Stefan didn’t turn around. He sat there, watching the pendulum swing.

  “Please tell me you’re not fighting tomorrow.” Stefan’s voice was weak.

  Dad glared at me. “She is.”

  Stefan’s anger swelled, but he did not turn around.

  “I expect you both to wait here while I help your grandfather convince a room full of enraged citizens that this entire thing wasn’t a setup,” Dad continued. “Stefan, when I return, I expect you’ll find your voice.”

  Stefan didn’t respond.

  Dad’s lips formed a line and he turned to me. His anger bubbled but his eyes were sad. Sad about what I’d done, how I’d lied…sad that he expected to lose his only daughter. Then he left, slamming the door after him.

  The room was quiet.

  I took a few steps toward Stefan. Stefan was as still as a statue.

  “Stef?”

  He all but jumped to a stand and started pulling at his hair. “ARE YOU MAD?”

  I stepped back. “No, but—”

  “Do you have any idea—any!—what you’re up against?”

  “No, and I’m sorry. I—”

  “You’ll be killed in two minutes!”

  Not what I needed right now. “Stef, please, I—“

  “How can she survive—and without magic?” Stefan wasn’t talking to me, now; he was talking to the air, pacing the room and still pulling at his hair. “This is completely mental! Even with magic she’d never make it out alive, not without someone that really—and I mean REALLY—knows magic. What is she thinking?” He paused in his pace.

  “Stef—“

  “I mean—” he resumed pacing again “—I knew she was desperate for freedom, but she might as well lie down and take a nap on the chopping block, and now I have to explain myself to Grandfather…” He winced.

  “Stef—“

  “Maybe I should just kill myself and be done with it.”

  “Stefan—“

  “WHAT?” He stopped and looked at me. There was this wild look to him, all bug-eyed with worry and his hair sticking out all over the place. I half-expected him to start foaming at the mouth.

  “Stop, you’ll pull your hair out.”

  He let go of his hair and collapsed in a chair, laying his head in his hands. “What did I do to deserve this?”

  I took a deep breath. “Look, I’m sorry. I mean, what else was I supposed to do? You show up here with a shattered foot the very day before the ceremony, then Thad—”

  Stefan sat erect, eyes narrowed. “Him.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Thad,” he hissed, jabbing a finger in my direction. “He’s the one that talked you into this. He’s always—”

  “No, this was my decision,” I said.

  “But he talked you into it; he gave you the disguise. I’ll wring his neck.”

  I took another step forward. “But I took it, Stefan, leave him out of this.” Besides, it was more likely Thad would win that battle.

  Stefan dropped his head in his hands and moaned.

&
nbsp; “I know you’re angry and you have every right to be, but I need you right now. There’s an entire room full of people down there who are furious and want to see me fail, and if I have any chance of making it out alive, I need your help.”

  “No,” he said, voice weary. “You don’t want anyone’s help but your own. For all you complain about Grandfather, you’re just like him. All you care about is yourself.”

  ****

  I awoke with a start.

  Even half-asleep, my conversation with Stefan was still fresh in my mind. He thought I was going die in the games, and everyone else seemed to share his sentiment. Including my nightmares.

  The candle burned beside my bed, but my room was otherwise dark. The castle was quiet; it had to be well past midnight.

  I slipped from my bed, my feet landing on the cold stone floor. I needed to move. For all its empty space and cold air, my room felt cramped and stuffy. I padded to my dresser, slid into my leathers, shoved my daggers in my belt, shrugged into my cloak, and creaked my door open.

  The hall was dark except for a few burning torches. There were no guards outside of my door. Instead, they were at the far end of the hall, leaning against the wall.

  Very carefully, I stepped into the hall and closed the door behind me, trying not to make a sound.

  The guards didn’t move.

  I slipped into the shadows, away from them, and turned a corner.

  The castle might have been sleeping but the wind was not. The windows all along the corridor rattled and groaned against the air outside. There was no moon tonight, just darkness.

  Like the darkness growing inside of me.

  What I wanted was to go back to Earth, back to my boring life in Fresno, where there was no magic, no king. No guild, no lords…no Gaia.

  I’d thought I’d had it so rough there, with Cadence as my only companion. What I wouldn’t give for that life now. Where it was just Dad and me on weekends, riding through the fields whenever I wanted.

  No real responsibility. No real threat.

  I’d been so eager for a change—for freedom—but I’d been too ignorant to realize freedom came with responsibility. And this wasn’t a responsibility I could handle.