A Chorus of Fire

by Brian D. Anderson

  “Stop this bloody carriage, Landon.”

  “We’ll stop soon.” He was averting his eyes, as if ashamed.

  “We’ll stop now. Or I swear, you’ll wish you had.” She readied a binding spell, one that would cause pain without lasting harm. Something was wrong with Landon. Even if he were not behaving so strangely, she could see it in his eyes.

  “When I was told to bring you to him, I tried to resist. I tried to change his mind. I want you to know that.”

  “Bring me to whom?” Mariyah said. Her chest constricted.

  “Don’t you know?”

  It was as if the blood were draining from her body. “Please. No.” She desperately wanted his next words to be the Archbishop. That he was betraying her for his faith. She would hate him for it. But it would be far better than the alternative.

  “He’s been calling for you to come to him. He told me so. He showed me how important you are. How precious.”

  “Where are you taking me?” She reached out and grabbed his collar. “Say it!”

  “Belkar. I’m taking you to Belkar.”

  She pulled her arm back, fist clenched. But her hand would not strike out. She tried again while Landon looked on, unflinchingly, but to no avail. Shoving him back, she tried to cast the binding spell. But nothing happened. The magic was denied her.

  “It was necessary,” Landon said, pointing to her ankle.

  Mariyah looked down in horror at the gold band, the metal on the outside of her pant leg so as not to alert her she was wearing it. She let out a feral scream as she tried to tear it loose. “You bastard. I’ll kill you for this. I swear it.”

  “You cannot know how difficult putting that on you was for me. I can only imagine what it must do to you to wear one again. But you have my word that soon you will be free. No one will hurt you.”

  Mariyah was dizzy with rage. Calm down. Think things through. You can find a way out of this. This was repeated in her mind until after a full minute she was able to focus. Landon. He was a servant of Belkar. But he had not wanted to bring her to him. She could use this.

  “Why? You know what he plans for Lamoria, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Of all his servants, he has blessed me with knowledge of the true majesty of his designs.”

  Mariyah leaned in and touched his hand. He flinched, but did not withdraw. “This isn’t you, Landon. I know it. I know the real you. Belkar has done something to your mind. Please. Let me help you.”

  “I … I am bound to serve my master. But you are right. You do know me. You and no other.”

  “Yes. And I know what it is you really want. Me. You can’t deny it.”

  Landon closed his eyes. “What I want is irrelevant.”

  “Not to me. Let me help you. Then we can be together.”

  The muscles in his face twitched and the trembling in his hands increased. Then, all at once it ceased, and he looked up. “Powerful.” He pulled away and leaned back, the casual, confident man she thought she knew returning in a sudden transformation. “Truly powerful. More than a prize. A treasure.”

  “Then why are you taking me to Belkar?”

  “Because I must.” Again his face twitched. “I … must. You will come to understand the right in this.”

  Something was possessing his mind; that was obvious. She could possibly help him, but not until the anklet was removed. Until she could solve that part of the puzzle, she needed to find out as much as possible. “Who’s driving the carriage?”

  “Damio,” Landon replied. He lifted his hand and held it out flat, fingers spread. The trembling was gone.

  “So those people at the camp site are followers of Belkar?”

  “Only Damio. He killed the others in their sleep.”

  Mariyah gasped. “Gara.”

  “It was not my doing. He did it while I was putting you into the carriage. I would have stopped him had I known.” He reached up and pounded the roof. “This will be over soon. Until then, I hope you find a way to accept it.”

  The carriage halted, and Landon joined Damio in the driver’s seat.

  Mariyah felt as if she were going mad. Again she pulled and pried at the anklet, but it was futile. Since living at the manor, she had learned about their design and the magic involved. It was rudimentary and yet virtually indestructible. The secret was not in the spell, which a novice could effectively cast. It was the material: a metal found only in the Cho Nok Valley in the southwest corner of Ralmarstad. It possessed unique properties that prevented the inherent decay of spells found in nearly all magic items. However, the variety of spells it could contain were limited. Chiefly, different variations of a binding spell were employed. And once forged and bound to a separate charm, which could be worn like a pendant, it was nigh unbreakable.

  As there was no way to remove it, she was left with somehow convincing Landon to set her free. He had weakened before; she could see it. The way he shook and twitched. She was reaching him. But then, whatever power Belkar had used overcame his will. That was likely when he seemed relaxed and confident.

  Invading a mind was problematic and often ineffective. You were as likely to learn a person’s delusions and daydreams as anything useful. To control someone … that was thought to be impossible. Loria believed otherwise, but also believed to do so would destroy the person’s mind permanently. And as far as she’d learned, any effects would be temporary, lasting no more than an hour or two.

  But Belkar is no ordinary Thaumas, she thought. His power was vaster than anything she could fathom. He’d discovered the secret to everlasting life. Controlling the mind of Landon Valmore would be a trivial matter.

  What would Loria have done? she wondered. Not have trusted Landon, for one thing. She would call you an emotional fool. A gullible child. And she would be right.

  “Chastising yourself isn’t going to get you out of this,” she said aloud, as if to chase away the mounting dread.

  She laid out what she needed to know: Where are we going? How long will it take to get there? And is Damio Landon’s only companion?

  Learning this information was her first priority. Second, figuring out a way to break Belkar’s hold on Landon. Of course, there was the distinct possibility that she was wrong and Belkar was not controlling his mind; that her feelings were clouding the fact that he was a dedicated follower who’d only gotten close in order to lure her into this situation. That was what Loria would say. And if Loria was right, she was finished.

  17

  THE BLADE AND THE BLADE

  When the day breaks, work. When the night falls, sleep. When children play, laugh. When a love is lost, weep. When danger comes, fear. When friends suffer, cry. When life is born, rejoice. When death speaks, die.

  Ancient Nivanian folk song

  Lem approached the tanner’s shop from the north end of the block on the opposite side of the street. It was midmorning, so Mylro Ferson would be in the back room and his wife at the front counter. Lem couldn’t recall her name. She never spoke to him anyway. He had wondered if she knew who he was. Her husband did, and turned ghostly pale at their every encounter.

  Lem watched from the street for a few minutes until he was sure there were no customers inside. The scent of roses caught on the breeze just as he was starting across. It was startling. Winter had almost arrived, leaving only the most hardy fall flowers in bloom. And yet here, in Xancartha’s perpetual spring, there was not a hint of the outside world to be seen. He had marveled at this in the beginning; now it felt unnatural. Even wrong. To shut out the order of things, the bitter change that makes new life so precious.

  Mrs. Ferson was standing in the near corner by a stack of boxes, holding a ledger. She gave Lem a polite nod, but as always, said nothing. Lem returned the gesture and hurried to the back room. Mylro was standing beside a large vat with a thick pole in his hands, which he was using to stir the hides. He glanced up long enough to see that it was Lem, and went back to his work.

  Lem made his way through to
a narrow door off to his left. Inside was a broom closet, on the floor of which was a door cleverly designed to look like a round wool rug. Opening this, Lem climbed down a ladder and into another small room with a tunnel hewn into the right side wall, where three sets of cleric’s robes hung from iron hooks.

  Donning one of the robes, he closed the door and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness before continuing through the tunnel. It had taken him several days to memorize the right combination of turns, the labyrinth of passages having been designed to confuse. The first time, even with a map provided by the High Cleric, he had become lost for more than a day. By his estimate, there were hundreds of miles of underground tunnels spread throughout the Holy City. Some had been built by the church, though he had read that Xancartha was once the capital of a rich and wealthy nation, and its rulers had created the vast web in the event the city was overrun by foes. In the end, it was not an invading army but disease that laid them low. The nation ruined, Xancartha was diminished to a shadow of its former glory. It wasn’t until the Church of Kylor split and the city was chosen for the new seat of clerical power that it was built anew.

  It took more than an hour to reach the Temple, the final passage leaving him in a disused cloak room in a west wing subbasement. Along with the underground, Lem had been required to learn the ins and outs of the Temple. Though he could identify himself as the Blade of Kylor either by showing his pendant or by saying adjouta, it was better that his presence was unknown. And there were secret ways to pass through each section known only to a counted few. Lem doubted that even the High Cleric knew them all.

  This level also housed the famed Archives of Kylor. Though Lem could access it, he’d only ever been once. And then it was a brief visit. He’d tried to attain permission for Shemi, but was refused outright. Only clergy with the ranking of at least a bishop were considered for entry, and only the Light Bringer, the High Cleric, and Lem could do so at will. Lem had found it odd, the many levels of the church to which he had free access. He was little more than an assassin. And yet the Blade of Kylor held authority over people who were counted among the most powerful in Lamoria. The irony that Lem was not a believer was not lost on him … nor on the High Cleric, whose grin stretched wide when Lem was introduced by his official title to the haughty, arrogant bishops and influential clerics.

  Traversing a specific order of the myriad hidden passageways, he climbed to the highest level, where Rothmore’s personal apartment was located. This would be the lone place where his entry would be challenged. Birtis and Kamila of the clerical guard would be on duty. They knew Lem well and were fully aware of his title. Still, they would insist on seeing the pendant. Lem suspected it enabled the High Cleric to know his location. Regardless of where he and Shemi went, his orders always found him. It made the times he lost it not bother him in the slightest. One less bit of magic in his life was just fine by him.

  The aroma of fresh rolls while passing through the second floor had his mouth watering. He would definitely take time to have a meal while he was here. Most church and monastery fare was mediocre at best, but not at the Temple. The finest cooks and bakers in Lamoria were employed—a show of wealth and power. Though that stood true about everything in Xancartha, it was particularly so within the Temple itself. Every stick of furniture, every painting, rug, or statue, down to the smallest seemingly insignificant detail, had this purpose in mind. And it was effective. Lem had yet to come here and not see half a dozen or more visitors weeping in the streets at the sheer majesty of it all.

  The entrance to the corridor where the High Cleric’s apartment was located was protected by a powerful ward. But as the Blade of Kylor, he had access to a secret passage that bypassed it, one that aside from himself and Rothmore only Sister Dorina knew of.

  Lem had decided not to inform the High Cleric of her contact with the Archbishop. He liked the woman. Better to give her the opportunity to tell him in her own way. Or not at all. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t a traitor. If she’d wanted the High Cleric dead, there was little to stop her. So why punish someone loyal who did only what anyone would have done to save a family member?

  He emerged in an antechamber outside Rothmore’s personal library. It was quiet. Unsettlingly so. This part of the Temple didn’t see more than a handful of visitors per day, and those would move about as silently as possible, never speaking a word until well away and back to the lower floors.

  Rounding the corner, Lem froze for a moment, then ducked back out of sight, his hand flying to his dagger. Birtis and Kamila were splayed on the floor, facedown in front of the High Cleric’s door. The Archbishop’s warning had been genuine. And Lem was either too late—or just in time.

  His heart raced as he peered out. The door was closed, and he knew it to be always kept locked. But for a good assassin, a locked door was no obstacle. And this was the Blade of Kylor. Whoever this was would be close to his equal … perhaps better.

  Shadow walk tingled in his stomach as he stepped forward. The door opening would draw his adversary’s attention and expose his presence, but that alone would be an advantage. He would know someone was still there.

  He could see that the guards were breathing, which meant that like himself, this Blade was not an indiscriminate killer. He pictured the layout in his head. There was a sofa and chair to his right, and a table and an assortment of musical instruments to the left. Six doors: two on the back wall leading to bedrooms and washrooms, the others to studies, parlors, and dining areas.

  The door was still unlocked—a mistake by his adversary. Or was it? He crouched low and eased it open. The moment he put a foot inside, shadow walk dissipated. Quickly his eyes darted around the room.

  “Come in.”

  Sister Dorina was sitting in a chair, a soft black leather shoe propped on the knee of a second person poking out from the chair opposite. Her eyes were fixed on the occupant, her hands folded in her lap.

  “Where is the High Cleric?” Lem demanded.

  “It seems to be the question of the day,” Dorina replied. “We were just talking about that.”

  Lem closed the door and took another few steps until he could see the second person. It was a woman of about thirty, strands of blond hair poking out from beneath a black scarf. Tiny in stature, though not frail, in one hand she held a glass of wine and in the other a weapon with which he was all too familiar: a vysix dagger.

  “I’ve wanted to meet you for a while now.” Her severe expression contrasted with a light tone of voice.

  “I will ask one more time: Where is the High Cleric?”

  “The truth is I don’t know,” she replied. “That is what I am discussing with the dear sister. So far, she has been less than forthcoming.”

  “Then you should leave,” Lem said, “while you still can.” He looked at Sister Dorina. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m unhurt,” she told him, without looking up.

  “So you came to kill the High Cleric, and finding him not here, are threatening his Light Bringer?”

  “Something like that,” she admitted. “Gaining entry was difficult enough. This may be my only chance. And I cannot fail.”

  “You have failed,” Lem said. “And for more reasons than you might think.”

  “I already assume that one of us will not leave this room alive. So threats are wasted on me.”

  “I’m not making threats.” He reached inside his robe and pulled out the ledger the Archbishop had given him. “You were not sent here by the Archbishop. So you have no reason to kill the High Cleric.”

  Her expression did not change. “Then who did send me?”

  “Belkar. His followers, anyway.”

  “I have no idea who that is,” she said.

  “Haven’t you noticed strange things happening in your church?” Dorina asked. “People promoted to positions of power without cause? Movement toward a war that neither church would want? Surely you’re not blind. Even being sent to kill the High Cleric makes no
sense. Once word spreads, war is inevitable. Even the worshipers of the old gods would align against you.”

  “It is not for me to say when and where Kylor’s church is spread.”

  Lem groaned inwardly. This one was a strict devotee, blind to anything but her faith. Which meant that this was likely to end badly. “Will you at least look at this?”

  He held out the ledger. The woman’s eyes flashed to his dagger, then back to the book.

  “I’m trying to avoid anyone getting killed,” Lem said. “But I understand that you don’t trust me. So I’ll toss it over and back away, if that’s acceptable.” He could rush in and, with a flick of the wrist, end it. But she would know this, and would be ready. And with a vysix dagger she need only make contact. He could throw his dagger. But if that failed, he would be unarmed and out of ways to bargain.

  She nodded her consent and allowed Lem to toss it into her lap, waiting until he backed away before placing her wine on the table and looking at the book. Her fingers touched the cover, tracing the symbol of the church as well as the personal seal of the Archbishop. “It’s his. But that doesn’t mean someone didn’t steal it and pass it on to you.”

  “I was bringing it to the High Cleric. Within are the names of Belkar’s followers positioned throughout Lamoria.”

  At this, Sister Dorina sat up straight. “Is it accurate?”

  Lem shrugged. “I haven’t investigated. I assumed the High Cleric would want to do that himself. Many of the names are of people living here in the Temple. According to the Archbishop, they have infiltrated noble houses of nearly every nation in Lamoria.” He turned back to the Blade. “It’s in his hand, yes?”

  “It appears to be. Or maybe it’s a clever forgery.”

  “Use common sense,” Lem said. “I had no way of knowing you’d be here. I was bringing this to the High Cleric.”

  “Lem,” Dorina interjected. “Perhaps if you tell us how you came by it.”

  “Your name is Lem?” the Blade asked.