Flame Singer (Fire Sower Book 2)

by Callie Kanno

  Idris pulled a bandage from his medical kit, wrapping it around his hand several times. He picked up the bo staff from the remains of the pyre, surprised to find that the weapon seemed heavier than before.

  The surface of the weapon was hot, but not unbearably so. His hand mostly needed protection from the glowing embers. Kurag pulled out Cowan’s cloak from his saddlebag, spreading it out on the ground.

  “Wrap Fenris in this,” the Forger told Idris. “He should not be carried out in the open until he has a new master.”

  Idris obeyed without question. Deep down he understood that it was the most respectful way to transport Cowan’s weapon back to the Treasury.

  After the staff was covered and tied to the saddle of Cowan’s horse, Idris pulled the length of cloth from his belt to wrap around the head of his partisan. He didn’t think there would be anyone to gawk at his jeweled weapon in the mountains, but he thought it better to be safe.

  “What do we do now?” Hildar asked quietly.

  Kurag sighed, turning to face west. “Two days in that direction we can cross over into Calaris and find a city called Javyln. It seems the most logical destination for now.”

  The young members of the Royal Guards all nodded their agreement. Two days would also give them time to clear their heads. They needed to form a plan now that they were without a leader to guide them.

  Idris mounted his horse, tying the reins to Cowan’s horse to his saddle. He adjusted the weapon holder on his back before turning one last glance at the smoking remains of the pyre.

  “Goodbye,” Idris whispered as they rode out of the meadow.

  Chapter Forty-Two: Javyln

  The trek over the mountains wasn’t an easy one. The terrain was uncertain for their horses, forcing them to lead the animals at a slower pace. Idris sank into a gloom as he trudged along, not feeling inclined to talk to any of his companions. The others seemed to feel the same, making it a silent journey.

  The first words Idris heard during the two day journey were spoken by Aherin. “Are there no guards patrolling the border to Calaris?”

  Idris looked up to see King Nikolas’s standard fluttering on a tall monolith that marked the separation between the two kingdoms. He, like Aherin, noted that there were no soldiers in sight to guard the border.

  “They do,” Hildar answered in a subdued tone, “but few people come this way. The soldiers must patrol at longer intervals.”

  “How long until we reach the city?” Idris inquired.

  “Only a few more hours, I believe,” answered Kurag.

  The path they followed turned into a slow decline, making it much easier to travel. It also began to change from a rocky hunting trail to a well-worn road, making it so they could mount their horses once more.

  Idris kept glancing back at the horse that was tied to his own, half expecting to see Captain Cowan riding there. It was strange that he had known the old soldier for less than a year, and yet he couldn’t imagine the Royal Guard without him. It felt wrong to be going back to Marath without him.

  The group rode around an outcropping of rock, suddenly coming into view of a city below. Javyln was filled with buildings that seemed natural outgrowths of the mountain itself. The spires were made of blocks of dark stone, with trimming of polished wood around the windows. Beautifully kept gardens lined every street, while the shop fronts cultivated creeping vines that bloomed with flowers.

  The travelers entered through a residential area, where the homes were mostly made of wood. Every yard had a neat little garden to raise vegetables, with the occasional fruit tree in the corner. Some of the houses had beehives to cultivate honey, while others had looms set out in a sunny patch. All in all, it was a picture of domestic bliss that soothed Idris’s weary heart. He was glad to be back in Calaris again.

  Women cast curious looks their way as they rode toward the center of the city. Children stopped their games to openly stare. One toddler pointed at Kurag, whispering loudly, “A giant!” Kurag smiled at the small boy, waving his long fingers in a friendly gesture.

  The houses gave way to shops, which was a much busier part of the city. Hildar tapped one merchant on the shoulder, speaking in a polite voice. “Excuse me, which way to Prince Cyril’s council?”

  The man gave Hildar a quick glance, taking in her aristocratic coloring. He appeared puzzled by her ragged appearance, but he decided to err on the side of caution. “That way, m’lady,” he answered, pointing down a road that led north.

  She thanked him, leading the group down the street indicated. Idris moved his horse alongside Hildar’s. “Who is Prince Cyril?”

  Hildar’s expression turned incredulous. “Are you making a joke?” she demanded.

  Idris’s face flushed. “No,” he muttered.

  He expected her to make some comment on his ignorance, but instead she simply shook her head. “Prince Cyril is the half-brother to King Nikolas.”

  Idris’s eyebrows shot up. “King Nikolas has a brother?”

  “Half-brother,” she corrected. “He is the son of King Lukas and the dowager Queen Fayren. He was born when King Nikolas was eighteen years old.”

  Idris searched his memory for all of the stories he had ever heard from his parents about King Nikolas the Bold. He couldn’t remember a single mention of any siblings, half or otherwise. “When did Queen Roana die?” he asked.

  “King Nikolas was sixteen,” Hildar told him. “King Lukas married Lady Fayren the following year, and Prince Cyril was born the year after that. When King Lukas passed away, King Nikolas sent the dowager queen and her son to live here in Javyln.”

  “Why?” frowned Idris.

  “Lady Fayren’s father is the Duke of the Mountains Province,” replied Hildar. “This city is the home of the duke.”

  Idris shook his head, still not understanding. “But why did King Nikolas send them away?”

  Hildar shrugged. “You would have to ask the king.”

  “I am more interested in why you are leading us to this Prince Cyril right now,” commented Kurag.

  Hildar pushed back a lock of chestnut hair that fluttered across her face. “Prince Cyril can send word to King Nikolas ahead of us, reporting what has happened on our journey. He can also provide us with fresh horses and supplies.”

  Aherin nodded fervently. “I would appreciate some fresh food.”

  The building that housed the prince’s council was a square structure made of glimmering white stone. A single spire rose out of the top, composed of multi-colored glass that glinted in the sunlight. Idris stared at it admiringly as they approached.

  The entrance was flanked by two soldiers who wore the same blue uniforms as the palace guards in Marath. Aherin caught Idris’s expression of surprise, answering his unasked question with a small smile. “King Nikolas always assigns members of the palace guard to protect royal residences.”

  “I thought this was a council building,” Idris said, furrowing his brow.

  “It is,” acknowledged Hildar, “but Prince Cyril’s family lives in the upper floors.”

  The two palace guards signaled the travelers to halt, which they did. Idris followed Hildar’s suit, dismounting his horse. Hildar squared her shoulders, speaking with the dignity and authority that she had been taught since birth. “We are members of the Royal Guard, returned from a long journey. We request an audience with Prince Cyril’s council.”

  The two soldiers exchanged perplexed glances. Idris could understand their hesitation. The travelers were dressed in simple brown clothing, their weapons were covered, and they were dirty from their passage over the mountains. They didn’t look anything like respectable soldiers, let alone Royal Guards.

  Idris stepped forward, unwrapping the cloth that covered the head of his partisan. He held out the weapon to the guards. “Take this to the council as proof of our words.”

  The foremost soldier accepted the polearm reverently. “I will pass along your message immediately, sir.”

  Idris tri
ed to keep his expression calm, but a strange mixture of shock and delight danced through his abdomen. No one had ever called him ‘sir’ before. His chest puffed slightly as the soldier turned to enter the building.

  Aherin nudged him, whispering in his ear. “Do you think it was wise to hand over your weapon like that?”

  “They would not have agreed to our request otherwise,” Idris muttered back. “Besides, I can call Iona to me, if needed.”

  The palace guard reappeared shortly. “The council will meet with you immediately.”

  They were led through the entrance, past a small waiting area, then into a wide chamber. The ceiling opened up into the colorful spire, filling the room with multi-hued light. A half-circle of five ornate chairs were placed at the far end of the room, with figures seated in each one.

  The center chair was occupied by a man in his mid-thirties. He had light brown hair that just brushed the tops of his shoulders, combed smooth and straight. He wore a black silk robe, elaborately embroidered with gold thread. He was free of any other adornment, other than a simple golden circlet resting on his brow. Idris assumed him to be Prince Cyril.

  Idris tried to find some resemblance between the prince and his half-brother, but Cyril clearly favored his mother, who sat to his right. The dowager queen also wore black, but with no embellishments. Her brown hair was tied back with a ribbon of mourning, as was custom among the nobility. Idris didn’t know how long a woman of her rank was expected to mourn the death of her husband, but it surprised him to see her thus attired. It had been more than fifteen years since King Lukas had passed away.

  The man to Prince Cyril’s left must have been the Duke of the Mountains Province. He also bore the strong family resemblance mirrored in his daughter and grandson. His robe was made of sky blue silk, embroidered in silver. His slender hands bore several heavy rings, and he wore a gold chain and pendant around his neck. He was the one who held Idris’s partisan, stroking the weapon with the tips of his fingers.

  The two men on the outer chairs were no one that Idris had reason to recognize. He dismissed them as counselors to the duke and the prince. Hildar came to a stop a few yards away from the half-circle of chairs. She bowed respectfully, followed by the others.

  “I thank you for granting us audience, honored council,” Hildar spoke clearly. “I am Hildar, daughter of Lord Wythe, Duke of the Hazelwood Province. I serve as a member of King Nikolas’s Royal Guard, bearing the dagger Savion.”

  “Yes,” murmured the dowager, “I thought you looked familiar. I have not seen you since you were a child.”

  The duke seemed completely uninterested with what Hildar said. He held up Iona, speaking in a clipped tone. “Who is the bearer of the weapon of Marlais Dragonspear?”

  Idris’s mouth worked silently for a moment. “I am,” he stammered.

  The duke’s intense brown eyes fixed on him, studying him with a stony expression on his face. He asked no other questions, but his unbroken stare caused Idris to shift uncomfortably. The young man was grateful when Prince Cyril addressed them.

  “My brother’s personal guards are always welcome, of course,” he said in a voice that was surprisingly soft, “but what brings you to Javyln?”

  “We are just returned from a long journey,” Hildar explained. “We humbly request the service of one of your messengers to send a report to the king ahead of us. We also ask for fresh horses and supplies to help us to return to Marath speedily.”

  Prince Cyril tapped his lips with the tip of his forefinger. He considered her words carefully, as though she had asked for something complicated. “I will grant your request,” he said finally. “More than that, I will join you on your journey to Marath with a small company of my soldiers.”

  Hildar’s eyebrows twitched, but her expression didn’t otherwise betray her surprise. “That is very generous of you, your highness.”

  The dowager queen laid a gentle hand on her son’s arm. “Are you certain that is wise?”

  “It has been too long since I have spoken to my brother,” Cyril declared. “Fate has delivered me this opportunity, and I shall not waste it.”

  The matter appeared to be closed to discussion. The young Royal Guards were dismissed with a careless wave of the prince’s hand. Idris stayed in place, looking distinctly uncomfortable. His eyes darted between the Duke of the Mountains Province and the partisan in his hand.

  Prince Cyril took note of the situation, turning to the duke with an air of deference. “Grandfather?”

  The duke sighed softly, passing the weapon to the counselor on his left. The man stood to bring the partisan to Idris, giving it to the young soldier with a respectful nod. Idris experienced a powerful surge of relief as his hands closed around the polearm.

  Perhaps that will teach to you pause before you hand me over to a stranger, Iona reprimanded.

  Never again, Idris silently swore.

  Their horses were waiting for them just outside of the council building, where they had been left. Aherin turned to Hildar, who seemed to be in charge for the moment. “What do we do now?”

  Hildar sighed, looking slightly frustrated. “We find an inn and wait for Prince Cyril to summon us.”

  “Is this not what you wanted?” Idris asked.

  “I did not expect him to come with us,” Hildar explained. “He has not left Javyln in years.”

  “Will it delay our arrival in Marath?” questioned Aherin.

  “Not significantly,” Hildar grumbled, still looking unhappy.

  They led their horses down the street, stopping at the first inn they passed. A young groom took their horses, promising to bring the saddlebags to their rooms. Idris untied Fenris from Cowan’s saddle, not wishing anyone else to touch the weapon. Before they could walk into the building, Kurag placed a restraining hand on Hildar’s shoulder.

  “I will not be joining you, young friend,” he said quietly.

  Hildar’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

  “My greatest concern was seeing you safely home,” the Forger told them, “but I know that you will be safe in the company of Prince Cyril. Knowing this, there is something else that calls me to action.”

  “Where are you going?” Idris asked.

  “Tannin,” Kurag answered.

  Aherin nodded in understanding. “Because of what the Roshumin soldiers said about the cliff dwellers?”

  Kurag inclined his head. “If there are other surviving Forgers, I must find them. I do not wish to be alone anymore.”

  Hildar tried to blink away the tears that were forming in her eyes. “You cannot go alone. Why not wait until we can go with you?”

  Kurag gave her a fatherly smile. “You serve King Nikolas. You will never be at leisure to come on such a journey with me.”

  Hildar didn’t look ready to give up just yet. “What about the Hunters? They are still out there, searching for you.”

  “All the more reason for me to find others of my kind,” replied Kurag. “They need to be warned of the continuing danger.”

  Hildar opened her mouth to argue, but the Forger stopped her with a loving embrace. “You pulled me from the darkness of solitude,” he told her. “You returned me to my purpose.”

  “You saved my soul,” Hildar sobbed into his shoulder. “Please do not go.”

  “Such an experience binds hearts together,” Kurag told her. “We will never truly be apart.”

  Hildar held him tighter, scowling. “I do not find that very comforting.”

  Kurag chuckled. “You will when I have left. Now, little friend, tell me the promises you have made to yourself so I will know what your future holds.”

  Hildar’s startled expression slowly changed as understanding filled her hazel eyes. “I have promised myself I will send a message to Acko, instructing my ship to return to Marath.”

  Kurag nodded, as if expecting that answer. “Yes,” he prompted.

  Hildar’s voice faltered for a moment, but then strengthened with determination
. “I have promised myself that when I see Lennon again I will tell him that I love him. I will declare it to my father and mother and anyone else who cares to listen.”

  A wide grin spread across Kurag’s face. “That is good, my child. That is exactly what I hoped to hear.”

  The Forger kissed Hildar on the forehead, then stepped back. He shook hands with Idris and Aherin, clapping them on the shoulder. “Please take care of my little one,” he urged them.

  “I do not need them to watch over me,” Hildar protested.

  Kurag merely laughed as he turned away. “I will see you again,” he promised.

  The young Royal Guards watched him walk down the street, slowly disappearing from view. A forlorn atmosphere settled over them. They glanced at each other, all looking rather lost. They might’ve stood there indefinitely, had they not been approached by a young man in a courier’s uniform.

  “Excuse me, m’lady,” he said politely. “Are you Lady Hildar?”

  “Yes,” Hildar answered, assuming a posture of dignity.

  “I was sent by Prince Cyril to find you,” the young man explained. “I am instructed to take a message from you to King Nikolas, with all possible haste.”

  Hildar handed the group’s coin purse to Aherin. “Would you secure us some rooms here at the inn? I need to write up our report.”

  Aherin nodded as the courier pulled out some parchment and writing tools for Hildar to use. Idris followed Aherin into the building, his nose filling with the scent of warm bread. He smiled at the thought of a chance to clean up and eat a hot meal.

  “At least we know Prince Cyril does not intend to waste any time in seeing to our requests,” Aherin muttered as soon as they were out of hearing range.

  Idris nodded. He was grateful for the prince’s prompt action in sending a messenger to them. He felt every reason to hope that they would soon be in Marath, and his duty as Cowan’s proxy would be complete.

  Chapter Forty-Three: Homecoming