Nightlord: Sunset

by Garon Whited

  “Peldar,” the baron said, warningly. Peldar kept his mouth shut. The baron turned to me. “And you will stop baiting him, Halar.”

  I bowed. “As my lord commands.” I suppressed a grin; I could feel my fangs wanting to come out. I don’t much like Peldar.

  “Now, get back to the manor; Davad has missed beating you,” the baron said. Peldar didn’t even try to hide his grin.

  I winced. “As my lord commands.”

  Davad was a vicious—well, he was vicious today. He wasn’t holding back on his tricks and techniques; he was feinting, punching, circling, sweeping, disarming, and generally just kicking my sorry kiester all over the courtyard.

  During a brief rest, I asked, “Did I do something to piss you off?”

  “No.”

  Nice, simple, monosyllable.

  “Then why are you just beating the hell out of me?”

  “Because.”

  Great. Before all was said and done, I was glad I had troubled myself to study those healing spells. I applied a couple of them during rest breaks; the world can look blurry after a good clout on the noggin.

  Finally, Davad called it quits; he had worked up quite a sweat.

  “If it comforts you,” he said, words clipped, “I see that you have grown much better in our time together.”

  “Thanks. A few days ago I’d never have parried you once.”

  “True. It is a difficult art to master.”

  “I guess it is. Yes.”

  Davad handed the practice weapon to the squire that was collecting them. “It is always a pity when a master swordsman, who has spent a lifetime learning his craft, dies from a blast of sorcery. Years of training and work, and some upstart with a power kills him at a hundred paces. Infuriating. Would you not agree?”

  He turned his back on me and walked away without waiting for an answer.

  I’m thinking he’s upset about the Archimedes Ray. It isn’t a fair way to fight, I admit. But who said war was supposed to be fair? Or life itself, for that matter?

  He’s got a point, though. I feel a little guilty about that. Mostly, I just feel in pain.

  Tamara was waiting when I rode up. Her outfit was much like the one from yesterday, but her skirt was a light grey and her hair was bound back with a white ribbon. She took one look at me and immediately demanded I get off the horse.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Get down this instant! Are the others dead? Where did you hide the bodies?” She half-pulled me from Bronze’s back. I gave up and got down, moving slowly to favor aching muscles and bones.

  “Nobody died,” I said. “It was swordwork this morning. I built a new weapon for defending the town from sea raiders and Davad isn’t happy with it. I think because there’s no good way to defend against it.”

  Tamara muttered something and her hair started to glow.

  “Uh,” I said, “what are you doing?”

  “I’m healing you. Now be quiet.”

  “I, uh… your goddess may like me,” I began, “but are you sure it’s all right to, um… do that when I’m not part of your faith?”

  “Yes. And you are. Now hush.”

  I hushed.

  Maybe fire isn’t the best way to describe what the energy is like. It acts like fire, and the way Tamara’s hair changes makes one think of fire, but it isn’t. She cupped her hands and they slowly filled with what certainly looked like fire. She tilted her hands forward and let the glowing stuff pour over me.

  No, it definitely wasn’t fire. It was warmth.

  How cold have you ever been? So cold you were wondering if your lips were blue? Freezing or frozen, and realizing there are icicles in your hair? So cold you can’t even sniffle? Imagine the feeling of standing under a hot shower at that point. Of warming up. Of coming alive again. Of numb places growing warm with feeling where you didn’t even remember you had places. It was like the first warm day of Spring melting away the snow of a long, nasty winter.

  But better.

  When she was done pouring fire on/into me, she folded her hands together in a small explosion and her hair went back to normal. I just stood there and flexed muscles, checking for pain. Not a thing. Not even an ache.

  “Can I get a bottle of that?” I asked, half-jesting.

  “No. It cannot stay in any container that does not live.”

  “I’ve got to find a way to let you know when I’m kidding,” I observed. “Thank you. Thank you a lot. My healing spells were going to take all day to do that.” I did not add they wouldn’t have to keep working once the Sun went down. On their own, the healing spells would take closer to seventy-two hours.

  She smiled at me and kissed me quickly but firmly. “You are welcome. Now help me up on your horse.”

  I did so, and she hooked a knee around the pommel to ride sidesaddle. I necessarily rode behind her, holding on. We rode off in the direction Tamara indicated. On foot, or even horseback, it would have been a lengthy trip. But Bronze is not precisely a horse.

  The glade she’d picked was surrounded by thick forest. Once upon a time, it had been a clear area, well to the west of Baret, but was taken over by the woods. It contained great menhirs, standing stones, now covered in ivy and lichen. It reminded me of Stonehenge, but seemed smaller and had no lintel-stones. One menhir lay on its back, inside the ring, much like a table. It looked like it had been placed there; the ring wasn’t missing a stone.

  Tamara guided us into the middle of the stones and slid from Bronze’s back. I dismounted and looked around.

  “I like it,” I said, finally. Tamara was sitting on the table-stone. She smiled as I spoke.

  “Do you? I hoped so. It was once a place of worship, but that was long ago.” We were speaking softly; the place seemed to be the sort where one speaks in whispers.

  “It’s quiet and ancient. I like that. It also feels alive, somehow, like it’s watching—and amused. Or friendly.”

  “Good. I’m pleased it likes you. Now what do we have to eat?”

  I unpacked Bronze and Tamara picked a spot to lay out the picnic. I had thought to use the horizontal stone, but she chose a section of grass. So we laid out bread and meat, fruits, some vegetables, honey and jam, wine and water. I wasn’t sure, myself, what was in the basket; I told the kitchen staff to pack it. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed a picnic quite so much. I missed chocolate for dessert, though.

  We talked while we ate, of course, with no regard to chewing and speaking at once. Tamara explained some of the difficulties of being a fire-witch—learning to not set fire to things when angry, how to not make everything around you grow all the time, how to avoid being seen by clerics or those who would report to one, and so on. It’s not a good life for a child; it’s not a good life for an adult. It’s also very lonely; like myself, she is the last of her kind in this world. At least, until another fire-witch is born—and provided the Hand doesn’t get the youngster first.

  “Sometimes, a family will color the child’s hair,” she said, “as my parents did. This serves, at least until the child begins to change into a woman. With the first flow of blood, there will be the first flow of the Flame. No color will remain in the hair, then. It is a dangerous time, for the Fire within burns both bright and hot. It is difficult to control, and can be dangerous to all in the vicinity.”

  “Sounds like it’s not fun, that’s certain.”

  She toyed with the remains of a chicken leg.

  “The Hand,” she began, “finds most fire-witches because of that very lack of control. A young girl can have such fits of temper that, that whole villages…” she trailed off, not looking at me.

  “I understand temper,” I said, softly. “I’ve lost my temper, before. With deadly consequences.”

  “Have you?” she asked, finally meeting my eyes. “Yes, of course you have. Tell me, please.”

  I recounted to her an edited version of my own story, leaving out the vampire references and replacing things like “car” with “carriage.�
� It was surprisingly easy; most of the things in my world that would confuse her didn’t even have a word in Rethven. It was also surprisingly hard. I didn’t enjoy recounting Sasha’s demise at all. But I gave her a brief summary of how I got to the present day, with most of the detail where she asked for it: the fighting.

  I didn’t realize until then just how many fights I’ve been in. Up until I met Sasha, I’d be hard-pressed to think of the last real fight I’d had. Now I’ve had far too many in the space of weeks and it doesn’t bother me. And that bothers me. A little, anyway.

  “So you are seeking those that slew your wife?” she asked, once I finished.

  “I am,” I replied, finishing an apple and throwing the core out of the circle.

  “To do what?”

  “What do you think?”

  She cocked her head. “But you say that your feelings were a spell.”

  “Partly,” I admitted. “The spell encouraged me to live with her and think I loved her right away. I find I did love her, or could have loved her, spell or no. They took from me the opportunity to find out for myself. I still want to have some words with whoever is responsible for the spell; I hate having my mind messed with. But first I have to deal with the people who killed her.”

  “Why?”

  “Many reasons. Both justice and revenge, although neither is the whole. Personal honor, maybe? They affronted me by this attack. Fear, too, definitely; I know they want to kill me.

  “But mainly,” I finished, “it’s because I think I did love Sasha, at least a little bit. Nobody mistreats someone I love—even if it’s only the beginnings of love. Not even me. These jokers killed her. What do you expect me to do? Kiss them? Sure—with Firebrand. Maybe I’m not justified or fair, but it’s what I feel I need to do, and I will!”

  She caught her breath and licked her lips. “I see.” We were both quite for a few moments and she sipped at the wine, seemed to calm down. “And where will it end?” she asked, quietly. “One man? Two? Ten?”

  I snorted. “I know the man who is ultimately responsible. I’m just not sure I can bring myself to kill him; he didn’t go do it himself—of that I’m certain. I’m trying to talk myself into it. I’m in no hurry; eventually, someday… but most certainly. I would rather be certain than hurried.”

  “I can understand that. So who was responsible?”

  “Cardinal Tobias of Telen.”

  She fumbled a slice of something that reminded me of an orange. “The Cardinal of the Hand?” she demanded.

  “Yep.”

  Tamara stared at me like I’d gone mad.

  “You realize the Hand has an army?”

  “Yep.”

  “And a dozen magicians pledged to their cause?”

  “Yep.”

  “And the Church has the ear of King Relven?”

  “Yep.”

  “And you aren’t worried about all that?”

  “Nope.” Oh, I was a madman, all right.

  “I have to ask… why not?”

  I regarded an eating knife for a moment, then carefully wiped it on the edge of the ground cloth.

  “I am going to find him,” I said, quietly. “When I do, I will look him over. Perhaps I will kill him on the spot and damn the consequences. I don’t know if I can bring myself to murder him in cold blood. But he deserves to be punished. He wounded me deeply, heart and flesh, and I want him to feel my pain within himself. Somehow, I will hurt him.”

  Tamara caught her breath and I looked up at her. She was flushed and licked her lips quickly.

  “I had no idea,” she said, “that wizards could be so adamant about things.”

  “We can be a cranky bunch,” I admitted, smiling. “Never make a wizard angry; we haven’t learned what’s impossible.”

  “So I see!”

  I regarded the height of the sun. “Well, it looks like the picnic is about over. I have to get to work on some projects for the baron.”

  “Oh?” Tamara asked. She picked up a plate and it was momentarily washed in flame before she put it away. “Like what?”

  “I need to see about the new water-wheel for the sludging chain; you can’t trust a contractor. And I have a message that I’m supposed to be having some sort of open house tomorrow, to see if I can help anyone who wants help. Sort of an open clinic day for the poor. I need to get ready for that.”

  Tamara finished packing away the non-biodegradable stuff; I tossed the bones and such out into the forest.

  “I understand. Do we truly have to go right now?”

  “Well, no, not right this instant, I guess. What’s on your mind?”

  Tamara smiled and rose. She held out her hands. I took them, rose, and followed her as she drew me after her.

  “There is a ceremony,” she said, “every year around this time. The world is moving into fall. The harvest is almost taken in, the fields are quiet, and the warmth of the world is decreasing. Birds are flying south, animals are bedding down for the long sleep. The northern reaches of the kingdom are already seeing the first of the snows. Here on the southern coast, we will not feel the bite of winter for some time yet, but even here we will wake to frost on the ground and the occasional snowfall.”

  I nodded, and she continued backing up to the table-stone until she could hoist herself up to sit on it.

  “In accordance with the cycles of the world, there will be a time of darkness and of cold. The fire will dim, the dark will ascend, and all will seem to die. But in the spring, the fire will rise again and the world will be reborn.”

  “I’m with you so far,” I replied.

  “Before the darkness falls, before the Mother rests and the Father rules for a season, it is well to remind Her of the beauties of the world and the joys within it, to please Her dreams and to hurry Her return.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Tamara looked at me with an expression of amusement.

  “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

  I blinked at her. “I’m following the theology. Is there some sort of celebration about this time of year? A religious one, I mean; I’m sure there’s a harvest festival nobody’s told me about, yet. Some sort of party with a bonfire and dancing and drinking and such?”

  Tamara laughed and covered her mouth with one hand.

  “Yes, there is a festival,” she said, trying to keep serious. “But I am thinking of a… celebration of life, yes… and a rite the priestess performs. Not a… party, as you think.”

  “Oh. Okay… so… why tell me about it?”

  “Because I would like for you to… ah… assist me with the rite.” She was smiling hugely—I am tempted to say grinning—with her hands tightly clasped over mine. To keep from fidgeting, I think.

  “All you had to do was ask,” I agreed. “I don’t wind up getting sacrificed, do I?”

  She burst out laughing again and it took a bit before she calmed down.

  “No, no,” she said, holding her middle with both arms. “You are not a sacrifice! The… your role in the rite is actually quite a pleasant experience, I’m told. Oh, you might lose a little blood, but it would just be scratches, truly.”

  “Some sort of symbolism, I’m guessing? You play the part of the Mother and I play the part of the Father for this rite?”

  “Precisely!” she declared, smiling.

  “It’s all right that I’m not part of your religion?”

  “I told you already: you are.”

  “But I don’t believe,” I countered. “I just know that your goddess exists. Or, rather, I’m prepared to accept that She does. It doesn’t mean I’m one of the faithful.”

  “You don’t need to believe,” she said, smiling more softly. “You don’t need faith. You eat and breathe and have the divine Fire within you. Fish do not need to believe in water. Birds need not believe in the air. You do not need to believe in Her. She believes in you.”

  I thought about it. Interesting twist on religion. I doubted it would go over well back
home.

  “Okay. What do I do?”

  Tamara reached behind her and untied the ribbon, freeing her hair. Then she pulled some strings and cords, loosened her clothes, and started to wiggle both out of them and backward onto the rock. When she spoke again, her voice was different. Deeper. More resonant. It was a voice that belonged to someone—or Someone—that was using Tamara’s throat to speak.

  “Get undressed.”

  So I did.

  I propped my head up on one hand and looked down at her. We were lying on that flat rock in the ring. She was still snuggled up to me, eyes closed, practically glowing. Never mind it was late afternoon and the air was probably quite cool; there was a lot of heat in the area. Grass was seared for yards in every direction. I’d take credit for it, but I’m not that good.

  “Do you do this every year?” I asked.

  She chuckled and kissed my chest. “Yes. And yes, with someone different every time.”

  “That wasn’t my next question, actually.”

  “Oh? It usually is.”

  “I can see why it might be. I was more wondering if your Mother always, ah… takes over during the rite?”

  She dimpled at me. “The rite is in Her honor,” she replied. “She will enjoy my pleasures if She wishes. That is the point.” She squeezed me a little harder and pressed herself more snugly against me. “Although,” she admitted, “this is the first time She has ever taken control, even to speak.”

  I decided not to press for details. “I’m not used to seeing it happen.” Big understatement. “So how do you know you’ll actually enjoy it?”

  “That is part of it,” she said. “A good man always turns up. Every year. Mother sees to it. And Mother has been sending me dreams of you for weeks.”

  “That’s handy. You mentioned that this rite is with someone different every year. Doesn’t Mother ever pick the same man twice?”

  “Rarely. It has been known to happen.” She glanced up at me, smiling mischievously.

  “Oh?”