Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1)

by D. W. Hawkins

  D’Jenn furrowed his brows. “A proclamation? The Earl?”

  She nodded again. “Big seal, fancy words—you know what I mean. Said they was looking for some criminal—a girl, if you can believe. It weren’t no army, though.”

  “So foreign soldiers come to the city, and your Earl just lets them in?” Dormael gave the woman a confused look. “Does that sort of thing happen often?”

  “I don’t know, do I look like some pretty noble girl to you?” She snorted. “They asked their questions and moved on. We’re honest people down here. Let the gods worry what the nobles are doing—that’s always been my guiding principle.”

  D’Jenn raised an eyebrow. “What did they say about the girl they were chasing?”

  “A red-head carrying swords.” The barkeep shrugged. “I remember that. Sounds like some story, doesn’t it? Whoever she is, they want her bad. They weren’t in the mood to be messed about.”

  “Thanks.” Dormael shared a grim look with D’Jenn and dropped another mark on the bar. “We were never here, alright?”

  The brunette snatched the coin, shaking her head. “Whatever you say, Sevenlander.”

  The cousins finished their drinks and left the Fish Head.

  Dormael led D’Jenn away from the harbor, passing out of the bustling districts near the docks. He followed the flow of people through the streets in the direction of the Merchant’s District, eyes scanning the crowd. D’Jenn ground his teeth as they walked, but whatever thoughts were turning in his mind, he kept them to himself.

  At a crowded intersection stood three City Watchmen, their cloaks bearing a wheel over a black and white field. They spoke with a pair of men wearing red and white surcoats whose eyes slid over every passing face. The whole group laughed at a joke told by one of the City Watchmen, and one of the men in the red and white surcoats smiled at Dormael as they passed.

  Once they were two streets past the intersection, D’Jenn cleared his throat.

  “That answers a few questions, doesn’t it?”

  Dormael nodded and glanced over his shoulder. “Their story has to be horseshit—about her being a criminal, I mean.”

  “Why?” D’Jenn snorted. “Because she’s pretty?”

  Dormael scowled. “Something doesn’t make sense. You hire a tracker to find a criminal. You don’t send a unit of soldiers. Did you see their standard?”

  D’Jenn gave him a grim nod. “Red Swords.”

  “Who sends an elite fighting force to track down one girl?” Dormael shook his head. “Shawna’s not an Imperial citizen. That criminal stuff is horseshit. Something else is going on here, D’Jenn. You know this is out of the ordinary.”

  D’Jenn grimaced.

  Dormael led him down a side street, where the press of people was much lighter. He walked to the edge of a hill and sat on a retaining wall, looking up the southern slope of the valley. Ferolan Castle loomed over the city, flags whipping in the cold wind. D’Jenn gave the castle a distasteful glance and turned to face Dormael.

  “What if it’s not Shawna they’re after?” Dormael’s eyes went back to the castle. “What if the Empire is after the thing she’s carrying, whatever it is?”

  D’Jenn’s scowl deepened. “You think the Empire’s after magical artifacts?”

  “Unless you think Shawna’s some hard-bitten Imperial crime lord.” Dormael snorted. “Something’s not right about this. If they are seeking magical items, we’d be compelled to act, wouldn’t we?”

  D’Jenn gave him a flat look.

  “That would make it Conclave business.”

  D’Jenn snorted. “You’ve been out of reach for a long time, Dormael. Now you’re worried about Conclave business?”

  Dormael stood, a knowing smile on his face. “The Galanian Empire could be seeking out magical artifacts. You know what that means, D’Jenn. You want to convince me you don’t care about that?”

  D’Jenn snorted and shook his head. “We’re supposed to be on holiday.”

  “Aye, but the gods don’t make things easy, do they?” Dormael rose from his seat, nodding toward the castle on the distant rise. “If the Galanians had a proclamation from the Earl, I bet they’re staying up there. We’ve got to get in and have a look around.”

  D’Jenn gave him a long, unreadable look and turned to gaze at Ferolan Castle.

  “Maybe.” D’Jenn raised an eyebrow. “But what are you going to tell Alton?”

  ***

  “Galanians?” Alton raised a skeptical eyebrow. “What would the Imperials want with Shawna? She can’t be a criminal in the Empire. I don’t think she’s ever been there.”

  Dormael took a long hit from his pipe, staring into Alton’s fireplace.

  “They know who she is.”

  Alton furrowed his brows. “Say again?”

  “They had her description,” D’Jenn explained. “They’ve been passing it around the city. Whatever the reason they’re chasing her, their story is a justification. This isn’t some case of mistaken identity—they’re lying.”

  “I’m writing to the king.” Alton’s expression darkened. “They can’t come into Cambrell and apprehend one of her noble daughters! This is illegal! And the Earl—”

  “They had a proclamation from the Earl.” Dormael turned away from the fireplace. “Write to the King if you wish, but ten marks to one says the Earl has beaten you to it. We’re alone here, Alton.”

  Alton sighed and looked away. “Of course. I shouldn’t have waited to send the message I’d planned on writing. It appears that my inaction has cost us—and Shawna—dearly.”

  Dormael sighed, sharing a glance with D’Jenn. “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Alton gave him a confused look. “Do you know how many Galanians are in the city?”

  “No, but it can’t be too many. The city would go mad.”

  D’Jenn raised his eyebrows. “Enough to attack a country estate, though, and kill everyone inside.”

  Dormael turned a flat stare on his cousin, and Alton regarded him with a pained expression.

  D’Jenn shrugged. “Sorry, but you must have realized it yourself. I’m only saying it aloud.”

  Alton shook his head in bewilderment. “But why? Gods, I just…why?”

  Dormael shared another reluctant glance with D’Jenn and took a deep breath.

  “There’s something you don’t know, Alton. Something I should’ve told you before.”

  “Before?” Alton narrowed his eyes. “Before when?”

  Dormael sighed. “I think the Galanians aren’t necessarily after Shawna, but after something she’s carrying. Something magical.”

  Alton looked between the two of them. “What?”

  Dormael winced. “Truthfully, I know she’s carrying something magical. I felt it on the night I brought her in from the cold. It led me to her. It’s the whole reason I found her.”

  Alton stared at Dormael, his jaw working in thought. “Shawna has infused swords. They were a gift from her father.”

  “We’ve looked at the swords,” D’Jenn said. “They’re not the source.”

  “What do you mean you felt it?” Alton peered at Dormael. “What does that mean?”

  Dormael sighed and held his hand toward the fire, palm facing upward. He opened his Kai and pulled a trickle of power from the ether, plucking at the dancing energy of the flames. A mote of fire leaped from the wood and zipped to Dormael’s hand, coming to rest in the air above his palm. He shrugged and pinched the flame in his fingers. It fizzled into a puff of black smoke.

  Alton stared, his mouth hanging open.

  D’Jenn raised an eyebrow, his fingers moving in the Hunter’s Tongue. You should have told him before now.

  Alton flinched away from D’Jenn’s fingers. “Are you—?”

  D’Jenn spread his hands wide. “I am, but I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “What was all that—” Alton wiggled his fingers. “So…you’re both sorcerers?”

  “Sorcerer is considered a bit insulting.”
D’Jenn winced. “We’re from Ishamael. We’re—”

  “Wizards of the Conclave.” Alton took a deep breath, rocking back from the realization. “Gods be damned. You’re from the Conclave.”

  Dormael glanced at his cousin, who watched Alton with weighted eyes. Alton could raise his voice and yell for his guards, and if so, they’d have to run. Dormael cursed himself for a fool.

  “Alton, I—”

  Alton raised his hand. “I knew there was something strange about you, Dormael—the knives, the vague explanations, your conspiratorial turn of mind. I didn’t suspect this, of course, but I found your story of having messaged D’Jenn to be suspect. He knew too much about what had happened before he got here. I assume that was…” Alton winced and wiggled his fingers.

  Dormael nodded.

  Alton sighed and gave Dormael a level look. “If you’ve known she was carrying something magical, and that’s what led you to her, you could have taken it and let her die on the road. You could have taken it at any point in your time here, but you haven’t.”

  “I’m not a thief.”

  “No.” Alton shook his head. “I’m not entirely comfortable with magic, but I harbor those who weild it no ill will. You shouldn’t mention it in front of the staff, though. And no more tricks with my fireplace, please.”

  D’Jenn smirked.

  “This thing you say Shawna is carrying—what is it?”

  Dormael shrugged. “I don’t know, but whatever it is, it was able to pull my Kai awake from a great distance. It damn near wrestled control from me, and that’s never happened to anyone I know. It sings like—” Dormael looked up and noticed Alton’s confused expression.

  “Nevermind that.” D’Jenn waved away his explanation. “What really matters is the Empire’s interest in it. If they want this thing, and they’re willing to kill for it, it must be dangerous.”

  Alton nodded. “And if they’ve come here looking for it…Gods. We’ve got to get her out of the city. We’ve got to get Shawna to Arla and take her case before the King!”

  D’Jenn shared a weighted look with Dormael. “You should inform your King, but I don’t think Arla is far enough. There’s somewhere better, somewhere far from the Empire’s reach full of people trained to deal with magical threats.”

  Alton narrowed his eyes. “You mean the Conclave. You want to take her to the Sevelands.”

  “It’s the safest place on Eldath for her.” D’Jenn shrugged. “Our superiors will know what to do about this, and it’s too far for the Empire to try and pressure anyone with military force. They wouldn’t dare move against the Conclave, if we extend our protection.”

  “No one wants anything to do with the Conclave.” Alton shrugged at D’Jenn’s expression. “You know it’s true. I’m only saying it aloud.”

  D’Jenn smirked. “Fair enough.”

  “This is all assuming, of course, that she wants to go, and is able to make the trip in the first place,” Dormael said. “We’ll have to convince her when she wakes. We can’t force her to go.”

  “The healers have done all they can.” Alton shrugged. “It’s in the hands of the gods now.”

  “Trusting the gods is all well and good,” D’Jenn said, “but I’d rather get ahead of our enemies. Make our next move before they make theirs.”

  “And what would that be?” Alton looked between Dormael and D’Jenn.

  “We need to gather more information and prepare to leave.” Dormael turned back to the fireplace. “We need to find a ship with a crew willing to sail this time of year. From what the lads at the Docks were saying, few would be willing to face the weather on the winter sea.”

  “I can make those preparations.” Alton furrowed his brows and tapped on his chin. “My contacts in the harbor should make that fairly simple. If Shawna is willing to leave with the two of you, if you really think it will help, I can get things ready for the journey.”

  “Good.” D’Jenn moved to a chair and sat. “Let’s figure out our part of it, then.”

  Alton glanced between the two wizards. “Just what is your part?”

  “Simple.” Dormael shrugged. “We’re going to find out who these Galanians are and what they’re after.”

  “And how will you do that?” Alton wiggled his fingers. “With magic? You’re going to divine the answer from the gods or something?”

  “No.” Dormael grinned. “We’re going to sneak into the castle.”

  ***

  “Sir,” Lieutenant Havram said. “The reports from last night.”

  Havram passed Grant a small sheet of paper. Grant took the document and perused it from top to bottom. There was nothing—nothing, nothing, and more of bloody nothing. He sighed and shook his head, resisting the urge to toss everything on the fancy writing desk into the floor. It wouldn’t do to treat his host’s things in such a way.

  “Where is she?” Grant handed the report back to his aide, who took it and stuffed it into his belt. “A damned noble, wounded and armed, should have raised a hue and cry when she came through the gates. Where in the Six Hells has she gone?”

  “I wouldn’t dare speculate, sir.”

  “Have the men checked all the clinics in the city?”

  “Yes, sir—that was your first command, respectfully. There are no clinics here, just healers who sell their skills.”

  “Of course, of course, the backwards fools. No clinics, indeed.”

  Grant sighed. He hadn’t slept much since their ride to the city. The Earl of Ferolan had capitulated with surprising ease, and Grant’s men had been quartered inside the castle garrison with little fuss. The Emperor hadn’t anticipated the need for bribery, but Grant never went on campaign without enough money to buy extra food for his men. He hated that all those marks had gone to grease Earl Lindesholm’s hairy little palm, but sacrifices had needed to be made.

  Sometimes better men had to pretend to pay tribute to those beneath them.

  “With the initial search drawn to a close, sir, I’ve drawn up a duty roster for patrols. I just need your signature.” Havram produced a second document.

  “You don’t need my approval for such matters, Lieutenant. You’ve been around long enough to have earned my trust in those affairs. See it done.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How are the men adjusting to their new surroundings? I trust there have been no incidents in the city, or with the City Watch?” His men were soldiers, not a police force. Doubtless they were chafing at the odd nature of their mission, and that was never good for soldiers. They grew bored, and things tended to happen when soldiers got bored—bloody things.

  Sergeant Janks had been a prime example of that.

  “No serious incidents yet, sir. A few fistfights with the City Watch, but nothing too unfriendly. Competition, you know.” Havram shrugged.

  “I trust there have been no further issues with discipline since the manor house?”

  “None, sir. The crucifixion made its point.”

  “Bloody good.” Grant rapped his fist on the desk. “Maybe the next time someone gets their blood up for something, they’ll remember who it is they should fear.”

  “Without a doubt, sir.”

  “Is there anything else, Havram? I’m tired, and I want to get some sleep before that preening shit invites me to dinner this evening.”

  Grant sighed at the thought of another evening in the company of Ferolan’s nobility. Too much gold did something to people, he was sure of it. They were soft, oily people with no awareness of the outside world.

  Grant had entertained fantasies of slapping Earl Lindesholm in the face until he cried like a woman. The man insisted on showing off every chance he got, all the while going on and on about their budding friendship. Doubtless he’d reached the end of his social climb with the Cambrellian monarchy, and now thought a bribe from Grant meant he could weasel his way into Galanian circles.

  If the man had any self respect, he’d have his servants strangle him to death.


  “Just one more thing, sir. This arrived by pigeon.” Havram handed Grant a small scroll painted with red and white edges, stamped with the Imperial standard. “From His Eminence, sir.”

  “I know who it’s from, Havram.” Grant snatched the letter away from his stoic lieutenant. He took a deep breath and set the message on his writing desk before regarding his aide with a pained grimace. “Apologies, Lieutenant. This debacle is getting under my skin.”

  “Of course, sir. No apologies are necessary from superior to subordinate.”

  “Spoken like an exemplary soldier, Havram. Is there anything else?”

  “No, sir. I will inform you if any new information comes to light. Will you need me for the next few hours?”

  “No, I will be trying very hard to drool on my pillow. Take your ease, Havram. Get some rest.”

  “Yes, sir.” Havram saluted him, fist to chest, and turned on a stiff heel to stalk from the room.

  “Havram—one more thing.”

  “Sir?” Havram turned around to face him.

  “Have the girl cleaned and fed. I’ll want to see her later.”

  Havram’s lip twisted with disgust. The look was there and gone before Grant could register its appearance, and Havram’s face was once again schooled to a flat, disciplined stare. He took a deep breath and swallowed.

  “Sir, some of the castle staff…”

  Grant fixed Havram with a hard glare. “What about the castle staff?”

  “They’ve begun talking, sir.”

  “Talking?”

  “About the girl, sir. Rumors are going around.” Havram’s face stayed flat, as if he had hammered a bland expression on the front of his skull. His eyes, though, betrayed his disgust.

  Grant stood from his chair and turned to face his aide. Havram was of a height with him, but broader through the shoulders. He had the sort of chiseled jawline and light-colored eyes that women everywhere went crazy for. He was a picture of military discipline.

  Polished and pretty, green as a fresh blade of grass.

  Most of Grant’s men were killers, trained and desensitized to the types of work more respectable soldiers wouldn’t take. The delicate jobs, such as the one that had brought them here. Havram, though, still clung to his prickly sense of honor.