Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1)

by D. W. Hawkins

  D’Jenn dropped back beside them and wiggled his fingers in the Hunter’s Tongue.

  The girl also spoke to the thing?

  Yes. She said it was lonely. That it didn’t mean to hurt us.

  D’Jenn shook his head. That makes no sense.

  It was trying to communicate. She said it has a—

  Shawna cleared her throat from the road ahead. “Do you two think I’m too dense to know you’re talking when you’re waving your hands around like that? Don’t you think it’s rude to be keeping secrets, considering I’m the one carrying this thing around?”

  Shawna waited for them to come even with her, sitting in her saddle with her arms crossed. D’Jenn shrugged and spurred Mist past her, leaving Dormael alone with Shawna. She watched him go with a tight frown on her face. Dormael held up his hands for peace.

  “Apologies, it’s just habit. It’s called the Hunter’s Tongue. People have been doing it for generations back home.”

  Shawna raised an eyebrow. “What an odd thing.”

  “A useful thing,” Dormael countered.

  “What were you talking about?”

  Dormael sighed. “Your armlet. I think we may want to save the conversation until certain ears aren’t around to hear it, though.” He gestured to the back of Bethany’s head.

  “It already talked to me,” Bethany said.

  “You’re getting awful talkative.” Dormael chuckled. “And you’re supposed to be imagining a rock.”

  “But—”

  “Rock, little one.” He tousled her hair. She sighed and turned back around, closing her eyes.

  “Very well, then.” Shawna gave Dormael a cool smile. “Let’s talk about my armlet.”

  D’Jenn fell back to ride even with Shawna. “It’s dangerous.”

  “Obviously.” Shawna scoffed.

  “Remember when I told you magic is in everything?” Dormael said.

  Shawna nodded.

  “Well, it has a certain sound to it. Wizards can hear it—that’s part of how we sense magic. In turn, each wizard’s magic also has a certain sound, and it leaves a unique signature behind.”

  “Imagine a group of musicians playing the same song,” D’Jenn said. “The song is magic. Every now and then, one of the players starts to improvise—that’s using magic. The song is the same, but the melody is unique.”

  “I…think I understand.”

  “Your armlet has a song, too,” Dormael said. “But it’s not like anything we’ve heard before. It’s not a melody from the same piece of music, it’s an entirely different song.”

  “Whatever it is, it isn’t magic,” D’Jenn added. “At least, not the way we know it.”

  Shawna’s face paled. “What do you think it is, then?”

  Dormael sighed, sharing a grim look with D’Jenn. “We don’t know.”

  “What’s more, it obviously acts with purpose—at least, to some degree—and it can communicate. Whatever your armlet is, Shawna, it’s aware. And we have no idea when or how it can awaken.” D’Jenn shook his head. “None of that adds up to anything good.”

  “All the gods in the Void.” Shawna’s eyes went to her saddlebags. “I hope your spell can hold it.”

  “It would hold anything else,” D’Jenn said, “but given how little we know about it, who can say?”

  “Have you known this the entire time?” Her eyes narrowed at D’Jenn. “That the armlet was…alive?”

  “No,” D’Jenn said. “We didn’t know until this morning—and it may not be alive, precisely. These could be effects generated by resonance between our magic and the power of your armlet, or it could be reacting to some other stimuli we’ve yet to figure out.”

  Shawna gave him a grudging nod. “So, what do we do about it?”

  “We’re already doing it.” D’Jenn shrugged. “We find a ship, we get this thing to the Conclave. I’ve warded it, so hopefully that holds. We deal with things when they happen.”

  She took a deep breath, and the tension left her shoulders. “Very well. Now—teach me.”

  “Teach you?” Dormael asked.

  “The Hunter’s Tongue.” She gave him a flat look. “I want to learn. Come on, don’t look at me that way, just teach me.”

  D’Jenn smiled at Dormael, his hands flashing in the silent language. This is why we made the Rule. Enjoy yourself.

  He spurred Mist to the front of the line, and left Dormael alone with Shawna. Dormael sighed and shook Bethany from her silent reverie, too. She perked up and turned around.

  “You might as well learn, too, kid.” He closed his fist and moved it up and down. “This means ‘yes’”. He opened his hand and swiped it left to right. “This means ‘no’. Show it back to me. Wait, Bethany, when you move your hands up like that, it means you’re asking a question.”

  The lessons went on for the better part of the afternoon.

  The first snowflakes fell as the sun crawled toward the horizon. By the time D’Jenn pulled off the road and back into the trees, the horses were leaving deep tracks through the fluff. It fell in a thick rain, though the trees kept the worst of it from Dormael’s shoulders.

  The evening found them seated around the fire, huddled beneath their cloaks. Dormael puffed on his pipe, staring into the fire as D’Jenn helped Shawna change her bandages. Dormael’s fingers were freezing, and the snow kept falling into the crook of his neck.

  Why would the gods ever create snow? What bloody purpose does it serve?

  “This is healing quickly,” D’Jenn said. “How does it feel?”

  Dormael’s ears perked up.

  “It’s itching like mad recently.” Shawna hissed through her teeth as D’Jenn ministered to the wound. “Though, I haven’t been quite as stiff.”

  “Itching is good.” D’Jenn nodded. “Means it’s healing.”

  “You’re lucky they didn’t nick your guts open,” Dormael said. “I thought you weren’t long for this world when I found you.”

  “I’m tougher than I look.” She winced as D’Jenn wrapped a fresh bandage around her midsection. “What’s wrong with you, anyway? Why so dour?”

  “He hates the snow.” D’Jenn finished the binding and brushed off his hands. “Ever since we were children, he sulks every time the sky opens up with it.”

  “I’m not sulking. I just prefer the warm and dry to the cold and wet. If you’re going to hate a man for that, go ahead.”

  “Now I know there’s something wrong with you,” Shawna replied. “Only a monster hates the snow.”

  “Lots of people hate snow.” Dormael shrugged into his cloak and turned back to the fire.

  He was blinded by a wet, freezing explosion on his face. Laughter rang out from all three of his companions, though Shawna’s voice had a distinct, vindictive tone. A pile of disturbed snow sat between her feet.

  Dormael spit snow from his upper lip and cleared it from his eyes. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

  “Why not? The evidence is all over your face.” Shawna grinned.

  “You know why it’s not a good idea to pick a snowball fight with a wizard?” He answered her smile with one of his own.

  Another snowball flew out of the night and struck him in the side of the head. Shawna burst out laughing, and D’Jenn was soon echoing her. Bethany stood a short distance away, a snowball raised for a second attack.

  “You too, little one?” Dormael smiled.

  “She knows which side to choose.” Shawna turned a conspiratorial wink on Bethany, who promptly hit her in the face with the second snowball. Shawna gasped as the wet snow burst over her face and fell into her clothing.

  Everyone froze, poised for battle. Bethany let out a giggle, as if there was a storm of laughter being held back by her teeth. Dormael feinted toward her, and she squealed as she darted away, piling handfuls of snow into her arms.

  The campsite devolved into chaos.

  Dormael opened his Kai and pulled snowballs up from the ground one after another, sending them
zinging around to smack into any target who moved into his field of vision. Shawna fought valiantly, tossing snowballs as fast she as she could. Bethany went for an all-out assault on D’Jenn, who humored her for a few moments before gesturing to the snow around her. A massive pile of snow hopped from the ground, hovered above her head, and fell with a loud plop. Muffled laughter tittered from the pile.

  No one escaped the onslaught. Everyone was covered in wet, icy snow, and it took a bit of magic to dry everyone out. Even until they laid down to sleep, Dormael heard scattered bits of laughter roll out randomly into the night, and he had trouble holding it back himself. He closed his eyes and settled in with a warm feeling for the first time since this ordeal had begun.

  ***

  Shawna stood on the sprawling lawn near her father’s manor, sunlight beaming down on her back. Sweat ran unchecked down the curve of her spine—a result of the devilish summer heat. Master Severin would hear nothing of the heat.

  “Faster,” he said, pacing before her.

  Shawna gritted her teeth and focused harder on her task.

  She was being made to juggle. As the rudimentary sword movements had been taught, built upon, and perfected, Master Severin came up with increasingly difficult—and strange—activities for her to master. She’d had to catch balls while standing on her head. Once, he’d made her speak to him all day while walking backwards, unable to see where she was going. He still pulled that one on her from time to time, but Shawna had learned to step lightly after the first ten or fifteen times she fell on her ass in the dirt.

  “The Blademaster is not some back-alley thug, stabbing at his target like a side of meat.” Master Severin’s lilting accent made every sentence a musical performance. “The Blademaster is not a soldier, fighting in a line of men, chopping with his sword like he is felling a tree—no.” He turned on her. “Faster, girl.”

  “I’m working on it, Master,” Shawna said through clenched teeth. She almost dropped one of the three balls she was juggling, but she saved it at the last moment.

  Severin held his stone-gray eyes on her for an instant longer, then returned to his pacing. “The Blademaster is an artist. She knows where to put her steel because she can feel the fight, because she knows the secret. The sword is not a weapon.”

  “I am the weapon,” Shawna repeated the mantra he’d hammered into her mind.

  “If your sword is not fast enough, your hands are slow. If your sword is not true, your aim needs improvement. If you disgrace yourself—or your Master—by falling to the ground in a fight, your footwork is what needs attention. Do you understand, girl?”

  “Yes, Master.” She focused on the keeping the three balls in the air.

  “Let us see.”

  Severin whipped his practice sword from his waist in a smooth, vicious movement. Pain exploded from her right hand, causing her to cry out and drop the balls. She spun away, clutching her throbbing hand to her chest.

  Severin came on with another attack. “Defend!”

  Shawna dodged an overhead slash and stepped aside from a smooth thrust toward her midsection. She quick-stepped away from Severin, reaching to her side to draw the practice sword from her belt. Hot pain blossomed in her hand as she tried to close it, and she grunted with frustration.

  Master Severin closed the distance between them with a long lunge for her face, but Shawna stepped aside. He continued his forward momentum, slashing the air so near her eyes that she felt the wind from his sword against her lashes. She ducked and rolled away from him, hissing with frustration.

  I can’t slip him forever—I’ve got to attack!

  She slipped aside from an upward slash and reversed her motion, whipping her sword from its sheath with her left hand. She countered him with a wide, awkward slash toward his torso. Severin sucked in his gut and danced backward, his girded robe fluttering around surprisingly muscular legs. Shawna smiled as he backpedaled and rushed forward.

  Their blades met in a quick series of cuts and parries, Shawna barely keeping her master’s ripostes at bay with her off-hand. Her left hand wasn’t seasoned to the sword like her right, and she clutched to it like a lifeline, afraid that each blow would tear it from her grip. Her fingers vibrated with each thwack.

  Master Severin side-stepped, but Shawna cut off his movements and pressed him with a series of thrusts toward his midsection. He stepped backward, knocking each blow aside with tiny movements of his blade, but Shawna got close to cutting him with a few of her attacks. She lost herself in the fight, anticipating the angles Severin would choose to attack her, and staying ahead of him by the skin of her teeth.

  Severin brought his sword down toward her skull in a deadly arc. Shawna whacked it aside and answered with a back-handed slash across the belly. It met nothing but air as Severin slipped out of range.

  Shawna saw the fight’s conclusion happening in her mind. Her blade was wide, Severin’s high. His eyes tightened with the surety of victory. Shawna screamed in defiance and fought to bring her blade around in time.

  Severin’s practice blade smacked into her neck at the shoulder. “Dead.”

  “Gods!” Shawna grimaced, breathing hard from the fight.

  Severin’s grin was wolfish. “Look down at your hand, girl!”

  Shawna eyes tracked to her hand, where the sword was clutched in a white-knuckled grip. The tip of her blade was turned inward, its tip resting against Master Severin’s side. Shawna gaped. A smile formed on her face.

  I hit him!

  She looked to her master’s face—pride burned in his eyes.

  Severin swatted his practice blade against Shawna’s thigh, and hot pain whipped through her leg. He moved like a snake, pushing against her shoulder and tripping her to the grass. Shawna cursed and cradled her leg, shooting Severin an evil look from the ground.

  “Good with the hands.” He sheathed his practice sword. “The feet still need work.”

  “The fight was over,” Shawna groaned. “That wasn’t fair.”

  “Fair is for children, girl. I am not training you to fight children, correct?”

  “Correct, Master.” She sighed, moving to stand.

  Severin turned and stepped toward the manor. “When your hand is better, you will begin training with two swords.”

  He didn’t look back as he walked away. Shawna stared at his retreating back as she sat up, trying to calm the furious beating of her heart. The grin wouldn’t leave her face.

  Master Severin smiled at me! He actually smiled at me!

  She shielded her injured hand as she rose to her feet. Her leg stung, and she’d gotten dirt in her mouth sometime during the fight. It was wonderful—it was all wonderful.

  Shawna turned to head for the manor and screamed. A man in a red and white surcoar thundered toward her on a massive horse, sword raised with purpose. Shawna tried to turn, but her body was exhausted from the fight.

  She screamed as the sword came down and split open her chest.

  ***

  Shawna jerked as she came awake. The dreams had come with more frequency since leaving the city. She swept her hand over her forehead, but the cold had kept her from sweating overnight. Her body was stiff, and the gray light leaking through her eyelids suggested another cold, overcast day.

  The smell of Sweetpenny tea perked her up.

  Grunting, she climbed from her bedroll. Her body was stiff—both from the injury and the biting cold—but she bit her lip and pushed the pain away. Every day she awkwardly strapped on her weapons and hated herself for the uselessness of the gesture. Her side was healing, but every time she twisted a certain way, a bright twinge of pain would bring her midsection into sudden weakness.

  And the itching, by the gods. Shawna resisted the compulsion to rip her bandages away and claw at the wound like a wild beast. She’d learned how to discipline her body against satisfying every urge—a legacy of her training. Still, she had never experienced an itching sensation from inside her skin before. It took all her willpower to
resist tearing at it.

  What would Master Severin have said, had he known what had happened to her? Would he comfort her? Would he join her in this revenge fantasy she had been entertaining, or would he recommend a different path?

  Some part of her blamed herself for what had happened. She should have died there, should have fought the Red Swords off, should have done something to stem the tide of blood the gods had visited on her family. The logical part of her knew those thoughts were irrational, that the slaughter was no fault of hers. That cool, sensible voice didn’t penetrate to the place where her hatred lived, though. It huddled deep in her chest, sending her dreams and idle thoughts of the men she’d killed during her escape.

  She tried to picture her father’s face, but lately the image of his lifeless body was all that could come to her mind. Shawna shook her head, banishing the thought. She could almost hear what Master Severin would have said to her, were he standing with her today.

  You blame yourself. That is stupid, girl. Things happen in this world, that is something you cannot change. Life is not easy, but easy is for the weak. Get up. Get better—keep getting better.

  She trudged to the fire, where Dormael and D’Jenn were huddled by the small flame. Dormael offered her a cup with a wordless smile, and she accepted it in silence. The tea was delicious, and it filled her limbs with a pleasant warmth. The cold bled slowly from her body.

  “Do they teach you boys weapons at the Conclave?” she asked, breaking the silence of the morning.

  “They teach the Warlocks.” Dormael shrugged. “But it’s optional for any wizard who wishes to learn. Lots of classes are that way at the Conclave.”

  “But you know how to fight?”

  “Aye, we can fight,” D’Jenn grunted. “Wouldn’t last long out here if we couldn’t.”

  “Good. We should spar this morning. Just a friendly match to get the blood flowing.”

  Dormael and D’Jenn shared a glance, doubtless thinking she was pushing herself too hard. She straightened her back and prepared to tell them in no uncertain terms that she was not their charge, and she knew what her body needed. She needed to practice. She could practically feel her edge dulling.