Cinders on the Wind

by Louis Emery

  “Your friend and mentor died from the plague,” Ethlin said.

  “That’s right, my child. Samantheen was her name. She was a great friend and teacher.”

  Ethlin sensed Patrycias crying and paused, but she could not turn away.

  “Carry on,” Patrycias said. “What else do you see?”

  Before Ethlin’s eyes was the Gray Keep soon covered by a massive shadow—a dragon flying over.

  “I see a dragon—and a wizard in black robes riding it. I see this temple. The dragon is heading toward it …”

  Ethlin felt distress welling up inside her. The dragon released flames at the temple. She could hear the people inside scream followed by the eruption of flames throughout the halls. Everyone inside was quickly silenced.

  “Everyone in this temple was killed by dragonfire …” Ethlin stammered.

  “During the Plains Wars,” Patrycias replied. “The last war where dragonriders fought each other in the wars of ordinary men.”

  “It’s too much,” Ethlin started to shake uncontrollably as she saw the temple in flames and those flames spread throughout the city enveloping her entire vision. “No! I can’t. I can’t!”

  “It’s all right, child. Look away, now. Turn your head from the flames.”

  “I … can’t … I’m trying.”

  Patrycias stepped in front of her and gently touched her face. “Shhh, close your eyes. Push your mind away from it.”

  The vision began to fade, but before it was gone completely, Ethlin saw a flame lash out and with it a flame below the cauldron. It headed straight for both of them. Patrycias was forced back by the flame, tripping over a vacant chair and hitting her head on the sideboard, knocking the spice bowls to the floor. They shattered in pieces, the basil and parsley puffed in a small cloud. Patrycias groaned.

  “Priestess, are you all right?” Ethlin said rushing to her side.

  “Fine, child. It’s just a bump.” She put a hand to her head and grimaced in pain. “Nothing to worry about.”

  Ethlin couldn’t bear it, seeing her benefactor in pain, and her stupid vision being the cause of it. She ran from the kitchens to her room and sobbed into her pillow. She cried off and on for hours. Despite what occurred, Patrycias had sat by her bedside all night, comforting her and telling her not to worry.

  Over time, Patrycias and Orbist had worked with her to help control her visions around fire. They’d told her a Seer such as herself was very rare. One book had said only a few come along every thousand years. Ethlin wasn’t convinced of the book’s accuracy. Though she felt more control over her visions, she did not understand her connection with dragonfire and what the use of it was. She hoped she could use her connections to such power for good. If not, all this hype would be for nothing, and then she’d only live up to her old name, Nuthin.

  29

  On their way to Hyanti, Gav and his forces camped beneath a waterfall next to a flowing river surrounded by jungle. The greenery of the trees and plants reminded him of Naomey’s eyes and the necklace she had wanted all those years ago. Even now, such things triggered his memories. He sat in his camp tent, thinking back to one of his youthful gambits in Hilontera:

  Before taking a bite, a thought flashed. What if. The throw, if aimed just right, would thump the guard in the head. Sure, he wore a helmet, but the impact alone would cause at the very least momentary discomfort or chagrin. Perhaps a loud ring in the ears with fruit meeting metal. That alone was worth the trouble. Anything to discomfit servants of Director Higglesworth and his branch of the Monterim Trading Company located in the city, a man and company that tended to trample over ordinary people and lords alike in all their business dealings.

  Alas, Gav bit his fresh apple. Another day perhaps. Right now he could not dwell on the nearby Company guards. He had to focus on finding his prey amongst the crowds below. From where he stood on the rooftop of some merchant hall, the grand bazaar of Hilontera spread out before him, a river of canopies, tents, carts, wagons, and tables, replete with traders of every stripe.

  Finely woven fabrics of East Ballardia displayed variations of the sabretooth lion sigil on a large oak table. A butcher and meat importer cried out “mountain goat, elk, and dire moose” from Prestonpan Fells, north to the Isles on the continent near mainland Redwoodia. In cages, crates and burlap sacks across the way slithered a menagerie of exotic reptiles from Sydonya—rattling and boa snakes, multicolored tortoise, and horned and bearded lizards.

  Gav noticed his friend Ben Picton shy away from this last stand, with his basket of freshly picked apples, as he moved to the entrance of an alleyway where he could look up the rooftop. As soon as Gav caught sight of his prey, he’d give the signal. But for now he’d have to wait. They were early.

  From where he stood, the great city of Hilontera lay before him. Past the crowds below, and where the two Company guards he wanted to nail with an apple were just turning a corner, the wealthy sector sprouted opulent manses with large columns, intricately tiled porticos, commodious view-giving balconies. Behind them sat the well-maintained gardens festooned with parabolas and ivy-covered arcades as well as small and massive fountains depicting sculptured battle scenes and bare-breasted nymphs alike.

  Gav spat, turning his head beyond the wealthy sector where the ground sloped upward to the great gate of the White Hold, which stood in the shadow of the Three Tower Castle of Hilontera. The greatest stronghold in all Kontera, or the White Hold as it was called, never fell to an enemy since its construction. Besides being behind a well-guarded gate and impermeable thick walls with myriad archer slits, the great castle layered on the hillside on which it perched. Any invaders would have to climb their way up the hidden stairways or with siege ladders while being rained down upon by a slews of arrows.

  If the enemy managed to reach the second level, they’d encounter the first tower, that of the Hold Guard. The fiercest armored knights in the Isles would charge out their spire and surrounding barracks wreaking havoc on those who dared trespass. No one had ever gotten past them to reach the other two towers, that housed the high-lord and his family.

  No enemy ever conquered the White Hold—except those from within, Gav thought. Treachery tended to sneak itself among the Prestonpan Isles.

  Gav looked on the pale walls of the White Hold and turned away, back to the bazaar below. He scanned the crowd of shoppers and merchants, waiting for the man. Director Liam Higglesworth frequented the bazaars on market day as if it were a holy ritual. Gav had been studying his habits for a few weeks now. He was a pompous ass, and like all notable Company merchants, thought he elevated above the common populace, a levitating corpulent man-god whom those below should fawn over and offer any little service they could provide this special person of leisure.

  After following Higglesworth around, he found that the man’s rudeness overshadowed all other attributes, including his gourmand traits. He treated his servants like cattle devoid of feelings and emotion. He smacked begging orphan children with a swipe of his hand, saying “If your parents bothered to die instead of care for you, maybe you should do the same.” He even had his bodyguard take the finger of a shopkeeper who was two days late on rent. Gav had hid behind a barrel of grain, taken aback at such cruelty.

  Sure enough, the pockmarked face of the finger-taker wearing pointed helmet appeared in the crowd, followed by the jowls of Higglesworth. The bodyguard wore his dagger and sword as Gav expected. He never stood beside his master without them.

  Meanwhile, Higglesworth sported his gold-laced tunic and velvet cape. His chin puffed up like a peachicken walking amongst lesser fowl. His hand occasionally rested at his sides next to the item of Gav’s attention. The noble strutted and examined his surroundings, not amused, the wares of the sellers not appealing to his standards.

  Gav knew he’d be stopping by the jewelers’ set of carts. Higglesworth’s fingers were laden with rings of all shapes and sizes, glimmering when the sun hit them just right, calling attention when he wanted
just by the sway of his hand, or drawing blood by the swing when an servant or other lowly made a mistake. The nobleman always scoured the jewelers’ inventory looking for more rings to make him appear more noble.

  The man made his way toward his prey, and Gav did the same, giving the signal to his friend Ben below, who nodded and meandered towards the noble and his hired protector. Gav climbed down the merchant hall with ease, jumping to a smaller stone building that sat adjacent. In no time he scaled down to the tables, maneuvering past throngs of people and goods. As he neared the jewelers’ carts, he made out the shrill voice of the haggling Higglesworth.

  “Now I paid two gold pieces for a similar lot just last month, Johnathor,” he said. “Don’t think me a fool. I didn’t obtain my status for such oversight.”

  “Yes, my lord, but my wife spent weeks cutting the gems and designing the rings,” the merchant replied.

  “Be grateful I’m considering these new pieces.” Gav saw the noble lean over the table like a fat bird picking at moss.

  Gav ambled up behind the canopy that hung over the group of tables. He slithered to the side, caught sight of Ben crossing the thoroughfare towards the two men, and nodded again to him. Gav bent down underneath the cloth covering the first side table, careful not to bump into its legs and knock any of the necklaces and earrings from their stands. He crawled underneath to the next table, closer to the seller and buyer.

  He heard Ben approach Higglesworth.

  “My lord, can I offer some fresh fruit on this scorching day?”

  “Scorching day is it? Hardly that, boy,” Higglesworth said. “Can’t you see I’m busy dealing?”

  Gav moved closer to the next table. He raised the cloth from underneath and froze. Another jeweler stood above him, adjusting the display on the table. The man did not notice Gav hiding underneath and moved to the next table back.

  Gav lifted the cloth once more and transitioned to the table at the front, where Higglesworth now haggled with Ben.

  “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I’ve the freshest peaches from west end and the ripest apples from the Lancasteria orchards.”

  Higglesworth turned, interested. This was good.

  “And you, sir, perhaps a fresh sampler for you as well.” Gav heard Ben slice into another apple. He saw the bodyguard turn now as well.

  On cue, Gav pulled the razor sharp knife from his boot and reach underneath the cloth.

  Higglesworth had his hand at his sides, just above the prey. On a belt was the pouch of gold coins, inches from the noble’s ringed fingers.

  Gav gingerly cut the straps of the pouch. It slid loose, and he vanished beneath the table in a fly’s breath.

  “I said no, boy! Your sample was shit.” Higglesworth raised his voice. “Now bugger off.”

  “Very good, my lord.” Gav heard Ben walk away. Careful not to bump the tables, he crawled toward his escape out the back of the jewelers’ canopy.

  After splitting their loot, Gav and Ben sped well-enough away from the tightly packed thoroughfares of the Grand Bazaar. They went the opposite direction to the wealthy sector in the north end and headed southeast to Barleybone, where neither the Company guards or the city watchmen cared to trespass. Who could blame them, Gav thought. This stretch of Hilontera smelled of empty chamber pots, rotting cats picked on by the city’s island hawks, and burning metal from all the blacksmiths and armories. If only the masses who cluttered together here would take over the steel and armor and demand the nobles clean up their own holdings.

  To top off the day’s success, the two thieves approached The Tooth and Tower public house. Known for its mediocre ale in a far less than mediocre area, the tavern sat on a narrow winding street between two warehouses. As they entered, Gav noticed the scaly dragon with wings outstretched painted on the sign. Every city inhabitant could easily discern the meaning behind the place’s name. Amidst the stone of the third and topmost tower of the White Hold, the High Tower, there lodged a great dragon tooth from back some two hundred years when a band of wizards and their dragonriders attempted to punish the then Backland King Leoneson’s transgressions. Before the dragon could topple the tower, King Leoneson raised the white flag of truce and made a pact with the Wizards of the Mountains, which ended the war. To this day at a certain angle one could discern the protruding tooth, which was never removed for fear the great tower would crumble beneath it.

  Inside, the tavern buzzed with activity. Barmaids scrambled to fulfill drink and food orders while customers shoved their hands in a trough filled with water. For two sovereigns, a patron could make a blind grab for either a head of lettuce or fresh piece of beef. Most the time he or she came up with the vegetable in this gamble dive of the customary “dive bar.”

  Tables hummed with laughter, bickering, and secret conversations. Gav and Ben weaseled their way towards the back. Being much younger than other patrons, it was understood that they were to take seating away from the center of the room to allow those older to have first dibs.

  “Let’s go left,” Ben said. “There’s Batter Brothers near.”

  Gav saw familiar faces of the gang’s members to the right of the front room. He followed Ben to the left where they sat at a private booth in the back. The barmaid took their orders and returned with two frothy tankards of ale.

  “So,” Ben said, after taking a hearty sip. “What are you going to do with your half of the coins, again?”

  “I’m going to buy a necklace,” Gav said.

  “For yourself?” Ben scrunched up his face.

  Gav laughed. “No, not for me. For Naomey. She wants one with emerald jewels.”

  Ben whistled.

  “Aye,” Gav continued, “her father has one in his vaults but she’s too afraid to ask him for it. And I don’t blame her. Lord Androus is a money-grubbing churl. So I’m going to make sure she gets what she wants.”

  “That’ll certainly please her,” Ben said, smiling.

  “I hope so,” Gav said.

  He felt that he had to do something to distinguish himself from the noble suitors Lord Androus tried to set up for his daughter. Sure, Gav didn’t acquire the money honestly, but Higglesworth was the worst kind of person, certainly dishonest, a corrupt agent of a corrupt company. Gav could have easily stolen the necklace from the jeweler in the bazaar, but he didn’t. He adhered to a code of honor, a code he was beginning to learn a deep understanding of in his Cylarnti training. Some people deserved misfortune, and Gav made sure those who did not were not part of his schemes.

  He knew that he could not continue to use his skills as a petty thief. This would be the one and only time. Master Yentay would eventually find out if Gav continued to pursue such a path. Yes, this was the one and only time for all the right reasons—to punish an enemy and reward Naomey.

  Gav brought himself back to the present, stepping out of his tent and gazing at the waterfall near his camp. The serene view contrasted with the wars he fought, in body and mind and memory.

  30

  They left early in the morning two days after the council feast. King Greenvale saw Malcolm and his party off, atop their healthy horses from the royal stables. Their first stop would be Samson Duchy. King Greenvale wanted Malcolm and Mage-Council Orbist to inquire as to why Lord Samson Farmington didn’t attend the council, after writing he would. When they’d learned their answer, Malcolm was to send a message to the king.

  It was a three and a half days’ ride to their destination, which gave Malcolm time to reacquaint himself with Ser Balliol. The knight of Prestonpan Fells was as haughty as ever and tended to patronize the much younger Ser Royce. From the way he packed his saddle to the way he tightened the reins, Ser Balliol found fault with the lad’s every decision. Malcolm thought part of it stemmed from the old knight wanting to teach Ser Royce. The other part possibly being the frustrations of an impatient veteran, not willing to expend the energy of mentorship.

  On the road, Lord Staverly’s two swords rode in back of Malcolm and Orbis
t, while Ethlin and Artemis rode up ahead. Malcolm struck up a conversation with Orbist about his apprentice.

  “She’d been having these nightmares, you see,” Orbist said, shifting in his saddle. “Ones where she was being chased by dragons in the woods. In these dreams, no matter where she hid, she’d be discovered. The firebreathers would scorch the trees and rocks that were her cover to track her down. They always ended with her engulfed in flames.”

  “Perhaps it’s her connection with the temple and your training of her,” Malcolm said. “The reading of the dragon histories fills a woman’s mind with all sorts of imagery.”

  “It’s more than that. This gift she has is an ancient gift—a singular one. Out of a thousand, you won’t find one with her visions. With these visions comes a burden, a constant nagging.”

  “And what is this nagging?” Malcolm asked.

  “You saw yourself—the burned man. Whenever the dragons of Retha breathe fire, young Ethlin knows. There’s a telepathic conveyance, like when she meets someone whom death threatens. She saw the faces of Lord Staverly and his would-be killer, and she knew. It’s the same with dragonfire. When the beasts release their flames, she has visions of it.”

  “And she regularly dreams of dragons due to her special connections with them,” Malcolm noted.

  “Yes,” Orbist agreed, “but I think there’s more to it than that. As I’ve read from the old mage texts, one with the gift Ethlin possesses becomes haunted when the dragons stir for violence. These dreams she has are the signals she’s getting from the dragons Varick has summoned, and they do not bode well for friends on the receiving end of their flames.”