City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array)

by H. O. Charles

  He wondered at the picture for a moment. The colours were still so vibrant. How was it that a hero of legend had ended up changing his bed sheets? She had told the truth about her age; he knew that from delving into her power. There could only be one explanation: Chronicles made mention of her being vanha-sielu, an old term that meant ‘repeated life.’

  One had to be careful around vanha-sielu if they were not aware of their true identity - something to do with their minds not being ready for the onslaught of memories. People with fewer than twenty-five years were not even supposed to know about the phenomenon, but he and Silar had eavesdropped many conversations in their youth. Morghiad’s mind whirred at the possibilities. She had no idea what she was, but she could still be a very useful addition to his army. Morghiad gathered together the fallen pages and replaced them in their binding. He hid the split book on the highest shelf.

  For several hours the kahr pored over Chronicles. By the time he had found what he was searching for, the skies outside had blackened and the rain had subsided. He had learned that stories of her went back over four-thousand years, that she had been a queen, an assassin, a soldier and vigilante - amongst other things. She had accumulated admirers and proposals from kings and warriors alike. And typically there would be a fight with her long-term enemy, Mirel, once a century.

  Mirel was also a former assassin, possibly Kusuru. If Mirel had been as good a fighter as Artemi and a wielder too, it was possible the two could have exchanged identities through history. After all, one historian’s account of an event could utterly contradict with another’s. But Artemi had to be the ‘good’ one, surely? She was always the red-haired one, but could that be an error handed down through the ages? No. Vanha-sielu always had the same name, according to this book. It was something that could not be avoided when their parents came to name them. The important information, the piece he was looking for was on a well-thumbed page. It described a life she’d lived in a long-forgotten province of Hirrah.

  “...Week by week, came the pains in her head,

  The memories of a thousand lives lived once before,

  The echoes of a thousand deaths felt once more,

  Rent apart and then rebuilt our hero’s mind,

  Till one day – twenty-three years, months four,

  And seventy-two hours following her retour,

  The lady lost all consciousness.

  No efforts made by friend or family,

  Could serve to awaken poor Artemi,

  They feared her death was nigh until,

  Following another three days still,

  The woman awoke: she’d come ashore,

  No longer sister, lover or daughter for,

  The red-haired Artemi was now, ever more,

  The great and fearless warrior.”

  Twenty-three. That meant he had just over five years before she reclaimed her identity - the point at which she would be ready for her memories. He recalled the victims of his eavesdropping mentioning something about madness or worse if a vanha-sielu was forced to remember early. He examined the illustrations in Chronicles for a second time. They all depicted a red-haired, dark eyed woman in various costumes which could be interpreted as his Artemi. The resemblance was vague, however, as if the picture had been copied from a copy or had simply been drawn from the words. The facial features could have been anyone’s. Perhaps that was a good thing if a young Artemi happened upon stories of herself. She would have some incredible tales to tell once she remembered. Morghiad could not help but feel a tingle of excitement at his discovery. Artemi was the fourth Blaze stream and she was a real, living legend.

  Artemi huddled in her red blanket, rubbing her feet against the hard-packed mud floor. Her chamber felt colder than usual. Her whole life had changed course in a matter of moments, and it seemed beyond belief that she could be one of those women so reviled in Cadra. She did not want to be hated - she was sure she had not done anything worthy of being executed for. She could escape to another country, but then her father would be alone in Cadra. He often said how he treasured her as a gift from her mother, how he needed her. And now she knew that she really had been responsible for her mother’s death. Perhaps her duty to Calidell could be her payment for that particular crime. Artemi allowed herself to weep quietly. It was a disaster. How would her father react to the news?

  “Are you alright, child?” came a hearty voice to her left. Caala was leaning into her chamber, candle held aloft. Her wide hips almost filled the entrance. There was something about her that gave the impression of invincibility.

  Artemi forced a smile. “I’m fine, thank you Caala.”

  “You bloody well are not, lass!” The woman flurried in, skirts brushing against the walls. She knelt next to Artemi and held the candle up to her face.

  Artemi tried to push it away. “It’s nothing to worry about. Please.” She knew she could not hide the tracks of the tears on her cheeks but hoped that Caala might stop fussing, all the same.

  The older woman clenched her jaw tightly. “Oh follocks! This is my doing. He did something to you, didn’t he? That blasted kahr, thinking he can take whatever he likes. I’d always thought he was different. If I get my hands on him...” Caala’s face darkened visibly as she mumbled the rest.

  “He hasn’t done anything to me, Caala. Honestly.” Artemi held Caala’s pale grey eyes and huddled tighter, pulling her knees closer to her chin.

  Caala grunted and knelt awkwardly. She set the candle on the floor. “Don’t think to protect him. You cannot be in love with the lad already. He may be very pretty and handsome and the rest of it, but he’s still a man and I can promise you he’s not in love with you, no matter what he says.”

  Artemi furrowed her brow a little. “He hasn’t misbehaved with me. He certainly never said he cared for me. I met him and he was polite. That is all. Besides, I don’t think you can call a man with a stone for a face handsome. There is barely any life in it!” Lord Forllan could smile at least. He had a very nice smile indeed.

  Caala searched her face for a moment, confusion evident. “If it is not him then what? You’re usually made of tougher stuff than this. Tougher than the rest of us. Hah!”

  Artemi thought hard about her response. She could not tell Caala what she was, not with the reputation wielders had in this place. It would be too much of a burden to place on her friend’s shoulders. “I’m just finding it hard to adjust to this new lifestyle, that’s all.” This could serve a solution to her next problem... “In fact, the kahr took pity at my mood. He’s offered to lend me a book if I return to do his sheets again.” The lie was small, though it still left a bitter taste in her mouth.

  Caala narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure you haven’t taken a shine to bloody Kahr Morghiad? I mean, if I were a few years younger I’d probably... well... Not that he’d be interested.” She put her hand in her pale brown curls. “Anyway, I suppose you’ll be wanting to take over my duties in his chambers?”

  “He is much too grim for me.”Artemi smiled at Caala’s blushes. “But yes, if I may swap a few of those days with you, I should be most grateful.”

  “As you wish, lass.” Caala rose. “But I expect to be given a look at those books as recompense.” She gave a cheeky smile and left.

  Artemi considered her situation once more. The rain had begun to drip from the light well again, soaking into the floor beneath. She wondered if the place could ever fill with water like the tales of the Great Floods several millennia earlier, when houses turned to aquariums and palaces to submerged networks of caves, while the weakest civilisations had simply been washed away by waves, several-hundred feet high. She hoped that it wouldn’t again, and not in her tiny cell, at least until she had the ability to blast it to vapour with fire. Could a wielder do that? Perhaps this could be turned into a good thing, after all. She lay on her side and closed her eyes. The wails were sounding particularly loud again.

  Chapter 4

  Great, red flowers of light exploded in the da
rk skies above Cadra, momentarily illuminating the faces of the onlookers with flushes of crimson. Citizens of all ages and class stood atop the highest levels of the city, watching the fire show that hailed the beginning of the feast day celebrations proper. Gialdin Day had arrived and the place had come alive with the colours of costumes, wreaths, flags and ribbons. Earlier there had been a grand procession of the army, led by King Acher and his son. The train had seemed to run forever, winding up and around the sloping streets of Cadra, creating a regular thud, thud, thud that rang through the stones.

  Artemi had felt the rhythm from her father’s house on the other side of the city. She had tried to tell him of her discovery, but had failed miserably. He had seemed so delighted at seeing her that she could not bear to break his heart with it. And so they had left the house and had watched the parade in apparent contentment: all men in black and green atop glossy horses. She spotted Morghiad at the front, dressed a black satin coat with red embroidery down the sleeves. His black warhorse was an intimidating thing - all muscle and power and might. She had been careful to keep out of sight of him and the king, of course. But now she gazed up at the fireworks and inhaled the smoky mist that was fast descending from their antecedents.

  “You know, you were conceived the night they took Gialdin,” her father said wistfully. He was a wise-looking man of just less than six foot, with close-cropped hair not dissimilar to his daughter’s. His clothes betrayed his poverty but his posture was that of a proud man.

  “That is not something I wished to know. Thank you, father.” Artemi twisted her mouth.

  The man chuckled quietly. He regarded his daughter thoughtfully and then said, “Artemi, your mind has been elsewhere all day. Whatever is troubling you?”

  “Nothing.” She continued to stare at the eruptions in the sky.

  He persisted, his voice losing much of its mirth. “Is it a man? I’ll not have some wretch mess with my girl. Tell me who it is and I’ll straighten them out for you.”

  Artemi met his eyes, laughing. “There’s no man -”

  “It’s not a woman, is it?” His eyes widened.

  “Father, no! I just have a lot of new things to learn in that castle. That’s all.”

  “Oh. Your mother used to have that look on her face when I’d done something to upset her. I suppose you’re growing up. A man will take you from me eventually. Just make sure you give me some grandchildren to keep me entertained.” He started fiddling with one of his coat buttons.

  Artemi suppressed a grimace. She needed to change the subject quickly. “I’ll always be here for you. No idiot boy is going to take me from you. Now, I have to get to the castle. I’m expected to help with the first service.”

  Her father looked a little sad. She utterly disliked leaving him to return to that old house alone, so she made sure to give her father a fierce and warm hug. “I’ll come and see you again soon.”

  “See that you do. Beware of that lecherous old king.”

  Artemi grinned and nodded. She pushed her way through the crowds to a gently sloping road and followed it to the level below. The lamps burned with their warm glow of orange as she walked toward the black of the castle, whose malevolent walls loomed through gaps in the green of the buildings and streets. These sub-roads were unusually quiet with everyone assembled above. She pulled her old, brown cloak in close around her; the chill of the autumn had already set into the stones of the city.

  As she drew closer to the castle, the houses became grander and the incline of the roads lessened. Artemi ambled down a long, winding street, running her hand along the rail until she reached the very bottom. A huge mouth filled with iron teeth bulged from the castle wall and a broad drawbridge protruded like a tongue. She traversed the wooden bridge slowly and raised one of her sleeves. Marked on her arm beneath, in dark green ink, was an image of a sword upon feathers, the symbol of Calidell. Once the guard at the entrance had seen it, he motioned for her to pass.

  The gateway led to a huge courtyard, big enough for most of Cadra’s army to fit in. It was only here that you could appreciate the size of the castle proper that surrounded it. Everything was on such a vast and improbable scale, though some fool had managed to hang gold streamers between the high windows. Only a brave climber could achieve such a feat. More wreaths were strung between the poles set into the courtyard ground, and Artemi marvelled at the decorations only for a moment before she walked to one of the courtyard exits. One of the other exits could have brought her to her destination more quickly, but she had never used them before and would probably just become lost in any case.

  The cool darkness of the tunnels enveloped her as she redrew her cloak. Artemi followed twists, slopes and worn step after gritty step to reach her goal - the kitchens. They sat beneath the Malachite Hall, lit only by the rows of fires used to cook for the inhabitants of the castle. The noise was incredible. Hundreds of voices yelled between hisses of steam and thumps of knives, while cooks sweated heavily over roiling pots and heaved large, skinned carcasses of animals onto braziers. Great, vaulted arches supported the ceiling and runner pipes swung between them, pouring water wherever it was needed. Helpers ran busily about the place, looking flustered and red whilst carrying trays of drinks or meat. Artemi ventured into the fray and sought out a woman with white hair. Sindra, as she was known, was in charge of directing the linen girls to wait upon the hall above.

  Sindra was a handsome woman, very tall and with high cheekbones. Her hair was so pale and her skin tanned that it looked as if she had lain all day in the sun. Artemi approached her quietly. From the wildness in Sindra’s eyes, the woman appeared to be somewhat overwhelmed by her duties. “Ah, you’ve come to help us serve. Good! Drop your cloak over there and get your hands dirty. Well, not too dirty, we don’t want to put the nobles off their food!” Sindra turned to another young-looking female servant and started waving her hands frantically, pointing in all manner of directions.

  Artemi unlaced her cloak and walked towards the burgeoning clothing racks as Sindra had indicated. She folded her mantle up neatly and stowed it next to the others in vain hope that she might find it again. The powerful smell of stewed beef prodded at her nose as she headed back towards the other servants.

  The blonde-haired woman said, “Your job this evening is to keep taking trays from here up to the hall. Do not serve the food directly to the guests. You must place the tray neatly on the tables and leave, taking any empties back here with you. Used trays go on this shelf here.” Sindra pointed to a pile of pewter. “There are a lot of tables up there so mind they’re kept tidy. Olivin will direct you as to which food should go where.” Artemi nodded and went to collect the nearest tray. It was heavy, not to mention hot. She gritted her teeth and shifted her hands as close to the edges as was possible.

  The steps that led to the back of the Malachite Hall were unnecessarily steep, as well as busy with people rushing past. Artemi struggled to keep the tray level as a particularly broad male servant nudged her into the wall and ran past. At last light began to pour into the stairway above, and a great swell of string music wrapped around her as she stepped into the glow of the paraffin lamps. The sound was vigorous and strong, like a fighter made of notes.

  A solo player drew the bow across his instrument with such speed and force that the strings seemed close to rupture. Artemi felt her skin tingle at the fullness of the sound, but her attention was reluctantly dragged back to the task she had been charged with. A line of tables extended from the stairwell to the other side of the hall, which seemed so far away it almost dissolved into a mist of people and steaming food.

  The food appeared to be organised in terms of meats, pastries, fruit and sweets. She raised the tray above her head and made her way carefully to the appropriate section of the table, her feet touching the ground in time with the music. A portly brown-haired man, Olivin, was marching proudly up and down the table rows, directing waiters to distribute smaller trays of food to the revellers. He eyed Artemi as
she placed her tray somewhat timidly onto the surface. “Girl, I want you to wipe down the top of these four tables. You’ll have to work around the trays as they’re removed and set. Quickly, now!”

  Artemi curtseyed, noting a collection of cleaning equipment against the back wall. She took a cloth and dipped it in the soapy water of a half barrel.

  The table surface was well-worn, and food appeared to have worked its way deep into the grain. Artemi gave it a hard scrub in the time she had available. She was strong enough to have a noticeable effect, but not quite fast enough to complete the work to her usual standard. The music quietened suddenly, drawing her attention to the room around her. All the guests in the hall ceased their chatter. The servants slowed their bustling around the trays.

  Artemi had an excellent view from her position behind the table. She could see a man sat upon a dais, holding a stringed instrument almost as large as his body. He began to draw deep, rich sounds from it that echoed around the vast hall. The great stone doors at the opposite end swept open and gave issue to a colourful procession. The bearded man at the head wore a silver crown and deep blue, velvet robes. His beautiful benay-gosa pooled around him in an assortment of red dresses, most of them scandalously cut. The crowd maintained its silence, except for the rustle of fabric as some fell to their knees or bowed. Behind him was Morghiad, accompanied only by four of his guards. He wore a green coat this time, emblazoned with the sword and plumes of Cadra in white embroidery. His polished brown boots reached over his knees before giving way to some rather tightly fitted black leather trousers. His face bore its usual complete lack of emotion.

  The musician brought his piece to a gentle close as King Acher took the hand of a blonde benay-gosa and separated himself from the group. The string players at the other end of the hall shuffled about and re-tuned their instruments, preparing for the next theme. Then, a dark-haired lady stepped out from the crowd. She strode directly to the kahr, whispered something in his ear and bowed deeply. She was by far the most beautiful woman Artemi had ever seen.