The Seekers of Fire

by Lynna Merrill

  The old man's smile was sad now, and he was looking at her, but he seemed to see through her. Was he seeing the fears inside her? Or were his eyes cast far, far away, at sights and thoughts that had nothing to do with the girl in a drenched nightgown and muddy socks, who stood still by the trees as if she had become a tree herself?

  "There are places to run, but not all of them are places worth running to. Yet, some people never come back." He shook his head. "And there is an enemy to fight, child, but she has the potential to know your every thought and anticipate every move you make."

  "Who is she?" Linden asked, but knew the answer before the old man would have said it. So, he did not say it. Perhaps he had not planned to say it at all.

  "How can I fight myself?" she asked.

  The old man smiled again, a smile both gentle and serious that seemed to grow out of the rain itself. "Even that enemy doesn't know you fully. She can make mistakes. To defeat her, you must learn to know her."

  Last summer, Linden had accidentally punctured the bottom of an empty can of beans, by poking it with the sharp rod that Dad used to mix medicines. After the initial shock of breaking what was supposed to be hard, enduring metal, she had inserted the rod through the puncture and extended one of its ends through the can's open top. She and Eileen had then played with the contraption. Many times, they swirled the can around the rod and counted how many seconds it took it to stop rotating.

  Trying to understand the old man's words now felt as if she had stuffed all her thoughts into that can. They swirled, they made her dizzy, and yet in the end they were still where they had been in the beginning, having traveled but gone nowhere, having made no progress at all.

  "You cannot master what you cannot first accept. To banish your fears, you must first know them. To make feelings serve you, you must first embrace your heart. A mind blinded by Science, Linden, works like a mechanism, but a mechanism alone is not enough to achieve peace and balance."

  Her name sounded different from his mouth, almost like a name of two distinct parts, Lin Den. As if she, herself, had too parts. Linden shivered at the connection her mechanism of a mind immediately made. Two parts. Science and Magic.

  "Thank you," she said, carefully, to the old man. "I will think about what you have said."

  "Thinking is not always enough." The smile spread on the old man's face. "I am trying to teach this to our High Lord. I can try to teach it to you, too. I am Keitaro, Fight Master of Qynnsent. I know who you are. "

  A cloud passed beneath the Moon of Rain, then beneath the Wind Moon, raindrops flickering first in yellow, then in blue, and finally, when the cloud was gone, in blended green that had gathered light from both moons. Raindrops crept over the tree like mischievous, mobile leaves. Was it really just water on the tree right now? "What you think is in your mind." But what is out there?

  "Master Keitaro." Linden stepped towards the old man, almost slipping in the mud of a flower bed, old brown stems and leaves sticking to her slippers and drenched socks. She was not used to gardens and such an abundance of plants. But even winter-dead, they smelled nice.

  "Master Keitaro, your wisdom, too, is in your mind. Why do you think it will fit my mind, or Rianor's?"

  "I think naught of that kind." There was a pause between her words and his, during which he focused on a leaf that had fallen on his shoulder. Linden felt as if, like before, he was not seeing her at all—as if he and the leaf were alone in the world, sharing wisdom.

  "Your questions will lead you to your own wisdom path." He met her eyes again, in a different manner, as if he were testing her. "You have many questions. What is the next one you would like to ask?"

  "What is the meaning of your dance?" There were many other, more important questions, but for some unanalyzed reason this was the one she asked.

  The old man looked at her for a long time. "It is the beginning and middle of a path. I will show you."

  Rianor

  Evening 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705

  The Head Temple's iron gates were stark and gray, looming over the crowd of colorful coats, gowns, and umbrellas. Rianor shifted his own umbrella slightly and looked up. There were spikes on those gates, but right now they were barely visible, their pointed rigidness washed out in the twilight and rain. Still, they were there; he should not be fooled.

  Inside, it smelled of melted wax and burning. It was not too disturbing a smell for Rianor, for he had long ago let Nan and the Qynnsent Master Cooks know that their High Lord would not be kept away from the kitchen stoves. He had sometimes melted wax himself, to use in Science experiments. Unlike the Healer's Passage, the kitchen stoves were always there and visible, and it was not officially forbidden for a High Lord to go near them.

  However, the smell was disturbing to Rianor's fellow lords and ladies and to the rich commoners who were flocking around them, judging by how they all fidgeted and kept closer to the walls. Some of them were dabbing their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs.

  Perhaps they did not know that wax melted with normal, hidden-in-a-container Ber fire smelled the same—even though the Bers claimed that the tall wax "candle" in the circle beneath the Temple's central dome was currently melting with wildfire. Whatever the fire was, it certainly was exposed, and that did not make even Rianor too comfortable.

  Desmond, at Rianor's side, did not look distressed. Then again, he almost never did. His face wore the slightly stony expression he assumed when he did not immediately need to talk to someone and be political and suave. One could not tell that right now he was furious.

  Desmond was not furious because of the melting wax, however. He had almost demanded a duel, outlawed as duels were, against Donald of Waltraud, for a physical attack on his High Lord had shaken him immensely. It was an outrageous violation of the House, Desmond had said, an act of aggression that denied forgiveness. Rianor glanced at Donald, slouching a few steps away behind the High Lord and Lady of Fredelbert, who, as Rianor's good friends, had positioned themselves between the Qynnsent and Waltraud parties. Officially, there was no conflict and thus no interference was needed by the Bers, since Rianor had released Donald when they were both in public. Officially.

  Interestingly enough, Desmond would have forgiven a more subtle, non-physical attack. Last year he had almost admired House Iglika's First Counselor's chicanery that had lead to Sunber City in the Sunset Lands buying grain from Iglika's and not Qynnsent's harvest in Balkaene. That, despite the fact that Desmond considered losing money, especially House money, a disaster.

  Rianor moved his weight to his left side, to rest the ribs on the right. Probably someone's lying for money fit with Desmond's own system of rules, while fighting did not. Just today Desmond had charmed and blackmailed Iglika's High Lady and her husband to some other deal, perfectly happy with that cunning, slimy aspect of a Fireheart visit. Rianor was not. He wanted to be away from Desmond's schemes as much as he wanted to be away from this Temple. He stared at the wax in silence.

  He had to stay. The Ber who was supposed to prepare Linden's wristwatch would be here and would probably not appreciate him missing the night's Fire ceremony. It was the seventh Night Fire ceremony for this year—one of the twenty ceremonies that happened in the Head Temple in the twenty nights preceding the Day of the Master. These were nights of ritual, supposed celebrations, and ... reminders, as Rianor was apt to think of them, for those who lived at the top of the world about who was really in charge.

  As a rule, a High Ruler had to attend at least one of these ceremonies per year, in addition to the Day of the Master ceremony itself, when the Blessed Fire, Water, and Bread were exchanged. Rianor usually did one Fire ceremony only, usually the one immediately before the Day of the Master, although most nobles stayed at the Fireheart longer, for it was the time of the year to mingle and do business as well. Desmond was the one to usually do that, but tonight Rianor had to stay as well. Stay, and pretend to be prudently struck by mindless awe. Pretend, like Desmond in h
is business deals. Perhaps Rianor had no right to judge Desmond's pretenses, for he had his own. He was currently sick and tired of a whole day spent with mindless fools who considered themselves the cream of society, and of pretending to be one of them.

  The gong struck. The sound seemed to last forever. First it was loud and strong, ricocheting between the glossy, painted walls that depicted scenes from the life of the Master. Then it was softer and flew up towards the domes as if it wanted to climb the tall metal rods that protruded from the top outside.

  Rianor rubbed his eyes and shifted his weight back to the right side. He was too tired already. Sound climbing rods? Where had that thought come from? But he would climb them himself if it would mean fresh air and natural illumination. The vague, flickering light, pulsing sound, and that burning smell were trying to do something to his head. It was not natural for light to flicker like this. It made him sleepy, he almost drifted away.

  Almost. Rianor awoke fully when the gong struck again, harsher, like two dinner forks suddenly lunged together by the stabbing ends, with the sound effect multiplied a hundredfold. At the same moment, water drizzled over the tall, smoking "candle" stick of wax, and the small flame on it erupted tall and wide and glaring. Someone screamed. Even Rianor made an involuntary step back, then narrowed his eyes and stilled himself. Impressive. Wildfire and water—the blazing archenemy of the organized world together the insidious liquid that was necessary for life and yet was an enemy itself if left to its own devices. What were the Bers aiming at?

  More importantly, was this truly a water-wildfire effect? It could have some very interesting implications ...

  "Beware of how the world was before!"

  This was a woman's voice, clear, with only a hint of command. An almost pleasant voice, which still assaulted you frontally and attempted to insert invisible hooks into your eyes and back to your mind, to make you bend to its will and not deny its bidding.

  Rianor blinked. There was a trick to a part of this voice. His parents had taught him the various kinds of "ruler" voices back when he had first learned to talk—when he had also learned that he himself had such presence that he did not need to use them. This woman did not need them, either. Her presence was different from Rianor's, however, and the voice made his ears tingle.

  Ber Magic was weakening, but they had Magic, still.

  "Beware of the wild elements—forces of chaos and destruction!"

  The wildfire flared again as the woman stepped out of a narrow door, which had so far been obscured by the "candle." She had dark long hair and dark heavy-lidded eyes, which contrasted with her red robe, and she walked as if she owned the temple. Rianor narrowed his eyes again. As if she owned the world. He did not usually notice the appearance of older women much, but he noticed her. She was at least a head shorter than him, but somehow she seemed tall, and despite the fine wrinkles around her eyes, she looked ... not exactly young, but somehow ageless. She raised a hand.

  "Seven hundred and five years ago wild elements and senseless humans almost brought the world to its end! Hail the memory of Him who brought order, prosperity, and peace! Hail Him who brought salvation! Master, your legacy lives on in us!"

  Her hand snapped down, and the wild flame exploded. The sound was like thunder—and in a confined space a thunder was too strong. Many people screamed this time, and Rianor gripped the dagger under his coat. Desmond seemed to do the same, but Rianor could not see him clearly through the thick, gray steam that had spread throughout the temple.

  This was not normal. And, people who never made Science experiments and never entered the kitchens, where food was cooked and clothes were boiled, rarely, if ever, saw steam. They panicked. Screams rose in the air, and then their issuers started choking. Bodies started shoving madly onto other bodies, running into what seemed random directions. Someone tried to open the gates, but the gates would not succumb.

  Rianor had not seen steam of such a dirty color, either, and steam had never before stung his eyes and throat so much. He suddenly remembered the old fairytales and Linden's vision in the Healers' Passage. He let go of the dagger, one hand shooting out to snap Desmond's scarf up over Desmond's mouth and nose, while his other hand pressed a handkerchief to his own face. This was not steam. This was smoke—and whereas steam might or might not suffocate a person, smoke was tainted and always would.

  Rianor gripped the dagger again and dashed forward, Desmond at his heels. Rianor ran and shoved bodies aside, until there was no one between him and the painted windows. His dagger flew, and glass crashed into a myriad of colored shards.

  Most of Rianor's peers had never exited a building through the window in their lives, or at least they had not done it since their childhood years. Rianor could not afford to shout in this air thick with smoke, and there was no time for gentler treatment.

  He physically grabbed a random body and thrust it out.

  Only then did the others understand what they must do.

  Rianor

  Evening and night 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705

  Servants and others rushed to the noble crowd as it stumbled outside the temple. Some of them must have been in the smaller, Mentor-run temple at the far end of the square; others had probably come from the pub further away, in the backstreets. Some were quick and nimble: opening umbrellas to shield the nobles from the icy, skin-scraping rain, supporting or even carrying the ones who could not walk alone. Others, noble and not, slipped on the broken glass shards, and some fell and bled, while others only screamed.

  The rain muffled the sounds and blurred the occasional moonlight, but Rianor could still hear and see yet others, perhaps noble but probably not, whisking away in the dark and cold with carry-on items that did not belong to them. Seizing an opportunity and making it yours no matter when and how it presented itself was the mark of genius, Desmond had once said. Rianor had not known that there were so many unrecognized geniuses in Mierber.

  "Move aside!" Rianor shouted at the people closest to the temple wall. Earlier had been on the windowsill, helping others climb, but he had jumped down some time ago, for he was more needed outside now. "There are others coming behind you!"

  With one hand, he grabbed the collar of a finely-dressed young man sitting empty-eyed on the ground and hauled him up. For a moment the boy staggered, then blinked and suddenly slapped his own cheek, then rushed to help Rianor haul the next one. Lord Eric of Kieran, Rianor thought when he saw his face closer, no more than sixteen years old. This was the youngest age group allowed and required at the Night Fire Ceremony, so at least there were no children for Rianor to take care of now. There were special, daylight Fire Ceremonies for children ... No. Rianor swore, wiping sweat from his brow. There were children. Little screaming creatures were right now running from who knew where to the mess that was their parents, older siblings, and House relatives.

  "All children, stay away!" He shouted again, but the rain gulped his words instantly. It was raining harder now, semi-darkness and vague light interchanging as clouds passed beneath the moons. Why were not the damn Square lights on? His hands trembled as he pulled a sprawled woman to her feet. She sagged against his body, and suddenly his legs could barely hold him. He felt every single broken rib and even the ones that were supposed to be intact, and he felt the wet and coldness extensively. He felt his veins as blood beat wildly against their walls, and then he saw blood drenching his coat and trousers.

  It was not his. The woman he was holding was bleeding onto him.

  "Is there a healer here?" Rianor tried to shout again, and again the rain muted his voice, but still the crowd seemed to hear him. Most had stopped screaming now, for screaming in rain was not useful at all, so they just stood there in the dark—cold, wet, and scared.

  "You, come and help her." He knew that the balding man with the gray coat was from the Healer's Guild, for they had been introduced today. He was a commoner who had built a fortune and entered Fireheart circles by selling creams and such to
ladies. He looked at Rianor and then away.

  Rianor was so used to people following his orders that he was late in understanding that these here would not. They had followed him out of the temple like terrified sheep, but now they were terrified sheep who were starting to remember that they were supposed to be, or to imitate, lords and ladies.

  They did not give a damn that Rianor's present orders might be the most useful thing they had heard in their lives. They did not care that they all had to become disciplined and organized in order to respond to whatever the Bers would serve them next when they, too, got outside—and that Rianor could organize them. Suddenly, they did not want to follow Rianor's orders; they did not want to follow any orders, even if the person giving them knew what he was doing.

  With a few exceptions, such as Desmond, lord Kevin and lady Kaitlyn of Fredelbert, young lord Eric, and two or three others, they were all useless elements of a mad mob but believed themselves to be individuals.

  Rianor was a High Lord; he had learned about mobs. There must be few things in the world worse than a mob element that was, like all mob elements, devoid of a mind but under the delusion that it still possessed free will. Imagination failed before the havoc such "free will" could wreak upon the world.

  Perhaps the healer was not incompetent, or a bad person. Perhaps he was just a good, skilled man who was very, very scared, which was why he ran and tried to elbow an escape path for himself by shoving others down onto the glass shards.

  The way Rianor saw him at this moment, however, was like a defective part of a mechanism. A part that was supposed to be a tool for repairing other parts but did not work, damaging other parts instead, breaking the whole system. And the system had to work. Detrimental parts had no place in it. Rianor raised the new dagger that someone, perhaps Desmond, had at some point thrust into his hand—and stilled his hand a moment before he would have hurled the weapon through the rain. He almost saw it make an arch, diving into the healer's back. He almost saw himself as naught but a mob element acting on an impulse, murdering without thought.