The Seekers of Fire

by Lynna Merrill

  His hand now trembling, Rianor slipped the dagger into the sheath on his belt.

  It was too late. He had set an example. There were daggers in too many hands now, and thoughts in too few heads. They were going to fight, and it was not right. They were going to fight amongst themselves, but none of them had tried to burn or suffocate the rest inside the temple, whose broken windows were staring at them like blind eyes. They were going to fight because their reasons not to had been presently wiped out, and suddenly Rianor was too tired.

  Still holding the wounded woman, his head and eyes in pain, he tried to walk but found the ground unstable and unresponsive.

  Then the temple came alive.

  Rather, the temple was suddenly bathed in light, both from the inside and from the suddenly glowing lanterns in the square. Suddenly, the square itself—this semi-dark, blurred place of confusion, hatred, and harsh, whipping rain—had transformed back into the Temple Square of the Fireheart. The air was warm, too, raindrops sizzling into nothingness as they met some barrier.

  Dagger hands drooped as eyes blinked, minds gradually starting to partition the mass of limbs, drenched expensive clothes, and faces dripping with what might be runny make-up or blood, into individuals. Individuals they knew.

  Several Bers came out of the temple, through the gates, and Rianor realized that for some time now the gates had been open.

  "My lords and ladies."

  The red-robed woman with the Voice, standing between a red-robed man and a black-robed girl, other Bers following closely behind them. She looked calm and almost peaceful, her eyes on the crowd, her hands caressing a perfect ball of fire. Her two companions, on the other hand, had hoods partly concealing their faces and held no flame at all, but for a moment Rianor met the man's eyes. Those eyes did not even seem to be seeing the crowd. Both the man's eyes and the girl's were dark in color—but the darkness ran much deeper than that. Had their outer colors been light, their eyes' essence would have been dark still.

  These two are the ones to beware, Rianor thought just as the woman raised her calm voice again.

  "My ... children. It is all right. You are forgiven."

  Forgiven? The ground must have become more responsive to Rianor's feet, for he managed to make a step forward. The wounded woman was no longer in his arms. A Mentor, who had perhaps just come from the smaller temple across, was tending to her on the ground.

  "Healers are coming, she may still live, my lord," the Mentor had mumbled when confronted by Rianor's glare, then quickly had torn her dress to try to stop the bleeding. A stabbing wound. Rianor had not been the first to draw a dagger.

  This had been seconds ago, but years seemed to have passed. His head throbbing, Rianor made a few more undisturbed steps towards the Bers, the crowd suddenly shying away from him.

  "Who is forgiven for what," he said in a deceptively soft voice. "By whom."

  Nan had told him many years ago, when his parents were still alive, that he was a child who could stare his way through stone. At the same time, he had learned early enough that Nan herself was never affected by his disconcerting glares. Nan-harder-than-stone, he had called his outwardly soft, chubby nurse whenever he felt the desire for a good chase around the House.

  This woman was even harder than that, and her words were soft like silk wrapped around iron.

  "My child. Chaos is currently inside you, mutilating, eating at your quintessence, seeking a way out, to profess aggression."

  She shook her head sadly, the flameball shining softly in her hands. It was a pretty ball, its light soothing. Was this Ber fire or wildfire, and why did she brandish exposed fire even now? Showing her control of it, perhaps. Her power. It did not look like it was burning her hands, and if it were a weapon, it did not look outwardly menacing.

  "High Lord of Qynnsent, the Lost Ones can incite chaos in even the best of us. I forgive you, in the name of the Master." With a flowing motion that did not seem insulting at first glance, she turned her back to him and walked towards the noble crowd. "The Master can forgive all of you!"

  The Master, he who watched this world from the Eternal Place, knew the Lost Ones and their chaos, she said, and the mindless fools listened. The Master and the Bers, his Mierenthian delegates who channeled his wisdom to this world, she claimed, knew that the Lost Ones and chaos always lurked close to everyone.

  It was as if the Fire ceremony had never been interrupted. As if the Bers had not almost suffocated about a fifth of Mierenthia's most influential non-Mages half an hour earlier. Calm, dignified, and almost motherly, the Ber preached amidst street lantern light blurred by the slowly lessening drizzle of rain, Mentors and newly arrived healers bent over casualties like black, silent shadows.

  "There are Edges," she was whispering, as if she almost did not want the crowd to hear her words—as if she were telling a tale that would haunt little children's nightmares. As if she were telling a tale to little children, who could only understand it in clear, simple words.

  "There are other Edges besides that treacherous line at the end of Mierenthia's lands, and they are even more perilous."

  She closed her eyes dramatically, like a theater actress. "They are not physical Edges, for they lie within our very minds—and beyond them are lesions of doubt and belligerence. What lies beyond these Edges can sometimes reach inside, and if you let it do that often, it can overwhelm your very thoughts. It will, until all that is left inside you is bitterness, maliciousness, images of a fake world, and a weak quintessence. But chaos, destruction, and decay have no place amongst Mierenthia's worthiest!"

  Her cry cut through Rianor's headache like a whip. What had Nan said, that he was going to have headaches for many days? The Fire Ceremony had brought him the first headache since last night, and his head felt as if it were bleeding from the inside. He only hoped it was not truly so.

  He was tired. He was too tired to even think, and he was grateful for the hand that suddenly gripped and supported his shoulder. Desmond, his face scraped and grim. He motioned for Rianor to remain silent.

  All right, he would. He did not want to speak; he wanted to sit down and rest for a moment. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breaths. He was the person who had organized the escape from the Ber-created chaos—he had acted, so let someone else talk—let someone else ask the Ber why her empty words contradicted her actions.

  Rianor opened his eyes when, moments later, no one had asked, and saw the Ber woman watching him intently.

  "Even a High Lord can be affected by chaos and the Lost Ones," she said quietly, "perhaps even more so than the rest, for a High Lord or Lady carries heavier burdens. You thought yourself a hero when you destroyed Holy Temple property and instilled terror into your peers, didn't you, High Lord of Qynnsent? This is what the wild elements, the elements of chaos, do to people. Wildfire overwhelmed you first, and then rain overwhelmed you again. "

  He could have replied, pointing out the obvious fallacy. Perhaps he would have, if some instinct had not made him take notice of the faces of the crowd. Some of them made special effort to ignore him. Others, wet imbeciles in crumpled, expensive clothes, who perhaps were right now alive only because of him, looked ready to attack him.

  How fast could human perceptions of a situation change? Too fast.

  It was all right, the Ber witch was telling them all in her motherly voice, the Qynnsent lord was a weak human, just like they, his peers, were weak humans—and a High Lord could be forgiven once. He, a weak non-Ber, had sabotaged a Holy Ceremony because of his own insecurities and the wildfire effect, and they, weak non-Bers themselves, had followed him into another wild, confusing element—the rain—with dire consequences.

  "Let it be a lesson of trust for you all," she said, the trust they were supposed to give to Bers, the delegates of the Master. They should have stayed in the temple and trusted the Bers to complete the ceremony in the right way, for only Bers could control terrible wildfire and give people air for breathing, peace, and safe
ty.

  "The air inside is clean from wildfire and poison now. It is purged in the Ber way, as only we Bers know," she said, and some people were already casting longing glances to the glowing lights and supposed warmth beyond the doors.

  Only, Rianor thought, for some reason the Bers had postponed inviting people back for some time, and it just might be the time needed by Temple-sized premises to naturally ventilate if the windows were broken.

  He could speak and point that out. He could present obvious logic regarding "the Ber way" to his fellow lords and ladies. He did not. Even without Desmond's warning fingers digging into his flesh, he would have known to presently keep his thoughts to himself. It was the "Ber way" his frightened fellow lords and ladies wanted. They needed someone to supposedly take care of them and think for them. They did not care for obvious logic that required them to think by themselves and be wet and wounded.

  How easy was it to believe that they were wet and wounded because they had tried to think—No, how easy was it to believe that they were wet, wounded, frightened, and confused not because they had thought (they had not) but because they had followed Rianor's thinking? And they could not even know what the alternative to following Rianor's thinking would be—because that, too, would require thinking on their part.

  Believing was easier, and the Bers were there to be believed. As always.

  It is ridiculous, was all Rianor could think, as the Ber woman walked to him again. The air inside the temple must be better now because he had broken the glass earlier. Couldn't they see that, the damn fools?

  No, they could not because they had no idea of Science and how things worked, which suited the Bers perfectly.

  And had the Bers really stopped the rain, as the crowd undoubtedly thought? There had been a barrier when they had first appeared, but it had been only for a short time, and the rain had been lessening even before the silent Ber man and girl had started staring at the sky. How much of this was Magic, and how much was watching the clouds and pure timing? Where did one begin and the other one end? Rianor shook his head. Science and Magic. It worked so neatly for the Bers. Magic was hidden, and Science and curiosity ridiculed and discouraged. Was there difference between the two at all? Hide knowledge from people, and you can do whatever you want with them.

  "Here are the nobility inauguration documents and corresponding wristwatch for your new lady, High Lord of Qynnsent." The Ber woman's voice was quiet now, but exactly as quiet as to be heard by those who stood nearby. She handed him a rolled parchment tied with a red ribbon, as well as a wristwatch with a small dial, its bracelet weaved from thin metal strings. "For your Science apprentice. I will understand if you choose to go home now and rest while the rest of us continue this night's eventful ceremony. I do hope, however, that you and members of your House will soon grace another night of expressing gratefulness to the Master with your presence."

  Rianor opened and read the document in silence. It seemed genuine. Slowly, he placed it in the inside pocket of his coat together with the wristwatch. He understood, even if the Ber's message was veiled and thus in Desmond's, nor Rianor's, area of expertise. She had dismissed him while still granting him the request he had earlier made to one of her subordinates. She had tried to appease him and his House, at the same time further undermining his position with the perturbed, mindless crowd. They would resent having followed someone whose involvement with the half-flighty, half-suspicious interest of Science went as far as to make a lady out of a commoner.

  Rianor resisted closing his eyes, the pain pounding inside his head, muddling his thoughts. He had saved their miserable lives (as well as almost taken a life, but he was not going to think about that now), and here they were, pretending to not see him, or seeing him as an enemy. He stared at the Ber and for a moment felt her slight discomfort. Good. She was not entirely confident.

  But what should he do now? She was close enough for him to grab her throat, but she would not have come so close to someone who would grab her throat, would she? Any aggression on his part would only confirm the image of an insane aggressor she had already built for him before the crowd. If he attacked a Ber, most of the crowd would side with the Bers, and even if they did not, Mierber was not ready for this. A revolution would probably be crushed—and even if it were not, what then? He did not know how the firepipes and all other Ber life-sustaining infrastructure worked, himself. What would he replace their systems with?

  "Thank you, my lady." It was Desmond, his voice strong, composed. Still gripping Rianor's shoulder, he had moved forward, so he almost stood between the Ber and his High Lord. Even though his coat was torn and he was leaning too much to the right, blood gathering around his left knee, Desmond somehow managed to look dignified and stable.

  "We appreciate your prompt attention to a request made by House Qynnsent," Desmond continued. "I would like to assure the Order of the Ber as well as our noble peers"—he nodded to the crowd at that—"that we, on our part, have also been active. We have donated a generous proportion of both our yearly production and our yearly financial income towards the sustainment of peace and order, and the constant betterment of Mierenthia."

  Ber ... noble peers ... active ... generous ... production ... income ... sustainment ... order ... Mierenthia. Desmond had somehow arranged his speech around these words, so that if the speech had been a fence, these words would have been the poles, the rest giving the impression of being no more than unimportant filling. Or perhaps Rianor perceived it like this because of the damn, thought-scattering headache. He had to make a conscious effort to retain clarity of thought ...

  But then, how many of these people ever had clarity of thought? Desmond used this. Desmond knew how people thought, and dealing with people was his pride and passion. He would know how exactly to twist words and concepts to say something while in the minds of his less smart adversaries a concept formed of something else. As for the manipulators on the other side, who were perhaps not susceptible to this, for they used it themselves, he could still give them a message and enjoy sparring with them.

  "I thank you, too, First Counselor of Qynnsent." the Ber woman replied. "We appreciate your contributions."

  They understood each other very well. "Mierenthia and you Bers depend on Houses' money and production," Desmond had told her, "and our House is an important one for that." "Sustainment and order" might have referred to this and the Houses' Aetarx as well, although Desmond would never mention the Aetarx in public. "It is you who rule, but you also depend on us nobles," Desmond had said, making sure that their fellow nobles, mindless or not, understood and remembered this. He had, of course, also stressed how generous House Qynnsent itself was, or, more accurately, reminded all of Qynnsent's influence, and that a disturbance in Qynnsent would also mean a disturbance in a part of Balkaene, and thus in Mierenthia's food production.

  Mathilda, Qynnsent's Lady-in-residence in Balkaene, former First Counselor, and Desmond's mother, had in the past tried to teach Rianor the specific nuances of this "understanding" that a lord should exercise in dealing with Bers and fellow nobles. Later, Desmond had tried to teach him himself. Rianor had not learned, not because he could not but because he did not want to. All these hinted, unsaid, and intentionally misinterpreted words—all these lies—were redundant. People should either express themselves clearly, or not talk at all; should either think for themselves, or let someone else do the thinking and obey him. You should not have to twist your mind and chew your thoughts so that you could spit them maimed enough for others to swallow them.

  Science, on the other hand, was clean. The most complex mechanism could be split into less complex parts, at least in theory if not in practice, and you could learn the rules of how those worked together because there were clean rules. You could sometimes use these rules to make something useful.

  Mechanisms were useful—but people were not useful at all. Rianor shifted his eyes away from Desmond and the Ber woman, and suddenly saw a mirror image of his contempt o
n another face. It was the face of a girl, a young woman. It wore large, dark eyes, a fine nose and a slightly open, delicately curved mouth. It also wore the black hood of a Ber.

  She slid the hood down her hair just as she met his eyes, ignoring the whisper of the red-robed Ber man beside her. It was wavy hair, brown but for the reddish tint that spread through it when she tossed it, catching the square's artificial light. Then she was not looking at Rianor any more, but he had the feeling that it was not because she did not dare withstand his gaze.

  Then he knew who she was, and so did Donald of Waltraud. The oaf stumbled out from somewhere amidst the crowd, red-faced, and cried out,

  "Merley!"

  In a moment, the crowd forgot all about Rianor and Qynnsent. Donald of Waltraud was crying, tears running silently down his suddenly not-so-stupid-looking face, and High Lord Emery of Waltraud had appeared on the edge of the crowd, standing silently in half-shadow, a muscle trembling on his cheek. He did not seem to notice that his wife had fainted. Everybody else was silent, as if they all had taken a collective breath and time had stopped before they could exhale again.

  The Ber girl stood still, the Ber man's hand on her elbow. Then she snapped her elbow free and rushed towards Donald. Half of the lanterns flickered, before the red-robed man raised a hand. Then, for a moment, all lanterns flared and the square was almost too bright to bear. People blinked and scowled and their eyes watered, the world too blurred for them to see a miniature flying blade.

  Perhaps because of his increased sensitivity to thrown blades and to Bers tonight, Rianor saw it. It came from the group of yellow-robed Bers behind the red-robed man, and it pierced the girl's back before she could reach her brother. She did not fall, but stumbled, the wildness in her eyes suddenly extinguished into a bland, unfocused expression.

  "Blessed be, lord Donald of Waltraud," she uttered a standard, unemotional Ber acknowledgement of a noble, and Rianor felt almost sorry for the bastard, as she turned her back to him and slowly walked away.