Flametouched

by Brian K. Fuller

  A soft knock on the door prompted her to lift her head and her eyes. A servant poked his head in.

  “Lord Ember here to see you, Your Grace.”

  “Let him come,” she said. “And get some light, please.”

  Filippa tried to rise, but failed. She had sat too long in one place and the muscles in her back and legs rebelled against movement. Two more tries produced sufficient momentum to propel her upward, though she had to plant the Arrow Asp walking stick firmly on the floor to keep from tumbling over. She needed dinner and an uninterrupted night’s rest. Wine might be required tonight, something old and red and rich.

  Two servants bearing a lantern and three candles preceded Lord Ember, her old friend bending at the waist. She signaled for him to sit near her so she could hear him; he was a soft spoken man and her ears seemed to want a holiday, too.

  They sat and exchanged pleasantries until the servants stoked the fire and left. Lord Ember’s face betrayed the worry she had felt all day long. The House of Lords and the House of Light would be busy preparing for war when the sun rose.

  “I thank you for your visit, Lord Ember,” she said. “I hope you are well despite the unfortunate deeds of the day.”

  “As well as can be expected, Your Grace,” he replied. “Though you look fearfully tired.”

  “I am afraid and I am weary,” she confessed. “I’d hoped never to see such days as these. I would have rather left war-making to my successor.”

  He nodded. “Understandable, though I am gratified that someone as experienced and intelligent as you are is still around to lead us.”

  She wanted to laugh, but only a wheezing cough came out. “There are many more qualified for war than I am. I’ve never had much fondness for military strategy, and my powers of discernment have failed to root out the headwaters of this strange plot against us.”

  “It will come,” he said with his friendly, reassuring smile. That smile had always cheered her. It had been there since her husband had died and had helped her through many seasons of distress. She liked Lord Ember for that. He saw his calling as one to uplift, and he genuinely tried to do it.

  She sat up, leaning forward on her cane, trying to get a good look at him. Something wasn’t quite right. “Is this a visit of consolation and commiseration, or do you have some other matter for me to consider?”

  “I’m afraid I bring strange tidings,” he admitted, face fully giving over to the worry she had sensed in him earlier. “I am not sure what to make of it. At first I couldn’t be certain if my eyes were deceiving me. It came on so gradually. But over the last week I couldn’t deny it.”

  “What, Lord Ember?” she asked.

  “The Eternal Flame is shrinking.”

  Shrinking? Odd tidings indeed. Her brow creased.

  “You mean the tongues of flame don’t reach as high? The light isn’t as bright?”

  “Well, both, really. It would be like building a fire with ten sticks of wood, and once it was lit and going, removing one stick at a time. It’s like someone or something is robbing the Eternal Flame of its light.”

  “How is that possible?” Filippa asked, stomach clenching. Could this be related to the plot? It couldn’t be a coincidence that all of these horrible things were happing at once.

  Lord Ember shrugged his shoulders. “There is no precedent for this. From the time of Joris Pulsipher there are no records or legends that report any diminishing of the Eternal Flame. It is as if something is slowly draining the life force from it.”

  “Do we need to set a guard? Move it?”

  “I can’t imagine how a different location would make a difference,” he said, folding his hands in his lap. “I have already doubled the guard to ensure no one goes near it. It remains elevated high above the floor. No one besides me has passed prayers into it for at least two weeks, and I have forbidden anyone from doing so.”

  Filippa’s sluggish mind struggled with this news. The Eternal Flame was the heart of Bellshire’s identity. That it should dwindle and die would deal a blow to the cohesion of her country. If the Flame wasn’t Eternal, then what was it? What were they?

  “I should not have burdened you with this now,” Lord Ember apologized. “You have enough on your mind, I am sure.”

  “No,” she disagreed. “This is just another thread in a mystery. I need all the information I can get. Please let me know if there are further changes. Any piece of information, no matter how small, might be the key to understanding what is happening to us.”

  Lord Ember bowed and left and the Queen struggled back to her feet. She needed her bed now. And the wine.

  Chapter 31

  The wood had called to Davon again, a cast off branch of an Elder Pine. He whittled at in unconsciously, even though it was the most fragile creation he had attempted—a delicate stalk of Columbine flowers. These would go to the cross Mr. Goodwin, who huddled in the fold of an Elder Oak unable to sleep.

  The dead of night in an Elder Forest filled the senses. With the swallowing dark close about them, Davon’s sense of smell and hearing reached out farther than his eyes could have seen in the wood. The familiar din of night in the forest felt like a second home to him. The soft scrape and tremble of leaves. The sweet smell of rot. The scrabble of beetles against the hard bark. The primal call of the Emperor Loons, haunting and otherworldly. All friends to him, soothing and easily ignored.

  To Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Paige, the Royal Wood was a den of terror.

  Perhaps they had the right of it. Davon realized he had rarely felt this comfortable at night in the wild. Perhaps the cowardly company with whom he shared a cold camp boosted his confidence by virtue of comparison.

  Somewhere in the dark to the west a group of at least ten men searched for them, men intent on sending Mr. Paige and anyone connected to him to their deaths. Add to this sabercats, dire wolves, and terror birds, and their precarious circumstances certainly warranted the hunted and haunted looks of his companions.

  After fleeing the wrecked carriage, they had raced into the forest—if the halting pace of Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Paige could be called racing. He had sent the two reluctant men ahead, waiting near the forest edge to see who was coming down the road after them. Like a herd, the posse swarmed over the hill and raced to the carriage. As he had hoped, the unsavory lot stopped to stuff their pockets with the scattered money from the barrel.

  This distraction bought time. It also brought the concealing dark closer. A three day journey on foot through the forest would bring them to Hightower and help. With his two enfeebled companions, he feared the journey might stretch much longer.

  Mr. Goodwin was old. Mr. Paige was an injured voluptuary, and Davon figured that if he counted the steps the corpulent man had taken in the last ten years, the distance probably wouldn’t add up to a mile. Just getting to the forest had nearly killed Mr. Paige, and only the promise of a bullet to his head motivated him to keep hoofing it onward.

  A soft rustling to the south broke into the night. Mr. Paige sat bolt upright. “What was that?”

  Davon stopped carving for a moment. “That was a sloth adjusting its position ever so slightly on a tree branch about ten yards from here.”

  “Will it eat us?”

  Davon sighed. Justus had asked this question three times. “No. Sloths eat plants and they are probably the only creatures in the wood that you could outstrip in a race. Now keep quiet or you’ll attract more than just animals, Mr. Paige.”

  “Like what?” he whimpered.

  “Such as the men intent on murdering us all. Keep still.”

  Davon continued his blind carving, feeling the delicate edge of the downward bending Columbine bell with its flaring petals. The sure, supple strokes of the blade emptied his mind, allowing him to focus. Arianne kept finding her way into his thoughts, setting his heart to hammering. He knew now the difference between Emile’s flattery and genuine affection. How he longed to see the Lady of Hightower again, to find her safe and warm and smilin
g in her drawing room at Hightower.

  Nearly four days had passed since he had left her side. To think of her in a dungeon or in a callous court or in danger horrified him. Beneath the ancient trees and with coarse company, he found that he missed her. And in the dark, the rough bark of the tree against his back, he realized he couldn’t bear the thought of her in any man’s embrace but his. But his dignity and honor would not let him sully her name by connecting it with his. The two contrary desires strove within him, wearying his mind.

  He set the knife back in its bag. The carving was complete. With careful fingers, he traced its outline, marveling at the smooth wood running along the tip of his finger. Even a master could not cut a shape so finely with a tool as crude as his knife.

  Mr. Goodwin stirred and stumbled through the darkness, his shuffling, sore feet working up racket in the dried leaves on the ground. He cursed as he approached. The scant beams of moonlight breaking through the canopy of leaves was hardly enough illumination for his old eyes.

  Davon spoke, voice low. “Are you well, Mr. Goodwin?”

  “Of course not! My knees feel like a big, stupid blacksmith has been hammering at them with Justus Paige’s head. I won’t even mention what’s plaguing my backside. I noticed you stopped your insufferable carving. What did you make?”

  Davon handed it to him. Mr. Goodwin held it up at various angles, but settled for exploring it with his fingers as Davon had done.

  Mr. Goodwin grumbled about the dark. “What is it? It feels like a plant.”

  “It is a Columbine flower. It’s yours.”

  Mr. Goodwin stood silent for a while, and when he finally spoke, his voice carried a wistful note. “How did you know?”

  “Know what, Mr. Goodwin?”

  “That girl I told Justus Paige about. The last flower I purchased from her was a white Columbine. I keep it pressed in a book in my jacket. She really was a lovely girl.”

  “Then I hope the carving reminds you of her,” Davon said. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  Mr. Goodwin grunted, stifling some emotion. “Is this the gift the Eternal Flame gave you? To carve?”

  Davon brushed the wood shavings off of his legs. “It is. It is an odd gift, to be sure.”

  “And a fairly useless one,” Mr. Goodwin added. “Though I thank you, just the same.”

  “And what is your gift?” Davon asked.

  “It’s a curse, really. Don’t laugh too heartily at my expense, but my gift is apparently long life.”

  “It is a good gift.”

  Mr. Goodwin didn’t reply. Justus Paige had finally fallen asleep, but to Davon’s chagrin, he snored like a short-faced bear after gorging itself for hibernation.

  Mr. Goodwin snorted. “I believe that fiend over there knows more about this plot than he let on in our little session under the Brawny Maid.”

  Davon nodded. “My thought, as well. He exists to grant favors and exert leverage. He wouldn’t be content with simply funneling money to and from important people without discovering more that he could use to his advantage. If nobles are involved, that knowledge could fetch a high price…or save him from execution.”

  A slight change in the light brought Davon to his feet. His eyes could barely perceive the slight difference in illumination, but a flickering orange hue tinged the broad leaves just enough. Someone had lit a fire just to the southeast.

  “What is it?” Mr. Goodwin asked.

  “A fire. Not far. We must stay very quiet now. We may need to move.”

  Davon grabbed his rifle and ammunition bag. The only advantage they had in their flight from the posse on their heels was stealth and ease of movement through the more tangled avenues of the forest. Their pursuers had horses. While they couldn’t ride them at speed through the trackless wood, their mounts spared them the rigors of the chase. The rigors of the chase were not sparing Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Paige. Fortunately, it appeared that not one of their pursuers had enough skill to track a mammoth through a field of corn.

  The direction of the faint firelight indicated that the posse had nearly flanked them. The cold had apparently gotten the better of their need for stealth. If he could remove the advantage of their horses, they stood a much greater chance of escaping the Royal Wood alive. He would wait an hour or two until they slept or were lulled into a sense of security and then see what he could do.

  He whispered the plan to Mr. Goodwin, who nodded in agreement, and then adjusted the corpse-like Mr. Paige until his snoring was extinguished. Before long, Mr. Goodwin’s exhaustion finally dulled his discomfort enough to let him sleep, the Columbine carving affixed in the buttonhole of his lapel. Davon woke him a couple hours later before he left, indicating he and Mr. Paige should be at the ready to move.

  The illumination he had sensed earlier had weakened during the last half-hour—they no longer tended the fire. Rifle in hand and ammunition pouch at his hip, he stole into the dark, amazed at how well he could see. Even then, a silent approach would require every skill he’d ever mastered tracking prey in the forests around Frostbourne. Dry sticks and crisp brown leaves spread out around him like alarm bells begging for a careless foot to ring them. Of all the skills of the hunter, patience was the hardest to master, and he needed it now. Slow. Steady.

  The fire and the men encamped around it waited a scant half mile away. At his cautious pace he started to worry that dawn might overtake him. He risked increasing his pace, paying the price in noise. As he neared the camp, the smell of wood smoke strengthened, and he again slowed to the pace of a sloth.

  By the time he got close enough to see it, the fire had faded to brightly glowing coals and thin tendrils of smoke. And then he observed what he had hoped—the main body of men had camped twenty yards from where they had staked up the horses. He crept forward. He could see no guard, but if they had one lick of sense among them someone would be on watch, perhaps behind the trunk of a tree or hidden in the underbrush.

  A waft of mint filled his nose and he stopped still. It was Pale Mint, a white ground cover that grew at the edge of the permafrost in the north. He would bring it home after some of his excursions and boil it to fill the house with the pleasant smell, a smell that had no place in the warmer climes of a Bittermarchian forest. Had the posse brought some? It seemed unlikely.

  He pushed the oddity out of his mind and focused back on the horses. If he could lift the stakes out of the ground, an unexpected gunshot in the night would send the mounts bolting every which way. He could easily escape in the confusion. Rather than press on through the wood, he could take Mr. Goodwin and Mr. Paige, double back to the road, and make for Brighton. They might even find one of the scattered horses and put it to use.

  He crouched. There had to be a guard. He would wait and watch a little while longer for him to reveal himself. The odor of Pale Mint again teased his nose. Where was it coming from?

  A sharp point jabbed into the nape of his neck. “Stay still.” The barely audible voice was that of a woman, strangely accented. “Hand your rifle back slowly.” He hesitated and the point shifted, a sharp edge sliding along the side of his neck. It felt jagged. “Now, brown man.”

  He lifted the rifle and handed it back, someone grabbing it. Whoever it was, she was quiet. The spear tip lifted from his neck.

  “Now turn,” she instructed him, “slowly and quietly or we will all die.”

  Davon complied, twisting and standing to face the strangers in the darkness. Two women stood on the wide root of the tree near where he had waited, and the smell of mint emanated from them both. North People. The Aua’Catan. Ice miners in the northernmost extents of the Ice Fire Mountains brought stories about the elusive Aua’Catan to Bittermarch, though sightings of the strange, tribal folk were rare.

  The women before him were tall, almost as tall as he was, and in the dark he couldn’t tell the two of them apart. Snow white hair flowed down around slender shoulders. They were clad in soft hides, wearing long breeches that hugged their lithe forms. Their l
eather shirts were open two inches down the middle of their chests, crisscrossed with leather ties. Ice blue eyes regarded him warily, their quartz spears at the ready.

  “Now, Brown Man,” one of them said, “we see you have some skill. Come quietly into the fold of the tree with us if you value your life.”

  Davon thought of bolting, but if the two mysterious Aua’Catan had wanted him killed, they would have done so already. He was dangerously close to the camp; starting a racket would bring ten armed men down upon them.

  He stepped onto the wide root that allowed the two women and their leather boots to tread so quietly. They pulled him into a large fold of the tree, forcing him in between them and standing shoulder to shoulder.

  “Now, hold very still,” the one to his right instructed. “You smell of blood and sweat, which will attract them. Our scent will mask yours.”

  Davon shifted uncomfortably. “Attract what?”

  “The birds, Brown Man. Wait.”

  The two Aua’Catan women stood as silently and still as rocks, and even in close quarters, Davon couldn’t so much as hear them breathe. What he could hear just minutes later was a scraping and fluttering coming closer. The terror birds preferred the deep forests of the south, and in all his excursions in Frostbourne he had never crossed one. He wondered how the women had known they would come their direction.

  By the racket the birds were making, he guessed that four of the enormous, bipedal animals were passing nearby. From hunter lore he knew the terror birds could stand taller than a man and had hooked beaks for ripping flesh. Their taloned feet walked slowly in a predatory stalk just as he had but moments earlier, but the horses’ sense of smell alerted them to their danger. Nervous whinnies and stamping broke into the night, and at that instant the terror birds shot forward with a long, shrill scream that froze Davon’s heart.