Flametouched

by Brian K. Fuller

  Night had fallen long before the outskirts of Bellshire slid into view, and he darted off the road to rest on a bald, grassy hill just to the north of the first farms and buildings outside of the city. Chest still heaving with the exertion of running, he sat and tried to calm a nagging anxiety that buzzed about his mind, a fear that steadily mounted with every stride forward. The fear had no name. It was something outside of the Creetisian threat. Was it for Arianne? For Bellshire?

  After several minutes, he rose up on all fours, ready to run again. Pressing forward was all he could do. To his left, a wall of thick gray clouds threaded through the spires of the Ice Fire Mountains, a shroud that covered the scant illumination offered by the winking stars and slivered moon. And like that approaching storm, the anxiety and fear within him suddenly blew in with the force of a tempest. It was like the night he had sensed when the ruffian was about to knock down Arianne’s door, but much more powerful. His heart pounded, and he cast about for the threat. Where was the danger?

  And then every light in Bittermarch went out at once. Every fire. Every lantern. Every candle. It was as if some ill wind had extinguished every source of illumination. The anxious premonition of danger fled, replaced by his own dread, a dread enlivened by the cries of surprise and terror rising up from the city to mix with the mounting gale and thunder of the encroaching storm.

  He darted off the hill. Something more horrible than war had come to Bittermarch, something dark. Using his long legs to his advantage, he barreled through the abyssal night until the buildings thickened around him. Finding a private alley away from terrified eyes, he returned to his human form. He strode into the benighted, blinded city, making for the palace and missing some of the sensory advantages of the sabercat form.

  Some few like him braved the streets, brief slashes of distant lightning providing some illumination to go by. Something about the palpable dark inspired the men and women around him to hush their voices, though sharp wails from the young and the fearful punctuated the whispers, their palpable terror prickling his skin. His eyes fared better than most, some around him so lost they could only feel their way around by running their fingers along the sides of buildings. Most fled indoors where familiar tables and walls guided trembling hands and stumbling feet.

  While loath to accept the reality, Davon could guess what had happened. The Primal Fire had died. With every step forward he became more sure of his conclusion. As the lights of the city extinguished, so did his gift, the wood around him no longer suggesting shapes he should carve. The people around him tried desperately to strike a fire, to no avail. He swallowed hard. The consequences of a world without fire were too far reaching to contemplate. No way to cook food. No way to shape metal. No way to find warmth when the Wasting Wind set in during the winter.

  He shuddered and collected himself. Would his rifle even work? He didn’t feel it wise to test it, fearing to unhinge the nerves of people already cowed by fear. He had to see the Queen. Fire or no fire, the war still waged, though he wondered what two armies sitting around dead fire pits might do. With any luck, the strange circumstances would halt the fighting; at the worst, it would turn a shooting war into an ugly contest of knives, fists, and bayonets.

  Not unexpectedly, the thick group of jumpy guards at the palace gate denied him entrance, his assertions of urgency and noble connections worthless. This forced him to search the town for the Lord High Sheriff, who had his hands full restoring order. Davon thought he might be turned away from his offices as well, but when the Lord High Sheriff recognized him, he personally ushered him inside the Palace gates immediately.

  “You come in strange times, Mr. Carver,” he said, voice hoarse. “Lord Ember is dead. The Primal Fire is out. Melchor Raines tried to poison the Queen, but she discerned him and turned the tables. And let me not forget to mention that Lady Hightower was pulled away from her execution by a sabercat large enough that I could ride it. You are aware that she escaped?”

  “Yes,” Davon said. “A busy day for you.”

  Noticing the Lord High Sheriff’s little stumbles on the cobbles, Davon produced the blue moss, which didn’t seem affected by the loss of fire. The blue glow enveloped them, the Lord High Sheriff letting loose with an exclamation of surprise.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Something from the North People,” Davon said. “I’ll explain the details of my long journeys later. I come with more dire news.”

  The Lord High Sheriff grunted. “More bad news? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  “It’s about the guns bought with all that donated money. They are in the hands of Creetisians. They found a way through the mountains in the north and are descending in numbers on the northern duchies.”

  “No!”

  “It is true. I saw it.”

  “I do not doubt you, Mr. Carver,” the Lord High Sheriff returned. “I gave an exclamation of dismay, not disbelief. The Queen has been anxious for word of you, and now I see why.”

  “No,” Davon disagreed. “I do not believe she is aware of the Creetisian threat from the north. Do you know if guns will even fire now?”

  The sheriff grunted. “They don’t. So the joke’s on everybody. This scheme continues to surprise me at every turn. To attack us from the north and extinguish the Primal Fire? How can that happen? No one thought either of those things could be done!”

  “It’s hard to know if the war and the death of the Primal Fire are connected,” Davon said as they approached the stairs to the palace. “It would seem odd that a plot to manufacture so many weapons would also include disabling them.”

  The closer they approached to the palace, the more something tickled Davon’s senses, a recognition of some force unfamiliar to him. It was like smelling a fire before seeing it, or feeling the wet of a storm on the wind minutes before it arrived. It wasn’t constant, seeming to fade in and out like the wind of the storm nearly upon them.

  They ascended the stairs, all eyes drawn to the blue moss that eased their passing, a feast of light for those starved by the darkness. By the wanting looks of the guards and servants they passed, he feared one might try to snatch the moss from him and run away with it.

  The usually friendly palace felt like a morgue filled with somber, stunned mourners searching about for the corpses of their loved ones. Whispers rasped in weak echoes off the walls, punctuated by the harsh shouts of those falling over their own feet. In the dark, every sound was amplified. The creaks and groans of doors and floors that went barely noticed in the light demanded attention in dark.

  The sensation Davon had felt fleetingly before thrummed with consistency and force now. It was not a foreboding or a warning, but an awareness of a powerful presence somewhere nearby. The Lord High Sheriff eyed him curiously.

  “Is something wrong, Mr. Carver?” he asked.

  Davon nodded. It was close. “Something is very wrong. Stay alert.”

  The sheriff grunted something about everything being wrong and they ascended the stairs to the second level where the guard told them the Queen waited in her drawing room with General Cutler. The guard stood thick in the halls, all discomfited and blind, dutifully trying to be watchful in total darkness. A full ten men stood with their backs against the wall outside the drawing room.

  “Might we have some of that light?” one asked. His blue coat and golden chevrons marked him a Captain. Davon pulled a hunk of the moss apart and handed it to him, his relief at having some vision overspread his face. The Captain knocked on the door with four prearranged taps in a specific pattern and in a few moments a latch inside popped.

  The Captain leaned in. “The Lord High Sheriff and Davon Carver here to see her Grace.”

  “Get them in here!” the Queen said. “And where did you find light?”

  “From Mr. Carver, Your Grace,” he answered.

  “It is Baron Carver, now. He is forgiven and all I have taken restored,” she said. “Let me see you, Baron.”

  Davon allowed the
Lord High Sheriff to enter first, following him in. Five soldiers stood post along the walls in the drawing room, one barring the door after he closed it. The large windows, now smeared with the spit and spray of water driven by the wind, admitted almost no light. The blue moss cast everyone’s face in a ghoulish hue. Only the Queen didn’t seem in awe of the strange moss in Davon’s hand.

  Davon walked forward and bowed. She sat with her walking stick across her lap, wrinkled lips turned up in a smile.

  “Well, here you are at last,” she said. “And a scruffy mess, to boot.”

  “My apologies,” he added. “But I have been in wild company for some time. The Aua’Catan captured me.”

  “Yes, and I see you have some of their blue moss. I saw it once before, long ago, when the Aua’Catan used to come to see the Primal Fire. They stopped nearly twenty years ago. I am not sure why. Please sit, Davon. I think we have much to discuss. You have been told that Lady Hightower was condemned to death, no?”

  “She is safe now,” he replied.

  “You know this?” the Lord High Sheriff exclaimed.

  “I do. I have seen her.”

  The Queen’s eyes flitted to the Lord High Sheriff briefly before she spoke. “While as the guardian of the law I must condemn the robbery of justice, it was, I think, the most fascinating and wonderful thing I have seen in all my years. Sometimes I regret that I will die soon; life always seems to turn up some unexpected new wonder to thrill me. Well, we shall leave that beastly rescue for later.”

  The Lord High Sheriff raised a finger. “But—”

  “Later,” the Queen said. “What news have you for me, Baron Carver?”

  Davon related all he learned about the Creetisian army and the missing guns. General Cutler burst from his seat. “We’ve barely a token force in the northern forts!” he exclaimed.

  “The good news is that their newly procured weapons will do them no good, now,” the sheriff reminded him. “It will be clubs and rocks. If your men stick to their forts, they should be quite safe.”

  The Queen sat up. “I think you are forgetting the people they are supposed to be protecting, Sheriff. We must send word to the army in the south without delay.”

  Lightning flashed through the windows, briefly illuminating the room with brilliant light.

  “It won’t be soon enough,” Davon said. “If the Creetisians continue marching south, they will be here long before any reinforcements can arrive.”

  General Cutler slammed the tea table with his fist, rattling the cups and saucers there. “This is ludicrous! We must find the traitors and drown them all before the Creetisians rob us of the chance for justice!”

  “It will be difficult,” the Lord High Sheriff said, taking a seat. “Justus Paige named names in open court. As soon as Arianne Hightower went on trial I can guarantee you that ledgers that would prove involvement have gone missing, been altered, or burned altogether. Unless we get corroborating proof, it will be difficult to build a case against anyone.”

  “Has Baron Olivanne Longford been caught?” Davon asked.

  “No,” the sheriff said. “Besides that dung beetle Paige, Baron Longford is the only one we think we can prosecute with ease, and he has disappeared. His involvement strongly suggests that his brother—”

  The Queen raised her hand. “That will be enough on the subject until we can talk in private. General Cutler, get word to the south immediately—rain and wind notwithstanding—and send scouts north. We may need to evacuate the civilians from Bellshire to prevent a blood bath.”

  A scream outside the door, sounding distant, froze them, ears straining. The patter of the slow rain on the window accompanied their breathing and the incoherent mumbling outside the door. The presence Davon had felt since arriving on the palace grounds was coming closer. What was it? Was this another gift of the Khodo Khim?

  Just as their hearts started to settle, the door shook as if kicked by a horse, hinges squealing under the impact. The men outside screamed now, an incomprehensible mixture of commands, yelling, and grunting that rose into a fury and then slowly died down. The door shook with impact several more times before the voices died altogether.

  “Brace the door!” General Cutler cried out. Two soldiers leaned their shoulders into it and Davon stepped over to help. But as he neared, his eyes were drawn to the wooden floor where blood and water ran freely under the door and pooled about the soldiers’ boots.

  And in that moment he knew what the presence was. He was Khodo Khim. It was his gift to find the Primal Forces, and one seeped toward him now. Lightning flashed again. Primal Water, swirling with tendrils of red blood, poured into the room where the Queen of Bittermarch sat, face transfixed in horror.

  Arianne awoke. Something kept pulling at her neck, rubbing the skin raw. The darkness inside the lean-to constructed by Ki and Ta was deep. The two slept at her side, breathing easily and deeply. It had taken Arianne nearly an hour to let her thoughts of Davon loose so her eyes could close. She worried for him. She wanted him. Now that no barriers existed between them, her longing multiplied.

  The tugging at the back of her neck persisted, and as the grogginess burned away under her surprise, she realized that her wrist and her hair also seemed to have a life of their own. Somewhere nearby, something was fluttering and bumping with a dull sound and she yelped in surprise.

  The sisters sat up as one, hands on nearby spears in a moment. Outside the confines of the lean-to, clouds skittered through the sky, casting everything into total darkness one moment and allowing a breath of moonlight the next. The fire had completely gone out, and in the dimness, it took some moments to realize that Davon’s carvings had gone mad.

  Her pendant shot straight away from her neck, always pulling south, as did the bracelet and the five carved rings Ki and Ta had so carefully woven into her hair. Everything pointed and pulled the same way—south. The two snow finches beat against the pouches where the sisters had stowed them for the evening, and as soon as they undid the leather straps, the little carvings burst out and flew away into the night.

  “Something is wrong,” Arianne said.

  “It’s close to midnight,” Ta announced after a look at the sky. “I’ll stoke the fire so we can get a look around. My bird refuses to return.”

  “Mine as well, sister,” Ki confirmed. “And it appears that even Arianne’s hair rings wish to fly away of their own accord.”

  At that moment the chain on her pendant snapped and the carved rose fell into the dirt. Inch by inch it moved as if pulled by an unseen string. She quickly trapped it and clenched her hand around it. She did not want to let these symbols of Baron Carver’s affection for her go, especially the hair rings. When the sisters told her what they meant she blushed and smiled for nearly an hour—five rings for the five children he hoped she would bear him.

  “Ki!” Ta said, alarmed. “There should be coals and smoke and heat from this fire. It is as cold as the grave.”

  “I’ll fetch more tinder,” Ki offered.

  Arianne removed her bracelet before it could slip off her wrist, clenching it in her fist. While the two sisters worked on the fire, she removed one of her stockings and used it as a pouch to hold her lively jewelry. Reluctantly she undid the braids that held the hair rings to alleviate the uncomfortable tugging at her scalp.

  “It will not light!” Ta said, twisting a stick in dry bark shavings.

  “Let me try,” Ki offered, commandeering the task. “You were never very good with fires.”

  After several minutes of vigorous attempts and subtle accusations of fire-making incompetence, the sisters gave up. Ki rubbed her hands. No spark and not even the hint of smoke had rewarded their best efforts.

  Their carved birds swooped in out of the dark, buzzing the sisters’ heads before darting south into the night again. The collection of carvings in Arianne’s sock continually bumped and jostled in the same direction, forcing her to keep a good grip on it.

  A thought struck her. “C
ould the carvings be a message from Davon?”

  Ki stood and walked toward the lean-to. “That is my guess. Something does not feel right. What do you think? Do we leave now or wait for morning?”

  “I could hardly sleep now,” Arianne said. “But isn’t traveling in the dark treacherous?”

  Ta walked over to her sister. “Ki, does the blue moss still give light?”

  Ki dug in her pack, producing a luminescent lump the likes of which Arianne had never seen.

  “Yes,” Ki confirmed. “This will get us out of the wild. We should be able to follow the road easily enough.” She turned to Arianne. “It is a long walk in a dress like that, Lady Hightower. Let me cut a length off the bottom to ease your journey.”

  “But this dress is a favorite of Davon’s,” she lamented.

  “He told you this?” Ki asked.

  “Not in so many words, no.”

  “With his eyes, then?” she prompted, a knowing smile visible in the moonlight.

  Arianne blushed. “Yes.”

  “Well, you can make another,” she said, pulling a flint knife. “Besides, as much as he likes you in this dress, I’m sure he will like you even better out of it.”

  Ta laughed and Arianne was glad her cheeks appeared none the redder in the dim light. Ki went to work, slicing a good six inches off the hem of her dress and petticoat. Arianne had chosen sturdy walking shoes for her long walk to her execution, but those barely rose above the ankle. With Ki’s alterations, a little of her shin was visible.

  “There,” Ki said, stuffing the cloth into her bag. “If you are still not comfortable, I can cut more. Getting it above the knees would offer the most freedom.”

  “Most certainly not!” Arianne objected.

  “We should get her some leather pants from home,” Ta added. “I wonder what the Brown Man would say to see her dressed as a proper Aua’Catan?”