The Flame of Wrath

by Christene Knight

  The keen eyes observing him wordlessly voiced their understanding. Slowly, heads began to nod in acquiescence.

  “We have reviewed this plan countless times before, but I say it once more...” Zahara started. Her voice grew soft. “One final time.” Her eyes met each of her men.

  Yes, she thought, they know the price.

  “Once inside the temple, we will part into our teams. We do not know where Autumn is located so we will have to search the entire enclosure. In these smaller groups, we can cover more ground and hopefully avoid detection.”

  Soren moved toward a wall of vines. His hand ripped at the jade ropes until a cave was exposed.

  At first glance, it seemed to be little more than an ordinary cave. He entered with the others at his back. His hand pressed against a misleadingly innocent stone among stones. “When you have found Autumn, remain in hiding, but concentrate all your thoughts upon me. Dragon willing, I will sense your whereabouts then summon the others to your location where we shall regroup and leave as quietly as we came.”

  Zahara stood at Soren's side. Her eyes were brightly burning orbs. She uttered a prayer for all those under her command. “Mother, keep us.”

  ********

  No words were spoken. The time for one's thoughts had passed. All that existed was the intensity of instinct and the constancy of methodical planning. In the winding womb of darkness, they moved closer toward their freedom or their entrapment.

  The air was stale. It harbored a thickness which threatened to choke them. Its tangible weightiness could be rivaled only by the dense curtains of clinging webs. The webs pulled at their bodies like ghostly hands. These hands begged them not to continue on. They pleaded for the warriors to abandon their mission, but it was in vain.

  In the distance, a tiny sliver of light could be glimpsed shining through from the wine cellar. As they grew nearer to that rectangular outline of light, they could begin to make out the sounds of voices speaking together in confidence.

  “Why so much wine tonight, my brother?” they heard. The male voice had been laced with concern.

  There was a loud shuffling as a priest withdrew various bottles of wine before inspecting them then returning them to their home within the shelves. He was muttering to himself as though he did not hear his fellow priest. Only after some time did he speak in little more than a murmur. “It is my night to sit in the relic room,” he said. His voice was consumed by fear. “I hate sitting watch in that... that... tomb.”

  A loud gasp filled the air. “You must not say such things, Brother Solomon. The Empress has forbidden anyone to ever refer to Autumn's place of sleep as a tomb.”

  “But how can it be called anything else?” Solomon argued earnestly. “She does not move. She merely collects dust like the artifacts in that room which surround her.”

  There was a loud shuffling as the younger priest danced awkwardly. It was clear that discussing these things frightened him horribly. His voice shook with panic. “Please, brother, no more. If I were anyone else, your words would be reported to the Empress, but----”

  A violent sigh echoed throughout the wine cellar. “Forgive me,” Solomon said, “I know I've put you in a dangerous position. It's just that when I'm with the Lady Autumn I feel... I feel----” He stopped, attempting to discover the right words. “It's as though despite her closed eyes, I feel that she ---or something else entirely---- is watching... always watching.”

  The young priest dropped his voice to a conspiratorial hush. “I have heard stories,” he said.

  “What stories?”

  “Some say that when they sit with her, they have seen Lady Autumn's ghost.”

  “Ghost?!”

  The priest shushed his brother nervously. “Maybe not her ghost,” he said weakly. “Whatever it is, they have seen what looks like her spirit sitting in the room. It's as if she's watching over herself. All those who have seen her say, she seems sad and lost.”

  Hearing all he needed, a frightened Solomon pried the cork free from a bottle's mouth. As he fumbled with it, he spoke through nervously clenched teeth. “You see? I was right. There is a presence in that room. It lingers like a mist in the air.”

  The contents of an emerald bottle were tossed about like impassioned seas. Their deadly break upon the shores of the priest's lips could be heard with bitter brutality inside the tunnel.

  “For courage,” Solomon explained. He gripped more tightly to the bottles in his embrace before both he and his comrade left to go about their duties.

  Once silence filled the cellar, the warriors of Angelos III poured from the tunnel.

  “All right... new plan.” Zahara said, voicing what all her men were thinking. “Converge upon the relic room.” She turned her head in Soren's direction. Her voice was a hissed whisper. “Where is the relic room?”

  Soren knelt low to the ground. He drew a map upon the packed earth of the cellar floor. “Here,” he said. His finger pointed to a room on the first floor, near to the temple's prayer rooms. “Above it,” he cautioned, “there are the priest's room. We must be careful that we are not heard.” Then with a broad brush of his hand, the map was smoothed away.

  Zahara motioned two of her men to take point. She frowned curiously beneath her mask as she caught sight of Soren.

  The druid whispered a quiet chant. His robes shifted to those of the priests among the temple. Disdainfully, he touched at the newly-transformed clothes. His flowing hair was no longer its captivating auburn. Its length was starkly black, but try as he might, no amount of magic could mask his crimson eyes.

  He lowered his head, giving life to solemn air. The delicate nature of his hands clasped together in reverence. “Follow me,” he ordered. “I will lead the way, but stay hidden.”

  The warriors taking point gave a curt nod to the others, signaling that the way was clear.

  Soren slipped from the cellar. He walked as a solitary figure up the stairs until he reached the first floor. All around him, he could feel the presence of the rebellion. It comforted him to know that they were so close. He stopped at the head of the stairs then scoured the hallway.

  His lithe hand extended. It motioned the first team to disappear into the temple.

  They were mere blurs within one's peripheral vision. Another team followed suit. Then another and another before Soren tensed.

  “Someone is coming,” he warned.

  A priest descended the nearby stairs and paused along the bottom. His eyes softened as he took in the sight of his dark-haired brother.

  “Hello,” he greeted gently. “Are you new? I don't believe we've met before.” His hand extended to Soren.

  Soren leaned forward with a downcast head. As a shadow fell upon the top half of his face, his beautiful lips curled into a gracious smile. “Hello, my Virtuous brother. I am a visiting bishop, sent by the church. I have only just arrived.”

  Their hands closed over one another's in a tender show of affection.

  “Then on behalf of our family, I welcome you. My name is Nicodemus.”

  “Thank you,” Soren replied. His lips faded from their smile. They formed together in a slight purse. “Nicodemus,” he repeated as he tapped his chin. “Where have I heard that name?” His hand opened in exuberant recollection. “Ah, yes! Upon meeting with your bishop, he muttered something about needing a young Nicodemus to aid him in the wine cellar.”

  “The wine cellar?” Nicodemus frowned curiously. His mind wandered to the old bishop and the many ailments felt by his tired back. As Soren's head nodded in affirmation, Nicodemus bowed, truly grateful for the delivered message. “Thank you, sir. I will go at once.”

  Nicodemus turned. He quickly ventured down several steps. As he moved into the foreboding darkness, he gasped. The shadows around him appeared to move by a will of their own. He timidly reached out his hand. Were the shadows breathing?

  A strong-smelling cloth appeared from the darkness. It moved over his nose and mouth. He writhed in struggle if only for a
moment, but something seized him. His body was heavy. His eyelids suddenly felt like thick doors of steel. They rattled noisily inside his mind until they could no longer stay open. Bitterly his world fell away as the doors of his eyes slammed closed.

  Soren returned to the shadows with the remaining teams. He watched over the young priest, clearly viewing the aura of one who appeared to be sleeping within the grips of peaceful dreaming.

  “Sleep is too good for him,” one of the warrior's mumbled. His eyes were all that could be seen as he glared down at Nicodemus.

  Unable to look away from the priest, Soren noted how similar his youthful innocence was to so many of his murdered brothers. Slowly, he shook his head. “Do not feel bitterness toward him, Lucas. He is an innocent.”

  “But he has helped keep Autumn in this makeshift prison!” Lucas argued in a quiet scream.

  Soren shook his head.

  Zahara placed her hand upon the tensed shoulder of her soldier. “Don't allow your hatred of your enemy to mask their true face. He's a Pyrosian attempting to do good for his people. It's not this priest that we fight but the one who uses him and others as her tools.”

  “But the follower's of Virtue----”

  The druid looked away from the religious ornament hanging around the priest's neck. His voice was hoarse as he spoke. “It is not religion that we should fear, but those who use it to mask their atrocities.” A flash of Aurea's face raced to the forefront of Soren's mind.

  He motioned the others to quickly hide the unconscious priest. They would have sufficient time to retrieve Autumn and leave if they did not waste this opportunity.

  Wordlessly, Soren returned to the hallway. Then quickly, he helped the remaining warriors leave the stairwell without being seen.

  Among the other priests, he went unnoticed. He was a simple servant of Virtue among a sea of servants. When he at last reached the relic room, darkness loomed in every direction. Its weight was oppressive. It breathed deeply around its occupants.

  The shadows of various objects within the room seemed to mingle within the conquering darkness running throughout the large room. Still a warm glow of light at the far end of the room struggled to battle the darkness if only to live as a small reminder of hope.

  Candles surrounded a sleeping woman in amber light. She was elevated from the ground by a dais high atop stone steps. Near the foot of the steps sat a priest drinking dependently from his wine bottle.

  “Solomon,” Soren whispered. He recognized the priest as the same man who had spoken so boisterously against his duties as Autumn's companion.

  Soren walked toward the slumped priest. His footsteps echoed loudly inside the room.

  “Are you here to relieve me?” the priest slurred. He scratched nervously at his throat. The sound of his nails upon his growing scruff caused a gritty noise to fill the air. “I don't like it here.”

  “Yes,” Soren purred. “I've come to take this burden from you.”

  Solomon wobbled to his feet. “Good.” A chaotic hiccup leaped from his chest. “Try not to have too much fun,” he joked darkly. “She's a chatty one.” He shot a final look over his shoulder to the motionless woman. The sight of her sent an icy chill throughout his body.

  Soren tightened his clasped hands as rage filled him. He squashed it, remaining perfectly still instead. He merely waited as the clumsy priest staggered out of the immense room.

  As the sound of the doors closing echoed throughout the stillness, his defenses fell. His hair morphed from black to auburn. His robes were once again those of a druid.

  Soren rushed forward. He fell to his knees at the step closest to the sleeping figure. “Autumn,” he breathed. His red eyes welled with tears.

  Lightly, Soren placed his hand to the cool surface of Autumn's forehead. He leaned forward then voiced a call to arms known only between the druids and the Guardians. It was the secret plea which bound them. “I am a child of scripture,” he said, “servant to the Fire Goddess. I evoke the promise in your blood. Fight the fight I cannot fight, Defender.”

  Immediately, the Guardians in hiding emerged from the darkness. A transfixed gloss glistened their gazes.

  Soren paid them no mind. Instead, he stared keenly to the sleeping princess. “Wake,” he pleaded in a rasp.

  A violent scream emerged from the lips suddenly ripping apart. It reverberated hellishly against the rafters. Soon its life was mirrored by the thundering sounds of footfalls headed their way.

  Every priest within the temple must have been converging upon that very spot, the warriors feared.

  “Hide!” Zahara commanded. She gripped hold of Soren then rushed him into the shadows where together, they remained unseen.

  The doors burst open mightily. Droves of frazzled priests pressed into the room.

  “What?” they demanded of one another. “What has happened? Who screamed?”

  Bewildered faces were pale with fright.

  Realization came as a heavy touch to their heaving chests. There was but one woman within this temple, one voice alone which might have unleashed such a bloodcurdling scream. And yet, even with that truth ever present, they could not allow themselves to believe it.

  Autumn had not voiced a word in all the time she had been under their care. She had not moved a muscle beyond the occasional flutter of her lashes as she dreamt.

  Too scared to move, too frightened to breathe, the men waited anxiously. The room was eerily silent as if it too had come to hold its unnatural breath.

  A priest threw his hands over his mouth as if to stifle a scream.

  The body was moving. Autumn was moving.

  Autumn's head turned rigidly to the side. Her eyes, her storming gray eyes, coldly bore holes into their minds. Then as suddenly as she had moved, her eyes fell closed and she was still.

  Fighting the choking fear at his throat, the elder bishop motioned to one of his frightened brothers. “Go,” he commanded. “Go and tell the Empress!”

  The young priest took flight by the grace of wobbling legs. He raced down the deserted hallways to the bishop's office.

  A shallow dish sat in golden glory atop a magnificent altar. Its contents shimmered as crystalline waters.

  He lunged for it, clasping its edges with both hands. The momentum with which he fell upon the object caused the waters to thrash in lament.

  “Brothers! Brothers! You must wake the Empress!” he cried, speaking into the magical pool. “The Lady Autumn stirs!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The ghosts who frighten us the most are not the ones of looming strangers reaching out to us from the darkness, but rather, they exist as the ones we have loved and lost. Those are the ghosts we cannot escape no matter how hard we might wish it.

  ----The Book of Wrath

  ********

  A mournful wind howled through the volcano. It hissed against the heat far below the palace isle, but wailed without restraint as if to wake the one who Nature deemed should never be at rest. It raced hotly through the open corridors, growling as it passed through sweeping archways. Still as it beat against two massive sealed doors, its cries went unheard.

  It was a rare night which found the Empress sleeping. And yet, sleep had come while she was held within her desires for power. It was those same desires which nurtured her far more than the soft arms loosely enveloping her body.

  A frantic whine of glass caused sapphire eyes to dart open. They scoured the ceiling above in a desperate effort to regain her bearings. This room was different. She frowned, trying to remember what sleep was masking.

  This was not her room. She sighed, realizing that she had not been able to sleep within her room for almost a year. Her room smelled of Djidjiga blooms and forgotten promises. She hated that room. She resented its emptiness when once it had been filled with so much love.

  A flash of silver eyes masked behind the gnarled thickness of silken sienna branches haunted her vision.

  The high piercing whine came again. It was louder th
an before. It brought her more from sleep, launching her into the world around her.

  Ah yes, she remembered. She was within her newly-made Imperial wing.

  Aurea pushed herself up onto her elbows. She stared through the sheer crimson veil protecting her. Far below her pyramid of golden stairs, a magical dais was whining its alarm.

  Aurea narrowed her eyes. Who had dared to disturb her, she growled inwardly.

  The whine transformed into a low throbbing pulse. Its life was persistent, made more urgent by the beating flashes of color to dance throughout her chambers.

  Aurea slipped from beneath the arm resting across her abdomen. She absently draped a silken robe over her naked body as she descended the shimmering stairs. She drew closer to the crystal dish which held blessed waters within its heart. The flames of her eyes danced in wonder.

  “The priests?” she murmured.

  She reached for the tiny silver hammer resting near the dish's base. Aurea lightly tapped it against the crystal's edge, inspiring a beautiful tone to radiate throughout the room.

  The waters cleared. Upon their crystalline surface she saw wild eyes. Much to her surprised, they belonged to the High Prince of Virtue. This man was the highest ranking official of her orchestrated order. He answered only to the laws of Virtue and the Bringer of Light, herself.

  With urgency present within the air, no time was wasted upon formalities. The Prince's body was tensed. He steeled himself for what he knew he must say.

  “My Empress,” he began breathlessly, “you must come to the temple at once.”

  Aurea's disdain for being ordered about reared itself in the annoyed arching of her brow. “Which temple?” she asked, trying to remain patient. “And why?”