The Enduring Flame Trilogy 001 - The Phoenix Unchained

by James Mallory

  But even if it did, certainly it would want to stop things like what had happened at the Three Trees from happening again. Just because it hadn’t happened again yet didn’t make Tiercel think those kind of problems were over. Ever since that night he’d awakened in the forest from that dream he couldn’t remember, he’d had a sense of being . . . watched.

  Neither Simera nor Harrier had noticed anything, of course, so after the first couple of times he’d brought it up, Tiercel had stopped saying anything. He already felt like a freak. And nothing had happened. Yet. Maybe that was why no Wildmage had showed up. Maybe one would be waiting for them in Sentarshadeen.

  “So,” Simera asked, impatient with the byplay, “do we go on?”

  Harrier looked at Tiercel. “Nothing’s happened since we left the Three Trees. Maybe that was . . . it.”

  “Or maybe it’s just waiting until I fall asleep around a bunch of people again,” Tiercel said.

  “Or maybe it was a coincidence,” Simera said. “The innkeeper there said they’d been having trouble in the forest long before you arrived. It could have been more of the same. Oh, don’t glare at me like that, Tyr Rolfort. You know it could.”

  “Maybe,” Tiercel said reluctantly.

  “What about this?” Simera proposed. “The Temple of the Light has a guest house. I know it’s horribly expensive, but you told me your father gave you a couple of Golden Suns for emergencies, and I guess this would count as an emergency. If you aren’t safe at the Temple guest house, where will you be safe? And they’ll certainly know if there’s a Wildmage anywhere in Sentarshadeen, or if one is likely to be coming.”

  “That makes sense,” Tiercel said reluctantly.

  “Hot baths,” Harrier said yearningly. “Soft beds. And we can get everything washed. With soap.”

  “And I’ll go to the Guildhouse and report the bandits,” Simera said. “And that . . . cold snap.”

  That was, Tiercel supposed, one way of describing it.

  His sense of being watched didn’t decrease as they entered Sentarshadeen. In fact, it increased. He knew that hundreds of years ago, this city had belonged to the Elves, but try as he might, he could see no sign of it now. His imagination painted the glittering golden towers of an Elven city, the roaming herds of unicorns, the vast and spectacular tracts of an ever-blooming Flower Forest, but what he saw instead were neat rows of shops and houses that didn’t look all that much different from Armethalieh. Just like at home, the city was built around a grand central park with spacious and extensive gardens, edged by the Law Courts and Magistrates’ Temple to one side, and the Libraries and the main Light Temple to the other. Tiercel was a little disappointed. He’d hoped for something more exotic.

  “The Guildhouse is just up ahead,” Simera said, stopping along the edge of Temple Road. “Are you sure you can find your way from here?”

  Harrier snorted derisively. “I can see the Light Temple from here, Simera. It will be hard to get lost in sight of it, but to please you, I suppose we can manage.”

  Tiercel grinned to himself, though he was careful not to let either of them see it. Harrier’s early distrust of Simera was long-gone now, and he treated her with the same rough friendliness that he granted to Tiercel’s sisters.

  The Centauress tossed her head. “If you do, I suppose you have wit enough to ask directions. At least Tiercel does. Well, I’ve gotten you here safely. That counts for something.”

  “It does. Come to the Temple guest house for dinner tonight, too,” Harrier said impulsively. “We certainly owe you a good dinner after all this.”

  Simera grinned at him, switching her long braided tail back and forth. “If you hadn’t offered, I was planning to invite myself. After traveling with you for so long, I certainly want to see how the story ends, you know!”

  IF the Light Temple’s steward was surprised to find two scruffy boys seeking lodging rather than the rich merchants the guest house usually played host to, he was far too well-trained to betray the fact.

  Tiercel paid in advance, even before being prompted, and the sight of the Golden Sun in his palm ended the last of the steward’s qualms. A young novice led them to a good plain room with an attached bath. Tiercel had specified that, though he had turned down the lavish suite they had first been shown, and even though Harrier secretly felt it was wastefully extravagant, he was just as happy not to have to trudge down the hall to a public bathing area.

  “Let us know when you are ready to depart, young Goodsirs, and what services you require during your stay. You will receive a full accounting, and of course, any balance due you.”

  “Thank you,” Tiercel said. “I’m afraid we have quite a lot of . . . laundry.”

  “Simply ring for one of the lay servants,” the novice said, smiling. “There is also a full schedule of Temple services posted in your rooms—we observe the full ritual here, every day, and you will hear the bells for service. There are also four chapels for private devotions, and Preceptors are available for private counseling.”

  “Thank you,” Tiercel said again.

  “What about food?” Harrier asked.

  “The Refectory serves at Second Dawn Bells, Noonday, and Evensong Bells, but bread, cheese, and cider are available all day, young Goodsir.”

  “I’m sure that’s everything. Thank you for your time,” Tiercel said.

  “It is part of my work. The Guesthouse funds the Temple,” the novice said, smiling. “If you need something that the servants cannot provide, ask for me. I am Brother Kelamen.” He bowed and departed, closing the door behind him.

  “First dibs on the bath,” Harrier said instantly.

  “Are you sure you don’t just want to go down to the Refectory?” Tiercel said. “Honestly, Har.”

  “Well, you never know. They might think there were more important things than food. It’s better to be sure,” Harrier said, heading into the bathroom.

  While Harrier bathed—and Tiercel had to admit he was looking forward to his own turn, because even if he didn’t quite stink, a fortnight or so of bathing in lakes and streams hadn’t left him feeling quite clean either—he sorted through their packs, pulling out the things that needed washing.

  It turned out that everything did, pretty much. They’d saved one clean change of clothes each, knowing they’d need it for Sentarshadeen, but everything else was grey and grubby, and some of it was torn, too. He supposed the Guesthouse could do mending as well as washing. When he’d finished making a tidy pile, he went over to the writing desk in the corner and stared down at the pen and paper there. He supposed he should write a letter to his parents, and let them know that he’d gotten to Sentarshadeen safely. If he paid for fast post, it would be there in a few days. But what could he say? He’d never lied to his parents. Not really.

  He supposed a letter could wait until he’d talked to the Wild-mage. He was sure there’d be one here.

  “Your turn,” Harrier said, coming out wrapped in a large towel. “There’s plenty of hot water.”

  “OKAY,” Harrier said, when they were both clean and dressed. “Now we go over to the Temple and find a Wildmage.”

  Tiercel hesitated. “Why don’t you go on to the Refectory?” he said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  Harrier studied him for a long moment. “Okay,” he finally said.

  THE Temple of the Light smelled of incense and fresh flowers. It was a comforting smell, one that Tiercel had always liked. He’d come in in the middle of the Litany to the Light and took a seat in the back, letting the familiar words wash over him.

  The Light Temple meant safety and comfort. Light-Day services sitting between his parents and his sisters. Light-Day dinners at home. His father never worked on Light-Day, no matter how busy he was during the rest of the sennight. Light-Day was for family, Lord Rolfort always said. For being grateful to the Light and the Flowering, to the Blessed Saint Idalia and Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy who had given them back the world and shown them how important Family was, t
o the Wildmages who made the whole world their family for the sake of the Great Balance.

  They’d always been soothing words when his father said them. But not quite real. Not that it wasn’t true that Family was the most important thing, and that the Light taught that you must treat everyone you met as your own family, for the sake of Kellen the Poor Orphan Boy, who had none.

  But until all of this happened, Tiercel had never really thought of Kellen and Idalia as real people, although he supposed they must have been. He’d never thought of magic as being something that could barge into your life and take it over, whether you wanted it to or not. Right now, if he wanted to, he could set the Temple of the Light on fire. The thought frightened him.

  At the end of the service, he went up to the front of the Temple to speak to the Light Priest. He didn’t have to wait long; it was Second Afternoon Bells and the Temple had been fairly empty. He waited until the Golden Bowl had been put away and the incense had been quenched.

  “Can I help you?” the Light Priest asked.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Tiercel said.

  Suddenly he felt a terrible urge to just run out of the Temple. He’d been fine for days—since they’d left the Three Trees—and fine coming into Sentarshadeen, and into the Guesthouse, and into the Temple, but suddenly he felt his old sick dizziness return.

  The Light Priest put an arm around his shoulders. “Come into my robing chamber. We’ll talk there.”

  THE Light Priest’s robing chamber was a small room just behind the altar. The walls were hung with robes, but there was a desk and chairs as well. He urged Tiercel into a seat, and quickly poured him a small glass of a bright green cordial. “Sometimes the service is quite long, and I come in here to rest for a bit. The Light does not ask more of a person than he or she is capable of. Drink this. I warn you, it has a vile taste, but it will soon set you right.”

  Quickly, Tiercel did as he was bidden. The Light Priest had spoken no more than the truth—the liquid tasted like bitter grass—but his sick weakness quickly faded.

  “I am Preceptor Maelgwn. It is an Elven name; outlandish, I know; I was much-teased as a child, but here in Sentarshadeen they are still sometimes given. I think you are a visitor to our city, for I have never seen you at service before,” Maelgwyn said, taking the decanter and setting it aside. “This is a decoction I brew in my own stillroom to refresh those who have traveled hard and far. But as I say, it does not have a very pleasant taste. Now, how may the Light ease your way?”

  Tiercel took a deep breath. After so long, he barely knew how to begin. “My name is Tiercel Rolfort. I’ve been here before, but it was a long time ago. My parents brought me. I need . . . I was wondering . . . There was a Wildmage here, then, and you see . . .”

  Preceptor Maelgwn pursed his lips. “You know that we are taught that the Wildmages seek out those whom the Wild Magic believes need their help.”

  “Yes, I know. But . . . this is different.”

  “Is it something that you think you could explain to me, my son?”

  “I told them in Armethalieh. I told everyone. My tutors. The doctors. My Preceptor. No one listened.” The bitterness in his voice surprised Tiercel. But it was true. He’d asked for help and everyone had said he didn’t have a problem at all.

  “Armethalieh . . . a lovely city, I took my training there. And ‘Rolfort’ is an old Armethaliehan name, of course. Did you tell your parents?”

  “Not . . . everything,” Tiercel admitted, blushing. “But it wouldn’t have helped. It’s . . . magic, Preceptor. I have a problem with . . . magic. I swear this to you by the Light.”

  Preceptor Maelgwn sat in silence for a moment.

  “Many young people just your age come to me every year, Master Rolfort, convinced they have been Called to be Wildmages, and asking me to provide them with the Three Books,” he said quietly. “The Books come as they will. They are not mine—or any Priest’s—to provide.”

  Tiercel shook his head. “It’s not that. I can prove it to you, if . . . if you have a candle.”

  Preceptor Maelgwn’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. He merely opened a drawer of his desk and removed a fat white candle, silently setting it in the middle of his desk.

  Once Tiercel would have been uncertain of his ability to do this, or afraid he would set the entire room on fire. But he had practiced it over and over on the journey here—as much to reassure himself that he wasn’t simply losing his mind as because, well, it was so convenient to be able to make a fire quickly whenever you wished. Though it took more effort than it usually did—he was tired, he supposed, just as Maelgwyn had said—he set the candle alight with nothing more than a thought.

  Maelgwn took a deep breath. “So you are already a Wildmage.”

  “No,” Tiercel said. “I’m something else. There used to be—a long time ago—another kind of magic. A good magic called the High Magick. I don’t know much about it, but I can do, well, this. I don’t really want to try anything else, because all I can find out says that it’s dangerous if you aren’t trained by another High Mage, and they’re all dead. But I need . . . I was hoping . . . I have to find a Wildmage. I need to understand why this has happened to me. I just . . . I’m afraid that something bad will happen. Or maybe it already has.”

  Haltingly at first, and then with increasing fluency, Tiercel told his story once again, leaving nothing out. The first spell he had cast. The Lake of Fire. The Fire Woman. The terrible cold at the Three Trees. The sense of being watched. “I don’t know what to do,” he finished.

  “You are doing, I believe, all that you can,” Preceptor Maelgwn said quietly. “And it grieves me deeply not to be able to offer you help. But so far as we of the Temple know, no Wildmage has come to Sentarshadeen in many years. You will have to continue north, and hope one comes to you.”

  “But—” Tiercel said. He’d been so sure that there’d be a Wildmage in Sentarshadeen!

  “You may stay here in Sentarshadeen as long as you wish, of course. But from all you have said, I think it would be best if you slept in the Temple itself. I shall have a bed prepared here in this room. We will hope that the sanctity of the Eternal Light will protect you.”

  Tiercel nodded reluctantly. “Thank you. I won’t keep you any longer.”

  He found Harrier in the Refectory at one of the long tables. Harrier was eating as if his last meal had been days before and his next one was likely to be days away, but he stopped as soon as he saw Tiercel’s face.

  “No Wildmages,” he said, guessing.

  “No,” Tiercel said levelly. “I talked to Preceptor Maelgwn. He thinks I should ride north and hope one of them finds me.”

  “North?” Harrier said blankly. “That would be . . .”

  “North,” Tiercel finished. “And that means not going home.”

  “Have some cheese,” Harrier said.

  “SO what do you want to do?” Harrier asked.

  The two of them had left the Temple grounds and were walking through the streets of Sentarshadeen. Neither of them had any particular destination in mind, but it was a warm late afternoon in an unfamiliar city, and with nothing else to do, Harrier had suggested they might as well see the sights.

  “I guess I’ll go north,” Tiercel said, after a long pause. “At least there aren’t any people there.”

  “Well, I did want to see Fort Halacira and Kellen’s Bridge,” Harrier said. “And then . . . what? Ondoladeshiron? Ysterialpoerin? How far are you going to go?”

  “Until I find a Wildmage who can explain all of this to me,” Tiercel said evenly. “Or I die.”

  “Die?” Harrier said blankly. He stared at Tiercel for a moment, then grabbed his friend’s arm and dragged him back against a building, out of the flow of traffic along the busy street. “You’re not going to die. You’ve been lots better since we left Armethalieh, and—”

  “And all the books I read about High Mages were from the time of the High Mages, and just assumed I knew the
whole story. They left a lot out. But there’s one thing they all hint at. The Magegift starts like a fever; that’s how it was recognized in the old days. After that, it either had to be trained, or destroyed. Or—” He stopped.

  “Or?”

  “Or whoever had it died.”

  Harrier stared at him for a long moment, his hazel eyes wide. Then he blew out a deep breath. “Okay. We find a Wildmage. And maybe you can train yourself. I mean, there had to be a first High Mage, didn’t there? Who trained him?”

  “Train myself how?”

  “Well, you’ve got all those notes . . .” Harrier’s voice trailed off to a stop. “You’re not going to die,” he said firmly. “I won’t let you.”

  Tiercel smiled, just a little. If sheer stubbornness could solve the problem, Harrier would solve it.

  “So what are we going to tell our parents?” Harrier added. “Because we obviously aren’t going to be home at the end of the moon-turn. And don’t tell me I can go back. I’m not going back without you to explain things to your mother. Or mine.”

  Tiercel sighed. “I’ll think of something before we leave.”

  IT was nearly Evensong by the time they’d reached the horse-market. They’d come to an agreement that even though they were going on, they would return the mules to Armethalieh just as they’d planned; their journey would go faster on horseback, anyway.