Flash. He was at the Temple now. He saw Rill, Sannet, and other friends as he made his way through his classes and went through his exercises. He saw himself sitting before the Conduit, watching it, studying it for hours.
Flash. He was in the small classroom where Be'Var had first tried to teach him the Aspect of pulling. Caymus got the distinct impression that the Lords were taking particular interest in this memory. They watched intently as he sat on the ground and reached out to feel his surroundings, all while under Be'Var's watchful eye. They strained as he grasped onto the tiny conduit, and Caymus could sense they were somehow pleased with the effort.
When he shaped the flame, however, when he changed the nature of the flame by shaping the conduit rather than pulling energy through it, something happened, seemed to go terribly wrong. All at once, he felt rage, anger, passion, jealousy, and fear. The memories of his life evaporated and he was in the Conflagration again. The manifestations of the elemental Lords left his body and began circling around him, making low, moaning sounds which grew louder and louder with each passing second. Caymus covered his ears, trying to block the sound out, but nothing he did silenced the mournful dirge.
Just as the sound was becoming unbearable, the Lords flew into him again, only this time there was no white light, and he was not transported to a place in his memory. Instead, the roaring flames that surrounded him seemed to penetrate his body, to flow through him. He could feel the elemental beings' presence within him now, moving, tearing through his flesh.
The pain was incredible. Only the effort of screaming kept Caymus from passing out completely.
As they passed through his skin, his muscles and organs, the Lords burned him. Some part of his consciousness was aware that they were leaving no trace of damage as they did so, but the feeling was as though somebody was carving through his body with the edge of a dull knife: burning, scraping, and ripping. Caymus wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the ground and cry himself into unconsciousness. But there was no ground in this place, and as much as he hurt, he fought to keep his eyes open, to stay awake, to keep himself in the moment. He didn't know what had gone wrong, but if he was going to meet death in this place, he was going to do it on his terms.
As he struggled against the feeling of his body being torn to shreds, put all his effort into keeping his wits, an image flashed before his eyes, like a bolt of lightning in his mind. The image had been a face. It was a man's face, neither young nor old, but weathered and scruffy. As the image drifted into memory, Caymus realized the most striking thing about it was the strange man's expression. He had seemed crushed, as though under the weight of responsibility, and yet there had been joy there, too. Caymus wondered who the man was, why the Lords had chosen to show the face to him.
Then, without preamble, the pain stopped, and the Lords retreated from Caymus's body and stood before him again. Compared to what he had just been through, the feeling of just standing in the flames of the Conflagration was near-euphoric and, again, he had to fight to keep his mind focused on what was happening, to pay attention to events around him instead of the relief he felt.
The center figure spoke again. “Caymus Bolwerc,” it said, “We have seen your mind. We have seen your memories. We have judged your intention and we have tested your very flesh.” For a moment, the figure paused. Caymus didn't know what to think. When it spoke again, it spoke in a quiet, flat voice, completely void of emotion. “We can find no fault with your heart, Caymus Bolwerc, but there exists an impurity in your flesh, a taint to your soul.” Then, the speaker's eyes turned to an orange glow as it said, “You will never be a master.”
Once again, the figures rushed toward him. Once again, he felt pain, but this time it was felt only in his left hand. He brought it up before his cringing face, but could see nothing happening to it. This was it, the moment of his death. The Lords had, for some reason, judged him unworthy and were going to destroy him. He put his hand down, closed his eyes, and prepared himself. The last thought in his mind, before pain erupted in his chest, was that he missed his mother's rabbit stew.
But he wasn’t burning. Rather, the pain he felt was from some tremendous force knocking him backward. He fell. He didn't know how long or how far, but he could hear his heart beating in his ears again as flames rushed past him. Lub-dub. He was falling. Lub-dub. The pain in his hand disappeared. Lub-dub.
Caymus hit the stone roof of the Temple hard, earning himself a nasty crack to the back of the head. He was dizzy, cold, confused, and his eyes didn't seem to want to focus on anything. He could hear the masters all around him, though. To his addled brain, they seemed concerned, or possibly angry. Some of them were whispering. Some were yelling and gesticulating wildly.
“Quiet, all of you!” Be'Var's voice carried over the other masters, giving Caymus's mind something to focus on as colors began to fall back into familiar shapes. The sky was still the magnificent blue he'd seen when he'd walked into the Conduit. The Conduit itself still roared with the same eternal fury it always had. Be'Var was kneeling and looking at Caymus severely, as if he couldn't decide whether or not he was glad to see him. “Are you alright, boy?” he asked.
Caymus got himself to a sitting position, then reached around to the back of his head and turned to look at the roof to see if he might be bleeding. His head felt dry and there was no evidence of blood on the stone. “Seems that way,” he said, turning back to Be'Var.
It was then that he noticed Be'Var wasn't looking at him, or rather not at his face, but at his hand. A quick glance around showed that the other masters, too, were staring at his left hand, still held to the back of his head. Before he could look at it himself, Be'Var was snatching his wrist and turning over it so all could see.
He had been marked.
Only, he hadn't. Where the brand of a Third Circle disciple should have been, there was another mark, still branded into his skin, but entirely different in nature. There was a representation of a flame, rounded at the bottom and tapering off at the top, but where the Third Circle’s flame went straight up, his curved to the right as though caught by the presence of a draft or wind. Behind it was another figure: a long, diagonal line, crossing behind the flame from bottom right to top left. At the top end of the line was another, shorter line, a crossbar which looked like a hilt, making the lines resemble a sword.
That was it. The shapes were black, like they were supposed to be, but there were no hands coddling a central fire, just this flame and sword design. What was this thing? Every Trial of Courage Caymus had ever heard of had only ended in either the mark of a Third Circle or the death of the student. This was an outcome he hadn't expected. As he looked around at the faces surrounding him, he could tell that nobody else had expected it either. He looked at Be'Var, asking the question with his eyes.
Be'Var shook his head, looking perplexed, angry, and more than a little worried. He offered Caymus his hand to help him to his feet. As Caymus took it and rose, the master said, “Well boy, perhaps you'd better tell us all what happened while you were in there.”
CHAPTER 5
The sanctuary was too still. Be'Var had the thought for about the hundredth time as he ascended the stairs that led to the roof. A week had passed since those insectoid creatures had attacked, and the Temple of the Conflagration wasn't anything like back to a normal schedule yet. Though the last of the young men in the infirmary was either back on his feet or dead, evening sermon had not yet resumed and classes were still being held only haphazardly. He knew he carried his fair share of blame for that, having spent most of his time penning various communications for Milo to whisper to his fellows in recent days, but with everything that had changed lately, he wondered if things would ever be normal again.
He was about halfway up the staircase when he needed to stop to rest his legs. His left knee was aching with each step. Flaming dog-spit! When had he gotten so old? As a younger man, he'd been the adventurous sort, having joined the ranks of the physicians' corps in Kepren
once he'd learned of his talent for healing. He'd met a lot of interesting people during those years, and had learned a great deal about how the world worked. Most of the other masters in this place were the bookish sort, rarely daring to venture outside, much less to other cities or nations, and he was certain that most of his students were destined for the same kind of life. It was a good thing that the Temple was run by the masters as a group, rather than by some high-priest; he liked his fellows, but the thought of having to follow one of them gave him shivers.
Be'Var sat down on the staircase for a minute. The blacksmithing he'd learned while he was in the corps had kept his arms and chest strong all these years, but damn these stairs!
Caymus. Again, he thought about Caymus. Ever since he'd stepped—no, since he'd been tossed!—out of the Conduit with that strange mark on his hand, the boy hadn't been right. He was quiet, isolated, melancholy. He'd not attended a single class, and whenever Be'Var took the time to go looking for him, he was usually out on one of his long walks in the Saleri Forest. For his part, Be'Var admitted he hadn't been much help. He and the other masters had been unable to attach logic to why Caymus had received a different mark than any other disciple in the Temple’s history, and had been unable to lend the boy any comforting words. He wasn't even sure if the boy could rightly be called a disciple at this point. Burn it all. The whole thing was a mess.
From what Caymus had told him about the events of the trial, everything seemed to have gone generally the same way as his own testing, all those years ago: everything, that was, up to the point that they started galloping around him and then burning him up from the inside. Had the boy come out of that blaze with any sort of normalcy, Be'Var would have thought the story made up, but that strange mark was ironclad evidence that his experience had been unlike any other. The shaping. Caymus said they had gone quite mad when they'd seen him shaping. But that made no sense. Master Alvis, the shaper who had been at the Temple when Be'Var had been a young man, had certainly carried a master's mark. Why, then, would the elemental Lords have a problem with Caymus?
“A taint to your soul,” Caymus had said. Well, whatever that meant, it seemed it wasn't bad enough for them to actually kill him over, but what the actual significance was, he had no idea. The concept was completely foreign; would he ever understand what it meant?
Be'Var slapped his hands on his knees, got back to his feet, and started up the stairs again. He had to stop thinking that way. Mysterious taint or no, Caymus was the best student at the Temple and that was that. Be'Var would just have to give the other masters time to get over the fact that they had, here in the Temple, someone who simply wasn't going to fit into any of the established circles. After that, give the boy a good crack over his head with a stick to shake him out of his misery, and his education could begin again.
With that issue good and decided, Be'Var emerged onto the roof, looked around, and found who he was looking for. Milo was standing at the northern edge of the east wing, about thirty feet away, facing the forest beyond the Temple's yard. The old master walked over to stand beside him. Well, maybe not beside him. The crenellation wasn’t very high at this part of the wall, and the air priest liked to stand suicidally close to the edge. Perhaps a foot or so back would be safer. As he neared, he could hear the faint sound of Milo whispering into the wind, could see his lips moving as he sent yet another message to some other air-lover in some other place, some crazy number of miles away. Be’Var had admitted to himself that the practice, which had the look of a disturbed individual mumbling to himself, made him a bit edgy, but he was glad for it all the same. Thanks to Milo, he'd been able to communicate with a few other fire masters and get the general idea of how various cities had fared.
There were still some places he hadn't heard from. Albreva and Ni'lag'ren were two in particular he wished to know the fates of, as there were small Conflagrationist schools there. Milo, however, had told him that he didn't know those places. Apparently, the whispering depended not only on knowing who you wanted to talk to, but having a good idea of where they were standing. Be'Var didn't understand the logic, but he took Milo's word for it. He loved a good theological discussion, but lately just never seemed like the right time to have one.
As he thought about the far-off cities, he realized that Milo had gone quiet and was now standing with his head cocked to one side, his eyes closed. Be'Var figured he must be listening to somebody else's message to him, though he certainly couldn't hear anything besides the faint breeze blowing across the grass down below.
Then, Milo opened his eyes, heaved a heavy sigh, and then fell into a deep crouch, his arms resting on his knees.
“Any luck?” said Be'Var.
“Not a bit,” said Milo. “Everyone I ask, not one of them knows where they came from.” Milo was talking about the monsters. He shook his head as he gazed out in the distance. “Everywhere they attacked, it's like they didn't come from anywhere. They just seemed to spring out of the ground.”
“Tunnels?”
“No, it's just like here. If they dug, they didn't leave any holes behind, and with the exception of the trees knocked down by the one that chased Caymus, they didn't leave any tracks. It's like they don’t actually touch anything unless the idea is to destroy it.”
Be'Var thought that was an interesting way of putting things. “So, whatever these things are, they seem to be able to travel through the earth element.” It was Be'Var's turn to sigh. “For the first time in my life, I wish I had a dirt-lover to talk to about a couple of things.”
“That's the other thing,” said Milo.
“What is?”
“The mitre. Nobody's heard much of anything about them except for one clan, far off to the East. That one was completely wiped out.”
Be'Var considered this. The mitre were a race of giants: huge men, even to someone like Caymus. Not all earth-worshipers were mitre, but all mitre were earth-worshipers. They were legendary tunnellers who concealed vast underground cities behind shoddy-looking surface encampments. Attacking the mitre was almost the same as attacking the Sect of the Rounded Stone or the Sand Dwellers of Hurahna, so immersed were they in their faith. Why would the creatures attack them?
“They seemed to be attacking holy places,” said Milo, as if reading his thoughts. “Cities, temples, wells, just about anywhere there's any kind of church presence. Could be that they went after the mitre because of their connection to earth.” He shrugged. “Or maybe they just ran into them underground.”
“Maybe,” said Be'Var. “At this point, not much would surprise me. Anything else?”
Milo shook his head again. “It's been getting quieter and quieter as the days go on. It'd be different if there'd been another attack or something, but all this just waiting around to see if they come again...nobody knows what to do.” He stood up and turned to Be'Var. “So, how's our golden boy?”
Be'Var chuckled, dryly. “The same, but I'm sure he'll snap out of it. Of course, now that he doesn't have working in the infirmary with Gwenna to distract him anymore, he has more time to brood.”
“They're getting quite friendly, those two, aren't they?” Milo smiled.
“Yes,” said Be'Var. He'd been a bit irritated about that particular development, but he supposed that he really should have seen it coming. During his time as a physician, he'd often seen situations where nurses and the patients they cared for very quickly developed strong emotional bonds with each other. “Pity she'll be going back to Flamehearth in the morning with the rest of them. I think they're getting supplies together as we speak.” He changed the subject. “Are you going scouting again today?”
Milo nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Though all the whispers I hear tell me exactly the same information, I just don't believe these things simply popped up out of nowhere. If I can find a tunnel, a track, something, maybe it will help for next time.” He looked out to the forest again. “If there's a next time.”
“There will be,” said Be'Var. “I have n
o doubt.”
At that point, Be'Var heard the quick flapping of wings, then saw a white hawk land on the edge of the roof, not far from where they were standing. The bird had some sort of large rodent in its mouth, the afternoon's kill. It looked at them for a moment or two before it put the thing down, then proceeded to tear the flesh into manageable pieces.
“Never saw one of those come so close to people,” Be'Var said.
“Just that one,” said Milo, who gave it a mistrustful look. “I don't know why, but it's been following me around.”
“You don't say,” said Be'Var, intrigued.
“I do,” said Milo. “Ever since that night the bugs attacked. Caymus said it tried to warn him about the one in the forest. Said it probably saved his life.” Milo looked at Be'Var and shrugged. “I honestly don't know what to do about it.”
Be'Var smiled. “Have you given it a name yet?”
“No!” said Milo, looking taken aback. Then he seemed to consider this idea. “I suppose I could.” He turned to the hawk, which had finished gulping down its meal. “Hey, bird! You want a name?”
The hawk looked up at the noisy man and cocked its head to one side, as though unsure if this was something it wanted or not. Then it looked behind the two men, puffed out its chest as though startled, then picked up its meal and flew off to the West.
“Was that a yes or a no?” said Milo.
“Master Be'Var?” The pair turned to see Caymus, as though given form by their earlier conversation, emerging from the staircase.
“Nice to see you out and about, at last,” said Be'Var as Milo gave the boy a warm smile. “The 'woe is me' bit was getting a little trying for my taste.”
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