Knight Of The Flame

by H John Spriggs

  Gwenna shrugged. “It kind of is. Each district is governed by a duke. The king has the final say over everything, but from what I understand, he kind of stays out of their decisions, for the most part.” Her face turned a little sour. “They’re the ones who are holding back from sharing from their wells. I don’t know why the king doesn’t put a stop to it.”

  Caymus took a deep breath, considering what he’d just learned. He’d always thought of Kepren as just the capital city of Tebria, and as nothing more. Apparently, the politics of the Tebrian region were a bit more complicated than that. “So,” he said, “Flamehearth...that’s in the Guard District then, in the old Kepren?”

  Gwenna shook her head. “It’s here, in the Grass. We’re almost there, actually.”

  Caymus frowned at her, his eyes betraying his surprise. Gwenna smiled at him. “It’s a mission, you dope. You don’t build missions in the heart of your own city! Flamehearth was originally built along with the rest of the Grass, when the Laivusian refugees first started coming here a century ago. It was one of the only buildings there at the time.”

  Caymus nodded slowly, thinking it over as they walked. He wondered why, if the point of a mission had been to help educate and take care of refugees, it was still here. The city around him, after all, didn’t appear to be populated by refugees, but by citizens who seemed to be doing fairly well. He considered giving voice to the question, but figured he’d learned enough for the moment. He’d have to remember to ask later.

  His neck had started tingling again. It had never stopped, really, not since the night they'd met Callun, but it seemed a little bit worse now. With a worried frown, he looked around at the buildings and people that surrounded him. A sudden attack among all of this activity would be more trouble than they could deal with. He took a quick look behind him too, at the wagon and at Callun, who sat in the back with their belongings. The man had hardly spoken a dozen words in the two days he'd been with them, but Caymus had constantly felt those eyes watching him. He had a suspicion that Callun himself was the cause of his aggravation, but he couldn't figure out why that would be, exactly. And anyway, what was he going to do: casually announce to everybody that they'd accidentally picked up a krealite on their journey? Caymus turned his eyes back to the wide street in front of him. He needed to find out more about this stranger that had suddenly become part of his life.

  After only a few more minutes of travel, Gwenna pointed toward a low, wide edifice off to their right. “Flamehearth!” she said with a growing smile. The building was as simple as the others around it, with the same perfect stonework comprising its walls. It was a single-storied, with a shingled roof of deep red and more red paint trimming the doors and windows. He didn't think it a particularly large place—Caymus had spent the last several years of his life at the Conflagrationists’ Temple, after all—but he suspected that it must extend back quite a way.

  The mission had a good few yards between itself and its neighbors, more than what existed between most of the other buildings in the area, and Gwenna led them all down the right side, where they came upon a small yard and a stable. Once Be'Var and Y'selle stopped the wagon, Bridget and Gwenna hurriedly got to the business of freeing the horses from their harnesses and brushing them down so that they could be put into their pens to rest. Y'selle asked the boys to help unload some of the gear, particularly the iron ore that they had carried across the Greatstones. Even Milo got pressed into service, a fact which he seemed to enjoy.

  At least they didn’t have to move things very far. The girls brought most of the group's belongings inside through a single, red, wooden door, but the ore itself was destined for a large shed which was pressed up next to the wall of the mission. After a short while hauling the barrels and crates, Caymus found himself enjoying the work, taking pleasure in having something useful to do. The fact that they'd finally arrived at their destination lessened the effort of it, too.

  As he and Rill reached for the last of the ore, Caymus wondered where Callun might have gotten to. He looked around to find him, but the strange man had disappeared. He sighed. The man was probably inside with the others. He wondered if Callun would stay at Flamehearth, and for how long. This, of course, got him to wondering just how long his own stay at the mission would be.

  “Are the three of you nearly done?” Caymus, placing the last of the barrels, looked to see Be’Var leaning against the door's frame, looking at them with mock-frustration. Caymus beamed, as it seemed his old master was in a good mood, a rarity as far as he was concerned.

  “I don’t know,” said Milo, “you got any more of these things we don’t know about?”

  "Something filled with bricks, maybe?" chimed Rill. Everyone seemed to be cheerful today.

  Be’Var gave a short laugh, took his weight off the frame, and waved them in. “Come on,” he said, “there are a couple of people I want you to meet.”

  Caymus exchanged glances with his friends, who shrugged, and the three of them followed Be’Var inside.

  The interior of the building was startling, as it didn’t appear to match the outside at all. The outer walls—those that Caymus had seen—had been bare, gray rock, without a hint of decoration but for the red trimmings. Every inch of the inside walls, however, was painted, and not in a uniform color. The first room they walked through, which Caymus could only guess was some sort of office because of the two desks on opposite sides, was painted with a heavy lavender, with wavy green lines dancing along the top. The hallway they then passed through was painted a light, beige color, with small symbols, looking like little flames, dotting the bottom, just above the floor. As they passed by other doors, Caymus looked into the rooms, all of which were given over completely to these severe patterns and colors. He wondered if there was any logic to it at all.

  Milo seemed to be wondering the same thing. “Did they keep running out of paint?” he said, his head swiveling around, the same as Caymus’s.

  Caymus couldn’t see Be’Var’s face, but he imagined it wore a grin. “The children,” he explained. “The last time I was here, it wasn’t anything like this, but it seems the new mission-keeper lets them run wild with the stuff.”

  As though summoned by the words, a pair of boys—Caymus didn’t imagine they were older than five or six years—dashed out of a doorway in front of them, nearly crashed into Be’Var, and then skidded into another open door. Be’Var cursed under his breath, but otherwise paid them no mind. When Caymus passed by the room the children had scurried into, he took a quick glance in and saw Bridget kneeling down with them and giving the first one a hug.

  She noticed him looking in and gave him a smile. She seemed happier than he'd ever seen her.

  They passed a few more rooms, some of which were occupied with people, a few of whom looked up and waved before getting back to what they were doing. Most were women in their thirties of forties, though there were a couple of men, too. They all seemed friendly enough, happy to see new faces. It was quite a contrast to the serious tone that generally permeated the Temple.

  A couple of the rooms that he passed, always on his right, afforded views into a small patch of yellowing grass that was ringed by columns and paving stones. After having taken a couple of right turns, Caymus decided that Flamehearth must be arranged in a square, and that the center of that square held a small courtyard.

  He was just beginning to wonder how big the courtyard was, how green the grass would have been were it not strangled with drought, when Be’Var turned through a doorway on his left and led the three of them into what appeared to be a small dining room. The floor was about a dozen paces across in each direction and the walls had a somber-looking, brownish-orange tint to them. A pair of sideboards lined the two walls to his left and right, one standing next to a closed door, and a couple of cabinets, displaying a few simple bowls and dishes, stood against the far wall. A long, wooden dining table filled the center of the room and a pair of plain-looking benches ran down its length.

&nbs
p; Sitting on the benches were Gwenna, Y’selle, and two people whom Caymus didn’t know. The first was an older woman. She reminded him of a slightly plumper version of Matron Y'selle. Her thin, gray hair was cut to about the same length as the matron's. She wore the same red clothing, though the quality of hers was finer: the material itself seemed brighter, the hems neater, and golden threads wound their way up and down the seams. Despite the surface similarities, however, Caymus didn't believe the two women were related, as when this woman's face smiled up at them it didn’t have nearly the same kindness in it as Y’selle’s. Instead, she gave the impression of curiosity, of impish inquisitiveness. Her eyes were a pale blue color. They were so pale, in fact, that they appeared nearly white. If she hadn't been looking directly at them, glancing between Caymus, Rill, and Milo in turn, he'd have wondered if she might be blind.

  The table’s other occupant had dark skin, and reminded Caymus of Guruk and Fach’un, the two men that he’d met just before he’d left the Temple. He appeared to be several years younger than they had been—he was probably at least a year Caymus's elder—though Caymus had trouble judging age in those foreign features. He wore simple breeches and a plain, brown tunic that covered a lean, well-muscled torso. His head was shaved. He wore a pleasant smile. With some apprehension, Caymus noticed the smile was aimed across the table at Gwenna; the young man didn't even raise his gaze when they entered the room.

  He felt his stomach tighten when he noticed that Gwenna was smiling back.

  “Be’Var!” The unfamiliar woman stood and quickly stepped to Be’Var, then embraced him in a friendly hug. The woman had a weathered, husky voice, which, while showing some of the rough edges that came with her age, had no trouble in filling the room.

  Caymus was surprised to see Be’Var hug her in return. He’d never known the man to be the hugging type. “How are you, Elia?” he said, after they parted. His smile was as warm as any Caymus had ever seen on him. “It’s been far too long.” Raising an eyebrow, the master took stock of the woman’s accouterment. “Sella didn’t tell me you’d taken up the mission-keeper’s robe.”

  Elia immediately turned to Y’selle, still sitting at the table and smiling at both of them. “And what else haven’t you told him?” she said with a playful tone.

  The familiarity of the scene made Caymus smile, though he was beginning to feel a bit uncomfortable. He, Rill, and Milo were obviously observing a reunion of old friends, and he couldn't help, standing as he was just inside the doorway, feeling like a bit of an intruder. Adding to it was the fact that Gwenna and the dark-skinned fellow were still sharing a very long look. Did they know each other? Was there some kind of history between them? He didn't know, but he was starting to think he'd really like to leave.

  Just as he was considering the best way of politely excusing himself, the woman looked past Be'Var's shoulder at the three young men. “And who are these gentlemen, Be’Var? Your manners are still as atrocious as ever.”

  Be’Var seemed to take a moment to consider his next words, then waved his hand toward them. “This pain-in-the-neck is Rill.” Rill smiled and nodded a little uncomfortably when Elia's eyes focused on him. “He recently gave up life at the Temple, so he’s technically no longer a part of the Order of Conflagrationists. However,” Be’Var narrowed his eyes, “he’s smarter than he looks, so I’d ask if you could afford him a bed, or maybe a spot in the corner, for the time being.”

  The woman moved to stand in front of Rill. Her expression changed from one of delighted happiness to a polite sort of friendliness. “How are you, Rill?” she said. “I’m Matron Elia, Keeper of the Mission, and you’re welcome to a bed at Flamehearth for as long as you need one.”

  Rill’s face was turning red, but he managed to stammer out, “Thank you, Matron Elia. I’m in your debt.”

  Matron Elia’s smile extended as though he’d just shared a secret joke with her, then she moved along to stand in front of the next of the arrivals.

  Be’Var continued. “That’s Milo,” he said. “He’s the air priest who helped us send those messages from the Temple recently.” Be’Var shook his head. “Burn me, but I’ve started depending on this one.”

  Milo was beaming. Elia reached out and took one of his hands in both of hers. “Milo,” she said. “From what I gather, you and your friends, most of whom I’ve yet to meet, have been a blessing to us all since the attacks. I don’t know if you’ve a place to stay in Kepren, but you’re very welcome to stay with us.” She leaned forward, conspiratorially. “I really like your feathers.”

  Milo's smile, somehow, got even wider. “Thank you!" he said. "I may just take you up on that!”

  Elia nodded and moved to stand in front of Caymus, looked up at him to meet his eyes. Caymus was suddenly very aware of his height.

  “And that,” said Be’Var, he voice assuming a slightly more serious tone, “would be Caymus. He’s the shaper I mentioned before we left.”

  Matron Elia reached up and put a hand on his arm. “Hello, Caymus,” she said. Her face was a mix of wonder and curiosity. “It’s been quite awhile since I met a shaper. I hope you’ll stay with us for a time. I feel we could learn a great deal from each other.”

  Caymus, feeling a bit out of place, nodded. “Thank you, Keeper—uh, Matron Elia. I think I’d like that.”

  The Keeper of Flamehearth Mission gave him a warm smile. “Good,” she said, and gave his arm a squeeze. Then, she turned to Be’Var. “Sit, sit, tell me about the trip. Oh!” she exclaimed. “My manners are getting as bad as yours, Be’Var.” She pointed to the dark-skinned youth sitting at the table. “This is Tavrin, one of the Falaar, who came up from Terrek, recently. He’s been with us for a couple of weeks now and has been amazingly useful.”

  Tavrin, who had finally stopped staring at Gwenna, stood and gave them a short bow. Caymus noted the slow, graceful way Tavrin moved, the way every motion seemed so deliberate. He'd seen Merkan move like that, and wondered if Tavrin, too, was some sort of warrior. He suddenly had a lot of questions about the Falaar.

  In a few minutes, they were all sitting at the table and Be’Var was telling Elia about their journey. He told them about the strange blizzard, about the Krealite they’d found in the floor of the cave, even about the broken wagon wheel they’d had to fix. Matron Elia afforded him all of her attention, asking probing questions and nodding with each new detail.

  Caymus was paying more mind to Tavrin and the attention that he was giving Gwenna. The two weren't locked in a mutual gaze anymore, but his eyes were certainly still lingering. For her part, Gwenna wasn’t openly flirting with the man, but Caymus got the distinct impression that she might have been if he hadn't been there.

  Just as Be’Var was getting to the part where they were entering the caves of Otvia, Caymus felt a kick to his shin. Looking up, he saw it was Rill, sitting across the table from him, that was looking to get his attention. Rill was making little head jerks and moving his eyes in the direction of the door, making less-than subtle suggestions that they find a reason to leave.

  Caymus did rather like the idea of getting out of the room, but he thought it would be a bit rude to just ask to leave without having a good reason. Then, he remembered a little package that he had received just before he left the Temple.

  “Excuse me,” he said, when he found a pause in the conversation. “I’m sorry, but do any of you know where Sannet’s parents live?”

  The late afternoon sun was beginning to wane in the sky, its friendly warmth starting to abate, as Caymus and Rill stepped quickly through a busy street, drinking in the sights and sounds of Kepren. Matron Y’selle had spent nearly an hour searching their belongings to find the package that Sannet had given to Caymus, but had eventually discovered it tucked in amongst some bedding. As soon as they'd had the small bundle in-hand, the two had raced out the mission's front entrance, following directions that, they were assured, would take them to the home of Sannet’s parents.

  They had already gotten lost
a couple of times. One of Y’selle’s directions, for instance, had been to take a right at a particular linen shop, and a quick decision that a linen shop and a shop that sold window dressings must constitute the same thing had resulted in a good ten minutes of backtracking. For now, however, Caymus believed they were on the right trail.

  Sannet’s parents apparently lived in the Guard District—Y'selle had called it simply "The Guard"—the oldest of Kepren's three districts, so the pair had needed to pass through the large gate which broke up the wall that separated the Grass from the Guard District. Caymus had noticed that the wall hadn't been made of the same perfectly interlocking stones as he'd seen when he'd first entered Kepren. Rather, it was constructed of the same stone and mortar design that he was familiar with.

  He was surprised, in fact, with just how different the two districts looked from each other. The Grass was clean, precise, looking as though it had been built with expert hands. The Guard, on the other hand, carried the wear of many centuries. The mortar between the reddish-brown bricks of many of the buildings was chipped and worn, and the cobblestone streets dipped and rose under the pressure of tree roots or unsteady ground. Most of the buildings he passed were two or three stories tall, and he occasionally spied one that had begun leaning in its foundation, necessitating complex webs of scaffolding, buttresses, and the hands of dozens of workmen.

  Even the people in this district seemed different. Horses pulled carts and carriages in these streets, whereas most people in the Grass District had either ridden or had walked with sacks or packs over their shoulders. The overall pace seemed slower, yet he felt a sort of tension in the air he hadn't noticed earlier. He'd seen people smiling eagerly at one another in the Grass. Few people even made eye contact with him here. He felt as though there should have been a much broader physical separation between the two places, one which would make a clearer delineation between the people that lived on either side.