Knight Of The Flame

by H John Spriggs

  "Hmmm," Be'Var said. Without looking down, he put his hand on one of the open books and tapped a finger on it. "So, you're looking for my help as a blacksmith, then."

  "I don't want you to make them for me," Rill said quickly, fearing he was being misunderstood, "I've just never done it before, and might need a bit of help. I doubt," he continued, smiling, "I could do better than having a human forge helping me figure out the process."

  Be'Var just stared at Rill for a few moments, as though weighing his words, or possibly weighing how much he believed their genuineness. "Can it wait?" he finally said.

  "It can," Rill admitted. He felt a little deflated at the thought.

  "Good," said the old man, turning his attention back to the book. "There's still a lot left to do here, and I..."

  The words trailed off as they both turned to see Gwenna, who had by now pulled away from Aiella's hand, quickly striding around the bed and heading for the door. "I'm going to see if I can find Milo," she said. Rill suspected she just needed to get out of the room. He couldn't see her face clearly, but her voice seemed to be on the verge of breaking.

  He'd go and find her later and really apologize.

  When he looked back, he saw Aiella staring at him, her expression a mixture of curiosity and disapproval. The look didn't have much effect on Rill, seeing as he already felt about as bad as he could about Gwenna, but he did end up locking eyes with the dark-haired girl for a moment. He found himself wondering why it was she was so interested in helping Be'Var with his research. She was Creveyan, after all—one would struggle to find more a devout worshiper of water than a Creveyan—so what was her motivation for assisting with research into things related to fire?

  His thought was interrupted by the sound of breaking pottery. When he pulled his eyes away, he saw that Roland, who had just knocked the water jug over, was backing away from the bed, an alarmed look on his face. He had a right to be alarmed, too: the jug itself wasn't likely of much value, but the water it had contained was in the process of soaking into at least two of the piles of books that sat near the foot of the bed.

  "Flaming dog-spit, idiot child!" Be'Var yelled. The old man quickly stepped around the pile of books before him, reaching for Roland with an outstretched hand.

  Roland, however, was moving much too fast. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed as he quickly dodged around Caymus's prone form and ran out of the room. Rill, too, tried to catch hold of him, but the boy ducked and spun as he passed, denying a good grip, even on his filthy shirt. He chased Roland as far as the doorway, then stopped, his hands out against the frame, having decided against following any further. The horrible little child was heading toward the building's exit now, exactly where Rill wanted him to go, and there wouldn't be much point in catching him, anyway. What would he do, make him un-spill the jug?

  As he stood there, watching Roland turn a corner and disappear, Rill gave brief consideration to running, too. He was, after all, the one who'd brought Roland into the room in the first place. Wouldn't Be'Var blame him just as much as he did the boy? Would the master have any inclination at all to help him forge engineering tools, now that he'd brought ruination to a number of the cherished books? He didn't like the odds of a favorable outcome to the day.

  He was, therefore, quite surprised at how little anger the master's next words contained. "Burn me," he said in a tone that sounded positively beguiled.

  Rill turned to see what it was that had the man's attention, but found he had to step back into the room, since he could only make out the tops of both Be'Var's and Aiella's heads. The two of them were crouched down on the other side of the bed. As he rounded the little table that held up Caymus's feet, he thought to grab one of the towels from his leg. Maybe he could wring it out and use it to mop up some of the water.

  When he was finally standing beside the old man and getting a good look at what was happening, Rill immediately understood what Be'Var had been so excited about. Aiella, kneeling on the stone floor before them, had placed each of her hands atop one of the drenched piles of books. She was letting her head hang down, allowing her hair to spill over her face, so Rill couldn't see if her eyes were open or closed, but the hunch of her shoulders gave the impression that she was concentrating hard.

  The thing she was concentrating on, it seemed, was the act of literally pulling the water out of the books.

  The effect was subtle, at first. Little drops of clear liquid began to appear on the covers, bindings, and even the pages of all of the books, as though they were somehow sweating. The drops then moved together, collecting into tiny rivulets, and made their way down the stacks toward a single point on the stone floor. Some of the streams of water ran all the way to the floor before moving to that point; others seemed to drip diagonally toward it before getting that far. The impression Rill got was that the water had it's own separate source of gravity, which was causing each drop of liquid to slowly fall into that single spot, where it collected in a growing puddle.

  After about a minute, it appeared that there wasn't much left to sweat out of the books. The water had pooled outward and upward until it was about the size and shape of a large, upended bowl. Whatever Aiella was doing to pull the liquid from the books, she was also causing it to collect in this highly unnatural shape. Rill realized at that point that the moisture would still need to be collected, somehow, once Aiella broke her concentration and the force that was holding the aqueous shape together dissipated. Moving quickly, he grabbed four more of the towels and took them to the room's single open window, where he held them outside and wrung them out.

  He was just coming back with the slightly drier rectangles of cloth when Aiella spoke. "The towels, please," she said, and lifted one of her hands to Rill. He gave the collection to her, and she placed them over the top of the little semi-sphere of liquid. Rill had thought they would need more cloth to soak up that much water, but she must have been having an effect there also, as the small collection of material appeared able to absorb the lot.

  The dark-haired girl then took the towels in both hands, stepped past Rill toward the window, and wrung them, spilling the entirety of their contents onto the ground outside. She let out a deep breath as she did so, as though she were putting down some huge weight. The feat she had just performed must have taken some significant effort.

  "That was quite an impressive display, young lady," Be'Var said, getting to his feet. His tone was both amused and guarded at the same time. "I wasn't aware you took after your father so much."

  Aiella, who had by now returned to the side of the bed and was replacing the towels to Caymus's skin, kept her face placid. "My father is not aware either," she said. She looked up, her eyes moving back and forth between Be'Var and Rill. "I would be grateful if you would not tell him."

  Rill smiled. He knew how important it could be to have things to keep to yourself, especially where family was concerned. "It'll be our secret," he said. When he looked over at Be'Var, he realized that the master might not have been convinced, so he decided to risk over-stepping his bounds. "We won't tell anybody about it, will we, Be'Var?"

  Be'Var looked as though he was about to rebuke him, then the weathered face seemed to acquiesce to the idea. "Oh, all right," he said. He turned back to Aiella. "Just make sure you tell him yourself, and sometime in the very near future. He'd be cross with me if he found out I was keeping something like this from him."

  Aiella actually smiled at that. "Thank you," she said.

  "Clumsy fool," Be'Var said, turning toward the door. He looked at Rill again. "You say he's Sannet's brother?"

  "I know," Rill said. "Wouldn't have believed it myself if his parents hadn't told me."

  "He was not clumsy," Aiella interrupted. Rill and Be'Var both turned to look at her.

  "What do you mean?" Rill said.

  "I believe he spilled the water purposefully," she said, turning her eyes back to Caymus's sleeping form.

  "You saw him tip it over?" Be'Var said.
<
br />   "No," she said, "I was distracted at the time, but he appeared to react to the drop before the jug began moving, as though he knew already that it was going to happen."

  Nobody said anything for a few moments. Be'Var bent down and picked up a couple of the books that had so recently been doused. Rill wondered if Roland could have actually spilled the water intentionally. Aiella's judgment of Roland's reaction to the spill wasn't much to go on really, but Rill was beginning to decide that she was a genuinely intelligent person, so, despite the ice in her veins, he put some stock in what she said.

  "Well, well," Be'Var said, slowly leafing through a battered, red-covered tome with yellowing pages. "I was sure this one had had it, but you actually saved the ink."

  "That is good," Aiella replied. When she had placed the last of the towels back in its original place upon Caymus's flesh, she looked up at Be'Var, patting her slightly damp hands on her dress as she did so. "I believe," she said, "that I will go back to the Reed Library now, to see if I can find more information on your shaper reference."

  Be'Var nodded, still skimming pages. Rill could tell he was only half-listening to her; he wondered if the old man was really just checking the ink, or if he was already getting lost in the content. "Fine, fine," was all he said in return.

  Aiella either didn't feel slighted by the master's distracted tone or, if she did, didn't register it on her face. Instead, she simply picked up a small stack of books from the corner of the room. "You are finished with these?" she asked.

  "Yes, yes," Be'Var said, though whether he'd actually heard and understood the question was impossible to say. Rill found himself holding back a chuckle. He'd never seen Be'Var operating in this particular mode before. The distracted scholar before him was a stark contrast to the rough taskmaster he was familiar with.

  Aiella nodded, shuffled the books in her arms, and walked to the door. Just before she reached it, however, Be'Var lifted his head. "Did you have any luck with the Royal Collection, by the way?"

  Aiella turned around. Only her face was visible above the stack of books she held. "I did not," she said. "I have asked Prince Garrin for permission to enter, but he insists that only the king is able to grant it."

  "And the king hasn't been in much shape to grant anything for quite some time," Be'Var said, finishing the thought. He closed the red-bound book and sighed. "Pity. I'm sure there's a lot of useful information in those particular books, but I suppose there's no use complaining about it until we've exhausted the other sources." His wrinkly face managed a smile. "Thank you, Aiella. Your help has been invaluable these past weeks."

  Aiella nodded. "You are welcome, Master Be'Var," she said, then she turned and walked out the door.

  Rill was suddenly keenly aware of the quiet in the chamber. Now that the others had left the room, he could actually make out the sound of Caymus breathing. He hadn't realized just how much noise four or five people could make. As Be'Var opened the book in his other hand and started flipping through it, Rill found himself walking over to the head of the bed.

  He missed Caymus, missed him badly. Kepren was such a huge, interesting place, full of new experiences. Rill had planned to have so many adventures when he'd first walked through the city's gates, but he'd found himself putting them off for the simple reason of having nobody to share them with. He hadn't practiced his sword drills in weeks, either. Very soon after Caymus had first found himself in this bed, Rill had decided that drilling could wait until his friend woke up again, that he couldn't possibly be without his sparring partner for very long. Now, after so many weeks had passed without change, he didn't really know what to do about practicing his swordplay. Milo didn't use a sword; he'd just try to teach him the bow, like he'd done with Gwenna. He'd thought about asking Tavrin, the young Falaar that Gwenna had become so close to lately, if he would be willing to spar with him, but he figured that, given the situation, the subject of Caymus and Gwenna was sure to come up eventually, and that wasn't really something he wanted to discuss with him. Tavrin seemed a nice enough sort, but Rill didn't know him well enough to say if he had a temper or not.

  "Well," said Be'Var, closing the book and walking up beside him, "I suppose since everybody else has gone, and since there's not much more useful reading I can do before Aiella comes back, perhaps you should tell me more about these tools you need."

  Rill smiled. Even with the guilt he still felt over what he'd said to Gwenna, and despite the fact that he'd managed to let Sannet's horrible little brother spill water all over Be'Var's books, it seemed he might just be able to salvage this day yet.

  As he pulled the list of supplies from his pocket, he only wished he had his best friend around so he could share his good news.

  Wake up soon, Caymus, he thought. I don't know what you're doing in there, but life out here's a lot more boring without you.

  CHAPTER 14

  Caymus stood quietly amongst the flames of the Conflagration, staring at the wall before him. The wall wasn't very long, being barely a handful of yards across; nor was it high, rising to only a few inches above his brow. It was only a shade lighter than pitch black, the same color as the krealites he'd encountered, which made him wary. He gripped the sword tight in his hand as he continued to watch the dark surface, waiting for it to do something awful to him.

  The truly unsettling thing about the wall was the way it seemed to be less than solid. It undulated a little under his gaze, bending slowly toward and away from him. It also rippled slightly, as though it were a standing pool of water with some invisible force acting against it.

  A sweet smell hung in the air, like burnt sugar, but not nearly so strong. The smell hadn't been there before the wall shown up. Had they appeared at the same time? Did the black wall really smell like burnt sugar?

  Caymus got that uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach again, or, at least, in a projection of the pit of his stomach. His actual stomach, he knew, was back in his own world, in what the Lords of the Conflagration called the Quatrain, along with the rest of his body. He'd grown comfortable with the idea after some time here, had begun to understand himself in the context of the elemental realm.

  He was the only living thing here. He could feel it the same way he could sense the presence of a person or animal in his own world. The being he'd met here, the one that had worn Milo's face like a disguise, was sentient, intelligent, but it wasn't alive, not in the same way he was.

  When was it he'd met that being? He felt like it had been mere moments ago, but it might have been years. There was no time here. Beings of fire that weren't alive didn't need time, so the very concept had been stripped away from him when his consciousness had entered this place.

  He wished he knew how long he'd been standing there, how long it had been since this accursed wall had quietly appeared before him. He didn't know why the wall had shown up, but he felt, instinctively, that it was dangerous and that it wasn't supposed to be there. Idly, he flexed his fingers against the hilt of the sword the Lords had given him, then reached up with his index finger to rub the symbol on the cross-guard. The same sword and flame design that adorned the back of his hand hadn't been there, on the sword, at first, but it had materialized, etched lightly into the metal, sometime after he'd first picked it up.

  Caymus smiled, feeling reassured by the steel in his hand. The sword felt more real than anything else in this place. He knew it wasn't real, of course, but it felt real, and as he held on to the weapon, he also held on to his sanity.

  Still, he stood there, waiting. The Lords of the Conflagration had brought him here, placed him before this strange, sweet-smelling wall, but why? Was he supposed to do something to it? Was there something to learn here?

  He chewed his bottom lip as he thought about his predicament, trying to carve his next move out of the jumble of thoughts in his head. Glaring at the wall, he decided it was his first priority. The fire Lords wanted him to do something with it, but he needed to understand the thing better before he w
as going to go any nearer.

  He considered reaching out with his consciousness to try to learn more, but frowned at the idea. Would that work? After all, at the moment he was his consciousness. Would the act of trying to project out from his own projection be a mistake? Could it be dangerous?

  He pressed his lips together in uncertainty, then decided to try. Reaching out was unlikely to actually hurt him, and it was certainly worth an attempt. He took a steadying breath, closed his eyes, and reached.

  Before he'd really made the conscious effort, he was touching the wall with his mind. The suddenness of it actually jarred him, physically, breaking the connection and giving him pause. What had happened? With a slight shake of his head, he regathered his thoughts and tried again. Again, he found that he was immediately touching the wall, but that he had no recollection of having crossed the space between him and it. The sensation was strange, like being on the other side of a room the moment after having decided to cross it, not having taken a single step.

  He decided that something about being separated from his physical form must be making the act of projecting his consciousness easier, faster. He couldn't believe how intuitive it seemed. Whereas reaching out to something had always required intense concentration before, the same action here was suddenly second-nature.

  Now that he had his bearings, he ran himself along the edges of the wall, feeling for anything that might betray some clue as to the thing's construction, all the time reveling in the effortlessness of the act. Despite the ease with which he was exploring the wall's boundaries however, he wasn't finding much, though he did discover that, in addition to the relatively small height and width, it was also barely an inch thick. Still, there wasn't even the faintest suggestion of air, water, or earth in its makeup, not to mention fire.