Children of Fire

by Drew Karpyshyn

  However, speculations on ancestry and anthropology were not Rexol’s primary focus. He was much more interested in the reference to the Talismans—the gifts the Immortals bestowed upon their champion. Rexol had seen brief mentions made of the Talismans in other Danaan texts, though never in connection with the Slayer or the Old Gods. He had assumed them to be items of great religious significance but no real power. Was it possible he had been wrong?

  And with these Talismans the Slayer, greatest of the mortal kings, became himself a God.

  Rexol didn’t believe in Gods—not in the way the Order described them. But in the age before the Cataclysm, before the Legacy was formed, mages had reached freely into the Sea of Fire—the source of pure Chaos—to work their art. Such power would have made the ancient wizards truly seem like Gods. Were these Talismans artifacts forged with the power of the Old Magic? Was it possible the Talismans had survived the Cataclysm? Were they a link to the great magic of the past?

  His musings were interrupted by a rap on the door as Vaaler poked his head in.

  “Forgive my intrusion, master, but it’s getting late. Should I start supper soon?”

  “Prepare something for yourself,” he said to his apprentice. “I won’t be coming down for some time.”

  The prince nodded and slipped out without another word, closing the door behind him.

  In the years since Vaaler had been under his care, the teacher had come to learn many things about his young charge. The boy was intelligent and quick, his mind was active and hungry for learning, he was driven to succeed at his studies, and he desperately wanted to satisfy the hopes of his people and his Queen. But even though he was born under the Blood Moon, he was as dead to Chaos as an Eastern savage.

  The young heir was a lesson in the dangers of trying to control Chaos. The Danaan people had sought to breed a great prophet to rule and guide their kingdom through the union of two of their kingdom’s most powerful Seers. But Chaos could not be controlled by heredity or bloodlines, and their offspring had been born stone-blind to the visions of his parents.

  In desperation the Danaan had sent the boy here, hoping he possessed the Gift rather than the Sight. But after only a few months of working with him Rexol knew Vaaler would never be a wizard. Not even a minor enchanter or a traveling magician, unless he chose to become one of the charlatans who used sleight of hand and trickery to compensate for their inability to touch the true essence of Chaos. Yet Rexol had never admitted this to the Danaan, for fear they would recall the young prince and the stream of ancient texts—however mundane—would dry up. Even the small drops of knowledge he was gathering from the manuscripts were well worth the expense and effort of keeping Vaaler around.

  Rexol stood from his chair, leaving the document he had been studying open on the table. He needed to take a break. One couldn’t channel Chaos too long without risks, and he had been working with the manuscript for several hours already.

  He stretched his hands up toward the high ceiling of his study as he turned to face the full-length mirror on the near wall. The markings painted on his arms and bare torso had begun to fade. This morning the ink had completely covered Rexol’s lean frame like a second skin; the intricate red and white symbols traced over every inch of his exposed flesh. Now the ebony of his natural complexion could be clearly seen beneath the washed-out color of the ink.

  The circles etched around his eyes and over his cheeks—glyphs to give him sight and understanding, and to protect his mind from the terrible power he sought to control—had vanished completely, devoured by the hungry fires of magic as the Chaos tried to wrench free of the constraints Rexol had enforced upon it.

  His safeguards were gone, and there was a weariness deep within him, a mental and physical exhaustion. The complicated spell of understanding had sapped much of his strength; it was time to stop.

  But there were many, many more passages still to be read in this diary alone, and hundreds of other manuscripts that he hadn’t even started trying to decipher. It was likely most of them would contain nothing but useless dreck, but there might be more valuable nuggets buried inside—more references to the Talismans.

  He had never heard mention of them before he started studying the ancient Danaan texts. But that wasn’t enough to dismiss them as legend. If the Talismans actually were relics imbued with the power of Old Magic, the Order would have made sure to purge all knowledge of their existence from the Southlands.

  Even if they were real, Rexol reluctantly admitted, it was possible they had been destroyed in the Cataclysm. If the Slayer, a great wizard, challenged the Old Gods—whom Rexol suspected were also nothing more than extremely powerful wizards themselves—the Chaos unleashed in their epic battle could easily have consumed the Talismans, just as Rexol’s spell of understanding had eaten away the tattoos on his skin.

  But it was also possible the Talismans were strong enough to survive. Maybe they hadn’t been destroyed, but were only lost or hidden. Their power now would be muted by the Legacy, possibly even locked away so that they didn’t appear to have any special properties at all. The Talismans could be anywhere, just waiting for someone with the rare combination of talent, will, and knowledge to find and awaken them.

  Drawing on Chaos to decipher the pages was a slow and tedious affair. It would take him years—maybe decades—to go through all the manuscripts without help. He needed another apprentice. Not someone blind to Chaos like Vaaler, but one who could be taught the ways of magic. One who could learn to cast spells of his or her own; one Rexol could draw on to augment his own power.

  Someone like Cassandra.

  He shook his head, dispelling the unwelcome memory of the young girl’s emerald eyes staring after him as he’d abandoned her to the Order. Cassandra was lost to him, but there were others like her: children touched by Chaos and born under a Blood Moon. Surely one or two had managed to stay hidden from the Order … and from him. But they couldn’t stay hidden forever.

  The power of Chaos was cyclical. Despite the Order’s efforts, Chaos could never be kept at bay for long. Rexol could feel its influence in the mortal world slowly spreading once more, shaping events to alter the course of history. Perhaps that was why he had discovered this passage only now: The latent power of the Talismans was calling to him, urging him to find them.

  In the same way, he would find another apprentice. Eventually the true nature of those touched by Chaos would be exposed—violently; tragically. Some called it destiny or fate. The Order branded it a curse. He knew it for what it really was: opportunity.

  And while he waited for a worthy apprentice to be revealed, he would continue his studies. He would learn everything he could about the Talismans. When the time came, he needed to be ready and willing to claim their power.

  Rexol glanced down at the book he had spent the better part of the day reading. It was late. The witchroot in his system was fading, and taking more now could cause an overdose that would send his body into convulsions, shock, and even death.

  Better to resume the work tomorrow; continue his quest to find more hints and clues about the Talismans once his strength had returned. Whatever secrets he might uncover weren’t going to vanish in the night. Pressing on in his exhausted state was foolish. Reckless. Dangerous.

  For several minutes the wizard simply stood and stared at the volume, trying to force himself to turn away and leave the study until tomorrow. Instead, when he finally broke his gaze, he picked up the small bottle of ink and began to retrace the faded markings on his face.

  Chapter 15

  “Pay attention, Scythe,” Methodis chided, glancing up from the medical ledger on the table in front of him. “You need to grind the root into fine powder, not the lumpy mess you’ve got there.”

  Scythe snapped out of her daze at the sound of his voice, glancing quickly around the small cabin that served as the Shimmering Dolphin’s infirmary. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a mortar and pestle in her lap. Against the wall behind
her was the massive wooden footlocker Captain Trascar had given Methodis to store all the supplies of his trade when he had first signed on with the crew.

  “Sorry, I was thinking about something else.”

  “You mean someone else, don’t you?” the old man teased. “You were daydreaming about that new man Trascar signed on, weren’t you? Rickard, isn’t it?”

  “I was not!” Scythe snapped back a little too quickly, and the healer knew he had hit his mark.

  Methodis allowed himself a smile as he reviewed the list of medical supplies on hand, ticking off ingredients that had been used since he updated his records last week. From the corner of his eye he noticed Scythe attacking the mortar and pestle with renewed vigor to hide her embarrassment.

  She’s fifteen now, the doctor reminded himself as he flipped the page. It’s natural for her to notice some of the young men on the ship.

  More than a few of them were beginning to notice her, as well. Fortunately Trascar wouldn’t sign anyone on with his crew unless he was sure of his moral character. Scythe could do a lot worse than the likes of Rickard.

  At the top of the new page, Methodis jotted down the date, then made a short entry: General health of crew seems excellent. Two cases of flux yesterday. Treated with vinegar wine mixed with silton powder. Both patients showing marked signs of improvement.

  He closed the ledger and turned in his seat toward the young woman still sitting on the floor. “If you like, I can invite Rickard to dine with us in the captain’s cabin tonight.”

  Scythe shrugged without looking up. “If you want to. Why should I care?”

  Methodis knew her well enough to realize her seeming indifference was purely for show. He was about to say something else, just to see if he could get a rise out of his young charge, when he was interrupted by a frantic rap at the door.

  Before he could open his mouth to say Enter, the door flew open and Dugal, the first mate, popped his head in. Methodis could see right away something was wrong. Very wrong.

  “There’s a ship coming up hard on us. We’re trying to outrun her, but she’s fast.”

  “What colors are they flying?” Methodis asked, already knowing the answer.

  “None.”

  Only pirates sailed without flying the flag of a home port.

  “If we get some luck and some favorable winds they might not catch us,” Dugal continued. “But the captain wants you to stay here in your cabin in case they try to board us.” He cast a meaningful glance in Scythe’s direction. “Both of you.”

  “Don’t keep me locked up in here!” Scythe protested, jumping to her feet, the bowl of medicine she had been grinding forgotten on the floor. “I know how to use a blade as well as any man on this ship!”

  The first mate didn’t say anything, but instead looked over to Methodis, who only sighed. Ever since she had come aboard seven years ago, Scythe had practiced fencing and fighting with anyone who would spare her the time. She had quick hands and excellent instincts, and her technique had been honed with thousands of hours of practice. But this was not the time to put those skills to their first real test.

  The healer gave a slight nod and Dugal slipped out, shutting the door behind him. Scythe snorted in surprise, then turned to get the rapier she used during her drills from where it hung on a peg in the wall.

  “No, Scythe. We have to stay in here.”

  The tone in the doctor’s voice stopped her short. But she turned angrily to face him, refusing to give up so easily.

  “I can help them! You know I can.”

  Methodis rose slowly from his seat and crossed the floor to put his hands on Scythe’s shoulders. He looked her straight in the eye, making no attempt to hide the fear in his voice when he spoke.

  “You know what will happen to you if you’re caught. The pirates … they aren’t like Trascar’s crew. It isn’t safe for a woman.”

  The girl’s eyes went wide as understanding slowly dawned on her. Despite all she had learned in her time at sea, despite everything Methodis and the others had taught her, she was still innocent about many things. She was still barely more than a child.

  Scythe wasn’t easily daunted, however. “Things won’t be much better for the others,” she pointed out, her wide-eyed surprise now replaced by a look of grim determination. “Pirates don’t take prisoners and I’d rather die fighting with the rest of the crew than let them …” She trailed off, unable to even say the words.

  Methodis shook his head. “Just do as the captain says. Stay here in the cabin. If you go up there, all you can do is serve as a distraction. Please, Scythe. For me.”

  For a second she seemed about to protest further; then she simply nodded in acceptance. Methodis turned away, relieved. He took a step back toward the writing table, then suddenly felt too weak to even stand. He was forced to sit down on the top of the enormous footlocker, the gravity of their situation momentarily overwhelming him.

  Scythe came over and sat beside him, taking his hand in her own. “Maybe they won’t catch us,” she whispered, though her voice didn’t hold much hope.

  Methodis knew she was smart enough to grasp the truth. Pirate ships ran light; they didn’t carry much in the way of cargo or stores. The Shimmering Dolphin, on the other hand, was laden down with trade goods they planned to sell back in Callastan.

  He gave her delicate hand a reassuring squeeze but didn’t reply. He was desperately trying not to think of what the pirates would do to the young girl he had raised for the last fifteen years if they found her. And at the same time Methodis was scrambling to come up with a way to save her.

  “Open the damn latch!” the voice barked from the other side of the infirmary’s door. “Yer only makin’ things worse!”

  A second later the entire cabin echoed with the sound of a heavy body slamming itself against the locked door, and Methodis heard the sharp crack of splintering wood coming from the chair he had propped up against the entrance. One more hit and they’d be through.

  The healer stood alone in the center of the room, facing the portal. Grasping the handle of Scythe’s rapier with both hands, he held it straight out in front of him. Scythe may have been an expert with the blade, but Methodis had never bothered to learn the art of killing.

  “One more time!” the voice outside shouted, and this time the wooden legs of the chair gave way. The door flew open, sending a large, bare-chested pirate tumbling into the room. Instead of lunging forward, the doctor took a step back as the man quickly scrambled to his feet and pulled out his own weapon: a cruelly curved saber.

  Before his enemy could strike, however, another figure stepped through what remained of the cabin’s door. Like the first pirate he wore no shirt; a thin, sleeveless vest of tanned leather covered the scars and tattoos of his torso’s bronze skin. His beard was bound in half a dozen braids by gold and silver ties, as was his long black hair.

  He stepped forward, the gold hoops in his ears jangling against each other, and quickly surveyed the room. When his gaze focused on the slight man standing defiantly in the center, the thin rapier’s blade held out straight before him, he raised his saber and grinned.

  Methodis made an awkward lunge, which the pirate easily slapped aside, knocking the rapier from the healer’s unsure hands. A heavy fist to the side of the jaw sent Methodis reeling. He stumbled backward until he bumped up against the footlocker on the far wall. He lost his balance and fell awkwardly, ending up sprawled on the floor.

  Several other pirates standing just outside the door laughed at the spectacle, but the man who struck him wasn’t laughing.

  “What are you?” he snapped in a heavy accent. “You’re too old to be the captain’s cabin boy, and too ugly to be his bum-boy. You don’t even know how to hold a sword. So why are you on this ship?”

  Methodis looked up into the eyes of his conqueror from the floor, his gaze steady. “I’m a healer. I help Captain Trascar and his men when they are injured.”

  The pirate held the blood-sme
ared blade of his saber aloft. “You can’t help them now.”

  The first pirate who had entered—the large man who had broken down the door—asked, “Should we kill him?”

  “No,” the other replied thoughtfully, not taking his eyes off the old man on the floor. “Not just yet. Tell me, healer, are you any good?”

  “I am,” he replied, with just a hint of cold defiance.

  The pirate nodded. “Shoji, take him to the ship. We could use a good healer. The rest of you, search the room. Tear it apart if you have to, but I want everything of value found. Then we sink the ship.”

  “Wait,” Methodis blurted out. “My footlocker. It has all my tools and medicines inside. Powders and potions I’ll need if you want me to help you.”

  “Open it. Let me see.”

  Methodis shook his head, knowing he couldn’t let them see the precious cargo inside. Not if he wanted Scythe to live.

  “Many of the components I use are sensitive to light and air. The inside of the box is tightly sealed to protect them, but they will become worthless if they are exposed unnecessarily.”

  The pirate captain was silent for several seconds, balancing his inherent distrust of others against the potential value of the healer and the mysterious contents of the large footlocker. His impulse was to ignore the warning and smash the container open. But he was the leader for a reason. Unlike the rest of his crew he knew how to control his impulses when necessary.

  “Two of you, grab this footlocker and go with Shoji. Take it and the healer down to the hold.”

  One of the pirates—Shoji, most likely—grabbed Methodis and yanked him up from the floor. Two others seized the massive footlocker, each one grabbing the handle on either end. They groaned under its weight as they hoisted it up, but between the two of them they managed to keep it aloft.

  “Chain him up,” the captain ordered as they were leaving. “Then come back and help the others. I want this ship stripped and burned within the hour.”