Children of Fire

by Drew Karpyshyn

  “I understand, Pontiff,” Yasmin said, bowing her head in acceptance of his wisdom.

  “Go and tell Cassandra to get ready,” Nazir ordered, returning to their original purpose. “It is time for her to become one of us.”

  Cassandra trembled, but it wasn’t from the cold. Though there was a chill in the desert night, she had grown accustomed to it after six years at the Monastery.

  “Are you afraid, child?” the Pontiff asked.

  She shook her head. “I’m not afraid.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. The Monastery was her home, the only home she really remembered. The devoted servants of the Order had taught her their ways and instilled in her an understanding of and a belief in the True Gods; they had shared their wisdom with her as she had grown up among them. They were her family now. The only family that mattered. She had been waiting for this moment for many years, eager to take the final step and truly become one of them. As this day had approached she had felt an ever-growing excitement and anticipation. Now that the moment was at hand, however, she couldn’t help but feel a bit overwhelmed with the gravity of it all.

  A dozen monks of the Order had gathered in a circle here in the courtyard to be part of her initiation. Their faces and forms were hidden by heavy cloaks, the hoods pulled up to conceal their identities. They were not individuals here—they were the Order.

  Those surrounding her didn’t speak, only stood in somber silence as she had made her way to the center of their ring. There, the Pontiff had been waiting for her. She hoped his question was one he asked all of the initiates; she hoped he didn’t sense the fear she refused to openly acknowledge. She didn’t want anything to get in the way of the ceremony.

  The Pontiff placed a reassuring hand on her slim shoulder. “Prepare yourself. We are about to begin.”

  The monks around her began to chant softly. She glanced up at the night sky above her, gazing at the stars for what might be the last time. But the loss of her sight was a small price to pay for what she was about to gain.

  “Close your eyes, Cassandra. Do not rely on them to guide you; look to the power within. Let the True Sight guide you now.”

  She did as instructed, shutting her eyes. At first there was only darkness. Cassandra began to breathe, channeling her energy, focusing her power as the monks had taught her, drawing upon all the lessons she had learned over her years of study.

  When she had first arrived as a little girl her power had manifested itself only in her dreams. She would wake screaming in the night, the terrible visions overwhelming her. But with the guidance of the prophets she had slowly learned to control her visions. The nightmares became less frequent, finally stopping altogether—with one exception.

  There were still nights when she would see the face of Rexol, the mage who had abducted her as a little girl. Sometimes she would awaken with the image of the man who had been her master until the Order had rescued her burned into her mind’s eye, her left arm tingling with a terrible heat. Even after all these years, Rexol still haunted her, a dark and shadowy figure she could only half remember.

  Apart from these episodes, however, she was no longer at the mercy of the power within her. She had learned to redirect it, to turn it to her advantage. Now she used her power to see the world around her. Eyes still shut, the world around her slowly came into view. Not the shadows and twilight she would see if she were to open her eyes, but a full and complete awareness of her surroundings that transcended the physical world.

  Sensing her achievement the Pontiff removed his hand from her shoulder and placed his palms firmly but gently over the lids of her still-closed eyes.

  “Cassandra, do you understand what you are about to do?” he asked in a deep voice, enacting the first line of the initiation ritual.

  She gave the traditional response. “I must sacrifice my sight so that I can truly see.”

  “And do you do this of your own free will?”

  “It is my honor and privilege to do this.” She spoke slowly, carefully. She was about to undertake a sacred oath, and she was determined to recite it without flaw. “I believe in the True Gods. I give my life to their service, and to the service of the Order that was founded to protect their Legacy. I vow to defend this Legacy against any who would destroy it, be they man, woman, or child.”

  “No one life can be held before the greater good. Any in the Order must be willing to sacrifice his or her life to protect that which we believe in. Do you understand this, Cassandra?”

  “I do, Pontiff.”

  “Then cast aside the trappings of the mortal world, and see with the Vision of the True Gods!”

  The Pontiff thrust his palms forward, throwing her head back. She fell to her knees and cried out as her vision dissolved in an agonizing blaze of blue fire, blinding her. She shrieked as the intense heat seared the lenses of her eyes. She screamed and clawed at her face as the soft tissue of her eyes melted away, molten tears crawling slowly down her cheeks. The fire burrowed deep into her skull as the Pontiff’s power burned away the last vestiges of her mortal sight and she could do nothing but scream and writhe at the unbearable agony.

  And then suddenly the pain was gone. The veil of blue fire obscuring her sight slipped away to reveal the world around her, blazing with a pure and glorious intensity she had never witnessed before.

  “It is done, my child.”

  Responding to the Pontiff’s words Cassandra opened her once emerald eyes to reveal two gray, lifeless orbs.

  Chapter 17

  The sound of Keegan’s scream woke Gerrit immediately. Pulling on his robe, he slipped quickly from his bed and into the hall. The moonlight through the window cast just enough light for him to find his way without a lantern. He knocked once on the door of his son’s room. “Kee, are you all right?”

  Keegan had always had nightmares, ever since he was a little boy. Two or three times a month he would wake from a dream so terrifying it would leave him trembling and crying, afraid to go back to sleep. There were many explanations, of course: the anxiety of growing up without a mother, the stress of having to move every few years, the difficulty Keegan had making friends with others his age. Plausible explanations, all of them, though deep down Gerrit knew none of them was the real truth.

  But things had seemed to get better when they had settled here in Tollhurst just over five years ago. Since then the terrible dreams had become less frequent. His son was fifteen now—a young man—and it had been over a year since his last nightmare. Gerrit had even allowed himself to believe the nightmares were gone for good.

  “Keegan?” he called out again, not hearing an answer. He gently pushed the door open and came into his son’s room. The young man was sitting on the edge of his bed, wearing only his breeches. His naked body, pale and thin, was bathed in sweat despite the chill of the night.

  He looked up at his father with his dark eyes—eyes that seemed to grab you and hold in their gaze. “We have to leave,” he said, his voice a choked whisper.

  Moving slowly, Gerrit crossed the room and sat next to Keegan on the bed. He draped a strong, comforting arm across his son’s bare shoulders. “Another dream, Kee?”

  The only response was a slight nod.

  “Tell me about it. Maybe it will help.”

  For several moments there was only silence as Keegan stared down at the ground. Gerrit said nothing, knowing it was better to let the lad tell things in his own time. At last, he began to speak.

  “They’re going to destroy the village. All of it. Burn it to the ground.”

  “Who? Who’s going to destroy the village?”

  “Raiders. Everybody dies. Nobody gets away.”

  Gerrit hesitated, not sure what to say. He knew his son’s dreams were special; he knew they were more than just dreams. But he didn’t know what to make of them.

  The young man turned his head to face his father, his cheeks stained with desperate tears. “We have to leave, Father. If we don’t, they’ll kill us, too.�
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  It wouldn’t be the first time they had fled a town in the night, though each time Gerrit prayed to the Gods that it would be the last. But this time they wouldn’t be running to keep their secret hidden, or to escape angry and frightened neighbors, or to keep the Order from finding them. This was different.

  “We can’t go, Keegan. We have to warn them.”

  “They’ll never believe me,” Keegan replied. “Nobody ever does.”

  “Maybe this time they will. Maybe this time it will be different.”

  “It won’t be.”

  “These people are our friends, Keegan. We have to tell them what’s going to happen so we can try and stop it.”

  “We can’t stop it. No one can. My dreams always come true.”

  His son’s words, delivered with such simple finality, sent a shiver down Gerrit’s spine. It was a statement of inevitable fact, utterly devoid of all hope.

  “Listen to me, son,” he said with a sudden urgency, “I admit I don’t understand this … this power you have. I’m a simple man, such things are beyond me.

  “But I believe these dreams are more than just visions of the future. There has to be some purpose behind them. There has to be a reason you see the things you do.”

  “What reason? What purpose?”

  He wanted to be able to give him an answer. More than anything, the father wanted to say something that would ease his son’s suffering, give him some hope. But the truth was he didn’t know what to say.

  “I can’t answer that, Keegan. All I know is that you have been shown something terrible. I don’t know why you’ve seen it and I don’t know if there’s anything we can do to prevent it. But I know we have to try.”

  He gave his son a reassuring squeeze with the arm draped around his shoulders, and felt him shiver from the perspiration on his bare skin.

  “Get under the covers,” Gerrit said, rising to his feet. “Tomorrow I’ll call the town council and we’ll tell them what you’ve seen.”

  “So we’re not going to leave?” Keegan asked as he tucked himself back in. Gerrit wasn’t sure, but he thought he sensed relief in his son’s voice.

  “No, we’re not leaving. There are times in a man’s life when he has to take a stand.”

  “There haven’t been Raiders this far into the Southlands since before the Purge! Long before that, even. Fifty years ago, at least. This is preposterous!”

  Gerrit Wareman, general store owner and recently elected mayor of the town of Tollhurst, replied to the angry outburst in a calm and level voice. “Maybe so, Willan, but there have been Raiders here in the past.”

  As he spoke, Gerrit let his eyes drift over the ten men and women who made up the village council. They had come to the local inn that served as the town hall in time of need to hear him speak. They watched him with curious eyes from their seats around the tavern’s tables, looking very much like a crowd of hungry customers. It wasn’t unusual for a village council meeting to end with a good meal, strong drink, and boisterous song. But this meeting was different. There would be no singing tonight.

  “Adrax fought the Raiders when he was a young man, Willan,” Gerrit noted. “Perhaps he can make you understand the danger.”

  A stooped, gray-haired old man rose slowly to his feet. Adrax was nearly eighty now, the oldest council member, the oldest man in the village. He seldom spoke at the meetings, and his voice was thin and nervous on this night.

  “Gerrit speaks the truth. If Raiders come to Tollhurst our houses will be burned and our livestock slaughtered. Everything of value will be seized, the men will be killed, and the women will be taken for purposes too vile to mention. Raiders are not men—they are inhuman monsters. They have no remorse, and no conscience. If Raiders are coming, we need to prepare for war.”

  Willan Coburd, owner of the Smiling Drake Tavern and long-serving mayor of Tollhurst before Gerrit had run against and defeated him last spring, renewed his protests.

  “I do not doubt the savagery of the Raiders—I doubt their very existence! A full generation has passed since they were last seen in this province. Raiders are a threat to those who live in the borderlands, not us. If the barbarians of the Frozen East had entered the Southlands we would know!”

  “Raiders do not necessarily have to be barbarians from the East,” Gerrit pointed out, trying not to let his exasperation show. Ever since he’d become mayor, Willan Coburd had opposed every idea he had put forth on mere principle. “Outlaws—men of no conscience and no honor banding together to prey upon the weak: The Southlands breeds such animals as readily as the Frozen East.”

  “Save your scary tales for the children,” Willan scoffed. “The patrols scour the province regularly for brigands and highwaymen. They keep the roads safe. Everyone knows Raiders no longer dare venture within three days’ ride of any of the Seven Capitals. But you would have us disregard all this?

  “You would have us believe that after fifty years Raiders are about to return, Gerrit? We are supposed to believe this because a boy has had a bad dream?”

  “I told you they wouldn’t believe us,” Keegan muttered from his chair in the corner.

  Normally only the council was permitted to attend town meetings. Given the circumstances, however, Gerrit had insisted his son be present. Despite Willan’s strong objection.

  “Nobody ever believes,” he continued. “Not until it’s too late.”

  Gerrit held up a hand to silence his son. He would make them understand. He had to, no matter what the cost.

  “My son …,” he began uncertainly, staring at the floor, “… my son knows things. Things he shouldn’t—couldn’t—possibly know. Sometimes he has dreams. Dreams that come true. We have kept this secret, my son and I.”

  The mayor of Tollhurst raised his eyes to the other councilors. His neighbors and friends were staring intently at him, trying to weigh the merit of his words.

  “Dunkirk,” Gerrit said, addressing the village smith, “Keegan told me your daughter would marry a minstrel. He told me this two seasons ago. A week later Pellin first arrived in our town, a kind stranger with his lute slung across his back. And now in less than a fortnight you will celebrate his union with your daughter.” Gerrit spoke softly, yet the silence in the room carried his words clearly to every ear.

  “And Lassinda,” he said, addressing the matronly woman who served as the village midwife. “Last High Season he told me Juliana would have twins. He knew she would have twins before anyone even knew she was with child, including you.”

  Turning his attention back to Willan, Gerrit continued to plead his son’s case. “And he told me of Lord Selkirk’s visit. Did I not suggest to you that we stock up on the most expensive wines? I told you we should always be prepared, just in case. Do you remember, Willan?

  “What would have happened if such an important noblemen had graced your tavern’s door and found nothing worthy to refresh his thirst? Do you think it was simple good fortune that prompted my suggestion?”

  Uncertain what more he could say, Gerrit paused before concluding. “If my son tells me Raiders are coming to the village in two nights, I know it to be true.”

  There was silence from the council, until Elimee, oldest of the female councilors, spoke up. “Keegan has the Sight. He’s a Seer!”

  “I always made him hide it,” Gerrit admitted softly. “I was afraid. Afraid of losing him. Afraid the Order would come to take him from me. My wife is dead and Keegan is all I have left of her. I could not bear to lose him.”

  Willan’s voice cut through the awkward silence. “How do we know you speak the truth, Gerrit?”

  Keegan looked up from his chair, his dark eyes burning with the fire of a fifteen-year-old youth called to a challenge. “Are you calling my father a liar, Willan?”

  Willan ignored Keegan and addressed himself to the council instead. “Our mayor is a fine, upstanding man; he is an important part of our community. But the same cannot be said of his son.”

  “Watc
h what you say about my boy,” Gerrit warned ominously.

  “Forgive me, Mayor,” Willan apologized without sincerity. “I’m sure Keegan’s a good boy deep down, but the fact is he doesn’t fit in. He’s too quiet, too withdrawn. The other children never took to him.”

  “Willan!” Elimee shouted. “How can you say such a thing? The boy is right here!”

  “I’m only saying what we all know to be true. I don’t begrudge a father for wanting to believe his son is special, that he has some gift. But to the rest of us it should be obvious that this so-called dream is nothing but a frustrated boy’s desire for attention.”

  “You go too far, Willan!” Gerrit snapped. “You have no idea what is at stake here.”

  “No? Then let the boy speak for himself, Mayor. Let him tell us of his horrible dream in his own words.”

  “I’ve seen fire and blood as our village burns and our men are slain,” Keegan said in response. He spoke slowly and without emotion as he recounted the most vivid details of his dream. “I’ve heard the screams of the women as they are ravished while the corpses of their husbands and fathers lie beside them.

  “I’ve even seen your death, Willan. Cut down like a dog in the street by a Raider’s scimitar, the blade biting into your back as you run in terror, leaving your wife and daughter behind.”

  “Damn you, boy!” Willan shouted; his fists clenching as he leapt to his feet. “Nobody threatens me!”

  “Enough!” Gerrit ordered in a loud voice. “Keegan, no more. Willan, sit down!” Reluctantly Willan did as he was told. “My son isn’t threatening you, you fool! He’s trying to warn you. He’s trying to save your life!”

  Face twisted into a contemptuous sneer, Willan shot back, “So you say. But we have no proof of his talent but your own claims. I hardly think that is enough to act on.”

  It was Elimee who brought reason back to the meeting. “In the years since Gerrit arrived I’ve never known him to lie to anyone about anything. He’s a good man, we all know that. That’s why we chose him as our mayor.