Children of Fire

by Drew Karpyshyn

  Dreaming of Rexol wasn’t unusual—it happened so frequently she no longer attached any real importance or meaning to it. But the crown was new. There was something special about the crown. Something significant. It wasn’t forged from gold or precious metal—it was made of iron. Simple and plain, but it burned with a radiance so intense it had blinded her to everything else.

  She rose from her mat and crossed to the door of her room, her steps confident and sure despite the darkness.

  Interpreting dreams—even her own—was not her responsibility. She had to tell the Pontiff. He had the wisdom to help her understand the vision.

  I must tell him about Rexol, too, she thought as she made her way slowly down the halls of the Monastery’s barracks. He was part of the vision. His presence may be significant.

  Her arm began to itch and she scratched at it absently, unaware of the invisible mark the wizard had left upon her.

  The door to Nazir’s chamber was closed; a purely symbolic gesture. Had she wanted to, Cassandra could have easily reached out with her second sight to peer beyond the wooden portal. However, doing so would have been a gross violation of the Pontiff’s privacy. Instead, she curbed her awareness at the threshold and knocked instead.

  “Come in, Cassandra,” the Pontiff’s voice called out from the other side.

  She pushed the door open and allowed her awareness to extend into the room. Only then did she realize the Pontiff wasn’t alone—Yasmin was with him. The elderly head of the Order sat cross-legged on the floor, his features a mask of eternal calm. The Prime Inquisitor towered over him, her face twisting into an expression of contempt as Cassandra entered the room.

  “What do you want?” she demanded.

  Cassandra hesitated for a second, wondering if she should address her or the man she actually wanted to speak to.

  “I seek interpretation of a dream,” she said pointedly. “As is my right as a Seer.”

  She had learned long ago that calling on the ancient customs and traditions of the Order was the best way to blunt Yasmin’s rage. With a curt nod of her bald, scarred head, the taller woman deferred and stepped back.

  “Tell me of your vision, Cassandra,” the Pontiff encouraged, motioning for her to approach.

  She came farther into the room, scratching at her arm. Her earlier resolve to tell the Pontiff everything about her dream wavered. Yasmin already considered her to be tainted from her time under Rexol’s charge. Mentioning his presence in her vision would only give fuel to the fires of her mistrust.

  Rexol isn’t relevant anyway, she thought. The crown is what’s new. The crown is the important part.

  “I saw a crown,” she said. “It was made of iron, but it glowed with the power of Chaos.”

  “That’s it?” Yasmin said with a sneer. “A glowing crown?”

  The Pontiff held up a hand to silence her.

  “A crown can represent many things,” he said, speaking slowly as if choosing his words with great care. “It can signify a king, or a general. Any type of leader or authority figure, really … even me.

  “Was there anything else significant about the dream?” he pressed. “Were there any other details?”

  Cassandra opened her mouth, determined to tell him about Rexol despite her misgivings about Yasmin. But to her own surprise, she promptly shut it again and remained silent. Rubbing her arm, she gave a shake of her head.

  “I’m sorry, Pontiff. All I saw was the crown.”

  “While the storm looms over the Monastery, we are under the veil of Chaos,” the Pontiff said by way of reassurance. “Much is obscured or hidden.

  “I will speak with the other Seers,” he continued. “If your dream was fractured by the storm, others may have seen pieces that will help make the vision whole.”

  “The storm can also twist and corrupt the power of those who are weak,” Yasmin chimed in. “While it persists we must be wary of false prophecies that will lead us astray.”

  “My visions are pure,” Cassandra declared, clenching her teeth but keeping her voice calm.

  Again the Pontiff held up his hand, cutting off any further argument.

  “The storm will pass soon,” he reminded them. “Once it is gone, Cassandra may dream of the crown again. She may see her vision more clearly.

  “Or perhaps the vision will simply fade away when the storm recedes, and we will know the crown was a meaningless fragment spawned by Chaos.

  “But there is nothing to be gained by arguing over it now,” he concluded.

  Realizing she had been dismissed, Cassandra nodded in acceptance of his wisdom and turned to go, closing the door behind her.

  After Cassandra left, the Pontiff could sense Yasmin’s blind gaze hovering on him. She was his right hand; she knew him better than anyone, and she was trained in the arts of detecting lies and half-truths. She sensed he had been holding something back.

  “You think there is meaning behind her dream,” Yasmin declared.

  I think the Chaos of the storm has heightened her powers, the Pontiff thought. I think she senses the Talisman locked away beneath the Monastery.

  “Cassandra is one of our strongest and most reliable Seers,” he said aloud. “I would be a fool to dismiss her visions out of hand.”

  Yasmin did not know about the Crown. That knowledge—the Talisman’s power, its potential, and how to safely use it—was reserved exclusively for the Pontiff. When Nazir’s reign ended and the True Gods called him home, his successor would learn of it through the archives of his personal writings, just as he had learned of it when he unsealed the archives of his predecessor upon ascending to his current position.

  I’ve assumed that successor would be you, Yasmin, he thought, his attention focused on the tall woman with the bald and badly scarred scalp. But maybe this vision is a sign that Cassandra will be the one to eventually take my place.

  Cassandra was young, but so was Yasmin. They both had the strength to one day lead the Order, though Nazir knew they would do so in very different ways. With the Legacy weakening, he’d thought Yasmin’s fierce zealotry might be needed to lead them to victory in a war against the Slayer’s followers. But maybe Cassandra’s quiet resolve would serve the cause better. Perhaps the Legacy could be preserved and war avoided altogether.

  “This storm has blinded the Seers,” Yasmin noted, interrupting his train of thought. “All they can see is floods and destruction. So why is Cassandra still having other visions?”

  “Do you think Cassandra is lying?” the Pontiff wanted to know. “Do you think she can no longer tell the difference between a true vision and a regular dream?”

  These were serious accusations to level against a Seer, and Yasmin was quick to back away from the implication.

  “I am not making any formal charge,” she insisted. “As always, I defer to your wisdom, Pontiff. I only ask that you remember the source of this storm when you consider her vision.”

  The Pontiff sighed. “We have no proof Rexol is responsible.”

  “But if he was, it would make sense that his former apprentice would be the only Seer able to see beyond it.”

  “You overestimate the wizard’s influence on Cassandra,” he said. “She has been with us far longer than she was ever with him. Her only connection to him now comes through your suspicion and accusations.”

  Though it’s possible she has some connection to the Crown. Is it calling to her? Is that why she saw it in her vision? Will she be able to master it and use its power in ways even I never dared?

  “As Prime Inquisitor it is my duty to question,” Yasmin reminded him.

  “But the final judgment is mine,” he countered. “Cassandra’s loyalty is not in doubt. You should focus your attention on a real traitor.”

  “Jerrod,” Yasmin said, the name dripping with bile and venom.

  “That is why I summoned you,” the Pontiff reminded her. “We have reports from Pilgrims in the North. Someone is spreading the heresy of the Burning Savior in the Fre
e Cities.”

  “So he’s finally crawled out of his hole,” Yasmin said with a predatory smile.

  “Not him, but new disciples he has recruited to his cause. Their numbers are growing.”

  “I will send Inquisitors to the North,” Yasmin declared. “We will hunt down these heretics and crush them. We will root out every one of his followers until one of them leads us to him.

  “With your permission, of course, Pontiff,” she hastily added.

  “On the matter of Jerrod,” the old man assured her, “we are in total agreement.”

  “This time,” Yasmin vowed, “the traitor won’t escape.”

  Chapter 24

  Keegan watched Vaaler packing his belongings with a powerful mix of emotions: sorrow, regret, guilt … and relief. A score of Danaan guards were waiting in the courtyard to escort Vaaler home, and though he was sad to see his friend go, Keegan knew his departure would put an end to the tension that had been growing between them.

  Six weeks ago Keegan had unleashed the power of Chaos on the mortal world. And even though he had lost control of the spell and nearly been consumed by the terrible blue flames, he recognized it as the single greatest moment of his life.

  He’d felt the touch of Chaos before: in his dreams, and in the primal release of fury that had killed the man who murdered his father. But in those instances the Chaos had come unbidden and uncalled—he was little more than a conduit for its power.

  Rexol’s trial had been completely different. Through the incantation of the spell, he had summoned the power and bent it to his will. Before the spell overwhelmed him, he had sensed the infinite potential in his grasp. In that instant, he’d known for the first time who and what he truly was. He was a wizard—a mage who would one day control the very fires of creation.

  He’d tried to explain that sensation to Vaaler. The heat of the fire that didn’t burn; the rush of Chaos ripping through him; even the terror and searing pain when he lost control had all filled him with a sort of mad ecstasy. It was hard to imagine a more horrible way to die, but it was impossible not to want to try it again.

  It sounds like some type of madness, Vaaler had replied, and Keegan realized that he’d never understand. Empty words couldn’t do justice to the euphoria he’d felt. And from that moment, there had been a distance between them,, subtle yet undeniable.

  Rexol had warned him this would happen.

  You have the Gift, Keegan; it sets you apart from other men. They will never truly know you; they can never understand the power you wield.

  You are touched by Chaos. You are marked. Yours is a destiny beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals, and in time they will resent you for it.

  Even Vaaler, though he will one day rule a kingdom, is beneath you. A true Chaos mage has no friends and no equals, save for another mage.

  It wasn’t that Vaaler was bitter or jealous. Not overtly. When he had learned of Keegan’s success, he had been genuinely pleased for his friend. But at the same time it was impossible not to sense his frustration and disappointment with his own failure. The prince had come here as a young boy, sent away by his mother and his people in the hope he would return a wizard. He had dedicated years of his life to this cause, and made no progress whatsoever. Keegan’s success stripped away the illusion that Vaaler’s failures could ever be overcome.

  Looking at his friend, he couldn’t help but feel pity for him.

  “It’s going to be boring here once you’re gone,” Keegan said, desperate to break the somber silence that hung over the room.

  “I’m sure Rexol will keep you busy,” Vaaler replied with a shrug as he continued to pack. “You’ll be working so hard you won’t even know I’m missing.”

  There was some truth in what he said. Since that day, Rexol had increased Keegan’s studies and responsibilities tenfold. In addition to memorizing several new spells, he was now studying translated versions of the Danaan manuscripts that had been the price of Vaaler’s tutelage. In time he would learn to use magic to decipher the words himself. But for now, his master just wanted him to become familiar with the legends and histories of the Danaan people.

  Rexol had also instructed him to keep a dream journal: Each morning he had to record every detail he could remember from night before. Initially, Keegan had objected to this as pointless: Most of the time his dreams were just like anyone else’s, a mix of the bizarre and insignificant. And when his dreams gave him glimpses into the future—something that hadn’t happened since he’d foreseen his father’s death—the images were vivid and unforgettable.

  The visions you remember are simply the strongest manifestations of Chaos, Rexol had explained. But there could still be prophetic hints buried in the dreams you don’t remember.

  As you continue your training, Rexol had added, your mind will become more focused on the Gift. Your waking mind will become more adept at summoning and controlling Chaos. As a result, your Sight will grow weaker, and it will be more difficult for you to recognize Chaos speaking to you through your subconscious.

  Keegan had eagerly accepted the new terms of his apprenticeship. He knew the extra work, while daunting in volume, would help him master his potential and become a true Chaos mage. However, there was one condition he had to agree to: Rexol had forbidden him from studying with Vaaler anymore.

  He’s not a wizard. His understanding of Chaos will always be limited to the superficial—the words of the incantation, rather than the true source of a spell’s power. Working with him now will only hinder your progress.

  Keegan wasn’t even allowed to discuss his new training with his friend, and the secrets had further widened the distance between them. And now Rexol was sending Vaaler away.

  “It’s not right,” Keegan grumbled. “You shouldn’t have to leave. Not like this. Not because of me.”

  “This isn’t your fault,” Vaaler assured him, stuffing the last of his things into his pack. “Things are going to be hard enough without you carrying a bunch of misplaced guilt.

  “Besides,” he added, sitting down in the room’s lone chair to take a break, “there’s nothing here for me anymore. Rexol’s done with me.”

  Keegan shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem fair. Even if you can’t … you know … he can still teach you things.”

  “He taught me things,” Vaaler replied. “I know the history and politics of the Southlands. I have a better understanding of their culture, and of how humans and Danaan can get along. And I even learned a lot about magic.

  “I may never be a wizard, but I understand the theory and practice of the mage’s art. I can pass those teachings on to the sorcerers in my mother’s court.”

  Assuming they’ll listen to you, Keegan thought but didn’t say aloud.

  “This is for the best,” Vaaler insisted. “I’ve been away from my home too long. It’s time I get back to my own people.”

  “Maybe I can come visit you once you become king,” Keegan joked. “You could let me sit on your throne and show me all the secrets of the Danaan Forest.”

  “Sure,” Vaaler replied with a sly smile, “but then I’d have to kill you. One of the responsibilities of being the Danaan King.”

  Keegan rose to the bait. “You could try. But no king is a match for a wizard.” He regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth.

  Vaaler didn’t say anything, and the melancholy gloom settled over the room once again. Keegan cursed himself for his stupidity.

  “I’m sorry, Vaaler. I didn’t mean that.”

  The Danaan prince nodded in mute acceptance of the apology. He seemed about to say something, then stopped. Keegan waited, letting him gather his thoughts.

  “Don’t let Rexol turn you into him,” the prince finally whispered. “He’s arrogant. He’s selfish. He uses people. He doesn’t care for anyone or anything unless he thinks it can help him in some way.”

  “He took me in when nobody else would,” Keegan replied, feeling the urge to defend his master. />
  “He took you in because of your Gift and your dreams. He thinks you’re a key to unlocking the mysteries of the Old Magic. Just like he agreed to teach me only because of the ancient knowledge he hoped to uncover in the books my people gave him. He’s obsessed with power; he’ll do anything to get it.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Keegan countered. “One day you’re going to be a king. Most of us don’t have that luxury. We aren’t born into power—we have to take it!”

  “That sounds like something he’d say.”

  The implied condemnation in Vaaler’s tone shocked Keegan into silence, and another awkward silence settled over them.

  “There’s one thing Rexol didn’t teach me,” Vaaler finally said. “A lesson my mother made sure I understood as soon as I was old enough to talk. Power comes with a price. It’s a burden. It demands sacrifice.

  “For all his intelligence and wisdom, your master doesn’t understand this. He never did and he never will. When I ascend the throne I will have the power of life and death over all my subjects. When you learn to unleash the Chaos within you, you will have that same power over everybody. But a king must answer to his people. Who does a wizard answer to?”

  Keegan wasn’t able to think of a suitable reply.

  “You’re destined for great things,” Vaaler added. “I may not have the Sight, but even I can see that. You have to be careful, though. Rexol’s ambition will be his downfall; don’t let it become yours, too.”

  “So what are you saying? I should leave? Go off on my own? Tag along with your escort until we reach the Free Cities?”