“But you haven’t asked me to stay.”
Davida sighed. “I like you a lot but I don’t know…”
“No.” Blake pulled her naked body closer to his side.
“And you haven’t asked me to wait for you,” she said.
He sighed as well. “No. I’ve thought about it but there are too many uncertainties.”
“I might wait,” she said, “but it won’t be because you’ve asked me to. It will be because I want to.” She grinned at him through the dim light. “And I suspect that I won’t really know how I feel until you’re gone.”
“I expect,” Blake said carefully, “that someday I’ll be back.”
“I hope so,” Davida said. “We’ll see.”
Irina Garcia, naked, looked down upon the equally naked body of Alejandro Garcia. She pursed her lips, considering. Alejandro waited, a thin smile on his face.
Alejandro, Irina well knew, was grieving, but for Alejandro Garcia, grief had its limits. Alejandro needed distraction, and Thierry was not his only son.
Irina, too, was grieving, but not for Thierry, more for the change in plans that his death now required. Irina Archer had realized at a very young age that other people meant very little to her. Irina had read about people like herself, and she had discovered with some relief that she was by no means unique.
Irina was a sociopath. She had all the traits. She was charming, though the charm was a façade. The truth for Irina was merely one option among many. When lying, it was important to keep one’s story straight. A successful liar is a consistent liar. Irina’s emotions were shallow. The world moved in a fog around her, none of it consequential except that small part which fed her own desires. She was easily bored. Shame, remorse, guilt…these were merely words to Irina Archer. She knew what they were supposed to mean but the concepts themselves were beyond her. She felt none of these things.
Sex filled some empty place in her soul. For a little while, she could lose herself in physical stimulation, in the pure pleasure of the physical act. She sought lovers like a drug, and almost as much as the sex itself, she enjoyed pitting one man against another, cajoling and manipulating, assuring each man or woman that they were the sole object of her desire.
The fools.
She enjoyed playing games. She liked being in charge. Power was almost as much fun as sex, and it lasted longer.
Once, soon after she had taken her husband’s father as a lover, he had tied her up and penetrated her anus, using little lubrication. He had been rough. He had ignored her protests. It had hurt. Alejandro Garcia enjoyed hurting people.
Alejandro Garcia, Irina reflected, was much like herself.
The next time they were together, Irina had drugged his wine. When Alejandro awakened, he found himself in restraints, naked and lying face down on the bed. He tried to struggle at first, until Irina laughed.
“Did you know that the Primate doubts your loyalty?” Irina said.
Alejandro froze.
“The Primate is a very strong man,” Irina said. “Very forceful. I am not certain that recommending my talents to him was wise of you. You thought to curry his favor, but you’ve given me some small influence over him, as well. I can use that influence in so many ways…”
Irina smiled. “I have a lesson to teach you.” She picked up a small wooden club and moved the blunt head between his cheeks. “You’re not going to enjoy this,” Irina said, “but I am. Very much.”
On the other hand, perhaps he did enjoy it, at least a little. Since that day, however, Alejandro had treated her warily and with respect, and Irina, a dutiful daughter-in-law, had continued to service Alejandro’s desires.
Her husband was dead. Annoying, but wisdom lay in being ready for all eventualities. Irina’s plans for the future were easily adjusted.
She was a widow now, a rich one.
Let me see…she reached her hand out and slowly ran it down Alejandro Garcia’s chest. She tweaked his nipple and he groaned. Where to begin…?
Ranald pulled his horse to a stop in the courtyard of the cathedral in Lausanne and handed the reins to a hostler, who bowed to him without speaking. Ranald had been here many times before. He knew the way, entered the confessional and waited. A rustle of cloth on the other side of the barrier told him that the man he was waiting for had arrived.
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned,” Ranald said.
It took only minutes for Ranald’s confession to be heard. Once his penance had been declared, he passed a single gold coin to the Priest, along with a coded note, which would be conveyed by courier to Varanisi.
Then, his task completed, Ranald mounted his horse and returned to his quarters in the palace of a still grieving Alejandro Garcia.
Epilogue
Soul-stuff was difficult to weave, and those with the talent to weave it were rare. Everybody knew this.
Every fifth year, three weeks prior to the Holy Day of Investiture, the Viceroy’s men rode through the village, as they rode through all the villages in all the lands, testing all those between the ages of eight and seventeen for the talent. Those who had such talent, even the tiniest amount of it, were taken away and not seen in the village again, except for some few who might return years later for a short time as adults, well-dressed adults, smelling faintly of perfume or cologne, who would look around themselves as if wondering how they could ever have lived in such a poor, benighted place.
The people of Wamsey wondered, of course. Wondering was allowed, though complaint was not. They wondered what happened to those children taken by the Viceroy’s men? The children, those who returned, never explained. The parents of such a child were paid ten gold coins, enough to feed a family for the next five winters. The child was placed inside a wagon with comfortable seats and a window to look out of. And then, the child would be gone.
Lord Damien Hurst rarely bothered to accompany a Finders’ expedition, having grown fat and sedentary, but occasionally the mood struck him. His men understood. Inwardly, they may have groaned—but outwardly, they simply bowed, added three additional servants and a loaded cart to the party, and continued their preparations.
Nothing set Wamsey apart from any other peasant village. It was clean, with a town square surrounded by shops and small manufactories and two inns. A schoolhouse stood on one corner, and as the Finders’ party circled the square, the children, accompanied by two schoolmistresses, lined up outside to witness them.
The younger children, bewildered by all the fuss, exchanged confused glances. The older children looked at the Finders with serious expressions. Some were intense. A few seemed eager. Very few seemed disapproving.
“Note the one on the corner,” Lord Damien said, peering from the window of his vehicle.
Robert Asprith, the Finders’ Captain, slowly nodded. “And the brown-haired boy in the middle.”
“Bring them to me once we’re settled.”
Robert, tall and thin, with sandy brown hair worn close to the skull, smiled. “Of course,” the Captain said.
Damien Hurst lounged back on a large chair that bore a suspicious resemblance to a throne. Sunlight shone softly through the pale lavender silk of his tent. “What is your name, child?”
The boy, standing in front of him with a mulish expression on his face, peered around the tent but had difficulty looking Damien Hurst in the eye. At the sound of Lord Hurst’s voice, he shook himself and looked up. “Tindall, sir.”
“How old are you, Tindall?”
“Nine years, sir.”
“Do you know why you’re here, Tindall?”
The boy shook his head. “I’m not sure, sir.”
Lord Hurst smiled. The boy winced. “You’re here to be tested, you and your classmates.”
The boy stared at him.
“What do you think of that, Tindall?”
The boy swallowed and continued to stare.
“Come now, boy. Don’t be frightened. Answer me.”
The boy dug into the carpet wi
th the point of a toe. He frowned and his gaze shifted downward. “I don’t know what to think, sir.”
Damien Hurst sighed. A multi-colored glass bowl sat on a low table in front of his chair. Five rubber balloons filled with air sat in the bowl. One of the balloons suddenly rose and floated toward Tindall. It stopped six inches in front of his face. A second balloon rose, then a third. Soon, all five balloons hovered in front of Tindall. Damien Hurst looked at him thoughtfully.
“Balloons are very light, very easy to manipulate,” Damien Hurst said. “It takes almost no phrygium at all, to pick up a balloon.”
The boy frowned, uncertain.
“Do you know what phrygium is, Tindall?”
“Soul-stuff?” Tindall said.
“Yes, Tindall. Soul-stuff.”
Tindall pursed his lips and blinked at the five balloons.
“I would like you to take control of these balloons, Tindall—with phrygium.”
Tindall gulped. “I don’t know how, sir.”
Damien Hurst grinned. “That is unfortunate, but the Magisterium has a constant need for peasants, farmers and yeomen. There is no shame in not being fit for anything greater. Some are capable.” Damien Hurst shrugged. “Some are not.”
Tindall stared at the balloons, his lips thinning. A bead of sweat grew upon his brow. One balloon trembled. It moved away from his face and circled around his head. A second balloon followed the first, then another. “That’s all I can do,” he gasped.
Damien Hurst pursed his lips, gave the boy a small, satisfied smile and inspected Tindall’s face. “It’s a start,” he said.
They stayed for a day. One more child, a girl this time, was found who could work with phyrygium. The rest were tested and found wanting. The brown-haired boy, the one who had frowned at the approach of Lord Hurst and his men, proved both incapable and sullen, and said hardly a word through his testing.
After the boy had left, Robert Asprith, who had stood silently in the corner, said, “His father and mother are both bakers; not known for expressing political opinion one way or the other.”
“Make certain that the Reave is informed. He should keep an eye on them, just in case.”
“I have done so,” Robert said.
Lord Hurst nodded. “We cannot peek inside a man’s head, more’s the pity, but in most cases, we can judge his thoughts by his actions. It they stir no sedition, they can think what they like.”
Robert gave Lord Hurst a skeptical look. “This is a generous thought, and one that the Inquisitoria might find radical. A sin unrealized is still a sin.”
Lord Hurst smiled. “There are greater and lesser degrees of sin. If we tried to stamp out every stray thought, we would have no subjects left. Where would we be, then? I should not care to cook my own food nor draw my own bath, much less defend my castle from the onslaught of my enemies.”
Robert frowned and did not answer. Lord Hurst smiled wider. “See? You keep your thoughts to yourself. This is sinful of you, but wise.”
The Finders’ Captain reluctantly smiled back. “Perhaps,” he said.
“Or perhaps not. After all, I cannot see inside your head. I choose to believe that you have listened to your Lord with humility and gratitude, and now see the error of your ways.”
Robert made a rude noise.
The corner of Lord Hurst’s lip quirked upward. “It’s been a long day,” he said. “We’ll leave tomorrow.”
Robert bowed. “Yes, my Lord.”
Damien Hurst’s party left the next morning, three hours after dawn, enough time for Lord Hurst to have a fine breakfast in the town’s largest inn. The proprietor was honored, or if not, he kept any sinful thoughts to himself. The eggs that he served were scrambled to soft peaks, the bacon crisp, the pancakes fluffy and dripping with butter and syrup. Lord Hurst was pleased.
The two children, Tindall and the girl, Eliza, were given an honored place in a coach of their own. Surrounded by Lord Hurst’s mounted guards, they left for the next town on their route.
Two hours after they had left, a one-eyed man, wearing a peaked hat and carrying a staff, walked into town. At first glance, this man appeared elderly; his face was lined and his long beard streaked with gray. His carriage was straight, however, and his stride long. He was lean, but solid muscle covered his frame. His one blue eye looked out at the citizens of the town with amusement.
He took a room at the inn, stayed overnight and then left in the morning, accompanied by a brown-haired boy, whose face was much less sullen than it used to be. The boy looked around eagerly, though there was nothing to see except a road and woods on either side. Within a few kilometers, they were further from his home than the boy had ever been.
“Where is it exactly that we’re headed?” the boy asked. “You didn’t say.”
“I didn’t say because it’s a secret.” The one-eyed man grinned, “But it’s a secret place where you’ll be safe.”
“And when will we get there?”
“Soon,” the one-eyed man said. “Very soon.”
The End
Information About the Author
I hope you enjoyed The Towering Flame, the first book in a brand new series, The Survivors, which is an offshoot series of The Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind. The second book, currently untitled, will continue the adventures of Terence Sergei Allen, and will be completed sometime in mid-2020.
As for myself, I graduated from Columbia College of Columbia University with a degree in English before attending Northwestern University Medical School. I’ve had a long career as an academic physician, which has resulted in over forty scientific publications. I began writing fiction many years ago, and in addition to The Survivors, I am the author of The Chronicles of the Second Interstellar Empire of Mankind, which includes The Game Players of Meridien, The City of Ashes, The Empire of Dust, The Empire of Ruin and The Well of Time. I am also the author of two additional science fiction novels to date: Edward Maret: A Novel of the Future and The Cannibal’s Feast, plus the Kurtz and Barent Mystery series, which includes Surgical Risk, The Anatomy Lesson, Seizure, The Chairmen, Brighton Beach and If a Tree Falls. I am happy to add that If a Tree Falls was first published as part of the Do No Harm collection of medical mysteries, which reached number 55 on the USA Today Bestseller List the week after publication in mid-2019.
For more information, please visit my website, http://www.robertikatz.com or Facebook page, https://www.facebook.com/Robertikatzofficial/. For continuing updates regarding new releases, author appearances and general information about my books and stories, sign up for my newsletter/email list at http://www.robertikatz.com/join and you will also receive two free short stories. The first is a science fiction story, entitled “Adam,” about a scientist who uses a tailored retrovirus to implant the Fox P2 gene (sometimes called the language gene) into a cage full of rats and a mouse named Adam, and the unexpected consequences that result. The second is a prequel to the Kurtz and Barent mysteries, entitled “Something in the Blood,” featuring Richard Kurtz as a young surgical resident on an elective rotation in the Arkansas mountains, solving a medical mystery that spans two tragic generations.
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