Sefiros Eishi: Chased By Flame

by Michael Wolff

  “I recognized you right away. Though I was surprised to find you. I didn’t know you lived here.”

  Who is this girl? Manners. “I don’t. Just passing through.”

  “I see.” Her face wrinkled in disappointment. “How... how long are you going to be?”

  “A while. Not long. Just have to get a few books and its back to the old lair.”

  “Lair?”

  “My master’s manor. We stay there in the winter.”

  “Your master? Lazarus? You stay with him now?”

  His fork made a little scraping whine on the glass, but just a little. Lazarus. How does she know Lazarus? He made himself smile and nod. “Yes. I’m his apprentice, though it seems more a servant in some cases.” He smiled again to hide the building panic. Calm down you idiot. Lazarus comes here all the time, remember? Of course she would know him. “I thought it would be simple. Books aren’t a war campaign.” He chuckled at the memories of years hence. He was still in the right of Lazarus being a stubborn old man. But looking back with the eyes of added experience, he realized he might have been at fault. He’s still not right. Most of the time. “I should have known better. The man is a warhorse.”

  “Hmph. He can spare a couple of hours, can’t he? If he’s such a warhorse like you say, then he can’t need you all the time. Right?”

  Something itched in the back of his head. “I... suppose.”

  She jumped up with a smile. “Well then. It’s been a while since you been here. Why don’t I show you around? Things have changed a bit.”

  The itching became a full-blown alarm. “Well, I don’t know... I—” Suddenly he realized it was very hot in here. Hotter than a fireplace should be. “Actually I think Lazarus has something for me to do.”

  “Are you sure? I know there’s a lot of the city to cover. If we end up being late you could always stay at my house for the evening. It’s no trouble.”

  Mykel wondered if it was possible to catch aflame from nervousness. “Uh, no, thank you. Really. I... uh... Lazarus has me doing something important. Really important. I simply don’t have the time.” Idly he wondered if edging his way back would work, but he didn’t want to be rude. “I’m sorry.”

  Mykel swore he could feel some pall darkening the chamber, like a shadow draping over the sun, and the girl at the center of it. The silence stretched sharp till it seemed there was a wall of daggers between them. Come on man. Think! The song! Talk about the song! “Uh, uh... I liked your performance up there. On the stage, I mean. The Ballad.”

  “Thank you.”

  Mykel started. Shadows veiled her face, but he was sure he saw patches of red bloom in her cheeks. Say something more, idiot. “The um, the uh... the translation was a little off, of course. You kind of messed up with the third verse, and the ending. It...” He trailed off at the sight of her face slowly creasing in anger. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant you were you very good. Obviously. The lyrics weren’t the worst thing. Better singers have messed up the lyrics too.” Stupid. “That didn’t come out right. I meant that as good as you obviously are, the lyrics were not your biggest concern—” Shut up.

  He did. For a while. The girl stared at him for a while as if seeing him in a new light. Probably thinks I’m an idiot. She’d be right too. Can’t even talk to her. Why did you have to say that to her? Of course she’d react like that—

  “What task?”

  Mykel blinked. “What?”

  “What task?” A dangerous light simmered in her dark eyes; Mykel felt strangely afraid looking into them. “What task does he have working you on?”

  “I... uh...” Honestly he’d had expected her to be storming up the stairs by now. This would probably be a better situation. Mykel never knew how hot a cellar could get. “I’m researching and documenting the affairs of the Three-Day War.”

  “Ah. Well there’s no better man than you to do it. We were there, remember?”

  Mykel frowned. “I wasn’t there. I was a child at the time.”

  “That’s not a funny joke, Mykel.”

  The librarian blinked. “How do you know my name?”

  “Your name? We met at Lazarus’ manor. You were with Stromgald, and I was with Queen Christina. Then we got stranded and...” Her words trailed off in the face of Mykel’s befuddlement. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Um... of course I remember you.” Could a man roast inside his own skin? Mykel felt he was about to find out. “You... you insipid little... Caryl you rescue, but me you forget.”

  Everything stiffened. “Caryl? How do you know Caryl?”

  “How do I know Caryl? I was there, remember? In the square with the refugees, when she was waiting for someone to buy her! You brushed me aside like I was nothing!”

  The world went red with a crack, sent him tumbling. Mykel gingerly touched the welt her slap graved on his cheek. She’s stronger than she looks. “Look, I can explain —”

  It was too late. She was already storming off in a swirl of ruffled brown wool. Mykel sighed. He felt less foolish than he should have engaging in a false conversation. What was I supposed to do? Just tell her outright? That would have hurt her. As opposed to her hurting him, he supposed. That alternative was far better. But still: how had she known about Caryl?

  A shadow fell on the stairway. “Lad! Are you there?”

  Lazarus. “Yes, sir! I’m here!” Grabbing the book, he hurried to the stairwell and hoisted it up to the light. “I found the book.”

  “Good for you. Now hurry. I don’t have all day to waste.”

  Up in the common room de Varin gave Lazarus a heartfelt farewell, but his eyes lingered when it came to Mykel, and he felt as though he were a wooden figure placed on scales to weigh. He knows. She told him. There was a fire in his eyes akin to the father whose daughter had been slighted. He wouldn’t voice his concern, not while Lazarus was here, but his eyes told it well enough. You hurt one of my girls. Don’t come back or else I’ll tear your damn head from your scrawny neck.

  Mykel swallowed. He couldn’t even complain the so-called crime he committed; the words turned to ash on his tongue.

  “Trouble with the ladies?” Lazarus mocked once they were on the wagon.

  Mykel only fumed. He fumed through the tanyards, where great iron vats stood out like crusted boils upon the earth, pulsing the rancid stink of boiling leather like beacons, and the smithshops, the spark of baking metal sizzling with the snaps of greased bacon cooking. In-between them he snatched a glance of a familiar white house, but the sight of it only made him angrier, at himself more than anyone else. No. He fumed until his face was twisted nigh completely. Not again. Not today.

  VI

  Eventually the castle crept into view. Close-up it was far less magnificent than in the horizon. A fist of stone cracked with arthritis, the citadel slumped as if in a stupor. Not the porcelain fortress of Paree Vinaz, but it was the largest within the city limits, and thus the temporary key to the late King Loren’s dignity. If a king could not live in his own castle, then only the finest imitation would do. Even if that imitation was a dark mockery to everything the monarch once held dear.

  The stench of wet hay struck Mykel like a hammer as the wagon circled around into the stableyard. “Come on.” Lazarus said in a clipped tone. “Unhinge the horse.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Just do it.”

  Mykel sighed and instantly regretted the action. The stench was so overbearing it was like standing next to a week-old corpse. “I can’t understand how farmers do this all day,” he muttered to the horse as he fumbled with the stirrup. “I’d go mad with this smell.”

  Vincent wh
innied.

  “Ah, how sweet. A cripple and his horse.”

  Mykel couldn’t sigh to mentally prepare himself, so he just turned. “What it is, Marcus?” Gods. Even speaking the stench got through.

  The shaven-headed stableboy smirked with the kind of spoiled arrogance one would expect of a noble-born. “What, I can’t say hello to the castle’s weakest fool? Did the King make a decree when I was asleep?” He laughed, a braying howl akin to that of a donkey.

  “No,” Mykel said patiently. “Now, if you please move out of the way. I’ve got to stable the horse.”

  “Oh I see.” When Mykel glared the stableboy raised his hands in mocking defense. “Hey, I’m not one to judge. What you do with your horse when you’re alone is your business. I’ll just tell passerby the horse is being slaughtered or something. Maybe even skinned. That’ll do for the screaming.”

  Mykel swore there was some conspiracy with all the braggarts and idiots of the world. When I find them I’d like to hang them by their heels.

  “Oh, what’s the matter? Did I touch a nerve?” That braying donkey laugh, stupid donkey laugh, grating on his nerves. A big rough hand punched his shoulder, and the impact shoved him forward a few steps. “Come on. Can’t you take a little joke—?”

  The click of metal echoed sharp in the stable, making the horse jerk and whinny. Mykel smiled at the temporary shock of fear dancing in Marcus’ eyes as the punch-dagger’s sword-like blade slid just oh so shy of welting his neck’s apple.

  “This is getting very old.” Marcus said longingly. He shoved, hard, and danced away from the blade’s tip as Mykel stumbled and fell right into a load of freshly-dewed hay. “You think that scares anybody anymore? That “oh, look at me, I’m playing assassin, stay away.” He snorted. “Please. That stopped working a month ago.”

  Mykel decided that death was too good for Marcus. Perhaps a couple of hours of hanging upside down. By his toenails. Over a vat of acid. Unfortunately, he couldn’t do anything much about it as he found himself hoisted by a gnarled, massive fist.

  “But you know,” Marcus paused, and his lips curved to reveal twin rows of chipped yellow teeth. “If it’s a fight you want I’m more than happy to oblige.” His arm cocked back to throw a punch.

  “What is going on here?”

  Mykel grunted as his ass thudded into the hay-strewn ground. “Nothing sir,” Marcus said sweetly, quickly. “Absolutely nothing. Just helping Mykel to his feet, is all. Tripped over a hoe. My fault, really. I was the one—”

  “Enough.” Lazarus said idly. “You are...”

  “Marcus. Marcus Olb, sir.”

  “Olb. Yes, I remember you. You’ve been leaving quite a few hoes out lately. Perhaps I should speak to your father about reassignment. To the fields.”

  “No! Uh, no! Sir, no! I promise not to leave the hoes out again.”

  “Good. Now be off with you.”

  Mykel couldn’t help but snicker. “The fields” were the cotton fields lining Amden’s back roads. They meant long hours, gnarled hands, and miles away from the closest whorehouse. Go on, scramble. Scramble like a little rat. His face fell as he glanced up at Lazarus. It was as if a shadow slipped over the sun. His dark augur eyes touched him, then the khatar on his wrist. “Come.”

  The two made their way to the citadel. Chipped double-doors of gaudy lions and leopards opened into a throne room made all the cheaper by the painted-on gold some second-rate artist had cast over the bronze pillars and tile. The bronze itself was the replacement of the cracked tile and half-broken pillars left gaping in a maw of fangs, both by centuries of neglect. Crooked paintings with worn coats of oil and disheveled lanterns hanging on rusted nails lined the room, and the red velvet curtains that shielded the chamber from the limp sunlight were themselves thick with dust and grime for all the work put into it to make it not so.

  Mykel tried to take it all in – there was a lot of history to this place – but something caught in the corner of his eye. Caryl. He didn’t know whatever to shake his head or jump with elation. “Uh, Lazarus...” The librarian’s cheeks burned as the stone-spectacles glanced past him.

  “It’s all right. Do not take up too much time.”

  They met halfway. And as his way with beautiful women, Mykel found coherent sentences failed him. “Uh, um, uh...” He burned with the foolishness. He was a man grown, not a boy on his first dance. That was her spell. She made your heart beat till you were near to bursting. “I thought you said you wouldn’t come back here, Caryl!” The same Caryl that the girl mentioned she knew. That was impossible, of course. Mykel shook his head. “You promised.”

  “I thought you said you would stop rescuing me, Mykel.” She snapped back. Then after a moment she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” He avoided looking at her. The veneer was thinner than it seemed from far away, exposing every curve of breast and belly and thigh. It was hard just holding her hand. The heat seemed to slide downward until it throbbed painfully. Mykel shivered at the thought, and this time it wasn’t just from the cold. Gods. How can she keep from cold at this hour? He shook his head, but the hardness didn’t go away. It rarely did. “Come on.”

  The square was the same as it was the first time, but since Mykel was looking for distraction he noticed a slight distinction right off. In front of the fountain there was a great deal of Vicars bustling in work. It was only when they neared as close as they dared did Mykel catch a glimpse of the dais being built. Not big nor spectacular; just enough of each to fit with the demands of a nobleman. Someone was giving a speech, probably for a queenschild.

  Mykel snorted just low enough not to be overheard. Princess Christina Lansplex had come in overseas for marriage to Amden’s Prince Alric Zephyr. After the Three-Day War the Princess became embroiled in the midst of a bargaining sale, marrying first one prince, then another. All to solidify her claim on the Amden throne. She had had four husbands and ten children in the ten years between war and peace. She certainly did her share of that bargain.

  The House of Honeyed Thighs eventually bloomed from the ruined bazaar in-between the tanning vats and the blacksmiths, a rose slowly wilting to death. Mykel stopped three feet away from the brothel and gestured to it. “Well, that’s it for today.”

  “We’re here. Goodbye.” The heat throbbed in a painful beacon. He dared not glance up. Her breasts seemed to strain against the veneer, sweet mounds toying playfully. Quickly he spun around. “Uh... goodbye.” He started away.

  Caryl snorted. “Since when has my being a whore stopped you before?”

  The words stabbed him frozen. That’s not it at all. But it was Caryl. “I’m sorry, Caryl,” he said without turning around.” Can’t turn around. If I do... “I’ve... I haven’t been myself tonight.”

  “That’s for sure. Can’t even turn around to look a friend in the eye.”

  I’m going to regret this. He turned around and looked at her luscious form, slender and full and heavy in all the right places. For a moment Mykel just stared. She won’t tempt me. She won’t ask me to come upstairs. Others tried like the hawk pursuing the mouse. Only she didn’t make him feel the mouse. She’s just been... Finally, he sighed, and his face fell.

  Caryl nodded solemnly. “Wait a minute. I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”

  She disappeared into the hovel, and Mykel waited. The flames roiling in his groin stretched every second to an eternity, demanding release. Where is that damned girl? “Caryl?” Feeling every kind of fool, he edged towards her window. “Caryl!?”

  “Right here.” The window opened up, and Mykel gawked. If she was beautiful clad in thin veneer, then she was a goddess naked. The very sight of her burned all the months and books of hermitage right from his though
ts. He had no thoughts, period. “I—I—”

  Caryl smiled under her cascading red-raven hair. “Come on. I’m ready.”

  I’m going to regret this. Sighing, Mykel went in.

  VII

  Caryl knew she had a minute and a half; perhaps two if Madame Olga or one of the other girls started chatting with Mykel. Fortunately, she had this ritual down pat. The long black dress of silk he liked so much, the one that seemed to stretch so taut that her breasts pushed against it, was on within ten seconds. The orange leggings he liked, with the black silk tracings, were on within five. When steps echoed almost mournfully up the stairs she threw herself on the bed and waited.

  He came in as he always did, which was by now almost a ritual. He nodded to her, trying to hide the blush that ran to his cheeks from seeing all the lovely curves. Caryl giggled slightly as she moved experimentally, legs moving this way, arms moving that. The redness always grew in his face, and his eyes, following her every movement. He’s such a boy.

  “How are you Caryl?”

  “Fine.” She didn’t move, but gave an understanding smile. This too was part of their ritual. In actuality it was more for his part to justify their meetings, but for her the play-acting was a fair trade for what was coming. “You weren’t visiting another girl behind my back were you? Finally interested in a threesome?” She knew the answer before her lips parted, but it was worth it just to see the red crawl up his cheeks.

  “No,” he said, removing his hat. His eyes never left the bare spots of flesh. In fact, they seemed to settle on them like steel traps. Caryl felt every inch of flesh stiffen. He came to the edge of the bed, sadness and desire twining together. Caryl never gave any serious thought to what the sadness might be. For her, perhaps; for her lot in life. If she gave it any thought she guessed it was just a melodramatic reaction to the “betrayal” of his morals.

  She rose then, letting the black silk flutter down to her shoulders. His eyes struggled a bit before lowering down. Then they were drinking her in like a parched man to water. Caryl allowed herself a moment to revel in his stares. They never grew less heated, like other men who went on to new prey. Never. Then she cupped his chin in her hands and kissed him.