Brinin scurried to his feet, his face stained with tears and blood. “I won’t take it back! You and your uncle are nothing more than common drudge! No one likes you, and everyone in town thinks you’re both cracked!” Humiliation fresh on his face, the boy turned and ran while calling back, “Don’t think I won’t tell my father about this!”
His head burning with rage, Kazen fought to slow his breathing.
“Kazen!”
Kazen flinched at the irritated voice that called from the thatched-roofed house behind him. Out stepped Ilagon, holding several scrolls in his hand. His hair too was black, but tied back in a neatly kempt tail. The clothes he wore were loose and faded, making him seem small and weedy. Looking now to be in his early thirties, his eyes showed strain far beyond his years. He marched out to where Kazen stood.
“Well, what is this now?” He motioned impatiently to Kazen’s feet.
Looking down, Kazen saw that he was standing in a ring of smoldering ash. The dirt under his feet was scorched and still smoking. He quickly hopped off and flashed an awkward glance at Ilagon.
“Get in the house now, Kazen,” Ilagon said, annoyance clear in his tone.
“Ilagon, I’m—”
“Now! Before you do any more damage!”
As Ilagon began to scatter the burnt soil with his foot, Kazen stormed away in a huff, slapping the door open to the house, and glumly strolling inside.
It was a tiny one-room abode, which despite its simple appearance was solid and sure. There was a stout wooden table beside the door, scattered with scrolls and parchments, with two wooden chairs set precisely at either end. In the farthest corner, upon the solidly packed dirt floor, lay a pair of linen cases. Overly stuffed with stiff straw and aged hay, they were functional as mattresses, though their comfort could certainly be questioned. A few wooden cabinets and shelves were hung here and there, and a long cedar chest sat below the only window in the house. Several pots and pans hung beside a well-used fireplace, and a few small barrels of apples were stacked along the wall. Lanterns dangled from metal hooks on the walls, and two green, hooded cloaks hung from wooden pegs by the door. Well kept and cared for, it was a simple dwelling.
Slumping to the cool floor in front of the fireplace, Kazen poked absently at the dying embers with an iron rod. The warmth of the hearth, even in the heat of the late morning, was soothing to him, and as always, seemed to melt away his frustration. Things had been strained of late. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt anything other than aggravation. Ilagon, especially, was more short-tempered than he had ever been. Probably due to the drought, Kazen guessed. The lack of rain was all anyone in the entire town seemed to talk about anymore.
Rain had not fallen in Napis Fare for more months than Kazen cared to think about. It had been over a week since the last patch of pond water dried up. If it hadn’t been for the deep wells, people would have had to abandon the town weeks ago. Luckily, Napis Fare did not depend too heavily on crops or herds for survival. It was a merchant town, and as long as the patrons kept coming, the town lived on.
To be exact, Kazen and Ilagon didn’t actually live in the town. At a leisurely pace, it would normally take near an hour to get to the heart of the community. Ilagon was very generous when it came to trading and bartering, and his reputation as an honest man and good patron spread quickly. It was not long before the people of the town began to treat them as their own, even including them in the occasional town meetings and the yearly harvest festival. But of course, as in most small towns, whispers and rumors were often quick to spread, and though Ilagon and Kazen were well liked by most of the town folk, they were considered a peculiarity for their quiet nature and vague past.
Ilagon had forged a reasonable living as a carpenter and general odd-jobs man. Doing work for half the price of what any other man would ask, and having it done twice as fast, he could have made himself quite comfortable. However, he never took more than he needed, often doing work for next to nothing, sometimes for as little as a handshake for those who could only afford as much. Still, he always managed to have a few coins left over each month to stash away for leaner times, and there was always just enough for Kazen to buy his favorite sweet rolls at the bakery.
Living away from town, Kazen had grown up with few friends. Though he often longed for the companionship of others his own age, he found contentment in his daily studies. Ilagon tutored him through most of his daylight hours. He had already learned to read and write in four different languages, two of which that had been dead for centuries. History and arithmetic were daily subjects, and he was quizzed almost every night on the names and locations of the stars. He often wondered why navigation was such an important subject, being that Ilagon seldom let him travel far from home.
When he wasn’t staring at scrolls or books, Kazen was outside learning about the trees and animals. He knew what kind of plants were good for eating and what kind were used for medicine. And, he supposed he could name just about every kind of bird that had ever flown over his modest homestead.
It was a simple life, and for the most part that was fine with Kazen. Still, he often wondered what life would be like in some exciting town with hundreds of bustling people, or even a swashbuckling coastal town, plagued by sea monsters and pirates. Someday, he would leave Napis Fare and visit more exciting places, but for now this was home, and it was all he knew. In fact, he could remember very little before coming to Napis Fare.
Though Ilagon often referred to himself as Kazen’s uncle, Kazen knew there was no blood shared between them. He had learned that his parents had died of fever when he was very young, and that Ilagon had taken him in out of friendship to his father. Kazen was quite happy to have been raised by such a wise and kind man, but he did have to admit that even he occasionally thought Ilagon to be a bit eccentric.
He was a painfully private man who seldom spoke of anything outside of his work or of Kazen’s schooling. Most of his nights were spent poring over endless piles of books and parchments well into the early hours of the morning. When Kazen asked him what it was he was looking for, he would always reply, “I am looking to learn more today than what I knew yesterday.”
Adding to his mysterious nature, he would often leave for days at a time, always setting out and returning in the middle of the night, never saying where it was he was going. Although such secretive behavior certainly piqued Kazen’s curiosity, he seldom prodded into his uncle’s affairs, mostly because much of his own life was such a mystery. A mystery he did not often think much about.
Even as a child, Kazen knew he was different from other people. From his colorless hair, which Ilagon made sure to conceal each month with a foul-smelling concoction, to the strange mark branded into the palm of his left hand, there were always secrets that needed to be kept. Most important of which were the fires. Things had a way of inexplicably bursting into flames when Kazen got angry. Ilagon had never offered any explanation for such happenings, only his assurance that there was nothing to fear from them. “If we were to fear everything that we did not understand, we would certainly have a hard time stepping out of the door each morning,” he would always say. In the same breath, however, he would also tell Kazen to never speak of the fires, or show the mark on his hand to anyone, for there were those in the world who would wish to harm him just for being different.
Kazen rubbed his forehead as a familiar, throbbing pain began to fill his head. What was it he was thinking about again? Ah, yes, the fires. If only this bothersome headache would go away he could probably think more clearly. Think . . . think . . . think. What in the world was he just thinking about? Oh, well, it was probably nothing important. No! Wait! a weak voice screamed in his head. It was something important. What was it? These damn headaches! That terrible swelling pain between his eyes, always blinding him to his own thoughts! Don’t forget! Don’t forget! Grinding his teeth through the intensifying pain, he grabbed at any coherent thought he could hold on to. Paper . . .
a yellow piece of paper with something etched on it. What was it? Curse this pain! Wait . . . it was coming back. Yes, it was months ago when he’d seen it. It was before the drought. He was just looking for one of his favorite pirate stories when he came across a thick and dusty old book. Nothing really much to see, it was mostly written in a language he could not decipher, but in putting the book back on its shelf, an ancient, brittle parchment had fallen from its pages to the floor. There, on that yellowed bit of paper, was a perfect sketch of the mark on his hand, three small circles intertwined within one larger circle. Of the many markings scrawled upon the page, there was a single word that he was able to make out. Cursed.
The pain in Kazen’s head became unbearable, crumpling him to the ground. He stared into the glowing cinders through watering eyes, finally giving in to the cloud that settled over his mind.
Sitting up abruptly, he brushed the dirt from his elbows. What was it he’d been thinking about? Well, whatever it was, he was sure it wasn’t anything important. The only thing he had to remember was that no one ever had to know he was different. Life would go on as it always had, simple and quiet.
The door creaked open and Ilagon walked in, a sour look on his face. Kazen quickly turned his eyes back to the dwindling ashes. He did not wish to meet his uncle’s sullen gaze.
Ilagon half smiled as Kazen turned away. He was tempted to give him a pat on the back for knocking that weasel of a child on his backside, but of course thought better of it. He knew that if Kazen had lost control of his anger that boy may have been roasted right there on the spot.
“We have talked about your quick temper and impulsive actions before,” Ilagon said, stacking a teetering pile of parchment paper on the table. “So, I see little point in discussing the matter again.”
Kazen’s posture straightened as he realized he might escape unpunished.
“However . . .”
His shoulder’s slumped again.
“It would be irresponsible for me to allow this opportunity for you to learn a valuable lesson slip away.” Ilagon walked in front of the fireplace, forcing Kazen to look at him. “Since you obviously need further instruction in self-discipline, you will be forgoing your hunting expedition you had planned for today.”
Kazen leapt to his feet and began to sputter in protest. Ilagon quickly quelled the rebellion with a hard stare and raise of his eyebrow.
“Instead,” Ilagon continued, “there are some chores that need tending to. You can start by taking the mares into town to be shod.”
Stomping toward the door, Kazen mumbled irately under his breath, “I’m not a child anymore.”
“Is that a fact?” Ilagon demanded.
Kazen froze at the door, knowing he had crossed a dangerous line. “I only meant . . . I was trying to say . . .” He took a deep breath and swallowed hard against the awkward lump forming in the back of his throat. “I only meant that I may be, possibly, too old to be getting punished . . . perhaps.”
Ilagon sat down at the table, rubbing his chin, a sincere look of ponderance upon his face. He finally nodded. “You could be right. After all, there are boys out there, younger than you, with wives and children of their own already. Granted, they have not been given the same opportunities as you, and they suffer in poverty with little chance of bettering their lives. But far be it from me to stifle your coming of age. In fact, I think that upon your return this afternoon, we should discuss how you intend to supplement the earnings for the household. After all, a man is not really a man until he can earn a living. That, of course, will be in addition to your regular chores and your studies.”
Rolling his eyes, Kazen grabbed his cloak and sulked dramatically out the door.
Heading around to the back of the house, Kazen shielded his eyes from the morning glare of the late summer sun, which still clung to the distant peaks of the Pale Mountains, far to the east. The air was already warm and dry. Beyond the sturdy wooden fence surrounding their small stable, the grass was scorched and yellow. Dusty blotches of pallid soil peeked out from under the resilient amaranth weeds, which seemed to be the only thing able to thrive in the desert-like conditions. Gnarled brown vines, which had once bloomed fragrant honeysuckle, dangled lifeless from the sides of the fence. Just south of the stable, a flock of small gray birds dusted themselves in a rocky basin, where, in better days, Kazen had fished for hours on end, daydreaming of far-off places.
Two painted mares grazed on a small patch of green in the distance, beneath a wilted willow. Kazen gave a sharp whistle and the horses trotted over to him, their ears twitching enthusiastically. The smaller of the two nudged him playfully with its nose.
“All right now, Omin,” he said, trying not to smile. “That’ll be enough of that. You and Fier are taking a trip to the smithy today.”
Kazen harnessed them both and climbed onto Omin’s back. With Fier trailing behind on a long leather lead, he gave a soft nudge with his heel and started them off on their way down the dirt road to town.
The sun was high by the time Kazen arrived in Napis Fare. A few faint wisps of clouds drifted lazily across the cerulean sky. Here too, the soil was almost completely lifeless and desiccated. The ground was riddled with cracks and fissures that gaped open, thirsting for rain that seldom came. Tired brambles twisted and dwindled beneath the unforgiving sun. Even the rugged apple trees, which lined the road to the small town, hunched over and let fall their shriveled, scorched leaves.
The town lay in a deep valley between rolling hills to the east and west. Beyond the settlement, to the south, the broad, unbroken plains of Mar Harren stretched out beneath the horizon. To the north, the road curved and branched off in every direction, often bringing travelers in from far-off regions. Though small, Napis Fare was known for its hospitality and honest trade. It was a popular stopover for travelers and field workers, whether seeking supplies or just a safe place to sleep.
Neither king nor sheriff governed the community, and seldom was there a need for any kind of law enforcement. In the occasional event of a rowdy transient, the town was quick to band together and oust the troublemaker. A rotation of volunteers patrolled the roads regularly, keeping it free of wild dogs, which had, from time to time, strayed into town from the northern forest. However, they had seen few animals of any kind since the drought.
A dozen or so buildings lined either side of the narrow dirt road. Each shop was similar in size and shape. All had wooden porches with broad overhangs that sheltered visitors from sun and rain. Wooden signs hung from iron posts in front of each building, displaying the store’s name for those who could read, and colorful pictures for those who could not.
As Kazen reached the general store, Nastif, the storeowner, gave him a quick nod while packing a cart with goods for a customer. It seemed to Kazen that Nastif was perhaps one of the busiest men alive. He always seemed to be hurrying about, either stocking his shelves, or organizing the volunteers for patrol. Today, he seemed especially occupied.
The town was bustling with activity. Dozens of travelers were gathering supplies to stock their packhorses and carts. Some men were laughing as they filled their bellies with stew and bread at the inn. Two small boys, whom Kazen had never seen before, were kicking a small rock down the road, giggling and tripping all the way. Kazen ducked his head just in time as the rock came whizzing by his ear.
“Sorry, mister!” the boys called as they shyly snatched up their rock and hurried away.
Hopping off his mount, Kazen covered his mouth and nose with his cloak as the horses kicked up a cloud of dust.
“Kazen, my boy!”
A large, round man waved from the step of the smithy shop. He had a small, heavy hammer clenched in his stubby hand, and he was clad in a full leather apron that hung from around his stout neck. His warm smile was nearly lost beneath the knotted gray beard that hung to his chest.
“Hello, Glin!” Kazen called back.
He was glad to see the old man again. Glin was well liked by all the ch
ildren of the town, partly for his kind heart and jolly nature, and partly due to his deep pockets, which were always filled with sweets of some sort. Kazen offered a hand for Glin to shake, but instead was swept up in a crushing embrace. With a thundering laugh, Glin put Kazen down and rustled his hair playfully. “It’s been quite a spell since you’ve come to see me, lad. And just look how you’ve grown!” Glin chuckled. “You must be two hands taller than the last time you were here!”
Kazen, feeling suddenly embarrassed, cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It is good to see you, too, Glin. I’m here to get the horses shod.”
Glin lumbered over to the horses and patted Fier on her back. “Well, then, ladies, let’s not keep you waiting any longer. Right this way.” He took up their reins and led them through an open gate behind the shop. Kazen followed behind them.
Tying off the horses, Glin took out a claw-like instrument from his apron and got to work on the shoes.
“So how is that uncle of yours? Did you know he put a new roof on my shop last month? It took him most of the day to do it. And you know that man wouldn’t take a single coin for all his hard work?”
Kazen smiled. “No, I didn’t know.”
“Well, doesn’t surprise me. Your uncle’s not the type to go bragging about his good deeds.”
Kazen wasn’t surprised. His uncle was often doing for neighbors who were in need. Ilagon had always taught him that the best way to better yourself was to better the lives of those around you.
The Flame Weaver Page 2
