A Chorus of Fire

by Brian D. Anderson

  Whatever he has told you is a lie. I do not possess the strength to know his true motives, but they are not what he claims them to be. He seeks to use you for some other purpose. Do not let him.

  I can feel my strength waning so I must end this. I am sorry, more than you can know. I told myself what I was doing was best for Lamoria. That was a lie. I was weak and selfish. I betrayed your friendship. But worse, I betrayed the people of this world. I pray you find a way to defeat him. But if not, I can only advise you that death is a kinder fate than what I suffer and what he intends to unleash on the people once he is free from his prison.

  Your Friend,

  Landon

  With a snap of her fingers, the letter was consumed by flames, leaving her with a renewed sense of anxiety. This confirmed her suspicions that Belkar was not being truthful about his intentions, but it did nothing to help her discover what they were.

  She slipped into bed and drew the blanket up to her chin. The light from the orb overhead dimmed in the same way as at the manor. It made her miss … home. She would have never thought she would see it as such, but Lady Camdon’s manor was home. Thinking about it caused a lump to form in her throat.

  Stop this. You’re not powerless. Stop behaving as if you were.

  Yet telling herself this did not change the situation. Compared to Belkar, she was little more than a child. His power was able to extend beyond a prison crafted by the greatest Thaumas of the ancient times.

  They kept him contained for ages, she argued back at herself. They defeated him.

  But you’re alone.

  Her hand drifted to the pendant. Not yet. Stop letting your fear rule your actions. Loria’s words were rattling around her brain, scolding her for lack of courage. But it was not courage she really needed. It was hope. And that was a commodity hard to come by when alone and afraid. She was willing to face death. But to face it with so many things unsaid and undone … the letter from Landon spoke to what she was feeling: regret. That was his hell. And hers also. That she had not explained to Lem why he must leave. That she had not taken the time to tell Shemi how much she loved him for casting his own life aside to come with her to Lamoria.

  The list of regrets continued to grow. Loria, Bram, her parents, Gertrude, Trysilia, and all the people who had shown her kindness when she was a lost child in a brutal world.

  Take heart. You’ll see them again.

  The voice from within did not feel like her own this time. It was motherly. Compassionate. Though unexpected, not alarming. She felt her eyelids become heavy and her limbs relaxed as she slipped into a dreamless sleep.

  22

  THE BLADE OF MARIYAH

  The deadliest foe is one without hope.

  Book of Kylor, Chapter Two, Verse Three

  Lem entered the church, his hood pulled over his head, hands folded within the sleeves of the thick wool robe. He had worn it many times within the walls of Kylor’s church, both in Ralmarstad and elsewhere, and each time someone died. Tonight would be no different. Only now, it was not the High Cleric who had sent him. He was not there to mete out justice for an offense against their god or some crime against the church. He was there for a higher purpose.

  The weight of the vysix blade on his hip was ignored, his attention on the second blade he had fixed to the strap on his wrist. The death magic would likely go unused this night. The five darts in his pouch were no longer tipped with a sedative but the most lethal of poisons. The deaths would not be quick … or painless.

  The seats within the nave were empty, services having concluded an hour ago. Moonlight prayers would not begin until midnight. He had time. He sat in the pew second from the front and knelt. The golden eye of Kylor hung from dual chains above the altar situated atop the sanctuary dais. This was an austere church, as was typical in Ralmarstad and the two allied city-states. The windows were plain glass and the few ornamental decorations made from stone rather than gold or silver. The Ralmarstad church did not display its wealth, though it certainly possessed it in abundance. Nor did its clergy festoon themselves in silks and jewelry. Yet their coffers were bursting with gold. The hypocrisy was more annoying to Lem than the way the Temple flaunted wealth and power in the face of worshipers who often did not have enough to eat—honest evil rather than false piety.

  A lone priest was busily sifting through a basket of plums near to a door off to the left, which led to the rectory. He picked himself out a particularly large specimen and shoved it into the pocket of his flowing blue robe. He was young to be a priest of sufficient rank to lead a congregation—perhaps thirty, with copper skin and short black hair. He looked to be in good physical condition, though how good was hard to tell beneath his loose attire.

  He glanced up at Lem and sighed. “Prayers are several hours away,” he called, his voice echoing off the stone walls and high ceiling. When Lem did not reply, he said: “You can come back later if you are in need of counsel.”

  Lem kept his head lowered, eyes fixed on the back of the next pew. The clack of hard leather shoes on tile had his muscles twitching.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Lem nodded.

  “I can see you’re wearing the robes of redemption,” the priest said. “But I must get ready for tonight. You have my word. I will attend your needs afterward.”

  “Through salvation’s grace, all souls become equal in the eyes of Kylor,” Lem said in a hushed tone.

  “Are you a monk?”

  Lem turned his head. “No.”

  “Then I must insist you leave.”

  “Tell me, Father: Do you believe Kylor is watching us?”

  The priest took a step into the row of pews behind Lem. “An odd question from one of the faithful. Of course. Kylor is everywhere. He sees everything.”

  “So he knows our sins? He sees the stains they leave on our hearts?”

  The priest moved closer, to only a few feet from Lem’s back. “Are you in doubt?”

  Lem rose and turned to face the priest. “My mind is clear of doubt. But I cannot help but wonder about yours.”

  The priest puffed up at the comment. “You dare question my faith? Who do you think you are? I’ll have you before the Hedran if you don’t leave this instant.”

  “Will you? And who would be my judge? You? The Archbishop?” He paused. “Belkar?”

  The priest looked as if someone had seized him by the throat. “What … who … I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He began backing toward the aisle. “Who sent you?”

  “Mariyah.”

  He gawked at Lem with open-mouthed confusion. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. That name is known to your brethren. My business is with them. But you have information I need nonetheless. And you will give it to me.”

  The priest’s eyes darted to the rectory door. With hands still tucked inside his sleeves, Lem gripped the hilt of his dagger.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear it.”

  “Unless there’s another priest named Droval Ungairi, I would have to say that you’re a liar.” He could see that the man was ready to run. But he also noticed his hand creeping to his waist.

  Take no chances.

  Lem planted one foot on the seat of the pew and leapt into the next row. As expected, this sent the priest scurrying back and fumbling for a concealed weapon. Lem raced forward, planting a boot into his foe’s gut and forcing him to the wall. The priest’s head struck stone, slowing his attempt to arm himself enough that Lem was able to place the well-aimed tip of his blade through his right hand. The priest yelped in pain, instantly cradling his wounded hand in the other. Lem ducked low and, reaching around, sliced through the tendons behind his right knee. The priest flailed his arms in a wild attempt to protect himself. But Lem rolled left, out of reach.

  “You should run,” Lem said calmly.

  The priest stared back at him in wide-eyed terror. “Please. I’m innocent, I tell you.” />
  “You had better hope not,” Lem replied. “Or this will be a very long night.”

  The priest turned and hobbled toward the door. Lem waited until he entered the rectory before following. Easier to let him run somewhere out of sight than to drag him. The trail of blood would prevent his prey from escape and the injured leg from his getting too far ahead.

  The body would be found later tonight, but by then it would no longer matter. He would be gone, and in possession of the name of the person who would know which of Belkar’s followers had taken Mariyah.

  Lem had thought it clever to have the highest ranking among them positioned in the smallest church in Ubania. One priest and a few monks were all who inhabited the rectory. He heard the horrified scream as he strode down the hall. The priest had found the first monk’s body.

  There’s no one left to help you.

  Lem would hear four more screams before he found the priest cowering in a storage closet, a dagger held in trembling hands, blood from his wound soaking the handle and running down his arm.

  “We have much to talk about, you and I,” Lem said.

  * * *

  Lem exited the rectory through the second floor window he had entered earlier that evening, and slid to the ground on the drain pipe. Five names were scrawled on a piece of blood-speckled parchment. The priest had behaved predictably. Spouting lies in the beginning, then once shown the list of the followers of Belkar living in Ubania, begging for mercy and offering gold and jewels in exchange for sparing his life. Lem had promised not to kill him. And once he had the names, opened the man’s throat with a swift swipe of sharp steel.

  He stopped at an abandoned home near the western city wall and removed his robe. A group of five vagrants were standing around a fire they had built inside a ring of broken bricks and masonry. Lem tossed the robe into the fire, drawing a few irritated comments and spiteful looks at him destroying a perfectly good robe. Lem gave them an apologetic nod, which quelled their complaints at once. These were the forgotten people of the city. They had little time for anger and let it pass as quickly as it came. Anger didn’t put food in their bellies or stave off the winter’s cold. Lem would leave them in a few short minutes, and he would be forgotten as well.

  As the robe burned, he took out the locket Mariyah had given him a lifetime past and opened the lid. The familiar feelings of love and loneliness came rushing in. But unlike before, there were no tears. Not that one could see. He was no longer laboring under the delusions with which he used to shield himself. He was a killer, and had always been. Farley had been right from the very beginning. Gylax … he could see it too.

  You can run away from the world all you want. But you can never outrun yourself.

  Whose words were those? he wondered. Shemi’s? It sounded like Shemi. But no. Not his mother’s. Farley certainly wasn’t one to pass on words of wisdom. The question was oddly distracting.

  “You all right, friend?”

  Lem smiled up at a grizzled old man with a matted beard and wearing a worn, stained tunic that looked as if it had been taken from a refuse pile—which it probably had. “I’m fine. Just thinking about home.”

  The man coughed out a laugh. “Aren’t we all? Though you look like you still have one.”

  “Do I?”

  The man ran his eyes over Lem and nodded. “You do to me. Unless your luck just turned for the worse and you’re new to the streets.”

  “I suppose you could say my luck has turned.”

  “Well, don’t you worry, lad. It’s not so bad out here. No one bothers you. And so long as we stick together, we don’t see much trouble from anyone. All you really have to worry about is getting something to eat and keeping warm. Besides, a young man like you with a strong back … you’ll be in a soft bed before you know it.”

  Lem was taken aback by the man’s kindness. Someone with nothing to hope for, nothing to do but wait for death to claim him, and still able to offer words of encouragement. “What would you do if you came across a bag of gold?”

  The man chuckled. “I suppose it would depend on the size of the bag.”

  “Say it was about fifty gold pieces.”

  This brought a round of laughter from the entire group.

  “And just where would I be finding such a fortune?”

  “I don’t know. But say you did.”

  He scratched his beard, humming and muttering for a moment. “With fifty, I guess I could buy a proper home for me and the boys here. Get us out of the cold. Get some new chisels and tools. I was a toy maker once. I wouldn’t mind making a few things to leave behind before Kylor comes calling.”

  “A toy maker?” mocked one of the others. “With those gnarled old hands? Best make some whiskey. Do you more good.”

  The old man scowled. “Wouldn’t do you any good. You couldn’t lift the bottle. Don’t mind Homar. Used to be a blacksmith until his shoulders gave out.”

  A toy maker, a blacksmith, and there was no telling what the others had done … all left to rot like so much garbage. And yet they found companionship in one another.

  “Is this where you typically stay?” Lem asked.

  The man shrugged. “Most nights. Unless the city guard runs us off. But they don’t come around too much. Not in the winter.”

  “I see. They’re not fond of the cold, I imagine.”

  “Not when there’s a warm fire waiting. But they’ll come around after the last snowfall. You can bet we’ll be running around then.”

  Lem smiled. “You never know. Maybe you’ll find that bag of gold.” He turned to leave.

  “You’re not staying?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Well, you take care. You’re welcome back. Only next time don’t be burning good warm clothes. Hard to come by these days.”

  Lem regretted not having given the man the cloak. But by tomorrow, he wouldn’t need it. He took a careful look around to remember his exact location, to have Lady Camdon deliver the coin.

  He centered his thoughts on the task that lay ahead. Five names. Three men, two women, all nobles, and all followers of Belkar. None would see the sunrise.

  23

  A SPELL FOR MARIYAH

  Do not allow your pride to make you a fool. It is the humble soul who reaches the loftiest peaks—where true bliss resides.

  Book of Kylor, Chapter Six, Verse One

  “No. You’re thinking like a Thaumas.”

  Mariyah suppressed a curse. Even in his calm and infinitely patient tone, he was infuriating. “I am a Thaumas. How else should I think?”

  The gray brick on the floor, once perfectly square, was now a distorted oval—one of a hundred shapes it had taken.

  “Remember, the stone is not an obstacle. It is nothing more than an extension of yourself. Silly hand waving does not move stone, nor shape it. Chants do nothing but provide a way to waste breath.”

  “But the book you gave me says—”

  “See beyond the words. To their meaning.”

  Mariyah kicked the book across the floor. “If you want me to understand the meaning, just tell me what the hell it means.”

  “I have.”

  “You said that the words are a veil put there to keep the feebleminded from learning the truth. You know what I say to that? Hog turds!”

  Belkar burst into raucous laughter. “I do so love when the farmer in you comes out.” He crossed over and picked up the book. “What I told you is what I know.”

  “Then you don’t know a bloody thing.”

  He held up a finger. “Precisely.” He tossed her the book. “What are you holding?”

  Mariyah cocked her head, her mouth contorted in a sour frown. “I’m not a child.”

  “But you are. In the ways of magic, you’re a newborn babe.” He pointed to the book. “What is it?”

  Mariyah rolled her eyes. “It’s a book.”

  “Yes. But what else?”

  “I don’t know. Paper. Leather. Twine. Ink.”

&nb
sp; “That’s what a book is made from. What is it?”

  They had been down this path before. “Learning. Knowledge. Enlightenment.”

  His tight-lipped expression mirrored her own frustration. “If that were true, you would not continue to fail.”

  “Then maybe you should just let me go,” she offered in disgust, tossing the book back to the floor. “Clearly I’m not as powerful and clever as you thought.”

  “You are … and more. But you hold yourself back from greatness. The only mystery I have yet to solve is why.” He turned toward the room he had been sleeping in since Landon had left the letter. “That’s enough for today.”

  Mariyah’s shoulders slumped as she plopped onto the floor. It was like being back at the enclave, only Belkar’s instruction made Aylana’s seem detailed and specific by comparison. Three days of trying had yielded nothing. When she’d transformed a rock into flames, she had been so excited she almost embraced Belkar in the joy of the moment. But he was not impressed.

  Trivial. That was what he’d called it. Petty uses of magic.

  This had angered her more than anything he could have said. Some Thaumas spent their entire lives and were unable to turn solid stone to water. Still Belkar was not satisfied. But what he was asking was believed impossible. Had she not seen it with her own eyes, she would not have believed it. Food, wood, leaves—these things were once living. They could not be made. No power could create what had once lived from what did not. Stone, metal, earth, and water, were all possible and could be shaped into brilliant objects. And some illusions that mimicked life, such as butterflies and birds, could be made real. But they were not actually alive, and only lasted for the briefest of moments before turning to dust.

  She slid over to where the brick lay and held out her hand. See past the words. What the hell is that supposed to mean? The text was direct. Focus your mind on the object, draw in the power and center it, allowing it to flow through to your fingertips and …