by Chris Miller
I nodded somberly. Even though I had seen her die and had lived with that fact for months, it still felt like she had just died all over again. Some wounds never really heal, I guess.
“The death of a friend can make any of us question the Author’s goodness, question his plan. Because of the more publicized nature of Hope’s disappearance and Faldyn’s betrayal, such questions became widespread among the Resistance. Soon Codebearers across the realm were questioning the Author’s motives and more specifically Aviad’s. He never contacted us again after Sanctuary fell.
With every passing month of silence, people began to wonder if he had truly been who he had claimed to be—the Author’s son. Despite the Council’s attempts to avert it, divisions quickly sprang up among the ranks. The Shadow have not wasted the opportunity. They have become stronger. Their attacks have become more frequent and bold. And perhaps even more concerning is the arrival of a new threat.”
I noticed Ven and Zven shift uncomfortably in their seats. They obviously knew what was coming next and apparently were still troubled by it.
Petrov pulled back the cape from his right shoulder to expose the injured arm I had noted earlier. Trista quickly turned away, not wanting to see the extent of the damage, while Rob and I stared. We could see the clear mark of a gash on the bottom of his forearm. The cut itself, which was relatively shallow and not very long, didn’t look all that remarkable. The severity of this wound was not in its depth or size, but in its effect. Surrounding the cut was what looked to be a very painful infection. Most, if not all, of Petrov’s right forearm was colored a sickly greenish-yellow and pocked with scabs.
“I was on a mission to assemble the Council when a lone warrior attacked me,” Petrov continued.
“Shadow?” I asked, trying to imagine what Shadow would have attacked on its own—they usually worked in groups.
“No,” Petrov shook his head. “He was Xin.”
“Xin?”
“They were a fiercely independent people who shared our belief in the Author, but not in all of his ways.”
“What do you mean?”
“The Xin had long-held a belief in a supreme being, the Author of all who controls all things. They even declared the Shadow as a common enemy. In fact, much of their lore was rooted in fragments of the Author’s Writ, but those truths became greatly distorted and twisted over the years. As a result, their understanding of the Author and his ways was steeped in superstition and rituals. Up until twenty years ago, they were extremely hostile to anyone who threatened their beliefs… namely the Codebearers.”
“What happened twenty years ago?”
“Around that time a small band from the Resistance took up a risky mission to reach out to the Xin. Evan was among them. The Codebearers were immediately captured and should have been killed, but for some reason their chief, Xaunos, spared them, content to keep them in captivity. Over a period of forty days, he would pass by their cells every week to mock and test them. Throughout their captivity, the Codebearers remained true to the Author’s ways and answered Xaunos in kind when he challenged them. On the fortieth day of their imprisonment, the great Xin leader, Xaunos, inexplicably broke down weeping and accepted the truth he had learned from his captives. That day, by decree of the chief, the entire people of Xin came under the teaching of the Code of Life and committed their allegiance to the Author and the Resistance. It was an incredible day!”
“So, the Xin are now allies?”
“Well, they were…and good ones at that. But sadly, that entire group was wiped out within a year’s time. The Shadow, upon learning of their newfound allegiance, mounted a full-scale attack on them. As skilled as they were, the Xin warriors had never trained for what hit them that fateful day.”
“So, if the Xin are extinct, where did this lone warrior that attacked you come from? And why would he attack you?”
“That still remains a mystery to me. But one thing I do know: the Author did not intend for me to die that day. Though I had been caught completely off guard, the Author allowed me to escape with only this small cut.”
Trista, finally having braved a look at his arm, winced as she pointed out, “But usually a small cut doesn’t do all that.”
“That is another mystery; the Xin warrior carried what looked to be a Veritas Sword…only something was different about it. It was dark and twisted…altered in some way, possibly even poisoned. The wound I suffered in the attack began to grow quickly, killing more of my limb as it spread. Because of the rate at which it was spreading, I knew I couldn’t expect to live longer than a few days, but I’ve lasted over a month now.”
“How?”
“Well,” beamed Ven, “so happens that Galacia has the perfect answer ta such things.”
“The ice!” Zven piped in, stealing Ven’s thunder. Noticing the glare he received from his brother, Zven shrugged, “What? Not like ya was the only one that knows.”
“But I was the one tellin’ first,” Ven complained before reasserting himself. “What we mean is that the ice allows us to slow that poison from spreadin’ farther, so long as we keep Petrov’s arm rightly cold.”
“Yes. And I’m indebted to the Thordins for setting up this remote camp. Their unique knowledge of surviving in such severe cold has allowed me to live longer than I should have.” Petrov smiled and answered the question that each of us undoubtedly shared. “How much longer? Only the Author knows that. For now, I’m content to serve him as long as he sustains me.”
“So, now what? You called us here to help you. What can we do?” I asked eagerly, conveying what I sensed Rob and Trista were feeling at this point too.
Petrov acknowledged my offer with a nod and brought his good fist to his chest. “I thank you for your willingness to help, Hunter. But, in truth, I do not have anything more for you to do. I did not call you here…the Author did. Why all three of you, I’m not sure, but clearly he brought you as an answer to my plea. Because you came, Hunter, I now know the purpose behind Aviad’s disappearance—a sacrifice to fulfill the Great Exchange.”
“True, true!” Ven agreed. “Why, we’ve even more reason ta trust the Author’s plans t’night than ever before. Thanks ta our good lad Hunter’s test’mony.” I received a hearty shoulder slap, one I knew I’d be feeling well into tomorrow.
“So, then…we’re done here? We go home now?” Trista asked, unsure of how this kind of arrangement worked in Solandria. Truthfully, I wasn’t even sure what a typical departure from Solandria to the Veil looked like, but the thought of leaving so soon depressed me.
“Bah! There’ll be no talk of leavin’ till this weather blows by,” Zven replied. “A transport can be arranged the day followin’.”
Petrov, aware of my disappointment, added, “All in his good time and place. For now, I’m content to rest tonight, knowing the Author continues to hear and answer.”
“Speakin’ of rest, Commander,” Zven stood slowly, offering a helping hand to Petrov, “we really should be puttin’ that arm of yer’s back on ice.”
Chapter 11
The Calling
Night had descended quickly on our camp. After Petrov had been returned to his room, the Thordin brothers showed us to theirs, which Trista, Rob and I would be dividing between us. The room had been built up a few feet higher than the main hall, with steps leading up.
Trista got Ven’s bed and I insisted Rob take Zven’s, which left me with the space of floor between them. It was more than comfortable enough after the Thordins spread a few layers of animal pelts out for me.
Despite the comfort of my bedding, it took considerable effort to fall asleep. I was far too excited to be back in Solandria once more. When at last I did sleep, I found it even more difficult to stay asleep. No sooner would I doze off then some noise would wake me. Most often it turned out to be one of the Thordins rustling about to throw another log on the fire, or wor
se, “sawing” logs with their obnoxiously loud snores. Eventually, the noise died down. Even the moaning wind outside our shelter seemed to end. All was quiet.
Determined to return to sleep, I rolled over and pulled the fur coverings tighter around my chin. Gradually, my breathing slowed and I began to drift off.
“Hunter.” A low whisper called into the silence.
I bolted upright, eyes darting between Rob and the bedroom doorway; both were still.
“Rob, did you say something?” I asked. No answer. Just slow breathing. I nudged his mound of blankets just to make sure he was still asleep. His breathing skipped a beat, but quickly returned to its rhythmic flow. Unless Rob talked in his sleep, it had not been him.
Wrapping the blankets around my shoulders, I strained to hear the voice again. Nothing came.
Just as I started to lie back down, the whisper repeated its call, “Hunter.”
Now fully awake, I was more aware of the voice’s tone this time. It was quiet, but not strained; calm and steady, but expectant; urgent, but not demanding.
I threw aside my covers and stepped out into the main hall, wrapping my coat tightly to keep out the cold. The fire was glowing softly now. Against one wall, I could see Ven (or was it Zven?) propped up with a blanket drawn around him. The other brother was conked out on the floor. Neither of them stirred when I walked into the room. They were both sound asleep.
I paused, waiting to hear if the voice would speak again.
“Hunter.”
This time I could tell it had come from Petrov’s room. Stepping over one slumbering Thordin, I walked over to the hide-covered door and pulled it back a bit, peeking in.
Just like in our room, there was a short hallway, but this one had a few steps leading down. A flickering light danced off the icy surfaces of the room below. He must be awake, I thought.
Not wanting to wake anyone, I whispered into the room, “Hello? Petrov?”
No reply.
Slipping inside, I descended the stairs and approached the raised slab of ice that served as Petrov’s bed. He was reclined on a pile of fur blankets, his injured arm exposed to the cold air and ice. I spotted his wound and shuddered at the sight of it.
Still keeping to a whisper, I inquired again, “Commander, did you…?”
“Hunter,” the ethereal voice called from behind me. The reflected light seemed to swell at the sound of the voice.
Turning around I noticed for the first time that the light was not coming from a lantern or torch as I had expected, but rather from an open flame that rested atop a pedestal made of ice. Somehow, this small flame was not melting the ice or consuming any substance, for that matter. It just was, of its own power.
Carry me.
The utterance clearly emerged from the Flame this time, each syllable emphasized by the pulsing of the firelight. Unsure of how to react to the phenomenon, I stood pondering the sight. Am I supposed to talk back to it? I wondered.
Carry me.
The message was repeated calmly, perhaps with a bit more force. It was both soothing and unsettling at the same time.
I cautiously stepped closer and extended a hand to feel for the Flame’s heat. Responding in kind, the Flame leaned in towards me till it touched my fingers. The touch was warm, not hot, much like an inviting summer breeze. My hand passed through the fire unscathed, and I watched in wonder as the Flame pooled into my palm, leaving its pedestal behind.
As it reformed its shape in my hand, the gentle Flame spoke again.
Carry me.
“Carry you where?” I asked this time, my voice trembling.
Torpor.
Completely transfixed by the fiery messenger, I was unaware that anyone else had joined me until a hand touched my shoulder.
“I see you found the Flame.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin as I whirled around to face Petrov, now standing behind me.
With a questioning look, he eyed my hand holding the Flame and asked, “Or did it find you?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t really even know why I came in here,” I apologized. “I’ll put it back.”
“No!” he ordered, taking hold of my arm. “No, that’s not necessary.” His voice took on an unexpected urgency, “I think I may know why you came. Stay there. There is something you need to read.” He walked over to his bedside and lifted a large book off the floor with his good hand. It was his copy of the Author’s Writ. I helped steady his hand as he set the heavy volume on the vacant pedestal. Taking out his key, he unlocked it and laid it open. Then speaking to the book itself, he petitioned, “Tell us of the Consuming Fire.”
The once lifeless pages sprang into action, rising and falling until at last the requested one was reached. Slowly, the blank surface transformed, drawing its designated passage into focus.
“Read it aloud,” Petrov instructed me, pointing to the words that had appeared.
The Consuming Fire
Before the sun rises, darkness must reign;
For seventy times, light’s presence will wane;
But no shadow or power can hold back the light
when a new dawn of fire bursts forth from the night.
An eternal flame of consuming power
Will come to the faithful in their most desperate hour.
It starts with a spark—on the first will descend
To empower the chosen to stand ‘til the end.
So I, the Author, have written.
A wounded pillar the Fire will take;
A sleeping strength the Fire will wake;
A heart of stone from Fire gains sight;
A precious seed through Fire finds life;
A faithful captive the Fire unchains;
An ember of hope the Fire will claim;
The seventh of seven only Fire can name.
When the seven are marked the Fire will fall,
Not only for seven but on all who are called.
So I, the Author, have written.
When I had finished reading, I looked up at Petrov, expecting him to explain what I’d just read and how it related to the miraculous Flame still cupped in my hand. The Commander only returned my expectant look as he excitedly asked, “Did you feel anything just now as you read the passage?”
Had I felt anything? I wondered. I felt inspired, somewhat hopeful of things to come, but mostly I felt confused. “I’m not sure what you are asking,” I replied.
“No?” Petrov’s expression dimmed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing, forgive me…. It’s just that the passage has posed a mystery to me ever since I discovered it some weeks ago. I thought perhaps I was beginning to understand its meaning more clearly. It seems I was wrong.”
He carefully took the Flame from me and held it in his own palm. The moment it left my hand I felt a sudden loss—as if part of me was taken with it. Clearly, this was no ordinary flame. There was power here—real power. Something I didn’t want to part with.
“Where did the Flame come from?” I asked, as I gazed into the living light.
Petrov nodded toward the ancient book. “From the Author’s Writ. I was studying the prophecies still left unfulfilled when I came across the very passage we just read.”
“So, this little Flame…it’s the fire that is promised?” I asked in wonder.
“Yes and no. I believe this is only the beginning of the Flame, a spark of what’s to come. The seven must still be found. As the prophecy says, ‘When the seven are marked the Fire will fall.’ There is still more to come.”
As he repeated the phrase from the passage, the fire seemed to brighten a bit, pulsing in beat with each word he said.
“So, after the Flame marks these seven things, then the fire will…”
“Not things, people,” Petrov int
errupted, “of whom I believe I am the first of the seven.”
“How do you know?”
“Because of this,” Petrov answered, pulling down the neckline of his cloak to reveal his left shoulder. There, just below his collarbone was a symbol of a three-tongued flame, emblazoned in a golden light. The light pulsed with life on his skin.
“Marked!” I exclaimed. “You were marked by the Flame?”
He chuckled, “Yes. Does that surprise you?”
“Well, no… it’s just that… I mean, how?”
“As I read the passage aloud, as has been my habit in study, the Flame rose up from the words and I immediately felt a burning in here,” he clenched his hand over his heart. “When the mark appeared, it left little doubt that I was now one of the seven.”
“Then who are the others?”
Petrov only shook his head. “I’m afraid I do not know that. In fact, I didn’t even know exactly how I fit into the passage until I was attacked by the Xin warrior. What I did not tell you earlier was that I had been on my way to carry the news of this prophecy to the other captains and consult with them when the ambush came. The only way I escaped—by the power of the Flame—was when I was somehow spirited away to Galacia. I cannot explain how, as it happened so quickly. My assassin’s blade had only a second to graze me before I was miraculously engulfed in light and delivered here.”
“It still got enough of you, though.” I looked down at the festering wound on his arm.
“So it did, but on the bright side, it did make it painfully clear which of the seven I had been called as.” He tapped the open page on the description of the first sign.
A wounded pillar the Fire will take.
There was no doubt about it, Petrov had been wounded and taken away by the Flame. Couple this with the fact that he had been marked and it was easy to figure out that he was the first of the seven.
