The Sentient Fire (The Seven Signs)

by D. W. Hawkins

  Soon, smells of spiced, roasted meat began to drift toward the three companions from inside the tent, and a small crowd began to gather around it. The inhabitants of Stormcoast were exactly what would be expected in a small village. There was the local tanner, blacksmith, cobbler, tailor, and so forth, and a smattering of farmers who had come in from their outlying homesteads to enjoy the Festival. Smiling, laughing, and open faces painted the gathering as people congregated in small groups of friends, rubbing their hands together for warmth as their breath issued in misty clouds from their mouths.

  D’Jenn soon went back up to the Inn to retrieve cloaks for the three of them and Bethany, and returned with the warm garments just as the little girl came skipping happily up to the bench. She was out of breath from her child-like exertions, but the smile did not leave her face as she hopped up onto the bench and obediently donned her cloak.

  “Are you ready to eat something, little one?” Dormael asked her, and received an enthusiastic nod in return. The four of them joined the line that was forming outside of the feast tent, and stood waiting for their turn at the food. The smells that drifted from the tent opening didn’t help their patience at all as they stood making idle small talk with hunger growing in their bellies.

  The feast tent that the villagers had erected was a long pavilion set out in the center of the village in front of the Inn. Inside it was filled with tables and benches, and in the back was the roasting meat. Venison, by tradition, and from the looks of it, the villagers had been roasting it for the better part of the day. There was mistletoe hanging from the opening to the tent, no doubt the spoils of the mistletoe hunt traditionally held in the early hours of the Winter Solstice. Dormael, D’Jenn, and Bethany all received light kisses on the cheek from Shawna. Bethany giggled when receiving her kiss, and the three adults all shared another laugh.

  Eventually the food was doled out to the assembled people, and the feast commenced. Villagers from Stormcoast stuck to themselves for the most part, but not in an unfriendly way. There were many who approached the four strangers and asked friendly questions, offering wishes for a Happy Solstice. Though there were braziers burning in the long feast tent, the air was still chill inside, if warmer than outside. No one was in a hurry to eat; there was plenty of food to go around and the Stormcoast Gold flowed like water.

  The companions all ate their fill, and soon the celebration moved to the common room of the Inn, where Walter had removed the tables and left the benches lining the walls, leaving ample room for the dance that was inevitably about to take place. Dormael pressed another silver into Walter’s daughter’s hands, and she commenced bringing them more wine.

  Soon, the stage in the back was mounted by three local men in bright, festive attire, one with a guitar, one with a set of tall, goatskin drums, and one with a flute. Scattered cheers rose up to greet the men, and the people of Stormcoast moved out onto the dance floor in sporadic pairs. The local musicians struck up a lively tune, and soon there was stomping and spinning bodies filling the floor as the dance kicked off.

  Dormael took the floor with Bethany, spinning her around to peals of silver laughter from the little girl. They were joined now and then by young women, who would take one of Dormael’s hands and one of Bethany’s and spin with them for a while before moving on. Shawna joined them a time or two, and Dormael even spotted D’Jenn stomping about the floor – with Walter’s oldest daughter. He wouldn’t let his cousin hear the end of this one, not for a long time.

  Eventually Bethany grew tired and Dormael and Shawna carried her up to bed. Shawna went back down to the party, but Dormael was oddly tired and decided to lie down for the night. He entered his room, threw off his clothing and lay down on the middle of the bed that dominated his room. The Stormcoast wine swam in his head with pleasant warmth, and a smile played across his lips as he drifted off into a deep, sound sleep.

  ****

  Chapter Eight

  Ripples in the Water

  Dusty and barren, the road stretched out before the companions as they rode northward along the path to Borders. They had left Stormcoast that morning in the company of a few farmers who were returning to their outlying lands in the early morning sun. The conversation had been friendly but guarded, as villagers were always a bit wary of outsiders these days. Dormael didn’t blame them at all, not with people like the Red Swords running around causing trouble.

  Slowly, the farmers had begun to dwindle off, offering half-hearted goodbyes and disappointed waves. The feeling of revelry and camaraderie of the Festival was dwindling, and soon business would be back to normal here. The four of them were now alone on the road once again.

  Dormael clopped along on Horse, with Bethany riding in front of him as she always did. She had his goatee once again, and was slapping the weight at the end of it into her tiny hand in rhythmic beats. Dormael found himself tapping his leg in time with her, and the two of them rode along in silence, sharing the rhythm they tapped out unconsciously.

  “So,” Shawna began, breaking the silence that had wrapped them for the last hour or so, “what do you two plan to do once we get to Borders?”

  “Well, we’ll hire a ship, and sail across to the Sevenlands,” D’Jenn stated in a matter of fact tone.

  “I realize that, D’Jenn, but I’m still skeptical that we’ll find someone to sail the Maelstroms at this time of year,” she replied, her back already going straight.

  “Oh, we’ll find someone. There’s always an enterprising ship captain or two hanging around in the alehouses of Borders; smugglers, certainly, but probably some of the best sailors in the entire world.”

  “Well, I just hope we aren’t out of luck,” Shawna sniffed.

  “Don’t we all,” D’Jenn replied a bit sarcastically and cast Dormael a meaningful sidelong glance. Another hour passed, and soon the sun was at its apex in the sky, though that did little to loosen the cold. It was as if winter had been waiting for the official word to step in and take over, and now it was in full swing. It was markedly colder today than it had been in weeks. Dormael wrapped his cloak around him at the thought.

  They didn’t stop for lunch, but rather ate leftovers from the Feast that Walter had pressed upon them on their way out the door, with many good wishes. The spiced venison was a nice departure from their usual road fare, though it would go bad quickly and they must eat it as soon as they could. That was fine with Dormael, even if he had to eat it from the saddle.

  “What does fiega mean?” Bethany suddenly asked, turning all heads in her direction. Dormael looked askance at D’Jenn, who was staring at Bethany with his intense, probing eyes. The both of them knew what that meant. It was “fire”, but it was the language that had taken them aback. It was Old Vendon.

  “Where did you hear that word, dear?” Dormael asked the girl, trying to hide his surprise at the question.

  “You told me. In my dream, last night,” Bethany smiled up at him, “Don’t you remember?”

  “Well, since it was your dream, dear girl, I don’t imagine I would remember. What else did I tell you in the dream?” Dormael replied, and D’Jenn was staring now at the two of them with great interest. Shawna looked as if she was about to say something, but D’Jenn held up his hand and she swallowed it and listened with a baffled expression on her face.

  “You just kept saying that, over and over again. Fiega, fiega, fiega…only you were whispering, like it was a secret. I kept asking you what it meant, but you wouldn’t tell me. All you said was, fiega,” Bethany replied, playing with this goatee again.

  “Well, dear, it means ‘fire’. Does that mean anything to you?” Dormael answered her, his eyebrows rising in anticipation of her answer.

  “Nope.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Uh-uh. Fire is just fire, I guess,” she shrugged. Dormael looked to D’Jenn, who was stroking his goatee yet again.

  “Well, out with it, coz. I can’t abide your brooding silences any longer, I must know what’s on
your mind,” Dormael shot at him.

  “I would just like to know more, in general,” Shawna spoke up from behind them, “Here I am, following the two of you back to the Sevenlands of all places, and all you do is keep to yourselves. I’m supposed to trust you, but you two don’t seem to trust me. What in the Six Hells is going on, here? What is all of this fiega business, and why does it mean so much, and why isn’t anyone telling me anything?”

  Both Dormael and D’Jenn were struck by her sudden outburst, and they gazed at each other for a second in stunned silence before turning their expressions on the young noblewoman, who was obviously feeling quite left out at the moment.

  “Shawna,” Dormael began, trying to soothe her, be she cut him off.

  “Don’t think that I haven’t noticed you two waggling your fingers at each other! As if I’m too dense to realize you’re communicating. I’m tired of being treated like a child, here. Explain this all to me, or I’m taking my armlet, and taking my chances on my own.” Dormael was stiff with surprise, and he could see D’Jenn going slightly red in the face with indignation. For once, though, he didn’t snap back at Shawna. Instead, Dormael spoke up.

  “You’re right, Shawna. Please, accept my apology. You must understand that D’Jenn and I have been doing this for so long now by ourselves that it is hard to get used to someone else being…on the team, if you will,” he sighed.

  Shawna crossed her arms and looked sideways with the expression of a child who wasn’t quite ready for their tantrum to be over. The effect was slightly amusing to him, and he wondered idly if she would slap him if he told her she was pretty when she was angry. She would most likely whip out her swords and gut him; he had forgotten that she was Marked. He could not deny that she was pretty, though, right at the moment.

  “What is it that you want to know, Shawna?” D’Jenn asked calmly, and she relaxed in her saddle and appeared to think about it for a moment.

  “Why are you two so scared of that armlet? I mean, I’m scared too, but you two have a reason to be. I’m just frightened of it in general, but I want to know what it is about the armlet that frightens the two of you so much,” she demanded. Dormael sighed and looked to his cousin, who only shook his head and turned back toward the road as if to say “this is your problem”. Dormael took a deep breath and thought a second before continuing.

  “Alright, Shawna…let me begin by explaining a few things about our magic,” he sighed.

  “You’ve already explained about magic,” Shawna interrupted, sounding deflated.

  “Not everything, so if you will listen for a bit I will try and make you see what is so damn confusing about your little piece of jewelry.” Shawna looked a little abashed, but she stayed quiet during his momentary pause. Taking a deep breath, Dormael continued. “I’ve already told you that magic is in everything, do you remember our discussion about that?” She nodded, and Dormael went on, “Well, that being said, magic also has a certain feeling to it, at least to a wizard it does. It is mildly empathic, and it has its own…song, if you will. Using it is almost like being submersed in sound, in a way.” Dormael sighed and cracked his knuckles, trying to think of the best way to explain the next part. “One wizard can feel another wizard using magic, or touch another wizard’s power through his own magic, and doing so produces a harmony through the magic. You can recognize a wizard’s power in this way. Take for instance, D’Jenn and myself. We have linked our powers often, and so I can recognize his magic at any time through my own. I can feel him using it because he has his own harmony in magic that is caused by the magic’s own music fused with his consciousness…do you understand?”

  “So it is sort of like a personal touch?” Shawna offered, with a thoughtful expression on her face. All traces of her earlier tantrum were gone, and she was once again the reserved noblewoman.

  “Exactly. So, imagine magic as a base melody in a concert piece,” Dormael explained, using his hands for emphasis, “and wizards are all playing instruments in the symphony. At one time or another, one of the instruments may break out on its own, and play a solo, this is using magic.” Shawna nodded to show that she understood. “It may sound different to the listener, but it is still the same song. All the solos that each instrument could play would still have to be done within the confines of the song they are all playing.”

  “I see. So where does the armlet come into all of this?” Shawna asked impatiently.

  “I’m getting to that, my dear swordswoman,” Dormael replied, an irritated expression appearing on his face at being interrupted again, “Now, since I’ve explained that wizards don’t have magic, that magic just is, I don’t have to remind you of that. The armlet…the armlet is an entirely different song…do you understand?” Comprehension dawned on Shawna’s face and she nodded, casting her eyes downward.

  “So, what exactly does that mean? Where does its song come from?” she inquired.

  “Well, that’s what is so frightening about it, dear. We don’t know. Neither of us has ever felt anything like its power before, and it seems to work differently than our magic. However, it does seem to have an affinity for it. Our magic and the power of the armlet seem to sing to each other, communicating in some strange way. Whether or not that means anything, though, I can’t say. As far as we know, there has never in the history of the Conclave been a discovery of a different power,” Dormael concluded quietly.

  Silence wrapped the companions once again, and a fresh wind blew in from the west off of the sea that was only a few miles distant. Dormael drew the deep cowl of his cloak up against the cold, and the rest of the party did the same, huddling against the chill breath of winter. A gray shadow fell over the land as clouds obscured the afternoon sun, and it seemed to cast a pall over the moods of the four companions as they rode north along the winding, dusty road in reticence. Roughly half an hour passed before Shawna spoke up again.

  “What about all of the finger-waggling you two do at each other? What does all that mean?” she demanded, one eyebrow raised. Dormael cursed silently. He had hoped that she had forgotten that part of her little inquiry. She was right, though; if they were to trust each other then she had to know everything. Sighing, he once again looked at her and explained.

  “It’s called the Hunter’s Tongue. Many Sevenlanders know it. It was created by hunters so long ago that no one can recall its exact origins, and is most useful when you want to communicate without being heard; such as when you are stalking prey in the forest.”

  “Or when you are discussing secrets you don’t want overheard by others?” she shot at him accusingly. In reply, Dormael only shrugged sheepishly.

  “I suppose you want to learn it then?” Dormael asked her, and she nodded back vigorously. “Then we shall begin teaching you. After all, we have nothing but time. Bethany will learn her letters, and you the Hunter’s Tongue.” Shawna finally appeared satisfied, and the party rode on again in silence for a time, hunched against the blowing chill.

  The land began to roll with small hills as the party went further northward. The trees around them spread out into scattered copses of winter-dried maples, their gray bark bared to the elements. The dusty road that had meandered through the forest earlier now began to ebb and eddy with the surrounding hills, first meandering through the draws and then cresting a hill or two before settling back into the low areas. Brown, short grasses carpeted the land and waved lazily with the salty winds, which grew more delicate as the sun fell slowly toward the horizon.

  Dormael began to grow impatient with the road as it seemed to aimlessly ramble through the hilly countryside. His mood turned sour and he brooded silently as they clopped along the dusty path. He entertained the thought of building an entirely new road with his power – a straight, unbending line from Stormcoast to Borders. It would probably save them hours, or even days, on their trip northward.

  D’Jenn chose a small copse of trees nestled in a draw between two hills for their campsite that evening. It was behind a hill, and h
idden well from the road in case there were any curious passersby. When the horses were hobbled, brushed, and fed, Dormael went to the task of preparing a small campfire. D’Jenn did not object, for they were obviously in for a very cold night.

  As darkness enfolded the small campsite, the fire cast its orange, flickering light, and the smells of dried, smoking wood encircled the companions as they ate a meal of spiced venison with some bread and slices of cheese. D’Jenn once again passed around the bottle of Cambrellian wine he had acquired, and the party settled into a mood of warm contentment as they thawed their hands in the heat of the campfire.

  As the two wizards lit their respective pipes in their nightly ritual, Dormael made a slight downward movement with his closed fist and looked meaningfully at Shawna.

  “This means ‘yes’,” he explained, and then made another gesture with an open hand, “and this means ‘no’. This is where we will begin your instruction in the Hunter’s Tongue.” Shawna listened to him raptly and even smiled a little as he went on teaching her the obscure language of hand gestures. She asked questions and picked up on it quickly, and Dormael found her to be a most pleasing pupil to teach.

  Her instruction went on for about an hour, and then it came time to teach Bethany more of her letters. Dormael would scrawl words in the loose dirt that surrounded the campfire and have Bethany sound them out, and Shawna even chimed in now and then with a little help during the lesson. Bethany surprised the two of them when the lesson was over by repeating Shawna’s own lessons in the Hunter’s Tongue, and Dormael resigned himself to including the little one in the teaching of the silent hand language.