Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1)

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Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1) Page 11

by D. W. Hawkins


  He’s a good officer, but I’ll have to watch him.

  “Lieutenant,” Grant said, “I do not care about the rumors of chambermaids and stable boys. Sheep will bleat—that is all they do. What you do is obey fucking orders. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. See to it, then.”

  Havram’s eye twitched. “Yes, sir.”

  “And Havram?”

  “Sir?” Havram met his eyes, his expression unreadable.

  “The next time I see that look in your eyes, I may put a dagger through one of them.”

  A moment of tense silence hung in the air between them. The muscles in Havram’s jaw worked as he ground his teeth. It was good he was angry—he would need to harden up, to get used to the kinds of things he would be required to do.

  If not, there was always the dagger.

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Good.” Grant raised his chin. “Dismissed.”

  Grant listened to Havram’s footsteps fading down the hallway as the door closed behind him. He sighed and walked to the shuttered window to look out over the city. He opened the window, letting the sea air rush into the chamber. Grant filled his lungs with it—fresh air always made him feel at peace.

  “Where are you, girl?” he muttered into the wind. “Where the bloody Hells are you?”

  When no answer came, he turned from the window and strode back to the writing desk. The Emperor’s message waited like a soothsayer’s curse. Cold fear rose at the thought of the Emperor’s displeasure. The man was not above prosecuting his officers for offenses committed in the line of duty, and if Grant fell far enough, he had no doubt he would see the inside of an Imperial courtroom. Once that little formality was over, he’d be strangled to death in public.

  I must succeed here. Everything depends on it.

  Grant closed the window and turned away. He tossed his shirt over the edge of the bed and settled into the blankets. He stared at the canopy overhead for a long time before falling asleep.

  His dreams were haunted by a cloaked figure tightening a cord around his neck.

  Stealing the Child

  Dormael blew on his hands to warm them. The air was frosty, and his breath misted between his curled fingers. The smell of salt was heavy so close to the ocean, and there was no shelter from the wind. The waves crashed like thunder on the rocks below, and lightning flashed over the sea.

  D’Jenn stared at the rocky cliff face looming out of the night, tugging a cloth facemask over his nose. Clouds of misty air puffed from inside the fabric while he tied his hair back with a leather cord. He regarded Doramel with a raised eyebrow and shot one last glance over his shoulder.

  Dormael checked the kerchief he’d tied around his own face, settling the fabric in place. Facemasks always got damp halfway through any operation, and his beard was always a problem. He checked the few knives he’d brought—one in each boot, and another in a drop-sheath up his sleeve. With a calming breath, he focused his will and opened his Kai.

  The cold was immediately more uncomfortable, and he could feel every miniscule bead of moisture floating in the air. The waves crashing against the rocks was a cocophony of noise, and the odor of salt was strong enough to taste. Dormael concentrated, walling away the various stimuli, until he had steeled his mind against the flood of sensation.

  D’Jenn’s melody played through the ether, and his voice spoke into Dormael’s mind.

  Reconsidering?

  Dormael smirked and shook his head.

  D’jenn shrugged and gestured at the cliff face. It’s a long climb to the castle wall. The rocks will be slick. I’ve got a solution, though—watch and learn, coz.

  D’Jenn channeled magic from the ether, gathering power at his hands and feet. He took a running step and jumped over the gap between their perch and cliff face. Dormael stifled an alarmed shout, but D’Jenn grasped the rocky surface of the cliff and stuck like a spider in its web. He crawled upward for a few links of distance and paused to glance over his shoulder.

  Coming?

  Dormael copied his cousin’s spell—it wasn’t hard to make two objects stick together, though Dormael had never tried it with his own hands and feet—and leaped across the gap to the face of the cliff. His hands hit the rocks and stuck fast, and he almost jerked his shoulder out with the force of the jump. Resituating his position on the rocks, he scowled up at his cousin.

  D’Jenn’s eyes were full of mirth over his facemask. You must control the spell consciously. Else, you’ll have to stick and unstick each hand and foot when you need to pick them up.

  Dormael shook his head, glancing between his feet to the churning sea below. Or wrench my shoulder out when I jump the wrong way.

  Or that. D’Jenn looked upward. Come on. I can keep a shadow over our backs to keep us hidden from the city during the climb, but let’s get going. I don’t like hanging here.

  Dormael nodded. Go. I’ll follow.

  They pulled themselves upward, hand over chilly hand. Dormael had difficulty with D’Jenn’s spell for the first moments of the climb. The trick was to gather power on his palms and the soles of this feet and keep it there, waxing and waning with how much energy he needed to counteract his bodyweight. There was a rhythm to the spell, much like there was a rhythm to walking. Once Dormael was comfortable with being stuck to the rocky face of the cliff, the climb went smoother.

  Ferolan Castle loomed at the top of the cliff face, illuminated by flashes of silent lightning above. The rise upon which it was built faced the sea and looked over the crowded valley below. It was only accessible from the city by a winding, narrow road from the Lord’s March—the district where Ferolan’s richest people made their homes. The castle’s walls were built right to the edge of its rise, where sheer cliffs fell to the sea. No force could besiege it, and no sane person would attempt the climb.

  Dormael paused near the top, taking one hand away from the rocks to turn and gaze down at the city. Ferolan’s lights were sprinkled through the valley, illuminating orderly streets crowded with buildings. He tried to spot Alton’s manor in the Merchant’s District but couldn’t make it out.

  By the time Dormael pulled himself over the edge of the rise, his fingers were hurting with the cold. D’Jenn helped him onto a narrow stretch of grass between the cliffside and the castle wall, and the two of them moved to crouch against the stone. Dormael blew on his fingers again, warming them with his breath.

  Voices floated down to them from the top of the wall—a pair of guards on patrol. D’Jenn froze, his hand up for silence, and Dormael replied by rolling his eyes. The voices passed on their way, rolling laughter echoing in the night, and D’Jenn nodded. With another whisper of magic from the ether, D’Jenn started climbing the outer wall of Ferolan caste.

  Dormael blew on his hands again and followed D’Jenn up the stone.

  They slipped like a pair of shadows over the edge of the battlements and crouched on the walkway. The upper wall was wide and dotted with chest-high parapets on both sides. The stone underfoot was pitted with age, and the parapets were weathered by rain and wind. Torches burned at distant towers, where the wall changed direction, but the sea wind whipped the flames until they barely provided illumination.

  Lighting flashed over the sea, and a peal of thunder followed a few moments behind.

  Maybe the weather will keep the number of patrols down. D’Jenn shrugged. Nobody wants to walk the castle walls in the rain.

  Dormael nodded. If we’re lucky. Let’s get moving before the next one comes by.

  Moving to the inner edge of the battlements, Dormael peeked through the space between two parapets. No one moved in the courtyard below, between the castle’s outer wall and the taller, inner wall protecting the castle’s main keep. The walkway atop the inner wall was also empty. Dormael turned a smile on D’Jenn and backed up to take a running start.

  It’s my turn to teach you something. Dormael took a running step and jumped from the edge of the battl
ements, sailing into the air between the walls. His Kai sang in a steady tone, counteracting his weight, and instead of falling, he slid through the air on a lazy arc toward the inner wall of the castle. Dormael started to fall too quickly and adjusted the amount of power feeding the spell. The more he used, the more weightless he became.

  Dormael abandoned the spell in the last moment in favor of D’Jenn’s climbing technique. A terrifying moment passed as Dormael’s hands slid over the pitted stone of the inner wall, his body falling, until the magic took hold and brought his downward slide to a stop. He let out a tense breath, pressing his entire body to the stone.

  D’Jenn landed on the stone nearby—without sliding. Are you alright?

  Fine. Let’s keep going.

  The wind was stronger the higher they went. Dormael’s mask fluttered on his face, and the tails of the kerchief whipped at his ears. His hands were freezing, and the cold stone under his fingers didn’t help with the chill.

  I should’ve worn gloves.

  The cousins made the ramparts on the second wall and narrowly avoided being spotted by a roving patrol of guardsmen. They waited below the lip of the battlements until the guards were gone and slipped over the edge to the walkway. The inner keep lay inside the walls, with two wide towers rising above the main structure of the building. The towers, one higher than the other, were probably where the Earl would keep his own apartments, and hopefully where he would house any esteemed guests.

  Dormael glanced to D’Jenn. Which tower do you want to climb first? The big one or the small one?

  D’Jenn glanced over the walkway and shrugged. The tallest is probably home to the Earl. Think he’d want to house his guests in his own tower?

  The small one, then. Dormael glanced back and forth, ensuring the walkway was clear. Another patrol of guardsmen walked in their direction, but they were on the northern side of the inner walkway and wouldn’t be close enough to see. Dormael clapped his cousin on the shoulder and nodded. After another teeth-clenching jump to the wall of the inner keep, Dormael was once again clutching to a cold stone wall.

  The sound of boots scuffing on dry stone announced D’Jenn landing nearby. Dormael glanced over his shoulder, looking for the guards on the battlements of the inner wall. They had turned the corner and were on the stretch of walkway within sight of the pair of wizards. Dormael shared a tense look with D’Jenn.

  D’Jenn’s Kai whispered in the ether. Flatten yourself against the stone. I’ll shield us both from detection.

  Dormael nodded and pushed his chest against the wall. He felt D’Jenn’s spell cover them both, twisting the natural shadows over their backs. The guards walked past without looking toward the keep, and Dormael let out a breath he’d been holding.

  Climbing the curved surface of the tower was different than scaling the wall. The wind lashed the tower with chilly blasts, numbing Dormael’s fingers. The height made him dizzy, and his legs shook with fatigue.

  D’Jenn, of course, seemed to have no trouble.

  They climbed to an eroded windowsill on the southern face of the tower. The window was closed, and there were heavy drapes on the other side of the milky glass. The room was dark, and a quick inspection with Dormael’s senses revealed its emptiness. D’Jenn used his Kai to open the lock from the inside, and the cousins slipped into the quiet, darkened chamber.

  A large covered bed sat against one wall, the drapes hanging limp in the cool air. The fireplace was home to nothing but gray ashes. Dust motes floated in the moonlight from the window, and the room smelled like old candlewax.

  No one’s slept here in a while. Dormael turned to his cousin.

  D’Jenn nodded. The commander must be staying higher in the tower. The Earl probably put him in one of the larger rooms.

  Let’s go have a look.

  D’Jenn grimaced. Fine, but I don’t want to get caught up going room to room. In and out quickly—that’s the game.

  I know the bloody game, cousin. Dormael waved D’Jenn’s concerns away.

  Knowing it and playing it are different things.

  Dormael raised an eyebrow. If I push you from the wall on the way out, will you splatter at the bottom, or just crack open like a melon?

  D’Jenn snorted. Crack open. Splattering is too dramatic. You’d probably splatter.

  Dormael shook his head and moved to the door, bending his ear to the sounds in the hallway. Nothing but silence greeted him. He pushed the door open and peeked around the corner, using his Kai to keep the hinges from squeaking. There were candles burning in the corridor, filling it with ruddy light, but it was otherwise deserted.

  Dormael slunk out of the room, D’Jenn following close behind. The hall was curved around the shape of the tower, and Dormael kept his body close to the inside wall. They passed another room—also unoccupied—and made their way to the opposite side of the tower.

  A noise drifted down the hallway—a man humming a tune. The steady rasp of a whetstone over steel accompanied the melody, though there was no scuff of boots on stone. Dormael paused, crouching in the hallway, and listened.

  Someone guarding a door, sharpending a blade. D’Jenn listened to another long rasp. A sword—it has too much edge to be a dagger.

  Dormael nodded. Put him to sleep?

  D’Jenn nodded back and narrowed his eyes at the hallway ahead. His song whispered through the ether, a filmy thread of magic floating down the corridor. The rasping stopped and the humming trailed off, and there was a quiet clatter—the whetstone falling to the floor.

  Dormael shared a glance with D’Jenn and crept around the curved wall.

  The guard was a large man, dark-haired and clean-shaven, wearing chainmail and a white surcoat trimmed in bright red. He was slumped in a wooden chair, his chin resting on his chest. The sword still clutched in his hand teetered over his lap, threatening to fall to the floor. Dormael reached down and took it in careful hands, laying the blade on the floor beside the man’s chair. On the chest of the guard’s surcoat was a red sword, its tip pointing downward.

  D’Jenn raised an eyebrow at the standard. Red Swords. Let’s see what he’s guarding.

  They moved to the door and D’Jenn put his ear to the wood. Dormael waited a tense moment, watching the slow rise and fall of the guard’s chest. A large, worn locking mechanism was attached to the door, and D’Jenn used his Kai to open the lock. With a muted clack, the lock turned, and D’Jenn opened the door. Dormael followed him inside and shut the door behind them.

  A pile of wood smoldered in the room’s single fireplace, filling the room with warmth and a muted glow. A canopied bed dominated the room, but this one had silk curtains covering the framework, drawn closed in the occupant’s absence. A thick fur rug covered most of the floor, and a small writing desk stood to one side of a window, which was drawn shut against the cold night wind. Lightning flickered outside, illuminating the window through the curtains.

  A trunk sat at the foot of the bed with a sheathed longsword resting on top. The sheath was capped with silver and bore an insignia in the center—three straight bars under a starburst. He picked up the sword and presented it to D’Jenn, who nodded in recognition.

  That’s the insignia of a Colonel in the Imperial Army. D’Jenn’s brows furrowed. You’d think Colonels would be commanding units in the field. The Empire must want this artifact bad if they’re willing to send such a high-ranking official.

  Dormael tilted his head. How do you know the Imperial rank structure?

  I read books, cousin. You should learn how someday.

  Dormael chose to ignore that one.

  D’Jenn crossed the room to the writing desk. A tidy stack of paper sat in the middle with a quill and inkpot nearby. D’Jenn rifled through the papers while Dormael spelled the trunk at the foot of the bed to unlock and open itself. Before Dormael could start searching the trunk, D’Jenn cleared his throat.

  “Look at this.” D’Jenn turned and proffered what looked to be a message. It was a small scroll pa
inted with red and white edges. A broken seal was stuck to the message, a fist inside a circle stamped into the wax.

  Dormael took the message and pulled it open.

  Colonel Grant,

  Your letter was not a welcome one. You have always served with distinction, and I thought I could trust you to handle this mission with greater care. With matters having spun so far out of control, I trust you’re working as hard as possible to clean up your mess. The mistakes of the soldiery fall upon the commander—a thing of which I’m sure you’re fully aware. Find the artifact and fix this situation. Failure will mean swift punishment. See it done with all possible haste and report to back to Shundov.

  There was no name at the bottom of the letter, but the fist on the seal—the official standard of the Galanian Empire—was all the confirmation Dormael needed. He shook his head and handed the message back to D’Jenn.

  “Right. Well, now we have our confirmation,” Dormael said. “She’s got something they want, and I’m guessing this ‘artifact’ is the same thing that awakened my Kai.”

  D’Jenn nodded. “Aye. I wonder what it—”

  Someone whimpered from inside the canopied bed.

  Dormael spun, pulling magic from his Kai, ready to strike out at the noise. D’Jenn stopped him with a restraining hand on his shoulder. Dormael held himself ready, heart beating in his ears.

  The whimpering continued, peppered with sniffling noises. The voice had the distinct timbre of a small child. Dormael shared a confused look with D’Jenn. Together, they moved toward the bed. With a tentative hand, Dormael pulled the silk curtains on the bed aside.

  A young girl sat crying on the bed, cowering in fear. She hid her face between her knees, arms hugged around her legs to pull them close. Her hair was brushed and neat, but there were bruises on her arms and legs, as if someone had taken a cane to the poor little thing. She wore only a sheer nightgown, which displayed the purple and brown welts on her limbs in lurid detail.

 

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