Child of the Flames (The Seven Signs Book 1)

by D. W. Hawkins

  Reaching the place where they’d climbed over the wall, Dormael glanced around for more guards—for the moment, at least, the walls were clear. D’Jenn climbed atop the battlements and offered Bethany a steadying hand as Dormael helped her up beside him. Once D’Jenn and Bethany were on the wall, Dormael pulled himself up on Bethany’s other side.

  D’Jenn peered into the night. “Can you float us down with your spell?”

  “Aye, but I can’t see a bloody thing in this haze.” Dormael squinted his eyes at the ground below and shrugged. “It will be a blind jump.”

  “I think the piece of ground where we jumped to the cliff face is that way.” D’Jenn pointed ahead and to the right. “I’ll ready myself to shield us if we’re coming down on top of something.”

  “Or if we miss.”

  D’Jenn scowled. “Don’t curse us before we start.”

  “Alright, let’s get on with it, then. But if we land in the sea, I’ll remind you it was your fault every day.” Dormael nodded to his cousin. “You chose the direction.”

  D’Jenn smirked. “Fair enough.”

  Dormael reached down and took one of Bethany’s hands. The girl looked up with wide, frightened eyes, and he gave her an encouraging nod. It seemed to have no effect, and heat rose to Dormael’s cheeks.

  I have no idea how to act around children.

  “You may want to close your eyes, little one.” D’Jenn didn’t bother to smile. “Close your eyes and hold on tight.”

  She nodded.

  “We go on three,” Dormael said. “One…two…three!”

  In unison, they pushed off the parapet, jumping into the dark night. Dormael extended his spell to include all three of them, and they floated through the air as the rain hammered down. The night yawned beneath them, and Dormael’s stomach crawled into his chest.

  Bethany’s hand was tight in Dormael’s, and he glanced over to find the girl staring straight into the dark, jaw clenched and defiant. Her eyes were wide and fearful, but she didn’t make a sound. Dormael turned his face back in the direction they were falling, teeth bared in a fierce grin.

  A stretch of wet, grassy ground materialized from the haze. They had made the distance they needed with some to spare, and Dormael was relieved he wouldn’t have to swim—though the rain had soaked him well enough without it. Dormael added a bit of power to the spell to slow their descent, and the three of them came down on a soggy patch of ground.

  Safe on the ground again, Dormael let his magic sleep and turned to look up at the castle. He half expected a cry to sound through the night, but none came. Ferolan Castle seemed distant and lonely, looming above the city in the rain.

  He made to let go of Bethany’s hand, but she held fast. Dormael glanced down to find her regarding him with a plaintive look. A dagger went into his heart, and he let the girl hold on to his hand.

  “Are you going to leave me now?” Bethany glanced over her shoulder at the castle on the rise. “He’ll come for me if you do. He always comes.”

  D’Jenn shared a confused look with Dormael and crouched in front of Bethany.

  “My name is D’Jenn, and this is Dormael. We’re pleased to meet you, little one.”

  “And we’re not leaving you to starve in the rain.” Dormael moved a few strands of soggy hair off the girl’s forehead, and she didn’t flinch the way she did before. “You’ll come with us. We’ll get you in some warm clothes, and you can have something to eat. Does that sound good?”

  Bethany nodded and looked at the ground.

  “Well then, let’s get going.” Dormael grimaced at her feet. “If you don’t get out of this cold, your feet will freeze right off.”

  Bethany nodded again and the three of them set off into the rain.

  Ferolan was quiet, the rain keeping most people off the streets. They walked through dark alleyways, where tiny waterfalls poured from rooftops onto the street below. They sneaked across streets where the only light was cast from the windows of busy inns. They jogged along the back streets of the Merchant’s District, headed for the rear entrance to Alton’s manor. By the time they made it to Alton’s manor, everyone was soaked to their bones.

  Coming to the rear gate of the Dersham manor, D’Jenn waved his hand at the bolted gate, and it unlocked itself under his power. Looking around to make sure they weren’t seen, the wizards ushered Bethany through the gate and closed it behind them. They hurried across the grounds to the back entrance and opened the door, slipping out of the rain with a collective sigh of relief.

  Lyssa saw them and rushed over. She got almost all the way to Dormael when she spotted Bethany hiding behind him, no taller than his waist. Lyssa’s eyes widened at the sight of her.

  “By Lady Neesa!” Lyssa put one hand to her mouth and crouched to Bethany’s level. “What’s your name, dear?”

  Bethany took a step away, her diminutive hand tightening in Dormael’s grip.

  “Bethany.” Her voice was quiet, and she edged back another step.

  “Oh, you’re soaked, you poor thing. Where did you come from?” Lyssa grabbed a rag from her apron as if she meant to wipe the rain from Bethany’s hair. She paused, glancing at the towel, and seemed to realize the futility of the gesture.

  Bethany only shrugged in reply and tried to slink behind Dormael. He squeezed her shoulder with encouragement and gave Lyssa an apologetic smile. Bethany looked to him again, and nodded toward Lyssa.

  “She’s a friend, little one. She won’t hurt you.”

  Lyssa smiled and held out a hand. “Why don’t you come with me? We’ll get you out of those wet clothes and put some warm food in you. Does that sound nice?”

  Bethany nodded, shooting another nervous glance at Dormael.

  “The cooks made a roast this evening, and I think there’s still some in the pot. Nothing warms you up like a bellyful of hot food, right?”

  Bethany stepped from behind Dormael’s leg. “Roast?”

  “You’d better hurry and get to it before I do.” D’Jenn smiled. “I’m famished.”

  “Seconded.” Dormael nodded. He looked down at Bethany. “Shall we eat, little one?”

  A timid smile cracked the girl’s lips—tiny, but there, nonetheless. There was a twinge in Dormael’s chest as the smile slid onto Bethany’s features, and he reached out and tousled her wet hair. She didn’t shy from him, and he smiled even wider.

  “Lyssa!” Nan came bustling down the stairs. “Lyssa! We need another plate of food now! And find me—” The elderly chamberlain drew up short when she saw Dormael and D’Jenn. “Ah! You two—I’m glad to see you down here, but you need to get upstairs now.”

  Nan’s tone brooked no arguments. There was something magical about an old woman’s commands all on their own, and he found himself snapping to attention as if Nan was his own grandmother. Dormael paused, glancing between D’Jenn and Bethany.

  “What’s going on, Nan? We’re a little wet, a little hungry. Can’t we change first?”

  “It’s Lady Shawna,” Nan said. “She’s awake!”

  No Use for Crying

  Shawna pushed herself from the wet grass, grunting with effort. A bright welt decorated the back of her right hand, angry and hurting in time with her heartbeat. She looked to the side—to where she had dropped the practice sword—and reached out to pick it up for the fifth time.

  “Is it necessary to be so gods-damned rough with her?” Shawna’s father glowered at the shorter, darker man who currently towered over her with a wooden sword of his own. “You’re not training her for the battlefield!”

  Shawna bristled at the comment, but she was too winded to protest.

  Master Severin’s expression was flat. “I am training her to dance the blades, Baron Llewan. I will train her to my standard, or you may find another Master to see to her education. Perhaps knitting would be more to her liking?”

  “No!” Shawna picked up the sword and rose on unsteady feet. “I can do this.”

  Master Severin watched her
with implacable gray eyes.

  “It has not yet earned the right to speak as a person.” He lashed out faster than she could react, smacking the practice sword from her hands with a contemptuous gesture. She stumbled back, but he lashed out a second time and landed a stinging blow on her right flank, causing her to double over in pain. “Until it can keep from squealing like a beaten dog, it will not be treated as a person.”

  “Gods, man!” Shawna’s father took a step forward.

  “Father, please!” Shawna gasped around the pain in her side.

  Master Severin eyed her for a moment, taking in her pitiful form.

  “It appears the girl wishes to continue.” Severin turned to her father. “Baron, if you have summoned me here because of vanity, you are quite mistaken. I do not train pretty boys to wield pretty swords. I train Blademasters. The tradition is generations old, and it will not be watered down for the likes of anyone, much less a country girl who wishes to play with her brother’s things.”

  He came forward in a flash, wooden sword arcing down for a killing blow, but Shawna’s frustration finally won out over her pain. She threw herself to the side—more awkwardly than she wanted to admit—and picked up her practice sword again. She held it in shaking hands and took a low guard, watching the small Kerallian Master closely.

  “It has some fight in it after all.” Severin smiled. “This is your first lesson, girl. I am not your father’s Master-at-arms. This will not be a pleasant experience for you.” He rushed forward, sword raised, and Shawna made to meet his blade with a parry. Severin, however, kicked her full in the stomach instead, sending her sprawling into the grass once again. She groaned in pain and tried to suck in a breath, but the kick had knocked the air right out of her.

  “Shawna,” her father said, “come on. We’ll go inside and get you something to eat. I’ll send this bastard away.”

  “No!” She grunted and rolled to her side, wincing as every muscle in her abdomen clenched in pain. She reached once again for her sword. “I won’t give up!”

  She fought back to her feet and faced the sword master, raising her wooden blade. Shawna’s father regarded her with displeasure, but finally relented with a scowl. Severin’s expression was unreadable.

  “Very well.” Dolland’s eyes went to Severin, who stood with his practice sword behind his back. “Train her as you wish. But don’t cripple her or mar her face. She still has to marry some poor bastard someday.” He shot her one last guarded look and stomped back toward the manor.

  Severin watched him go, silent as a monolith, and turned back to Shawna. He was a short man, but wiry and strong, and only a fool would discount the danger he represented—as Shawna was repeatedly discovering. He regarded her with a piercing, gray-eyed stare. Shawna felt more than a little ridiculous under that gaze.

  Finally, he nodded.

  “So. The pretty girl wants to be a Blademaster, does she?”

  “She does,” Shawna growled, growing more than a little tired of the way everyone was speaking over her.

  “She thinks she knows what this means.” His tone made it a statement more than a question.

  “Whatever it means.” She sighed.

  He regarded her for another long moment, his weathered face as still as a winter pond.

  “Very well. I will train you.”

  Her eyes perked up. “You will?”

  “Yes. This is your last chance to back out. Leave now, girl—you will not enjoy this, that I promise you.” His eyes sparkled, but she couldn’t read anything in them.

  “I’m not going to quit!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “We shall see. The first thing you’re going to do is run.”

  Shawna blinked. “Run?”

  “Yes. You will run thirty laps around your father’s manor, or until you collapse. Whichever comes first.”

  “Now?! But you’ve already beaten me half to death!”

  “I’ve not even started to beat you.” Severin smiled. He whipped his sword at her again, and she was too tired to deflect it. Her own blade went flying into the grass, and his next blow landed on her leg with a fire that brought back memories of being whipped as a child.

  “Run!” He whipped her other leg with his sword.

  She squealed and took off, trying to escape the crazy little man and his wooden sword. Severin laughed with glee behind her, and Shawna increased her pace to stay ahead of him. She took off around the manor, trying to ignore the astonished faces of her father’s staff.

  Behind them, her father’s house was burning.

  ***

  Shawna woke with her heart beating into her ears.

  She blinked her eyes and rubbed at her forehead, disturbing a light sheen of sweat on her skin. She was covered in lavish blankets, and a slight odor of woodsmoke tickled her nose. The noise of a crackling fireplace filled the room with thick heat. A bare ceiling hung above her—thick wooden beams sealed with off-white plaster.

  Where am I? The bed was suddenly cloying, and Shawna needed air on her skin. She tried to rise, but a fierce pain in her side forced her to lie back again with a grunt.

  “Oh!” An old woman appeared, fussing with the mountain of blankets. “Oh, dear, don’t get up, now—just lie back!”

  “Where am I?” Shawna’s voice cracked with disuse. Her head was fuzzy, as if she’d spent all night drinking her father’s firewine. A pang of loss stabbed deep into her heart at the thought of her father, but she pressed it down. She remembered the attack and her mad flight. Charlotte had left the attackers far behind, but everything past that was a confused jumble of dream-like flashes.

  “You’re in the home of your cousin, dear—Lord Dersham. Now, you just lie back and relax, I’m going to get you seen to.” The old woman bustled to a bedside table and took a cloth from a metal basin. She wrung water from the cloth and came back to Shawna’s side, dabbing her sweaty forehead with the cool rag. “There you are, dear.”

  “I made it.” Shawna sighed, relief flooding though her body like cool water. “Oh, bugger the gods, I made it!”

  “Well, there’s certainly no need for that kind of language, dear.” The old chamberlain smiled. “But yes, you’re safe. Dormael found you and brought you here.”

  “Dormael?”

  The old woman nodded. “I imagine you’re famished, dear. Is there anything you want?”

  “Water.” Shawna grunted, poking at the painful wound in her side. “Maybe some firewine or milk of the poppy.”

  “No milk of the poppy here, but we’ve got some firewine.” The old woman nodded. “I’ll bring some with the food.”

  “Thank you.” Shawna tried again to rise, but the old woman pushed her shoulders down with gentle hands. Shawna’s abdomen gave a sharp tug of pain, and she collapsed in the bed.

  “Don’t you move, now. You’ll break open that wound again, and we’ll not have any of that.” The old woman fussed at the pillows under Shawna’s head. “I’ll prop you up, just give me a moment.”

  “What’s your name?” Shawna tried to clear the cobwebs from her mind.

  “I’m Nanathel Bellostra, but everyone calls me Nan. Chamberlain to my Lord Dersham, if you please. It’s an honor to finally speak to you, my Lady. We’ve all been biting our nails, waiting for you to wake.”

  “Nanathel,” Shawna repeated. She gave a weak smile. “It’s a beautiful name.”

  “Aye, but don’t go repeating it, Lady.” Nan smiled. “It might scare some of the staff to hear it.”

  After a moment of rearranging the pillows and moving Shawna about, the old woman had propped her back against a mountain of cushions and pulled the blankets up to cover Shawna’s indecent parts. A quick check under the covers had revealed her to be wearing nothing but a sheer nightdress.

  A sudden panic charged Shawna’s limbs. “My horse! Is Charlotte alright? And my things—where are they?”

  “Peace, Lady Shawna. Your horse is fine—she’s stabled here at
the manor. Your belongings are in the wardrobe, just over there.” Nan pointed at a standing closet opposite Shawna’s bed. Her swords were propped against it. She imagined her saddlebags were inside. She let out a huge sigh of relief.

  “I have to speak to Alton.”

  “I know, Lady Shawna.” Nan nodded. “I’m going to retrieve him now. He’s been most anxious since your arrival. All the lads have.”

  “The lads?”

  Nan smiled. “I’ll let my Lord inform you. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Not right now, thank you.”

  “No thanks are necessary, dear. I’ll return shortly with the food.” Nan offered Shawna a slight bow of the neck and left the room. The door shut behind the chamberlain, leaving Shawna with nothing but the popping fireplace for company.

  Shawna let out a slow breath, trying to ignore the dryness in her mouth. Her heart fluttered with nervous energy, but she ignored that, too. She couldn’t put a name to the way she felt. Her chest was hollow, but that warred with the pain in her body and the muddiness in her head. The smell of the roaring fire reminded her of the way her family’s home had smelled when she had last seen it. Shawna clamped down on a blooming storm of emotion and swallowed a bout of sobs.

  There’s no use crying now. I’ve got to get myself under control.

  Just when she had smoothed her emotions, Alton burst into the room.

  “Shawna!” He rushed over to take one of her hands. He was different than the lanky boy she remembered. The Alton of her youth had been a mischievous and troublesome sort, awkward and always getting into one thing or another. The man who took her hand was different—poised, broad-shouldered, and much taller. He had grown into his frame, and she could tell by the way he regarded her that he’d kept the compassionate streak that had so endeared him to her in their younger days.

  “Alton.” She smiled, wincing as she tried to sit up again.

  “Careful, cousin.” His smile was strained, but there was a glimmer of mirth in his eyes. “I don’t know if you realize, but you had an arrow in your back.”