Voices of Blaze (Volume 5 of The Fireblade Array)

by H. O. Charles

  ruthless with it. I swear those green eyes could cut chunks out of mountains. If you are ever born with royal blood in one of your future lives, Tem, never make enemies ofthe Jade’ans. I thank the stars above and the fires within them every day that they agreed to become our allies.”

  “No, she is thankful for your alliance. Orta stretches most of the length and breadth of this continent. You could swallow

  Gialdin with a cough and she knows it.”

  Marteus pulled his mouth tight. “There is something else about them, and that palace of theirs... There has to be a good reason it has stood longer than any other. They have a power I do not understand – one I have no hope of understanding. It’s like you and your fire-breathing.”

  “I’ve tried to explain it to you-”

  “No, I don’t want to know.

  Fires in a person! I still cannot get used to the idea. I am eternally grateful they decided not to settle in me. No, keep all that to yourself. I’ll do the kinging, you do the warrioring and the... the, er... burning.”

  Artemi snorted at his discomfort, and her smile settled deeper into her features when the castle came into view. Marteus had started building it at the beginning of his reign, and only now was it reaching

  completion. It did have very many turrets. Artemi had insisted that he build a castle with lots of turrets. “It’s looking very impressive, my king. A little ridiculous with all those turrets, perhaps, but impressive nonetheless.”

  Marteus pursed his lips. “I agree. They are ridiculous, but a leader must maintain his appearances. I quite like them.”

  While she watched it, the colours drained from the sky, and

  the yellow stone of the castle was bleached to grey. The scene shimmered, and was replaced by the black rock of the chamber she had fallen unconscious in. Rav grinned at her with his strange, contorted face. “How was that?” Marteus Ironheart. It had been a very long time since she had thought of him. Why now? Why that particular memory? “I dreamed ofa place that no longer exists, and someone I knew a very long time ago. A man I helped.”

  The millennia had done their best to scrub out everything Marteus had achieved in his lifetime. The floods five-hundred years later had seen to washing away his great castle, poorly managed battles had seen his country shrunk to the size of a city state, and the last man of his bloodline was but a feeble shadow of the legendary king. At least the historians had done him some justice in the millennia afterward. Stories would not

  forget him soon, even if the physical world had.

  “Ah. A romantic encounter?”

  Artemi shook her head. “No. It was never like that.”

  “Hmm. Fun though, yes?”

  She sighed. “I would like to go back. Can I go back?”

  Ravendasor put his hands out to help her from the hammock. “You’ve had enough for now. There is such a thing as too much.”

  Her legs were oddly firm when she tested them with her weight, and her mind was as clear as if she had slept a full night in the quietest Sunidaran desert. Taqqa really did make a person stronger and brighter, it seemed.

  “Want to test out those new muscles of yours in a fight?” Rav asked.

  Of course, what else would a man and a woman do here to pass the time? Did Injra fight too? Artemi had not seen it happen,

  though she would not have been surprised if that hidden section of society had possessed hard fists of their own. “Alright.”

  Her arms were far too long to be as effective as they had been in the Darkworld, at least with the moves she knew, though there ought to have been compensatory techniques here. That said, she had observed little in the way of technique in mraki fist fights. They tended to throw as many punches as they could at

  each other in as little time as possible, and how could more be expected of them? They spent so much time warring and puffing out their chests, there could be barely a moment when they would settle down and learn anything from one another.

  Artemi waited for Rav to launch a fist at her, and he soon obliged, but it was easily slow enough for her to avoid. This had to be the mraki version of gentleness.

  She responded with a quick rabbit punch of her own, but found that the length of her limbs got in the way of making it effective. She needed to gain more distance from Rav, and so she began to dance around him.

  “What are you doing, woman?”

  “Just try and touch me.”

  Ravendasor did try, but he missed three times. “This is cowardly.”

  “No,” Artemi said, “it is

  tactical.” She landed a hit on his shoulder, and did so powerfully enough to make him grunt.

  “Fight like that in public, and you will be thought of as a pretty butterfly, ready to have its wings plucked.”

  “Fight like this, and I’ll win!” Artemi dodged another of his blows and landed one of her own.

  “This is irritating; not satisfying for a man at all,” Rav said. “You need to show you’re

  made of stronger stuff – that you can take the knocks and stand.”

  Artemi lowered her guard. “That is just idiotic.”

  “What you don’t seem to understand,” Rav said, “is that fighting is not just about knocking the wind out of your opponent, or putting new holes in their wings, or even shoving their face into the dirt. It’s about demonstrating strength. If you can take the pain – if you can be iron against their knuckles – that

  earns respect. Hopping about like a frightened hare does not.”

  “I see. Ijust – where I come from, we don’t normally fight unless we have to, and we do tend to get more things done. Once you’ve proved your strength, isn’t all this a waste of your time?” Had she really said that? Truly? Or had Morghiad’s mind left a part of itself lodged in her own? Artemi loved a good fight over sitting around a table and talking! What was happening

  to her?!

  Rav’s frown was fierce, but it melted slowly from his heavy features. “I agree, but it must be done, Emmi. A leader must keep up his appearances.”

  Blazes, but this creature was like Marteus! Well, except Marteus had never eaten children, and he would never have hit a female member of his species. Not even a warrior. Artemi reconsidered her thoughts about them. The two men were

  not that similar, but there was something there. Was that why her mind had chosen that particular memory of the old king? Marteus had needed her to fight for the sake of appearances on that day, and Artemi had known at the time that demonstrating her skill to the Gialdinians was about anything but the money. Marteus held one ofthe world’s deadliest assassins in his pocket, and he had wanted his allies to know it.

  “Are you going to show me off to your friends?”

  “No. You are going to do that yourself. The day is coming when you will need to establish yourself in the hierarchy, and you would be more useful to me if you started higher up.”

  Useful? When had she offered her help to him? Artemi recalled a time when her aid had been a prize worth offering only to the best of men and women. Marteus had been one, Captain

  Feodsunu after him, Queen Reyanna was another, and Hedinar Kantari too. All ofthose people had been required to pass Artemi’s personal list of conditions, and she was quite sure that this Ravendasor would fail a number of them. “You want to change the way things are done, don’t you?”

  “You could say that, Emmi, but you would have to fight me to prove it.”

  Kalad urged his horse forward with a squeeze of his legs, and gazed at the city that perched atop the hill before them. He had always avoided the major Hirrahan cities during his

  travels, owing to his resemblance to a man who ought not to be received well here, but his father had ridden into the country as if he were the one who wore the crown and gave orders to the army. Perhaps his approach was effective. After all, no one had yet tried to stop them.

  Astalon, as it turned out, was not the looming fortress of pointed, black towers and sharp, jutting rocks
that he had read of. Instead, it was very... red. There

  were clouded spires, hefty walls and stretched chimneys, but the place appeared to resemble the Calyrish house far more than any bastion of warfare. Kalad was distinctly unimpressed.

  To his left rode his father, and to his right was Qeneris, whom he supposed he ought to call his uncle. It had been peculiar enough when his father had turned up in Sokiri wearing full Hirrahan costume, but it had been even more peculiar to meet

  the rest of the braided clan. Kalad imagined that they found his existence similarly odd, and Qeneris had even said, “It is unusual for sons to arrive when a marriage is not yet five years old; even stranger for them to arrive fully grown and bearded.”

  Kalad had discovered that he liked his uncles well enough, but his grandfather was ice-cold in his bearing and rarely smiled at anyone except his wife. Not that Kalad blamed him for it. He

  turned in his saddle to flash a smile at the Lord and Lady Calyrish. The lady loosed one back at him, and it was rather stunning. Was that right, to find your grandmother’s smile attractive? She wasn’t truly related to him by blood. Kalad turned away from her and attempted to refocus his thoughts.

  He had read through every one of the notes his sister had provided him, and he was aware of Calidell’s somewhat precarious situation. They had some valuable things to bargain with, and Kalad was sure that Medea had chosen to paint a cautious picture ofthe situation over a realistic one. What had taken him some considerable time to understand however, was why she had chosen him for the task. At first he had wondered if she had arranged this in an attempt to force some sort of reconciliation with their father,

  but as he had pored over the parchments she had written, he had realised that there was something more going on.

  First, the reality of his responsibility had become magnified with every aspect of the country’s finances and usable land that she had outlined. The livelihoods of men and women now rested upon the words he would use in the negotiations, and with one ambiguous statement, he could lose Medea

  hundreds of square miles of land. Second, there were things she had left out, and she had clearly done so on purpose. Kalad did not know if those pieces of information would be waiting for him in letter form when he arrived at the palace, or if she wanted him to bargain with their enemies without knowing exactly what it was he had to lose or gain. Third, in many of her footnotes there were odd comments about The Hunter. It

  was only when Kalad reread everything that he realised what she was trying to communicate to him. Medea was asking if he thought it would be right to engage in some sort of romantic relationship with the man.

  How was he to know the answer to that?! Surely that was something she should have asked their father? Of course, their brother might have been the first man she would have spoken to on the subject, but though he

  was now dead, she still had female friends at court. Why didn’t she go to any of them about the problem?

  Fourth, and perhaps most disturbing of all, she had established that certain guarantees would have to be provided as a way of sealing whatever agreements the countries came to. Medea’s writing had been full of euphemisms, but Kalad knew exactly what they meant and why he was there instead of her. Calidell was still wealthy, but that would not last forever, and a new queen could not afford to concede any of the lands her parents had defended. Given that she could not trade herself, what else did she have in her storehouse, but him? Kalad was the meat to be sold in the market, and would likely come out ofthis a married man.

  Kalad studied his father, who rode proudly beside him, but whose eyes were fixed on something distant. His focus often seemed to leave him, though Kalad did not know ifthat was typical for the man. It was peculiar however, that his father would sometimes blink or twitch as if startled by something unseen. Kalad had not mentioned it, and it was apparent that it could not be explained by any abstract link to his mother. And then there were the multiple layers of clothing. Being colder

  than a glacier in Forda had seemed a boon in the heat of the Virulent Ocean, but now that they were in the temperate mountains of central Hirrah, his condition looked nothing more than unpleasant. No one else but his father wore fur-lined gloves on this day.

  When they had arrived in Haeron, his father had sent messages by pigeon post and road to the neighbouring nations to give notice of the talks. He had

  done so with apparent blind faith that all parties would turn up, but Kalad had recognised the hand of Silar Forllan in the replies that had arrived far sooner than they should have. No doubt the former general had primed each ruler in one way or another. Dismissed. Away. And still a spymaster and manipulator. Kalad could not fail to be impressed.

  As they neared the city gates, the Calyrish household guard swelled about them

  protectively, holding their tall bows at the ready and knocking their arrows. Kalad had tried to shoot one ofthose weapons whilst in Haeron, but as with most things combative, he found he lacked the required steadiness or aim to excel.

  They passed through the gates without issue or hindrance, and soon entered the courtyard ofthe palace. It was a pleasant enough structure to look at, if you happened to like windows

  narrow enough to squint like suspicious eyes, sprawling arches that looked like bowed legs and brickwork the colour of a butcher’s block.

  The Queen of Hirrah was not the one to meet them upon the steps. Instead, they were greeted by a woman who declared herself the High Priestess of Quidarh. Hers was not a state built upon royal families or bloodlines, but a country formed around the worship of

  the fires. She had dispensed entirely with a guard of her own, but then she was a wielder of fair ability. Kalad had sensed her some time before they had reached the main gates. She was perhaps a little plump for Kalad’s usual tastes, but those lips of hers were made for kissing. Kalad smiled to himself. From now on, he would most likely look at every woman of rank as a potential marriage partner.

  “Welcome,” she said whilst

  holding gaze with his father, “to the one-time king, kanaala, warrior, revolutionary and husband of a legend. And to his father, Lord Calyrish of Haeron and his lady... and to their other son-”

  “Qeneris,” the man offered with a small bow, “My other brother is minding our estate.”

  She smiled, though a twitch of her fingers as they clasped might have indicated she did not wish to be interrupted. “And so

  this must be Kahr Kalad, First Heir to the Crystal Throne of Calidell.”

  First Heir? Fires! No one had ever called him that before, even if it was now his true title. He forced a smile. Did anyone really expect him to be a king one day? His thoughts immediately returned to Medea’s questions about The Hunter. She had better get to work on him soon, Kalad thought, or think of naming an heir. The last thing he wanted was to be locked inside that

  castle again. He would write to her tomorrow, and instruct her to bloody well get on with it!

  “Come. My niece welcomes you all.”

  Niece? Of course. Niece-inlaw. He should have remembered from his childhood lessons that she had been a blood relative of Hirrah’s dead king, and that she would surely claim kinship with his widow. The High Priestess’ name was Parfal, if he recalled correctly, and she had been

  placed in the Sisterhood of Achellon at Quidarh in order to remove her from Hirrah’s line of succession. Older relatives could often get in the way when families bred hastily, and Kalad certainly did not intend to get in the way.

  Their horses were taken away for stabling, but Tyshar did not appear to agree with this plan, and stamped and bucked at the hands who tried to lead him.

  “I’ll see to him,” Kalad’s

  father said, and then to Kalad, “I’ll catch up with you later.” He led a considerably more placid warhorse away, and Kalad was left alone with the Hirrahans.

  It was not that he was afraid of being assassinated – he fully expected them to try that while he was her
e – it was more that he felt horribly out of place amidst these politicians and manipulators. He had enjoyed some of his lessons with Silar, though the man’s abilities had

  been so advanced in nature that he had often found it hard to keep pace with the conclusions Silar had come to. Kalad’s family had never been the sort to play mind games, blackmail or pretend to be anything they were not; they were all far too interested in swords and fire for any of that. His party were led into the entrance hall, where the priestess fell into step between him and Qeneris. “I see the Lady Artemi Calyrish is not with you,” she said

  in a much less officious voice. It was almost soft in tone.

  “She has been called away on other business.”

  Parfal’s mouth turned down at the corners. “What could be more important than this, I wonder?” There was a pause where Kalad supposed he was meant to provide an answer, but he elected not to, and she continued, “And what about you, Kahr Kalad? I understand you are still not married.” Her hand