Flameseeker (Book 3)

by R. M. Prioleau

  FLAMESEEKER

  by R.M. Prioleau

  *

  Book 3 of The Pyromancer Trilogy

  Flameseeker

  R.M. Prioleau

  Copyright 2013 by R.M. Prioleau

  Flameseeker

  © 2013 R.M. Prioleau.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Edited by Misti Wolanski.

  Cover Art by Sarah Ellerton.

  Aransiya Map by R.M. Prioleau.

  Visit the author’s website at: www.rmprioleau.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any manner without the express written permission of the author. All rights reserved.

  Table of Contents

  Aransiya Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Aransiya Map

  I

  Kaijin lay on his back in bed, playing with a small flame he’d summoned in his hands. The ball of fire burned brightly, casting shadows that danced on the ceiling. The flame-shaped charm he wore, secured to a lengthy necklace, shone in the light, every intricate golden line traced in fiery red. He focused on the flame, entranced by its swirling colors and varying movements. He and his friends who’d accompanied him had only arrived the day before, and he was exhausted.

  While he remained at the Pyre—his destiny—Kaijin knew he would seldom have opportunities to spend time by himself. He hadn’t even bothered undressing fully, only managing to take off one shoe and undo a button or two on his robe before plopping in bed. It was wonderful to sleep in a bed again and enjoy the silence of peaceful respite rather than the howls of animals and forest creatures. With his friends having left him to the sanctity of the Pyre, Kaijin figured they’d moved on to better opportunities.

  But what would have happened if they had stayed? Kaijin wondered.

  Omari, a fellow arcanist his age, had completed a quest of his own and was on his way back to the Citadel, which was located just north of Ghaeldorund. Kaijin, grateful that Omari helped him reach his own destination, had in return sent him home.

  Zarya, a mysteriously beautiful priestess of Celestra, hadn’t shared her own reasons for traveling, but Kaijin had sensed her encouragement upon her departure.

  Nester was a mischievous brownie with hands stickier than sap. Kaijin smiled to himself. Perhaps it was a good thing he’d sent Nester back with the others when he did, else he’d probably be continuously shooing the brownie away from the Pyre’s coffers.

  Aidan—a gentle, giant half-Dragon—was immensely strong and had helped the group of them save a baby Dragon from a band of slayers. Ironically, Aidan detested violence of any kind. Kaijin still wondered about him ...

  Kaijin closed his fist, extinguishing the flame and letting the darkness cloak him in his windowless bedchamber. He wasn’t certain if it was day or night.

  He summoned the fire onto his palm again. That time, it momentarily flared white before settling into a calming, deep-orange hue. The brief, bright flash revealed more of the ceiling, including his familiar, Miele—a fruit bat—who clung to an offset stone, protruding from the wall far above Kaijin. Her wings were folded about her body, and she appeared to be resting. The light shone on her, and she stirred.

  Kaijin ran his other hand over the top of the flame and smiled at its movements. Fire didn’t hurt him like it had when he was a boy. His infatuation with the element, coupled with the power that possessed him, made him immune to the pain of being burned.

  “Why do you like fire so much, Kaijin?” he recalled his younger brother asking once.

  Kaijin could never explain why—not then, not now. It was something he couldn’t describe with words, only feel. Watching fire burn brought him a sense of happiness, contentment, and pleasure. He let his mind drift and merge into the ever-changing flames, and his tired body relaxed. Strange tingling traveled through his body, a sensation that he’d sometimes felt as a boy, though he hadn’t understood what it meant at the time.

  He inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly.

  A knock at the door disturbed his reverie. Startled, he closed his fist and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing them to adjust to the darkness of the room once again.

  The knock came again, more forcefully.

  Miele let out a sharp screech, and Kaijin heard wing beats as she dove from her perch. She landed on the bed, next to his hand, her furry body tickling him.

  Another knock came, followed by a male voice. “I know you’re in there, Kaijin Sora. Open this door. We’ve much work to do.”

  Kaijin perked up, recognizing the voice of Vargas, the generous and helpful priest who had initially shown him around the Pyre when Kaijin and his friends arrived. Vargas had also introduced him to Ranaiah, the Pyre’s high priestess. He smiled. She drew him in ways no woman had ever done.

  I hope I will see her again today, he thought, feeling his cheeks get warm.

  With a lazy groan, Kaijin slid out of bed, rubbed his hands through his fire-red hair, and trudged to the door. He opened it a crack and peered out, squinting into the light of the hall.

  Vargas smiled pleasantly at him. “May I come in?”

  Kaijin opened the door all the way and let him in. As the priest stepped inside, Kaijin snapped his fingers, causing a small flame to appear and shift from his thumb to his index finger. He lit candles around his room, shedding ample light upon the old priest and his bright red-and-yellow robes.

  Vargas shut the door behind him and began slowly pacing about the room, apparently deep in thought. He stroked his short, white beard as he glanced about the bare, stone walls.

  Kaijin sat down on the edge of his bed, watching him curiously. Miele had flown back to the ceiling, away from the light. She hung above Kaijin and observed them both intently.

  “Sleep well, Kaijin?” Vargas asked, not looking at him.

  Kaijin raised an eyebrow. “Uh, yes, very much, sir. Thank you. Though I must ask, will I be getting a room with a window anytime soon? I miss waking up with the sun.”

  “As part of your training, I must ensure that your senses are hindered in order for you to work harder,” Vargas replied coldly. “Perhaps later, when you’ve passed your tests and advanced in your training, I will move you to a room with a window.”

  Kaijin frowned. He hated not knowing the time of day. His body would become completely disoriented because of it, which irked him. How did Vargas expect him to properly perform his spells while his mind was hindered? As it was, Kaijin sometimes had trouble casting in a controlled environment, especially during times in which he heard the voices in his head, voices that coerced him to do things. “So you will be the master who administe
rs my tests, I take it?”

  Vargas finally faced him. The pleasant demeanor the old man had worn when Kaijin first met him had disappeared, replaced with a hard, stern expression. “Indeed. The high priestess has put me in charge of your physical training. As overseer of the Vein, it is my duty to find and draw out that inner strength in you as a Firebrand. We will train day and night until you’ve satisfied me and High Priestess Ranaiah, who will be monitoring your progress.”

  The mention of Ranaiah brought a brief smile to Kaijin’s lips. So she is going to help me, as well. He fantasized about her watching him perform, with her beautiful brown eyes. He would complete his test successfully, and she would give him that perfect smile ...

  “Tell me, Kaijin. Do you like it here?”

  Vargas’s question snapped Kaijin out of his thoughts. “‘Like’? I love it here, sir! I feel so much at home, and I never want to leave.”

  Vargas smirked. “Good, because you will not.”

  A strange look in Vargas’s eyes made Kaijin’s stomach twist. He decided to change the subject. “Tell me, sir. What is the Vein?”

  Vargas put his hands behind his back and continued his slow pacing. He stopped in front of the trunk at the foot of Kaijin’s bed. “The Vein is one of two sects of the clergy. They represent Ignis’s strength and are directly under the high priestess. The other sect is the Embers. They represent Ignis’s dominance. They travel the world, demonstrating the Firelord’s will to others, strengthening His clergy with more followers.”

  Kaijin nodded. “I see. And what does High Priestess Ranaiah represent?”

  Vargas’s attention snapped to Kaijin, and he glowered. “She represents Ignis’s judgment. As she is kind and compassionate—perhaps too much so at times—she is also a purveyor of peace, another of Ignis’s many facets.” He approached Kaijin, and the tone of his voice darkened. “Let us get one thing straight, boy. You are in my care, and you will do as I say, else I will make you wish you hadn’t come here. Is that understood?”

  Kaijin cringed. Only his master ever called him ‘boy,’ which still annoyed Kaijin, but he was wise enough to not challenge him. But Vargas, his words seemed like empty threats, and Kaijin’s pride overcame his reason. “First of all, I am not a boy. And second, I understand and accept the rules, but I will not be mistreated!”

  In a rage, Vargas extended his hand toward Kaijin, and it glowed white. An invisible force suddenly held Kaijin in place.

  Kaijin couldn’t move his body. He grunted, and felt the invisible force constrict his body. “S-Stop it!” he pleaded weakly. He managed to look at Vargas, who smirked back at him sadistically. Then the glow in Vargas’s hand dissipated, and the force around Kaijin disappeared. Kaijin sank to his knees and hugged his body.

  “Do you need another example?” Vargas asked, looking down at Kaijin haughtily.

  Kaijin glared. This can’t possibly be the same Vargas from yesterday. “No, I get it.”

  “Good.” Miele screeched, and Vargas glanced up toward the ceiling. He huffed. “And see that your little ... pet also behaves, else I will see that it’s locked in a cage, where it belongs.”

  Kaijin slowly rose to his feet. “Miele is my familiar. She does not need a cage. I assure you that she will not cause problems.”

  Vargas spun around and headed for the door. “Very well. Now get ready. There is much to do, and I don’t want to waste any more time. Meet me in the main hall in five minutes and not a minute more, or else.” He slammed the door behind him.

  Kaijin jumped at the noise, and then sat very still for a moment as he stared blankly at the door. The man’s changed demeanor troubled him.

  Kaijin then looked up at Miele. “What’s got his robes all twisted in a knot? I’m a little confused. I mean, I thought he liked me. Well, he is just one man. There’s so much more to this place that outweighs one little unpleasant experience.” I’m in the Firelord’s sanctuary with like-minded people who accept me for who I am, and I’m in the presence of the most beautiful and intriguing woman I’ve ever met.

  Miele screeched in agreement.

  Kaijin stood, fixed his clothes, and put on his other shoe. “Well, here we go ...” He hurried out the door with his familiar and didn’t look back.

  II

  Jarial scanned the room of the Nine. Even almost thirty years since he’d last set foot at the Isle of Magi Citadel, north of the city of Ghaeldorund, he still recognized the faces of his colleagues and former instructors. Some of them had aged well, while a few others looked frail and sickly, faces somber and skin dry, cracked, and wrinkled. In his youth, he’d been a dedicated student who excelled beyond his peers, which had earned him his place on the fifth seat of the Council, a rare honor for a man of only nineteen years.

  Burke D’Hasha, the Council’s Elder and grandmaster, slowly rose from his chair and addressed the group of colorfully robed men and women. “Brothers and sisters of the Council, thank you for coming to this emergency meeting. Master Glace has returned to us, bearing pertinent news. I will now turn the floor over to him.”

  With so many eyes bearing down on him, Jarial felt the tension in the room. He had assumed they would treat him as an outcast for having relinquished his position, yet within four days after his arrival to Ghaeldorund, they had invited him to sit at his original spot at the grand round rosewood table. In the center sat an ornate bowl, from which a bright, blue flame burned, providing ample light in the room.

  Jarial counted the members. Nine total—including himself. Surely they have replaced me by now, he thought, rubbing his chin.

  The sound beside him, of a woman clearing her throat, grabbed Jarial’s attention. Maira Shikawa, Fourth Seat, Divination, stared back at him with stern and expectant blue eyes. During their school days, Jarial had looked up to Maira for tutoring and academic guidance, but upon Maira’s induction into the Council, their friendship had quickly been severed. It was for the best; Councilmembers were expected to be unbiased toward students.

  With a sigh, Jarial slowly rose from his seat. “Thank you, Elder. Grand Council, as a fellow mage, former student and member of the Nine, I bear grave news of the fate of one of our own.” He paused and shifted his gaze toward the blue flames. “Xavorin Lesward is ... dead.”

  Silence returned to the room. Councilmembers exchanged wary glances with one another, and a few inched toward the edges of their chairs.

  “It happened as the Council feared so long ago,” Jarial continued. “His renegade behavior worsened after he graduated from the Citadel and went off on his own. I did everything in my power to try to turn him away from the path of Dark Arts, but Xavorin was too stubborn. Then, one day, he came to me, seeking my help to reverse the damage that his practice of Necromancy had done to him, but it was too late. He had become a slave to his own powers. Toward the end, he became powerful enough to summon undead creatures from the Plane of Shadows, and he had lost control of himself. I believe the creatures are the ones responsible for destroying the city of Easthaven, claiming many lives.”

  “Easthaven!” one of the mages exclaimed—Virgil D’Hasha, Elder Burke’s spoiled nephew.

  Virgil was four years younger than Jarial, and the two had never seen eye to eye. Virgil hadn’t genuinely earned his position like Jarial and the others—there had been no trials or tests for him. No one ever voiced their concern about the elder’s blood nephew becoming a Councilmember at the age of twenty-one, nor him immediately being granted the Seventh Seat, Evocation—no one except Jarial. But the elder was highly loved and respected by everyone in the Citadel, and Jarial’s concerns remained unheard.

  Now I remember why I left in the first place. Jarial kept his expression impassive.

  “You blame Easthaven’s destruction on Xavorin?” Virgil asked.

  Jarial suspected Virgil had been behind the old rumors that accused Jarial of ‘questionable behavior’ and of ‘helping Xavorin.’

  “Enough!” The elder slammed his fist on the table and glared
at Jarial and Virgil.

  Silence fell over the room for several long seconds until Gerard Adeney, Second Seat, Transmutation, spoke. “Master Glace, we, the Council, are aware that Xavorin respected you for guidance.”

  Jarial arched an eyebrow. “With all due respect, Master Adeney, I condemn anyone who delves into the Forbidden Art for evil purposes. It’s a dangerous practice that mortals fail to understand. I have seen what it can do—as, I’m certain, all of you have. I watched Xavorin dwindle away to nothing, becoming a corpse like the creatures that had hold of his soul. I had to put an end to that.”

  The Eighth Seat, Necromancy, Garmin Darkwinter, sat back in his chair and pursed his narrow, cracked lips. He was the elder’s closest friend and second in command. He was the frailest-looking member of them all: very thin, malnourished, and paler than death. It was most likely due to the repercussions of his powers; Jarial had seen firsthand the results of practicing Necromancy for extended periods of time.

  Though Necromancy was deemed the Forbidden Art, it was still a valuable school of magic. Still, the Councilmember representing Necromancy had the worst seat of them all. All their knowledge and training was restricted to the Citadel, and they were constantly monitored. They were not allowed outside the Citadel without at least two escorts, and the actual practice of Necromancy could only be done in a controlled environment within the Citadel. Only a select few were allowed to pursue Necromancy, and those few were forever bound to the Citadel, forbidden to ever again step outside the doors as free men with such dangerous knowledge in their possession.

  Jarial could never understand how Garmin endured the constant scrutiny, as if he were some sort of criminal. But very little bothered Garmin—or perhaps he simply hid his feelings well.

  “It is unfortunate that it had to come to this,” said Third Seat Gwenneth Aldermoon, breaking Jarial from his thoughts, “but it is true that mortals cannot control the iron grip that Necromancy fastens on its wielder.” Jarial remembered the Third Seat enchantress as a quiet little girl, but the years had been very good to her. She had become a beautiful woman, in the fullness of her power.