Flameseeker (Book 3)

by R. M. Prioleau

  Kaijin stared at the pendant at his feet. Inset in the fiery amber was the symbol of Ignis.

  He quickly backed away from the pendant, mindful of his previous tests. I will not get ambushed again.

  The pendant glowed with power and grew in size, forming into an immense elliptical ring that nearly touched the ceiling. On the outer edge of the ring was ancient writing that Kaijin was unable to decipher. A fiery swirl emanated from within the ring, and Kaijin glimpsed what looked like part of another world beyond it. The area was barren and tinted a deep red-orange hue. The air wavered from the heat of the flames that burned the ground, which was made of hot embers.

  Something about that place looked familiar; he was certain he’d seen it before. Then, he remembered. The Realm of Fire—Ignis’s domain. But how is it that ... Kaijin squinted, studying the strange doorway, and then he recognized the type of spell that Vargas had cast. It was highly advanced—something that only the most experienced mages were capable of performing. He had heard horror stories of such of summoning spells going wrong. He’d had no idea that clerics were capable of performing similar spells.

  “You lied, Vargas!” Ranaiah exclaimed from above. “Dismiss this gateway spell immediately!”

  “No. The Firelord has spoken to me,” Vargas retorted. “Kaijin’s limits will be tested!”

  Their voices became a jumble of noise in Kaijin’s ears as something huge stepped through the gateway and towered over Kaijin, more massive than a bull. He went cold.

  The monster, an afriti, was what had always haunted him in his dreams.

  The creature’s burly, inhuman ankles were adorned with ornate golden cuffs, and ash-grey claws protruded from the stubby toes of its bare feet. The creature’s red-orange skin gave off the illusion of burning flames. It stared intently at Kaijin with haunting turquoise eyes, and its broad, flat snout wrinkled as it gave a grisly smile, revealing a set of razor-sharp fangs. Two large black horns protruded from its head and curved upwards, and its frayed, pointed ears were adorned in brass rings. Secured at its waist was an ornate brass scimitar.

  Kaijin gasped. It’s the same afriti as from my dream!

  The monster snatched Kaijin up with a clawed hand. “No, Kaijin Sora. I am not a dream.”

  Kaijin trembled in the creature’s iron grip, too shaken to summon a spell. “Stop ... Stop doing that. Stop reading my thoughts. Get out of my head!” He felt sweat bead over his face, and his vision blurred. This can’t be happening again! Why?

  The afriti chuckled darkly and squeezed Kaijin more tightly, enveloping him in bright orange flames.

  A flaming chain whipped out of the darkness behind it and looped around its waist. Its grisly smile dropped.

  “You will not disrupt this test any longer, Ranaiah!” Vargas screamed. Through the shimmer of the flames, Kaijin could vaguely see Vargas and Ranaiah tussling. “Release the afriti at once!” Vargas demanded.

  Ranaiah! Kaijin struggled in the afriti’s grip.

  The afriti roared and pulled on the flaming chain, jerking both Ranaiah and Vargas dangerously near the edge of the platform. The stumble broke Vargas’s hold, but it also cost Ranaiah her grip on the chain, and it vanished in a flash of orange light.

  Vargas’s hand emitted a glow, and an ethereal flail, shimmering with flames, appeared. His eyes burning with rage, he wildly swung the near-transparent but apparently solid weapon at Ranaiah’s face. “Curse you, Ranaiah!”

  Ranaiah stepped back, which put her foot at the very edge of the platform. When Vargas attacked again, she evaded by moving her body to the side. At the peak of his forward momentum, Ranaiah agilely swept behind him and grabbed his arm in a skillful arm-lock, making him drop the weapon. It fell to the ground and disappeared.

  Vargas continued to struggle against her. “Release me!”

  “Not until you send that afriti back!”

  Vargas jerked his body far enough free from Ranaiah’s grip to ram his elbow into her ribs. She yelped and doubled over, letting go.

  He whirled and grabbed her robes, pulling her to him. “The Firelord spoke to me, Priestess, and I will obey him!” he snarled into her face.

  She grunted. “You’ve gone mad. I condemn you to Ignis’s wrath for these wicked acts!” She shoved him with all her might and ripped herself free. Vargas stumbled backward, unbalanced by Ranaiah’s resistance. She extended her fist and sent forth a blast of light that knocked him over the edge of the platform.

  Vargas fell into the pit, but the afriti, with unnatural speed, caught him in its free hand before he struck the stone floor. The afriti flung Kaijin away and focused its attention on its injured summoner, Vargas.

  Kaijin’s back slammed hard against the wall, and what little wind he had left from the afriti’s fist was knocked out of him. He slid down the smooth stone, and he landed on the floor with a thump. Dazed and sore, he stared up at Vargas, who writhed in the afriti’s clutches.

  “She has defied the Firelord!” Vargas cried out weakly. “She has been disgraced! She has fallen! She must not live!”

  The afriti ignored Vargas for a moment and turned to Ranaiah, who had readied another ball of light in her hands. Growling, it began backing toward the gateway, not looking away from her.

  She unleashed the blast of light at the afriti.

  With Vargas still in its grasp, the monster rushed through the gateway just moments before the blast hit. A blinding flash of red fire lit the walls and ceiling, and Kaijin looked away, shielding his eyes.

  When he could see again, the portal had vanished, and no trace of either the afriti or Vargas remained.

  VII

  It was late afternoon, five days after Master Faulk’s death—the day before the Citadel’s annual symposium of mages—and Omari was spending the day in the Library of the Moon, trying to get his mind off the recent tragedy. He opened up a random book that had been left on the table, and idly thumbed through it while he let his mind wander. The thought of the murderer still roaming at large kept him on edge. He watched the students sitting at the tables studying or speaking silently with one another and recognized some as classmates who had also studied under Na’val.

  Omari’s own grief over his master’s recent death outweighed his excitement about the upcoming symposium, something he’d always looked forward to since first being inducted into the Citadel as a child. Things will be much different, this year.

  The Councilmembers had not been seen since Na’val’s memorial; Omari assumed they had been busy amending the symposium’s schedule. Percival, who had been curled in Omari’s lap, stood up and briefly investigated the book Omari was skimming, sniffing at the stiff yellowed pages before curling back up again.

  Some students sat at a table next to Omari’s, chatting amongst themselves, but they paid him no mind. He would avoid his friends and acquaintances for now, as he needed time to himself to get his mind right and to figure out what he must do next. He needed no one’s pity, nor did he have the energy to argue.

  How am I supposed to follow in Master Faulk’s footsteps? Omari’s fingers idly traced the lines of some glyphs on the page in front of him, and as he did so, a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision made him glance up and toward the library’s entrance.

  Saris strode through the doorway with his chest slightly puffed out, and head held high, and a sly, haughty smirk on his face. He didn’t bother to look around him as he headed for the rear of the library.

  Scowling, Omari watched his nemesis disappear down the aisle. What is that snake smirking about? He must be up to something. He moved Percival to his shoulder and stood. He didn’t recall seeing Saris at the formal memorial that morning, though the crowd in the hall had admittedly made it difficult to spot a particular face. Omari edged around the bookshelves and peered down the aisle that Saris was in.

  Saris was alone, casually skimming the spines of some books on the last shelf of the aisle. He stopped at one book, pulled it out, and began to peruse through it. Omari stro
de over to him.

  “What are you doing here, Saris?” Omari demanded.

  Saris glowered at him. “I am reading. This is a library, after all.”

  “You were not at Master Faulk’s memorial. How dare you disrecpect him like that!”

  “Who are you, my mother?” Saris shoved the book at Omari and walked off. “I don’t have to explain anything to you, peasant!”

  Peasant? Omari dropped the book, grabbed him by the back of the robes, and shoved him face first into a nearby shelf, knocking a few books to the floor. Percival leapt from Omari’s shoulder, onto another shelf. Omari turned Saris around so that he faced him.

  “How dare you call me a peasant!” Omari growled, snatching a handful of the front of Saris’s robes. “You have no dignity or honor!”

  Saris gaped at Omari. “What does your family know about dignity or honor? Get your dirty hands off me!” He wrestled in Omari’s hold and then kneed him in the gut.

  “Oof!” Omari stumbled backward and fell against the opposite bookshelf, sending several tomes crashing to the floor. Percival squeaked, startled, and fled to a new shelf.

  Saris lunged at Omari and seized him by the collar. He leaned his face in close to Omari’s until their noses almost touched. “I’ve just about had it with you and your detestable ass-kissing to the Council,” he said in a low tone.

  Omari’s anger rose, bringing with it a sensation of brief crackles of electrical energy in his eyes. “Whose dagger was it that they pulled from Master Faulk’s chest?”

  Saris took a breath, about to reply when the trampling sounds of approaching footsteps stopped him.

  Omari turned his head and spied two administrators, a middle-aged man and woman, standing in the aisle.

  “Omari! Saris!” the man exclaimed, hustling over to them. He shoved them apart and looked at each of them. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Saris, now free, firmly brushed and smoothed out the wrinkles in his robes from where Omari had grabbed him. “Omari has gone mad, Master Rhaun. He accuses me of murder.”

  * * *

  Jarial stroked his chin as he listened to the Council’s final amendments to the symposium’s schedule. He stayed quiet and didn’t speak unless spoken to. He felt unworthy of offering any input, as he was no longer one of the Nine, although the majority of the Councilmembers seemed to treat him as if he were one of them.

  “Master Glace,” Burke said, drawing Jarial’s attention. “How do you feel about hosting and speaking in Master Faulk’s stead?”

  Jarial blinked and felt all eyes turn to him. He can’t be serious! I am not even officially a Citadel mage anymore. “Elder, with all due respect, why not let Omari or one of Faulk’s other students do this?”

  Maira nudged Jarial’s side, and he looked at her. Pursing her lips, she shook her head.

  Burke gave a weak smile. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten the protocol of the Council, but Omari must spend time shadowing the Councilmember of Illusion first—which would’ve been Na’val—before he can possibly be vested his title and the transition take place.”

  Jarial took a deep breath. Bunch of useless politics. It took all his willpower to hold back his initial retort. “Forgive me, Elder. I simply thought it would be more appropriate for one of Master Faulk’s students to do this in his honor, is all.”

  “A thoughtful gesture, Jarial, but this time tomorrow we are going to have guests from all over the world gathered here, and things must run as smoothly as possible.”

  Jarial gave a sour glance around the table, then looked down at his hands, clasped in his lap. They are trying to make me come back. I will not concede. I do not belong in this chair. Omari does. He looked back up and at the elder. “The only requirement left is for Omari to simply shadow a master of Illusion for a month or so, correct?”

  “Yes, that is correct. He must learn the duties of a Councilmember.”

  Jarial nodded and stood. “Very well. He will shadow me. I will teach him everything he needs to know.”

  The Councilmembers turned to each other, murmuring and exchanging glances.

  The elder sat back in his chair, his smile broadening. “Well that is wonderful, Master Glace! Does this mean you—”

  “I’m not returning to the Council,” Jarial broke in. “But I feel I have the experience to groom him properly. I do, however, have a request.”

  The Elder’s smile fell. The attention of the other Councilmembers fixed on Jarial as silence returned to the room.

  “Speak,” Burke said.

  “I want to borrow Omari for a while,” Jarial said. “There is some business I need to take care of, away from Ghaeldorund, and I require his ... assistance.”

  Heads turned to the elder, who looked thoughtful.

  “You can’t possibly let him do this, Uncle!” Virgil sprang up from his chair and slammed his hands on the table, startling Garmin and Yates to either side of him.

  Lars pensively scratched his chin. “I must agree with Master D’Hasha.” He gave Jarial a stern look. “Master Glace, you cannot make such demands if you are not a Councilmember.”

  “Master Glace is more than capable. We all know this,” Yates said, looking around the room. “Why should we question him with such politics?”

  The room erupted into chatter for several minutes until Elder Burke slapped the table, bringing order once again. He eyed Jarial. “Judging by your request, I assume you don’t intend to be in attendance at the symposium tomorrow, either. Is that correct?”

  “That ... is correct.” Jarial added quickly, “I am going to regret not attending, but I feel the business I must tend to is much more important.”

  “I dare ask, what sort of ‘business’ do you have, Master Glace?” Virgil sneered. “I pray, for your sake, that it is not helping another renegade.”

  “Enough, Virgil!” the elder barked.

  Jarial felt his face go hot, and he took a deep breath. “No, you may not ask,” he said, deliberately leaving off the formal titles. He turned to Burke, hoping that the elder would not press the matter any further.

  To his relief, the elder gave him a dismissive nod. “Very well, Master Glace. I will entrust Omari to you, but for payment, he will be ready to ascend when you return.”

  Jarial gave a swift bow, hiding his smile of triumph. “As you wish, Elder. He will be ready. I will make certain of that. Farewell, then.”

  As he began to stride out of the Council’s chambers, Burke moved on to the next agenda. “Since the death of our beloved brother, I’ve arranged several groups from the guards as well as the Citadel to investigate this matter thoroughly. Since obtaining this dagger, there have been several attempts at scrying for the culprit. Unfrotunately, each time the spell is performed, we end up with a new location all around Aransiya, and northern Ankhram.”

  “Like the assassin’s on the move,” Lars commented.

  Jarial slowed his steps as he approached the door, listening to as much of the conversation as he could.

  “Indeed,” the elder said. “It seems each time the spell is cast, the results get more and more erratic.”

  “Is the dagger deteriorating, perhaps?” Gwenneth asked.

  “There is an enchantment on it. A disintegration spell. Perhaps it has been triggered already and thus is causing our results to be skewed. But I am saddened to say that we’ve little to go on other than this.”

  “A disintegration spell,” Garmin muttered. “A fine way to cover up one’s misdeeds. We must gather as much information from it as we can before it is destroyed and non-restorable.”

  Jarial heard movement behind him and stopped before the doors. He turned and saw the wrapped dagger sitting in the middle of the table. The Councilmembers seemed unaware of Jarial’s presence as they focused on the dagger.

  “Agreed, we cannot give up our efforts,” Yates said.

  “Yes,” Burke agreed, starting to unwrap the dagger. “We will have to try again. Let’s just hope—”

  Dead
silence fell on the room as something unexpected was found beneath the cloth: grey dust. Na’val’s dried blood, mixed with the substance, created a crusty mess.

  “What in the name of the gods ... ?” Gwenneth whispered. Other Councilmembers mumbled.

  Jarial widened his eyes. The dagger! It ... dissolved!

  Burke pulled the dust-filled cloth to him and stared at it. “No ... we’re too late....”

  Some of the Councilmembers, solemn, bowed their heads.

  Jarial chewed his lip and tiptoed out of the room. The evidence may be gone, but my memory is not. And Omari had recognized the rune.

  After closing the door behind him, Jarial hastened down the stairs and to the second floor. Rounding a corner, he heard a commotion coming from the Library of the Moon. Students clustered at the entrance.

  Omari’s voice rose from the crowd. “You are nothing but a liar, Saris!”

  Jarial blinked. Gods! Not again! He rushed over to the crowd and pushed his way through. In the center, he discovered Omari and Saris, facing two administrators. Percival cowered between Omari’s ankles.

  Everyone immediately snapped to attention upon recognizing Jarial.

  “Master Glace.” The female administrator greeted him with a polite nod.

  Jarial crossed his arms and glanced over the group. “What’s going on here?”

  “Omari is accusing Saris of murdering Master Faulk!” one student blurted from the crowd. The group erupted into low murmurs.

  Jarial spun around and glared at the student. “This does not concern you.” He pointed at the rest of the crowd. “None of you! Now disperse!”

  The students left without hesitation. Once they were gone, Jarial faced Omari, Saris, and the two administrators once more. “Now then. Where were we?”

  The male administrator cleared his throat. “As I understand it, Omari has been accusing Saris of murdering Master Faulk. A rather preposterous presumption, if you ask me.”