The priest shrugged. “We use an ancient word for that land.”
“Old Rens?”
“Old Rens is not suited for that place. Ishthin, on the other hand, is a different language, one that is well suited for many such descriptions.”
“Well, I have visited Norilan,” Lacertin said when the priest did not expand on the other name. “It’s a place of ice and cold and I could not get close enough to even see the shore.”
“That troubles you,” the priest noted.
“It troubles me that we do not know their people, and they do not know ours.”
“Why is it that you worry whether they know the outside world?”
Lacertin sighed. It was a conversation that he’d attempted to have with Ilton, but the king had not wanted to hear. To him, there was only one answer: Norilan feared the outside world. That was possible, but they didn’t have the opportunity to learn. Much had likely been lost, including the clear control of water that the shapers of that place possessed, control that was so different than the healers and water shapers found in the kingdoms.
“I think it doesn’t matter what I fear,” Lacertin said. “My role had never been to question.”
“And yet you did.”
Lacertin sighed. “How can you not question when something is wrong?”
Hadn’t that been part of the reason that Ilton had valued him? Was that not why he had trusted him with such important tasks such as claiming the gold plates?
But never with anything else important. Never with maintaining the line, or trying to prevent war with Incendin. Only to secure the border in a different way.
Lacertin stared out at the water, trying to push those thoughts away, and failing.
“What am I to do now?” he asked softly.
The priest rested a warm hand on his arm. “Only you can decide that, Lacertin Alaseth. You may choose to be guided by Issa, or you may choose a life with questions. Which way will bring you what you truly desire?”
He looked over at the priest. “And what is that?”
“Have you not already answered that?”
“I don’t know.”
The priest patted him on the arm and smiled. “You want what all men want. Purpose.”
“I had purpose.”
“You had tasks. Meaningful ones, but they were tasks only. Purpose is different. Purpose is what you feel in your heart, what drives you, what wakes you up. Find your purpose, Lacertin Alaseth, and you will find the other thing you desire.” He smiled and let go of Lacertin’s arm. “Peace.”
CHAPTER 7
A massive fire burned at the edge of the city. Lacertin followed the priest as they left the Fire Fortress, the flames outside the city practically calling to the fortress, some shaping within the stone reacting to the fire.
A midday sun burned brightly overhead, and he was thankful for the cool comfort of the new clothing. Even the finest cotton from the kingdoms would be too hot for this weather, and he would have found himself sweating. Instead, he walked comfortably, the hot air filtering through the layers of the cloth and cooling him, almost as if they had been shaped.
“What is the fire?” he asked the priest.
“A celebration.”
“Of what?”
The priests eyes turned skyward and he smiled. “Of Issa.”
As they neared the fire, Lacertin noted that nearly a dozen people ringed it, each with the distinctive cloak of a fire shaper hanging from one shoulder. None were the woman he had seen in the archives, the one that he had not seen again.
He wondered how many of these shapers had tormented him in those earliest days. It was possible that any of them, perhaps all of them. Seven of the shapers were women, though none had the same sharp and distinctive features he had seen from the woman in the archives. Three of the women had bright red hair, a feature common in Nara that could be traced back to Rens. All had deeply tanned skin, though some were much darker than others.
“Where are the lisincend?” he asked.
The priest glanced over at him and cocked his head to the side. “You would see the lisincend?”
“I haven’t seen any since I’ve come here.”
“Few of those who embraced fire return to the temple.”
“Why do you call it a temple?” Lacertin asked, glancing back toward the Fire Fortress. He had learned that even in the city, even among the people here, it was referred to as the Fire Fortress. Only the woman in the archives and the priest referred to it as a temple.
“It is a place of Issa.”
“I thought it was the capital of Incendin.”
The priest tipped his head and nodded to the shapers. “The Sunlands would call this home as much as anything.”
“Just the Sunlands? Not the king?”
Few really understood the structure of Incendin other than that the lisincend had a significant role in leading their shapers. Ilton had tried to understand but had constantly been rebuffed, even when trying to find a way to negotiate with Incendin. It was one of the reasons negotiating with this country was so difficult.
“You know the kingdoms, but the Sunlands are different,” the priest said.
They stopped at the fire and simply watched. The shaping built, and Lacertin could feel the way it flowed from shaper to shaper, the control of the fire passing to the next. Each person added their own strength to the shaping, helping with the flames as they stretched higher and higher, the heat from the fire pushing out from them. All stood defiantly, as if the fire didn’t bother them.
When the control passed all the way around the circle, the priest stepped forward. He took control of the fire shaping and sent it twisting and raging, the flames reaching even higher than they had been. The shaping coming from him was much more controlled than any that Lacertin had ever experienced. It built with a precision that added to the flames, sending them leaping and pressing against Lacertin with swells of heat.
The pressure of the shaping continued to build and now burned along Lacertin’s skin. The shaping shifted, rising with even more intensity, and began to beat in time with his heart. A pulsing, almost a throbbing, came from the shaping, drawing him toward the fire. Lacertin couldn’t help but feel compelled.
He took a step without realizing what he did.
The shaping continued to build, demanding that he join it.
The heat from the shaping pressed on him. To counter it, Lacertin crafted a shaping of his own, pushing against that from the fire shapers. He couldn’t take his eyes off the flames and felt the way the fire pulsed through him as he stepped forward.
Then something changed.
Lacertin had no word for what it was, but the shaping shifted, as if passed to him.
Had he not been standing as close to the fire as he was, had he not been nearly inside the flames themselves, he might not have detected the change. The fire began to simmer. Lacertin felt it as a physical loss and added his own shaping to it. In his mind, he could almost hear the way the fire called to him, as if he understood that it wanted something of him, and he added his shaping to that of the other shapers.
Flames leapt again, augmented by him.
He breathed out, and fire climbed higher. The shaping called to him in a way that fire never had, asking—almost demanding—a different type of shaping. Lacertin could no more ignore it than he could ignore thirst or hunger.
With fire drawing from him, he wrapped the shaping as it seemed the flames themselves directed, letting himself be guided by it. He sighed and the fire shifted, becoming more potent and now spiraling up, twisting like a funnel of wind. Distantly, he was aware that he’d never had the strength to make such a shaping before.
Lacertin continued to allow himself to be drawn into the shaping. The power of it filled him, and he threw his arms away from him. Fire itself seemed to pour from him, surging into the shaping.
The flames spiraled even more, turning with a torrent that he couldn’t comprehend, that he could barely begin to
control, and then he released the shaping.
He fell back, exhausted, and hands gripped him, lowering him to the ground.
Lacertin managed to look up and saw the concerned face of the priest staring down at him through his spectacles. Sunlight glinted off the glass and burned through the lenses.
“What was that?” Lacertin asked.
“That,” the priest began, “was Issa.”
Lacertin stood next to a dark-haired shaper named Cyrus, watching as he made flames leap from hand to hand. The control he exhibited rivaled that of the most skilled shaper in the kingdoms, and from what Lacertin had discovered, Cyrus was considered something of a novice, too raw to join the circle.
After nearly passing out following the shaping outside the city, the fire shapers had brought him to their compound. They said nothing during the walk, and the priest had left him with the same shapers who had likely been responsible for torturing him when he had first come to Incendin.
Now he stood among them.
Not as an equal. He might have strength in fire shaping—of that, even the Incendin shapers didn’t disagree—but he was still unskilled compared to those from Incendin. They would teach, if he was willing. Lacertin didn’t know whether to take the offer seriously or whether he should ignore the offer and return to the fortress.
But answers might come this way.
So far, he had nothing but questions. Perhaps there would be no answers, not since he came from the kingdoms and they all knew that he was the famed Lacertin, warrior of the kingdoms. Rather than suspicion, the other shapers seemed to regard him with something bordering on contempt. The only thing that protected him was his connection to the priest and the fact that the priest himself had brought him to the fire.
“Can you hold fire like this?” Cyrus was asking.
“Why would I need to?” Lacertin asked.
“Need? There is no need. But touching fire allows us to be closer to Issa, doesn’t it?”
Lacertin sniffed. “I don’t think it works like that.”
“How do you use fire in the kingdoms?”
Lacertin thought of the shapers he had learned from. None had the delicate control that Cyrus showed, and none would have been able to let fire crawl along their arms as he did, drawn up his skin like a sleeve. The shaping was one that Lacertin could make, and he found himself copying Cyrus.
“Fire is used in many ways,” Lacertin said.
“Like cooking and lighting their hearths?” Cyrus asked.
He shrugged. As a fire shaper, there was a certain amount of that done. Partly, it was to prove loyalty to the kingdoms. Fire shapers were somewhat outcast, even when they served as he did, even when their loyalty should not have been questioned. “There are other ways fire is used,” Lacertin said. “Mine were mostly mixed in with other shapings.”
Lacertin considered demonstrating the traveling shaping that warriors used, but decided that would likely only raise suspicion. Already they would question why he was here and what his intentions might be. He didn’t need to inspire them to question anything more. What he needed was answers, and that meant that he needed to coax them to share.
The other man smiled. He was whip thin, and his shaping matched his appearance: tight and controlled. Even the ball of fire dancing in his hands was narrow, the flames barely reaching all that high.
“Try this,” Cyrus suggested. He allowed the flames to swirl around him, circling his chest and back before snaking down his legs. With a quick motion, he sent a whip of flames streaking away from him and then pulled it back, drawing it tightly in toward him and wrapping around his arm.
Lacertin tried to copy him, but only ended up singeing his shirt. Behind him, there was a sharp laugh.
He turned to see a dark-haired woman watching him, firelight from the circle of fire catching her eyes. At first, he thought it might be the woman from the archives before realizing that wasn’t the reason that he recognized her.
This was the woman who had tormented him last. After her, no one else had come to him.
“And they think that you can be a Servant,” the woman said.
Cyrus released his shaping and bowed at the waist, touching the tips of his first two fingers on both hands to his forehead. “Alisz,” he said. “I did not mean to—”
“Show him all that you wish, Cyrus. I doubt very much that he will ever learn the gifts of Issa.”
Lacertin frowned. In some ways, she reminded him of Theondar, with the same arrogance and easy ability. Heat simmered along her skin like nothing more than a layer of flame, as if her clothing was made of fire. The control required to maintain a shaping like that amazed him.
“The San seems convinced that I can be a Servant of Issa,” Lacertin said.
Her eyes narrowed. “The San thinks to demonstrate Issa’s power to the kingdoms. He would have you be the first. I think him overzealous to believe that he can show the warrior Lacertin the grace and power of Issa.”
She started away from him, and Lacertin actually smiled. For the first time since he’d been held in the cell, he had the reaction he had expected of Incendin. The priest had practically welcomed him, clothing and feeding him and making him feel as if he could be welcomed to Incendin. Even the other shapers had not treated him as expected. With suspicion, but not with the same stark hatred he saw from Alisz.
When she left, Cyrus breathed out.
“She thinks the San misguided in allowing you to learn,” Cyrus said. “To her, you are of the kingdoms and you have chosen your path. She does not think that Issa can claim you.”
“Only to her?”
Cyrus smiled. Unlike the rest of him, it was a wide smile and showed a mouthful of crooked teeth. “Others know that you are of Rens. Like the others, you should be welcomed back, rather than turned away from.”
Lacertin swallowed. The others. His brother had made the crossing, but he’d heard nothing of him since then. There was a part of him that wondered what had become of Chasn, but then, he wasn’t certain that he wanted to know. What if Chasn fought the kingdoms? What if something Lacertin had done had injured his brother?
Or worse, what if neither were the case and Chasn hadn’t survived the crossing? Even if he had, would he have been tested as Lacertin had been, forced to endure the pain and torment of fire in order to test both his potential and his potential loyalty?
Had Chasn still lived, or at least still lived with the fire shapers, he would have expected the priest to have said something to him, but he did not. Lacertin had the feeling that the priest was as honest with him as could be expected, given their situation, and that he had said nothing about Chasn meant he was likely gone.
It would make it easier for Lacertin to do what he needed, though he wasn’t sure that he knew what he needed to do anymore. With each day, and with each new thing that he saw, each experience that he had, he began to feel his commitment fade.
And, though he suspected the priest intended for that to happen, he couldn’t argue with him or decry him for it. The priest only did what was needed for his people.
“I’m from Nara, not Rens,” Lacertin said, turning back to Cyrus and attempting the shaping again.
“Nara is Rens. Much like the Sunlands are Rens. We should be united, not separated. Our people should be joined, not fighting.”
The last, at least, Lacertin somewhat agreed with.
Cyrus made a motion with his hands, the shaping building as he did. “You can control fire, I see that of you, but you are too…” He seemed to struggle with finding the right word. “Too gentle with fire.”
“Gentle?” He had never been referred to as a gentle shaper, and to hear it from this boy, albeit one with an incredible ability to shape, amused him.
Cyrus shrugged. “Maybe gentle is wrong, but you are too soft with it. Fire does not do well with soft. Issa does not care for soft. That is why we have the testing.” He shrugged again. “You passed, or you wouldn’t be allowed here, so I maybe I’m wrong about
both.”
Lacertin thought about the way that he shaped fire and wondered if maybe Cyrus was right. Was he too soft with the shaping? The fire shapers of Incendin were certainly harder than him, and they used it in ways that he hadn’t considered. He would never have attempted to have fire crawl along his arms. He would never have considered using fire like clothing. Even with what Cyrus did, the way that he sent it spiraling away from him, practically whipping it, Lacertin would never have tried. Did that make him weak… or ignorant?
“I’m not sure that I know how I passed.”
Cyrus smiled again. “It’s not something you can know; it is only something that you do. Issa decides whether you will pass or not.”
“And if Issa were to decide that I couldn’t shape fire strongly enough?” Lacertin asked.
“Then you wouldn’t be here.”
Lacertin smiled. Hadn’t the priest made it clear that he wasn’t a captive? Maybe he had meant he wasn’t their captive, but what if they thought they served Issa by holding him? Would he be allowed to leave if he chose not to serve?
He tried the shaping that Cyrus used, and this time, he pushed more harshly. The shaping held the wrapping much like it did for the young shaper, spinning around his arm. This time, Lacertin grabbed tightly to the shaping and kept it from burning his shirt. It simmered for long moments before he pulled it away and sent it whipping from him, much like Cyrus had done.
When it worked, he smiled again. It was a shaping that had no real use, but one that he never would have managed before. What use was there in holding fire burning closely along your skin? Or in using it like a whip? Fire had uses, even those that Cyrus had seemed bothered by, but there was something pure about simply shaping because he wanted to shape, in using fire because he wanted to use it, and holding onto the shaping simply because he could.
Cyrus clapped him on the back, and Lacertin lost control of his shaping. “See? That was better. You held it differently then, didn’t you?”
Lacertin nodded, forming the shaping again, this time holding fire against both arms. His skin didn’t burn and the clothing didn’t burn, and a smile spread on his face.
Prelude to Fire: Parts 1 and 2 Page 21
