Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One)

by Dan Avera

  And those aren't the only memories I've lost, he thought. He had dreamed again—he was sure of it. He had the same peculiar sensation that he had felt in the Dark Forest, the niggling thought that he was forgetting something important. But try as he might, just as before, he could remember nothing. Nothing...but the oak tree. It stood tall and imposing in his mind, but it frightened him as well. Why is it always dying? he wondered. He shook his head in frustration. Perhaps, as the last one eventually had, this elusive dream would come back to him.

  He got slowly to his feet and looked out the window, leaning his forehead gently against the frigid glass. Outside was a world he could never have dreamed of, and he found himself gawking at the strange, bleak landscape that surrounded him. Everywhere he looked the ground was white, covered in what he guessed to be snow. Clare had spoken of it once, he remembered—she had said that it was colder than anything in existence, but turned into water when touched. He wondered where they were—the northern Westlands, perhaps?

  An anxious knot formed in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Clare, and he turned away from the frigid beauty outside. His mind went back to Spaertos against his will, and the memories—far too clear for his liking—circled maddeningly around inside his head. She was screaming at me, he remembered, begging me to stop. What will she think of me now? He had to find her—that much was certain in his rattled thoughts. He had to find Clare and...and do what? He was unsure. How could he explain his actions? No matter how he tried to rationalize what he had done in his mind, he was unable.

  But he dressed and made for the door anyway, compelled by some internal force to find her. I have to talk to her. The door opened with a soft click and swung inward on silent hinges. Outside was a wide hallway lined with torches, and after a moment's indecision he went to the right. He could hear the faint sound of many voices all talking in unison; perhaps someone would be able to tell him where she had gone.

  He followed the hallway to its end, where he went through another door and out into what appeared to be a great tavern. There were hundreds of people all milling about, some eating and drinking, some simply resting, but nearly all looking weary and worn. He did not blame them; unlike him, they did not have bodies that healed in only a few tolls of the bell.

  There were fires everywhere, too, great pits that had been dug into the earth and filled with wood. The heat was comforting, and he found himself basking in its aura. He inhaled, the scent of smoke and spiced meats filling his nostrils. Something else accompanied it, a pungent odor that reminded him vaguely of ale if only it were sweeter. There were Northlanders everywhere—blonde-haired and blue-eyed, tall and strong and imposing—and Will realized that they must be in the far North, past the reach of the Clergy's arm. There was no Gefan here, no Old God—only the Northlanders and their barbaric ways, and Will found the prospect of living away from the Clergy's influence both unnerving and exciting all at once.

  There were Westlanders and Southlanders too, and even Eastlanders, their dark skin and ornate dress making them stand out among the mob like roses in a dry field. Where is this place? he wondered.

  “The King has awakened!” a voice suddenly boomed, cutting through the din, and immediately every person in the hall fell to one knee and bowed their heads. Will sighed; he would never, it seemed, get used to this aspect of being the Dragon King.

  “Hello,” he said awkwardly, and after a moment's uncomfortable silence, continued, “erm...please get up.” They did. The North- and Eastlanders looked confused, and passed questioning glances to one another. But the Islanders and Faellan—and what few of the Dragon Guard remained—had seen the routine before. They knew what to expect.

  “Do you wish something of us, Highness?” the same man who had spoken before asked, and Will cast around for him. He was, naturally, a Northman—Will was sure that only their kind were capable of making such a row—and he stood at rigid attention.

  “You don't have to do that,” Will said in exasperation, vaguely indicating the man. “The whole...stiff and formal bit. Really, I don't require servants. Just warriors...” He paused. He had almost said, Just warriors willing to follow me into battle. But memories of Spaertos sprang unbidden into his mind once more, and he found himself wondering why they should follow him at all. I am a monster, he thought, and his heart sank. “Just warriors,” he finished lamely, his voice trailing off at the end.

  “A fine king,” the Northman said, nodding his approval, and then he loosed a booming laugh. “A fine king indeed!” His laugh was echoed around the hall by the rest of the Northlanders, and several raised goblets of the sweet-smelling drink in Will's direction.

  “To the Warrior King!” one called out, and his toast was echoed around the hall.

  “Please,” Will said, holding his hand up for silence, “I need to know if anyone has seen Clare. Or Castor or Katryna for that matter.” He looked around the room and realized suddenly that the majority of the people in it had no idea who he was talking about.

  “The Lord Commander went off with Katryna some time ago,” said a gravelly voice, and Will turned to see, much to his surprise, the grizzled veteran named Jons—the same old man who had spoken for him in the Dark Forest. “Clare...I've not seen her for a long while. Apologies, my king.”

  Will gave the man a half smile. “Thank you, Jons. I'm glad you made it out alive.”

  “All thanks to you, Will,” the old man said with a crooked grin, but Will's own smile faltered and faded away.

  “Right,” Will said after a moment, “I'll be off, then.” The noise quickly built up once more as he made for a door toward what he guessed was the back of the hall—the larger ones, he reasoned, would be the front. By the time he reached it the dull roar had returned in full force, and the hubbub of voices filled the hall. The survivors from the battle at Spaertos, however, were noticeably subdued; many of them simply sat and stared blankly at untouched meals, their gazes far away. Again, he couldn't blame them.

  There was a soft rustle of air behind his left shoulder, and it would barely have registered in his mind had a voice not said, “My king.” He stopped and turned, and came face to face with an Eastlander. He thought he recognized this one, though, with his black silk-covered face and ornate battle armor—one of Serah's bodyguards. What had their names been? Jhai and Zizo?

  “Hello,” he said, and then hesitated. “Erm...which one are you, again?”

  “Jhai,” said the man, and he inclined his head respectfully. “Zizo never speaks. My regrets that we have not been properly introduced before now.”

  Will held out his hand and, after giving it a momentary uncomprehending look, Jhai took it and held it awkwardly. Do they have some other greeting in the Eastlands? Will wondered, giving the desert man's hand a small shake, and then he almost laughed at himself. I've slaughtered so many of them, and yet I've never made an effort to learn their ways. A mercenary to the core, indeed.

  “Dark thoughts do not suit you, Highness,” said Jhai, and the words caught Will by surprise. Could the Eastlander read minds? “You did what was necessary at the time. Any number of men would have done the same.”

  “That doesn't make it right,” Will countered quietly, thinking not only of Spaertos, but of the nomad camp as well.

  The Eastlander—there was something strange about his accent, now that Will thought about it—crossed his arms over his chest and cocked an eyebrow. “What you did was monstrous. Your reason for doing it was beautiful. Perhaps it was not the best solution to the problem, but you saved many lives by doing it—including several lives that are important beyond measure.”

  “I killed innocent people,” Will said. “That fact is never going to change. Come, let's leave this place. It's a bit noisy.” He opened the door and stepped through, but when he turned to close it Jhai was nowhere to be seen. Will shrugged and shut it, and found himself once again amid blessed quiet.

  “They would have killed you had you done nothing,” Jhai's voice said from be
hind him, and Will whirled around, nearly jumping out of his skin.

  “Death and damnation!” he cried, his heart pounding in his chest. “Don't—don't do that!”

  Jhai inclined his head once more. “My apologies. But please, hear my words: they would have killed you just as quickly as you killed them, no?”

  “And again, that doesn't make it right.”

  “Perhaps not.” The Eastlander tapped his chin with his finger. “But I have lived a very long time, your highness. I have seen many things that I wish I had not seen, and I have not done many things that I wish I had. Your actions were necessary at the time, and had I been in your place I would have done the same thing.” There was a brief, fleeting sadness in his eyes then, and for a moment he looked away. “Had I your power, the geography of this world would be very different indeed.”

  Will shook his head slowly. “You're an enigma, you know,” he said. “What are you? You say you've lived a long time. How long?”

  “I am Dhajeen—a wind spirit,” Jhai answered, “and I have lived for nearly as long as Feothon. But that is a story for a different time. I came to tell you that Clare and my mistress are in the room next to yours. I...would not suggest visiting them at the moment, however. Lady Serah will always be happy to see you, but...I believe Clare will need some time, yes?”

  Will nodded, and suddenly felt the unbidden bite of fresh tears burn his eyes. He blinked them away. “Of all the things I am sorry for,” he said softly, “driving her away is the one I most regret.” He looked back up at Jhai. “She was screaming at me, you know. To stop.”

  “I know,” the Eastlander said quietly.

  “I didn't realize it at the time,” Will continued as though he had not heard the response. “I just thought she was afraid of...I don't know. The Spaertans. I see now that it was me she was afraid of.” He sighed, and breathed a short, humorless laugh. “She must hate me now, after seeing what I really am.”

  Jhai placed one gloved hand on Will's shoulder. “I would not be so sure, my king. She simply needs some time to herself. Your bond is stronger than this, I think.”

  Will raised an eyebrow. “I would like to believe you. But if I were her, I would never want to see me again.”

  “Then you insult her with your weakness,” Jhai said, and the words caught Will so off-guard that he could only stare at the Eastlander with widened eyes. “Think on what I have said. And we should talk more in the future, yes? I enjoyed this.”

  He faded away a moment later, shimmering as though seen through hot air, and then his body simply crumbled into countless minuscule specks of what looked like sand, carried away on a faint breath of wind. In the blink of an eye he had disappeared completely, leaving Will alone in the torchlit corridor. After awhile Will slowly shook his head and went down the hall. He needed some fresh air—someplace he could be by himself and simply think.

  ~

  “Do you know,” said Serah, “I used to do this with Talyn all the time.”

  She ran her fingers lightly through Clare's hair with one hand, gently holding the dark locks in her other. Asper had long since left to find Feothon, and now Clare was alone with Serah and Grim, who slumbered by the hearth. The warhound twitched occasionally as he dreamed.

  “Renne—Leyra's predecessor—was never much of a woman,” Serah continued, “so Talyn was the only female companionship I had for much of my life. She used to love the Eastland styles of dress. She once told me that of all the people in Pallamar, the Eastlanders were the most beautiful.” Her hand faltered in its rhythmic motion as the Titan lost herself in memory; it resumed a moment later.

  “I never had a woman friend until I met Asper,” Clare said quietly. Her eyes were closed, and her voice held the quality of someone being lulled slowly into sleep. “Life in the barracks was always full of men. And Father was a blacksmith, so I spent most of my youth helping him at the forge.”

  “Then you must forgive me if you find this strange,” Serah said with a hint of a smile in her voice. “Sometimes I simply find myself craving the sort of companionship that men cannot offer.”

  Clare was silent a moment, her mind focused on the relaxing sensation of Serah's fingers. “Now that I have experienced it,” she finally said, “I find I rather enjoy it.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Though...I do enjoy male companionship, too.”

  “Men like Will?” Serah's question sounded nonchalant, but it was obviously a probing one. Clare stiffened slightly.

  “I...” she faltered, searching for the right words. “I don't know what to think of Will right now. He...he did a terrible thing.”

  Serah's hands moved to a new section of hair. “A terrible thing, yes. But he did it for you.”

  “I didn't ask for that,” Clare whispered.

  “And yet, we often do not get what we wish or ask for. The same can be said for things we do not want.” The Titan breathed a soft sigh. “He is not a bad man, Clare.”

  For a time Clare sat in quiescence and pondered Serah's words. Finally, she asked, “Did Davin ever do anything like that?”

  The slight twitch of the Titan's hands told Clare all she needed to know. “No...” Serah said haltingly, “he...did not. But sometimes I wonder if that was only because he had Talyn to help him keep control.”

  “But the fact remains,” Clare murmured, “that he never murdered an entire city of innocents out of anger.”

  Serah's hands drew slowly away from Clare's hair, and Clare turned to see the desert woman staring at her with an unreadable expression. “I would like to try something,” Serah began in a guarded tone. “Please, tell me plainly what it is that you are thinking. I do not enjoy the feeling of being danced around.”

  Clare shrugged, feeling suddenly embarrassed. “It's just...he's different this time. The Dragon King, I mean. That's what I've been hearing, anyway.”

  “We are always different in some way, Clare.” Serah cocked one eyebrow. “Renne used to love eating dra'mak curry; Leyra hates it.”

  Clare cocked an eyebrow of her own. “Culinary preferences are hardly a noticeable difference.”

  “Renne was also a much softer person—more peaceful.” Serah sighed and looked out the window; off in the distance, the white-dusted tips of a forest were just barely visible through the falling snow. “I have often wondered,” Serah continued, “whether something happened in the Void to change Leyra's personality so. She is much more violent than Renne was. I believe she enjoys killing to an extent that...well, to be perfectly honest, occasionally sickens me. And now with Will finally back from the dead, I find my suspicions arising more and more often of late.”

  She was silent for a moment, and then she looked back at Clare. Her eyes were troubled, and held more unguarded emotion than Clare had ever seen. She realized suddenly that Serah was opening up to her in a way she rarely did with anyone else. “Could the Dark One have done something to them?” the Titan continued, speaking more to herself than to Clare.

  Clare, for her part, said nothing; she decided that, with her habit of saying the wrong thing around Serah, silence was the best option.

  “I have spoken with Feothon about this,” Serah said, taking Clare's muteness as a queue to continue, “but he is as clueless as I. He has, however, admitted to observing a marked change in both Leyra and Will. I just hope that it does not lead to further disaster.”

  ~

  Will found it mildly surprising that the cold seemed to have no effect on him whatsoever. He stood ankle-deep in snow in nothing more than his defining shirt and breeches, and felt no different than if he had been standing in a grassy field on a warm summer day. He held his hand up in the air, smiling softly as the minuscule white flakes floated gently on the breeze to land and melt on his skin. There was no rhyme or reason to their movements; they simply went where the wind carried them, purposeless, in search of nothing and needing nothing to justify their existence. The wind picked up for an instant and a flurry of snowflakes batted softly
against his face, liquifying as they touched his skin. He breathed a small laugh.

  I could get used to this place, he thought. Everything here is so pristine. So perfect. He let his gaze rove around the courtyard; though walled in like all of Horoth, it held none of the garish, austere atmosphere that the rest of the fortress did. In fact, had he not known Leyra better, he would have thought that perhaps the Lady of the Mountain had developed a soft spot in her heart for natural beauty. But no...now that he looked around the courtyard, it appeared old—older even than Leyra. Stone artwork seemed to blend in with the rest of the world, only making itself known where it would have the most pleasing effect, and as he looked at each separate piece—there were beautifully carved renditions of people and animals, and strange, knot-like designs that he had neither seen nor heard of before—he realized that each had a subtle artistic variation. Different eras, he realized. Different people...different avatars of Dinn. And many were faded and worn, covered in lichen that obscured the artist's work or hidden behind shrubs and trees that had grown up around them over the years. Some were so old that they had long ago ceased to hold any meaning, and were now mostly shapeless lumps of stone.

  The gardens, he imagined, would be marvelous to look upon in the springtime—at least, the Southland springtime. He wondered if spring in the far north meant anything more than a slight decrease in the volume of snow.

  Something made his ears prick—a faint, phantom note that seemed to mingle with the wind. It reminded him almost of...song?

  “What?” he said aloud, half turning. There was no one there. He quietly scanned the courtyard, suddenly wary for any would-be attacker, but found nothing. And then he heard it again—somewhere, far off, the sound of singing. A woman. She had a beautiful voice, and though it was tinny and distant it carried easily through the snow-silenced air whenever the wind fell. It sounded somehow familiar, yet alien at the same time—like something he had heard in a dream. Beautiful, he thought, enchanted, and he headed off in the direction of the singer.