A Single Candle (Cerah of Quadar Book 3)

by S. J. Varengo

  But as the army had been raised and many people he knew had left their homes to take up arms against this supposed fiend, Ban began to think that perhaps throwing his lot in with the fighters might be a way out of the poverty in which he and his mother had lived for as long as he could remember.

  Preena and Ban scraped by at the bottom rung of the society of Tarteel. She brought in a piece of silver or two now and again by scrubbing the floors of the ale houses and brothels in the harbor district, while Ban scurried along the port, liberating anything that he thought might further enhance their meager coffers. Preena had chastised him repeatedly for stealing, but it only made him more careful. He never let her see him with the goods he “reassigned,” only the bits of copper and, rarely, silver that he managed to bring home. And from time to time he would take on some paltry odd job, just so his mother could see him working.

  But in the army one ate regularly. One was given clothes to wear that were not held together by prayer as much as they were by thread. And the rumor was that when the war was won, those who fought would be richly rewarded. Furthermore, at the head of the forces of the Free People there was supposedly a beautiful sorceress who rode a golden dragon. Ban would not mind seeing that!

  And so he had approached the recruiting table that had been set up near one of the largest piers in the harbor. As he looked at those in line before him he realized that there was no one as young as him, but he felt if the cause was so dire and the need was so great, he would not be turned away, merely because he was still a boy.

  He had been mistaken. The wizard who stood beside the table had taken one look at him and said, “The Chosen One does not put children in Surok’s path. Go home, boy. With Ma’uzzi’s help this war will be won before you reach fighting age.” And the man who sat at the desk writing down names had grunted brusquely and nodded in agreement, dismissing Ban with a sideward jerk of his thumb.

  Ban had argued and huffed, but to no avail. After a five-minute campaign, during which Ban had used all the wiles and street-craft that he’d developed to persuade, cajole and charm, he walked away dejected.

  That had been several months ago. His thirteenth birthday was still four months off, and he doubted they would take him even then. So, he put the war out of his mind and had returned to a life of petty crime.

  Which is why he was hiding now. Within his dirty tunic, he had secreted a fat dirka. The fowl was protesting far too loudly, and the city guard who had been pursuing him was sure to hear it if he came close enough to the pile of wicker hampers and baskets.

  “Be quiet, you stupid bird!” Ban said in a strained whisper. He swatted the lump that was the concealed dirka. “I mean to sell you as an egg layer, but if you keep up your noise, I’ll gladly kill you and eat you myself!”

  Remarkably, the swat seemed to quiet the fowl, and at just the right moment, for the red-faced gendarme was passing by the pallet. As Ban held his breath, and prayed that the bird followed his example, the officer scanned the area, then with a curse moved on. The boy waited to make sure he was gone.

  Suddenly, as he continued to hide, he heard a woman’s voice. It confused him, as he could see from his vantage that no one was near. “Go to the General of the Army of Quadar. He is somewhere on Illyria. You must find him. You must go today.”

  “What?” Ban said aloud, though softly. The woman did not repeat, but the words seemed burned into his mind. Illyria? How am I supposed to get to Illyria? he thought. And why? The army has no use for me. But even as he formed these thoughts, he suddenly saw the image of a handsome man whose body rippled with muscles and whose expression was equal parts mirthful, caring and serious. It seemed as if before his eyes, but clearly it was within his mind. He looks like me, he realized. If I was huge!

  He could not shake the image, nor the words, from his mind. Despite the sheer absurdity of it all, he felt compelled to obey the message, and seek this man. But again, how was he going to travel all the way to Illyria? And what about his mother? He couldn’t leave her without telling her where he was going.

  As he remained sequestered, pondering all of this, two sailors approached his hiding place. He slunk down lower and listened as they conversed.

  “This pallet of wicker’s the last to go in. We’ll drop it, and seal the hold,” one said.

  “Hmph,” said the other, “What’s the use o’ wicker during wartime?”

  “Well friend, even in the flames o’ war, commerce goes on. Trade too. And sellin’!”

  The other scoffed again. “Do ya know when ya try and use them big words ya just sounds stupider?”

  “All I know, is some fine lady on Illyria is waitin’ for these baskets, and our job’s to get ‘em in the hold. Are ya gonna work the crane, or do ya want me to heft ‘em on my back?”

  The other man laughed. “That’d be somethin’ to see!”

  An instant later the pallet was yanked from its spot on the pier and began to rise in the air. The “big words” sailor ran on ahead to help guide the load into the open hold of the cargo sloop as the other worked the large wooden crane, situated several yards from the pallet.

  Ban felt a chill of panic fill him. It seemed fate was about to take a hand in his situation, as, according to the sailors, the baskets that surrounded him were bound for just the place this spectral message had told him to go. He looked down to see that he was about twenty feet in the air, and was swinging toward the waiting ship. At the same moment, he happened to see one of his friends walking by.

  “Hey! Hey Jeza! Up here!”

  The boy looked around before finally peering upward to see Ban’s head just barely poking out from among the baskets. “What the hell are you doing up there?” he asked.

  “Never mind. Just tell my mom I’m off to war.”

  “To war? In a basket?”

  “Just tell her!”

  “Off to the looney house, that’s where you should go,” the astonished lad said. But as Ban disappeared once more into the wicker, he turned in the direction of the inn where he knew his friend’s mother would be on her hands and knees, scrubbing up the spilled ale and spit, before the evening crowd came in and sullied the floor once more. “She’ll probably send me to the looney house when I tell her,” the boy said aloud to himself as he prepared to hurry down the street.

  Just before Jeza turned to go, Ban had another thought. Reaching inside of his tunic, he brought out the dirka, which was once again squawking. “Jeza,” he called again throwing the bird out of the hiding place. “Bring this to her when you tell her I’m gone.”

  Jeza caught the dirka in midair as the flightless fowl flapped its useless wings in desperation. Ban watched his friend hurry off, then was plunged into shadow as the pallet settled into the cargo hold. A moment later the wide hatch was closed, and the darkness was complete. The sailors had not seen him converse with Jeza, and he was not loaded for transport. Well, general, he thought, here I come!

  Cerah sensed her solitude even more severely after her mother’s spirit departed. She had not had the opportunity to ask her about the child Therra, or about any of the things she had said. Nor had she had time to ask if there was anything else Ma’uzzi was expecting her to do with regard to Slurr’s brother. It occurred to her that attempting to project a message to Slurr himself might be helpful. It would not hurt her husband to be aware that the boy would be looking for him, even if she could not convey the whole story that her mother had told. The sudden appearance of a twelve-year-old boy saying he’d heard the voice of unseen woman telling him to report to the front might strike Slurr as being outrageous, she realized. How will my lug handle all this news when he finally hears it? To know that his mother lives, and that he has a brother! He has always thought of my family as his, but always felt a certain aloneness even still. He recognized that although the Passels took him in, he was not really one of us.

  The prospect of projecting to Slurr was not something that Cerah felt had a certainty of success. She had attempted to do so
many times, but had apparently only accomplished her goal once, and that was when Yarren had been winging him back to her after rescuing him. He’d told her that he’d heard her words clearly in his mind, but also that he’d already been thinking about her with all his might.

  Now he was fighting a war without her to help him. The strength they each gained from knowing the other was near was formidable. She realized that not only wasn’t she near, but he had no way of knowing she was even alive. She had struggled to speak into his mind when only distance had separated them. Now they were separated by spiritual strata as well. He was on the Green Lands, and she was Between, neither in heaven or hell, but clearly not on Ma’uzzi’s solid blue and green jewel either. Maybe she could reach this boy, this Ban Alawar. But could she burrow through the dense construct that was Slurr Jacasta’s consciousness?

  Well, I certainly never will if I don’t try, she reasoned.

  Once again, she cleared her mind of all extraneous distraction, which in truth was less difficult in this mostly barren nether region, and drew in a deep breath. “My beloved,” she projected, “one comes to you sent by Ma’uzzi. Take him in and help him find his purpose.” With her words, she sent the image that she had received of the boy. Then with an exhale, she ended the communication.

  Well, I have sent a twelve-year-old boy to meet his long-lost brother. And to war. And I have told my husband that someone is coming, for what reason I cannot explain. That’s all I can do, and for all I know it may amount to nothing.

  She was walking again now. She had no more inkling of the proper course than she’d had before her mother had come to her. Nor could she tell if she was even walking in the same direction she had been. Four more times she’d encountered shimmering places that she was sure were passages. But because she had no way of know where they led, she felt it wiser not to come in contact with them.

  But avoiding them meant more aimless wandering. When she saw a fifth portal glisten, she debated with herself. I don’t know for sure it will lead me back to the Under Plane, she thought. It could just as easily take me to the Next Plane. But something told her going to the eternal realm of those who dwelt in Ma’uzzi’s love might not be the right thing to do. It felt to her as though going to the Next Plane might mean staying in the Next Plane. To dwell with Ma’uzzi himself might cost the forfeiture of her life. And, she realized, there was still far too much for her to do on Quadar. The prophesy did not say “The Chosen One came, made a big mess of things, then vanished forever,” she thought.

  Still, the situation seemed, if not hopeless, certainly dire. On the one hand, there is Pilka and my ghoulish forbearer. On the other, there is Surok, who seems to move in and out of this Between at will. And here am I, unclear on what to do about any of it.

  It occurred to her that encountering Surok might not be the worst outcome. She was, after all, born to defeat him. And like her, Surok was, after eons of gradually assuming a solid, corporeal form, now a living being. He was huge, powerful, and the physical embodiment of evil, but he was living, and therefore could be killed.

  In an effort to aid her to that end, Kern had travelled halfway around the planet to find the man he’d seen in his vision, the man who would make her a mighty weapon, with which she assumed she would eventually slay the beast.

  But now that weapon was nowhere to be seen. So were she to meet the demon in this place, she would have only her own powers to oppose his. And for all her accomplishments, for all the magic she had learned, and later become able to create herself, she still lacked the self-assurance that, when the time came, this would be enough to win the day. Surok was, after all, the created child of the goddess Pilka.

  She was the daughter of a human man, and a woman many generations removed from the wizard ancestor whose line was supposedly rekindled in her. She might as well try to kill him with a slingshot.

  But at that moment she felt a tactile, physical awareness within her breast. It was, initially, like a scratching, gnawing feeling. It grew, however, into a sensation of warmth, then of heat. Soon, she felt as though a fire was burning within her. Had she been able to feel fear, it would have been extremely frightening. But just when she thought she might be consumed from within, she realized what was happening.

  Ma’uzzi was stoking the Greater Spark. She was not alone, and she was not unarmed. Perhaps Pilka had managed to plant within her a seed of doubt. Cerah knew herself well enough to know that she was never far removed from her own misgivings. Tricking her into believing she would fail would not have been difficult.

  And so, she strode forward with renewed purpose, and as she did she called aloud to Surok, “Come on back, you bastard. Come and face the Chosen One!”

  4

  Stowaway

  As time passed, Ban quickly realized there were a few details he had not thought through before allowing himself to be loaded onto a small ship bound for Illyria.

  First, he had no food. Secondly, he had never traveled from Pydgia to…anywhere. He knew that Illyria lay to the west, and, Tarteel being on the western coast of Pydgia, he would most likely be traveling the shortest route. But how short…or long… that route actually was, he did not know. So, that meant he was on a journey of unknown duration without as much as a crumb with which to feed himself.

  There were other natural issues to consider as well. The ship had been sailing for several hours and he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. He now realized that he should have relieved himself before he’d stolen the dirka, but how could he have known a barnyard fowl would have indirectly led him to sea? Perhaps in this one regard another thing he hadn’t considered would work to his advantage: the hold was already quite malodorous. Any smells he added to the overall stench wouldn’t stick out.

  And finally, he now thought, even in wartime stowaways were not dealt with in a very kindhearted manner. Should he be caught he could expect, at best, to be bound and held to be turned over to the authorities when they reached the harbor at Illyria. At worst, and far more likely, he would simply be thrown overboard.

  And so, he resisted the urge to even move for as long as he could possibly bear it. The fact that the hatch had been quite audibly latched worked to his good. He didn’t suppose the cargo would be inspected very frequently, if at all. He’d spent a fair amount of time, once he was sure the ship was moving, listening to his surroundings. He heard no indication that there were any animals in the hold, so no one would have to attend to them. If I am very lucky, he thought, no one will even look down here until we reach Illyria. Believing this to be true, he eventually got up the nerve to free himself from the tiny space among the baskets into which he’d wedged when he first hid from the pursuing lawman. His eyes had, by this time, adjusted to the dim hold and he could make out his surroundings, much to his relief.

  I should have kept that dirka for myself, he thought, imagining how tasty the bird would have been. But he was glad he’d given it to Jeza to take to his mother. She’d said many times that if they could have spared the money to buy one, it would be good to have fresh eggs daily. He figured that it might not be much of a trade in her eyes: a bird for a son. But dirka feed was far less expensive than feeding a growing boy. So, she’d be better off in that regard as well.

  He took care of his most pressing need in a corner of the hold that was as far from his hiding place as he could maneuver, then set about the task of exploring his situation. The first few bundles of cargo he came to would be of no help to him at all. They were a stack of crates carrying fabric, and a pallet of dark Pydgian braaquewood, much desired by the wealthy for paneling their luxurious rooms, but of no nutritional value. Then he found at least one source of the stink that filled the hold: three very large pallets piled with burlap sacks of gonar manure, thought to be the best fertilizer on all Quadar. Gonar, large and eye-catching, with bright green fur, were bred for three purposes: to show at fairs, to beget more gonar, and for the immense amount of nutrient-rich feces they produced. They were native to Py
dgia, their manure was most sought after by farmers everywhere. He pinched his nose as he passed it by and continued reconnoitering.

  Just as it seemed he’d find nothing of use, he saw another pallet piled with burlap bags. With any luck these might contain grain, on which he could survive for however long the voyage lasted. They definitely didn’t project the same odor as those containing the fertilizer had. However, they were surrounded by other cargo, and were not readily accessible. As he considered his next move he heard, for the first time since the ship had set sail, voices from above. They were muffled but, he reasoned, if he could hear them then most likely they could hear him as well. That made the task of getting to the sacks even more difficult. Not only would he have to maneuver the obstacle course that the tightly packed cargo presented, he would need to do it quietly.

  One of Ban’s skills, developed by necessity due to his chosen field of endeavor, was the ability to quickly size up a situation and devise a plan of action based upon his observations. He relied upon that talent now. The initial hindrance was a series of three bundles of cargo, two of which looked less stable than the third, a pile of crates marked “Fragile.” So, he thought, I have two piles that look like they might collapse if I try to climb them, and one that will make a horrendous noise if I knock anything loose. Great. Still, he realized, the stack of breakables was the sturdiest. He found a foothold, and began to scale the pile, which was stacked several feet taller than his head. He made it to the top without much difficulty and looked once more toward the sacks.