Fire of the Soul

by Speer, Flora

  The horse! she signaled to Durand. That’s why he’s so strong. Mallory is using his horse.

  So he is. Durand’s thought was calm and reassuring. Let us discover how long he can control that beast.

  As Calia felt Durand reach deeper to draw up still more of his well-trained Power, she tried to do the same.

  For a long, awful, truly dreadful time they struggled against Mallory and his fearsome horse until the animal reared up onto its hind legs, screeching and pawing at the air as if it was in pain. Mallory had remained mounted all this time and now he fought to stay in the saddle.

  Durand sent a blast of Power directly at the horse’s head, making it stand almost straight up, until Mallory had to slide off its back or fall off.

  The horse went back on all fours again, but when one of the outlaws tried to snatch the reins and move it out of the way, the beast began to bite and to slash with its hooves.

  Meanwhile, one of the outlaws made a grab at Calia, trying to seize her arm. When Durand kicked at him, the outlaw slashed hard with his knife, laying open Durand’s shoulder. In a scream of primal pain the connection with Durand was severed.

  Calia sagged against the nearest rock, feeling weak and dizzy in reaction. Around them the outlaws yelled and waved their weapons, but they did not continue their attack, for Mallory was approaching on foot. He loomed over Calia, tall and dark and more menacing than she had ever seen him.

  “Give me the Emerald,” Mallory commanded.

  “No!” Calia knew she was doomed. Durand lay beside her, his Power all but useless while he was in such severe pain. Her own Power was weakened by her first efforts against Mallory.

  The outlaws surrounded them, swords and knives and wooden clubs in hand, their eyes reddened with battle frenzy, barely restrained by Mallory’s corrupt Power.

  “The Emerald,” Mallory said again, letting Calia feel the cold edge of his Power.

  At that touch, revulsion surged through her. She could not allow Mallory to have the jewel. It held too much Power; with it, Mallory would destroy all the good in the known world. But how could she hope to overcome him?

  They all stood poised on the slippery path, Mallory and his outlaws again Calia, Garit, and the wounded Durand. Mallory’s corrupt Power against Calia’s recently reawakened Power. And the Emerald, with its rumored Power.

  Mallory glared at her, using his Power to urge her hand toward the Emerald. Carefully, cautiously, Calia blocked her mind to him while she put her left hand into the folds of her skirt, into the pocket, and touched the smooth silver of the tiny casket. Hoping Mallory would not notice the motion, she pressed the clasp and opened the lid just far enough to lay one finger on the stone.

  Then, knowing what she was about to do might well kill her, or destroy her mind if she misused the Emerald, she released her Power in Mallory’s direction, and at the same instant she linked herself with the Emerald.

  She saw Mallory reaching toward her, clearly expecting to receive the jewel he craved. Calia’s left hand began to tingle and then to burn. A green haze enveloped her.

  Mallory fell to his knees, then fell facedown onto the ground, where he lay immobilized.

  The searing, burning sensation in Calia’s left hand became so unbearable that she could only react instinctively. She snapped the silver casket closed, cutting off the effulgence of green light, and withdrew her red, swollen hand from her pocket. The pain diminished only slightly.

  With Mallory unconscious, the outlaws were released from the hold he had maintained over them. They moved closer.

  “Go!” Garit shouted at her. “Calia, take Durand away. Ride for Tannaris. Ride to Ultan.”

  Durand was struggling to his feet with one hand pressed against his bleeding shoulder. Garit had placed himself squarely between his companions and the outlaws. Calia knew she had only a moment or two before the next attack began.

  She grabbed Durand’s arm and hustled him down the path, both of them stumbling and tripping along the way. Hearing the clash of steel upon steel, Calia tried to turn back, thinking to help Garit.

  “Come on!” Durand exerted his waning Power to make her do what she knew in her heart must be done, though leaving Garit came close to destroying her.

  “Here,” Durand gasped. “Horses. Not ours, but who cares! Help me up, Calia, and don’t you dare try to ride back to Garit. Trust him to come safely out of that fight.”

  “Safely?” she cried, tears streaming down her face as she obeyed him, pushing him upward with her right hand. “Against how many outlaws?”

  “I didn’t bother to count them. Get on that other horse,” Durand ordered, “before I throw you across the saddle and let you hang face down all the way to Tannaris.”

  “I can’t leave Garit. And you aren’t strong enough to force me.”

  “Do as I say. We must reach Tannaris.”

  Calia knew he was right. Her promise to return the Emerald to Ultan must take precedence over her heart’s deepest yearning.

  Protecting her injured hand as best she could, she mounted the strange horse that stood oddly quiet near the animal Durand had taken. Then they were galloping down an ever-widening path, through thick fog and drizzle until they reached level ground. She could not see more than a short distance ahead and could not see the mountains when she looked back.

  “The fog will protect us,” Durand said. “I believe Tannaris is a full day’s ride ahead of us.”

  “How can you tell?” Calia asked, wondering if his Power was so strong and so finely honed that he’d never lose his way and always know exactly where he was, even when he was injured and exhausted. She felt dazed, aching, and longing for sleep.

  “Trust me,” Durand said. “I’ve been this way before.”

  She heard laughter in his voice and knew he meant to encourage her, but she had never before felt so distant from him. She didn’t know where Garit was; she couldn’t sense him, so she feared he was dead or, worse, lying unconscious among the rocks like the outlaws he’d been fighting against. When Mallory awakened and found him, he would torture Garit before killing him.

  “I can’t go on,” she said. “Please, Durand, you take the Emerald to Tannaris and give it to Ultan. I have to go back. I have to find Garit.”

  “You,” Durand informed her with surprising strength in his voice, “will do as I instruct you. I wish you’d have a little faith in the man you think you love.”

  Ordinarily, Garit would have paused to be certain his opponents were beyond help, to bind up the wounds of any who might live and promise to send someone to tend them, and he’d have buried the dead, all of which were deeds required of an honest knight. After this battle he did not delay. Those few who hadn’t yet died soon would, and he could see that the stony ground offered no possible place to dig a grave. More importantly, Mallory had vanished.

  Garit was worried that Mallory would somehow recover enough of his corrupt Power to return to the scene or, worse, that he’d track Calia and try to work some further evil against her. So he sheathed his sword, keeping only his eating knife in hand as a weapon, and rushed down the path in the direction Calia and Durand had taken.

  “I don’t think I love Garit!” Calia screamed. “I do love him. I will love him until I die and if he is already dead, then I don’t want to live.”

  “While those words are sweet to hear,” said a familiar voice, “you disappoint me, my love. I believed you were stronger than that.”

  “Garit? Garit!”

  He was riding one of the outlaws’ horses and she remained mounted, so she couldn’t fling herself into his arms. Still, she did the best she could to welcome him. She grabbed his hand and kissed it, washing off some of the bloodstains with her tears.

  “Ouch,” Garit said. “I’ve a scratch on that hand and your tears are salty.”

  “I am not weeping!” She dropped his hand.

  “Good. I’m glad to hear it.” Garit sent a broad smile in her direction, then he looked at Durand. “I su
ggest we depart from this place before the fog lifts and we can be seen. I expected you to be farther along the way by now.”

  “I would be,” Durand responded, “if Calia hadn’t insisted on returning to find you.”

  “Well, here I am, so there’s no need to backtrack.” Garit sounded as if the desperate battle they had just fought were a friendly skirmish. “Come along, Calia. Don’t dawdle.”

  She wanted to shout at him, to tell him how angry and how frightened she had been. She wanted him to hold her close and reassure her. Instead, she silently kneed the horse she was riding and followed the two most infuriating men she had ever known.

  “You promised us riches beyond countin’,” said the outlaw leader. He scowled fiercely at Mallory, then kicked him in the ribs to punctuate his displeasure. “Ten of my men are dead, which’d be no problem if we had the treasure, because there’d be fewer to divide it with. Not to mention, we’ve lost three horses. Now, what are ye goin’ to do to repay us fer our trouble?”

  Mallory felt his ribs, knowing that several were broken. He tried to take a deep breath and swallowed the groan that rose to his lips. When he attempted to gather his Power he realized that all of it was drained. So he stayed as he was for a few moments, curled on the ground where the two men who had carried him away from the scene of the fight had dropped him. He did not relish lying at the feet of an unwashed outlaw, but he needed some time to recuperate.

  “I told you,” he muttered after carefully catching his breath, “the woman carries with her a jewel of great value.”

  “We ain’t chasin’ after any wench with Power like hers,” the outlaw leader told him. “Nor after a man who can use a sword the way that knight did. Clubbin’ travelers over their heads and takin’ their valuables is good enough for us. You want that jewel, get it for yerself.”

  A few more vicious kicks from the leader followed that declaration, after which one of the other outlaws picked Mallory off the ground and held him upright so his friends could punch, kick, and otherwise wreck bodily damage on him. Without his Power, Mallory could not stop the beating.

  They left him there to live or die as he pleased after they rode away. He knew he’d never again be able to convince them to help him, nor would any of the other bands of outlaws join his scheme to seize the Emerald from Calia. Word traveled fast along the Northern Border and failure in any enterprise was a death sentence. If Mallory didn’t die of his present injuries, someone would soon come along to murder him for his clothing and his boots. The outlaws had stolen his sword but at least they had left him decently covered. If torn, bloodied and filthy clothing could be called decent, he thought, reconsidering his situation.

  His head ached, his shins felt all but splintered and he knew his eyes were blackened, for they were swelling. Soon he wouldn’t be able to see anything.

  Mallory had just one hope left. Taking as long a breath as he dared, he let it out in a special whistle. He heard no response. He tried again. After a short wait he was rewarded by the clatter of hooves on rock and Hob appeared.

  Using the nearest stirrup, Mallory painfully levered himself to his feet. Hob was so fiery in temperament, so unapproachable to any person other than his master that no one had dared to rob the animal of its trappings. The saddlebags were intact, including a flask of wine hidden in one of them. Mallory pulled the cork from the flask and drank deeply, feeling warmth and strength spread throughout his limbs. Unfortunately, no wine could restore his Power. Only time and rest could do that.

  After several attempts he managed to drag himself onto the horse’s back, where he slumped over, clutching at his ribs.

  “Move, curse you,” he muttered to Hob. “Take me away from here, to the plain.”

  Hob started downward at a walk and Mallory had no desire to insist on greater speed. He didn’t think he could stay on the horse if it began to run, or even just to trot.

  The peculiar, half-twilight of a northern summer was gathering, so Mallory didn’t think he’d be noticed, not in his dark clothing, with a black horse. Slowly he began to feel better physically, though he knew his Power would not return for days.

  In time he would have his rightful revenge on those who had thwarted him. Laisren, Garit, Durand, and most of all, Calia, his treacherous sister, would all pay. Someday soon...

  By the light of the stars he could see that Hob was headed due north. The direction suited Mallory. He’d travel away from Kantia and Chandelar, into the unexplored lands beyond the volcanoes, where ice and snow persisted all year long and where dreadful spirits were said to reign. There he’d find a hiding place to rest until he regained his full Power. Perhaps he’d even discover someone who was willing to assist him in return for a large fortune.

  “I will return,” he promised, shaking his fist in the direction of Tannaris. When he tried to turn in the saddle and shake a fist toward Kantia, the pain in his chest prevented the motion. He doubled over, holding the broken bones in place and rode on, through the brief northern night.

  Chapter 24

  “The matter is urgent,” Durand said to the guard at the palace entrance. “Queen Laisren of Kantia has sent us. We must speak with the Great Mage Ultan.”

  “You cannot see Ultan dressed as you are,” the guard responded. He stared at the group before him as if he’d never seen folk in tattered clothing stained with dirt and blood, or horses that looked as if they were ready to drop after being ridden too long and too hard. “You will want to bathe and put on court robes first.”

  “Ultan will understand and forgive us,” Calia told him. “Please, just send a message that Calia has returned. He will know what that means.”

  “You may add to the message,” said Garit in his most lordly manner, “that Lord Durand and Lord Garit have also returned with Lady Calia.”

  Calia gave him a disapproving glance for adding a title to her name when she deserved none, but Garit did not back down. After another long moment of staring at the three travel-worn applicants for admission and their skinny horses, the guard turned to relay the message to a person of lesser importance who stood just within the doorway.

  “Sit down,” Garit suggested to Calia, gesturing to a stone bench placed a short distance from the entrance.

  Durand had already taken advantage of the bench. He propped his good shoulder against the stone palace wall while he massaged his injured shoulder. Calia had used Garit’s undershirt and her own shift to clean and bandage the wound, but she knew Durand needed a doctor to provide a healing salve and, perhaps, a few stitches. At least it hadn’t bled since the first night.

  Calia obeyed Garit’s invitation to sit and leaned her head against the wall. She was still tired, though she had slept long and heavily during both nights of their ride across the Plain of Tannaris. They had spent the first night in a barn, lying on straw, but on the second night a kindly farmer had allowed them to sleep in his hall, near the fire.

  When she had suggested asking the farmer for supplies to reclean and rebandage Durand’s wound, he had refused, saying it was better not to arouse curiosity about themselves.

  Calia knew she looked as disreputable as her companions. All of them were in sore need of long, hot baths and new clothes. She hoped both would come later, after she had turned over the Emerald to Ultan, thus ridding herself of a burden she had never sought and did not want.

  Meanwhile, she sat on the bench, warmed by the silvery sun of a northern late summer day. Her eyes closed and she slipped into a dreamy state, secure in the knowledge that Garit was sitting next to her and Durand was nearby. Their wait was long. It seemed to Calia that half the day had drifted by before a boy who looked familiar stood before her and touched her hand. She stared at him, wondering where she had seen him before.

  “Lady Calia,” he said, “do you remember me? I am Finen, the page.”

  “Yes, of course,” she answered, smiling at him as the memory returned. “You conducted me to the Great Mage when I was last here.”

 
“I’ll do the same now, if you will come with me. Your friends are to come, too.”

  Finen led them through the main palace entrance, along a cool, dark hall, and then out into the gardens, to the house Calia would never forget. When the page left them in the beautiful black and silver chamber, with the constellations twinkling across the curved ceiling, Calia felt as if she had come home again.

  She thought of Laisren and wondered if the queen, who for years had lived in a land where she was unwanted by either her husband or his people, longed for her childhood home. How could she not want to return? Calia decided that Ultan’s reaction to his daughter’s decision to leave Kantia would be most interesting.

  Finen had just slipped out when the Great Mage entered the room, robed as Calia had last seen him, in shimmering gold and silver. All three of the visitors went to their knees before him.

  “Calia.” Ultan lifted her to her feet. He gave her a hard look, as if concerned to see her in such worn and dirty condition, then turned the same sharp gaze upon Garit and Durand.

  “I will hear the details of your adventures later,” Ultan said. “First, and most important, have you a package for me?”

  “I have.” Calia put her hand into the pocket of her dress and drew forth the silk-wrapped object that she had protected with her life and with the lives of her friends. “Queen Laisren asked me to return this to you.”

  She uncovered the silver casket and held it on her outstretched palm.

  “At last.”

  To Calia’s surprise Ultan actually hesitated for a few moments before opening the casket. Then he pressed the latch, lifted the lid, and removed the contents, leaving the casket resting on Calia’s palm. He held the stone up between two fingers, letting the light shine upon it. Green fire glowed from the oblong jewel, illuminating Ultan’s lined face and making Calia recall the green haze that had enveloped her when she called upon the Power of the fabled Emerald.