The Dying Flame

by R L Sanderson

  She took another step, pleased that her legs were doing her bidding and that she hadn’t yet tumbled onto the floor. She saw a robe hanging from the back of the door. The material was a deep blue dotted with small orange birds. It would keep her warm, at least until she found something more practical. She lifted it off the hook and wrapped it around herself, tying it at the front. It was a perfect fit. She paused, feeling the softness of the silk under her fingers, breathing in how clean and fresh it smelled, and for an instant she was back in that darkness, the smells of food and of her own excrement mingling in her nostrils. She shuddered.

  The music stopped.

  Damn it, she had been too slow. She edged the door open and craned her head around to see which way to go. As she did she heard heavy footsteps mounting what sounded to be a flight of stairs. She searched again to find the mind of whoever was her new captor and again encountered nothing. She shook her head, it made no sense. She could hear them there, right there, how could she not sense them? She stepped through the door and looked around the corridor, trying to see a hiding spot or corner she could duck around to at least buy a little time.

  It was too late. A white-haired man lumbered into view. He was old and a little overweight, and was dressed in simple grey, no sign of guard’s uniform or Palace insignia. He had a neatly trimmed beard and wore his hair cut short as a boy’s. He hummed under his breath, continuing on the wandering tune that she’d heard being played just before.

  ‘Ah you’re awake,’ he said on seeing her. ‘That’s good.’

  She pulled the gown tighter around herself. ‘You drugged me,’ she said.

  ‘Not me, no,’ he clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘I have no need to drug you, my dear. But you were drugged, it is true. How’s your head feeling?’

  She reached for his mind again, unsure what his intentions were and whether she could trust him, but there was nothing there. She shook her head. No, not quite nothing. Just the slightest sense of rebounding, as though she were meeting some obstacle that she could not hear or see.

  ‘I have a natural shield,’ he said evenly, as though talking of the weather. ‘I used to serve in the King’s court years ago. I was the Reader’s keeper. They have brought me out of retirement for you,’ he said, and gave her a mock-cross look. ‘I could have been happily sitting at my own kitchen table listening to the birdsong and planning my next nap and instead I’m here, waiting on the whim of the Council.’

  ‘Where is here?’ she said. ‘Am I at the Palace?’

  ‘They don’t know what to do with you, as I imagine you have guessed. Don’t dare to keep you, but can’t bear to let you go. You’re in the grounds of Kir-Enkerelan, though at a sensible distance to the Palace itself. They haven’t established your range yet, so they’re playing it cautiously.’

  ‘My range?’

  ‘The distance at which you can read the thoughts of others.’

  She tried again, making a sudden jab with her consciousness, seeking his, hoping to take him by surprise. Again, nothing.

  ‘Save your energy. Natural shield, remember? There were a few of us like that, in the old days. I’m the only one left that I know of. They’ve got me babysitting you until they figure out what to do. And you know, they go on about the luxuries of the Palace, the clothes and artworks and treasures, the fine food and wine, but really I’d rather have a nice afternoon nap in my own bed followed by good strong cup of tea and a plain dinner eaten in peace.’ He sighed. ‘But we all must serve the Kingdom in our own way, I suppose. Now speaking of food, I am on strict orders my dear. My number one task is to get you to eat.’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ she said. ‘I need to speak to Kynan. Can you get him for me?’

  ‘You’re not hungry: you’re starving,’ he corrected. ‘I will help you, but first: food. This way please.’

  He turned to make his way back down the stairs, then paused.

  ‘Can you walk? I’m afraid my old back won’t let me carry you, but you can take my arm if need be and we can topple gracefully together.’

  ‘I’ll be okay,’ she said, each step shaky, using a hand against the wall to steady herself and then gripping the bannister tightly as she began her descent.

  ‘You’ll want to eat an entire buffalo once you get started, but I must advise caution. Slowly and gently is the best course if you wish to avoid some pain and messiness. Lani made you broth. That will be a good place to start.’

  Lani… the name rang a bell. She’d heard it said by the children who had thrown the coin down to her. So they did belong to the Palace in some capacity. They might get to truly meet a witch of their very own, she thought, and almost smiled, then she realised that, however it seemed, she was still a captive here, as isolated from the rest of humankind as she had been down the well, other than –

  ‘What is your name?’ she asked, realising that she didn’t know it.

  ‘I am Roland,’ he said. ‘And you, as I understand it, are called Orla.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well met, then,’ he said. ‘Whatever else happens, there is no reason why we two cannot be friends...’

  They had reached the bottom of the stairs and entered a large open living space. Heads of deer regarded her with glassy eyes from the wall. To one side, a small fire was crackling in the hearth. A heavy metal prong lay beside it, for poking the stacked wood. She regarded Roland as he fairly waddled his way before her across the room and towards another door, which he informed her led into the kitchen.

  He was old and weak by his own admission. It would be easy: pick up the poker and strike him. One or two strong blows could render him unconscious. One or two strong blows could kill him, she heard Merryn’s voice, bright with outrage.

  She followed him into the kitchen.

  Chapter nineteen

  He’d been right about the pain. She’d had the broth and a small round of soft white bread. Both had been delicious and it seemed the more she’d eaten the hungrier she became. He’d sat quietly, saying nothing, as she devoured a bowl of treacle pudding with custard, and then a portion of warm chicken pie, and then a handful of dried fruit. And then she’d doubled over in agony.

  She had only just made it to the pot they had left in her room before her bowels emptied themselves furiously. Then she’d lain down and slept, a heavy sleep, not from drugs this time but pure exhaustion.

  She’d woken in darkness. She lay and listened. From the garden outside came a gentle chirruping of crickets. Inside the house she could hear nothing. No, not nothing; a rhythmic grumbling, so faint as to be almost inaudible. Snoring. She reached out with her mind, trying to sense whether there was anyone else awake and nearby. In the distance, very faintly, she felt something. The guards, she guessed. There were two of them, and the shape of their thoughts were somehow familiar. That helped to orient her. She figured she was a good half mile from the guard post, and from what she could tell there was nothing but clear ground in between. Strange that they had not taken greater precautions.

  She drew the heavy curtain back from the window and pale light seeped into her room. The moon was full and high, and the garden outside was visible in faded tones of grey. Even the flowers on the tree below, which she had seen were a vivid yellow in daylight, were now a flat silver. But they were visible. There was enough light to see by. Suddenly she felt a rush of urgency: this was her chance. It couldn’t be more perfect. They assumed she was still weak and barely able to walk. They left her unguarded, other than by an old man who liked nothing better than to sleep.

  Carefully, she opened the door. In the silence every sound was amplified. The hinge groaned slightly, a sound that she hadn’t noticed during the day but that now seemed to echo throughout the house. She steadied the door with her hand, then stepped through and into the corridor. The floorboards were cool under her bare feet. The ground outside would be even colder, she thought, and shivered. She hesitated and listened again, reassured to hear the rhythmic snoring continuing from somewh
ere downstairs.

  She followed the corridor to the top of the stairs. A gentle warm light filled the room below; the fire was still alight. She felt its warmth emanating softly. She made her way down the stairs, one step and then another, shifting her weight carefully, silently begging each piece of wood not to speak, not to complain. Finally she reached the bottom. The sound of snoring was louder now, resonant in the silence.

  The front door was directly ahead and then to the left, she recalled. She did not look to see where Roland was sleeping, but crossed the open space quickly. She reached the door and for a moment she felt giddy, her head spinning, her legs turning to liquid beneath her. She was so tired, and hungry all over again. That didn’t matter. She could stay in this cage and be fattened up or she could escape and find her way back to Merryn. She reached for the doorknob, turned it. Nothing. She tried again, putting a bit more force into it this time. Still it did not budge.

  It was locked.

  ‘Were you looking for this?’

  She jumped. Roland was standing in the darkened hallway. She could not make out his expression. In one hand he held a ring of keys.

  ‘We cannot let our little chicken fly the coop just yet,’ he said, and although his voice was kindly she was chilled by it. ‘You should know, even if you did get out, the Palace grounds are patrolled by a pack of rachim.’ He saw her confused expression and nodded. ‘They are like cats but much larger, fast, with a tremendous sense of smell. Another helpful gift from our friends the Uruhenshi. They are trained to detect any who are not permitted to wander, which is just about everyone these days. They do not ask questions. Back to bed and I’ll pretend this didn’t happen. Nobody needs to know.’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘I need to get to my sister. All the time I’m here I don’t know what’s happening to her. I promised –’

  ‘And I promised I would help you. And so I shall. By daylight. After I’ve seen you eat a decent breakfast.’

  Chapter twenty

  Days passed and Roland did not mention her escape attempt. For her part, she was a compliant prisoner. She ate whatever he gave her, and when she was not eating she lay in bed and slept or looked out the window at the gardens below. She watched and listened for the rachim that he told her of. She thought she saw something one day; it was just a shadow, gone almost as soon as she had spotted it. But still it made her skin crawl.

  One morning, over a breakfast of thick porridge laced with honey and spices, he looked up and said, ‘So what is your sister’s name?’

  She kept her voice steady as her heart raced. ‘Merryn. Her name is Merryn Grimstal. She was taken by the Confessors and was being held in the Vaults, and now I don’t know…’

  He held up a hand to stop her and nodded.

  ‘I have a boy running an errand for me and he’ll be travelling to Ekenshi tomorrow. I can get him to ask after her, see if there is any news.’

  ‘They won’t tell him anything,’ she said, frustration welling.

  ‘The King still has his friends amongst the Confessors, few though they may be,’ he said easily. ‘Though, granted, friends is perhaps the wrong word. There are people who may not be entirely ill-disposed to assisting me in my official capacity, should I say.’

  ‘Please, anything you can find out… if there’s any way of helping her…’

  ‘I will do whatever I can to help your sister,’ Roland said kindly. ‘And in the meantime you should try to keep yourself occupied and not spend the days worrying. You don’t know when the Council might call on you; when they do you’ll want to be prepared.’

  ‘How do I prepare myself?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ he sighed. ‘In my day it was easy. There was a routine. There were clear expectations. Each person knew their place and what was required of them. The King’s word was all. It is not so now. Now it is all subterfuge and guesswork, shifting alliances, broken promises. And I’m afraid you shall be in the centre of it.’ He frowned and shook his head, took a deep sip of the tea that he always seemed to be drinking. ‘Anyway. How would you like to learn a game?’

  ‘Would it help?’

  ‘It would pass the time. It would keep your mind active and alert. And you might enjoy playing against someone whose every move you can’t pre-know. It might be your only opportunity for a true victory, even if it is against an old man almost ready for his death bed.’

  Orla smiled. She had thought it would be strange spending time with someone whose mind was not open to her, but in truth most of the time she found it almost relaxing. She was free of the constant strain of just-heard thoughts, just-sensed feelings. She was free from even having to wonder whether there was something she should know, whether the pain her skill would cost her, which seemed to be increasing as she grew older, was worth the knowledge she would gain from it. She was free from the dross that filled most people’s minds most of the time, and from the harshness that she had grown accustomed to but that sometimes still cut, of seeing herself unvarnished in another’s perceptions.

  ‘Teach me,’ she said.

  ✤

  The game, which Roland explained originated on the island of Koralis, the outermost island of the Sond Archipelago, and dated back many hundreds of years to before the Dryuk first came to their lands, was called Hun-Rikaan and it was played on a low table. Roland dusted the tabletop down with a soft cloth until it shone in shades of light and dark wood, squares the colour of honey and chocolate. He pulled two cushions down from a shelf and set them either side. Orla was surprised to see him sit down on one, apparently without any difficulty. She wondered, as she sometimes did, whether perhaps the impression he gave of elderly decrepitude was not entirely accurate.

  ‘Getting up will be the trouble,’ he said, catching her look.

  She settled herself across from him.

  It took him almost an hour to explain the rules. She tried to follow but was sure she had forgotten most of it by the end of the explanation. There were a dozen different shaped pieces and each could act in different ways. One side was made of bone and one was steel. Each side had a warrior king and a witch queen, and you began by choosing which you would play to lead, a choice which affected every aspect of the game. The warrior had to focus his energy on marshalling his troops for a strong frontal attack, which would likely involve heavy losses, and a victory based on superior weaponry and unit strength. The witch queen worked with her circle of apprentices to cast protective spells, to seek information, and to draw the opponent’s pieces under her influence.

  The first game they played was ‘open hand’ as Roland called it. They each discussed their strategy and options before making a move. Roland guided her gently, reminding her how many steps a piece might take at a time, which ones were required to act in concert, how much power the queen must hold in order to use her particular abilities.

  ‘So you served under the King?’ Orla asked between turns, watching as he frowned and pondered and waiting for him to tell her what his next move would be.

  ‘Many years ago. He was a younger man then,’ he said.

  ‘What was he like?’

  Roland sat back, regarded her seriously.

  ‘He was driven and determined. Determined to find a way to free himself from the tangle that he had inherited of the influence of the Dryuk. That goal he held above all others.’

  ‘Then he succeeded,’ she said.

  ‘In replacing one foreign master with another, crueller and more ambitious one. Not, I think, what he had in mind.’

  Orla watched him. To talk in this way of the Treaty with the Uruhenshi was the highest heresy. She guessed it was a test – to draw her out, to trap her into speaking her own mind. She kept quiet.

  Roland grunted and pushed three messengers across the board without explanation.

  ‘Your move,’ he said.

  ‘And what happened to the last Reader?’ she asked.

  ‘Are we playing or gossiping?’ She had not seen him angry before. Not even when he’d
caught her trying to escape had he allowed any heat to enter his voice. The desire to read him, to find what secrets he was hiding from her, was suddenly overwhelming.

  She looked back down to the board. Her queen was in council with her deputies. Time to send them out, she thought, and pushed them along their allotted path to meet the messengers on the road.

  ‘I want to know what to expect. Whatever happened to them might happen to me,’ she said. ‘That’s not gossip: that’s survival.’

  ‘She was killed,’ he said, shortly. He looked down at the board but his gaze was vacant. ‘This is a long game. I think we may leave it for the day and play again tomorrow.’

  Then without anything further he rose from the ground, more easily than Orla thought he should have, and left the room.

  She sat for a minute, looking at the board, listening to the sound of birdsong in the garden outside. Then she too got up and returned to her room. She spent the rest of the day dozing in the grip of a fitful, frightening dream. It was the same dream she’d been having since before she left the Metkaran –of smoke and a rain of fire, a world ablaze, a terrible figure, monstrous, an impossible shimmer of power, of horror, standing over her. She woke drenched in sweat. It took a long time for her heartbeat to return to its usual steady pace.

  She did not come down for dinner and Roland did not call her.

  ✤

  The next day when she got up Roland was not there. Her breakfast was laid out on the table downstairs but there was no note, no indication of where he had gone or when he might be back. She checked that the doors and windows were locked. Through the window she could just make out a guard stationed outside. She wondered if perhaps Roland had decided to make the journey to Ekenshi himself. Maybe that was a good thing; he’d have a better chance of helping Merryn than some messenger boy, surely. Maybe Kynan had already spoken on her behalf and the King had interceded already. Maybe Merryn would be found free, unharmed… Hope flared within her and she tried to damp it down. There were too many maybes.