The Hidden Fire (Book 2)

by James R. Sanford

  A wide crevasse opened in front of them. At first Kyric thought they would make the jump, but they fell short and plunged into the jungle, somersaulting and grabbing at everything for handholds.

  They came to an abrupt stop, hanging limply on a vine. They laughed for a moment, and had begun the long climb back up, when they heard a gentle whirr from all around, like the rustle of leaves in a high wind.

  “No,” said Rolirra, panic edging into her voice, “not now.”

  Suddenly they were in a cloud of insects, flying beetles the size of a child’s fist that lighted and clung to them, digging into their flesh with sharp pincers, holding tight so they could insert a stinger at the end of their wasp-like abdomens.

  “Get to the ground!” shouted Kyric, and they slid down the vine, almost too fast, and landed hard on the jungle floor. What he had thought to be stingers were egg-laying tubes, and lumpy sacs boiled up under their skins where the bugs pricked them. They began picking the beetles off themselves, tearing out a pinch of flesh with each one, but the swarm followed them down, two beetles taking the place of each one torn away. They were trying to get into Kyric’s eyes, and into his mouth.

  “I cannot see,” Rolirra screamed. “I’m getting lost. Take us out. Take us out of this now!”

  Kyric seized her hand and dragged her into the underbrush. He could heard water flowing, and he plunged ahead, broadleaf plants slapping him in the face. Suddenly the ground canted sharply downward. He stumbled and fell, pulling Rolirra with him. They rolled and tumbled over a muddy ledge, into a river of blood.

  Kyric came up gasping, almost choking on the metallic odor of the river. The taste of blood was thick on his lips The bugs were gone.

  They swam to the far side of the river and stood on the bank, picking off the few remaining insects. Rolirra found the weathered leg-bone of some enormous creature. It made a hollow sound and floated like a buoy. When they sat astride on it, it didn’t roll over, so they used it for a canoe and paddled downstream with their hands.

  They found a current in the river, and it went faster as they went along. The sun was going down as they entered a series of rapids, and they had to paddle and kick with all their strength to avoid sharp rocks jutting out like gigantic arrowheads. At last the river slowed and widened, and as twilight fell they drifted into a deep bend thick with cypress.

  Swampland abutted the river, and Rolirra led them through channels and pools, desperately searching for something, paddling harder as the last light faded. They came to shallow place where dozens of bodies floated face down in blood-soaked mud. Rolirra slipped off the bone and waded toward the bodies.

  Suddenly they came to life, standing straight up in the muddy pool, holding still and staring at them with white, pupiless eyes. Kyric felt an unreasoning terror as he staggered backward and fell. He sank deeper, seeing the first stars come out as blood rose to his chin. Then the night fell.

  CHAPTER 6: Ghosts of a Recent Past

  This time he woke with a clear memory of the dream. And he remembered the name of the girl. Rolirra. He slipped out of his hammock half expecting to be covered with mud, but he only found it under his fingernails and between his toes. Small wonder, he thought. He hadn’t bathed in days. Then he noticed that he had dozens of mosquito bites, several on his face where the dream bugs had swarmed.

  How could he continue to pretend that this was all a coincidence? There’s a reality to these dreams. A power that carries a portion of it into waking life. And Rolirra is as real to me as anyone.

  They began easing upriver that morning with a fresh wind from the sea. The river had overflowed its banks, and the detritus of the forest was carried along by a visible current.

  “I’ve never seen the river so flooded,” said Ellec. “They must have had a heavy wet-season down here.”

  Thick lines of trees stood in knee-deep water on the lower north shore. Kyric recognized the tall slender variety from Ularra, but none of the others.

  “In Avic,” Lerica said, “those really big ones would be called silk-cotton trees. They bloom in the winter. Tribal people make canoes from them.” She pointed at the near bank. “Do you see that smaller tree with all the branches growing right at the water’s edge? That’s aruna, the medicine tree. Every part of it is used for one medicine or another. Here in Terrula, every fruit and flower is a powerful drug, many of them poisonous — my rule is don’t touch anything colorful without asking a local first.”

  They sailed upriver for half the morning and the trees began to thin, the south bank rising gently and opening to flat fields dotted with patches of wild sugar cane. They rounded a bend, and on the top of a shallow hill to their right sat a small stockade overshadowed by a wide, two-story manor house. Not one of those stone and glass behemoths like they had in Aeva, this one was built entirely of wood, with covered verandas surrounding both upper and lower floors.

  A row of long, log-built warehouses rested on stilts near the bank where a dock thrust well into the river. A small skiff and a rowboat lay tied to the far side of the dock. Directly across from the landing the wild sugar came to a halt, to be replaced by row upon row upon row of young coffee plants running a thousand yards southward to merge with a line of cypress, and upstream to a village of squat round huts, and beyond. Here and there, a banana tree stood watch over the infant coffee.

  Men with ropes and fending poles stood waiting on the dock as Calico approached. As soon as the plank was down, Ellec and Lerica went ashore to meet two gentlemen coming down the hill. Ellec waved Aiyan and Kyric over to him.

  “The Baronet Luscion Dorigano and his son Varro, let me introduce my guests Sir Aiyan Dubern and squire Kyric Ospraeus.”

  They shook hands. Despite the stifling heat and the wetness of the air, Dorigano and his son dressed as if for a business meeting in Aeva, complete with cuffs and cravats. Kyric was sweating freely in his light cotton shirt and trousers.

  “I am glad the rainy season finally ended before you got here, Captain,” said Dorigano in his thick Jakavian accent.

  Ellec glanced back at the landing. “It must have been a record season. I’ve never seen the river so high. A foot higher and your dock would be underwater.”

  “A terribly wet summer for sure. Bad for the banana trees, but good for the coffee.”

  Dorigano led them up the hill and showed them each a guest bedroom. They all had doors to the upper veranda, and Kyric’s overlooked the rolling ground to the west. He hadn’t noticed before, but all the shrubs beneath the towering silk-cottons were coffee plants as well.

  “We all meet at six o’clock in the parlor for aperitifs,” said Dorigano. “Please dress for dinner.”

  If this is how they dressed for the day, thought Kyric, he could only imagined the outfits they wore at dinner.

  Later, when they returned to the ship that afternoon to gather eveningwear and other things for their overnight stay, they dashed down to the river bank for a splash bath. Mr. Pallan stopped them.

  “I wouldn’t go in there,” he said. “There’s reasons that no one goes swimming in Terrula. Autumn is the season of the angel ray. They come upstream in the fall to mate — I’ve already seen a few today. Their skin sort of sweats a poison this time of year, a natural defense when they’re most vulnerable, I guess. So you don’t want to rub up against one. And then there’s lakka, the mouth with eyes.”

  “The mouth with eyes?” said Kyric.

  “Not a big fish, but they’re flesh eaters and the front end is all teeth. Luckily, they don’t tend to school.”

  They bathed in buckets, and when they were done Aiyan asked, “How long has it been since you practiced with your bow?”

  Kyric shook his head. “Too long. At least a month.”

  They fetched their bows. Aiyan had brought his own longbow, crafted of yew wood much like Kyric’s. It felt good to shoot again. Aiyan watched at first, giving him a few pointers on form, then Lerica joined them with her crossbow. Aiyan ran to the ship and returned w
ith two iron nails. He started them into the trunk of a dead tree saying, “Let’s see which of you can drive their nail first.”

  It was fun. Lerica was pretty good, and came almost as close as Kyric, but in the end neither of them could even graze the nails. At last Aiyan stepped up. They heard a metallic ting as his first shot struck and bent one of the nails. He nocked another arrow and pulled back, becoming very still. Kyric could feel the unseen gather around him. He loosed the arrow and drove the other nail all the way home.

  “Among my fellow knights,” Aiyan said, looking at Kyric, “I am of no more than middling skill.”

  Kyric was still trying to smooth the wrinkles in his trousers as he entered the parlor. He never thought he would be unpacking the cheap suit he had bought for his evening with Tathee, not in such a wild and faraway place, but no one was looking at him. Everyone was staring at Aiyan.

  They were all up with the latest fashions of the West. The men in napped doublets, with breeches rather than hose, the women in dresses that would have been suitable for Aerlyn’s reception. Except for Lerica. She wore the same long-tailed jacket she had in Ularra, and stood in the circle of men, apparently exempt from the role of a woman, or at least tolerated as the untamed niece of their favorite ship captain, who would surely grow out of it once Ellec finally married her off.

  When Kyric had gone to Aiyan’s room, he found him bent over a long blue tunic stitched intricately in white silk, an abstract diamond shape across the breast, the same sort he had seen on the two knights at the docks of Aeva. Aiyan had somehow got hold of a hot iron and pressed the garment to perfection. With white buckskin leggings and his sword unwrapped and polished, he looked like he had stepped out of the Eddur itself.

  “Is this the new fashion for men?” asked Lady Dorigano. “Are they going back to tunics and leggings?”

  “No, ma’am,” said Aiyan, bowing slightly. “This is the uniform of my order.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It’s Sir Aiyan, isn’t it?”

  “It is, my lady” he said with a polite smile.

  One of the younger men spoke. “I thought that knights only wore their costumes for private ceremonies.” This was Nikkin, the son of Dalcan Merna, Dorigano’s partner in the plantation. The Mernas lived in Ularra and Dalcan managed the finances and exporting. They were Syrolian, and Nikkin spoke Avic like a native.

  “We have no such custom,” Aiyan said. “We usually display the tunic only when conducting business for the order. Tonight, however, I’m wearing it to remind myself of who I am.”

  A white-gloved servant gave Dorigano a nod, and he ushered them all into the dining room, his wife guiding everyone to their places. The inlaid oak table matched the paneled ceiling; and the utensils were silverware, polished to a blinding shine. In addition to their son, Varro, the Doriganos had two teenage girls, the older one about sixteen or seventeen. The Mernas had a grown daughter, Korine, apparently engaged to Varro, and another boy younger than Nikkin.

  What a gilded cage these folk have made for their children, thought Kyric. The parents feigning membership in the high society they long ago left behind, one that the kids had never known, trying to import a world that could never flourish here. At least Varro had the promise of managing the plantation, and might even travel to Ularra a few times a year. Korine would be trapped by a jungle where every living thing was either poisonous or would tear the flesh from a human body. Kyric wondered if they would sit serenely in the afternoons and watch their souls erode.

  “We’re not very formal with the dinner courses,” said Lady Dorigano when the servants brought the appetizers and salad at the same time. “I find that shrimp and green salad are delightful served together. And you may thank the Countess Coratir for the unblemished flavor of the lakka caviar. The mother-of-pearl caviar spoons were a gift from her.”

  “I thank you heartily, Countess,” said Ellec.

  “Come, come, Captain,” she said, “I’m in exile and will never see the Empire again. You must call me Baleska.”

  She was the Dorigano’s other house guest, the type that people called a handsome woman. What an ex-countess from Baskillia was doing in this place, Kyric couldn’t imagine.

  “Charmed,” said Ellec. “And you must call me Captain Lyzuga.”

  They both smiled and broke into laughter at the same time. Kyric didn’t understand why that was funny to them, but then they locked eyes in that way he had learned to recognize. He suspected that there would be tiptoeing in the upstairs hallways tonight.

  By the time they finished the soup and started on the chicken in wine sauce and a strange yellow asparagus, the talk had turned to coffee. By the look on the ladies faces, it seemed that this happened every evening.

  “I’ve never seen coffee grown so near the sea,” Aiyan said. “I’ve always heard that you need high ground.”

  “Elevation is not so important as temperature,” said Dorigano. “Here on the coast it is warm but not too hot in summer because of the wet season. And we never get any winter frost. The only danger here is flooding, but the plants we grow here stand a better chance of surviving that than the other varieties.”

  “You see,” Dorigano continued, “My family has grown coffee in Jakavia for three generations. The plants you see here are hybrids. I experimented with the Kazhirradian strain on the wetter east coast of my country before coming to Terrula and was able to breed a new type of plant that tolerates more water. The soil here gives us less yield per growing season, but with all the rain we enjoy two seasons each year. And we had our first harvest within three years of planting — that’s remarkable, as it usually takes five years for the plants to mature.”

  Kyric couldn’t listen to much more about coffee. “I noticed you built a stockade. Have you had some sort of trouble?”

  “That’s leftover from when the Baskillians were here,” said Dalcan Merna. “They ran a vast sugar plantation on this land, more than three times the size of our coffee fields. Their methods were brutal, and they enslaved the local populace.”

  Kyric wondered if they had been kept in long huts made of sticks and mud.

  “I understand there were revolts,” Merna continued, “and little wars as some of the nearby tribes attempted to drive them out.”

  “Is that why the Baskillians left?”

  “No, no, not at all,” said Dorigano with a chuckle. “It was the colonial treaty with the Syrolian states and their allies. The Baskillians gave up the right to colonize in Terrula in exchange for exclusive access to eastern Aleria.”

  Lerica looked up, her eyes flashing for a moment, then went back to eating. Ellec simply called for more wine. Kyric wasn’t sure he could sit at the table of wealthy foreigners and listen to them talk about carving up his homeland for their own use. But Captain Lyzuga had his own business to worry about, and the argument had been going on for decades.

  “So,” said Dorigano, “the Council of Ularra was given disposition of the land. All I had to do was mention the volume of coffee I would be trading there, offer the head of the council a percentage, and pay the legal fees.”

  Aiyan looked at him. “The council didn’t consider returning the land to — what was the name of the people who lived here?”

  “The Enari.”

  “Yes, the Enari. What about them?”

  “The entire tribe was wiped out,” said Dorigano. “The Baskillians worked most of them to death in the ten years they were here. So many that they didn’t bother to bury them. The dead were thrown into the swamp for the crocodiles to feed upon. The rest were taken back to the Empire.”

  “My former countrymen know the value of a slave,” Baleska said grimly. “Once a slave is taken, he is never freed. It is considered bad form.”

  Merna leaned forward. “There were a few handfuls of them remaining, those who had escaped and gone into hiding in the jungle. Hardly enough to justify giving them forty thousand hectares — I mean, what would they do with it all? The little village up the river is all
that remains of them.”

  Nikkin looked up from his plate. “Old Jubi says that a long time ago they were part of a great nation.”

  His father laughed. “A great nation, out here in the middle of the jungle. Not likely.”

  “Do they work on the plantation?” Kyric asked.

  “Most of the men do,” said Dorigano, “and when we have a week of heavy harvest they bring their whole families.”

  “A good thing, too,” added Merna. “Importing workers is costly and troublesome.”

  “It is a mutually beneficial arrangement,” said Dorigano. “I truly believe that they’re grateful just to receive a fair wage and not be slaves.”

  Kyric watched him carefully. He truly did believe what he was saying.

  “I don’t understand,” said Lerica. “If there were places in the deep jungle where they could go, how were the Enari so easily enslaved. Were the other inland people their enemies?”

  “From what I know,” said Dorigano, “they were friendly. But the Baskillians employed professional slave hunters — clever foresters who could track and stalk with the best of them. The most notorious was a band of Westerners who had fought in Aleria and knew how to travel at night. Their leader was a master of traps and ambush called The Spider.”

  Aiyan was suddenly very still. “Tle Espide,” he whispered.

  Dorigano looked at him. “Yes. That’s how it is said in my language.”

  “Do you know this name?” Ellec asked quietly.

  “No,” said Aiyan, shaking his head. “No. It couldn’t be the same man. It couldn’t.”

  Lerica’s dropped her fork with a clatter. “Are you talking about the one my people called The Cutter? The one that raided Alerian villages when all the men were gone and cut the fingers off the women? He would cut a foot from the older boys too, if he found any.”