Knight Of The Flame

by H John Spriggs

  After a moment or two, he decided there was no use worrying about it now and instead returned his attention to the present, and to the small group he was with.

  Rill and Sannet seemed to be enjoying themselves, though Sannet seemed a great deal less comfortable than his friends. He obviously wanted to impress these girls, but found himself stumbling over most of his words. Rill, of course, had been clowning around and generally being entertaining. He made them laugh, which was what he was good at. Caymus was glad. What he was good at was being huge and generally conspicuous, so it was nice to have the attention off him at times.

  Of the girls, Gwenna seemed to be the most outspoken. She held herself with easy confidence and seemed to enjoy simple laughter. She was pretty without being beautiful. Her blond hair fell in waves to the small of her back and she had the kind of eyes that smiled along with her mouth.

  Bridget was quieter, shyer. She was blond too, but her hair, straight and wispy, only reached her shoulders. It often fell in front of her face and hid her eyes, so she spent a good deal of time brushing it back in a very girlish manner. She seemed to Caymus the type who would be married and raising children in just a few, short years.

  “I can't imagine the idea of actually buying water,” said Rill, his words echoing Caymus's earlier thoughts as the group sat down on the lawn. “Just how bad are things where you're from?”

  Gwenna answered. “Bad. It hasn't rained for two years, and now the river's getting smaller, so all the crops are drying up.” She ran her hands through the grass as she spoke. “Up 'til we left, I hadn't heard of anybody starving to death or dying of thirst, but in a city as big as Kepren, it's only a matter of time.”

  Bridget, also touching the grass around her, said, “The Falaar that have joined us at the mission don't seem to suffer the effects that badly. I don't think they feel it like we do. Everybody else though, we're not doing as well.”

  Bridget brushed her hair back again as Gwenna continued. "The grain we're bringing back will help feed some people—there are a lot of children at the mission these days—but the ore's the important part. It's pretty barren down there, so metal's valuable. Food and water are scarce, but there's always some to be bought if you've got something to trade.”

  “Really?” asked Sannet, pushing his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose. “From what you've been saying, I'd have thought there wasn't anything to be had. If things are as bad as you say, shouldn't any food or water that's available be getting distributed throughout the city?” Sannet had been paying particular attention to the talk of the drought. He was from Kepren, and his family was still there.

  Bridget said, “There's grain and water silos controlled by the dukes. The king and Prince Garrin are in charge but it's the dukes that pretty much run the city. They say they can't just give food and water away for free so we have to pay for what we get.”

  “Flaming dukes,” said Gwenna angrily, “and their flaming wells won't give us any flaming help!” She looked about at the surprised faces around her. “They all have personal wells, you know. Deep ones.” She dropped her voice a bit. “They set rations and put out policies all the time about when you can and can't farm, how many cattle can be slaughtered in a day, whether washing with anything more than a damp cloth will get you publicly flogged. It's all for the 'common good' but you can be sure the nobility will be the last in the city to starve to death.”

  Nobody said anything for awhile as all sat with downcast eyes.

  “I can't imagine how hard that has to be,” said Caymus, breaking the silence. “Still, it must be exciting doing missionary work, helping to lead people to the Conflagration.”

  “Yeah,” said Gwenna, noncommittally. “But I think I'd rather be here, where it's safer.” She looked at the three young men and smiled. “You boys get to stay here and learn to be priests while the women are out doing the real work.”

  “Hey,” said Rill, also smiling, “it's not all that easy here, you know.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Gwenna.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “Take Caymus here.” His tone changed to one of mocking. “The poor thing was forced to do hard, manual labor all day just because he can't do what he's told!”

  Everyone laughed. Caymus was about to respond when he suddenly stopped, hearing something on the wind. The sound was a familiar one, and Caymus beamed. This was going to be an interesting night. He trained his gaze off to the tree-line to the West and got to his feet.

  “Something up?” said Bridget.

  Caymus looked suddenly back at them, slightly embarrassed to realize he'd actually forgotten they were there for a moment. He turned fully toward them and bowed to the girls. “Ladies, forgive my manners, but I must be off.”

  “What!” said Rill. “Caymus, ninth bell is something like five minutes away. What do you mean, you're off?”

  “Cover for me tonight, will you, Rill?” It was more of a statement than a question, and with it, Caymus started jogging toward the forest, his eyes finding his way easily under the bright gaze of the moon.

  As Caymus left, he could just make out bits of confusion and incredulity in the conversation behind him. He made a mental note to thank Rill for yet another favor tonight. He hated leaving him in the lurch, but not so much that he'd forgo tonight's suddenly promised adventure.

  CHAPTER 2

  A cool breeze—not cold, but crisp and invigorating—blew across Caymus's face as he jogged across the grassy field. There was something he loved about the night. The dark hours were calm, serene, and full of mystery. Now that man had gone to sleep, the land could be at ease for awhile and rest from the day's exertions under the sun.

  Before long, he had traversed the lawn that marked the boundary of land claimed by the Temple and had crossed into the wood of the Saleri Forest. Here he slowed to a brisk walk, as there were roots and vines he didn't want to trip over. Plus, now that he was out of sight of the Temple's windows, he didn't have to worry so much about being noticed breaking curfew.

  As he moved, he caught sight of a white bird sitting quietly in a tree not far from him. For a brief moment, he paused to look. He was surprised to discover that the small, white shape was a hawk, and he wondered what a day hunter would be doing out here so long after dark. The hawk had seen him too. Though it didn't seem particularly disturbed by his presence, it was watching him intently. Caymus smiled, imagining that the bird was just as surprised to see him as he was it, and for the same reason.

  That was when he noticed the quiet. With his footfalls no longer disturbing the evening's calm, he could suddenly hear the sounds of the night: owls made their low, mournful calls; the occasional sound of fluttering wings disturbed the stillness of the air; listening very carefully, he could just pick out the slight rustle of small creatures scurrying about in the darkness. He also thought he could detect the movement of some larger animal off to the North, too far away to be seen: a deer or elk, perhaps. Each of the sounds played above a melodious cacophony of crickets and cicadas.

  With some disappointment, Caymus realized he had to get going. He gave a casual wave to the hawk, then started walking again. He knew the way he was taking well, knew he would spend the better part of half an hour trekking through the trees before he arrived at his destination. Aside from an earthen path, little more than wagon tracks cut through the underbrush that led from the eastern mountains to the Temple itself, there were no roads in the Saleri Forest. The nearest city was Krin’s Point, which lay a few dozen miles to the southwest, but the fact that it was surrounded on three sides by either mountains or sea meant that carving a path to it through the woods was a waste of time. The result was that the forest, and the temple that sat at its center, remained relatively isolated. One day, when the Temple became larger, and the area around it more civilized, someone would probably clear these woods and build on the land. What a pity that would be.

  Caymus breathed in the night air and smiled, enjoying the familiarity of the journey. The canopy of le
aves and pine needles above let the light of the moon through in many places, so he had no trouble picking out the red bush with the yellow flowers, the tree with two trunks, the ring of toadstools, and other markers he had discovered on previous nights that told him he was on the right trail, and, before long, he came to the base of the small hill that was his destination. He stopped briefly at the bottom and looked up the rise, noticing, for the first time, that the trees became denser the further up the hill he could see. He supposed it was this fact, that the trees were so closely packed together near the top, that stopped people from investigating up there. Grinning, he started up, already well aware of what there was to see.

  The rise, though short, was steep, and his breathing quickened and became more labored as he ascended. Halfway up, he paused for a moment to catch his breath, and as the sound of his own rushing blood diminished in his ears, he began to hear familiar music being played at the crest. Chuckling quietly to himself, he started toward the sound with renewed vigor. The music seemed soft and far away through the trees, caught by the leaves and the wind it passed through on its way down to him. He knew what he was hearing was a pipe or some manner of flute; it played a simple melody which was at once soothing and haunting. The song sounded to his ears like the night looked to his eyes: peaceful, tranquil, but with the slightest touch of anticipation.

  Suddenly, the foliage gave way and Caymus emerged into a small clearing that was so gray and bereft of trees that it seemed not to belong there, at the top of the forest hill. The white moonlight gave a ghostly look to the area, which was an almost perfect circle, about thirty feet wide and ringed by pine and juniper. Beyond, in the distance, a carpet of trees followed the contours of rolling hills and valleys for miles to the West. In the center of the clearing was a large rock: a plinth, really. Ten feet high, it had obviously been placed there by human hands, carved into a squared pillar of dark stone, its gray hue the same as that of the earth at Caymus’s feet, its width about three feet to each side.

  Atop it sat a man. He must have been in his mid-twenties. He sat quite serenely, his legs crossed in front of him, his eyes closed. In his hands he held the small pipe which produced the ghostly music. The pipe was a simple affair, just a piece of wood about a foot long, peppered with a dozen small holes which the man's fingers gently covered and uncovered to create the somber tones. The man’s hair was light brown, and it flowed straight down to his shoulders where it was evenly cut, then held in place with a blue headband. He wore loose garments of browns and blues, which hung slack from his limbs.

  The most astonishing things about him, however, were his wings. They followed the curves of his arms, were attached to them with several cords of leather. Fashioned from the feathers of more birds than Caymus knew the names of, the wings were motley constructs of reds, whites, browns, yellows, blues, and as many other colors as there were winged creatures in the sky. Hundreds of hours must have gone into their design and more still into keeping them from falling apart from everyday wear. Caymus had seen them dozens of times, yet he still couldn’t quite believe they were real.

  Caymus stood for a moment, watching, then sat down with his back against the base of the pillar and simply listened. He knew he'd heard the song before and believed it was called “Night's Lament”; he'd have to ask later to be sure. As he drank in the sounds, he watched another bird glide across the face of the moon on outstretched wings. Maybe it was the same one he’d seen earlier. Caymus laughed quietly at himself. Wouldn't that be odd: some strange, white hawk following him through the night under the full moon, stalking him through the trees?

  He was still thinking about the hawk, envisioning himself being carried off like a mouse or squirrel, when he realized the music had stopped. He looked up from his makeshift seat and saw the man staring down at him.

  “Hello Caymus. What took you so long?” the man said, and grinned.

  “Hello Milo. It's good to see you too, and I came as soon as I heard your whisper,” was Caymus's reply.

  “I'm sure you did. Naughty Conflagrationist, out past his bedtime, yet again” said Milo, shaking a finger at him and still grinning. “I wonder what the masters back at school will have to say about that.” He stood up. “Out of the way. I'm coming down.”

  Caymus stood and moved a few feet from the base of the pillar. He watched as Milo spread his arms, and so his wings, and jumped. As he plummeted, feet first, Caymus could first hear, and then feel, the column of air that rose to meet him. About halfway down, his descent gradually slowed to the point that, rather than hitting the earth with a great thud, he was instead deposited lightly upon the ground.

  Caymus shook his head. “I still want to know how you do that,” he said, moving toward Milo and extending his arm.

  “Sorry, my friend. Wrong religion,” said Milo, and shook the offered hand. His fingers were pitifully small in Caymus's huge grip, but neither of them noticed, nor cared.

  “How have you been, Milo? I haven't seen you in weeks.”

  “Oh, not bad,” said Milo. “Not bad at all. Hunting's been good, sun's chased the clouds away,” he continued, sitting down, “and, for the most part, people from your temple have been staying clear of the forest, so things have been more or less uneventful.” He looked around the clearing and into the sky. “There is, however,” he said, “this bird that keeps following me around.”

  “A bird?”

  “Yes, this stupid, white thing. Keeps landing in a branch next to me and screaming in my ear. I try to tell it I don't know what it's squawking about, but…” He trailed off and shrugged his shoulders.

  “This bird wouldn't be a hawk, would it?”

  “Yes! How did you know that?”

  “I think I've seen it. I think it followed me here,” said Caymus. “Almost pure white, yes? Orange beak and a touch of gray in its tail?”

  Milo snapped his fingers and pointed at him. “That's the one. So, it's been pestering you too, eh?” He smiled. “Good. Maybe that means she'll leave me alone for a while.”

  Caymus laughed. “Anyway, what have you brought me out here for?” He turned his gaze to the East, the direction from which he'd come, and looked at the Conduit again. Though he could barely make out the Temple in the soft moonlight, the pillar of fire itself was clearly visible in the darkness. “That 'whispering on the wind' trick is neat at all, but sometimes I think you do it just to show off.” He turned back to his friend.

  “Only sometimes,” said Milo. “Today, I call with genuine purpose. A little bird told me that those old men at your temple have finally gotten it in their heads to teach you that Aspect thing.”

  Caymus was about to ask how Milo could possibly have already learned about Caymus's incident. It had happened only hours ago and, as far as Caymus knew, he was the only person from the Temple that Milo had any contact with. Then he realized that, for all he knew, a little bird could quite literally have told him, so he decided not to pursue the issue. “Yes,” he said. “Pulling. Though it didn't go very well.”

  “No?”

  “I got in some trouble for taking things a bit further than I should've,” he said. “And,” he continued, “I'm not sure I did it right.”

  Milo frowned, “But you were able to control a flame?”

  “Yes. Somewhat,” said Caymus.

  “Excellent,” said Milo, and his frown vanished. “That's good enough for me.” He stood up, rubbing his hands together. “There's something I've been wanting to try ever since I met you and learned you were studying to be one of those fire-master things. Now that you're actually learning to work in your element, you're ready.” There was impish excitement in his expression.

  Caymus narrowed his eyes and spoke cautiously. “Okay,” he said, “What do you want to try, exactly?”

  He watched Milo move off to the edge of the clearing and forage around for a bit. When he returned, he carried a piece of dead wood, about the size of his leg, which he brought over and threw on the ground between them. “Can
you start this up from scratch or am I better off using flint and steel?”

  Caymus decided to just go along with it. He trusted Milo in a wary sort of way, though the air priest did have a tendency to act without thinking things through, on occasion. “I can't start it from nothing,” he said, “but if you can give me some sparks to work with, I can speed things along.”

  “Right,” said Milo, and he produced a small piece of flint and a hunting knife. He then wandered off again and quickly returned with some dry pine needles and twigs. Moving quickly, he set them on top of the log and got to work rubbing the knife and flint together to rain showers of sparks down on the tinder.

  As Milo worked, Caymus closed his eyes and, as he had done earlier that day, reached out, searching out the sparks that Milo was creating. Each one served as a very small conduit to the Conflagration, and if he could get hold of one, he could manipulate it. He'd have to wait for one of them to land on the tinder; talented as he was, he wouldn't be able to hold onto one of the short-lived sparks unless it was already starting to catch on a pine needle.

  He could feel Milo's presence easily enough, could feel the air priest's body radiating heat with the effort he was putting into starting this fire. He could feel every individual spark, too, as each was pulled into existence and rapidly snuffed out. Much harder was seeking out the tinder itself. The wood, the needles, and the twigs had all been dead for quite some time. The fire element that remained in them felt like echoes, mere shadows of what had existed when the things had been alive. Without that fire, they were barely distinguishable from the ground or even the air that surrounded them.

  Still, with some effort, he found what he was looking for and latched himself onto an individual needle. There, he rested his consciousness, waiting for a spark to land in just the right spot. The showering of tiny conduits which resulted from Milo’s quick movements meant he shouldn't have to wait long. After just a few seconds, he had his spark. Quickly, he tried to feel out the tiny conduit before it vanished, but to no avail: it died out before he could get a firm grip. Very soon, however, another spark landed, and Caymus was better prepared. Like a silken thread, the spark's connection to the Conflagration was light and weak, but it was enough. As he had done earlier that day, he focused his will on it. This time, though, instead of constricting the flow, he worked to draw it open, expanding it so as to give the spark more volume and greater ability to catch the needles.