So, too, did first circles learn of Maretta, his daughter, who had led the Conflagrationists after Del'Ran's death. Maretta had been a fierce master in her own right, but she chose to give her life over to missionary work, bringing knowledge of the Conflagration to strangers, rather than teaching those who had already declared themselves. It was she who had set up the first missions, and she'd spent the latter part of her life tending to those who asked for an introduction to the Conflagrationists' ways. It was because of her example that women tended not to join the ranks of the disciples, preferring instead to be missionaries themselves. Indeed, the entirety of the Temple, with the exception of the visitors from Flamehearth, consisted of men and boys at this time. A handful of girls had come through in recent years, some passing into discipleship, but all had been lured away to other callings before their studies had become serious.
The rest of a First Circle's life was spent understanding other aspects of the church itself, how the circles worked, why no single master had controlled the goings-on of temple life since the time of Maretta Veccion—the various egos in such a place would likely destroy each other if there were a position of leadership to contend over—and what was expected of a disciple at the Temple of the Order of the Conflagration. Most passed through these lessons relatively quickly, and the Trial of Devotion, a recitation and verbal examination of a disciple's understanding of what they had learned, was generally a simple affair. Caymus had spent a single month in the First Circle. Rill had not picked things up so easily though, passing his trial only after six months of studies. It had been the first time he’d expressed serious doubts about his abilities, and it certainly hadn’t been the last.
Caymus's last few years at the Temple had been spent in the Second Circle, along with most of the other boys that constituted the population of the place. Whereas the First Circle was concerned with learning about the church, its procedures and its history, the Second Circle was about understanding the Conflagration itself. Students spent hours upon hours in meditative states, practicing the kind of mental conditioning that was necessary to obtain any kind of mastery over the conduits that bridged the different worlds. They were given long lectures about what fire actually was, how it manifested in the world, and what effects it could have. Many of the lessons were ancient, having been penned by Del'Ran himself centuries ago. The idea was simple: The more time spent in contemplation of fire, of the Conflagration and the conduits that connected it to the world, the better grasp one would have of what it would feel like to try to manipulate those conduits, to force changes in them.
Caymus himself had spent many days sitting cross-legged in front of the Conduit, trying to truly understand, to really feel what it was the masters were speaking of. The day he had actually managed to move his mind outside of his body and to “feel” his surroundings, his lessons had changed to focus, specifically, on that ability. That was when he and Sannet had become friends, as they both had shown remarkable aptitude. That was also the point at which Be'Var had started taking a special interest in Caymus's development. The three of them had spent a good deal of time together, developing the boys' experience at feeling out their environments with their minds. They, along with a few other advanced Second Circle boys, would spend days out in the wilderness, moving from location to location as Be'Var explained what an elm should feel like, how an ant's body was put together, or how to find the fire component in the very air they breathed.
Caymus had enjoyed those lessons thoroughly, and had gone out by himself on a number of occasions—though it wasn't technically allowed—to study alone. In general, those had been calm and uplifting days, but he would always distinctly remember one particular moment when, sitting alone in a clearing, he had been practicing the ability to reach out into his environment and had suddenly touched upon another person. When he'd opened his eyes, a many-feathered man had been standing in front of him. “Watch where you point that thing!” he'd said, and then stuck out his hand. “I'm Milo, by the way. What are you doing in my clearing?”
Milo had been an important presence in Caymus's education. For all the harping-on Be'Var and the other masters did about the wonders and the importance of fire, they often neglected to put their lessons in any sort of context. The air priest had helped him to understand the values of the rest of the pieces of the world as well. Caymus didn't worship the other elements as he did the Conflagration, of course, but he attained a newfound respect for the way they fit into the grand scheme of things. The actual interactions between the elements weren't often spoken about at the Temple—something Milo was more than happy to point out—which was a pity, as there were a lot of interesting facts to consider in that regard. Flames wouldn't burn in a room without air. A little bit of wind would make a fire burn hotter, but too much wind would put the same fire out. Milo had never lectured Caymus; rather, his knowledge of things like that had always seemed like trivia: little bits of information without any kind of formal structure to them. That, of course, was just the way Milo’s mind worked.
During one of his long meditations by the Conduit, Caymus had been thinking about such things when, quite suddenly, his hold on the flames before him seemed to slip and a small burst of fire had erupted into his startled face. Having seen it happen, Be'Var had first made sure his student hadn't been scorched too badly, and then had informed Caymus that he was ready to take his third trial, that of Courage. It was this very trial for which he was now trying to ready himself as he quietly stood within the ancient stones of the sanctuary.
The Trial of Courage, from what the masters would tell, was the most difficult to prepare for. “You're either ready or you're not,” Be'Var had said. “There's no studying, no rules to break. It's not an examination; it’s a judgment, a trial in the truest sense. You will sit at the feet of the Lords of the Conflagration and they will test your soul. You pass or you die.” Since coming to the Temple, Caymus had seen three students take the test, watched as they stepped into the maw of the Conduit. All three had walked back out mere moments later, marked by the Conflagration. The mark was a small one, black like charcoal, burned into the back of the left hand. It was a slim shape, rounded off at the bottom and tapering to a point at the top, surrounded on either side by two semi-circular lines with slight bows and bends in them which gave the impressions of fingers and knuckles. Two hands, holding a glowing flame—that was what the masters said it represented. The mark meant you were a disciple of the Third Circle, learning an Aspect under the personal tutelage of one of the masters.
Though it was understood that there was an additional trial for a student to break free from discipleship and become a full-fledged master, Caymus had never seen one, nor had any new masters been made in all the time he had spent at the Temple. The masters never mentioned that trial and always obfuscated when asked directly. That such a trial existed was only believed because the masters carried the same mark as the Third Circles, only the outline of the flame was turned red.
Caymus swallowed hard. Having not actually witnessed the trials of the last three days that had led to the deaths of two students, he didn't seem to be as apprehensive as others in the building. The fact that he was standing here, waiting to be summoned for his own trial, proved that much. Still, he was nervous. Before today, the thought of a person being burned alive inside the Conduit was only an idea. Now that it had actually happened, the idea had solidified into a real possibility, and the possibility of death was much more frightening than the idea of death.
“Caymus?”
Master Eavuk's voice echoed through the sanctuary and Caymus looked up to see him standing on the stairway, just below the point where it disappeared into the roof.
“We're ready for you.”
Caymus nodded, made his way to the foot of the stairs, and started his way up. Be'Var was right: his wounds didn't hurt nearly as much as they should have with only three days rest. He barely limped at all as he made his way first once, then twice around the room, and then re
ached Eavuk.
Master Eavuk was a gangly stick of a man with sunken eyes and a calming smile. About thirty years of age, he had, years ago, been the last disciple to have attained the rank of master and, thus, was the one sent down to fetch the student being tested. Caymus noticed that the man's usually unshakable serenity was tainted slightly with a touch of concern. Undoubtedly, he was thinking of the same things as was Caymus, of the impending task and, more significantly, the cost of failure. The master put a hand on Caymus's shoulder, nodded, and guided him the rest of the way up the stairs and into the passageway.
They emerged into a bright, clear day. Caymus couldn't help noticing how strikingly blue the sky was, how bright the sun, as he looked around. Twelve masters, six to each side, dressed in their formal red robes of station, formed a path from the stairs directly to the Conduit. Just in front of the blaze stood Be'Var, his expression a blank slate. As the master who had taken personal responsibility for Caymus's instruction, it was his place to lead the trial, to make sure it was done properly. “Who is this you bring before the Conflagration?” he said in a loud, authoritative voice.
“This is Caymus, disciple of the Second Circle of the Order of the Conflagration,” replied Eavuk. “He has come to be tested.”
“And will you vouch for him?” said Be'Var.
“I will.”
“Very well,” said Be'Var, and Eavuk made his way down the left row of Masters to stand at the end, just to Be'Var's right.
Master Be'Var addressed Caymus directly. “Caymus, you stand ready to be tested. Are you prepared to face the wrath of the Conflagration?”
Caymus replied in as confident a voice as he could muster. “I am.”
“Then step forward, and stand among us.”
As Caymus walked between the ranks of the masters, Be'Var continued. “This disciple has earned the respect of one among us. Master Eavuk speaks for him. Are there any here who would speak against Caymus? Does anyone believe him not ready, or not worthy, to face this trial?”
Nobody moved. All was still. A faint breeze tugged at the fabric of the masters' robes, swishing red fabric and making faint, rustling sounds.
“Very well,” said Be'Var. “Caymus, you have progressed as a disciple of two circles and are now ready to be tried a third time. This trial will test your resolve; it will look into the depths of your soul to see what is there. Only one who is strong at heart, one who sincerely believes he belongs to the Conflagration, can hope to pass. Only the most courageous will survive. Are you prepared to face the Trial of Courage?”
“I am.”
“Very well,” said Be'Var for the third, and final, time. He then melted into the ranks of the masters, opposite Eavuk. “Then step into the Conduit. Be tested.”
For a moment, Caymus held his breath. Then, without hesitation and with large, purposeful strides, he walked toward the Conduit. Even as the heat from the blaze threatened to scorch his skin, he didn't let his pace falter. He had to believe he would pass. Courage. He repeated the word to himself as Be'Var, once again, began to speak. “Lords of the Conflagration, we offer you the disciple Caymus to be tested. We ask that you give him your attention, and hope that you find him worthy.”
With those final words echoing in his mind, Caymus stepped into the Conduit.
Caymus knew he should be burning. He knew his skin should be sloughing off his bones even as his tongue boiled and his eyes melted. He could feel the heat—such intense heat—licking and biting at his skin. Yet, he didn't burn. His skin didn't scorch. Despite the inferno, he was unburnable, unkillable, defiantly alive.
He was standing in the Conflagration—not the Conduit, but the Conflagration, itself. No matter where he turned his gaze, all he could see were flames. Red, orange, white or yellow, the fire was everywhere. It roiled in every direction at once, giving him no clear way to tell up from down, left from right. There was no ground beneath his feet, no sky above his head. There was no air; with every breath, he inhaled liquid fire.
The noise was deafening. Pummeling his eardrums was a horrible roar, like the fiercest wind of some tumultuous storm. Yet, he could somehow make out the sound of his heartbeat, hear his own breath in his lungs. They both seemed slower than they should be, as if time didn't flow properly here.
“Why are you here?”
The question was his own, yet not his own. He recognized the pitch and timbre of his own voice, but it had come from without, from some other presence.
“I am here to be tested by the Lords of the Conflagration!” He tried to scream above the din of the flames, but even with the greatest effort, he could barely hear himself.
His efforts must have been noticed though, as shapes began to coalesce in front of him. At first, the shapes were just yellow orbs, floating in random patterns about him. There were six of them. Their golden color was reminiscent of the flame that surrounded him, yet these were different, somehow. They glowed in a way that fire shouldn't, and they appeared to twinkle. Slowly, they changed direction, moving in a more organized fashion, until all six were arrayed in front of him. Then, they paired up, three sets of two. A moment later, a small black circle appeared in the center of each.
They were eyes.
How far away they were, he couldn't tell. Distance was confusing in this place, and even as the vague shapes of men began to appear around the eyes, without a point of reference, he couldn't judge their size.
“Your name?” The voice was raspy and whispered, yet he could tell it was still his own voice addressing him. It came from the center-most of the three figures, though he could detect no moving lips in the form.
“Caymus Bolwerc,” said Caymus. As he spoke, the center figure appeared to move toward him, its dimensions still impossible to fathom. The figures were like suggestions of men. He felt as though they appeared the way they did only because he expected to see them that way. They were outlines, their forms filled with the same fiery hues that surrounded them.
When it got close enough, Caymus realized that the figure—in fact, all three of the figures—looked like him, too. Understanding sunk in. Of course, the Lords of the Conflagration were beings of fire. They had no shape, no substance other than flame, and so they were borrowing his likeness in order to communicate. He wondered if that was difficult for them.
When the fiery visage of himself got close enough that he could easily recognize his own face, it spoke again. This time, he could clearly see the movement of a jaw. “What is in your heart, Caymus Bolwerc?”
“Hope.” Caymus was startled at his own answer. He didn't know why he'd said it; it was the first thing that had come into his mind. Suddenly, he felt afraid. Had that been the wrong thing to say? Surely, he should have put some thought into an answer given to an elemental lord.
But it was too late to change anything; the figure was already moving closer again. The image loomed larger and larger in his field of view until the yellow eyes seemed inches from his. “Caymus Bolwerc,” it said, and there was some menace to the voice now, “you will give your life to the Conflagration today.” Caymus could clearly see the roiling lips now. “One way,” it continued, “or another.”
Then, with incredible speed, all three figures rushed toward him, passed into his body. As the third set of eyes made contact with his, he saw a bright flash that blinded him entirely.
When the light faded away and he could see again, Caymus found he was, somehow, living inside his own memory. He stood apart, observing his own life. He could feel the Lords of the Conflagration there too, separate consciousnesses within his own, watching, waiting, judging.
He was home. His mother was making dinner, chopping celery, parsley, and rabbit to put into a stew. He was nine years old. Even as a child, Caymus had been large. He sat quietly in front of the cooking fire, mesmerized by the crackling flames. His mother called to him a couple of times to help with the cooking, but the child didn't hear her, and she eventually had to tap him on the head with a wooden spoon to get his atte
ntion.
Another flash of light. He saw himself again, sitting on a plank, dangling from a pair of ropes attached to the railing of a dry-docked ship. His father was with him. They were working in the shipyard in Krin's Point. Caymus was older in this memory, but not by much. His father was checking the seams between the planks that made up the ship's hull; Caymus helped by steadying the supplies and rechecking those seams his father had just gone over. Caymus had been apprenticed to his father as a shipwright for less than a month at this point in his life. His father had seemed happy. He had always enjoyed his work, despite the time spent away from home and the long journeys to and from the shipyards every week.
A flash. He was out in the woods with his friends, spending the night out of doors, away from nagging parents and the work of the dry dock. Sara, Willet, and Gerud were telling ghost stories while Caymus tended their campfire. He was barely paying his friends any attention at all as he walked out into the darkness to find more fuel wood, lest his creation go out for lack of care. The real problem was the he'd built the fire much too large and it was burning through the logs he'd gathered faster than he could replace them.
Flash. The ship was on fire. Caymus's father was trapped inside and he'd gone in to look for him. When Caymus found him, he was hunched over a workbench, coughing violently. Caymus grabbed him and hauled him to his feet, pulling him along to get him out of danger. When a number of flaming planks of wood fell before them, Caymus hesitated for a moment, looked around, then decided to brave the fire rather than die inside the craft. As the memory of Caymus ran through the flames, Caymus, the observer, noticed that they parted for him, peeling backward as he ran and flowing around him less than an inch from his and his father's skins.
Caymus didn't want to see what came next. They had gotten out of the wreckage alive, but the inhaled smoke had been too much for his father's body. The next few weeks had been the saddest of Caymus's life, as he watched the man who had raised him, had taught him everything he knew, had provided for his every need, slowly suffocate to death. Even now, as he watched, Caymus felt his throat tighten up. The last thing his father had done before he died was to send a letter to the Temple of the Conflagration, telling the story of the parting flames and requesting Caymus be accepted there as a disciple.
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