Caymus nodded as he walked over to them, though he looked a bit unsure of himself. Be'Var noticed his right hand was covering up the back of his left; it seemed an unconscious action, and he wondered if the boy even knew he was doing it. “There's something I wanted to ask you, Master,” he said. “Or rather, something I wanted to tell you.”
Be'Var raised an eyebrow. From the timid way the boy was approaching the subject, he wasn’t certain this was going to be something he wanted to hear, and when Caymus finally looked up and met his eyes, he hazarded a guess at what it was his student wanted. He felt his ire rising of its own accord.
“I'm leaving the Temple,” said Caymus. “If they'll have me, I'm going to accompany the missionaries back to Flamehearth in Kepren."
Be'Var could barely contain his indignation. “Idiot child!” he yelled. “You think that will help things, do you?” He pointed a finger at Caymus. “You find yourself in a hard situation and you think you can fix it by running off with some girl?”
For the first time since Be'Var had known him, Caymus yelled back. “This has nothing to do with her!”
“Oh really?” shouted Be'Var. “What time you've not been spending on brooding and sulking lately, you've been spending with her,” he said, more calmly. “Now she and the rest of them are going back where they came from, and you just happen to want to go along? What, to be a missionary? You want to tell stories about the Temple and send other children here, hoping that at least one of them is as good as you might have been so you don't feel so guilty about leaving?”
Caymus seemed about to say something, but held back. He looked back and forth between Milo and Be'Var and sighed. “No,” he said, “I don't.”
“Good,” said Be'Var, “because you'll be a damn sight better shaper than you ever will a mission-keeper. You're going to learn to control your Aspect, and that's an end to it.”
Caymus looked him in the eyes, let his gaze hang there for awhile, as if trying to out-stare him. Then he sighed and shook his head. “'You'll never be a master.' That's what they said to me.”
The point was both simple and irrefutable. Be'Var considered the words and realized he had no retort, no argument to make. You'll never be a master. Why stay? Why bother? Still, he had so much potential! To let it go to waste just because he'd never be able to gain a master's mark was idiotic. “Caymus, you—”
But Caymus held up a hand and cut him off. He'd certainly gotten cheeky, lately. “I don't want to be a missionary, Master. I do want to learn more about shaping, but you said it yourself: there's nobody who can teach it to me here. And now I've got this mark, this thing...” He looked down at his hand, absently scratching at the sword and flame symbols as though they might come off. “Nobody here knows what it is or why I have it. What should I do? Just wait around here for years and years hoping the answer just falls into my lap?” He looked up again, this time gazing over Be'Var's shoulder into the distance. “If I want answers, I'm going to have to go and look for them. This just seems like a good opportunity to do so.”
He met the master's eyes again, challenging him. Dammit, but he was right. Much as he wanted Caymus to keep on at the Temple under his tutelage, Be'Var knew there wasn't much he could tell the boy about shaping. Plus, he'd been through all the books in their small library in the past few days, and there wasn't a single clue about the strange mark, not one recorded instance of somebody receiving it in a thousand years.
Kepren would be a good place for him to start his search. The king had a decent library there; with a request from a master, he could probably be persuaded to let Caymus in to have a look around. Who could say? Maybe he'd run into another shaper down there and have someone to compare himself to, if not learn from?
Or, even better...
“Fine,” Be'Var said. “You're right, staying here isn't going to do you any good, and if you're going to look for explanations for that mark on your hand, there are a number of people in Kepren that might be able to point you in the right direction.” He briefly glanced toward Milo. “Do you know,” he said with a menacing smile, “I've heard that there's a master in Kepren who's adept at healing. I really should go and speak to him, compare notes, see if we can't come up with any ideas on how to deal with this new element.” Be'Var took great delight in the look of confusion and concern that crawled across Caymus's face. “The other masters can handle things here. Yes, I think I'll go as well.”
Caymus looked like he wanted to argue, but must have realized there was no point. He dropped his shoulders in defeat, resigned to the fact that if Be'Var said he was going, he didn't really have any say about it.
Milo was choking down laughter. “You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?” he said.
Caymus looked toward his friend, and grinned in spite of himself. Be'Var was glad; it was good to see him smile again. “I guess not,” he finally said.
“Good,” said Milo, “because I think you're going to have a bit of trouble getting rid of this one.” He indicated Be'Var, who wasn't sure how he felt about being addressed as 'this one', but decided not to dwell on it. Milo then paused a moment, as if in thought, then said to Be'Var, “Have room for one more?”
It was Be'Var's turn to laugh. Caymus just rolled his eyes. “We going to be taking the whole Temple with us?” he said.
“Tut-tut,” said Milo. “I'll have no part in your heathen religion.” He spread his arms out, making a grand, sweeping gesture. “I travel wherever the wind blows!” he said, spinning around. Then he dropped his arms and turned back to Caymus. “And the wind fairly obviously seems to be blowing in your direction at the moment.” He grinned broadly, showing all his teeth, then turned to Be'Var. “What do you say, oh wisest of fire-masters?” Then he bowed deeply, and stayed there, holding his arms out and spreading his many feathers to either side.
Be'Var grumped. He didn't want to like Milo. It wasn't just that he was an air-worshiper; Be'Var had lived enough years to know that the other religions weren't evil, or even necessarily at odds with his own. It was more that the man seemed the sort that would turn out to be undependable, who would take to being distracted from important issues by butterflies and shiny things in his path. Still, the fact that Milo had been so crucial in letting him know what was going on in the world lately—and had kept on doing so all week, despite the confusion at the Temple—spoke volumes about his character. Despite his preconceptions, the old master had to admit he enjoyed this clown's antics and wouldn't mind having him along.
Add to that the fact that, as clowns go, he was an awfully good shot with that bow of his, and it seemed he would, in fact, be an excellent companion for the journey. With the chaos around the land lately, who knew what kind of trouble they might run into? “I think that would be just the thing,” he said. “What do you think, Caymus?”
Caymus just sighed and shook his head. The great adventure he had decided to take all on his own, and which he had, no doubt, been getting quite excited about, was suddenly moving completely out of his control. Be'Var couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him. “Don't worry boy, I won't embarrass you in front of your young lady too much.” Caymus had the decency to blush slightly. “Just remember, you may not have become a Third Circle disciple, but you're still my student. I may not be able to tell you much about shaping, but if you think you've learned all I have to teach, you're very much mistaken.” Caymus nodded in understanding. Good. Be'Var had been expecting an argument. “We're going to keep up your instruction, just like we'd planned. On the road's as good a place as any, I guess.”
Caymus nodded again. “Okay,” he said simply.
Be'Var smiled. “Good,” he said. “Well, I suppose you need to go and pack a few things if you're to be leaving first thing tomorrow?”
“Yes I do,” said Caymus, who turned to go.
“I'll let Matron Y'selle know that they're going to have company on their return trip, then sort out the supplies with Ket.” He turned to Milo. “You don't eat much, do you?”
“I'll get started on my packing,” said Caymus, who had reached the stairs. Then he stopped. “Master Be'Var?” he said.
Be'Var turned and saw Caymus looking seriously at him.
“Thanks,” he said, then smiled and went down.
Be'Var smiled. “That boy's going to do alright.”
“Don't you have things to pack, too?” asked Milo.
“Of course,” said Be'Var. “But I had to let him out of my line of sight first. It just wouldn't do for the students to know a master of the Order of the Conflagration was off to do something quite so mundane, now would it?”
Milo laughed. “Have it your way,” he said.
“Yes,” said Be'Var, “well, I need to get to it.” He started cataloging things in his mind. Smoke and ash, he'd have to take half the Temple with him if he wanted to do this properly. As he shuffled off to begin his project, a thought occurred to him. “Milo?”
“Hmmm?”
“Will you still be able to do that whispering thing while we're traveling?”
Milo shook his head. “Afraid not. I've been around this place long enough that my friends know it well. It takes awhile to describe a new area, and if we're on the move, there just won't be time.”
Be'Var frowned. He didn't quite understand what Milo was telling him. “Describe a new area?”
“It's called 'speaking the place',” said Milo. “It's a bit more involved than whispering and takes most of a day to do. Basically,” he continued, “it's like painting a picture of the area in words, being as accurate and vivid as possible. That way, other people get a feel for the place and the whispers can find you.” Be'Var was still confused. “Look,” said Milo, “you want to send a letter to someone, you have to write down who it's for and where they are, right? Whispering's the same way, only you're not handing a note to some carrier who's been to wherever the place is a thousand times. You're directing it yourself, so if you don't know the place, there's no delivering the message.” He paused. “Get it?”
The analogy seemed to make sense. “So, until we get to someplace these friends of yours know, or one you can spend a day describing to them, we're in the dark, then.”
“There, you have it,” said Milo, who seemed happy he'd gotten the point across. “I can send my whispers out on the wind, but expecting a reply is another thing entirely.”
“That's a shame,” said Be'Var. “Oh well, nothing for it, I suppose. We'll just have to hope the world manages to go on without us.”
“It usually does,” said Milo. “Well, if there's nothing else you need, I'll be off having a look around.”
Be'Var watched with no small amount of wonder as the priest built up a bit of speed and jumped straight off the south side of the roof. He didn't see Milo land, but he heard the great whoosh of air that signaled he'd used his priestly abilities to protect himself upon reaching the ground. When the master made his way to the edge, he could just see Milo's figure disappearing into the forest. Flames, but he was fast! Be'Var wondered if manipulation of the wind had something to do with that, too.
He didn't have time to wonder long, though. He had a great deal of work to do if he was going to be ready to leave with the others at first light. He'd have to let the missionaries know he was going with them. He'd have to let the other masters know he was absenting himself, too. They'd raise a fuss at his leaving, of course, especially Ket, but the fact was that he was needed elsewhere for now, so they'd just have to get along without him for a time. He'd also need to write some final messages for Milo to whisper before they all departed. As he started back down the stairs, he thought again about how much everything was changing: strange creatures attacking in the night, an air priest feeling right at home in the Temple of Order of the Conflagration, and a remarkable young man receiving a mark from elemental lords that nobody had ever seen before.
Be'Var was old and set in his ways. He didn't believe in destiny. Yet, somehow, he felt that a destiny was exactly what Caymus had. He believed there were grand and important things ahead of that boy, and as he made his way back down the stairs, he thought that he'd really like to live long enough to see those things through. Or, he thought, maybe just long enough to find out why the Conflagration marked him the way it did.
***
Caymus yawned again. He'd been up far too late into the night. Not only had he needed to get all of his belongings together—he didn't really have many belongings, so the task hadn't been difficult—but just as the sun had been going down, Be'Var had come to fetch him to help with all of his packing, too.
The old man had sent him searching through shelves of books and dozens of crates for a handful of specific items: a journal he'd written about using the pulling Aspect to fight infections, a flask of what he'd said was especially good wine, several empty notebooks, an old cooking pan that apparently was necessary for the old man's survival, and a small statue of a horse were just some of the odd things Be'Var insisted he take with him.
Still, the entire lot had eventually managed to fit nicely into a large trunk, which Be'Var had then warned him against trying to open. “I put a bit of a surprise in the locking mechanism,” he'd said. Caymus had just heaved the thing into the wagon, along with some meats and breads from the kitchen that Master Eavuk had insisted they take. With all the other supplies they were taking for Flamehearth, the wagon was riding low on its springs, and Caymus wondered if it would hold together for the entire trip, which would take them right over the Greatstone Mountains and across the Tebrian Desert before they finally reached Kepren; there were still passengers to accommodate, after all. As he took a moment to rest at the back of the wagon, he heard a snort and looked up to see one of the horses staring at him reproachfully. It nickered at him, as though thoroughly disappointed with the heavy item he'd just added to its burden.
“Sorry,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“Don't listen to Feston,” said Gwenna, coming up behind him. She was carrying another trunk, though this one was much smaller than Be'Var's. “He's always complaining.” She gave Caymus a warm smile and handed him the trunk, which he took and placed next to Be'Var's. She then stood next to him and opened it, shuffling through some linens as though looking for something. “If you let him, he'll nag you all the way back.” Caymus smiled. She was standing close, actually leaning on him slightly, and he liked the feeling of her against him.
“There we are,” she said, and then produced a small pouch, which she upended to produce a few small, curved shapes. She offered the shapes to Caymus. “Here, give him these. It's time you got acquainted anyway.”
Caymus hadn't seen them before. They were rigid, but they felt light in his hand. “What is it?”
“It's made from wheat,” said Gwenna. “They grind it up, add water, then dry it out.” She took his other hand and led him to the horses. “They love it, and it doesn't make them as nippy as sugar. Here, hold your hand out flat, like a plate.” She demonstrated, giving some to the other horse, a black gelding named Staven, stroking his mane as she did so. The horse gobbled the treats up greedily. “Keep your fingers together,” she said. “If he bites one off by accident, he won't be able to tell you he's sorry.”
Caymus wasn't exactly encouraged by that idea, but he did as he was told. Feston looked at him for a moment, as if deciding whether he wanted anything from this strange, too-large boy, then gave in and took the proffered food. Gwenna stroked his long face. “Good boy,” she said, then gave Caymus a wink. “See? You're going to be good friends.”
She handed him a few more of the oddly shaped little treats. Caymus had a hard time holding onto them for more then a moment before Feston grabbed them out of his hand. They had a good laugh, and Feston even let Caymus pat his mane, though the horse was sure to keep an eye on him as he did so.
“I'm glad you're coming, Caymus,” Gwenna said suddenly. She was looking up at him with a wistful look in her eyes. Caymus was overcome. Gwenna was a strong, resilient young woman who had sur
prised him, time and time again, with her ability to deal with the awfulness of the last week. At this moment, though, she was completely open, completely vulnerable.
“Me too,” he said, smiling back at her.
“All right, you two!” With four words, the spell was broken. They turned to see Matron Y’selle, Bridget, Sannet, Be'Var, and the two converts that had arrived with the missionaries. Caymus hadn't seen the latter pair much. He knew their names were Guruk and Fach'un, but he didn't know which was which. Their skin was the color of dark sand, their heads were shaved, and they had sharp features with jutting jawlines and piercing blue eyes that seemed as if they saw everything. They'd been inducted as First Circle disciples soon after they'd arrived, and Caymus idly wondered if they'd made Second Circle yet.
Be'Var, carrying some sort of sack over his shoulder, was looking crossly at him. Everyone else was grinning, both at the master and at him and Gwenna. “If I'm going to have to put up with that kind of thing the whole trip, I may as well stay here,” he said, “and keep my sanity.”
Caymus looked at Gwenna, who shrugged and winked at him again. They dropped each other’s gazes and walked around the wagon to join the others.
“Has Milo been around?” said Be'Var, tossing the sack on top of one of the crates.
“He was here about half an hour ago,” said Caymus. “Said he was going on ahead and would meet us down the road a bit.”
“Fine,” said Be'Var, who then walked off a ways with Matron Y’selle and the converts, leaving the younger people to themselves for a moment.
“I'm surprised Rill's not here,” Sannet said.
Caymus shook his head. “We said our goodbyes late last night. I haven't seen him so far this morning. I guess he's not much of one for seeing people off.” In truth, Caymus was a little hurt by Rill's seeming indifference to his leaving the Temple, possibly forever. He'd had a kind of faraway look when they'd spoken about it the previous night, then he'd wished Caymus luck on his journey and just walked out of the room. Caymus didn't know what to make of that; it was odd behavior for someone like Rill.
Knight Of The Flame Page 11
