Children of Fire (10 page)

“Her parents did not bring her to you. She was stolen away even as our emissaries came to escort her to the Monastery.”

He paused as if expecting the wizard to protest his innocence, but Rexol said nothing.

The Pontiff continued in the same passionless voice with which he had leveled the initial accusations. “By hiding her from us you have violated the doctrines of the Order. I could try you for heresy.”

“The cost would be high,” came the wizard's brazen reply, confirming the Pontiff's fears: The heady rush of witchroot had made him bold and reckless. “The Seven Capitals will only follow you down the path of moderation. Return to the fanatical ways of the Purge and they will abandon you!”

“We are not concerned with the politics of the Seven Capitals,” the Pontiff declared. “The Order serves a higher purpose, and we are all united in our cause.”

“United?” Rexol sneered. “We both know the Heresy of the Burning Savior did not die with Ezra! How many of your own people have turned against you? How many heretics do you have here in your walls right now?”

These were questions Nazir could not answer; questions that haunted his days and brought the demons of self-doubt during the night. He had suspected Rexol was in league with the heretics. He was all but certain one of them had delivered the girl into the mage's possession. And now the Pontiff was determined to take her away no matter what the cost.

“The loyalty of my Inquisitors is not in question,” the old man replied with confidence, tilting his head to indicate the six monks flanking him. “Do not believe you have allies within these walls,” he added. “The heretics will not expose themselves simply to come to your aid.”

A sly smile twisted the mage's lips, as if he knew something the Pontiff didn't.

“Are you so sure?” the wizard mocked. “Cassandra has the Gift of prophecy. Her dreams have revealed a vision of what will happen if you dare to attack me.”

“Our Oracles also dream,” came the Pontiff's calm reply. “I have seen what will happen if blood is spilled within the Monastery walls. I know it will herald my own impending death.

“But if I fall, a successor will rise to replace me,” Nazir continued, his voice unwavering in his conviction. “And you would still burn at the stake for your crimes. That is a price I am willing to pay if necessary.”

A flicker of doubt flashed across the wizard's face, giving further strength to Nazir's resolve.

“The followers of Ezra do not have the will to stand against us. They are cowards; they live in hiding, surrounded by fear. We are the hunters and they are the meekest of prey!” His voice rose up in a righteous shout. “One by one we will find them—and those who serve them—and crush them in the name of the True Gods!”

“Your Gods are dead!” the wizard spat out.

Nazir showed no reaction to his words; he gave no sign that might betray his emotions or intent. The Inquisitors behind him, however, stiffened at the blasphemy spewing from the wizard's mouth.

Sensing their anger, the mage thrust his staff toward the sky. The aura surrounding him sparked and flared, the air crackling with the brute force of barely contained power.

Chaos surged through Rexol's body, a wave of heat coursing through his veins. It rose up like smoke from the charms dangling off his necklaces and jewelry, coalescing and enveloping his tattooed form. He breathed the sweet mist in through his nostrils until it filled him to near bursting. His ears buzzed with the growing power, his bare skin tingled, and he could feel his hair standing on end as the energy flowed through him.

With a single word or gesture he could unleash the magic of his talismans on the Pontiff; blast him from existence; sweep away those who dared oppose him in an ecstasy of unbridled violence. Yet at the last instant, he stayed his hand.

A small crowd of monks had gathered in the courtyard, joining the Pontiff and his Inquisitors. Several more had moved silently behind Rexol, surrounding him and Cassandra. They stood motionless, arms at their sides. Their unseeing eyes were focused intently on the mage and his apprentice.

With great difficulty Rexol managed to hold the gathering Chaos in check as he quickly weighed the odds. Physically, he doubted he was a match for any of them. Even the frail old Pontiff was likely a master of the martial arts. If his magic couldn't destroy them—all of them—Rexol knew he wouldn't survive.

The Order collected those who were strong in the Sight and nourished their talent, but it also trained them to resist other manifestations of Chaos. Individually they were no match for Rexol's magic, but collectively they might withstand his sorcery through sheer force of will.

And there was one final consideration: the imposing black walls of the Monastery that surrounded them. It was said that the dark stone devoured and imprisoned Chaos, giving strength to the monks' ability to resist the arcane within the fortress.

Despite his formidable battle raiment, Rexol doubted he would ever make it out past those black stone walls again should he attack. And while the Pontiff was willing to sacrifice his life for a greater cause, the wizard was not.

He lowered his staff and released the Chaos in a long, slow sigh of gentle wind. The breeze ruffled the thin wisps of hair on the Pontiff's head, but otherwise there was no indication of how close Rexol had come to loosing a spell of massive destruction within the Monastery walls.

“You will not leave the walls of the Monastery with Cassandra,” Nazir declared, his voice hard and cold as tempered steel.

The battle was lost; Rexol was smart enough to see that. His strategy now turned to one of retreat … and survival.

“If I give you Cassandra, then I am free to go?”

The Pontiff shook his head. “Renouncing your claim on the girl is not enough. You will not leave as long as you are an agent of those who follow the teachings of Ezra. You are in league with those who preach heresy. You must stand trial for your crimes … or atone.”

It was clear what the Pontiff was demanding. He wanted Rexol to reveal his allies within the Order; he wanted a name.

The wizard hesitated, but only for an instant. He had sided with Ezra's followers only because it had cost him nothing. In exchange they had given him Cassandra, but she was about to be taken away—there was nothing left to bind him to them now. He no more believed in their quest to find the Burning Savior than he believed in the Order's crusade to stamp out all manifestations of Chaos to try to preserve the Legacy of the Old Gods. And Rexol had no intention of becoming a martyr for a cause he did not believe in.

“Jerrod,” he said flatly. There was no point in lying; the Pontiff would know. “He's the one you want. Jerrod.”

The Pontiff gave a short nod of acknowledgment. “You are free to go,” he said. “But be warned—the Southlands are the domain of the Order. Seek another apprentice from among those who swear fealty to the Seven Capitals again, and you will burn.”

One of the Inquisitors stepped up and took Cassandra's free hand. Rexol released his grip on her other one, taking a last look down into her emerald eyes as they filled with tears of fear and confusion. There were no words he could say to her, nothing more he could do. So he simply turned and walked out the way he had come.

The massive gates of the Monastery opened once more, just wide enough to accommodate a single person. Rexol stepped through the portal and trudged slowly down the stairs, the crowd parting for him as it had on his arrival. At the bottom he crossed the empty plain until he reached the two horses that had served as their mounts for the five-day ride from his manse across the Southern Desert to the Monastery's gates. He tied the lead of Cassandra's horse to his own mount's bridle, then swung himself up into the saddle and set off for home. He never once looked back.

He briefly thought about the man he had exposed, wondering how long it would be before the Inquisitors hauled him in to be tried. Jerrod was smart and careful; he had no doubt planned for this day. Most likely he had agents inside the Monastery who would warn him they were coming. Rexol was confident his former ally would have ample time to flee to the safety of the Free Cities, though he wasn't certain Jerrod would chose to do so.

Eventually his thoughts turned back to Cassandra. She still bore the mark of his final spell, a powerful incantation binding her to him with the symbol he had branded into her flesh, invisible to all eyes but his own. But the magic meant nothing now that she had been seized by the Inquisitors. She was lost to him forever, just one more child claimed by the Order.

He needed to find another worthy of learning at his feet. He couldn't expect help from Jerrod or his followers—not after he had exposed them. And the Pontiff had forbidden him to take another apprentice from among the children of the Southlands. But there were other places he could seek out those with power: the Free Cities; the Frozen East; even in the forests of the Danaan.

He suspected there might even be a precious few who could match the potential of the girl he had just sacrificed to save himself. Jerrod had found Cassandra for him; her power had dwarfed any he had seen before. Based on this, Rexol was willing to admit the so-called Burning Savior that Jerrod had seen in his dreams might even be real.

There were other children out there who were touched by Chaos, just as Cassandra had been. They might live seemingly normal lives for a time, but power flowed through their veins. Born under a shadow of death, their lives would be marked by turmoil and danger. Their untapped potential would twist the world around them, shaping events, driving them toward their destinies until their true natures were exposed.

Those of the Order would continue their relentless hunt to identify these children and spirit them away to the Monastery. But Rexol knew their attempts to snuff out the sparks of Chaos would ultimately prove futile. If he was patient he would eventually find one of these extraordinary pupils before his enemies could lay claim. They would be drawn to him by the burning power coursing through their veins; like calling to like. It was inevitable.

However, contemplating the victory of a distant future couldn't help him push away the defeat of his immediate past. As he rode off into the dunes, he couldn't shake the image of Cassandra staring after him as he abandoned her, her brilliant green eyes wide with fear and betrayal.

“Leave me alone!”

Scythe recognized the blubbering voice crying out from down the alley. Eiger was ten—two years older than Scythe herself—but he still sounded like a baby when he was scared.

She couldn't hear what insult was said in reply to Eiger's plea but she recognized Petir's mocking laughter. And wherever Petir went Bander and Corbin were sure to follow. Methodis didn't like it when she got into fights; he always said it was better to walk away. But three against one wasn't fair, even if the one was a full year older than any of his tormenters.

Methodis had told her to hurry back. He needed several of the items on the crumpled ingredient list clutched in Scythe's grimy fist for a patient who was coming back this afternoon. And she didn't even like Eiger. Not really. He was too fat to climb or play tag or duck-and-cover. He was too clumsy to play toss-rocks. And he cried if he fell down or stubbed his toe or scraped his knees.

But it was three against one. And Scythe hated Petir.

“Please, don't make me!” came Eiger's pitiful cry from the alley just ahead.

“You better eat up, Butter-boy!” Petir snapped back. “Your Islander girlfriend isn't here to save you this time!”

Scythe flew down the alley like the harsh wind of vengeance, the list of ingredients fluttering forgotten to the dirty street in her furious wake.

“I'm not his girlfriend!” she screamed as she came hurtling around the corner.

Eiger lay flat on his back in the dust of the empty street. Petir was sitting astride the other boy's ample belly, pinning him down. Dozens of inch-long maggots snatched from one of the bait shops by the dock crawled blindly over one another in a small pile on the ground beside them. Petir held one of the wriggling worms pinched between his thumb and forefinger, dangling it over Eiger's plump, tear-streaked face.

Bander and Corbin were standing safely off to the side, watching as their ringleader tortured his latest victim. At least, they were until they caught sight of Scythe barreling onto the scene. With a startled cry both boys turned and fled before her charge; they'd learned long ago not to tangle with the slight but savage waif being raised by the local healer.

Petir tried to rise to his feet, too—perhaps to join his companions in flight, perhaps to do battle with Scythe once again. However, his intentions were never given a chance to crystallize as Scythe launched herself feetfirst into his chest. The impact knocked him sprawling off Eiger and onto the hard-packed earth of the street, where he landed facedown.

Before he could get up Scythe jumped on her prone opponent again, her knees connecting between his shoulders. The painful grunt of air escaping Petir's lungs was drowned out as Scythe punctuated her landing with another cry of, “I'm not his girlfriend!”

She threw herself down across Petir's back and wrapped a wiry arm under the older boy's chin in a fierce choke hold. With her other hand she reached around and hooked her index finger into one of his nostrils, bending his head back and up.

Eiger still lay on his back, gasping for breath and sobbing in fear, though his cries were now drowned out by Petir's shrieks of pain. He bucked and thrashed beneath her, but Scythe wasn't about to let him break free so easily.

In past fights the pair had exchanged fat lips, black eyes, and bloody noses. She'd bitten him hard enough to break the skin on more than one occasion. One time she'd actually cracked his knuckle when she had him in a finger lock. And another time she'd cut open a four-inch gash on his forehead with a rock thrown from a dozen feet away. But this time she was really going to teach Petir a lesson.

Without releasing her choke hold or her grip on his nostril, she cast her head about from side to side. The maggots were still squirming in the dust a few feet away. All the better. Petir would have to eat them from the dirt.

But before Scythe could maneuver her victim into position to begin his forced feast she felt a pair of large, rough hands wrap themselves around her waist and yank her off. She screamed and tried to kick whoever was holding her but the man was too strong and too careful to let her land a solid blow, and she couldn't break free.

Eiger and Petir were both still on the ground, staring up in terror at whoever had grabbed her.

“Get out of here ye little bastards!” the stranger spat in a rasping voice.

His breath smelled like the stuff Methodis used to burn infection from a raw wound. And there was another smell on him: not the fishy stench of a dockworker, but the sour stink of a man who lived in the cramped streets of the city core.

The two boys scampered away, fleeing down the alley. Scythe struggled to join them but was powerless against the man holding her.

“Yer quite the little hellion,” the man said, setting her down. “Go on. Get out of here if yer scared.”

Released from his hold, Scythe took several quick steps away from the man then turned to face her attacker. The man's clothes were dirty and stained, but they weren't the rags of the beggars who wandered over near the churches of the New Gods. He was tall—much taller than Methodis. Bigger, too. He had long, stringy hair and a dark, scraggly beard. An ugly scar ran down the left side of his face, ending in an empty socket where an eye had once been.

“I'm not scared of you!” Scythe declared, though it wasn't entirely true.

The man laughed. It wasn't a pretty sound. “You dropped this, girlie.” He held up a crumpled piece of paper.

“That's mine!” Scythe snapped, suddenly remembering why she had been out in the street this morning in the first place.

The man smiled at her as his eyes glanced over Methodis's shopping list. “You work for the doctor, eh.” It wasn't a question. “My name's Luger, girlie. What's yer name?”

Scythe was suddenly very sure this man already knew her name.

“Give me back my list,” she demanded, her voice trembling ever so slightly.

He extended the paper to her only to snatch it back as she reached for it. “Yer the one they call Scythe, ain't that right? You know what a scythe is, girlie?”

“It's an Old Tongue word,” she replied instinctively. Questions about her name were familiar enough by now that she could answer while trying to figure out a way to get her list back from this smelly man. “It means ‘spirit.'”

“Methodis tell you that, did he?” the man asked with a sneer. “Out in the fields a scythe is something they use to harvest the crops. Slice them crops real good with a scythe, you know. Just like you sliced your mama's belly open when you were born.”

Scythe didn't say anything, only shook her head in confusion. She didn't know anything about her mother. Methodis never talked about her. But she couldn't believe this foul, ugly man had actually known her.

“What's the matter, girlie?” Luger whispered. “Methodis never told you that? He never told you that when you were born you ripped your mama right apart? Tore her insides wide open, you did. Killed her.”

“You're a liar!” Scythe screamed, tears welling up in her eyes. “Give me back my list!”

Luger laughed again. “You want it, girlie? Come get it.” He held it out again, taunting her.

She leapt forward as if to grab it, knowing the whole while that he would just snatch it away again. She didn't care; the paper wasn't her real target. Methodis didn't know much about fighting. He always said it was better to learn ways to stay out of fights than to learn ways to win them. But he knew lots about the body. About where it was weak. And he'd taught her what to do in an emergency if a man ever attacked her.

As Luger yanked the paper up above her reach, Scythe simply followed through with her lunge, crouching down to drive a tiny, balled-up fist into the spot between Luger's long legs just like Methodis had taught her.

The one-eyed man staggered back and doubled over clutching at his groin with a long, loud groan. The list slipped from his fingers and Scythe snatched it from the air before it hit the ground, then fled down the alley. A second later the man's voice chased after her, spewing profanities. But his words couldn't hurt her and they quickly faded away into the background noise of the city as Scythe emerged from the alley onto one of the busy streets of Callastan's market square.

She glanced back to see if Luger was following her. Once assured the coast was clear, she took stock of her surroundings. To her surprise, she was only half a block away from the first of the shops she'd need to visit to acquire all the items on Methodis's list.

“What took you so long, Scythe?” Methodis asked as he took the small bag of medicinal components from his adopted daughter's hand.

Even the learned doctor had fallen into the habit of calling her by the more familiar name and not the one with which he himself had christened her.

“Marigus was out of goldenbreath. I went to Wilmer's shop, but he was all out, too. I had to get you sunstar petals instead.”

She spoke with a smooth confidence that belied her age. His young charge was only eight, yet she already knew her letters well enough to read an ingredient list.

And she's smart enough to know which substitutes to get when the primary agents are unavailable,
he silently noted with a twinge of fatherly pride.

Her explanation seemed completely reasonable, and it was delivered without a hint of guilt or hesitation. But Methodis was a man of medicine, a man used to observing minute physical details to aid him in his diagnoses. The fresh dust and stains on Scythe's clothes and the faintly discolored contusions just above the wrists had not escaped his notice. And he knew Scythe's character as well as any doting father might know his own flesh-and-blood daughter.

“Were you fighting again, Scythe?” he asked, without any real anger. “Did Petir give you those marks on your arms?”

The young girl hesitated, her brow momentarily furrowing in concentration. Methodis realized she was assessing the situation, calculating her odds of escaping punishment even as she tried to devise a convincing cover story to explain the telltale bruises. As always, he found her stubborn refusal to admit defeat amusing.

Scythe's shoulders slumped ever so slightly and she sighed in resignation. “I was fighting with Petir,” she said contritely. “I'm sorry I lied to you.”

“I notice you're sorry for lying, but not for fighting,” the doctor remarked even as he reached out to ruffle her short, silky black hair. She hopped back quickly and gave him a petulant frown as she smoothed down her locks.

“Don't muss my hair! It feels all icky when you do that. And Petir asked for it. He was picking on Eiger.”

“I should have guessed,” Methodis replied. “Even so, you'll have to copy out a page from one of my medical texts tonight.” He held up a stern finger to quell Scythe's forthcoming protest. “As a punishment for lying,” he added, “not for helping Eiger.”

Scythe rolled her eyes in exasperation but didn't offer further opposition. In all truth the punishment wasn't that severe. No more than an hour of her time this evening would be occupied with the task, and on some occasions she actually seemed to enjoy transcribing his texts. Methodis made a mental note to give her a passage detailing the Creeping Rot, an obscure and particularly gruesome affliction. Scythe seemed to enjoy such graphically macabre subject matter the most.

He turned his back on her and began to stock the recently purchased supplies, placing them carefully onto their respective shelves. Proper organization was essential to any respectable medical practice. He expected Scythe would disappear into the street as she typically did, searching out Eiger or some of the other local urchins to try to goad them into stirring up minor mischief until it was time for her to come in for dinner. When she spoke, her presence startled him enough that he almost dropped his powdered blackroot into a mustard salve he had prepared that morning.

“Methodis, how did my mother die?”

He paused before turning back to face her. He had known this question would come, but even after eight years he didn't know how he should answer it.

“She was injured when you were born, Scythe. Someone had hurt her very badly.”

He could tell by the look on her face the answer wasn't satisfying, but he didn't know what else he could say to fill the heavy silence that had fallen over the room.

“Was it 'cause of me?” she blurted out suddenly. “Did my mama die because I was born?”

“No, Scythe,” he said. “It wasn't your fault. You didn't kill your mother. It was the man who hurt her. Who told you this nonsense?”

“A man in the street said my mama died because I split her open.”

“A man? What man? Where?” A fierce protectiveness flared up inside Methodis, making his words come out sharper than he had intended.

“I … I can't remember his name. He was in one of the alleys. He smelled funny. He only had one eye. And a scar. Like this.” She traced her finger along her face.

“Luger,” Methodis muttered, all the pieces suddenly becoming clear. He should have known a boy Petir's age wasn't strong enough to leave those kind of bruises on Scythe's arms. “The man with one eye is named Luger.”

Scythe nodded. “Is it true, Methodis? What he said? Did I … did I kill my …” Her voice caught in her throat with a hitch.

The doctor set the ingredients on the floor and knelt down facing Scythe, arms held out. She stepped forward and he clasped them in a tight hug around her. He felt her chest heaving as she fought back sobs.

“It's not true, my little spirit. Never, never let anyone tell you that it was your fault.”

He held her in his arms as the tears came. They didn't last long; with Scythe they never did. She sniffled and wiped her running nose on the shoulder of his tunic.

Methodis loosened his hug and placed his hands firmly but gently on the little girl's shoulders so he could look directly into her eyes. “Listen to me, Scythe. Luger is a very bad man. He tells nasty lies because he just wants to hurt people. If you see him again, you run away as fast as you can. Okay?”