Children of Fire (24 page)

The Pontiff sensed the young blond woman waiting patiently outside the door of his chamber, but he did not call Cassandra in immediately. Instead, he remained on the floor, his legs crossed over each other and his feet tucked away beneath him as he sat on his meditation mat. He took a long, deep breath, holding it for a full minute before slowly releasing the oxygen from his lungs, allowing the outrushing air to cleanse his troubled mind.

This should have been a time of exultation and triumph—only an hour ago he had received word from Yasmin that Jerrod had been captured. He had been taken in Saldavia, one of the Free Cities. Even now the Prime Inquisitor was bringing him back to the Monastery to stand trial for his heresies … and to reveal the identities of his fellow conspirators.

There was no doubt that Yasmin would get the names; Jerrod was strong enough to resist her for days, maybe weeks, but in the end he would talk. She always made them talk. The Pontiff hoped that when the truth came out, the numbers of those who had sworn allegiance to Jerrod's cause would add up to only a handful. But he feared the corruption went far deeper.

Yet this was not what troubled him. This was not why he hesitated. He had summoned Cassandra because he had seen her in a vision—a vision even he did not yet understand. A vision eerily similar to the one Cassandra had reluctantly told him about many years ago: monsters at the gate; the Monastery in ruins; the broken bodies of the faithful strewn about the courtyard.

“Come in,” the Pontiff finally said.

He took another long, slow breath, trying to find harmony within himself as he rose to his feet and turned to acknowledge Cassandra.

“Do you know why I have summoned you?” he asked her.

“The reports from Endown,” she guessed. “The rogue wizard who unleashed Chaos on the town. He is Rexol's apprentice, isn't he?”

“The Inquisitors I sent to investigate believe so,” the Pontiff confirmed. “But why would I call you here for that?”

“You are going to summon Rexol to stand trial for heresy,” she continued. “He was my master for a time. It would only be natural for you to wonder about my loyalty.”

She thinks I want to test her,
he realized.

Not surprising, given Jerrod's recent capture. Rumors and speculation as to who might be a traitor were running wild through the Order's ranks.

“I was blind to Jerrod's deceit,” he admitted. “But I have watched you closely over the years. I know your faith is strong. I know your allegiance is true.”

Cassandra bowed her head in acceptance of his praise, then asked, “So why did you summon me?”

For a moment he considered telling her what he had seen. Like Cassandra long ago, he had seen the destruction of the Monastery and the death of the Order. But in his vision, there was something new: a single survivor. In his dreams he had witnessed Cassandra wandering alone in a frozen wasteland with the Order's most precious treasure.

Instead, he asked, “Have you had any more dreams of the iron crown you told me about before?”

The young woman shook her head. “Not since the storm almost a year ago.”

The Pontiff frowned. His vision had shown him a glimpse of a possible future, but whether it was a warning of what to avoid or what had to be done he couldn't say. He'd been hoping Cassandra might have had a vision of her own—a reflection of her destiny that might guide him down the proper path. Instead, he would have to continue on blindly.

“Does the iron crown have something to do with my old master?” Cassandra wanted to know.

“I was hoping you could tell me,” the Pontiff answered with a rueful smile. “Are there any other details of your dream? Anything you left out?”

The young woman closed her eyes, reaching back to call up the memory of her vision as she scratched absently at her arm.

“I've told you everything I am able to,” she said when she opened her eyes, and the Pontiff sensed she spoke the truth.

“Jerrod is the one who found me for Rexol,” Cassandra noted, bringing up a point the Pontiff had already considered. “It's odd that he would be captured at the same time Rexol's defiance of your decree has been exposed.”

“The forces of Chaos are gathering,” the old man explained. “Threads are being drawn together. This is a dangerous time; the Legacy is fragile. Now we must be at our most vigilant.”

“Do you think Rexol will answer the summons?” she wondered.

“I think so.”

“Why wouldn't he try to run?”

“His mind is clouded by witchroot and Chaos,” the Pontiff reminded her. “It makes him arrogant. He probably thinks he will be able to bargain his way to freedom once again.”

“By giving his apprentice to you,” she muttered. “As he did me.”

“It was the True Gods that brought you to us, Cassandra,” the Pontiff assured her. “Not Rexol. He was only an instrument of their will.”

“Of course, Pontiff,” she said. “And I am grateful for what happened.”

Even though he knew she was speaking honestly, it was obvious that talking of her past troubled the young woman. There was no need to make her uncomfortable; she had told him everything she could.

“If you dream of the crown again, you must tell me right away,” the Pontiff said, then nodded to the exit, signaling an end to their conversation.

The young woman dipped her head in a sign of respect and left, closing the door behind her.

Alone, the Pontiff's thoughts shifted to the Talisman still locked away beneath the Monastery. The Crown had the power to help him: It would allow him to peer into the minds of Jerrod and Rexol; it would give him the wisdom he needed to walk the righteous path. But the Crown wasn't an option.

The last time the Pontiff had dared to call on the Talisman's power he had felt their immortal enemy on the other side of the Legacy, watching and waiting for his chance to return. It had taken all his effort to keep the Slayer at bay. He wasn't strong enough to risk using it again.

But what if Cassandra is? Maybe that's why I saw her with the Crown in my vision. Maybe she is destined to be the next Pontiff!

He could teach her the techniques to shield herself from its devastating power; he could show her how to contain the Chaos. If she learned to control it, the Talisman would clarify her Sight, purifying her visions to guide them down the proper path.

And if she can't control it, its power will overwhelm her and the Slayer will return.

Was that the meaning of the image of the Monastery in ruins? Did it symbolize the collapse of the Legacy and the failure of the Order?

The old man shook his head, weary with the conflicting implications of what he had seen. Try as he might, he had no way to know if bestowing the Crown on Cassandra was the key to their salvation, or their doom.

From his vantage in the thick foliage high above the human camp, Vaaler studied the intruders. He had been watching for several minutes, trying to determine if any of the group were missing: out hunting game or making water in the bushes. No, he decided at last. They were all present in the camp; there would be no latecomers to this encounter.

Eight horses and six humans. Two of the humans appeared to be scholars of some type, probably cartographers. One male, one female. The other four—all large, rough-looking males—had probably been brought along to tend the horses, set up the camps, carry equipment and supplies, perform all the manual labor, and provide some protection from the dangers of the forest. On the last count, Vaaler knew, they would fail.

The camp was at least a full day's ride from the nearest trade route, and it was obvious they had been here for some time. These were not lost travelers; they were here in direct violation of the Free Cities Treaty. The humans knew the North Forest was banned, yet still they came. Some were drawn by legends of fabulous Danaan treasures hidden within the thick woods. Others sought the fame and fortune they imagined would come with the discovery of the fabled Danaan cities. And still others came simply because it was forbidden.

Vaaler shook his head in bewilderment, trying to understand their alien mentality. Despite the grave risks, every month there were more explorers and more adventurers seeking the legendary metropolis hidden within the trees. Fools, each and every one. The Danaan cities were hidden by more than leaves and branches. Ancient magics from the time of the Cataclysm veiled the Danaan capital, remnants from a time when his people were still strong enough to weave Chaos into a shield against the eyes of outsiders.

Maybe, Vaaler thought, the magic was unraveling. During his studies under Rexol he had never learned even the meanest feat of Chaos shaping, but he had learned as much as any Danaan sorcerer about the theories of magic. It existed only in opposition to everything—nature, life, even itself. When a spell meant to obscure a city began to dissolve, the backlash of the escaping Chaos would tend to draw curious explorers in like moths to a flame. Such were the ironies of magic.

Perhaps that was why the last century had seen such a dramatic increase in human trespassers on forbidden Danaan lands. Or maybe it was simply the burning drive of the humans to explore, to spread, and to conquer—a natural instinct in their race that had been long extinguished in the Danaan people, if it had ever even existed at all.

He sighed; a sound so soft it could not possibly have been heard by the humans camped far below. But the archers under his command would have heard it, even those who had crept through the treetops to the far side of the camp to cut off any chance of the invaders' escape.

Vaaler hated that it had to be this way. This isolation was slowly killing the Danaan kingdom. No matter how much they tried to push the world back to the edge of the forest, it refused to stay outside their borders. But he knew there was no choice to be made here. The duty of the patrols was clear; the punishment for venturing from the well-marked trade routes was known to human and Danaan alike. Not even the crown prince could change that.

Not that Vaaler would have ever suggested making such a change. The history of the patrols stretched back as far as the Danaan kingdom itself, an honored and noble tradition. In the human lands it was commonly believed the power of the Danaan came from the many wizards that served in the royal court. But Vaaler knew the real strength of his people came from the small bands of elite soldiers who guarded and protected the forest.

He wasn't the first crown prince to serve on patrol, though it wasn't a common practice among the royalty. It was seen as a badge of honor for any who successfully completed the rigorous training—an honor worthy of even a king. Perhaps that was why he had been so eager to join after his return from the life of a wizard's apprentice.

At first, the Queen had opposed the idea. She had protested that he was too old; most began the training in their early teens. It went unspoken that Vaaler had wasted those years trying to become a mage. He had left as a boy, but returned as a man … a man lacking both the Sight and the Gift.

Vaaler suspected that was the real reason his mother objected: her fear that he would fail, disappointing an entire kingdom once again. Fortunately, Drake had spoken up in his defense. Before becoming captain of the Queen's Guard he had served three tours of duty on patrol and he had offered to help Vaaler with his training.

That had been a little over a year ago, and since then the prince had made remarkable progress. Though cruel fate had cheated him of his father's mystical Sight, he seemed to have inherited the King's renowned martial skills. Under Drake's tutelage Vaaler had quickly mastered archery, fencing, and horsemanship; his skills equaled those of any man or woman who served on the patrols. He even liked to think that Drake himself, the finest swordsman in the kingdom, found him a worthy opponent whenever they sparred.

After six months of training and another three spent serving under one of the other patrol captains, he had been appointed leader of his own patrol, a position more suited to the heir to the throne. But though he had been given command of his troops because of his royal blood, it wasn't his lineage that had won him their loyalty. That had come only after he had proven himself in the field. Vaaler knew they no longer had any reservations about following his orders.

As the patrol leader, it was both his right and his duty to take the first shot. Vaaler made sure he didn't miss. The arrow buried itself in the chest of the male scholar with a wet, heavy thud, spinning the man around as he clutched at the shaft protruding from his breast. A second arrow fired by another of the patrol pierced his throat, cutting off his scream. Before his corpse had even hit the ground, two more arrows had embedded themselves in the back of the woman standing next to him.

The massacre had begun. The air was thick with the thrum of bowstrings and the hiss of arrows hurtling down from the canopy overhead onto the defenseless humans and their mounts, the patrol choosing their targets with random yet lethal efficiency. A few brief screams of defiance, terror, and pain were the only resistance their foes could muster to the attack.

And then it was over. Fourteen arrow-ridden corpses—six human, eight equine—littered the forest floor. The eight archers of the patrol had unleashed three score of arrows in just over a dozen seconds, and only a handful had failed to find their mark.

His patrol slipped away through the treetops with no more noise than a soft rustle of leaves, vanishing as invisibly as they had gathered for the lethal ambush. Vaaler would meet up with them at the rendezvous point where they had left their own horses later.

Now, however, he nimbly climbed down through the branches to the forest floor forty feet below to investigate the scene. And check for survivors. One of the horses kicked as he approached, by some miracle still breathing despite the seven shafts jutting from its blood-soaked haunches. Pink froth sprayed from its lips as it tried to whinny in fear and pain, though only a faint whooshing gurgle escaped its throat. Vaaler drew his thin sword and sliced it across the animal's neck in one quick and graceful motion, ending the beast's suffering. The others were all dead.

He began to gather evidence for his report to the Queen.

“You are sure these were not simply merchants who had become lost?” Andar asked once Vaaler had finished his report.

In reply he tossed the sack of heavy metal cartographers' tools he had taken from the camp onto the floor at the councilor's feet.

“And the bodies?” Drake asked.

“I left them there as the terms of the Treaty dictate. No burial.”

“Good,” he replied. “Maybe their corpses will serve as a warning to other would be explorers who stumble across them.”

Vaaler knew that wasn't likely.

“This is the third time since the harvest moon that our patrols have come across an exploring party, my Queen. The sixth such group since last year. Surely we cannot continue on like this.”

“And just what would you have us do, Vaaler?” the Queen asked her son, her voice heavy and tired.

Looking at the weary expressions of the others in the room—Andar, Drake and the rest of the Queen's privy council—Vaaler realized they must have been in deliberations for several hours before he had arrived and requested this audience with his mother. That could only mean one thing: They were discussing her recent visions. Realizing he was intruding on something he could never understand, he hesitated.

“If you have something to say, then say it,” his mother commanded.

“The humans grow and prosper, my Queen. Their empires expand ever outward.” Vaaler spoke slowly, emphasizing each word, trying to give his arguments weight and authority so he would be listened to this time. “The forest will not keep the humans from our cities forever.”

“The humans know the penalty for trespassing on our domain,” Andar said. “If the treaties we have signed with the Free Cities cannot keep them from straying off the trade routes then the swift justice of our patrols surely will.”

“The patrols protect our domain as best they can,” Drake cautioned, “and they enforce the terms of the Treaty without mercy. But the trade routes are long, and the patrols cannot be everywhere at once.”

“These cartographers are far from the first,” Vaaler reminded the council. “Maps of the woods around the trade routes can be purchased in the Free Cities and the Seven Capitals of the Southlands, if one knows who to ask. Not only have humans explored the borders of our kingdoms, but many have lived to tell about it.”

“Are these maps accurate?” the Queen asked her son.

“They are. As accurate as our own—though they were obviously written in a human hand.”

“There could be another explanation,” Andar suggested. “It is possible the information was sold to the humans by one of our own.”

Vaaler was not surprised. The Queen's sorcerer was always the first to stand against him.

“I will not discount that possibility,” the Queen assured him, though everyone in the council chamber knew it was a far-fetched theory.

The Danaan people were loyal to their kingdom and their Monarch. The petty feuds, squabbles, and betrayals of the human nobility were foreign to Danaan politics. The descendants of Tremin Avareen had ruled the Danaan people in an unbroken line since the Cataclysm, and such stability could only be achieved through the absolute will and consent of the people.

“If the humans will not honor the terms of the Treaty then we must close the trade routes,” Andar declared. “Cut off all trade with the Free Cities and make it a capital crime for any human to enter the North Forest under any circumstances. And forbid our own people from visiting the Southlands, just to be safe.”

The deep-rooted isolationism of the Danaan people always evoked the same reaction in Vaaler when it reared itself up in the supposed wisdom of the privy council. He bit his lip to keep from screaming.

“Remember your dreams, my Queen,” Drake said, throwing his support behind Andar's suggestion. “Perhaps your visions of fiery destruction are a warning of what will become of our people if we continue our association with the violently unstable kingdoms of humanity.”

Vaaler loved Drake; the man was the father he'd never had. But sometimes he was as much a fool as the rest of them.

“What do you think the humans will do if we cut off all trade with them?” Vaaler demanded angrily, asking the question of no one in particular. “If we suddenly sever our few diplomatic ties and ban them from entering the forest they will think we are preparing to invade!

“The Free Cities would appeal to the Seven Capitals for help, and an army would amass at our borders.”

“Surely when we did not invade they would realize their mistake and disperse their troops,” Andar argued.

“You do not understand the humans as I do,” Vaaler cautioned. “Once they have an army at their disposal they will use it.”

“If they invade we will drive them back,” Drake said with confidence. “We have done so before. In all the history of our people no foreign army has claimed victory against the Danaan in the forest. We remain an ancient and undaunted race.”

“We are a dying race,” Vaaler spat. “The human tribes that invaded our land five centuries ago were the primitive scouts of petty warlords. I have seen the glory of the Southlands. I have seen how their population covers the earth like flies on a bloated corpse. The standing soldiers of the Free Cities are a mere fraction of the army the Seven Capitals can raise in a single month's time!

“The human kingdoms grow and spread and flourish, while we fester and rot in our isolation. For now, the forest holds the humans back. But not for long. Another generation, maybe two … and then they will devour us!”

“For one who does not possess the Sight you claim to see a stark vision of our future,” Andar said, making no attempt to hide the disdain in his voice.

There was silence, Vaaler momentarily stung by the open admission of what was normally treated as a terrible, unmentionable secret. Andar himself was flushed at his bold words. He seemed about to apologize to the prince then shut his mouth as if realizing an apology would only draw further attention to Vaaler's handicap. Drake coughed but only stared pointedly at the floor.

Vaaler glanced at his mother to judge her reaction, but the Queen would not meet his eye. Her right hand had gone up to caress the simple gold ring she always wore on a chain around her neck, the symbol of the royal House's power and right to rule. Vaaler had noticed she always reached for the ring when she felt uncertainty or indecision, as if she could draw solace and strength from an inanimate object. She had worn it ever since her husband had died; Vaaler could not remember ever seeing her without it. When he used to sneak into her private chambers at night as a little boy seeking the nighttime comfort of his mother the ring had dangled from the chain around her neck even as she slept.