Die for the Flame (28 page)

Clarian found no support from anyone on this matter. But he firmly believed that having someone in that deep cavern, no matter how foreign, would benefit the Karran.

In order to better prepare for a surprise attack, which no one except Clarian thought was possible, Clarian led Martan and a contingent of scouts and toured the countryside north and northeast of the Citadel beyond the boundaries of Karran, skirting the Forest of Darkness along its western border. They were gone for two weeks, riding through rough country—a land of rock, low hills, and poor dry soil. They rode along the edge of the forest as it ran north, staying out of the giant trees but looking for signs of travel, trails, and riders.

Farther to the north, the land became more fertile, with meadows and tree- lined streams. No one farmed there because it was too close to Maggan territory. Clarian wanted to know whether the enemy could approach the Citadel easily from the north across these open expanses, and everyone agreed it could be done.

Martan suggested they could place several outposts in the now empty country at a future date if relations with the Maggan soured. A thrust from this area could go undetected until the enemy was close to the Citadel. Clarian did not want to think about a surprise attack, but that was the Maggan way. He wanted to broach the subject with Neevan to gage her reaction. He wondered whether, to her knowledge, the subject had ever been discussed or contemplated by Ferman.

Something held him back, and he felt he had to wait until the right time, a time when she might be forthcoming. Now was not the time. No matter that he found himself thinking of her more and more and wanting to see her every day. He feared in his heart that in the end she was a dangerous enemy, perhaps as wily as Ferman. These thoughts went through his mind as he and his entourage rode home from their scouting sortie, cresting a hill that provided a glimpse of the towers of the Citadel in the distance. It was late, and the riders were tired, and the horses were snorting in protest. Not wishing to punish the animals, they continued at a slow but steady pace, knowing the horses would pick up speed when they smelled home. The sun glowed yellow-orange along the horizon for a short time and dropped down, dragging night across the sky as they at last clopped into the castle courtyard.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“I
’d like to see the Flame,” Neevan said.

Clarian’s stunned look must have surprised her.

“Have
you
seen the Flame?” she asked, her face intense, her eyes probing his.

“Yes, but you can’t see it. You’re a…”

“A Maggan?”

“Look, most Karran people have never seen the Flame. Only the Flamekeeper and the priests.”

“But you’re no priest!”

“I know, but it’s different with me.”

“How different?”

They had been riding in farm country south of the Citadel and had stopped at a small stream to water the horses. This was a place they often stopped on their excursions. They dismounted, hobbling the horses, letting them graze. From their vantage point on a hill, seated on a fallen log, they had a broad view of the valley below. Scattered farmhouses, barns, fields, pastures, and orchards patterned the land in shades of greens. It was early in the morning, Neevan’s evening time, and the golden sun was about to slide up over the eastern horizon. Birds were already singing in the trees, cows trailed toward the barns to be milked, and someone called out a name from the nearest home.

Clarian offered Neevan a drink from his water container, but she shook her head and turned her body toward him.

“How different?” she insisted.

“Because…”

“Because you were being called the ‘Chosen One,’” she declared, guessing quite correctly at the unusual circumstance that had prompted the Flamekeeper to take Clarian before the Flame.

“I guess,” he answered.

She looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“What happened? What did the Flame look like? Tell me!”

“I shouldn’t. It’s a secret.”

She shoved him backward off the log. He fell on his back in the grass, his legs still dangling over the log, a shocked expression on his face. Neevan was on him in a flash, straddling him and pinning his arms. He started to struggle but then gave up and looked into her luminous eyes. He started to grin.

“It’s not funny, Clarian. I want to see it. I want you to ask for me. Otherwise, it’s war, right here and now.”

He could feel the heat of her body on him and her hair, loose and falling across his face.

“Neevan, let me up.”

“Promise.”

“I’m not in charge of the Flame.”

“Promise.”

She leaned her face to within a few inches of his, smiling, her red lips parted. He felt a flush of heat fill his whole being. He could not think of anything but her nearness as she pressed against him.

“Promise me,” she pressed, her voice husky and low.

“I’ll try.”

“Have you lost all reason?” shouted Rokkman, bouncing up in his chair.

The Flamekeeper, Rokkman, and Clarian were sitting in the Flamekeeper’s apartment before a blazing fire discussing how well the trading was progressing with the Maggan. The Flamekeeper first looked shocked and then gave a short, barking laugh. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head.

“Only the Flamekeeper and
very
special people and priests go before the Flame,” said Rokkman, his face red with outrage. “Not some enemy warrior who may try to kill our Flamekeeper or worse yet, try to steal our Flame!”

Clarian held up his hands in defense. “Well, let’s talk about these special people. Was that always the way? Back in time, was the Flame hidden away so that only the priests could have access to it?”

“You be careful, Clarian, with what you say,” said the Flamekeeper, stroking his beard and looking irritated. “We have to guard the Flame at all times and through all times. Sure, when our people were few in number, they often saw the Flame and in ceremonies, too. But now we have grown into a great people, and it is no longer advisable to parade the Flame in public. We, the priesthood, know what the people want and need, and we do our work in seclusion now. That is the best way to preserve our ways and remain true to the Flame.”

“That’s convenient for the priesthood, Holy One,” said Clarian, “but who determined that ordinary people, and yes, our soldiers, who die defending the Flame, are not eligible to come before it?”

“You go too far,” snapped Rokkman.

Rubbing his neck in frustration, Clarian leaned forward, glancing from man to man. “The Flamekeeper of the Madasharan people told me part of the story as you have told me part of the story—of the Maggan, who we know are also followers of the Flame but who have no Flame. That is what these wars are about. Neevan told me they yearn for the Flame. No one among the living Maggan has seen the Flame. No Maggan has seen the Flame for eons.”

“Neevan is not a priest. She is not a ‘Chosen One,’” said Rokkman. “She doesn’t qualify to be in the Flame’s presence.”

“The Flame doesn’t require qualifications. Apparently only you do, Rokkman.”

Rokkman snorted, threw up his hands and stepped near the fire.

“What you suggest, Clarian is strange and without precedent. Most strange. Your contact with this Maggan woman has clouded your senses,” said the Flamekeeper, eyeing Clarian shrewdly.

Rokkman nodded and pointed a long finger at Clarian. “What if we let her see the Flame? Then what? She becomes all inflamed by the power of the Flame, not to make a joke at a time like this, and she tells Ferman.

“They already know we have the Flame. That’s not a secret. They already hate us because we have it, and they don’t. They believe we stole it from them!” Clarian leaned toward the old Flamekeeper. “Holy One, once our people could stand in the presence of the Flame. It was permitted. And once, before the Maggan became the Maggan, they stood before the Flame, as well. Thus…”

Rokkman interrupted, shoving his chin at Clarian. “I know where you are going with this argument, and it’s a weak one. That was a long time ago. Besides, the Flame can’t help the Maggan now. They are too evil to be helped by the Flame. The Flame would not speak to them. Even now, if we brought Neevan into the presence of the Flame, who knows how it would respond?”

Rokkman looked over at the Flamekeeper to see whether he agreed with the remarks. The old man fidgeted in his chair, his face filled with displeasure. “The Flame will not serve evil ends, but the Flame will touch the good that is in everyone, whether Karran or Maggan. You should know that, Rokkman.”

Rokkman shook his head and glared at the gray stone floor, disturbed by the admonishment. Moments passed with each man lost in thought, sifting through the arguments, trying to evaluate the implications of such an unprecedented request. The Flamekeeper, with his eyes closed, stirred in his chair and stood. “I will think on this.” He turned and padded out of the room, leaving Clarian and Rokkman staring at each other.

At the knock on the door of her apartment, Neevan answered, “Come in.”

The door opened, revealing Rokkman and Clarian standing in the corridor. Neevan had been waiting, seated in a high-backed upholstered chair, dressed in a blue gown of simple linen that draped down to her shoes. A light jacket of the same color, with a hood, covered her head and shoulders. She looked somber as she rose from her chair.

“The Flamekeeper will see you now,” said Rokkman, speaking from the corridor, not making any attempt to enter the room. Clarian’s face was blank, showing no emotion of any kind.

As Neevan reached the doorway, Rokkman turned abruptly and led the way down the dim, gray hallway, the others following, their footsteps on the cold, gray stone floors echoing ahead of them. There was no conversation. They passed open windows cut into the stone walls, past views of the city below as twilight dimmed and lamps came on in homes and on street corners. Up a staircase and down a silent corridor, the group arrived at the carved wooden doors of the Flamekeeper’s quarters.

Rokkman opened the door, and they entered the office of the Flamekeeper’s outer office. Waiting there were two female Citadel guards. One of the guards silently motioned to Neevan to follow her, and the three women stepped into an adjoining room. The door closed behind them.

“Where are they going?” Clarian asked Rokkman.

“They are searching the Maggan for weapons.”

Clarian suddenly felt a bolt of anger shoot through him, but he chose to stare at the wall and say nothing. In a few moments, Neevan emerged from the room followed by the guards. She rearranged her jacket and smoothed her hair before pulling her hood up over her head. One of the guards nodded to Rokkman.

He stepped to the door leading to the Flamekeeper’s inner office and knocked. A muffled reply was heard, and Rokkman opened the door, looked in, and turned to wave Neevan in. As Clarian stepped forward to follow Neevan, Rokkman barked, “Not you, Clarian!”

Clarian pushed past Rokkman, his hand against the older man’s chest, staring hard into his eyes. “I don’t take orders from you, Rokkman.”

Rokkman gritted his teeth in frustration, his hands balling up into fists at his sides. Helpless, he crowded in behind Clarian into the room.

Inside, the Flamekeeper waited, dressed in violet robes and a violet hat, his long hair and beard white, his skin wrinkled with age. Neevan glanced around the room and then bowed low to the Flamekeeper. He nodded in return. He studied her for several moments, and she returned his gaze without fear, patiently waiting. He shuffled over to a tall, ornately carved door, which he pulled open, signaling for Neevan to follow. As she stepped forward, he glanced back at the other two men. “I would like you both to wait here.”

Rokkman opened his mouth to protest, but it was too late. The door closed softly behind the Flamekeeper.

Clarian did not know how long he and Rokkman waited, but the time seemed to drag on. They stood for a while, and when that grew tiring, they took chairs, each avoiding the other’s eyes. There was no fire in the fireplace, and the room seemed dreary. Clarian cocked his ear to try to hear what might be going on in the next room, but he could catch nothing through the thick stone walls. Several times he thought Rokkman was about to speak, but it was just a twist in the chair or a straightening of the legs.

When the door clicked open, Neevan came through, her eyes filled with tears, and she was dabbing at her cheeks with a handkerchief. The Flamekeeper followed, looking subdued and not as harsh-faced as he was prone to. Neevan faced the Flamekeeper, bowed, and after he nodded, she took his hand and kissed it. She left the room with the guards, looking at neither Rokkman nor Clarian. Clarian watched Neevan leave, and when he looked back at the Flamekeeper, all he saw was the man’s back disappearing into the other room. He shot a glance at Rokkman, whose eyes found his, wide with questions.

When Ferman received Neevan’s letter saying she had been permitted to be in the presence of the Flame, he dashed off a letter ordering her home at once. His heart racing and excitement filling his veins, he sent a messenger to the new Maggan Flamekeeper, Zefran, telling him of the event. He was excited and at the same time confused. Why had the hated Karran Flamekeeper let Neevan, a Maggan officer, go into the presence of the Sacred Flame? What did all this mean? Surely, he thought, the Karran did not think that letting one Maggan see the Flame would end the hostilities forever? No matter what, he mused, the Flame must one day be carried down into the cavern of Minteegan and placed in their temple. That reminded him to go check on the progress being made on construction of the new temple to replace the one the Karran dogs had destroyed. One day the Karran would suffer as his people had suffered, and that day couldn’t come soon enough.

Neevan arrived in the Maggan capital after a grueling ride across the plains from the Citadel and through the forest to the cavern. It was a relief to her to be back under the nurturing canopy of the great and dark trees and underground in the warmth of her city. Construction was going on everywhere, with work crews crowding the streets with carts and wagons loaded with building materials. After handing over her mount to a groom, she hurried to her new home and her mother.

She had sent word to her mother that she was coming. When she opened the door and called out, she found her mother kneading bread at the kitchen table. Her mother gave a happy cry, rushing over and clasping Neevan in a great hug accompanied by kisses. Both began to talk at once. Neevan dumped her bag on the bed in her bedroom, sat down and pulled off her boots. She gave a big sigh and lay back on the bed letting her spine stretch out after all the hours of jolting on the back of a horse. She thought she would rest her eyes for a few moments. She was shocked at her mother’s appearance. Her hair, which had once been dark, was white; her smooth face was pinched and her shoulders slumped. Disturbing thoughts like these drifted through Neevan’s mind as she fell into a heavy sleep. When her mother came in to check on her, she smiled at her sleeping daughter and covered her with a blanket.

They met in Ferman’s lavish apartment, a spacious series of large rooms atop a rock ledge overlooking the river that ran through the cavern. Ferman invited Neevan to meet with him and the Maggan Flamekeeper, Zefran, to discuss Neevan’s unprecedented experience. They sat at a large, polished wood table near the fireplace, where fragrant logs burned. All Neevan’s dispatches were piled in front of Ferman. Zefran was sparkle-eyed at the news and wanted to hear more from Neevan’s own lips.

At their urging, she described the Flame Chamber in which the Flame resided and its container, the great crystal from which the Flame rose, and the dancing light that radiated upward and outward, seemingly to fill the entire room with a diffused glow.

“Ah,” said the Flamekeeper, leaning forward in his chair. “I wish I…” his voice trailed off.

“What about their Flamekeeper, Neevan?” asked Ferman.

“He was kind.”

“Yes! Yes! What else?”

“He told me about the Flame.”

“What did he tell you, woman?”

“He said the Flame speaks. The Flame protects. The Flame heals the sick.”

Zefran clapped his hands together, tears welling up in his eyes. “Was the Flame white, girl, as we’ve been told?”