Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (71 page)

Feothon and Leyra joined Clare and Serah once they passed through the archway; neither said a word, but the Northman soldiers in the Titans' immediate vicinity bent at the waist until they passed. One of them—Vulf, Clare remembered—fell into step beside Leyra and conversed with her in a low voice.
Her consort,
Clare thought.
Her lover. I wonder if he ever regrets the title.

There were more Northmen guarding the front of the fortress itself, each as grim and stone-faced as the first. Leyra made a fist and pounded it once sharply against her breastplate as they drew near, and in response two of the men pushed open the tall, heavy doors that lead into the main hall. A wave of heat rolled out to meet them, washing over Clare with all the welcome of a Dahotan summer breeze. She felt a flicker of nostalgia pass through her, but it was gone soon after as they made their way into the hall proper.

The outside of Horoth had been deceptive in size; what Clare had taken at first to be a somewhat larger-than-average fortress was in fact a much grander thing altogether. The main hall alone had enough room for nearly every one of the survivors to stand, in addition to the Northlanders hurrying madly about as they tried to accommodate the new arrivals. Dozens of firepits roared with life, and their crackling flames burned away the biting cold and lent a sense of subdued cheer to the frigid demeanor of
the Northlanders.

“This is your home as much as it is mine,” Leyra said, removing her great fur cloak and handing it to a waiting Northwoman in servant's garb. She gave her axe to one of her men and then turned to Clare. “Undoubtedly you are weary. A servant will show you to your quarters.”

She moved in close to Clare then and, much to Clare's surprise, drew her into a gentle embrace. “We have all lost a great deal,” Leyra said softly, her words for Clare and Clare alone. “Some of us have lost more than others. But there are a few who do not need to lose as much as they believe.” She caught Clare's gaze with her own, and her sky-blue eyes held a stormy sadness in their depths. But there was something else there, too—compassion, and even understanding.

“But...” Clare whispered. “But I have lost so much.”

For a long while they simply stared at each other. When Leyra finally spoke, Clare had to strain to hear her words over the sound of a dozen crackling fires. “You only lose that which you let go of. He is not a monster, Clare.”

And then she turned and left. An entourage of Northwomen followed her as she exited the hall, and Vulf kept pace with her as she went.

Something caught Clare's eye then, and she turned slightly to see Caleeta, miraculously still alive even after the events at Spaertos.
Then again, I'm alive too,
she thought.
I suppose I should not be so surprised.
Caleeta was crying—or had been until very recently, if the redness in her eyes was any indication. A small crowd of Westlander sailors walked with her, some whispering words of comfort to her and some simply staring blankly at the ground.
She has lost more than I,
Clare thought, and suddenly her self-pity was eclipsed by an overwhelming sense of shame.
Borbos died to save the rest of us, and now Caleeta has no one. Who am I to wallow in grief?

A thought struck her then, and mentally shaking herself from the fog of depression, she walked over to the Island woman. Caleeta looked up just as she drew near, and then squawked in surprise when Clare drew her into a tight embrace. “If you need anything,” Clare said softly to her, “anything at all, do not hesitate to ask it of me.”

Caleeta looked at her with freshly wet eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered in her thick accent. “That....that mean a great deal to me.” The dark-skinned woman returned the embrace and then pulled away, wiping roughly at her eyes and sniffling. “I'll be going back to the City,” she said softly, her voice shaking. “There was little enough that I could give before. Now, there be nothing. Take care of the Dragon King, Land Lady.” She left without a backward glance, and Clare watched her until Caleeta and her fellow sailors had disappeared down one of the many hallways of Horoth.

Guilt twisted Clare's stomach as she turned back to Serah and Feothon and made to rejoin them, but she pushed the emotion roughly away. She did not wish to think about Will. Not in the slightest. She stopped a moment later, however, when she noticed that the Titans were not looking at her, but at the main doorway. She followed their gaze and felt her heart sink.

Will, it seemed, had yet to awaken. Four burly Northmen bore him into the hall on a stretcher with unusual grace and tenderness, their faces masks of grim resolution. And as they passed, though none of them had met him, each Northlander who saw the body bowed their head and fell to one knee.
A true god,
Clare thought.
A being who can command devotion from his subjects without ever having seen them.

She cast one last long, lingering look at Will's face—he looked so serene, so different from how he had in Spaertos—and then turned on her heel and left.

She had no idea where she was going; she was sure a servant would stop her and direct her to a room, but until then she simply wanted to leave the great hall with its ever-present fires. She had seen enough flame to last her ten lifetimes. She was stopped a moment later, but by Serah rather than a servant.

“Follow me,” the Titan said. “There is someone waiting for you.”

Her curiosity piqued, Clare silently allowed Serah to lead her away. They left the main hall through a small side door, the surface of which was carved with images very much akin to those on Leyra's axe,
and then moved down a wide, dimly-lit corridor. Clare had not realized how loud the great hall had been, but she suddenly found herself enjoying the newfound silence very much. The din of many voices and tramping feet receded to a low drone that she was easily able to forget about, and the comforting crackle of the torches lining the wall eclipsed what noise remained.

For the first time in what felt like years, Clare breathed a muted sigh and felt her body lose some of its tension.

“That door,” Serah said softly, indicating one on their left, and then rapped her knuckles lightly on its surface. A curious scuffling sound emanated from within, and it was accompanied by a woman's low voice.

The door opened wide, exposing a a pale, pretty face framed by a curtain of red hair—
Asper?
Clare thought with surprise—but before any of the three women could speak a massive shadow barreled through the doorway and slammed into Clare, throwing her to the floor with a heavy, painful thud. She reached up to ward off her attacker, but her hands found only fur—thick, stormy grey fur.

And then the shadow whined and licked her face, and Clare threw her arms around its neck. “Oh, Grim,” she cried, and then, finally, with her face buried against his warm neck and her eyes streaming with fresh tears of joy and relief, she felt safe once more.

~

Will awoke in a strange room, to the sight of a woman he had never seen before leaning over him and dabbing at his brow with a damp cloth. She was old and weathered, her skin wrinkled and leathery and her hair near the end of its transition from gold to silver. When she saw that his eyes had opened she inclined her head respectfully, stood, and left without a word. For a moment after the door clicked softly closed Will simply lay where she had left him, attempting unsuccessfully to remember his dream. Soon he gave up, instead using the opportunity to take stock of his surroundings.

The room was sparsely furnished, with only a cheerfully crackling fireplace to lend it any semblance of personality. A small window afforded a view of the outside world, but from his position he could see only cloudy grey skies. He sat up, the rush mat beneath him rustling softly as his weight shifted, and brought one hand to his forehead.

The headaches,
he decided,
are becoming tiresome.
He knuckled his brow in a fruitless attempt to banish the throbbing pain that seemed to manifest each time he used his power.
I wonder if Davin had the same problem.
Someone had undressed him while he slept, and his shirt, boots, and traveling cloak had been laid on the ground by the hearth. He briefly debated retrieving them, but reasoned that there was little point in dressing if he was in a room with only himself.

He looked down at his body then, half-expecting to see the wounds he had accumulated over the last few days but finding only smooth, flawless skin. He sighed.
Smooth as the day I was born,
he thought, absently running his fingertips across his left ribs. There had been a scar there once, up until his awakening in Prado. An Eastlander had given it to him with a curved sha'shim sword, flaying his skin open with a long draw-cut that had nearly killed him. He had worn it as a prize from his early days of mercenary life, and it was one that he had gazed at often when in search of humility. But it was gone now, as were the rest of his body's memories. He would never again grow sick or tired, nor would his skin hold a scar. He wondered whether that was a good thing.

And those aren't the only memories I've lost,
he thought. He had dreamed again—he was sure of it. He had the same peculiar sensation that he had felt in the Dark Forest, the niggling thought that he was forgetting something important. But try as he might, just as before, he could remember nothing. Nothing...but the oak tree. It stood tall and imposing in his mind, but it frightened him as well.
Why is it always dying?
he wondered. He shook his head in frustration. Perhaps, as the last one eventually had, this elusive dream would come back to him.

He got slowly to his feet and looked out the window, leaning his forehead gently against the frigid
glass. Outside was a world he could never have dreamed of, and he found himself gawking at the strange, bleak landscape that surrounded him. Everywhere he looked the ground was white, covered in what he guessed to be snow. Clare had spoken of it once, he remembered—she had said that it was colder than anything in existence, but turned into water when touched. He wondered where they were—the northern Westlands, perhaps?

An anxious knot formed in the pit of his stomach at the thought of Clare, and he turned away from the frigid beauty outside. His mind went back to Spaertos against his will, and the memories—far too clear for his liking—circled maddeningly around inside his head.
She was screaming at me,
he remembered,
begging me to stop. What will she think of me now?
He had to find her—that much was certain in his rattled thoughts. He had to find Clare and...and do what? He was unsure. How could he explain his actions? No matter how he tried to rationalize what he had done in his mind, he was unable.

But he dressed and made for the door anyway, compelled by some internal force to find her.
I have to talk to her.
The door opened with a soft click and swung inward on silent hinges. Outside was a wide hallway lined with torches, and after a moment's indecision he went to the right. He could hear the faint sound of many voices all talking in unison; perhaps someone would be able to tell him where she had gone.

He followed the hallway to its end, where he went through another door and out into what appeared to be a great tavern. There were hundreds of people all milling about, some eating and drinking, some simply resting, but nearly all looking weary and worn. He did not blame them; unlike him, they did not have bodies that healed in only a few tolls of the bell.

There were fires everywhere, too, great pits that had been dug into the earth and filled with wood. The heat was comforting, and he found himself basking in its aura. He inhaled, the scent of smoke and spiced meats filling his nostrils. Something else accompanied it, a pungent odor that reminded him vaguely of ale if only it were sweeter. There were Northlanders everywhere—blonde-haired and blue-eyed, tall and strong and imposing—and Will realized that they must be in the far North, past the reach of the Clergy's arm. There was no Gefan here, no Old God—only the Northlanders and their barbaric ways, and Will found the prospect of living away from the Clergy's influence both unnerving and exciting all at once.

There were Westlanders and Southlanders too, and even Eastlanders, their dark skin and ornate dress making them stand out among the mob like roses in a dry field.
Where is this place?
he wondered.

“The King has awakened!” a voice suddenly boomed, cutting through the din, and immediately every person in the hall fell to one knee and bowed their heads. Will sighed; he would never, it seemed, get used to this aspect of being the Dragon King.

“Hello,” he said awkwardly, and after a moment's uncomfortable silence, continued, “erm...please get up.” They did. The North- and Eastlanders looked confused, and passed questioning glances to one another. But the Islanders and Faellan—and what few of the Dragon Guard remained—had seen the routine before. They knew what to expect.

“Do you wish something of us, Highness?” the same man who had spoken before asked, and Will cast around for him. He was, naturally, a Northman—Will was sure that only their kind were capable of making such a row—and he stood at rigid attention.

“You don't have to do that,” Will said in exasperation, vaguely indicating the man. “The whole...stiff and formal bit. Really, I don't require servants. Just warriors...” He paused. He had almost said,
Just warriors willing to follow me into battle.
But memories of Spaertos sprang unbidden into his mind once more, and he found himself wondering why they should follow him at all.
I am a monster,
he thought, and his heart sank. “Just warriors,” he finished lamely, his voice trailing off at the end.