Keepers of the Flame (19 page)

Loneliness
invaded, for home, the dry air and dim stars of city life. Bri bit her lip. Her
former homesickness was nothing like this on Earth. She’d never been in a place
or situation she couldn’t leave to go home. To run away to, a little voice said
in the back of her mind that she didn’t want to heed. But she was coming to
understand that was her greatest fault. When things got sticky, she ran.

Sometimes
that was right. What she hadn’t told Elizabeth was that the rock star had
gotten violent. Only one blow, and dodging, she’d taken it on her side instead
of in her stomach, but one blow was enough.

Two
strong arms grabbed her. One around the waist, one on a choke hold around her
neck. She struggled, but couldn’t break the man’s grip.

There
were times running didn’t save you.

15

M
ud arrived
quickly, but Sevair didn’t get away until late since the farmer called a
conclave of his fellows.

He
and Mud flew through the night and Sevair practiced speaking with her with
small words and images in Equine. Just as the first time he rode her—partnered
with
her—that morning, he thought he could feel the pathways of his Power widen at
new use, his hair turn silver.

Fear
lived in his gut. He didn’t often anticipate disaster, but anxiety about the
frinks gnawed at him. He’d been the one charged with finding out about the
frinks, had contacted the Marshalls, then the Circlet Jaquar. But Jumme had
intercepted his letters. Now everyone paid for his poor judgement.

Frinks.
He’d
known
they would be deadly.

The
Marshalls and Chevaliers would be awake and lively after sunset, as usual. He’d
talk to them, but only after he rang the guildhall emergency bell. His people
must be warned first. No frinks would fall with the rain where Exotiques lived.
So there were no plants like this on the Castle grounds, but they were
multiplying in Castleton.

They
landed in City Square and Sevair hurried to the bellpull and yanked hard three
times, sending long, low tones throughout the town, notes the Citymasters and
guild masters were attuned to. Immediately doors opened around the square. Some
of the heads of the guilds occupied the homes reserved for those of their
station, which were clustered around the city square and the guildhall.

He
nodded to them, then Sang the key to the door of the guildhall and the small
council chamber just inside, Sang the lights on, and took his seat.

They
were all gathered in minutes, not only the Citymasters, but the mistresses and
masters of each guild, too. This year slightly more women held such titles than
men.

“I
think I have discovered the source of the sickness,” Sevair said.

The
door opened and Circlet Jaquar walked in. Sevair wasn’t the only one who
stiffened in his chair.

Jaquar
closed the door behind him and bowed. He wore a long velvet robe and his
circlet around his brow. Sevair thought he wasn’t the only one who felt shabby
beside the man.

“With
your permission, I would like to stay. I heard the town bell and knew it
signified something important. In times like these, all knowledge should be
shared.”

Sevair
felt heat rise in his face. He’d accused this man of not answering his
concerns. Apparently Jaquar would not be put in such a position again. Sevair
glanced around the table, but most were still staring at the Circlet. “You are
welcome. Take a seat.” He gestured to a couple of empty chairs.

Inclining
his head, Jaquar sat and said, “My thanks.”

After
clearing his throat, Sevair began again. “I think I have found the source of
the sickness.”

When
oaths and exclamations died down, he explained.

They
were all discussing the matter when a strum came on the door harp and the
assistant to the head of the Inns and Taverns guild entered, frowning. She
dipped a curtsey to them all, eyes widening at Jaquar, then addressed herself
to her guild mistress. “I did as you requested and went to the Exotique
Medica’s house to bring her here.” She drew in a large breath. “She isn’t
there. I heard from a neighbor that she went out late this afternoon, but I
haven’t found her.”

Babbling
concern erupted. People shot to their feet.

Sevair’s
head ached. He closed his eyes and rubbed them.

When
he opened his eyes he saw Jaquar smiling. Sevair scowled. “Can you find her?”
he cut across the clamor.

Jaquar’s
eyes widened, narrowed. He tilted his head as if searching for Bri’s Song, then
sighed. “No. I have not been with her so long as to recognize her Song.”

How
hard could it be to find one Exotique’s Song in Castleton? Sevair didn’t ask
aloud. “Thank you, anyway.”

Shrugging,
Jaquar said, “Exotiques. Who knows what they will do next? And she has purple
hair. How difficult will it be to find a pale woman with purple hair?”

Awful.

“I
’m not gonna
hurt you. I jus’ want you to listen to me. You must listen to me!” Bri’s
abductor was big, with a straining belly under rough linen shirt and corduroy
pants, and he stank of alcohol. They sat in a tiny room behind one of the
seediest bars Bri had ever seen. There was a lopsided table and two
three-legged stools. He’d closed the inches-thick door and locked it with
magic. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She’d
tried to get out, but couldn’t. She’d banged on the door, but the noise beyond
drowned out her cries. The grime-encrusted window was too small for her, too
small for Alexa.

She’d
attempted to call her twin, but the drunk had some sort of smothering
mind-shield on her. He’d yelped when she’d tried to contact Elizabeth, but had
held her thoughts at bay. He’d also taken her bag and the little crystal ball,
which he’d grunted at and pocketed himself. Otherwise he hadn’t touched her
after they’d arrived.

His
erratic Song rang with single-mindedness. Bri sensed no physical threat. She
kept her distance, figured she could push him down and break a stool over his
head. He wasn’t too steady on his feet. They’d fallen against a few walls on
the few blocks, walk to this place, but his grip had been desperate—asexual and
panicked.

“Listen
to me, Exotique Medica,” he said and his tone, his very manner changed. He
stood straight and glared at her with a laser-like gaze from amber eyes. She
noticed that though dirty, much of his scraggly shoulder-length hair was
golden. The streaks denoting magic were so wide there was only a little black
in the center of his head. She hadn’t needed the golden color of the streaks to
tell her he was old. The deeply carved lines on his face did that, and his
eyes. They held years of suffering.

Still
a strong and vital man, he’d once been well-educated, she’d bet on that. Once
been in a position of authority if that tone and gaze were any indication. Her
mother had that voice and stare mastered, as did other medical doctors she
knew, and her honorary uncle who was a federal judge.

So
she sat on the wobbly stool near the table and watched him.

“
Merci,”
he said.

A
thought brought a spurt of fear. “My understanding of the language and the
ability to speak it will fade soon.”

He
grunted. “Just listen.” He tapped his barrel chest. “What I have to say to you
won’t take long.”

She
waited, discovered all her muscles were tense, duh! Relaxed them one by one,
keeping her own expression impassive. He went to a shelf and grabbed a bottle,
pulled out the cork and took a long swig. Another layer of the odor of yeasty
ale was added to the atmosphere. Then he clomped back to the small table, sat
on the stool across from her, put down the bottle with a clank and pointed a
fat, grubby finger at her.

“You
are the Exotique Medica, Summoned to help this town with the worst medical
crisis this country has ever seen. Since we have monsters invading from the
north and ripping people to shreds, that’s saying something.” He belched, wiped
the back of his hand across his mouth, muttered, “Pardon.”

He
shifted on his seat and Bri got the idea that not only was his stool as wobbly
as her own, it was too small for his butt. She kept her sarcastic smile inward.
Shoving the bottle aside, he leaned forward and Bri saw golden, gray and black
bristles on his grizzled face.

“The
medicas here in town and up at the Castle are goin’ about healing this sickness
all wrong. If the epidemic gets worse we’ll all be in deep trouble.”

His
finger pointed again, wagged. “They’re used to listening to the chimes and
healing a person chime by chime, energy by energy. That hasn’t worked.” Another
belch, but this time he was so concentrating on making her listen that he
didn’t excuse himself. “The medicas don’ take a whole-body approach, healing
all the chimes at once, slowly, steadily. An’ they pay little attention to the
chime at the crown of the head.” He tapped his own skull, the parietal bone.
“The spiritual chime. I think the Dark attacks that first, weakens it, then the
evil snakes through the body to the weakest point, invades and attacks that.
Jus’ like the monsters in the north.”

Bri
stared some more. “If that’s true, why haven’t you told them that?”

“I
have!” he roared, standing and knocking his stool over, waving his arms. “I
have!” Then he turned on her and his voice was rough, bitter. “But they won’t
listen to
me
, will they? Not Zeres the drunk and the fool and the
failure.”

His
words poked at her own lack of confidence. She knew the feelings of frustration
and anguish all too well, couldn’t stop her words, “Don’t call yourself that.”
She stood and caught a meaty hand in her own. It staggered her, and not just
from the force.

Clear,
true tones of Power resounded through her. The cleanest, strongest Power she’d
heard from anyone.

“Ayes,”
he sighed, then smiled. He moved faster than she’d thought he could, caught
both of her hands in his, forced them up palm-to-palm, then linked their
fingers.

She
couldn’t break his grip—more, she was whisked into a great blackness with
flashing bright smears of light. Whirling, swirling, spinning. She didn’t know
the right word for her sensation, not falling, but
sucked.
The pressure
of the passage of air around her.

Her
heart thundered in her chest, darkness shrouded her vision. But her hearing
expanded until she thought she could hear all the sounds that ever were in
jarring notes, somehow interlaced, but the cacophony staggered her.

She
was sitting down again, hard flat seat against her butt, blinking at the old
man who slurped deep of his bottle of ale, some of it dribbling down his chin
to join other stains on his shirt. She shook her head to clear the aftereffects
of the Songs, even as she yearned to hear it again. But the experience was so
powerful—as if she’d been plugged into the universe—that she didn’t know if she
could handle it. For a minute she wanted a good slug of alcohol herself.

When
he put the empty bottle down, it hit the edge of the table and toppled over.
This time he wiped his whole arm across his mouth before he sat. Once again an
amber gaze met hers. “We’re connected, you and I.” He snorted. “Obvious now why
the Song hasn’t ended my miserable life before now.”

“You
are a medica.”

He
snorted. “Was a medica.”

“Your
life isn’t miserable.”

Tapping
his temples with his forefingers, he said, “You aren’t looking out at it from
these eyes, from this bloated body.” Then he rubbed his temples. “Thank the
Song that won’t happen again. Not so pure for a long time. Thank the Song.”

He
twined his fingers before him and leaned forward, serious. All these people
were so deadly serious—except for the Chevaliers, who’d laughed in the face of
death, and that wasn’t true humor. How was she going to stand it?

With
a fist he rapped the table. “Pay attention.”

She
folded her own hands on the table. “Yes, master.”

His
mouth stretched in a smile that revealed good teeth and the remnants of an attractive
face. “Very good, pupil.” His expression closed. “But those medicas will want
to train you, and they’ll train you all wrong for this time. I sense that you
know instinctively how to cure this disease. With my help, you’ll figure out
how the Dark is causing it, and how to stop it from invading humans, stop it
from killing those who already have the sickness.” He sighed. “Sometimes the
Song is good.”

“You
said the medicas can’t solve the problem of the sickness, or cure it with their
usual methods.”

“True.”

“What
of the Marshalls?”

“They
heal when they have to, when they deem it a priority to them and theirs. So do
the Circlets, having learned from the Marshalls and the Exotique Circlet
Marian. But that great healing is more a matter of faith in the Song.”

“Spiritual,
as you said.”

“They
are usually led by a medica or two. Ask any Marshall or Circlet how they heal
and they will either not know how or give you a wrong answer.”