The Flame of Wrath (51 page)

             
“This,” Aurea said, “I do for the people.” Even as she uttered the words, her sapphire eyes rose to glare with embittered might to the woman watching from above. She was torn. A part of her longed even now to give Autumn one final opportunity to be her Queen, to rule at her side, but she pushed that desire away. If Autumn and the child lived, it would mean that there was a constant reminder of the old ways present. She could not allow that.

             
The Empress took hold of a torch. Carefully, she dipped the end into a lit pyre. Its flame caught brightly in the approaching night. She walked with its light held firmly in her hand. Hers was the first torch to touch the kindling. With a motion of her hand, the order was given for other torches to be thrown. They shined like shooting stars before catching within the timber.

             
Aurea stepped back. The light dancing in her eyes intensified with the loud whooshed explosion of air nurturing the flames. Her chest rose and fell in labored intensity. Inside it, she felt her heart contracting painfully. She turned her head as the crowd began its cheers.

             
“Burn!” they shouted. “Burn!”

             
Autumn felt the rising sting of the flames seeking her life's end. She noted with only the smallest comfort that her soldiers were not present. Her face upturned to the sky. The heat was unbearable, but still she refused to utter a sound. Her body dripped beads of sweat and still she was silent.

             
As her rage built, the Queen's breath again turned to lavender-gray waves of smoke. She sent it rising high into the air.

             
The smoke from her lips crashed with a violent clash of colors into the smoke emanating from the bonfire. It twisted in lament then stretched and swelled. Together, it gained a vibrant life.

             
The phantom likeness of a fierce dragon's head reigned over the awestruck masses. Its jaws opened to release a deafening roar. The omnipotent head snaked passionately through the air. It whipped about, devouring the smoke rising to choke the dark-haired Queen.

             
Maven rushed from the protection of the litter. Her hands gripped fearfully at Aurea's shoulders. She pulled and prodded at the Empress, attempting to pull her into the safety of the carriage while their eyes looked in horror to the spectral dragon.

             
The Empress felt the aura of her rage rising upward as if to engage in battle. “Kill her and the monster she carries!” she roared.

             
A file of her royal archers hurried forward. Half of the archers quickly slid into kneeling position while the brothers standing at their back stood defiantly. As one, they took aim. The sound of tightening strings intermingled in the air with terrified screams.

             
“Aim,” their commander instructed. “Fire!”

             
The arrows arced upward into the sky. They came at the very instant that night had come charging upon the mortals so consumed by their petty dramas.

             
With night's arrival came a child of mythical might.

             
Snarling, a giant white beast burst through the spreading shadows. The colossus of wintry fur leapt upward with a horrifying growl.

             
The jaws of the unearthly wolf opened to take its prey. It plucked Autumn possessively from the pyre. With Autumn firmly within its possession, it raced through the air. It landed roughly against the ground on the other side, sending the spectators fleeing for their lives. At its back, the rain of arrows landed hatefully upon the bonfire where Autumn had once been.

             
Hackles rose high. Powerful claws embedded themselves within the earth as it held its ground against the advancing soldiers. Large scarlet eyes narrowed on the mortals shrinking away from the gigantic wolf.

             
Another file of the royal guard charged forward. They threw their mighty spears which bounced feebly off the wolf's fur. At the realization that it could not be stopped, they anxiously looked to Aurea.

             
The golden Empress stepped forward to truly lay eyes on the beast. She growled through clenched teeth while the mystical creature made its escape into the woods. As the fire's light bathed her in a sea of orange, her gaze intensified. A word left her lips as a seething breath.

             
“Soren.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

There can be no soothing rain to tame the fires of a tormented soul though we may burn awaiting its arrival. True peace---- the kind which heals whatever wounds our innermost hearts bear---- comes from within. It is only this which has the power to cease the savage devastation.

----The Book of Wrath

********

  
             
The world of lucid dreaming was at the epitome of its beauty. It basked within the throes of the season. Winter had come to lovingly touch the world in the airy softness of white.

             
The numerous rolling hills inspired daydreams of floating clouds. Those cherished dreams of contentment were protected by guardian evergreen pines armored in ivory.

             
On a winding road, a lone vision of color clashed against the prevalent white. Both, horse and rider moved as one. Together, they were a migrating tree of strength with its ever-present shadow following beneath.

             
The dark green of her cloak could not hide the flash of her brown leather pants beneath. She breathed deeply, feeling the crispness of the air. Her gloved hands held fast to the reins as she urged her mount onward.

             
Powerful blows were muted by the density of snow. Still, the ebony horse plowed forward as if she knew the importance of the news her rider carried.

             
Stopping atop a sun-bathed hill, the messenger was momentarily blinded. She squinted painfully.

             
Her horse stirred beneath her, making a fast circle of confusion while she too struggled to catch her bearings.

             
Having regained her sense of direction, the messenger pulled in the reins. She regained control of her horse with a practiced skill.

             
There in the distance loomed the Sovereign Sea. Its might was stilled by tranquility. Yet it breathed as only a sea can breathe. The song of its breath soothingly filled the sea-air.

             
Beneath the winter sun, the ocean glistened in dazzling splendor. Its great expanse was dotted sporadically by jagged icebergs. The colossal mountains of ice floated across its surface with unhurried ease. One by one, the icebergs farthest from the shore slipped out into the mists of forever.  Once captured within the density of something mystical, they disappeared from sight.

             
The messenger's eyes lifted from the haze consuming yet another iceberg. They traveled instead to the mountain range rising up from its deepest depths. The Holy Mountain was where the Dragon slept. Its breath could be seen creating a veil of mystery to touch the horizon from every vantage of the seashore. No matter which border you gazed out from, it would always be the same. The Holy Mountain would taunt yearning eyes with mere glimpses of its divinity.

             
An ascending road broke away from the sandy shore. The nature of its stone was a pale ivory made radiant by daylight. Rising up from the waters around it, a dramatic arch stood proudly.

             
The messenger patted her mare's strong neck. Then with a loud vocal encouragement she spurred her horse forward.

             
When the land had evened out and her onyx horse had reached a demonic sprint, the messenger drew a silver staff from the sheath at her saddle's back. She held it close to her side as though it were a lance to strike into the heart of her enemy.

             
“I am a servant of tears,” she voiced loudly above the winter winds.

             
Riding zealously toward the shore, the lofty archway all but opened its gaping mouth to swallow its victim. As horse and rider crossed through its threshold, the frontal half of their bodies seemed to disappear into nothingness. The remaining visible half powered forward, pushing them completely into realms unknown, away from mortal sight.

             
With their absence, the shore was as it once was: still and contentedly alone.

********

              The messenger's eyes had no time to marvel at the swirling channel of water surrounding this road of moistened stone. She heard the thundering music of her horse's hooves among the slates or the alternating splash of hooves bursting into puddles. Those things paled in comparison to the sound of her own heart.

             
Renewed by the sight of gargantuan gates at the tunnel's end, she steeled herself. “Blessed be the Vessel,” she recited breathlessly.

             
The gates creaked open loudly, sending a narrow flood of light to bath her approach. Inwardly, she smiled. “Home,” the messenger whispered.

********

              An enormous bridge of sparkling white stood strong against a winter wind. The Halcyon Bridge possessed arches which reached high into the crisp sky. Their towering ends disappeared into cottony wisps. The massive suspension bridge was the powerful arm which connected the warring world to the home of whimsical beginnings. At its end awaited, Origins, the city of arcade arches and stained-glass visions.

             
The waters from which the bridge sprang roared loudly as powerful waves. Sea-froth rose upward in airy clutches as if to greet the travelers overhead. The magnificent fragrance of their mists floated about the air, making it crisp and clean.

             
Engaging in life's dance, schools of ethereal silver burst from the cresting waves. Each flying fish to propel itself from the waters flashed brightly in the sun. Their movement caught the eyes of passersby.

             
Those occupying the road were dwarfed by its greatness, but cared little for their small size as their hearts swelled with the sight of their culture's epicenter.

             
One among them could not join in their patriotism. She rushed through them as a blur of colors. She pressed her steed to near neck-breaking speeds in the instant that she began to glimpse the bridge's end. When she passed the threshold to the city, she snaked through the cobblestone streets. She maneuvered through carriages and horses. She carefully avoided finely dressed ladies crossing the streets with parcels in hand. She veered around the men in top hats and frock coats who clutched elegant canes.

             
The thundering clop of her horse's hooves against the road lurched to a dramatic stop. She clutched to the reins of her horse as it reared back wildly.

             
Standing within the center of the road, a woman in black stared up at the feral horse. She extended her hand. “Be still,” she mouthed silently.

             
The horse immediately lowered into a respectful bow.

             
The woman smiled from the shadows of her hooded cloak. She lifted her hands to pull back her hood. The simple act exposed her gracious face. Her strawberry-blond hair was soft beneath the sunlight. Blue-gray eyes smiled before her lips dared to do the same.

             
The messenger held the reins as her horse rose to stand comfortably. She peered closely at the woman in black. “Sister Arisa,” she whispered in reverence.

             
Arisa was one of the divine seven. She was a high-ranking sorceress among the Sisterhood of Tears and a member of their respected Council. It was she who wielded the power of snow. It was for her that the snow had so lovingly graced their city.

             
As the world slowed to an otherworldly pace around them, the messenger realized that magic gripped them.

             
“You have come to speak to the Vessel,” Arisa stated knowingly.

             
The messenger nodded earnestly. “Yes, Ladyship,” she answered. “It's a matter of grave importance!”

             
“Then come.” Arisa turned. “I will take you to her.” She waved her hand causing the likeness of the world just beyond her to ripple passionately. She passed through it, silently instructing the messenger to follow.

             
Together, they disappeared through the portal with the city around them blissfully unaware of their existence.

********

              In every direction the messenger gazed, there was a sea of blinding white. She squinted her eyes against the blustering winds. The snow was frantic. She could hardly see.

             
Trudging forward, she caught sight of a black door standing by a will of its own. Its angry arch pierced the air above as leaf-shaped wrought iron hinges clasped desperately to what could not be seen.

             
A swirling gale of snow pieced together to make the snowy likeness of Arisa. She pointed to the door while commanding it to open.

             
The messenger continued on. She passed through the doors with her arms huddled close to her body. As they closed at her back, she found herself alone within an enclosed world. A low-lying ceiling was lit by in-laid lanterns. Her eyes lifted to see their light was nestled within thick walls of ice.

             
She moved among the brilliant green hedges towering high above her head. Caught within that maze of shrubbery, she listened to the sounds of a small laugh. It was that sound which soon became her guide.

             
Her boots crunched over the brittle snow. She pulled her cloak's hood about her head, hoping to fend off the immense cold. Every breath to leave her quivering lips collided with the air like puffs of tangible exertion.

             
The messenger trembled. She navigated the snowy labyrinth until reaching its heart. A wintry wonderland of slowly falling gems contained two figures garbed in regal black. 

             
A woman of abundant beauty held a child within her sheltering embrace. Together their profiles exuded a great sense of majesty to the approaching messenger.

             
The woman possessed an air of grace. Her face was focused, yet gentle. Its smoothness was occasionally interrupted by the subtlety of age's penmanship. A sweeping line here or a deliberately placed line there spoke of her life's story. Yet, none were more prominent than the commas accentuating the dark curves of her lips.

             
The flowing mahogany hair spilling down her swanlike back was the perfect bed to falling stars of snow. That blanket of warmth covered the expanse of her proud shoulders and further still to her exposed shoulder blades as her dress dipped low to the small of her back. The garment tantalized the eyes with a glimpse of her soft skin. About her narrow waist, draping ebony hugged her lovingly before belling outward just past her hips to end with a dramatic train behind her. She was the leader of the divine seven. She was Serenity and in her arms, she carried her most treasured possession.

             
The inspiration for awe lived inside the eyes of a four-year-old child. She reached outward with a small hand. Her fingertips sought to touch an ice-covered rose. Her silken skin mirrored the rose's pale ivory majesty. Still, it was her eyes, her focused blue eyes which robbed an individual of their breath. Eyes of blue as faint and as clear as the ice which filled her haven gazed with a hungered yearning to the flower. It was as though this frozen bloom contained some truth she longed to know.

             
Her porcelain face turned to stare directly into the shivering messenger. She held her blood-red lips closed, unable to speak. Her bewitching eyes merely stared to their visitor from behind her guardian's shoulder. It was clear that this child could not know the beauty she possessed or how her likeness alone could command the loyalties of those in her presence. Instead, she shyly lowered her head, sending the black silk of her hair spilling downward in a curtain of protection.

             
Serenity lovingly held the child closer to her being. She turned, walking toward their guest with a painful slowness. When she stopped, she witnessed the trembling breath expelled from the messenger's lips.

             
“Honored, Vessel,” the messenger began. She lowered respectfully to one knee. “I have news.”

             
“Speak,” Serenity said. Her voice was low and rich.

             
“The battle wages on,” the messenger said. “Our casualties are many. We were all but defeated when the Pyrosians divided their army.”

             
“Yes,” the sorceress responded coolly, “the retreating soldiers were needed in an effort to settle a civil war.”

              The messenger took the woman in with awe inside her eyes. They had diligently sought to learn the reasons why the soldiers had been called away, but to no avail. Now Serenity spoke the reasons with such certainty and ease. She blinked hard, forcing herself to continue. “Even with their numbers depleted, the Pyrosians manage to overrun us. They fight with the brutality of desperation. We have already lost the outer provinces and now they continue to push us back.”