City of Blaze (The Fireblade Array) Page 7

  His shirt was slashed and dripping with sweat; the sword handle had begun to slip in his hand. His eyes stung and his breathing was coming quickly. Finally, Morghiad felt as if he’d had an excellent session. He had left the other men practising basic forms some time ago, choosing ten good fighters to take on. The battle had begun with fluidity and he had met each blade with little difficulty, but some of the soldiers had taken it upon themselves to join in with the battle. At first they had entered in jest, hoping their growing numbers would overwhelm him and provide some amusement for the hall. But the space around him was limited and only so many could ever attack at once, an aspect of the situation that Morghiad could use to his advantage. The speed and intensity of the fight soon became exhilarating. He felt alive! He leapt past the shoulders of two of the fighters and, quite by chance, caught sight of the men around. They had stopped practising the forms. What were they doing?

  “Enough!” He sheathed his sword and made sure that his eyes moved across everyone in the immediate viscinity. “I see that practice has ended for the day. We’ll finish early then. Be off with you.” They stood around gawping at him. Had he grown horns? “What?”

  Tortrix marched up to him, looking red-faced and perspiring heavily. “No one,” he breathed, “Has done THAT before.”

  Morghiad immediately felt uncomfortable. “Just having a bit of fun, Tor. Let’s get this hall cleared out.” He didn’t want people goggling any longer than they should.

  The older man blinked and flicked his eyes to the side while his lips formed a half smile. “A bit of fun. I see. Well, captain, it’s not often we observe the sort of ‘fun’ of one man facing thirty experienced swords.” Tortrix shook his head and clambered onto the platform. “Home time! Shift your backsides! Now!”

  The army began the slow process of draining from the practice hall. Morghiad tried to wipe some of the sweat from his eyes, only succeeding in further suffusing them. The shirt was irrecoverable but at least it wasn’t covered in his blood this time. There had been some embarrassing walks back to his room in the past.

  After waiting for what seemed like an eternity while the six-thousand gossiping men dispersed, Morghiad made his way to the dark arched corridors of the lower castle. The day’s rain had seeped into the very rock of the building, making the walls and ceilings glisten in places. It smelled very much of moist earth and burning lamp oil. The chill of the lower hallways was starting to dig into his damp skin, making him quicken his pace. The gardens were close-by and he fully intended to take advantage of air that did not smell of sweat or caves. It was so much better to be outside. Besides, the gardens could look rather attractive at this time of the year.

  Morghiad stepped into the cloisters that lined one edge of the garden and took in a deep breath of the air. It smelled fresh, sweet and sharp from the tang of wet vegetation. He watched on as the rain began to thicken, beating down faster and harder upon the buckling plants, then stepped out into the cascades, closed his eyes and raised his face to the clouds. Seemingly reacting to his presence, the rain thundered down at an even faster rate. It washed through his shirt and over his entire body, still carrying some of the warmth of summer with it. Morghiad allowed the downpour to soak through every bit of clothing he had on, until he noticed his boots were filling up. That did not feel quite so good. He lingered for a few more seconds in the warmth of the shower and then returned to the shelter of the cloisters, whereupon he removed each boot and upended it.

  Boots squelching noisily, he made his way back to his rooms. He hoped some poor servant would not have to trouble themselves over the trail of water he was leaving behind him. There were really too many servants in this castle, always fussing over this and that. They had fussed a great deal over him at one time, and the female ones had been the worst.

  Thankfully, they had since learned he was perfectly capable of looking after himself. He thought back to Leonor. She had been more like a mother than a servant, really. Perhaps female servants just liked to mother everyone. Leonor and Ilena. Both mothers to him. Both gone, both missed. He did not know much about his real mother, other than that he had inherited her hair and eyes. Her name had been Tylena and asking his father about her tended to make him angry. His boots were squelching less now, which was something of a relief. Morghiad arrived at his door and pushed it open.

  A fine-looking, red-haired woman stood before him; her deep-brown eyes were wide.

  “Oh,” was all he managed to utter.

  Artemi didn’t move. Had she tightened up her bodice a little more today?

  He stood in front of the door like a sack of tanno fruit, and a drenched sack at that, with no idea of what to do next.

  She was the first to speak. “I was just... er... your bed sheets. They... um... Caala had to do someone else’s so I... I’ll be done shortly, my lord.” She made an awkward curtsey and began folding one of the sheets she had stripped.

  Morghiad continued watching her. He was probably staring. Had he stared for long enough for it to be rude? He looked at the floor in front of her for a moment, just in case.

  She had stopped folding and was looking at him. “Forgive me, would I find your... er... my lord’s bed sheets in the wardrobe?”

  Morghiad felt his cheeks redden. Why did people have to call him ‘my lord’ all the time? It sounded ridiculous. “Yes, of course.” He unbelted his swords, seated himself in the armchair and tried to relax into it. He realised he must have looked like one of Cadra’s transients with his cut shirt and dripping clothing.

  She walked gracefully to the wardrobe and opened it in an elegant movement. Her waist was so perfectly small. It would fit easily in the crook of one his arms. Morghiad moved his gaze quickly over to the windows, he was staring again. Perhaps he ought to leaf through a book. He yanked the closest one from the shelf behind him and balanced it on the arm of the chair.

  “So that is why the arms are so worn?” Artemi asked as she laid out the new sheet. She was smiling. At him.

  Morghiad glanced down at the leather under the book. Likely it was more worn from the way he liked to sit on it, with one or both legs swung over. Not the way to sit before a lady, of course. Was a servant a lady?

  “Do you read at all?” He immediately regretted the question; he had not intended to embarrass her.

  “I love to. I only wish I could do more.”

  Morghiad hid his relief as best he could and closed the book. “Let me help you with that.” He stood and squelched to the other side of the bed, tucking in the bottom layers of linen. She hesitated for a moment, seeming confused, before working her way down the other side. Artemi was a little more efficient at her work and was soon approaching the corner closest to the kahr. He reached it first, clumsily folded the pointed edge and stuffed it beneath the mattress. It would probably do.

  Artemi let out the beginnings of a laugh and then drew her face straight hurriedly. “I’ll get into trouble if I leave it like that.” She raised her eyebrows. “Here.” She un-tucked the corner and held it out to Morghiad, which he quickly took. She moved her hands towards his. “It has to be pulled straight and then fold-”

  A raging torrent of fire tore violently down Morghiad’s arm, searing with its white-hot tumult of anger. It burned and twisted towards his shoulder, almost rendering the limb numb. Though no flames were visible, the sensation was unmistakable. Artemi had fallen back against the bed post.

  She looked terrified.

  The floor below Morghiad seemed to shake. It couldn’t be. He gathered his thoughts as rapidly as he was able. “How is this possible?!” he thundered at her. She only looked more afraid; her eyes were so wide, and yet she looked so… so innocent this close. Morghiad kept better control of his voice: “What are you?”

  She looked around; her chest rose and fell sharply. “I don’t... what was that?”

  The kahr permitted his brow to furrow. He reached forward and touched her cheek. Hot fire pushed through his hand and along the length of his arm.
His whole body was alight.

  A tear rolled down Artemi’s face as she tensed. “What are you doing to me?” she whispered.

  Morghiad explored the sensation further. “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be eighteen in a few weeks. Please, I don’t underst -” She was shaking visibly.

  He examined her eyes closely. Long, dark lashes curved around them, but they were young eyes. Then he said softly, “You don’t know, do you? How is this even possible?” He withdrew his hand from her and flopped onto the edge of his bed. He needed to think.

  “What was that?” Her voice was gaining strength. “It felt like I... like I’d stepped inside the sun. Or the sun had stepped inside me. What did you do?”

  “Nothing,” he said darkly.

  She drew herself up and straightened her dress. “Then I should leave.”

  “No!” Morghiad rose to pace between the windows, regulating his breathing as best he was able. “What you felt was your own recognition that I am kanaala. You are a wielder. Not mature enough to use your power but a wielder nonetheless.”

  Artemi looked stunned. Then she smiled, if a little nervously. “But that’s impossible. I’ve already been tested. I can’t be... that.”

  “Did they touch your skin?” He held her gaze.

  “I don’t know. I was just an infant. You see, my mother... ” Her voice trailed off.

  “She didn’t survive,” he finished. And no surprise, with a daughter that strong.

  Artemi shook her head and sank to the floor.

  The rain continued to pelt the windows, seemingly amplifying the silence they endured. Morghiad had paused to gaze at his books. It was possible...

  “Most are killed as children. How is it I have escaped?”

  “Your power is hidden. I don’t understand quite how, but it is invisible - it has been masked to any kanaala remote from you. Likely from other wielders, too.” He looked at her closely. She was huddled on the marble tiles, as if crouching like a scared mouse would give her more protection.

  “I’ll be executed, then.” She said it as a statement, as if it were on her list of duties.

  Ilena. All he could see in his mind was Ilena. In her last few years the woman’s hair had been cropped closely to her head to mark her for what she was, and her iron-wrought chastity belt had clinked as she walked. But she had been kind and patient. Pretty in her own way, she had taught him everything about Blaze Energy even though her own ability had been minimal. She could barely have lifted a blade of grass with it. Ilena had been no threat to Calidell. No man would have slept with her. And yet his father had seen fit to have her killed once she had served her purpose as tutor. All of Artemi’s golden fire hair would be cut from her head if she was discovered, and worse would happen to her besides.

  Morghiad knelt down and brushed the waves of hair from her face. It buzzed with her power, though less so than her skin had done, as if the fibres held a memory of The Blazes from which they had grown. He allowed his hand to fall back. “Your secret is safe with me. But you must make me a promise.”

  Artemi regarded him in silence. Ilena didn’t have to happen again.

  “You must swear that you will use your power only to protect Calidell and its people.”

  “All of its people? Even the bad ones?” she breathed.

  Morghiad allowed some surprise to filter into his voice. “It is not for you to decide who is good or bad. Even I cannot decide that.”

  “You do each time you go to war.”

  “I consider the impact of what I do, Artemi. I fight to prevent further injustice. Calidell is a just country and it should be protected. It is not a sacrifice you can understand yet, child.”

  Artemi bit her lip, frustration evident on her brow. “What choice do I have? You would banish me otherwise.” Another tear fell from her lashes. “I will only use it to protect Calidell.”

  “And its people,” Morghiad prompted.

  “...And its people.” she echoed quietly. She was... divine to look at.

  “Artemi, you must not take a lover, either.”

  Her eyes narrowed, her muscles tensed considerably. “I see. No lover except, of course, a kanaala? Is that what all this is about? Some ruse to bed me?” She rose to her feet, clenching her fists.

  Morghiad stood, too. He towered over her but she kept her chin high, regarding him as levelly as she could. The kahr folded his arms across his chest. “In a few months your ability will outgrow my own. I doubt there will be a kanaala on this Earth strong enough for you, myself included. I’m sorry.”

  Artemi dropped her eyes to the floor and turned away from him. The momentary strength and indignation seemed to drain from her stance. She walked to the stone wall and leaned one shoulder against it. Silence sat thick and heavy between them like the impenetrable autumn mists of Wilrea’s mountains. Her hand ran over the smoothness of the blocks, as if she could somehow draw strength from them. She began, “I’d always thought I would have that one day. I thought I would find someone, maybe have a few babies... There must be stronger kanaala out there...?” Her voice faded.

  Morghiad unfolded his arms, not really knowing what to do with them. “I have been told not. That life - it is not a luxury we can all expect. Sometimes these things are decided for us. I understand your situation - a part of it, anyway.”

  She looked back at him. The focus seemed to return to her eyes again. “You do not need to worry. I have no desire to wake up next to a dead man in my bed.”

  Morghiad nodded and went to the corner of the bed again, examining the loose sheets. “I can teach you how to wield for good,” he said, “but first you must show me how to fold in the corner of this bed.”

  Artemi stood motionless for a moment. Then a dazzling smile broke through her gloom. She stepped towards the bed and raised the edge of the sheet. “Like this.” She pulled it taut and placed it in the kahr’s hand. The fire sensation burned through his fingers once more as she brushed them. There was something else there, too. “And then you pull it down the side of the bed.” Artemi guided his arms down. “Fold it over to the right, keep that bit tucked in.” She pushed his hands to the correct place and smoothed over the fold he’d made. “Now push it under.”

  Morghiad finished the task.

  She stood straight again, admiring his work. “Very good. We’ll make a maid of you yet...ah, my lord.”

  He suppressed a smile. He was becoming far too emotional these days.

  She rubbed at the uppers of her arms and then asked, “Is wielding as easy to learn?”

  “Sometimes. I suppose. I’ve never taught anyone before.”

  Artemi moved quickly towards him and wrapped herself around him, laying her head against his chest. “Thank you... for allowing me to live.” Morghiad remained fixed in his position. He would have to teach her not to be so impulsive.

  He unhooked her arms as gently as he could, and it quickly became apparent to him that her dress was damp where it had touched his rain-soaked clothes. “I will see to it that my room becomes part of your duties. You are under my protection now; you are my concern. I will show you who the other kanaala are but in the meantime you must avoid all physical contact. And stay out of view of my father.” She was far too pretty to escape the fervour the king.

  She looked at him for a while, then dropped her head in acquiescence. Artemi moved gracefully to the pile of laundry she had folded and gathered it into her arms. The way she held them made her look as a queen who had been gifted with flowers. She shattered the image with a small curtsey and walked to the door. “I will see you again soon, my lord.”

  Morghiad opened the door for her and watched her dissolve into the misty gloom of the halls. He had to do everything he could to keep her safe, he realised. That would be very important for everybody.

  He stamped back into his chambers and pulled off his sodden boots. He had wanted to do that throughout the entire encounter, though it would have been a rude gesture to carry out before a wom
an. Feet free, he went to his book shelves. He had seen her face before. She had to be... He pulled out the red leather book again, then another green one next to it, a black one, a fragile brown tome, a pile of green fabric-bound ones and more until they made a disorganised pile on the floor. It was in one of these. He opened the most fragile, the oldest first. The yellowed text must have been thousands of years old. Some of the edges of the pages crumbled in his fingers. The book described the history of the Kusuru Assassins. He would have to come back to that one later. He flicked through a few of the more modern books. It was somewhere in one of these...

  There was a tall book still nestled on a high shelf above him, and something tickled his memory about it. It detailed a collection of old battles and victories some fifteen-hundred years previously. He had to stretch to reach it, and when he brought it down, the binding collapsed on itself. Pages scattered across the floor.

  Morghiad cursed and began sifting through them as carefully as he dared, but none of them seemed to have what he was looking for. After going through them twice, something caught his eye from across the room. The corners of a rogue sheaf of pages peeked out from under the bed; they must have drifted there after the fall.

  The kahr got on his hands and knees to bring them out, then fumbled through the delicate pages frenetically... and found it. He slumped in the armchair and examined the engraving closely. That was Artemi: her dark eyes, even features, the stubborn set to her jaw and cascading gold-red hair. A little older perhaps, but the picture was an accurate depiction that captured a small part of the beauty of the real woman. There was no doubt about her identity. She stood on an outcrop with the reins of her horse in one hand, and two crossed swords were strapped to her back. A dagger was hitched on her right thigh and he could just make out the hilt of a second in her left boot. Her outfit of bodice and breeches was an entirely black affair that clung to her curves admirably. Below the image was the caption, “The female warrior, Artemi, prepares for the Battle of Harend.”