Die for the Flame (3 page)

“I am a Grasslander.” Clarian broke in, his eyes flitting to Helan, but Helan was shaking her head.

“Do you not believe in the Flame, Clarian?” asked Rokkman.

“My father and Aunt Helan taught me about the Flame. But my mother is right. We are a long way from the Citadel and a long way from the Flame. Out here, the spirits of the Kobani Shadow World are very real.”

Rokkman leaned forward over the table. “You were born to the Flame. You must serve the Flame. It is your destiny. It is already written. If you disobey, there will be grave consequences for all of the Karran people.”

Clarian shrugged away from Rokkman. His lips were drawn in a tight line, and he looked away, a cold and distant look in his eyes.

After Rokkman and his soldiers retired, Helan pulled a chair close to Clarian, where he sat by the fire, staring into the yellow blaze. Putting her hand on his arm, she said, “You must go with them. You cannot escape what has been foretold.”

“Why should he go?” barked Ranna as she crossed the room to stand in front of them.

“Because even the Kobani spirits know he must go, Ranna. Why else would the tall woman have come so long ago and spoken to you in Kobani and brought the gift of the violet stone? In all the battles in which Clarian has fought against the Kobani, since he was only a boy, he was never seriously wounded. It was written long ago that this day would come.”

Clarian rose from his chair. “Enough! I must think.” He strode to the door, pulled on his boots, and dashed out into the black night and the drenching rain.

When he returned later, he sat by the fire far into the night, Helan and Ranna sitting close to him. Ranna cried, and Helan pleaded.

“I have no interest in their war.”

“It is your duty, Clarian,” Helan said. “It was your father’s duty, and he did not hesitate. He went and served the Flame and the Flamekeeper. Yes, these strangers have come for Orlan, but Orlan is gone. You must go in his place. You must honor your father and serve in his name. There is no higher duty. It is what he would have done and what he would want you to do. Honor the call from the Flamekeeper, Clarian.”

Before dawn, Clarian waved the women away. He did not sleep well but sat and dozed by the fading fire, a blanket over his lap. He felt uneasy and alone. His mind was filled with questions and fears. What could he possibly do to help the Flamekeeper or to help the Karran people? He was only a ferryman. He could fight the Maggan—fight alongside the other Karran men and defeat the enemy. But it all seemed so far away, a city he had never seen called the Citadel and the strange aggressor called the Maggan, who lived in a forest far on the other side of Karran. And then there was the Sacred Flame. Sure, his father had talked about the Flame and the Flamekeeper, but he had regarded the stories, just as his mother had told him of the Kobani spirits and the ways of her people. Stories. Wonderment. Magic. But now he was being drawn into what could become a terrible struggle against an enemy even stronger than the wild Kobani.

He rose and went outside to check the height of the river and the ferry. The rain had continued through the night, but the lightning and thunder had diminished. He was drenched again. But all was well.

CHAPTER TWO

A
rooster crowed, and the sky, still blanketed with dark storm clouds, turned gray in the east. Rain continued as a lazy drizzle, and the wind whipped the trees about the house, not ready to give up the storm. The river, having risen during the night, rushed below with a thunderous force. The ferry was safely secured to the pilings at the landing.

Ranna came out from her room into the great room to put wood on the fire and begin preparations for breakfast. She fretted for Clarian and for the ferry and for herself. She and Helan could be left alone, far out here at the edge of the Karran lands. What if the Kobani, her people, should rise up and attack as they had so many times in the past? What if Clarian was slain by the terrible Maggan? Helan shuffled in, sleepy-eyed and frowning.

All morning, neither Ranna nor Helan asked Clarian what his decision would be. By the time the strangers emerged from their rooms, he had gone up to the barn to bring down four of his horses. He had made his decision, although it was clear he wasn’t happy about it. The horses Rokkman and his men had ridden were in no condition to go on another journey, and he turned them out into the pasture.

After a quick meal, Clarian, Rokkman, Lillan, and Parsan assembled outside. Rokkman reached for the big, chestnut-colored mare.

“That’s my horse. Take one of the others,” Clarian snapped.

Parsan snickered and quickly looked away when Rokkman glared at him.

The men worked in silence as they loaded their horses with grain bags, food for the trip, and weapons. Rokkman told Clarian he would leave Parsan to protect the women and work the ferry. Nodding, Clarian returned the extra horse to the barn.

Clarian pulled down his favorite bow, along with other weapons, from the wall. Ranna carried out extra clothing, which he stuffed in his saddlebags. She clung to her son as he turned to say good-bye, crying openly. He kissed his mother, hugged Helan, and mounted his mare, the big, chestnut-colored Ruttu.

Rokkman and Lillan mounted, both showing some stiffness from the hard ride to the frontier in the previous days.

Clarian leaned down and caressed his mother’s face, and they spoke softly in their own tongue. Helan came close, and he kissed her hand as she reached for him.

“Send for Rostan to help you,” Clarian said.

“Ladies, I leave Parsan here to help with the ferry and to protect you and the ferry. Thank you. Good-bye,” said Rokkman, his white hair and beard framing his craggy face, which was seamed with worry lines.

The dogs were whining and restless. Helan held on to them as Clarian and the other two rode off down the muddy road into the Grasslands toward the east and the Citadel. Parsan waved halfheartedly, not happy to be left behind, and Lillan waved back as the riders dropped out of sight down a slope. Rokkman did not look back as he urged his horse forward. Helan held Ranna around her shoulders while she sobbed over Clarian’s departure.

As the drizzle stopped, a yellow sun broke through a split in the gray clouds, outlining the riders in gold. The wind came up, and the grass rippled in waves of green-gold, and the smell of wet grass was sweet. As the riders crested a rise, Clarian turned in his saddle and waved to his mother and aunt. And then the riders were gone, swallowed up by the vast Grasslands.

The three riders rode hard and fast and urgently, pushing their horses. The day grew hot as the storm passed, and the clouds fled westward before the wind. The sun broke out and blazed down sharply. The men stopped by a brook to let the
horses drink and rest. They were still in the Grasslands, and there were no trees for shade. Far to the east, a faint line of dark-green hills could be seen edging up along the horizon.

Clarian could only wonder at the turn of events. During the hard ride that morning, neither Rokkman nor Lillan seemed inclined to talk. He had no idea what the Flamekeeper wanted with him. What could he do against the Maggan? He worried about his mother and aunt left at the ferry, and he was grateful that Rokkman had left Parsan to protect them.

They rode swiftly for three days, urging the horses to their limits. During the night of the fourth day, they clambered through a ravine and topped an incline in the road. There before them on a high hill lay the lights of the Citadel, the main city of the Karran people, spilling over and down the hill. On the pinnacle of the hill towered the structure from which the city got its name—an eight-sided castle, silhouetted darkly against a star-bright sky.

“There is the Citadel, Clarian,” said Rokkman, his voice thick with fatigue.

Clarian was too tired to speak, but he gazed with wonder at the city and the castle. He wanted to get off this horse and sleep for a long time. If they stopped the horses, he thought he could get off and lie down right next to the road and drift off.

“I hope the cook is still busy in the kitchen,” Lillan said with a chuckle.

“If not, I know how to rouse him,” replied Rokkman, grinning. “Come on, Clarian. We’d better hurry. Can’t keep the Flamekeeper waiting.”

There was little traffic on the road—only a few groups of Citadel soldiers on horseback, a few wagons of produce heading to market to set up before morning, and several farmers herding animals. The road to the Citadel led upward and then encircled the hill, making several complete circuits before ending at a large gate, big enough to drive in two wagons side by side.

The Citadel, made of great gray stone blocks, rose up from the bedrock eight floors. It was still the dark of night and not much could be seen, but Clarian thought he could see men on watch on the outer walls.

Lillan called out as they approached the gate, and it swung open. Several soldiers were there to meet them. They rode their horses through the gate and into a courtyard, where they dismounted. Rokkman spoke to a soldier who appeared to be an officer. Rokkman turned to Clarian and said, “Clarian. Go with this man. He will show you where you can sleep for a few hours. He will awaken you when it is time to see the Flamekeeper.”

Clarian started to ask a question, but Rokkman had already shuffled off and disappeared into a doorway, and Lillan had gone off in another direction. Clarian followed the soldier into a corridor that after several turns ended in a barracks room with cots. The soldier said some food and water would be brought in, showed Clarian where he could wash up, and pointed out a bed. In the dim light, Clarian could see that some of the cots were occupied by sleeping soldiers. The soldier had not yet exited the room before Clarian was lying on his bed fast asleep.

CHAPTER THREE

C
larian was dreaming that the river had overflowed its banks and was threatening his cottage. He had taken refuge in his house, but his house was flooding and shaking from the raging floodwater, shaking, shaking…

“Clarian, Clarian, wake up!” said Lillan, trying to keep her voice low so as not to wake the others sleeping on nearby cots.

“What? What is it?” Clarian answered, his voice groggy as he lifted his head.

“Get up. You have to go see the Flamekeeper. Get cleaned up! You’re a mess, and you stink. There’s some food on the table. Hurry!”

Bleary-eyed, his face swollen with fatigue, Clarian rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.

“Here, let me help you,” said Lillan, grabbing Clarian’s cot and turning it over, dumping Clarian onto the cold, stone floor. She took a pitcher of water from the nightstand and dumped it over his head. By now he was awake and angry and trying to sit up.

Lillan turned to a large soldier who stood behind her, grinning, and said, “Get him ready and bring him up to Rokkman’s office as soon as possible.”

“Certainly,” said the soldier, trying to hold back his laughter.

The stone stairs were wide and gray and worn with little depressions where many feet had trod over the years. Clarian followed the soldier up, level after level, and down dimly lit corridors until the man finally stopped outside a large wooden door.

“Wait,” he said to Clarian. He entered and shut the door behind him.

Clarian was starting to feel a bit better. The water dashed in the face had infuriated him, but it had shocked him awake. He had washed the dust of the journey off and changed into clean clothes from his saddlebags. A spare breakfast of bread and a cup of milk had been provided. His body was stiff after the hurried journey, but he tried to ignore the discomfort and managed the hike up the endless stairs and down the shadowed hallways behind the young soldier. He wasn’t going to show any weakness to Lillan or Rokkman, especially Rokkman, who, after all, was not a young man but could ride with the best of them.

“Go in,” said the soldier as he opened the door wide for Clarian.

The room was large, with a window in one wall, a fireplace filled with burning logs, a wall of books, several chairs, and a large desk to one side. Rokkman was standing by the fire. “Come in, Clarian,” he said, pointing to a chair. “Sit down.” Rokkman peered intently at Clarian.

“In a moment, I will take you to see Norrodan, the Flamekeeper,” he continued. “He knows we have arrived, and he is anxious to see you. You must bow before the Flamekeeper. He is a holy man. Treat him with great respect. He is the leader of our people. I cannot tell you what to say. I do not know what you will be asked to do. But be assured, the Flamekeeper will have an assignment for you. As I explained back on the frontier, all of us are in desperate danger from the Maggan. You, me, your dear mother, we all face this grim situation. Think of what your father would have done were he in your shoes. Is any request too great on this dark day?”

“But I have no idea what I will be asked,” said Clarian. “And I don’t know what I could do to help. I will be a soldier if that is what he asks. Beyond that, what could he ask? What more could I do?”

A man in a blue robe appeared at the door and nodded to Rokkman.

“It is time to go.” Rokkman led Clarian from the room and down a corridor and then up a flight of stairs, stopping at a wooden door that had emblazoned on it a symbol of a flame. Rokkman knocked.

The door opened, and a small, sharp-featured man showed them into a room much like Rokkman’s office. Clarian studied the old man and then glanced sideways at Rokkman as if to ask, “Is this the Flamekeeper?”

“He’s not the Flamekeeper. He’s the Flamekeeper’s assistant,” said Rokkman.

“Ha, ha, ha! You thought I was the Flamekeeper! That’s a good one!” the old man said, laughing.

“Thank you, Dellan,” said Rokkman, grinning.

“I’ll go see if he wants to see you now,” Dellan said with a chuckle.

Dellan crossed the room to a door with the violet flame painted on it. He came back quickly and motioned to both Rokkman and Clarian.

“He’ll see you both.” Dellan led Rokkman, with Clarian following, into a great room, where they saw a blazing fireplace; several chairs by the hearth; tapestries on the walls; rich carpets on the stone floors; books lining the walls and piled on several tables; a huge desk near the fire; and over the fireplace, a tapestry showing a white flame in the center of a field of violet.

An old man, with flowing white hair and beard, blue eyes sparkling, came around from behind the desk, smiling, and beckoned them to come in. “Rokkman! You’ve returned. And you have brought someone with you. Introduce us. Come, my son. Come closer so that I may see you more clearly,” said the Flamekeeper.

Rokkman, his hand guiding Clarian, approached the Flamekeeper and bowed and then nudged Clarian, who hurriedly bowed.

“Sit down, both of you. First I want to hear your report about what you found, Rokkman,” said the Flamekeeper. He sat down in a chair across from Rokkman and Clarian as Rokkman began telling the story of his journey to the ferry on the river and his meeting with Clarian and his mother. He ended by explaining that Orlan was dead but that Clarian was a ferryman and had come in his place.

“Ah, I remember your father well, Clarian,” said the Flamekeeper. “He was the bravest of the brave, and the Maggan feared his presence on the field of battle. I am sorry to hear he has gone on to the land of spirit and is not here with us now at this terrible time of need. I did not know he had a son. But I can see the resemblance quite clearly. I never met your mother, I am sorry to say. I am sure she worries as all mothers do. How is she?”

“She is well, sir,” replied Clarian.

Rokkman added, “I left a soldier to protect her and the ferry.”

“Good. And now, Clarian, you must wonder why you are here. We have plucked you from your ferry and your river and from your mother’s house. What could it mean?”

“I have no idea, sir.”

“There are few coincidences in life, my son. Few accidents, either. It is already written what shall come to be and what role each of us will play. But destiny is not fixed. You and I and Rokkman, here, may choose to go down this road or that road, and then destiny may follow, for a while. Destiny changes us, and we change destiny, and when we change destiny, we change it for those around us as well as for ourselves. Each road leads to a different place. Yet all roads lead to the Crystal Mountains—or should. The Oracle has spoken, and you are now part of the destiny of the Karran people and their hope of rescue. The Maggan
will
attack us. When we signed the declaration of peace years ago, we believed the Maggan would keep the peace forever, as we pledged to keep it. But now we know that they betray that pledge.”

“How can I help? I am but a simple ferryman!”

“I see you wear a talisman of the Immortal Ones about your neck.”

“I guess. I was just told about this a few days ago by my mother.”

“Do you know what it means, Clarian? The talisman?” asked the Flamekeeper.

“Not really. It is for protection, I’m told.”

“Yes, and more. It is rarely given, and it is given only to one who is worthy. And it sets one apart from all others, for it is a key to the mysteries of the Crystal Mountains and the Immortal Ones. Through this talisman will come the answers to all your questions if you but listen.”

The Flamekeeper sat relaxed in his chair, sharp eyes shrewdly contemplating the young man before him. Rokkman and Clarian waited. The Flamekeeper closed his eyes and seemed to drift into sleep. The logs in the fire crackled and popped and shifted on the grate. A clock against the wall chimed the morning hour softly, gears whirring. At last, the Flamekeeper opened his eyes and smiled.

“It is good that we have found you. Now you can fulfill your mission.”

“I’m sorry, Holy One, but my mission is to run my ferry out on the Grasslands.”

“This is all new to you, I know. The Maggan seek to possess the Flame. They know of its power and want it for themselves. Deep in their crippled hearts they know that their people need the Flame. But they think to steal it by way of war. They seek the Flame for purposes of power, not to do good. The Flame cannot be stolen. It can only be given. It is there for all peoples, but they must be worthy. And the Flame cannot be used for evil. It simply will not respond. This, the Maggan do not understand.”

“Yes, but I’m just a ferryman,” Clarian said again.

“That was before, in the past, my son. Right now, your mission is to defend Karran and the Flame.” The Flamekeeper grew quiet to allow the words to sink in. After a moment, he continued. “Let us turn to the work at hand. You wish to know why you are here and what exactly is wanted of you.”

“Yes. This is not my war. This is not my religion!” exclaimed Clarian. “I’ve never even seen a Maggan! I don’t belong here!”

“Clarian!” cried Rokkman.

“My mission is to work my ferry, not to get into a war between priests. None of this seems real,” asked Clarian.

“We have a mission for you,” said the Flamekeeper.

“What mission?” asked Clarian.

“Here is your mission. You will join the Karran army against the Maggan. You will serve to protect the Flame and not let it fall into the hands of the Maggan. You will work to save the Karran people. So has the Oracle spoken.”

“But Holy One, I thought that…” sputtered Rokkman.

“That will be enough for now. There may be additional things asked of you, Clarian, at a later time.”

Rokkman looked puzzled, but he kept his silence when the Flamekeeper shook his head.

Clarian pouted and looked toward the door through which he would have liked to escape.

“Come, Clarian. I will show you the castle,” said Rokkman.

“You did not reveal his true mission, Holy One,” said Rokkman said to the Flamekeeper later.

“No. I am unsure, I must admit. He’s barely a man, a boy really. Let us test him and see how he does. We can reveal his true mission to him later, after we learn more about him,” replied the Flamekeeper. “I can’t read his character. There’s something wild and unpredictable about him. Take charge of him, Rokkman. Then we’ll see.”

“There are others who know. People are already talking.”

“I was so sure that I failed to keep it all a secret. I thought Orlan was still alive. Now all is changed.”

“Someone may reveal something to him.”

“I know. He must be tested, and soon. See to it.”