Authors: Rhiannon Paille
“Do you understand my words?” Crestaos asked her somewhat amused. She didn’t say anything but continued to rub her broken wrist, healing it silently with her inborn abilities. “Ah, you will not speak to me then. I know who you are.”
“Lle-uum,” she mumbled under her breath still waiting for her strength to take her over.
“Lotesse …” Crestaos whispered with a menacing low chortle.
The girl’s eyes shot open. They were no longer blue, but filled with bright green, full of the Flame’s fire. She turned towards him, wanting to know where he heard that name, how did he know her, what did he want. She gaped at him, and found the words stuck in her throat.
“Tell me Lotesse, where are the Flames?”
A pit formed in her stomach. He knew her deepest secret. She wondered how, the people of Nazole thought she was a princess. Only Lady Satarine and her council knew her secret. The Flames were so well protected, so well hidden. She opened her hands and created a green shield around herself, an attempt at protection against the ill will of Crestaos. She feared in this place she wouldn’t be able to hold him off for long, her magic weak.
Crestaos smirked. “So you do know, and yet you will not speak?”
“Amin uum sint,” she spat, her eyes narrowed in contempt.
“Ah but you do know. It is in your body, in your blood.” Crestaos moved closer and reached into a pouch. He removed a handful dust and looked at her again. “Reveal the location of the Flames, and I will let you live.”
“Amin mem gurtha,” she held her ground.
Crestaos tightened his gaze and the shield dropped, slamming her against the wall. She slid to the ground, too speechless to move. “Do not test me. Tell me what I want to know!” Confused and knocked to the ground, Lotesse coughed attempting to catch her breath. She dragged herself against the walls of the dungeon to show her strength, but the light of the Flame drained away, her eyes appearing blue again.
“Amin uum sint.”
“You will speak or you will be tortured.”
“Amin mem eska,” Lotesse called back at him. His presence made her weaker, she held her stomach and doubled over.
“I don’t believe you can’t find them. Track them for me. You can live if you give them up.”
“Amin mem gurtha. Amin mem eska,” Lotesse cried out as the stabbing pain in her gut worsened. The healing she had done on her wrist went sour and it fell limp. She grimaced, and the room spun. “Amin … uum … sint,” she whispered as she sank to the ground, strength faltering, sleep calling her, death wanting her.
Crestaos looked livid. “It will be slow and painful, but you leave me with no choice. After this you will be returned to Nazole, if you live.” He threw a handful of dust into the chamber and took a step back. Parasites hit her flesh, spreading almost instantly to every part of her. She attempted to rub them off but they were already soaking into her skin, grabbing her Flame within and putting her into a state of agony. She screamed as the burning sensation intensified leaving her Flame trapped.
She was ready to pass out but fought for consciousness as Crestaos entered the chamber, his leather shoes planted in the muck. He waited, waited until the pain was too much and she could do nothing but stare at him open mouthed until he bent down, presenting a small orb. Lotesse felt like she was being torn from the body, like fabric being unraveled at the seams. She didn’t know what this was, how he returned, why he was seeking vengeance, but she knew one thing: he wouldn’t stop until he found every last one of them.
Water squished under Turon’s boots as he descended the clammy stairway. He wasn’t afraid, only aghast he had to carry out this final task. Killing her wasn’t enough for Crestaos, he wanted to make an impact, and that meant doing something he found unthinkable. He neared the flat iron bars of the dungeon cell and opened it with ease. The girl inside was still. He sighed as he bent to pick her up, knowing full well she was covered in the muck on the floor. Before he reached her, her body jolted. He avoided eye contact with her. Her head was facing the back wall and something told him he didn’t want to see her eyes.
He reached into his pocket and found the lantern. Being the only one skilled in using it, he was the one who alone would transport her. No need to make a spectacle of it, the sheer volume of the atrocity he was about to commit would suffice enough to prove his wretchedness to Crestaos. He paused and pulled her towards the wall, and sat her up against the brick. He hoped some of the sticky ooze would slide off her back, and in the meantime he begrudgingly set the coordinates.
She was beautiful. Even though her face was shriveled and scarred rust red, he thought who she used to be would have been pretty. Her hair had started to fall out; it laid in clumps on the floor, either from her tearing it out or from the effects of the parasite. Had the parasite not damaged her vocal cords she would be screaming inconsolably. Instead she stared away from him while he finished working.
Contemplating how to transport her he bent down and touched a portion of her dress unharmed by the muck and the parasites. “Come Lotesse, time to go home.”
The orb in the lantern glowed and exploded into the room, pulling them both through the rift. He didn’t bother to hang onto her as they tumbled through space and time. He landed squarely on his feet. He had done this so many times before it was less than amusing. She on the other hand fell into a heap on the ground at his feet.
It was midday in Nazole. He looked up; the castle a few yards away. He bent to pick her up and her arm jolted out, draping itself around his boot. The gesture was meant to cause harm but in truth it was her begging for death. He grimaced, picked her up and cradled her across the length of his arms. He walked solemnly forward, anxiety rising in him. He set her down, took out the lantern and set the dials for home. The last place he wanted to be when this was finished was with the demon he called master.
She twitched again; death so near he could taste it on her. Hastily he grabbed her again and began walking towards the thick archway marking the edge of the shield. Beyond that was a large slab of stone extending from the tall castle doors. He saw a woman in white scouring the rock, her silvery-white hair flowing around her shoulders. Pinpricks touched the back of his neck. Satarine. He hadn’t the pleasure of facing her when they took the girl. He almost longed for the chance to face her now.
He stiffened at the sight of the guards. He could grab the lantern in a flash and disappear, but if those guards were within range, they would transport with him. He sighed and closed his eyes reciting the shadow spell. It would do no good for Lotesse; they would see her floating towards them. However, his shape would remain concealed. He felt the light bending around him as invisibility took him over.
The distance closed between himself and the guards, puzzled looks on their faces as he carried Lotesse. Before he had a chance to drop her at their feet, his eyes met with Satarine’s. She saw through the shadow spell, her blue eyes blazing with an icy coldness that ran shivers up his spine. She charged towards him and shouted something at the guards in a language he couldn’t understand.
Turon panicked. He threw the girl in the air at Satarine and stumbled backwards searching his cloak frantically for the lantern. His fingers curled around the smooth metal. He clicked the last of the coordinates into place as he watched Lotesse land in Satarine’s arms. All he could hear as the orb exploded was her deafening cry of anguish.
***
Chapter 4
Crestaos roared as he threw the orb across the room. It smashed against the stone wall and shattered into pieces. Lorac sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “It was beginner’s luck, we had no idea the girl was a Flame.”
Crestaos shot him the iciest glare. “I must find her.”
Lorac nodded. They were in the grand hall at Cam’Wethrin. Crestaos paced the hall with anger in his eyes. It had been weeks since their expedition to Nazole and he was growing impatient. They couldn’t locate another Flame. Lotesse held the key to their unveiling and she proved useless to their cause.
“I admit we have had some setbacks,” Lorac commented. He was uninterested in finding the Flames. Ever since he faced Isadora in Avrigost he had been more than happy to stay away from the rest of them. Crestaos however was adamant; he had a fascination with their unique qualities. Crestaos stalked the floor, lost in thought. “She evaded me, she knows something, where is the one I want?”
Lorac hoped he wouldn’t throw something else at his head, or paralyze him with his abilities. It had been a taxing few weeks. Azdrach’s insanity grew thicker, Hortis was still suffering insomnia and the others had distanced themselves in hopes of finding some form of peace. Even Valtor had suffered enough and went searching for the goblin that brought the shard in the first place.
Narwa strode into the hall. He went to back away when both of them turned to look at him.
“You,” Crestaos snapped.
Narwa shot a look at Lorac; he constantly confessed his fear of Crestaos and loathed to be in his company. He fidgeted nervously but stepped forward. Crestaos approached him placing his bony hand on Narwa’s temple.
“Twin flames!” Crestaos roared as he dropped his hand and smacked Narwa across the face. The elven was knocked to the ground and Lorac wanted to laugh but kept it in. “Liar!”
Narwa stood, looking guilty. He used to be Lord Orneshon’s advisor. While the Daed warrior never mentioned Flames to Lorac, he should have said something. Lorac wanted to slit his throat for keeping the truth from them, and causing their faction unnecessary hardship.
“I—”
“Silence! Where are they?”
“Zzz, Zzz, Zanandir,” Narwa stuttered and hung his head.
Crestaos’s lips twisted up in a grin as he licked his lips with greed. “You will retrieve them, or I will consume your soul.”
Narwa hung his head. “Aye.”
“You weakling. Why didn’t reveal your knowledge of the Flames?” Valtor said, his sword pressed against Narwa’s throat. He eased his back into the wall, waiting for the others to enter the place of arms so they could figure out what to do next. He glanced at the door trying to conceal a grimace. He once admired the twins, and though he betrayed Orneshon, he couldn’t bring himself to betray his daughters as well.
“You better not fail,” Valtor continued.
“Nay, he will not. We will follow,” Turon said as he set the lantern on the altar. He raised an eyebrow. “You will need a disguise.”
“We will all need a disguise,” Azdrach groaned as he rested his hands on his staff and gazed at the shadows dancing across the walls. His mental state was still slanted since their expedition to Avrigost. Turon tried everything to cure him, but necra powder was the only thing that emitted normalcy out of him.
“Do you foresee success?” Hortis asked.
“Lust and poverty and showers of peasants. Night fall will come, night fall will come,” Azdrach mumbled.
Turon sighed. “I need a dram of necra powder, plus the moonstone and,” he paused and turned towards the cabinet himself. He pulled out the things he needed, mixing them to create the poison.
“I would prefer to train the troops,” Delotha huffed, arms crossed across his chest.
Turon lit the candles and began dissolving the necra powder. He handed the green sticky liquid to Azdrach and continued to crush an infusion of herbs into a powder. He gave the moonstone to Narwa and watched as Azdrach downed the necra powder.
“We will arrive by night fall. They are in the royal city. There is a celebration. Shezeel is a vixen with great powers of manipulation. Do not fall prey to her trap,” Azdrach said.
“Take this.” Turon handed Narwa a small vile of liquid. He downed it and waited. Narwa felt the moonstone beating in his veins, spreading, transforming. His breathing became labored as he cough and spat, almost in hysterics. He felt paralyzed as the others in his faction watched. Turon began chanting in a low tone while the others gathered around and followed, resulting in a cacophonic heap of meaningful mumbles. He levitated to the air, blue shoots of energy forming around his body.
He closed his eyes, his body shifting, turning him into the white haired, spotted Zanads. The poison seeped through him, fortifying the process, making what was energetic into physical matter, causing his body to feel like it was on fire. His lungs widened and his heart shrunk, his stomach shifted, and muscle piled itself upon existing muscle. He wanted to scream in pain but all he could concentrate on were the shadows flickering off the walls.
“We have sixteen hours, or sixteen days, or sixteen minutes; I’m not sure if my calculations are precise,” Turon shouted. Narwa opened his eyes long enough to see him clicking the coordinates into place. He paused and turned to Narwa, the transformation almost complete. The orb exploded, ripping them through time and space.
Shezeel curtsied to the peasant as the guard led her pick onto the dance floor. She waited by the orchestra pit to the far left of the checkered floor. They struck up a lively tune and she sashayed to the music, turning, spinning and dipping along with the music. The peasant wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed his nose into her deep blue locks, smelling the saccharine scent of dragon’s blood. It aroused him as she pulled away and let him dip her. Her tanned fingers trailed along the checkered dance floor until he pulled her into him and pressed his hips against her torso.
“Careful,” Shezeel said with a mocking tone as she maneuvered her hips against him and twisted out of his grasp, dancing away from him. He ungracefully strode towards her and caught her hand, pulling her towards him, her back hitting his chest hard. He wasn’t allowed to speak to her, but he growled in her ear. It meant he wanted to get the most out of the dance, and since she chose him, he wouldn’t let her go back on her decision.
She giggled and swiveled in his arms, catching his hand and drawing into a waltz. They swept across the dance floor as the music swelled to its peak. He lifted her and spun her around, making her feel feather light. Shezeel let her usual black glazed over eyes shine with wisps of pink as he set her down and dipped her again.
The music reached its last note as the top of her head hit the floor. The peasant pulled her up and she smiled sweetly while staring at his black eyes, her pink ones making him fumble as he slid his arms away from her waist.
“That will be all,” she said with a smirk as she flounced back to the tent at the far end of the dance floor. She ducked in and flopped onto a golden pillow. She noticed him standing at the foot of the steps, his black eyes staring at her with desire. Cosissea moved to the steps and his desire turned to fear. He hung his head as the guards grabbed him and pulled him towards the peasants’ quarters.
Cosissea turned her icy stare from the peasant to Shezeel. She lounged, eating an apple. She shot her twin an innocent smile.
“The guards will have to arrest him,” Cosissea said. She narrowed her eyes and paced towards the pillows. She wouldn’t sit.
Shezeel swallowed hard on a bite of the apple and giggled. “Why? I highly doubt he would harm me.”
Cosissea scoffed and crossed her arms. “He’ll try to break into the palace. I could see it in his eyes.”
Shezeel sighed. “Would you prefer I dance with someone else? Perhaps I could ask Trystole, he won’t notice the difference.”
Cosissea growled under her breath and looked at the dance floor. Shezeel followed her gaze. It was a night like any other, Lord Orneshon’s court filled with festivities, dancing, singing, and magicians playing. There were fiddlers on the stage to the right, hundreds crowded in the peasants’ quarters to the left, watching, and longing for an invitation from the nobles. Trystole wasn’t among the nobles. She turned to Shezeel with a question on her lips.
“He left. His mother looked ill,” Shezeel said. She finished the apple and tossed the core on the rug below them. A servant would pick it up later.
Cosissea opened her mouth to speak and then closed it. “I made him aware of your games.” Her voice was flat and unfeeling. There was always something to be worried about with Shezeel. She was manipulative and conniving where Cosissea was straightforward and confrontational.
“Calm yourself. I’ll leave him be,” Shezeel said as she stood. “Besides, I find love silly.”
“I’m not in love with Trystole,” Cosissea snapped. She walked over to the apple core and picked it up. She tossed it out of the tent aimlessly.
Shezeel rolled her eyes. “You can’t say that if you’re going to marry him. What will you tell him at the ceremony?”
Cosissea gave her a half smile. She joined her sister at the edge of the canopy and followed her gaze. “I only took his proposal because of the land. Zanandir needs strength. Trystole has that.”
“He’s very ugly otherwise,” Shezeel commented. She dared a sideways glance at Cosissea and chortled. “I meant …” she trailed off into giggles and turned back to the pillows. “Never mind. I agree, Trystole is strong, but why do we require anything? The people are satisfied.”
Cosissea shook her head and turned to stare at her. “Something comes.”
Shezeel perked up and her face went dark. “You heard the call too? I thought I had gone right mad. There hasn’t been trouble in the land for centuries.” Jesters on the dance floor juggled with a number of knives, entertaining the crowds. They made a huge whooping sound as the jester dropped one of the knives and nearly stabbed his toe. Cosissea sighed.
“I heard it. And we can’t allow our people to suffer. You know I’ll right every wrong committed against us,” Cosissea said, hints of crimson bubbling into her eyes. She moved to a red cushioned settee and sat. Her face was full of other thoughts.
“You think there will be bloodshed.” It wasn’t a question.
“I know there will be. I don’t know how many we’ll lose,” Cosissea replied.
Shezeel paused to let the words soak in. “I’ll write something for you to say at the ceremony.” She crossed the embroidered rug. “In the meantime, I think it best you alert the guards. We may have more than one break in attempt.” She winked as she descended the steps to find another victim.
Narwa jumped down from the stove as the woman stared at him in disbelief. His own expression was of shock and embarrassment, unsure if he would be captured and found out right there or if the woman would understand. She started screaming at him in the Zanad tongue. He attempted to understand her strong Zanandian accent but it was no use. He put his hands out in front of him to try and calm her down, and started to speak slower so she could attempt to understand him.
“I am a guard of the City of the Moon, please, I am in pursuit of shadows,” Narwa lied, but he sounded as though he had never spoken the Zanad tongue before and fully pronounced his words.
She relaxed, and rattled off something in her tongue which he didn’t understand and she pointed at the front door, as though to say she saw the shadows and they left that way.
Narwa nodded, and moved into the streets. This was a poor part of town, everyone had their linens on lines. Even though it was a ground level home, she still had a line extending and connecting to the building across the narrow street. He grabbed a couple of pieces from the line, peasants clothing, and noted slosh on the ground and a chill in the air. He grabbed a couple of extra pieces to layer on himself and started to walk towards the center of the city. The sun was setting on the other side of the horizon. He could see it in the distance as he walked down the narrow road, shivering.
Godforsaken rats nest. And this is a land of peace, evidently not in this part of town.
He passed a park and noticed some kids playing and realized he was still adorned as a guard. They looked at him oddly as though no guard would be there, and then continued fighting with their wooden swords. Narwa found a spot behind one of the stone houses and quickly changed his disguise. He wouldn’t be able to pull off being a guard for long. The guards never got anywhere near to the Zanad Princesses, which was his only goal.
The clothes fit loosely and unconventionally around his body. He didn’t like how he was forced to walk, as though on tiptoe all the time, their tendons forcing the heels to remain raised at all times. The boots he stole off the guard hadn’t been very comforting at all, made out of metal, and used more as a weapon than anything else. Zanad guards were known for their high kicks, and wore metal shoes with spikes, in case their enemy wanted to fight. Their kick was rather endangering to the receiver, often spewing blood and bone in every direction.
Narwa walked passed more houses, each one with their clothes lines hanging and baskets of laundry along the sides of the doors. The metal shoes were the worst and he longed for something leathery, soft and tough. Sighing loudly he stopped and found a spot along the side of one of the houses. He sat and began rubbing his feet, knowing there must be something to be done about the pain, both from the spell and from the hard cobblestone ground. He stood up again and peeked around the corner at the wooden bin of clothes. He picked through almost to the bottom until he found something leather. It felt soft, but tough, maybe an animal hide. He pulled it out and felt relieved. Narwa used the spikes from the metal shoes from the guard’s disguise, and cut the piece of leather in half. He tied it around his toes and ankle so it would stay.
“Slow poke,” a voice hissed from the shadows.
Narwa recognized the voice. “Delotha, I must travel on foot,” he stated dryly into the darkness.
“Aye, I was left to look after you, and I spotted a horse a few houses down. You might steal it to continue,” Delotha explained to him in a whisper.