Sefiros Eishi: Chased By Flame Page 5

  Kris de Varin, the current innkeeper, was coming into the establishment’s inheritance when it happened, and found himself holding onto a legacy of paranoia and superstition. It was only due to the barkeep’s skillful inventions of whiskey that kept the customers happy. And yet, for all the business, de Varin still couldn’t get enough coin to rebuild the roof. All he could manage was a third-rate job from old Ban Cronos, the drunken thatcher. Thus the roof hung down the house like a hat slanting off of one’s brow, always on the verge of falling.

  Inside was a different situation. A thick clamor choked the air, bawdry words and the thumping of frost-lipped tankards drummed an almost hypnotic beat. Another inn, another whore. Mykel dared not glance up; he did not want to get into trouble. Not again. Grumbling to himself he followed the Khatari to the bar.

  Kris de Varin caught sight of them from the bar and waved them over. A big bear of a man, de Varin wore a heavy apron that never seemed clean. Amazingly enough he was the inn cook as well as the innkeeper; as such he was always covered in a sheen of flour. Especially his inn-roof medallion resting on his broad chest. It was more white than silver now, with glittering veins encircling the traces of sigils and coins like drug-dust. Otherwise the man wore age well. Only a few wrinkles creased his face. A dark bolt carving a canyon beneath his right eye was the only link between him and the Khatari. Some said Lazarus had saved him from the full blow, the bards would sing. Of course, they would sing at just about everything if there was more copper to be passed around.

  “Lazarus, you old dog! It’s been a while!”

  “It has, my friend. It has. How are you dealing with the Festival?”

  De Varin snorted. “Badly. Normally I encourage people to get drunk. More coin for me. But I didn’t expect this many people. Even the nobles are coming in, asking for their precious aged wine. It’s sickening. I actually had to scourge up those casks from eighty-six from the cellar.”

  “Not the De Chere?” Lazarus’ face twisted in a grimace at the other’s nod. “Damn. That was one of the few good things to come from the war. Do you have any left?”

  “Yes, but you’ll have to give me your arm for it.” The innkeeper shrugged helplessly. “You’re a friend, Lazarus. But you’re just one man. I’ve got several customers waiting for this in the next few days. I have to save it.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll take the Queen’s Crown, then.”

  De Varin nodded glumly, and then poured a glass from a long-necked bottle. Lazarus reached to take the glass but Varin snatched it back. “Ten pence.”

  “Ten pence? Now I know I’m hearing things.”

  “Sorry Lazarus. Like I said, I’m all filled up. Not everyone here is a nobleman. I’m running out of brandy too.” The creased face folded up into a remorseful grimace. “If this keeps up I’ll have a riot on my hands.”

  Mykel grunted silently. The familiar feeling of invisibility crept over his spine. No matter. The conversation was less interesting than one of Lazarus’ archeological lectures. He was used to disappearing in the middle of a conversation, anyway.

  He glanced back to the singer on stage and started. Being a tavern and all Mykel had assumed there was a sultry wench hacking the lyrics. But the girl before him could no more draw an eye than if she was packed in wool. She was a homely-looking brunette; not the kind that one would expect amidst a den of flesh and silk, but standing before the tavern, singing her heart out. Mykel felt the first tingles of heat rouse in him. Homely... He shook his head. She really was talented. The tankard-thumping had ceased, and all patrons were edging their seats to listen.

  “Who is this man, this braggart old man,

  who fawns over me like a child?

  Love he boasts to me, a love long brewing by hands of fate not mild,

  And me a princess. A princess, do you hear?

  In this silly old thing? Rags and dirt are royal in his eyes.

  Red becomes me, his words force my vise.

  Eyes, laughing eyes, flog precise.

  Shall I play in his game,

  Revel with his name,

  Never be the same

  Until the gold is ‘tween my fingers.

  My sisters’ laughs burn,

  Thinking me fault in my turn,

  Thinking me unlearned,

  Prey for the taking.

  He is gold, and if I speak real,

  Unravel his tiers,

  Their talons will be in before I draw last breath.

  A doxy who cannot draw coin keeps coin from others.

  What shall I do?

  What shall I do?”

  There was mild applause. The Ballad of Shayna was not the most favored pick from the choice songs in the Sefiros Cayokite saga. But it was one of the few chances to know the character development of the saga’s lesser-known cast. The translation from the original Frecin was a little off, of course, but otherwise a stunning performance. Mykel found his eyes following her as she bowed and left the stage, woolen plaits flashing. His throat was suddenly tight with dryness. She’s so beautiful... He shook the haze from his head. It wasn’t going to go anywhere. Nowhere new, anyway. I wonder if Caryl’s free... He shook his head again.

  “I see your young one likes my Shayna up there.” De Varin’s voice boomed from out of nowhere like a thunderclap. When Mykel twisted the innkeeper’s face bent with a knowing smile. “I could arrange a meeting, if you like.”

  “I... uh...” Words were ash in his mind, his tongue a clammy useless thing. The red raced up in his cheeks with a heat that was almost palpable. Fortunately, Lazarus saved him from any embarrassment words would have thrown him.

  “All young men like girls, Kris. I remember a certain someone who liked them a bit too much a while back.” He sipped his drink as de Varin sputtered. “Though I am surprised. Is business that bad to hire a singer?”

  “Now don’t you start on me with your “high-and-mighty” routine, old dog. Inns of all respectable communities have singers. Anyway, there is talent there. No waste in letting it rot away moaning in some whorehouse. I’m helping keep girls off the street.”

  “Aha.” Lazarus took a last swig of his drink before rising. “Well, I suppose I’d best be getting to what I came here for. You have the volume?”

  “Eighth chronicle of Cecil Andruis Walker?” The innkeeper grimaced at Lazarus’ scowl. “Yes, yes. I have it. It’s in the library as usual.”

  “Good. Mykel, to me.”

  The library. “Master, why don’t you sit here and enjoy another drink? I’ll get the book for you.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” The Khatari squinted as if searching for something in Mykel’s face. “Do you know—”

  “Yes yes, sir. I know where to find the book. The wine cellar, right? Don’t worry. I’ll be quick. Just enjoy your drink.” Mykel all but shouted the last word; he was already dodging past elbows and tankards into the crowd.

  . . .

  Lazarus waited for Mykel to disappear down the stairs before turning back to De Varin. “How’s our girl doing?”

  “The same as the last time you asked. She wants nothing to do with it.”

  The old Khatari frowned. “Shayna Kae is one of the most dedicated women I know. She would not shirk her responsibility like this.”

  “Well, she does now.”

  “Did you try hard enough to convince her, de Varin?”

  Now the innkeep’s face darkened with a slow burn. “I know what’s at stake, old dog. Of course I tried hard. She doesn’t want it.”

  Lazarus took another pull of the tankard. It was fully natural for Shayna to retreat from the traum
a she suffered. Were it any other woman Lazarus would have applauded whatever course she took to regain her happiness. But this wasn’t any other woman, nor any other circumstance. The axis of the kingdom’s fate lay with her, but that was a responsibility she was reluctant to pick up again. And yet Lazarus couldn’t find it in his heart to press her further.

  Lazarus tipped the tankard and put it down when the ale was drained to the last drop. Dammit, girl. Dammit.

  . . .

  The wine cellar was easy enough to find. A darkened stairway opened into a dining room. Squat shelves squared off a small part of the chamber with chairs and a floor rug. From the dust it seemed no one had been within that nook of the cellar for quite some time now. De Varin was by no means sloppy in the management of his inn, but things often got lost in the shuffle of daily life. Beyond the shelves lay the silhouettes of barrels stacked neatly in corners.

  Each barrel was marked in chalk or crusted wax, detailing its purchase. Some had cobwebs connecting one another in thin silvery veins. Some had taps, some didn’t—Mykel could tell that the tapped ones were empty by the way they were shoved way back into the chamber. There were a great deal more tapped barrels than there were untapped ones. De Varin’s right. He is running out of barrels. A gingerly taste of a barrel revealed the salty tang of Hyrian grapes, an inferior brand—or so he was told. De Varin must be really desperate if he has to rely on this.

  The chronicle was right in plain sight. The small boxed-in chamber opened up into quite the cozy-looking room, complete with benches and fireplace. Mykel shivered. It was a bit drafty but he wasn’t sure how to get the fireplace operating—some servant had always done it back home! —so he shuffled over to the bookcase. Upon finding the shelf he gently plucked the tome from a shelf with a pair of dark silver tongs on the table specifically designed for that purpose.

  Cecil Andruis Walker, volume eight. Mykel whistled. This was one of the rarest pieces of literature of Amden’s most lionized king. This was his private journal during the Gadon War, the bloodiest war in the 8th Century. Every historian would give his eye-teeth to be within a foot of it.

  Mykel paused. It won’t hurt anyone. And it’s just one glance. He used the tongs to peel away the pages as though his life depended on it. Which it did, if anything were to happen. You’re not getting me in trouble.

  It looked even more impressive up close. The gold wire surrounded a diamond-faceted emerald inset in the center, but it was shaped very oddly. Two prongs veered from the edges, a third from the center, and the bottom tapered to a point. It was a V with a third prong in the middle, in essence. Mykel recognized it as a symbol for mythical creatures older than the dragons. Or were dragons in an ancient tongue. It was a kind of debate for scholars and philosophers—those who thought it safe to debate it. Weirwynd books were forbidden ever since the race vanished thousands of years ago.

  Mykel felt like laughing and groaning at the same time. The V-tailed W meant the book was very ancient. On the other hand, it meant that the pages were also written in a very ancient tongue. The very fact of its value was because no one could read it anymore, save for the most distinguished historians, of which Mykel was a child in comparison. I shouldn’t be able to read this.

  But he could.

  “The sun is a molten ball of gold as it falls. Oceai are everywhere. The sky is almost like blood... I could swear the sun cries for us, cries for the fate that has befallen us. Down below the Oceai are massing their forces. They have Weirwynd with them, and creatures the likes I have never seen before, creatures I have only known in legend. The third and fourth walls have already fallen... I fear the fifth will come soon...”

  Mystery upon mystery. This is all wrong. The pages were yellowed and torn at the edges, the ink almost faded from sight. Clearly it was hundreds of years old. Yet the very same ink was written in Third Age Weirspeak, the youngest of the Weirwynd civilizations. It was the historian’s first step in learning the eras that had come before. Barely worth the crimson wax of the librarian’s sigil. Mystery upon mystery.

  “The dead are piling up around me... no matter how many arrows we shoot the enemy presses on... my only joy in this is the news that Elina has escaped. She is the only family I have now. Everyone else is dead. Richard, Leonardo, even Cecil...”

  He frowned. Cecil died a straw-bed death at the age of five-and-fifty. Strange. He scrambled for an inked tail-feather.

  “I can see Kain’s head from here... the damned swine planted it on a pike. I want to weep but the men are nervous as it is. They grew up with me, but I am still their king. They should not see King Artur cry.”

  Of course. This was not Cecil’s journal but his father’s. Artur Andruis was a man sheathed in legend so thick it would be a thousand years before a sliver of truth became known to the world. Artur was decadent against the magic-wielding Weirwynd, hated them with the same passion he ruled with. Why would he have a Weirwynd page to write down his words in the Weirwynd language? Mykel was not unfamiliar with the linguist’s profession. He knew things were always changing as stories passed from hand to hand and year to year. Still... no matter. Lazarus would not value something if were filled with falsehoods. The old man was too stubborn for that. If this was right... he continued to translate and copy.

  The confusion only grew as the minutes ticked by. The account the diary gave was the year 611, at the time of the Oceai Rebellion, in which the Oceai merchants from the east fought against the royal family for condemning opium trade. According to the history books the Oceai were defeated, and the survivors hanged. There were fields run red with the blood of soldiers, but not an ounce of royal life was spilled. The family ruled for another two hundred years, defeated finally by the Dark Plague. The Andruis Family was ever rumored to be one of the First Houses, descended from Cronus, the mantis of Laurence the Savior. According to legend they were the closest mortals could come to godhood.

  According to this book, every one of the Andruis family died in that battle. Mykel found that impossible. “The people would know,” he whispered, as if sound could make it truth. “There’d be a Succession of Houses or... or something.” Entire families do not just vanish from history.

  Finally, the account changed. “I am shocked beyond words. The men that sat before me I had always revered till now. I looked up to them as examples of holiness in a world of corruption. Imagine my horror as they sold their souls to the devil merely because their control was in doubt. Imagine my horror when...”

  The rest trailed off into unintelligible symbols. Damn. The last few lines spoke in a variation that was more... flowing than the rest of the page. More to the point, Mykel had seen those symbols before. The rest of the page ran in a blend of three languages that were dead for at least a half millennium. There was no way he would know the rest of it.

  Something clattered on the table, and Mykel jumped to see a slender girl scowl down at him. The singer. It took a moment to realize her identity now she was this close. She wore soft, neck-high brown wool, almost the same shade as her neck-length chocolate hair. The blouse was divided in the middle with pale copper lace and small gray jerkin buttons in twin columns. Black-felt sleeves rested gingerly on her slender arms, darkening slim flesh in supple silk. Her leggings were made of a similar material, with a pattern of copper lines and buttons riding down her right leg. Her shoes were pale wool. She was the spitting image of her station, yet Mykel sensed in her a firebrand that slept deep within but easily roused for those who thought her a mere chambermaid.

  Mykel could not help but feel a twinge of guilt. No stars or royal sigils anywhere, save for a copper ring branded just above the wool of her left thigh. An endem wench. A pawn in the games of nobles, the trading of lives as though coppers scattered from a cup. Only the sharp glitter in her eyes told she was more than her station.

&nbs
p; “You’re not supposed to be reading that.”

  Mykel winced as three separate epiphanies strung together in his head: the girl was probably one of De Varin’s maids, the book was still in his hands, and she probably knew what the book was—something she proved by snatching the damned thing right out of his hands. “Hey! I was reading that!”

  Her laugh was a chorus of golden bells. “And I told you you’re not supposed to read it.” When she returned from replacing the tome her eyes narrowed. “Well? Aren’t you going to eat?”

  Mykel glanced down. A plate of honeycakes, potatoes and meat lay before him. The honey was sharp and sweet to his nose, steam whistling in thick twisting serpents. Prime rib. My favorite. The meat was even cut into tiny little chunks. “Heh, heh.” Mykel pulled down the cloak over his crumpled hand. How did she know? “Uh, thanks. Thank you.” He glanced up to find her gone, then a crackling of sticks and sudden warmth heralded her return.

  “I swear you never change. You forgot to light the fireplace. What were you thinking? You could have frozen to death down here.”

  “I would have been fine,” he said defensively. “Anyway I was just saying thank you for the meal.”

  She snorted. “You’re welcome.”

  The rising steam reminded him he hadn’t had breakfast this morning, but he told himself that there was a lady present, so he ate slowly. It was strange, though. He’d expected her to leave once he began the meal, but instead the maid sat opposite of him and watched him. Mykel felt anxiety weigh down on him like a mantle. Why is she staring? What does she want? Manners kept his lips shut until frustration finally bore down on him. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  She smirked. “You... you haven’t changed a bit.”

  “Uh... thank you. Neither... neither have you.”