The Seekers Of Fire Part 12

Rianor

Evening 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705 The Head Temple's iron gates were stark and gray, looming over the crowd of colorful coats, gowns, and umbrellas. Rianor shifted his own umbrella slightly and looked up. There were spikes on those gates, but right now they were barely visible, their pointed rigidness washed out in the twilight and rain. Still, they were there; he should not be fooled.

Inside, it smelled of melted wax and burning. It was not too disturbing a smell for Rianor, for he had long ago let Nan and the Qynnsent Master Cooks know that their High Lord would not be kept away from the kitchen stoves. He had sometimes melted wax himself, to use in Science experiments. Unlike the Healer's Pa.s.sage, the kitchen stoves were always there and visible, and it was not officially forbidden for a High Lord to go near them.

However, the smell was disturbing to Rianor's fellow lords and ladies and to the rich commoners who were flocking around them, judging by how they all fidgeted and kept closer to the walls. Some of them were dabbing their mouths and noses with handkerchiefs.

Perhaps they did not know that wax melted with normal, hidden-in-a-container Ber fire smelled the samea"even though the Bers claimed that the tall wax "candle" in the circle beneath the Temple's central dome was currently melting with wildfire. Whatever the fire was, it certainly was exposed, and that did not make even Rianor too comfortable.

Desmond, at Rianor's side, did not look distressed. Then again, he almost never did. His face wore the slightly stony expression he a.s.sumed when he did not immediately need to talk to someone and be political and suave. One could not tell that right now he was furious.

Desmond was not furious because of the melting wax, however. He had almost demanded a duel, outlawed as duels were, against Donald of Waltraud, for a physical attack on his High Lord had shaken him immensely. It was an outrageous violation of the House, Desmond had said, an act of aggression that denied forgiveness. Rianor glanced at Donald, slouching a few steps away behind the High Lord and Lady of Fredelbert, who, as Rianor's good friends, had positioned themselves between the Qynnsent and Waltraud parties. Officially, there was no conflict and thus no interference was needed by the Bers, since Rianor had released Donald when they were both in public. Officially.

Interestingly enough, Desmond would have forgiven a more subtle, non-physical attack. Last year he had almost admired House Iglika's First Counselor's chicanery that had lead to Sunber City in the Sunset Lands buying grain from Iglika's and not Qynnsent's harvest in Balkaene. That, despite the fact that Desmond considered losing money, especially House money, a disaster.

Rianor moved his weight to his left side, to rest the ribs on the right. Probably someone's lying for money fit with Desmond's own system of rules, while fighting did not. Just today Desmond had charmed and blackmailed Iglika's High Lady and her husband to some other deal, perfectly happy with that cunning, slimy aspect of a Fireheart visit. Rianor was not. He wanted to be away from Desmond's schemes as much as he wanted to be away from this Temple. He stared at the wax in silence.

He had to stay. The Ber who was supposed to prepare Linden's wrist.w.a.tch would be here and would probably not appreciate him missing the night's Fire ceremony. It was the seventh Night Fire ceremony for this yeara"one of the twenty ceremonies that happened in the Head Temple in the twenty nights preceding the Day of the Master. These were nights of ritual, supposed celebrations, and ... reminders, as Rianor was apt to think of them, for those who lived at the top of the world about who was really in charge.

As a rule, a High Ruler had to attend at least one of these ceremonies per year, in addition to the Day of the Master ceremony itself, when the Blessed Fire, Water, and Bread were exchanged. Rianor usually did one Fire ceremony only, usually the one immediately before the Day of the Master, although most n.o.bles stayed at the Fireheart longer, for it was the time of the year to mingle and do business as well. Desmond was the one to usually do that, but tonight Rianor had to stay as well. Stay, and pretend to be prudently struck by mindless awe. Pretend, like Desmond in his business deals. Perhaps Rianor had no right to judge Desmond's pretenses, for he had his own. He was currently sick and tired of a whole day spent with mindless fools who considered themselves the cream of society, and of pretending to be one of them.

The gong struck. The sound seemed to last forever. First it was loud and strong, ricocheting between the glossy, painted walls that depicted scenes from the life of the Master. Then it was softer and flew up towards the domes as if it wanted to climb the tall metal rods that protruded from the top outside.

Rianor rubbed his eyes and shifted his weight back to the right side. He was too tired already. Sound climbing rods? Where had that thought come from? But he would climb them himself if it would mean fresh air and natural illumination. The vague, flickering light, pulsing sound, and that burning smell were trying to do something to his head. It was not natural for light to flicker like this. It made him sleepy, he almost drifted away.

Almost. Rianor awoke fully when the gong struck again, harsher, like two dinner forks suddenly lunged together by the stabbing ends, with the sound effect multiplied a hundredfold. At the same moment, water drizzled over the tall, smoking "candle" stick of wax, and the small flame on it erupted tall and wide and glaring. Someone screamed. Even Rianor made an involuntary step back, then narrowed his eyes and stilled himself. Impressive. Wildfire and watera"the blazing archenemy of the organized world together the insidious liquid that was necessary for life and yet was an enemy itself if left to its own devices. What were the Bers aiming at?

More importantly, was this truly a water-wildfire effect? It could have some very interesting implications ...

"Beware of how the world was before!"

This was a woman's voice, clear, with only a hint of command. An almost pleasant voice, which still a.s.saulted you frontally and attempted to insert invisible hooks into your eyes and back to your mind, to make you bend to its will and not deny its bidding.

Rianor blinked. There was a trick to a part of this voice. His parents had taught him the various kinds of "ruler" voices back when he had first learned to talka"when he had also learned that he himself had such presence that he did not need to use them. This woman did not need them, either. Her presence was different from Rianor's, however, and the voice made his ears tingle.

Ber Magic was weakening, but they had Magic, still.

"Beware of the wild elementsa"forces of chaos and destruction!"

The wildfire flared again as the woman stepped out of a narrow door, which had so far been obscured by the "candle." She had dark long hair and dark heavy-lidded eyes, which contrasted with her red robe, and she walked as if she owned the temple. Rianor narrowed his eyes again. As if she owned the world. He did not usually notice the appearance of older women much, but he noticed her. She was at least a head shorter than him, but somehow she seemed tall, and despite the fine wrinkles around her eyes, she looked ... not exactly young, but somehow ageless. She raised a hand.

"Seven hundred and five years ago wild elements and senseless humans almost brought the world to its end! Hail the memory of Him who brought order, prosperity, and peace! Hail Him who brought salvation! Master, your legacy lives on in us!"

Her hand snapped down, and the wild flame exploded. The sound was like thundera"and in a confined s.p.a.ce a thunder was too strong. Many people screamed this time, and Rianor gripped the dagger under his coat. Desmond seemed to do the same, but Rianor could not see him clearly through the thick, gray steam that had spread throughout the temple.

This was not normal. And, people who never made Science experiments and never entered the kitchens, where food was cooked and clothes were boiled, rarely, if ever, saw steam. They panicked. Screams rose in the air, and then their issuers started choking. Bodies started shoving madly onto other bodies, running into what seemed random directions. Someone tried to open the gates, but the gates would not succ.u.mb.

Rianor had not seen steam of such a dirty color, either, and steam had never before stung his eyes and throat so much. He suddenly remembered the old fairytales and Linden's vision in the Healers' Pa.s.sage. He let go of the dagger, one hand shooting out to snap Desmond's scarf up over Desmond's mouth and nose, while his other hand pressed a handkerchief to his own face. This was not steam. This was smokea"and whereas steam might or might not suffocate a person, smoke was tainted and always would.

Rianor gripped the dagger again and dashed forward, Desmond at his heels. Rianor ran and shoved bodies aside, until there was no one between him and the painted windows. His dagger flew, and gla.s.s crashed into a myriad of colored shards.

Most of Rianor's peers had never exited a building through the window in their lives, or at least they had not done it since their childhood years. Rianor could not afford to shout in this air thick with smoke, and there was no time for gentler treatment.

He physically grabbed a random body and thrust it out.

Only then did the others understand what they must do.

Rianor

Evening and night 78 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705 Servants and others rushed to the n.o.ble crowd as it stumbled outside the temple. Some of them must have been in the smaller, Mentor-run temple at the far end of the square; others had probably come from the pub further away, in the backstreets. Some were quick and nimble: opening umbrellas to shield the n.o.bles from the icy, skin-sc.r.a.ping rain, supporting or even carrying the ones who could not walk alone. Others, n.o.ble and not, slipped on the broken gla.s.s shards, and some fell and bled, while others only screamed.

The rain m.u.f.fled the sounds and blurred the occasional moonlight, but Rianor could still hear and see yet others, perhaps n.o.ble but probably not, whisking away in the dark and cold with carry-on items that did not belong to them. Seizing an opportunity and making it yours no matter when and how it presented itself was the mark of genius, Desmond had once said. Rianor had not known that there were so many unrecognized geniuses in Mierber.

"Move aside!" Rianor shouted at the people closest to the temple wall. Earlier had been on the windowsill, helping others climb, but he had jumped down some time ago, for he was more needed outside now. "There are others coming behind you!"

With one hand, he grabbed the collar of a finely-dressed young man sitting empty-eyed on the ground and hauled him up. For a moment the boy staggered, then blinked and suddenly slapped his own cheek, then rushed to help Rianor haul the next one. Lord Eric of Kieran, Rianor thought when he saw his face closer, no more than sixteen years old. This was the youngest age group allowed and required at the Night Fire Ceremony, so at least there were no children for Rianor to take care of now. There were special, daylight Fire Ceremonies for children ... No. Rianor swore, wiping sweat from his brow. There were children. Little screaming creatures were right now running from who knew where to the mess that was their parents, older siblings, and House relatives.

"All children, stay away!" He shouted again, but the rain gulped his words instantly. It was raining harder now, semi-darkness and vague light interchanging as clouds pa.s.sed beneath the moons. Why were not the d.a.m.n Square lights on? His hands trembled as he pulled a sprawled woman to her feet. She sagged against his body, and suddenly his legs could barely hold him. He felt every single broken rib and even the ones that were supposed to be intact, and he felt the wet and coldness extensively. He felt his veins as blood beat wildly against their walls, and then he saw blood drenching his coat and trousers.

It was not his. The woman he was holding was bleeding onto him.

"Is there a healer here?" Rianor tried to shout again, and again the rain muted his voice, but still the crowd seemed to hear him. Most had stopped screaming now, for screaming in rain was not useful at all, so they just stood there in the darka"cold, wet, and scared.

"You, come and help her." He knew that the balding man with the gray coat was from the Healer's Guild, for they had been introduced today. He was a commoner who had built a fortune and entered Fireheart circles by selling creams and such to ladies. He looked at Rianor and then away.

Rianor was so used to people following his orders that he was late in understanding that these here would not. They had followed him out of the temple like terrified sheep, but now they were terrified sheep who were starting to remember that they were supposed to be, or to imitate, lords and ladies.

They did not give a d.a.m.n that Rianor's present orders might be the most useful thing they had heard in their lives. They did not care that they all had to become disciplined and organized in order to respond to whatever the Bers would serve them next when they, too, got outsidea"and that Rianor could organize them. Suddenly, they did not want to follow Rianor's orders; they did not want to follow any orders, even if the person giving them knew what he was doing.

With a few exceptions, such as Desmond, lord Kevin and lady Kaitlyn of Fredelbert, young lord Eric, and two or three others, they were all useless elements of a mad mob but believed themselves to be individuals.

Rianor was a High Lord; he had learned about mobs. There must be few things in the world worse than a mob element that was, like all mob elements, devoid of a mind but under the delusion that it still possessed free will. Imagination failed before the havoc such "free will" could wreak upon the world.

Perhaps the healer was not incompetent, or a bad person. Perhaps he was just a good, skilled man who was very, very scared, which was why he ran and tried to elbow an escape path for himself by shoving others down onto the gla.s.s shards.

The way Rianor saw him at this moment, however, was like a defective part of a mechanism. A part that was supposed to be a tool for repairing other parts but did not work, damaging other parts instead, breaking the whole system. And the system had to work. Detrimental parts had no place in it. Rianor raised the new dagger that someone, perhaps Desmond, had at some point thrust into his handa"and stilled his hand a moment before he would have hurled the weapon through the rain. He almost saw it make an arch, diving into the healer's back. He almost saw himself as naught but a mob element acting on an impulse, murdering without thought.

His hand now trembling, Rianor slipped the dagger into the sheath on his belt.

It was too late. He had set an example. There were daggers in too many hands now, and thoughts in too few heads. They were going to fight, and it was not right. They were going to fight amongst themselves, but none of them had tried to burn or suffocate the rest inside the temple, whose broken windows were staring at them like blind eyes. They were going to fight because their reasons not to had been presently wiped out, and suddenly Rianor was too tired.

Still holding the wounded woman, his head and eyes in pain, he tried to walk but found the ground unstable and unresponsive.

Then the temple came alive.

Rather, the temple was suddenly bathed in light, both from the inside and from the suddenly glowing lanterns in the square. Suddenly, the square itselfa"this semi-dark, blurred place of confusion, hatred, and harsh, whipping raina"had transformed back into the Temple Square of the Fireheart. The air was warm, too, raindrops sizzling into nothingness as they met some barrier.

Dagger hands drooped as eyes blinked, minds gradually starting to part.i.tion the ma.s.s of limbs, drenched expensive clothes, and faces dripping with what might be runny make-up or blood, into individuals. Individuals they knew.

Several Bers came out of the temple, through the gates, and Rianor realized that for some time now the gates had been open.

"My lords and ladies."

The red-robed woman with the Voice, standing between a red-robed man and a black-robed girl, other Bers following closely behind them. She looked calm and almost peaceful, her eyes on the crowd, her hands caressing a perfect ball of fire. Her two companions, on the other hand, had hoods partly concealing their faces and held no flame at all, but for a moment Rianor met the man's eyes. Those eyes did not even seem to be seeing the crowd. Both the man's eyes and the girl's were dark in colora"but the darkness ran much deeper than that. Had their outer colors been light, their eyes' essence would have been dark still.

These two are the ones to beware, Rianor thought just as the woman raised her calm voice again.

"My ... children. It is all right. You are forgiven."

Forgiven? The ground must have become more responsive to Rianor's feet, for he managed to make a step forward. The wounded woman was no longer in his arms. A Mentor, who had perhaps just come from the smaller temple across, was tending to her on the ground.

"Healers are coming, she may still live, my lord," the Mentor had mumbled when confronted by Rianor's glare, then quickly had torn her dress to try to stop the bleeding. A stabbing wound. Rianor had not been the first to draw a dagger.

This had been seconds ago, but years seemed to have pa.s.sed. His head throbbing, Rianor made a few more undisturbed steps towards the Bers, the crowd suddenly shying away from him.

"Who is forgiven for what," he said in a deceptively soft voice. "By whom."

Nan had told him many years ago, when his parents were still alive, that he was a child who could stare his way through stone. At the same time, he had learned early enough that Nan herself was never affected by his disconcerting glares. Nan-harder-than-stone, he had called his outwardly soft, chubby nurse whenever he felt the desire for a good chase around the House.

This woman was even harder than that, and her words were soft like silk wrapped around iron.

"My child. Chaos is currently inside you, mutilating, eating at your quintessence, seeking a way out, to profess aggression."

She shook her head sadly, the flameball shining softly in her hands. It was a pretty ball, its light soothing. Was this Ber fire or wildfire, and why did she brandish exposed fire even now? Showing her control of it, perhaps. Her power. It did not look like it was burning her hands, and if it were a weapon, it did not look outwardly menacing.

"High Lord of Qynnsent, the Lost Ones can incite chaos in even the best of us. I forgive you, in the name of the Master." With a flowing motion that did not seem insulting at first glance, she turned her back to him and walked towards the n.o.ble crowd. "The Master can forgive all of you!"

The Master, he who watched this world from the Eternal Place, knew the Lost Ones and their chaos, she said, and the mindless fools listened. The Master and the Bers, his Mierenthian delegates who channeled his wisdom to this world, she claimed, knew that the Lost Ones and chaos always lurked close to everyone.

It was as if the Fire ceremony had never been interrupted. As if the Bers had not almost suffocated about a fifth of Mierenthia's most influential non-Mages half an hour earlier. Calm, dignified, and almost motherly, the Ber preached amidst street lantern light blurred by the slowly lessening drizzle of rain, Mentors and newly arrived healers bent over casualties like black, silent shadows.

"There are Edges," she was whispering, as if she almost did not want the crowd to hear her wordsa"as if she were telling a tale that would haunt little children's nightmares. As if she were telling a tale to little children, who could only understand it in clear, simple words.

"There are other Edges besides that treacherous line at the end of Mierenthia's lands, and they are even more perilous."

She closed her eyes dramatically, like a theater actress. "They are not physical Edges, for they lie within our very mindsa"and beyond them are lesions of doubt and belligerence. What lies beyond these Edges can sometimes reach inside, and if you let it do that often, it can overwhelm your very thoughts. It will, until all that is left inside you is bitterness, maliciousness, images of a fake world, and a weak quintessence. But chaos, destruction, and decay have no place amongst Mierenthia's worthiest!"

Her cry cut through Rianor's headache like a whip. What had Nan said, that he was going to have headaches for many days? The Fire Ceremony had brought him the first headache since last night, and his head felt as if it were bleeding from the inside. He only hoped it was not truly so.

He was tired. He was too tired to even think, and he was grateful for the hand that suddenly gripped and supported his shoulder. Desmond, his face sc.r.a.ped and grim. He motioned for Rianor to remain silent.

All right, he would. He did not want to speak; he wanted to sit down and rest for a moment. He closed his eyes and tried to control his breaths. He was the person who had organized the escape from the Ber-created chaosa"he had acted, so let someone else talka"let someone else ask the Ber why her empty words contradicted her actions.

Rianor opened his eyes when, moments later, no one had asked, and saw the Ber woman watching him intently.

"Even a High Lord can be affected by chaos and the Lost Ones," she said quietly, "perhaps even more so than the rest, for a High Lord or Lady carries heavier burdens. You thought yourself a hero when you destroyed Holy Temple property and instilled terror into your peers, didn't you, High Lord of Qynnsent? This is what the wild elements, the elements of chaos, do to people. Wildfire overwhelmed you first, and then rain overwhelmed you again. "

He could have replied, pointing out the obvious fallacy. Perhaps he would have, if some instinct had not made him take notice of the faces of the crowd. Some of them made special effort to ignore him. Others, wet imbeciles in crumpled, expensive clothes, who perhaps were right now alive only because of him, looked ready to attack him.

How fast could human perceptions of a situation change? Too fast.

It was all right, the Ber witch was telling them all in her motherly voice, the Qynnsent lord was a weak human, just like they, his peers, were weak humansa"and a High Lord could be forgiven once. He, a weak non-Ber, had sabotaged a Holy Ceremony because of his own insecurities and the wildfire effect, and they, weak non-Bers themselves, had followed him into another wild, confusing elementa"the raina"with dire consequences.

"Let it be a lesson of trust for you all," she said, the trust they were supposed to give to Bers, the delegates of the Master. They should have stayed in the temple and trusted the Bers to complete the ceremony in the right way, for only Bers could control terrible wildfire and give people air for breathing, peace, and safety.

"The air inside is clean from wildfire and poison now. It is purged in the Ber way, as only we Bers know," she said, and some people were already casting longing glances to the glowing lights and supposed warmth beyond the doors.

Only, Rianor thought, for some reason the Bers had postponed inviting people back for some time, and it just might be the time needed by Temple-sized premises to naturally ventilate if the windows were broken.

He could speak and point that out. He could present obvious logic regarding "the Ber way" to his fellow lords and ladies. He did not. Even without Desmond's warning fingers digging into his flesh, he would have known to presently keep his thoughts to himself. It was the "Ber way" his frightened fellow lords and ladies wanted. They needed someone to supposedly take care of them and think for them. They did not care for obvious logic that required them to think by themselves and be wet and wounded.

How easy was it to believe that they were wet and wounded because they had tried to thinka"No, how easy was it to believe that they were wet, wounded, frightened, and confused not because they had thought (they had not) but because they had followed Rianor's thinking? And they could not even know what the alternative to following Rianor's thinking would bea"because that, too, would require thinking on their part.

Believing was easier, and the Bers were there to be believed. As always.

It is ridiculous, was all Rianor could think, as the Ber woman walked to him again. The air inside the temple must be better now because he had broken the gla.s.s earlier. Couldn't they see that, the d.a.m.n fools?

No, they could not because they had no idea of Science and how things worked, which suited the Bers perfectly.

And had the Bers really stopped the rain, as the crowd undoubtedly thought? There had been a barrier when they had first appeared, but it had been only for a short time, and the rain had been lessening even before the silent Ber man and girl had started staring at the sky. How much of this was Magic, and how much was watching the clouds and pure timing? Where did one begin and the other one end? Rianor shook his head. Science and Magic. It worked so neatly for the Bers. Magic was hidden, and Science and curiosity ridiculed and discouraged. Was there difference between the two at all? Hide knowledge from people, and you can do whatever you want with them.

"Here are the n.o.bility inauguration doc.u.ments and corresponding wrist.w.a.tch for your new lady, High Lord of Qynnsent." The Ber woman's voice was quiet now, but exactly as quiet as to be heard by those who stood nearby. She handed him a rolled parchment tied with a red ribbon, as well as a wrist.w.a.tch with a small dial, its bracelet weaved from thin metal strings. "For your Science apprentice. I will understand if you choose to go home now and rest while the rest of us continue this night's eventful ceremony. I do hope, however, that you and members of your House will soon grace another night of expressing gratefulness to the Master with your presence."

Rianor opened and read the doc.u.ment in silence. It seemed genuine. Slowly, he placed it in the inside pocket of his coat together with the wrist.w.a.tch. He understood, even if the Ber's message was veiled and thus in Desmond's, nor Rianor's, area of expertise. She had dismissed him while still granting him the request he had earlier made to one of her subordinates. She had tried to appease him and his House, at the same time further undermining his position with the perturbed, mindless crowd. They would resent having followed someone whose involvement with the half-flighty, half-suspicious interest of Science went as far as to make a lady out of a commoner.

Rianor resisted closing his eyes, the pain pounding inside his head, muddling his thoughts. He had saved their miserable lives (as well as almost taken a life, but he was not going to think about that now), and here they were, pretending to not see him, or seeing him as an enemy. He stared at the Ber and for a moment felt her slight discomfort. Good. She was not entirely confident.

But what should he do now? She was close enough for him to grab her throat, but she would not have come so close to someone who would grab her throat, would she? Any aggression on his part would only confirm the image of an insane aggressor she had already built for him before the crowd. If he attacked a Ber, most of the crowd would side with the Bers, and even if they did not, Mierber was not ready for this. A revolution would probably be crusheda"and even if it were not, what then? He did not know how the firepipes and all other Ber life-sustaining infrastructure worked, himself. What would he replace their systems with?

"Thank you, my lady." It was Desmond, his voice strong, composed. Still gripping Rianor's shoulder, he had moved forward, so he almost stood between the Ber and his High Lord. Even though his coat was torn and he was leaning too much to the right, blood gathering around his left knee, Desmond somehow managed to look dignified and stable.

"We appreciate your prompt attention to a request made by House Qynnsent," Desmond continued. "I would like to a.s.sure the Order of the Ber as well as our n.o.ble peers"a"he nodded to the crowd at thata""that we, on our part, have also been active. We have donated a generous proportion of both our yearly production and our yearly financial income towards the sustainment of peace and order, and the constant betterment of Mierenthia."