Sons of the Oak (30 page)

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Authors: David Farland

BOOK: Sons of the Oak
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“Sadly,” Shadoath said. “None of that matters. I can't give you the boys. They're already dead.”
Myrrima stared in shock.
“It was not their fate to be rescued,” Shadoath continued. “Had I left them alive, I'm sure that they would have come after me in time.”
Myrrima felt her eyes misting over, her heart wrenching with grief. She succumbed to it, knelt there sobbing.
“May I take their bodies?” she asked, her mind in a fog. “They should be entombed in the halls of their fathers.”
Shadoath shook her head. “There is nothing left. I fed them to my pets.” She waved to the right and left, to her strengi-saats chained at the base of the throne.
She has beaten me, Myrrima thought. She knows it and takes delight in my pain.
Myrrima felt herself sliding into an emotional abyss. But then she caught her footing, just the tiniest bit.
No bodies? Myrrima wondered. Even in her shock, this seemed odd.
Myrrima studied the children on the couch for a response, wondering if Shadoath had told the truth, but both of them just stared at her, their faces calm and unperturbed, perfect masks.
“Very well,” Myrrima said, still in something of a fog. “I thank you for the audience.” Heavily, she turned away and went slinking from the palace.
But once outside, with each stride she grew stronger and more encouraged.
She had never believed for a moment that she might ransom the princes. It was too much to hope for. Shadoath was building an army here at the edge of the world. Not a vast army by the standards of Rofehavan or Indhopal, but it was an enormous army for such a small kingdom. Obviously she
had ambitions. And if the princes of Mystarria were released, they might thwart those ambitions.
No, Shadoath wasn't likely to sell, not unless she had some overwhelming need for gold or blood metal.
Nor was she likely to kill the boys. In some future year, she might need them as hostages.
The boys are alive, Myrrima realized. Were they dead, Shadoath would have taken delight in casting their broken bodies at my feet!
The boys are alive, and I will steal them back.
DYING BY DEGREES
A wise man dies by degrees. He dies to greed. He dies to fear. He dies to all worldly desires. And when he is ready, he dies to all else.
 
—Aya'ten, a lord of ancient Indhopal
In his cell, Fallion passed in and out of consciousness, learning to ignore the snarls of strengi-saats, learning to be a prisoner.
Each time that the torturer stomped past, Fallion would be alerted by the sound of jangling keys, followed by the thump, thump, thump of booted feet. Then the light would come, blessed light, and for long minutes after the brute was gone, Fallion would savor the afterimage of the torch, its flames twisting gently, sputtering, the delicious aroma of oily smoke lingering in its wake.
Sometimes, Fallion would look to see if his brother was still alive. Jaz rarely roused himself anymore. His chains did not rattle; his breathing came slow. Only every few hours did he struggle for a breath, suddenly gasping.
They're going to kill him, Fallion realized.
Jaz was second in line for the throne. Those who wanted Mystarria badly enough to kill children would place a great value on him.
But Fallion was the prize. He held the birthright. He was the one that the killers would want most.
And maybe even the people of Mystarria, he hoped. They might want me, too, enough to pay my ransom.
He couldn't imagine that. He was a child, more trouble than he was worth. He was not some great king, skilled in diplomacy and wise beyond the understanding of the common folk.
I'm nothing, Fallion knew. They would not want me.
But they would pay nonetheless, he suspected, if only to soothe the national conscience.
“See,” Chancellor Westhaven would tell himself, “I did not let my princes die. I am a good man.”
Mystarria was wealthy, one of the wealthiest nations in the world. Surely Westhaven would pay.
If he could.
Fallion recalled the smoke rising from the palace at the Courts of Tide. There had been a fierce battle, the kind where nations fall.
Lowicker the Brat might have prevailed, or the Warlords of Internook might have invaded by now. Mystarria might be nothing more than a fading dream of glory.
No one can rescue me, Fallion realized. And so I must rescue myself. But how?
The manacles were too tight for him to wriggle loose. In the days since his imprisonment, they had only grown tighter. His flesh had swollen, and now his wrists were as large as a man's. No matter how he moved, he could not get comfortable. Sometimes wounds opened if he squirmed too much, and blood flowed down his arms into his armpits, smelling of iron.
He had only one asset. Fire.
But there was nothing to burn in his cell. No cots or mattresses, no wooden chairs or beams. Perhaps his captors knew of his powers, so they gave him no fuel.
Even if I had fire, what would I do with it? Could I make it hot enough to melt my chains?
Perhaps.
But in order to survive such heat, Fallion would have to accept Fire as his master, become like the flameweavers of legend who were so powerful that they clothed themselves in nothing but living flame.
And thus wrapped in flames, they gave in to their passions, their hunger, and went from place to place, seeking to make the world an inferno.
Fallion's father had battled such creatures. They were no longer human.
Why would I want to? Fallion wondered. Why would I want to serve something that doesn't serve me?
“To live,” Fire whispered. “To grow. It is only Fire that can set you free.”
 
 
Fallion was hovering near death when Shadoath finally entered his cell. He did not hear the keys rattle or the grating of the door as it swung on hinges that were almost never used. He became aware of her only gradually, first when he heard the sound of Jaz gulping, greedily drinking, the water splashing on the floor, as the child whimpered in relief.
He thought it was only a dream at first, some nightmare that featured sustenance that would never come. It was not until he heard Shadoath's voice, gentle and seductive, that he realized that she had come, “There, Child. Drink. Drink your fill. I'll save you. I'll be your mother now.”
Fallion's eyes flew open. The room was lit by a narrow candle, tall and thin, lying upon a silver plate, beside a silver bowl. Jaz was down from his manacles, and now he lay in the arms of the most beautiful woman that Fallion had ever seen. Jaz's dull eyes stared up at Shadoath, and Fallion had never seen such adoration in the eyes of any being. Shadoath had saved him. She was beautiful beyond dreams. She had no ewer from which to drink. Instead, Jaz drank from her cupped palm.
His eyes said it all: his soul was hers, now, if she wanted it.
Shadoath took a crust of bread from the pocket of her black robe, fed it to Jaz. He wept at the taste of it, and she stroked the tears from his cheek, then bent her head and kissed his forehead.
“So hot,” she whispered. “Your head is so warm.” She lifted him, peered up at Fallion, and smiled. Then strode away, leaving the light.
Fallion's own tongue was leathery, and felt as if it had swollen in his throat. His stomach cramped so hard that it felt as if it were wrapped around a stone.
Yet his body seemed almost weightless now, and he could no longer feel the pain of the manacles slicing into his wrists, or the muscles stretching in his arms.
He was hot, too. Feverish. And as his brother was carried away, Fallion burned for release, yearned to be carried with him, and wept for want of water.
But there was only fire in the room.
Fire!
Fallion closed his eyes, felt the heat of the candle. He was more sensitive
to the flame now than he had ever been. It was a bright and steady presence in the room, like the impotent rage that was building in him.
There is fire all around, Fallion realized. There are flames inside me, burning for release. There are fires inside the other prisoners.
I don't need torches to build an inferno. I could draw the fire from them.
It had been done. Fallion had heard of flameweavers so sensitive that they could draw light from the sky, or suck the heat from a human body.
It could be done again.
Fallion reached out with his consciousness, let it surround the candle, bask in its warmth. The candle sputtered, seemed to come alive.
A rage built inside Fallion. His brother had been carried away, refreshed, weeping in gratitude.
Had Jaz died, Fallion would have mourned. But Jaz had been claimed by Shadoath, and there was no word for the grief that Fallion felt now.
Jaz will be kept as a slave, Fallion realized. Perhaps he'll be pampered and treated well, like the Bright Ones who brought us here. But he'll be hers, and he'll learn to serve her without thought, without compassion.
From the shadows of the room, Valya strode, and knelt to pick up the light. He had not seen her there.
She had heard him crying.
“You can have food,” Valya said. “You can have water, too. All you have to do is beg.”
Fallion shook his head. He didn't want to live as a servant of Shadoath.
“Mother can give good things, too,” Valya said. “It's not all punishment.”
The words were just one more blow. “Mother?” Fallion asked. “She's your mother?”
“Yes,” Valya said too loudly, as if it were nothing to be ashamed of, as if she'd fight him if he uttered a single syllable of condemnation.
There is light in her still, Fallion thought. She sees the truth about her mother, and hates her.
“I can set you free,” Fallion promised.
Valya stormed from the room.
 
 
 
Shortly afterward, perhaps only hours though it might have been days, Fallion woke again.
He'd been dreaming a dream unlike any that he'd ever had before. All of his dreams now were of the prison, of the torturer stumping past his cell, keys rattling. Sometimes in the dream, the torturer turned and leered at Fallion. Sometimes he opened the door, hot tongs in hand, and smiled grimly. Sometimes he brought water, and just as Fallion was taking a drink, he would plunge a blade into Fallion's chest and begin to twist it, twisting, twisting, so that Fallion's innards wound around the blade and eventually began to pull free.
But this dream was different. In this dream, Fallion was filled with a dull rage, and he had sent his consciousness throughout the prison, drawing heat from torches and the tormented bodies of the prisoners.
Not all of the heat, just enough to sustain him.
And then the torturer came stumping through the darkness. The jangle of keys, the thud of boots.
Even though Fallion's head hung and his eyelids were so heavy that he knew that they would never open again, he saw the guard, saw him as he'd never seen anyone before.
The guard stumped past, his torch sputtering grandly. Fallion reached out to draw heat from it, but the guard did not look human in form. His body was there, but Fallion saw it now as if it were the body of a jellyfish floating among the waves. The flesh was clear and insubstantial, barely a hint of form. And there at the heart of the being, hidden beneath the flesh, was a dull gray-blue light, with tendrils shooting in every direction.
Like the jellyfish that I saw at sea, Fallion thought, radiating light.
The torturer stumped past, boots thudding, keys clanking on his chain, and was lost as he passed the stone walls of Fallion's cell.
Fallion was left alone in the darkness.
Except now, there was no darkness.
There was a light inside of him. A light that hardly brightened the room, but which burned fiercely nonetheless. It was not a dim gray light, a shadow yearning to be seen. It was an inferno, a sliver of the sun.
I am a Bright One, Fallion realized. I am a Bright One.
His father had said that Fallion was an old soul. In the legends of Mystarria, there were stories of mystics and wizards who were said to be “old souls.” It was said that some folks chose to be born time and time again, accruing wisdom over lifetimes, wisdom that somehow came with them to
each new life. Some of these old souls even claimed to recall bits of their past lives. “The body is a shadow,” they taught, “and the soul is a light that can pierce it.”
Fallion did not necessarily believe the legends. It seemed as good an explanation as any as to why some children were born with wisdom beyond their years.
But Hearthmaster Waggit had warned him against such notions.
“Those who claim to have old souls are mostly fakirs,” Waggit had said, “poor folk who pretend to be great, starving for applause.
“Some invent the tales because they can't stand to be seen as the wretches they are. They tell themselves that only wise men suffer, and since they are in pain, they imagine that it must be because they are wise.
“Others use their supposed wisdom to gain money. Out in Indhopal, they prophesy to the poor about impending doom, and offer to use their ‘vast spiritual powers' to deflect imaginary ills.”
“So all of them are frauds?” Fallion had asked.
Waggit had given him a deep, penetrating stare, one filled with respect.
“Some are genuine,” Waggit said softly.
At the time, Fallion had imagined that Waggit was thinking of some wistful encounter. Fallion had not been aware that his father had declared that Fallion was an “old soul.” Now he realized that Waggit had been referring to him.
Fallion observed the light within himself, radiating from a central point just beneath his heart.
This is a flameweaver skill, he realized. I'm drawing on powers that I didn't know I had. But what good does it do me to see this?
Not much.
There was some comfort in it. Fallion expected his life to end soon, and he knew that if it did, he would come back again.
He peered inside himself, examining the light. He could see tendrils, thin filaments that stuck out from a burning center, like the spines on a sea urchin.
The spines did not flicker and sputter the way that the flame in a candle does, nor did they seem as if they could die. They were just there, like antlers on a stag.
Fallion twisted this way and that in his chains, and the spikes of light moved with him.
How brightly can they shine? Fallion wondered. I'm a flameweaver. I can nurse a twig into flame from nothing. What can I do with the fire within me?

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