The Flame of Wrath (37 page)

             
Once silence filled the cellar, the warriors of Angelos III poured from the tunnel.

             
“All right... new plan.” Zahara said, voicing what all her men were thinking. “Converge upon the relic room.” She turned her head in Soren's direction. Her voice was a hissed whisper. “Where is the relic room?”

             
Soren knelt low to the ground. He drew a map upon the packed earth of the cellar floor. “Here,” he said. His finger pointed to a room on the first floor, near to the temple's prayer rooms. “Above it,” he cautioned, “there are the priest's room. We must be careful that we are not heard.” Then with a broad brush of his hand, the map was smoothed away.

             
Zahara motioned two of her men to take point. She frowned curiously beneath her mask as she caught sight of Soren.

             
The druid whispered a quiet chant. His robes shifted to those of the priests among the temple. Disdainfully, he touched at the newly-transformed clothes. His flowing hair was no longer its captivating auburn. Its length was starkly black, but try as he might, no amount of magic could mask his crimson eyes.

             
He lowered his head, giving life to solemn air. The delicate nature of his hands clasped together in reverence. “Follow me,” he ordered. “I will lead the way, but stay hidden.”

             
The warriors taking point gave a curt nod to the others, signaling that the way was clear.

             
Soren slipped from the cellar. He walked as a solitary figure up the stairs until he reached the first floor. All around him, he could feel the presence of the rebellion. It comforted him to know that they were so close. He stopped at the head of the stairs then scoured the hallway.

             
His lithe hand extended. It motioned the first team to disappear into the temple.

             
They were mere blurs within one's peripheral vision. Another team followed suit. Then another and another before Soren tensed.

             
“Someone is coming,” he warned.

             
A priest descended the nearby stairs and paused along the bottom. His eyes softened as he took in the sight of his dark-haired brother.

             
“Hello,” he greeted gently. “Are you new? I don't believe we've met before.” His hand extended to Soren.

             
Soren leaned forward with a downcast head. As a shadow fell upon the top half of his face, his beautiful lips curled into a gracious smile. “Hello, my Virtuous brother. I am a visiting bishop, sent by the church. I have only just arrived.”

             
Their hands closed over one another's in a tender show of affection.

             
“Then on behalf of our family, I welcome you. My name is Nicodemus.”

             
“Thank you,” Soren replied. His lips faded from their smile. They formed together in a slight purse. “Nicodemus,” he repeated as he tapped his chin. “Where have I heard that name?” His hand opened in exuberant recollection. “Ah, yes! Upon meeting with your bishop, he muttered something about needing a young Nicodemus to aid him in the wine cellar.”

             
“The wine cellar?” Nicodemus frowned curiously. His mind wandered to the old bishop and the many ailments felt by his tired back. As Soren's head nodded in affirmation, Nicodemus bowed, truly grateful for the delivered message. “Thank you, sir. I will go at once.”

             
Nicodemus turned. He quickly ventured down several steps. As he moved into the foreboding darkness, he gasped. The shadows around him appeared to move by a will of their own. He timidly reached out his hand. Were the shadows breathing?

             
A strong-smelling cloth appeared from the darkness. It moved over his nose and mouth. He writhed in struggle if only for a moment, but something seized him. His body was heavy. His eyelids suddenly felt like thick doors of steel. They rattled noisily inside his mind until they could no longer stay open. Bitterly his world fell away as the doors of his eyes slammed closed.

             
Soren returned to the shadows with the remaining teams. He watched over the young priest, clearly viewing the aura of one who appeared to be sleeping within the grips of peaceful dreaming.

             
“Sleep is too good for him,” one of the warrior's mumbled. His eyes were all that could be seen as he glared down at Nicodemus.

             
Unable to look away from the priest, Soren noted how similar his youthful innocence was to so many of his murdered brothers. Slowly, he shook his head. “Do not feel bitterness toward him, Lucas. He is an innocent.”

             
“But he has helped keep Autumn in this makeshift prison!” Lucas argued in a quiet scream.

             
Soren shook his head.

             
Zahara placed her hand upon the tensed shoulder of her soldier. “Don't allow your hatred of your enemy to mask their true face. He's a Pyrosian attempting to do good for his people. It's not this priest that we fight but the one who uses him and others as her tools.”

             
“But the follower's of Virtue----”

             
The druid looked away from the religious ornament hanging around the priest's neck. His voice was hoarse as he spoke. “It is not religion that we should fear, but those who use it to mask their atrocities.” A flash of Aurea's face raced to the forefront of Soren's mind.

             
He motioned the others to quickly hide the unconscious priest. They would have sufficient time to retrieve Autumn and leave if they did not waste this opportunity.

             
Wordlessly, Soren returned to the hallway. Then quickly, he helped the remaining warriors leave the stairwell without being seen.

             
Among the other priests, he went unnoticed. He was a simple servant of Virtue among a sea of servants. When he at last reached the relic room, darkness loomed in every direction. Its weight was oppressive. It breathed deeply around its occupants.

             
The shadows of various objects within the room seemed to mingle within the conquering darkness running throughout the large room. Still a warm glow of light at the far end of the room struggled to battle the darkness if only to live as a small reminder of hope.

             
Candles surrounded a sleeping woman in amber light. She was elevated from the ground by a dais high atop stone steps. Near the foot of the steps sat a priest drinking dependently from his wine bottle.

             
“Solomon,” Soren whispered. He recognized the priest as the same man who had spoken so boisterously against his duties as Autumn's companion.

             
Soren walked toward the slumped priest. His footsteps echoed loudly inside the room.

             
“Are you here to relieve me?” the priest slurred. He scratched nervously at his throat. The sound of his nails upon his growing scruff caused a gritty noise to fill the air. “I don't like it here.”

             
“Yes,” Soren purred. “I've come to take this burden from you.”

             
Solomon wobbled to his feet. “Good.” A chaotic hiccup leaped from his chest. “Try not to have too much fun,” he joked darkly. “She's a chatty one.” He shot a final look over his shoulder to the motionless woman. The sight of her sent an icy chill throughout his body.

             
Soren tightened his clasped hands as rage filled him. He squashed it, remaining perfectly still instead. He merely waited as the clumsy priest staggered out of the immense room.

             
As the sound of the doors closing echoed throughout the stillness, his defenses fell. His hair morphed from black to auburn. His robes were once again those of a druid.

             
Soren rushed forward. He fell to his knees at the step closest to the sleeping figure. “Autumn,” he breathed. His red eyes welled with tears.

             
Lightly, Soren placed his hand to the cool surface of Autumn's forehead. He leaned forward then voiced a call to arms known only between the druids and the Guardians. It was the secret plea which bound them. “I am a child of scripture,” he said, “servant to the Fire Goddess. I evoke the promise in your blood. Fight the fight I cannot fight, Defender.”

             
Immediately, the Guardians in hiding emerged from the darkness. A transfixed gloss glistened their gazes.

             
Soren paid them no mind. Instead, he stared keenly to the sleeping princess. “Wake,” he pleaded in a rasp.

             
A violent scream emerged from the lips suddenly ripping apart. It reverberated hellishly against the rafters. Soon its life was mirrored by the thundering sounds of footfalls headed their way.

             
Every priest within the temple must have been converging upon that very spot, the warriors feared.

             
“Hide!” Zahara commanded. She gripped hold of Soren then rushed him into the shadows where together, they remained unseen.

             
The doors burst open mightily. Droves of frazzled priests pressed into the room.

             
“What?” they demanded of one another. “What has happened? Who screamed?”

             
Bewildered faces were pale with fright.

             
Realization came as a heavy touch to their heaving chests. There was but one woman within this temple, one voice alone which might have unleashed such a bloodcurdling scream. And yet, even with that truth ever present, they could not allow themselves to believe it.

             
Autumn had not voiced a word in all the time she had been under their care. She had not moved a muscle beyond the occasional flutter of her lashes as she dreamt.

             
Too scared to move, too frightened to breathe, the men waited anxiously. The room was eerily silent as if it too had come to hold its unnatural breath.

             
A priest threw his hands over his mouth as if to stifle a scream.

             
The body was moving. Autumn was moving.

             
Autumn's head turned rigidly to the side. Her eyes, her storming gray eyes, coldly bore holes into their minds. Then as suddenly as she had moved, her eyes fell closed and she was still.

             
Fighting the choking fear at his throat, the elder bishop motioned to one of his frightened brothers. “Go,” he commanded. “Go and tell the Empress!”

             
The young priest took flight by the grace of wobbling legs. He raced down the deserted hallways to the bishop's office.

             
A shallow dish sat in golden glory atop a magnificent altar. Its contents shimmered as crystalline waters.

             
He lunged for it, clasping its edges with both hands. The momentum with which he fell upon the object caused the waters to thrash in lament.

             
“Brothers! Brothers! You must wake the Empress!” he cried, speaking into the magical pool. “The Lady Autumn stirs!”

Chapter Fourteen

The ghosts who frighten us the most are not the ones of looming strangers reaching out to us from the darkness, but rather, they exist as the ones we have loved and lost. Those are the ghosts we cannot escape no matter how hard we might wish it.

----The Book of Wrath

********

             
A mournful wind howled through the volcano. It hissed against the heat far below the palace isle, but wailed without restraint as if to wake the one who Nature deemed should never be at rest. It raced hotly through the open corridors, growling as it passed through sweeping archways. Still as it beat against two massive sealed doors, its cries went unheard.

             
It was a rare night which found the Empress sleeping. And yet, sleep had come while she was held within her desires for power. It was those same desires which nurtured her far more than the soft arms loosely enveloping her body.

             
A frantic whine of glass caused sapphire eyes to dart open. They scoured the ceiling above in a desperate effort to regain her bearings. This room was different. She frowned, trying to remember what sleep was masking.

             
This was not her room. She sighed, realizing that she had not been able to sleep within her room for almost a year. Her room smelled of Djidjiga blooms and forgotten promises. She hated that room. She resented its emptiness when once it had been filled with so much love.

             
A flash of silver eyes masked behind the gnarled thickness of silken sienna branches haunted her vision.

             
The high piercing whine came again. It was louder than before. It brought her more from sleep, launching her into the world around her.

             
Ah yes, she remembered. She was within her newly-made Imperial wing.

             
Aurea pushed herself up onto her elbows. She stared through the sheer crimson veil protecting her. Far below her pyramid of golden stairs, a magical dais was whining its alarm.

             
Aurea narrowed her eyes. Who had dared to disturb her, she growled inwardly.

             
The whine transformed into a low throbbing pulse. Its life was persistent, made more urgent by the beating flashes of color to dance throughout her chambers.

             
Aurea slipped from beneath the arm resting across her abdomen. She absently draped a silken robe over her naked body as she descended the shimmering stairs. She drew closer to the crystal dish which held blessed waters within its heart. The flames of her eyes danced in wonder.

             
“The priests?” she murmured.

             
She reached for the tiny silver hammer resting near the dish's base. Aurea lightly tapped it against the crystal's edge, inspiring a beautiful tone to radiate throughout the room.

             
The waters cleared. Upon their crystalline surface she saw wild eyes. Much to her surprised, they belonged to the High Prince of Virtue. This man was the highest ranking official of her orchestrated order. He answered only to the laws of Virtue and the Bringer of Light, herself.

             
With urgency present within the air, no time was wasted upon formalities. The Prince's body was tensed. He steeled himself for what he knew he must say.

             
“My Empress,” he began breathlessly, “you must come to the temple at once.”

             
Aurea's disdain for being ordered about reared itself in the annoyed arching of her brow. “Which temple?” she asked, trying to remain patient. “And why?”

             
“Endless Sun,” he answered. His eyes pleaded for calm. “It's Lady Autumn.”

             
The color drained from Aurea's face. She lurched forward. Her gaze fiercely fell upon the water. She stared into the eyes of a fearful man. “What has happened?” she demanded.

             
“She spoke,” the High Prince stammered. “Or rather she let loose a scream, but it's the first sound of any kind that the Princess has made while in our care. She also turned her head to gaze in the direction of the priests attending her before closing her eyes once more.”

             
Aurea turned her head, feeling the tears rise inside her eyes. She blinked them away rapidly.

             
Was Autumn waking?
As soon as she dared to hope for it, she forced that hope away.

             
Then with new conviction inside her eyes, she returned her gaze to the water. “I shall leave at once.”

********

              The hiding rebels were running out of time. At any moment, Nicodemus would wake. He would notify the others of how he had come to dwell unconscious inside the wine cellar. Then panic would spread throughout the temple and the Empress, who was no doubt already on her way, would be that much closer to having key members of the resistance within her grasp.

             
The warriors were mere moments from forcible action when the bishop hurried everyone from the room. He paced wildly back and forth near the doors. “The Empress is sure to come,” he muttered to himself. “I must make an inquiry. If I have no answers to give her, she will... she will...” He swallowed convulsively at the sickening lump inside his throat. Shakily, he left the relic room to begin questioning everyone who had sat watch with Autumn that day. Perhaps something or someone had triggered her restless soul.

             
Soren pushed beyond the grips of shadows. He stepped fully into the light. “Autumn,” he voiced quietly. “Wake.”

             
“She isn't there,” Zahara uttered sadly. She couldn't believe it. This was her worst fear brought to life. She had a flash of Autumn falling.

Autumn's blood rose upward against the air as reverse red rains.

Zahara remembered the agonizing desperation teeming throughout her body as she stretched out her hand for Autumn.

Then, returning to the moment, Zahara’s
eyes shifted to the woman who now lay so still. It was as though Autumn had slipped through her fingers all over again.

“We came all this way
,” Zahara said, “and she... she isn't---”

             
Soren's eyes narrowed intensely. “Autumn,” he repeated firmly.

             
With a fluid ease, the sleeping woman rolled her head in the direction of the voices. Her eyes gently opened to partake in a hazy world. She smiled sleepily as she caught sight of a familiar face. “Papa Ren,” she spoke in an ill-used voice.

             
Soren enveloped the dark-haired woman within his arms. She felt limp inside his embrace as he cradled her close. “You have not called me that since you were a child,” he cooed warmly.

             
Autumn's eyes fought against the fatigue weighting her entire body. She wanted to move, to speak freely, but those desires felt impossible. Her body held her soul deeply within its darkest recesses.

             
Sensing her inner struggle, Soren spoke. “There's no time. You must trust me.”

             
What little voice she might have had, had completely abandoned her. It fell beneath a thick blanket under which the mind could no longer see. All that was left to her was the tiny voice inside her mind. It said what her lips could not. It spoke her trust. It reverberated throughout her consciousness as loving assent.

             
Autumn's eyes weakly studied Soren's face. She knew by the gentleness of his expression that he had seen the trusted willingness of her aura.

             
Soren extended his hand to Zahara. A ghost's shroud was placed within his grasp. He draped it over Autumn as though she were a frightened child once lost and cold from confusion's rains. The airy fabric immediately conformed to her weary body with a low hiss. The rustle of another shroud caused him to peer curiously over his shoulder.

             
“It's no longer safe for you to act out the guise of a priest. Their bishop is questioning everyone,” Zahara said.

             
The druid nodded his understanding. Then he too donned the chameleon-like skin.

             
As Soren prepared himself, Zahara moved forward. She gazed into Autumn's eyes. Inside her eyes swirled the feelings which had haunted her since the day when she watched her land's most cherished angel fall. She swallowed those feelings, realizing that now was not the right time. Turning her head, she stopped their chaotic life. She moved until her back faced Autumn.

             
With the help of the others, Autumn was placed against Zahara's back. The lead Guardian held the woman atop her back with a protective strength.

             
Autumn slumped forward weakly. Her hands fell with feathery softness against Zahara's back.

             
The Guardian closed her eyes. She felt her insides quiver with the feeling of the arms embracing her neck and shoulders. She found herself cleaving to this moment as surely as Autumn cleaved to her. She savored it. Then as Autumn's weight settled against her back, that moment gave birth to a slow exhalation of breath.

             
“Let's go home,” Zahara said. Her softly-spoken words were as much to Autumn as they were to her men.

********
             

             
The priests wandered throughout the temple like ghostly souls long since void of any bodily grounding. Dazed, they moved with ashen skin and haunted eyes. What had they seen? What would this mean for their futures?

             
Weary eyes caught subtle movement within their peripheral vision. The priests rejected the sight. 

             
The steps to the wine cellar creaked beneath some unseen weight. The old door opened under the might of ---perhaps, the wind? Yes, they hoped, let it be the wind. After all, on this night of phantom voices and mournful shadows, what was one more ghost to haunt them?

             
Within the cool darkness of the cellar, Nicodemus groaned. He clutched his head as he rose cautiously to his feet. His disbelieving eyes witnessed the materializing forms of masked figures. “Stop,” he ordered.

             
He felt his blood run cold with fear. In his confusion, he wondered if perhaps these beings were the incarnation of something dark and evil. He shook his head, trying to regain the use of his logical mind. No, these individuals had to be thieves sent here to steal from the temple. He had to stop them.

             
Nicodemus lunged forward, wrapping his arms around a hooded man.

             
The rustle of feet scuffling across a dirt-covered floor sang in the darkness. That earthy song was suddenly put to an end by the distinctive sound of a blade being unsheathed followed by a small whimper.

             
Soren rushed forward. “What have you done?” he cried.

             
The druid caught the young man slumped over a tightly-held dagger. He glared into the eyes of Lucas.

             
“He came at me,” Lucas justified. He looked away without remorse.

             
Soren gently laid the priest upon the ground. He looked to him with tears rising inside his eyes. He longed to speak an apology, but at this point, no words would do the matter justice. On their mission to save an innocent life, they had quelled a life equally as pure.

             
Nicodemus looked upward. His expression was that of biting pain.

             
A sudden tranquility overtook the dying young man. He smiled slowly. He could make out eyes of weary gray. He did not recognize their shape or even their color, but what he saw within them was a presence he knew all too well. He had sat quietly in the midst of that presence and savored the intense purity of it.

             
Lady Autumn
, he thought joyously.
She was awake
.

             
“Don't feel badly,” Nicodemus whispered. “You've granted me a kindness. I'll die defending my home.” His mind flashed to his family, to his brothers. Suddenly that fleeting image was interrupted by the furious face of the Empress. No doubt she would be livid once she learned that Autumn had been taken. He smiled again softly. Autumn was going home where she belonged. She would no longer be alongside forlorn objects.

             
Soren heard the huffed exhale that was the young man's last. His eyes rose to Lucas who was opening the secret passageway. “Lucas!” he growled.

             
The man of Illusions paused in the threshold. His back tensed with the biting sting in Soren's voice. His aura was indignant but muddled with confusion. Quickly, he departed into the shadows.