Trial of Fire (2 page)

*

In the act of salvation, you will become desolation itself, destroying that which you love most
 … So said the Prophecy to Robert, when he was just nine years old. From that day onwards, everything he did to prove it wrong only proved it right. Every attempt he’d made to free Lusara, to help his people, the Salti, ended in the destruction of something – and always by his hand. Now he knew; there was nowhere else for him to go. He had to accept the fate handed him; he had never had a choice, and never would.

But for Robert Douglas, torn across layers of history he could never understand, victory and failure had become one. He could not know that courage alone would not be enough, that the answers he needed were closer than he thought, nor that history itself would be his salvation. And he could certainly never know that the Ally of Prophecy had yet to speak.

He could be absolutely sure about only one thing: if it took his last, dying breath, Lusara
would
be free.

Excerpt from
The Secret History of Lusara
 – Ruel

TRADITIONAL

John knew he was going to die, but since he could no longer feel his fingers or toes, or most of his extremities, he could be reasonably assured that his death would be relatively painless. But to die in such a manner, in the middle of the night, lost in a snowstorm, somewhere in southern Flan’har, was not quite the hero’s demise he might have hoped for. Of course, he’d never actually hoped for any kind of demise, hero’s or otherwise, but the truth was, if he had to die, then he would have chosen to do so pursuing the cause of his people’s freedom. Instead, it appeared he was going to die pursuing the end of a road lost some moments after dark, many hours ago.

Nobody had warned him about the weather. In fact, at the inn where he’d stayed the previous night, he’d been assured the worst of the winter was most definitely over and that setting out on foot at dawn the next morning would gain him his destination by nightfall. It was true that black clouds had mocked the morning sunshine, but he was a priest and had never really had much cause to learn to read the weather … or maps, or how to tell the direction from the sun – assuming there was one.

This was his first pilgrimage; it was fast turning into his last. He’d known there would be risks when he’d left Maitland, and Andrew, bless his soul, had been worried, had given him advice that no ordinary fourteen-year-old boy would normally offer. The young Duke had urged him to be careful, while pretending there was no envy in his eyes. He’d seen John’s trip as an adventure, and wished he could have one of his own, but Andrew’s foster parents, his Aunt Bella and Uncle Lawrence, would have preferred their precious boy to remain at home, and not even cross the country to see his mother, a woman they both knew was a sorcerer.

Of course, they’d never known that John was also a sorcerer – though to look at his current predicament, he would be embarrassed to admit to such skills. But John hadn’t practised much, concentrating instead on his vocation, knowing in his bones that he was born for the Church – even if that same Church’s laws against sorcerers would have him executed if he were ever discovered.

Times had changed, though. King Kenrick had overturned the laws against sorcery because he had abilities himself, and both Guilde and
Church claimed they would not slaughter anyone they found with talents … assuming they could know just by looking, or assuming sorcerers would be stupid enough to confess their abilities even now …

His mind was drifting. Though he placed one foot in front of the other, though he pushed the air in and out of his lungs, his mind couldn’t hold onto his place, his moment, his night of dark, his black and white death.

John had wanted so much to make this pilgrimage, to find this man and place himself into his service. He’d done all he could for Andrew, but the boy had grown up and for John, there were other paths he knew he had to follow, so he’d left all his comforts behind, packed a few meagre belongings and set out on foot to cross the border into Flan’har. He had no idea where he should look, but he was positive he was needed to help a man whose spiritual leadership he knew would one day free not only Lusara, but also Lusara’s sorcerers.

John’s foot came down hard on something and twisted sideways. The rest of him followed and he landed spread-eagled in the snow, fresh flakes landing softly on his face. He could see nothing now as he looked up, just the frame of snow around his body where his landing had created a hole and a black nothing above. So, this was his death. He needed to make his confession, to release the regret that he had waited so long to find Aiden McCauly, not to mention the hubris that the great man would have need of a man who couldn’t even follow a road after dark—

‘You there! Are you alive?’

John frowned. Was that a real voice, or simply his mind playing evil games before it gave up the ghost?

‘Are you hurt? Can you move?’

A face appeared in front of him. Though it was dark, he could make out deep lines, a thick beard and a frown of concern. A hand reached out and shook his shoulder.

‘Are you dead yet?’

‘I … don’t think so.’ John managed. He tried to convince his body to move, but he could feel no more than the inside of his mouth now; the rest of him was happy to just lie there in the soft, warm snow.

There was movement around him, and in the distance he could hear the jingle of horse reins, the hard thud of other feet landing on the ground. It appeared there were people around here who had no trouble keeping track of the road.

‘You’re a very lucky man.’ Hands came around him, lifting him up, wrapping him in something he couldn’t feel. ‘We almost didn’t come out on patrol tonight. We were about to turn back when we saw you fall. What
in the name of Serin are you doing out here on your own, on foot? What’s your name?’

‘John … Father John Ballan. I was … looking for … looking for … Bleaksn—’ The words got much harder to find all of a sudden. He looked into the face of the man holding him up, caught the shadows of a dozen horses behind him, and something that might have been lights far in the distance. Then abruptly everything went dark.

*

‘I think he’s one of yours.’

‘But where did he come from?’

‘He didn’t say, but he was clearly alone and he’s definitely not armed. Nor did he exhibit any signs that he’s been Bonded by Nash.’

‘That we know of.’

‘Was I wrong to bring him in?’

‘No, of course not! Still, I can’t help wondering what he was thinking. Do you think he was looking for us?’

‘Well, the last thing he said was something that sounded like Bleakstone Castle.’

‘What do you think?’

‘As I said, Bishop, I think he’s one of yours.’

‘Very well. Let me see him. Did you find out his name?’

‘Father John Ballan.’

‘Father?’

John blinked, but his eyes were too sore to keep open. He was comfortable, that much was certain. And he was warm. Oh, so warm! Warm and comfortable. Now if only those people would stop talking, he’d be able to get some more rest and—

The bed dipped and he opened his eyes a little again – and gasped in shock. ‘Bishop!’ Desperately, he struggled to sit up, but Aiden McCauly placed a firm but gentle hand on his chest and kept him down.

‘You stay right where you are, Father. I don’t think you’ll be getting up before tomorrow.’

John blinked again, his eyes still sore, but he couldn’t close them now if his life depended on it. Aiden McCauly was sitting on the side of his bed, alive, well and with a small smile playing across his face. John prayed silently that he wasn’t still lying in the snow somewhere, breathing his last and dreaming this.

McCauly had aged since the last time John had seen him, fifteen years ago. The brown hair was mostly grey, and the lines on his face were deep, though few. Still, his gentle brown eyes were as perceptive as ever. For a man in his sixties, living in exile, Aiden McCauly had done better than most.

The truly elected Bishop of Lusara was now holding a cup of something hot to John’s lips; he dutifully sipped. The aroma of the spiced brew drifted into the room, making him sleepy again.

‘Now,’ McCauly began, holding the cup between his hands, ‘Deverin tells me you were on foot? The last I heard, you were living at Maitland Manor, tutor and chaplain to Andrew Eachern, Duke of Ayr. What brings you here? And on foot?’

‘Forgive me, Your Grace.’ John tried again to sit up, but at the Bishop’s gesture, he settled once more. ‘I came to … to find you. I want to—’ He paused. Suddenly his deep desire to be instrumental in the freeing of his people seemed an exercise in self-indulgence. He’d already had an important role, and he’d forsaken Andrew to come here, and be a burden on the one man who—

‘You want to?’ McCauly prompted.

‘I want to help you, Your Grace.’

‘Help me?’

‘Yes. If you will allow it.’

‘Help me how?’

And there it was, the moment he had been dreading. He knew when he left Maitland, even when he had first contemplated this pilgrimage, that he would have to confess this most secret of secrets. Though his body ached, he took a deep breath. ‘You have been working with Robert Douglas.’

‘Have I?’ McCauly was noncommittal.

‘Yes. And you’ve been writing books and papers, disseminating them throughout Lusara. You’ve been writing about sorcery and how the Church needs to question all we’ve been told about it. That there are questions about the old Empire and the Guilde’s ancient attitude to sorcery. That every priest must search his conscience and ask what it is we most fear, and how best we should address those fears. How simple prejudice only breeds more fear and hatred.’

Surprised, McCauly sat back. He put the cup on the side table and laced his fingers together. His expression gave nothing away. ‘You have certainly kept up with your reading. So tell me, why would this make you want to join me?’

‘Because, Your Grace, I … I am a sorcerer.’

There was nothing in McCauly’s gaze, not a hint in his movements; just a pause and no more. Then, abruptly, he got to his feet and moved away a little to poke at the fire. For the first time, John noticed the rest of the room, but he couldn’t take in details other than the warm ochre colours, the sparse furnishings.

‘You recall,’ McCauly began softly, ‘Everard Payne, Earl of Cannockburke?’

‘Of course, Your Grace.’

McCauly turned and faced him squarely. ‘He told me you had been instrumental in aiding my escape from prison. He never actually said, but I had to assume the only way you could do so was to use sorcery.’

‘I’m sorry, Your Grace.’

‘For what? For having the courage to take such a risk on my behalf? If you’d been caught, Father, you would have been burned at the stake! And now you’ve come all the way here – on foot – to help me?’

John was taken aback at the fierceness in the Bishop’s gaze. It lasted only a moment, then McCauly was calm once more, his hands folded again into his woollen sleeves. ‘By all means, Father, if you want to help, then I am not the man to dictate in what manner you give that help. For my part, I am glad to have the company of another priest. Tomorrow we will celebrate mass together. In the meantime, I ask that you get your rest. You will be sore tomorrow for your trouble.’

As he turned to go, he paused, showing John his face in profile. ‘And you being here has given me the opportunity to thank you personally for your part in my rescue. You are indeed a very brave man, Father John, and our cause is the stronger for your joining it. Good night.’

‘Good night, Your Grace,’ he breathed into the silence. Then the door was closed behind the Bishop and John lay there with a grin on his face, his aches and his sore eyes completely forgotten.

*

John had no idea what time it was when he woke. There was some daylight, a few misty clouds, and a gusty wind that whistled under his door now and then, but beyond that, he could only guess.

He got out of bed gingerly, his muscles protesting even that little effort. But he needed to relieve himself and was delighted to find a corner curtain hiding a garderobe. After that, he found a bowl of warmish water, a towel and some plain clothes – not clerical, but they were warm and since the Bishop hadn’t worn any kind of habit, John had to assume that was the wisest move.

He washed and dressed quickly, not wanting to lose this dearly won heat. Some kind soul had left him some food on a tray. He ate only enough to quell his grumbling stomach, then, a little excited, a little daunted, he opened the door of his room and peeked into the passage. It was dark except for a slit of weak sunlight from a narrow window further along which marked the wooden floor and half the opposite stone wall. He tried to get his bearings, to gauge from the smells and noises of this place his best
option for finding other people, but Bleakstone sounded horribly silent for a castle well-inhabited with rebels.

John closed his door quietly. Choosing at random he turned to his right, heading for the narrow window and what looked like a staircase beyond it. It wasn’t a staircase, but rather, an angled turn in the wall, which he followed. It was lit by more narrow windows which looked down onto a courtyard. An open door showed a room with two tables, one long, one round. The long table had piles of books, scrolls charts and other things he recognised. The round table had a beautifully carved book stand, a thick tome resting upon it, and at the side, an inkwell, a pen, a sheaf of papers and a heavy eye-glass. Curiosity burned within him and, despite his years of discipline as a priest, he took a step inside.