Children of Fire (7 page)

The wizard shrugged, his tone suddenly mellow. “The same reason, I suppose. I want something from you. Having allies among the Order might someday be of great value to me.”

It might even save your life,
Jerrod wanted to say. But he knew threatening the wizard would get him nowhere.

“Besides,” Rexol continued. “It's not as if Ezra actually ever asked me to do anything.”

“That day will come soon,” Jerrod warned him. “The Burning Savior has already been born into the mortal world. The Oracles have seen it.”

“Really?” Rexol seemed amused by the monk's pronouncement. “Is our savior a boy or a girl?”

“I don't know,” Jerrod admitted. “The details of the vision are unclear. The identity of the Savior is shrouded in mystery.”

Rexol barked out another short laugh. “What good are prophecy and vision if you can't act on them?”

“Ezra gave his life for this cause,” Jerrod reminded him.

“That doesn't mean he wasn't a fool,” Rexol answered more quietly. “What other signs do you have that this so-called savior is coming?”

“The Blood Moon heralds a time of momentous events,” the monk solemnly declared.

“The Purge was marked by a Blood Moon,” Rexol muttered grimly. “Maybe your brethren are about to unleash another massacre on the Southlands.”

Jerrod chose to ignore the wizard's comment. “The coming of our savior is inevitable,” he insisted. “Each season more children are born with Chaos in their veins. Wandering magicians have become a common sight in all the Seven Capitals. Outside the cities any villager can turn to the local witch or druid in search of magic. Only two decades after the Purge, all but the lowliest of lords has a court mage at his beck and call.”

“Court mages, traveling magicians, briar witches: These people are nothing!” Rexol spat, replying with the haughty arrogance reserved for true wizards. “What power they have is weak and unfocused. Most are barely more than charlatans, relying on tricks to fool the ignorant and cheat them of their coin.”

He stood with a sigh, turning away from Jerrod as if weary of looking at him. “I have apprenticed many of these so-called Chaos wielders, only to discover their power is a mere shadow of true talent. Khamin Ankha is not the first apprentice to disappoint me, only the most recent.”

“Most of those born with true power are identified by the Order long before they come to your attention,” Jerrod reminded him, rising from his seat and walking over to place a comforting hand on the wizard's shoulder. Rexol turned back to face him, shrugging the hand away.

“Nazir is reluctant to move openly against your kind,” Jerrod continued. “The horrors of the Purge are still fresh in the memories of the people; he is afraid of uniting the common folk in sympathy toward you. But he still seeks to cleanse the Southlands of Chaos; my fellow monks wage a constant war against magic. The Pilgrims seek out children who show any sign of the Sight or the Gift. They are taken to the Monastery, conscripted into the Order so that they can be taught to control their power.”

“Conscripted? Is that what the Order calls it when they tear a child away from its parents?”

“The Pontiff believes the power of magic can be tamed one child at a time,” Jerrod replied calmly, refusing to be baited by the blatant hostility in the wizard's comment. “He thinks the Legacy can be preserved if they find and control all those children born with the Gift. But his people are not the only ones searching for children touched by Chaos.

“Ezra was willing to face the truth the Pontiff refuses to acknowledge: The Legacy will not last forever. And when it is gone we will need a champion to defend us against the invading hordes from the Burning Sea. We need a savior with the strength to use the weapon of our enemies against them—a child of power trained in the arts of magic and sorcery.”

Jerrod chose his words carefully. The mage was an ally to their cause, but there were secrets the monk was not willing to share with him. He made no mention of the Talismans left behind by the True Gods, or the power they possessed. He told the wizard only what was necessary, taking to heart the words of warning his mentor had shared with him many years ago.

Rexol serves no cause but his own. He answers to no authority but his own. And he works with us for reasons that are solely his own. He hungers for the power of Old Magic, and he would betray us all to claim it as his own.

“I have the Sight,” Jerrod continued, hoping to bolster Rexol's fading confidence in their cause. “I share the visions of the Oracles. The child we seek is out there, somewhere. The time of the Burning Savior draws near. I have seen it in my dreams.”

“I don't have much faith in your dreams,” the wizard muttered. His voice became louder as he added, “But I'm sick of watching the Southlands stagnate beneath the yoke of the Order. Ezra may be gone, but I will honor our arrangement: I will train your savior … if you ever find one.”

Jerrod heard the mockery in his tone, but refused to back down. “I will find what I seek,” he vowed. “I will not rest or waver until we have our champion. The child of destiny is out there somewhere, waiting for us.”

“The child is not the only one waiting,” the wizard noted.

“You must be patient, Rexol. It will take time. The one we seek may not be revealed for several years. But if you stay true to our cause I will bring you a worthy apprentice. I will find a child touched by true Chaos, a child with the power to save us all.”

“Do so, and I will gladly train this wondrous child,” Rexol answered, flashing his pointed teeth in another grin.

The smile was meant to further mock Jerrod's steadfast religious conviction, yet the monk sensed a hunger behind the wizard's taunting. Rexol was desperate for a worthy apprentice—as desperate as Jerrod was to find the Burning Savior.

Shared desperation was a poor foundation on which to build an alliance. But Jerrod could take solace in one undeniable truth: The wizard would never betray him to the Order.

It was well past dusk by the time Gerrit reached his front door, a regular enough occurrence during the harvest season. He was hot and tired and filthy from working the fields with his men, but he wasn't one to sit about while others labored, even if he was paying them. He was well off by most standards, and even wealthy according to some, yet he still felt an obligation to join in the harvest of his own crop.

His only regret about the long hours spent in the fields was the knowledge that Keegan—the son Nyra had given him before she died, the single most important person in Gerrit's whole world—would already be fast asleep in his crib by the time he returned home.

Gerrit opened the door carefully so as not to wake the sleeping child and made his way into the small kitchen. Alia, the serving girl hired to care for Keegan while Gerrit was out in the fields, had laid out a small meal of bread and cheese for his return. The young woman herself was sitting at the table, staring down at a plate of food in front of her.

“I hope you haven't been waiting for me since supper,” Gerrit jokingly said as he removed his jacket and seated himself across from her at the table. “Your father won't be happy with me if he finds out you're starving yourself until I get home.”

Alia looked up, startled out of thought by his arrival. “I'm sorry, Mister Gerrit,” she said quickly. “I never heard you come in.”

“You
didn't
hear me come in,” he corrected her, though not unkindly. “I didn't want to wake the baby,” he added, tearing eagerly into one of the rolls.

It wasn't unusual for Alia to have dinner with him, though usually on the nights he was late she would eat before. That way she could head back to her own home as soon as he returned from the fields.

“I expected you to be ready to leave as soon as I came through the door,” he commented between mouthfuls.

“I got to tell you something.”

“You
have
to tell me something,” he said automatically.

It wasn't hard to pick up the concern in her tone. Gerrit noticed she hadn't even touched the food on her plate. He wondered how long she had been sitting there, waiting for him. And suddenly he knew something was very, very wrong.

“Is Keegan having the nightmares again?”

Alia nodded slightly. “He got another one tonight. He woke all screaming and crying. And I heard him say ‘Mama.'”

Gerrit frowned. He had never spoken to Keegan about Nyra. There was no point; not yet. The boy was only two; he was just beginning to speak. He couldn't possibly have understood what had happened to his mother.

“Mama? Are you sure? Sometimes children can be hard to understand, especially when they're upset.”

“I … I'm pretty sure, Mister Gerrit. He said ‘Mama.' Like his nightmare was about Nyra.”

“Impossible,” he declared with a shake of his head. “She died when Kee was born. He never knew her. He probably meant the words for you, Alia. You take care of him. He probably thinks you're his mother.”

Alia's eyes grew wide with horror. “Oh, Mister Gerrit! I wouldn't never make him think that! Not never!”

He held up a hand to placate her. “It's okay, Alia. I know you'd never do anything to dishonor Nyra's memory. I only meant that Keegan probably
thinks
you're his mother. He's a smart boy, he knows I'm ‘Papa.' Maybe he somehow made the connection that you should be ‘Mama.'”

The young woman cast her gaze down, as if she couldn't look him in the eye.

“He didn't mean me,” she insisted, though her voice was soft and low. “He was just crying and crying. Took an hour till he fell back asleep.” After a moment she added, “A baby ain't supposed to have nightmares.”

“Maybe the hours I'm working are upsetting him,” Gerrit said by way of explanation. “I'll bet he just misses me. I'll make more of an effort to get home early enough to see him before he goes to sleep. I'm sure that's all it is.”

His answer didn't seem to ease Alia's concerns. “There's something else, Mister Gerrit. You had a visitor today. A woman. An
old
woman. Said she needed talk to you about Kee.”

An unexpected shiver ran down Gerrit's spine. “An old woman was asking after my son?”

“She didn't use his name. Just kept calling him ‘the boy.' I didn't like her, Mister Gerrit. There was something wrong about her. Something nasty. She scared me. I told her to go away, but she wouldn't leave. She said she knew Nyra, so I … I told her to come back later. I just wanted her to go away. I didn't know what else to do. I'm sorry, Mister Gerrit.”

He hesitated a moment before shrugging, trying to appear nonchalant for the young girl's sake. “There's nothing to be sorry about,” he assured her. “If it's important I'm sure she'll show up later tonight. Don't worry, Alia. I'll find out what this woman wants.”

“I stayed to tell you about her,” the young woman said defensively, as if trying to atone for some crime Gerrit hadn't accused her of. “So you'd be ready in case she comes back.”

“You did the right thing.”

Satisfied with his answer, Alia pushed herself away from the table.

“You're leaving?” Gerrit asked in surprise. “You haven't even touched your food.”

“I'm … I'm not hungry, Mister Gerrit.”

He could see the nervousness in her; he could tell she was anxious to leave before this strange visitor returned. He found her behavior odd, but she was barely more than a girl and he wasn't about to chastise her for being easily spooked.

“That's fine, Alia. You go on home, now. Say hi to your father for me, and I'll see you tomorrow morning.”

“I will, Mister Gerrit. Thank you. Good-bye.”

And with that she was gone. Gerrit chewed his food slowly, trying to imagine what kind of woman could have made such an impression on Alia. And how that kind of woman would have known his wife.

It was well past midnight and the fire in the hearth had burned down to a few embers when the expected knock finally came at his door. For a brief second Gerrit considered simply ignoring it. The door was locked; whoever was outside would just have to come back another time. Then he laughed softly at himself for his foolishness and got up to greet his late-night visitor, his body casting eerie shadows on the walls as he crossed the floor of his front room to the door.

“Come in,” he had been about to say as he opened the door, but the invitation died on his lips when he saw the figure who had come to meet him.

The woman was hunched over nearly double. Her scraggly gray hair fell uncombed from beneath the hood of her black cloak, partially covering her sunken, withered features. Though he had never seen Gretchen in person, he recognized the local witch-woman at his door.

She didn't try to invite herself in or make any move forward, as if she knew she wouldn't be welcomed.

“I've come about the boy,” the hag said.

“You mean Keegan,” was all Gerrit could manage by way of a reply.

“He's very special, that boy.”

“Of course he's special. He's my son.”

She pulled back her lips and bared her rotting teeth at him. “Don't speak to me like a fool! Your boy is different from other children. He is marked.”

Gerrit resisted a sudden impulse to slam the door in the old crone's face.

Instead, he asked, “Marked? What does that mean?”

The witch ignored his question, responding with one of her own. “The boy, does he have nightmares?”

Somehow he knew there was no point in lying. “Yes.”

“Nightmares about his mother?”

Gerrit didn't know much about witchcraft, but he was an intelligent man who wasn't easily fooled. Suddenly his earlier conversation with Alia made perfect sense.

“You spoke to Kee's nanny about this, didn't you? You're the one who filled her head with that nonsense about his mother!”

“Your son sees things in his dreams. He sees his mother dying. He's not old enough to comprehend what happened. But he sees it in his dreams and he
knows
.”

“This kind of talk might have tricked a frightened young girl, but your games won't work on me.”

The hag laughed, her shrill cackle sending shivers down Gerrit's back.

“This is no game. Your wife knew my power. She believed. She came to see me while the boy was inside her, to ask for my help. Did you know that?”

“You're lying!”

“Am I? She gave me something. Payment for services rendered.”

Gretchen reached beneath her robes and brought out a ring, holding it up high for him to see. It took Gerrit a moment before he realized it was an exact match of the one on his own finger.

“Nyra's betrothal ring! But she said … she told me she lost it.”

“She traded it to me. Traded it for the life of her child.”

“What … what are you saying?”

“The boy was dead inside her. Only my magic could give him life again. That's why your wife came to me. To beg my help. I warned her there would be a cost beyond the ring. A cost she was willing to pay.”

A dawning horror crept across Gerrit's face as he began to understand. “You. It was your fault she died. You killed my wife!”

He balled his hands into fists and raised them up high, but he couldn't bring himself to strike a woman. Not even one as contemptible as this witch.

The hag never even flinched before his impotent rage.

“Your wife made a choice: her life for the boy's. There was no other way.”

He lowered his fists, slowly unclenching them. Instead he held out his right hand, palm up.

“Give me back her ring.”

He spoke with all the authority he could muster, but he doubted it would have any effect. He was certain she would simply snatch it away from him, but instead she set it into his waiting grasp. The skin of her fingers was dry and rough, and he instinctively pulled back at the contact, nearly dropping the ring.

“Yes,” Gretchen whispered. “Take the ring back. It rightfully belongs to you: I have no use for it now.”

“You had a bargain with my wife,” Gerrit insisted. He had no wish to be in debt to this foul woman. “I will give you double what the ring is worth in coin. Come back tomorrow and I'll see you are paid.”

“I don't want your coins. There is … something else.”

“What, then? Out with it, witch! Or I'll raise my fists again, and this time they won't go unused!”

Though Gerrit was a large man threats and violence were not normally in his nature. But this woman disturbed him. The longer he spoke with her the more agitated he became. He was anxious to end this meeting as quickly as possible.

“I want the boy. Give me your son.”

“You're mad, woman!”

Gerrit tried to slam the door in her face, but the hag reached out with a single crooked finger and stopped it cold. She reached out with the same finger and touched Gerrit lightly on the arm. The chill of the grave swallowed Gerrit's entire body, freezing him in place. Paralyzed, he could do nothing but stand helpless before the monster who had come to take his son.

“The boy sees visions in his dreams—visions of things past and things yet to come. He is marked. I can smell him, I can taste him. Chaos burns in his veins.”

The witch snapped her fingers, and the spell was broken. Gerrit stumbled back, his limbs suddenly his own once more. But his legs and arms were numb, and he collapsed to the ground by the fireplace on the far side of the room.

“But the boy must be given to me freely,” the witch continued. “If not, his power will be of no use to me.”

Gerrit rose slowly to his feet, leaning on the hearth for support, his legs functional but unsteady. He wanted to run, he wanted with every fiber of his being to turn and flee from the horrible creature that had invaded his home. But instead he held his ground, for Keegan's sake.

“I will never give my son over to you,” he said, his voice defiant despite his fear.

“Right now the boy only sees things,” she rasped. “But as he ages his power will grow. One day he will discover he can
do
things. Terrible, awful things. He must learn to control this power. If he doesn't, it could destroy him.”

Summoning up his courage, Gerrit spat a reply filled with hate and venom across the room at the figure still hunched on the threshold of his door.

“So you will teach him to be a witch, like you? To cast spells and hexes on innocent villagers? To feed on their fear and weakness? I will die before I let that happen!”

“My power is weak,” the crone whispered. “It comes from talismans and rituals. I know the spells to draw the magic out of a dragon's tooth, to shape it to my bidding. But the power is in the talisman. The boy is different. His power comes from within. Chaos is a part of him, and in time he will unleash it on the world. It is inevitable.”

Gerrit's limbs were still tingling from the aftereffects of the witch's spell, but he could feel the sensation flowing back into them as the heat of the fire warmed him. He grabbed a poker from the fireplace and stirred up the dying embers, keeping an eye on the witch as he did so.

“You are not welcome here,” he said as he jabbed at the fire, letting the tip of the poker grow ever hotter. “I want you to leave, now.”

“I am not the only one who can see your son's power,” Gretchen warned him. “Others will sense the Chaos in him. And some, like the Pilgrims of the Order, will not come to you as I have. They will simply take him away.”

Gerrit turned from the fire to face the intruder, brandishing the poker like a weapon, its glowing tip extended far out in front. To his satisfaction, the startled witch took a quick step backward.

“Your wife made a choice when the boy was born,” she hissed. “A difficult choice. Now you must make one yourself.