Soul of Fire (51 page)

A group of Gold Coats formed, just out of reach of Peter’s flaming, and clearly having decided that he was the main menace here, pointed were-loaded powersticks at him. Peter could have flamed them. But it could be argued this once that they thought they were attacking him in self-defense. And in this close a melee, he stood a good chance of hitting even more innocent people.

In the mayhem, all Peter could understand of the surrounding confusion was that an elephant had William Blacklock by the middle of the body, holding him aloft with his trunk. The two disappeared in the melee a moment later, and Peter was glad. He didn’t want to see anyone he knew beat to pieces. Even if the chap already looked dead.

Such senseless death. And if they didn’t stop it soon, his Sofie would die, too. He couldn’t allow that. He wished with all his heart and mind that they would stop fighting, that the evil ones would die and everyone else spared. And that there would be peace.

THE MANY KINDS OF SACRIFICE

Suddenly, in his closed talon, the ruby erupted in light
and heat. Peter should have dropped it, but instead he held it tighter—as if to protect the world from its power.

He registered somewhere in his consciousness that the sudden flash of blinding red light had made the Gold Coats drop their powersticks as though they were red-hot. He saw that several tigers fell dead in their tracks and writhed as their corpses returned to human form. He noticed people looking confused. But he thought only of Sofie.

In his mind, a voice spoke—a voice that was made of light and music, more beautiful than all the sunrises in the world, more enthralling than the melodies of angels. It spoke in words he didn’t understand, in words that didn’t belong to any language he knew or had ever heard—and yet in words that communicated light, love, caring.

Several of the would-be combatants had fallen to their knees, crying. It was all of the benedictions and absolutions in the world rolled into one.

He noticed that elephants and the remaining tigers were shifting back to human form, naked and crying. The Gold Coats were weeping, too.

But Peter thought only of Sofie.

Aloud he called, “Does anyone know healing? Anyone? We must stop her bleeding. Please, we must stop her bleeding.”

A woman came running, carrying a two-year-old boy. A blond, small slip of a woman, who said, softly, “I’ve nursed my husband and his comrades on encampments wherever the empire sent us. There is no wound, short of fatal, that I cannot treat.”

She handed the child to Peter and, undaunted by the light radiating from the ruby, she took hold of the big knife and pulled it out slowly, all the while uttering hasty spells. And the blood stopped, so that when the knife was wholly out, there was only a little trickle of blood, and Sofie was still breathing.

“Is she healed?” he asked her.

“Oh, no, sir. I closed the wound, but it’s still frail. It will reopen with too much exertion. And she lost a lot of blood. It will be over a month, or more, before she’s back to normal. You can’t take her anywhere till then.”

“But . . .” A month. He would be gone long before then. He had to be gone. He must get the ruby to Nigel. Now activated, it would be a beacon to all forms of greed in the world. If he didn’t get it to its twin. He could not defend the ruby alone for a month, stopped in one place. But beyond that, he thought it was best if he was removed from Sofie and if Sofie was removed from him. He’d become fond of her, and she of him. And the gods would
not
annihilate time and space to make two lovers happy.

“I will look after her, sir,” the lady said. “Someone saved me and my little boy, the least I can do is look after someone else. And she is very beautiful, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is.” One last, longing look, to assure himself of how divinely beautiful Sofie was. Then, while the woman looked around for someone to help carry Sofie, Peter stooped and grabbed the ruby. Before the lady had turned back, he’d shifted forms and taken to the sky.

He could feel the link pulling between Soul of Fire and Heart of Light. He would follow it, to find Nigel. And then they would return to Africa and to the temple, where they would restore the ruby to the avatar.

And then . . . and then Peter would finally send his letter out, renouncing Summercourt. And he would lose himself in the world, trying to mend his broken heart.

There was a thunderclap above, and as though something had rent the heavens, the streaming rain of the monsoons started pouring down, drenching the world.

VENICE

Peter flew and flew and flew, till his wings ached with
it. And yet the voice in the ruby whispered to him and gave him power and strength.

One morning he found himself in Venice and back in human form, in a well-cut suit, every inch the English lord. He’d been in Venice before, in his days as a young revolutionary, and the place beckoned to him with its old palaces, its narrow waterways.

At first, he’d been shocked that Nigel would be here, in this very populous city. And then he realized that, like Benares, Venice was so old and full of magic and power, it masked almost everything. Oh, not the ruby itself. Nothing could mask the ruby. But it confused things and made the place of the jewel and its exact possessor harder to pinpoint.

Unfortunately, this meant it made his task more difficult, too. Following the pull of the jewel in his breast pocket, Peter wandered about the gilded expanses of St. Mark’s Cathedral. He went to the palace of the Doges, in which the Venetian council once sat, when, centuries ago, Venice had been an independent republic.

From the second story of that palace, it was possible to cross the canal to the prison, via the Bridge of Sighs, a covered stone passageway through which criminals had once been led to trial.

Someone within the cool stone confines of the bridge was reading Byron’s poem addressed to the city: “ ‘I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave . . .’ ”

“Such rot, isn’t it?” a voice said, lightly from Peter’s elbow, and he turned around, to glance at its source.

He noticed the gentleman was tall and pale-haired and that his face had that curious tanned-red color of very fair people who spent a lot of time outside in exotic climes. It was only as his eyes met the gaze from a pair of eyes that burned like well-cut sapphires that Peter recognized the man.

“Nigel, by Jove. Nigel Oldhall.” His call started as a loud cry, but it changed rapidly to a whisper as he remembered that other people might be looking for his friend.

Nigel must have remembered it, too. With a quickness of movement and mind that Peter hardly recognized in his old schoolmate—Peter always having been the more commanding of the two—Nigel did something with his hand and Peter felt as though a veil of disguise had fallen over both of them.

“Come,” Nigel said. And Peter went, following him, watching the way his old friend cut through the crowds, without pushing, without seeming to shoulder through them. Nigel made it look like effortless sailing through masses of tourists and locals.

Down on the side of the canal, men were singing. Nigel called a gondola with a gesture. He gave directions in what sounded like a fair approximation of Italian, and smiled at Peter’s astonished look. “I’ve always been good with languages, you know, old chap. Always.”

He must have given the right directions, because in no time they were ensconced into a snug booth of a coffeehouse, sitting upon dyed leather sofas, while a massive gilded eagle seemed to extend its wings paternally over the both of them. The coffee shop was called The Golden Eagle, and the waiter brought them cups of excellent Turkish coffee and little congealed cakes that seemed to be made mostly of wax and coloring.

Peter nibbled a cake indifferently and peered across the table at his friend, who appeared exactly like a more tanned version of the old Nigel, but whose eyes and look and demeanor were all very different. He looked, Peter thought, like an adult. A commanding adult, at that.

“Where have you been?” Peter asked at last.

Nigel shrugged. “A bit everywhere. That letter I sent you, the one from Peru, did you ever get it?”

Peter allowed his eyes to widen. “Peru? The last letter received was from St. Petersburg.”

Nigel shrugged. “I had some odd idea,” he said, “of going by degrees toward India. I came in through Russia, and . . . I just caught a carpetship—working as flight magician—to the most distant point possible. So . . . Peru. But then I found myself followed there, too, and I caught the first carpetship flight, which as it happened brought me here.” He shrugged. “Would you think me insane if I told you that in Peru, something else joined in pursuit of me? A dragon? But not a dragon like you at all. It had no wings. It flew like swimming on air.”

Peter nodded. “I fought the creature,” he said. “At least if it was a blue one.”

“Have you now?” Nigel said with interest. He looked weary, but also . . . energized. It was difficult to tell why or how. “And do you have Soul of Fire?”

Peter reached in his pocket and took out the jewel. It was the last thing he had from Sofie. The last thing. And he missed her horribly. He realized somewhat in surprise that he’d been missing her presence these many days. He wanted to tell her about the horrible congealed cakes. He wanted to show her the eagle with its wings extended. He wanted . . .

Nigel took the jewel.

“So you’ll be returning it to Africa now,” Peter said. And, as a thought occurred to him, “Should I give you a ride, old man?”