JM Guillen
This is the first story in the series
Judicars Oath
It is a work of fiction, with all rights being held by JM Guillen
Cover art prepared by Chris Zacharoff
Edited by CM Lee
This is Edition 1 of this work. If you purchased this work,
and you later notice an edition change,
please contact JM.guillen@irrationalworlds.com
for a free PDF update
© 2001-2012
All rights reserved
Published by Irrational Worlds
Fifteen years ago, when the world was younger, and many secrets still remained hidden…
One
Finally, after three days of fire and death, the orphan was alone.
Tonight, the night sky was brilliant. It was a rare night in the city where the sky was open and clear, so he felt fortunate. From his place on the haven roof, the boy could see dozens of bright stars. He loved practicing their names. There was the minstrel, who wandered through the sky, and the twin maidens, who both seemed to blush and hide on the horizon. Brightest, of course, was the lightman’s mantle, hanging winterward in the sky. The orphan always made sure to mark it when he went out. The city was dangerous in the best of times, and he always needed to know his way home. The mantle always guided him well.
He winced. He still had a sharp stitch in his side whenever he took a deep breath. His lungs probably always would be weak. They usually pained him only when he ran, or took a deep breath. He found he became short-winded easily.
It was his heart that was truly raw and aching, however. For that, even the mercies of his caretakers could do nothing, no matter how kind.
The orphan remembered the gentle face of the dociere who had come to tend to the orphans. He was a jovial, quiet man. It surprised the orphan that the man came at all; most of the adults seemed to be afraid, as if the spectral fires would return.
“This is a strong medicine.” The man held five spicy-smelling packets of Nahlnn-leaf. “One of the cantors will prepare it for you. It will be brought in a bowl of hot water.” The man had a raspy voice that did not match his beaming smile. “He will drop one in boiling water, first thing in the morning. You will breathe the steam, until the water cools.” He eyed the orphan. “One per day. You might always have a hard time running, or doing something that needs you to draw a lot of wind. I can’t exactly crawl inside there and see how badly you were burned.”
The orphan nodded, still in shock.
The dociere leaned forward, looking at the skinny, dark-haired boy. He reached for a pocket, offering a licorice stick. “I figure, after peering and poking in a young man’s throat, he deserves a little something sweet.
The boy took it, moving like a marionette. His eyes were far away, as if still staring into an awful white fire that only he could see. The fire that had taken so many people.
“What’s your name, boy?”
The orphan had said nothing. It was easier to pretend as if he hadn’t even heard the question.
Tonight, he was trying to put all that in the past.
The Simenion blew steadily off of the ocean, catching the scent of waves and far lands in the boy’s long hair. Even the fresh breeze did not dispel the reek of the courtyard. That foulness lingered. It was like the shadow of a living thing, a sickly-sweet, cloying smell that grasped fervently to the buildings and pavestones. It lurked where the eye could not see. The orphan was certain that when he was not looking, the scent somehow gathered together, into an emaciated, gaunt shade which still stalked him.
It mocked him. It slept in his hair, in his clothes, and wafted along with the few who had survived. It brought darkened dreams that would lie in wait even in the full day, stalking you. They were dreams that could kill you. They could drink the fear right from your veins.
Or so the orphan thought.
Whatever form that stench took, it could not be allowed to win. He had promised himself this on the names of the friends he had lost. He brought to bear every whit of faith, stories and child-magic that he could. He knew a lot, living in the Havens as he did. Stories were his bread and jam.
He knew which of Elsador’s songs would protect him as he slept, and so he hummed them, touching her medallion before he went to sleep. He knew that moonlight would keep the dreams at bay, and so he pushed his cot to the window. He took to only stacking his clothing in a terribly specific way. Of course, three was a fortunate number, and so he sought it wherever he could, it and its cousins such as six, nine, and twelve. These numbers were cornerstones for the orphan.
He took to counting his steps, or the number of bites he took, or the pavestones between his small room and the blessed font of Elsador, in the courtyard. He was distraught when the number of stones was two hundreds, two tens, and four. That was not a number he could divide evenly by three. If he could make it somehow equal three, then he knew that the power of the water in the fountain could somehow flow to him, like some great invisible water work of protection and faith.
He had spent the better part of an afternoon, trying the ‘rithmic, but it didn’t work. He would have to steal some of the stone tiles.
These were only a few of the odd things that the orphan came to believe. In the end, it seemed as if none of it would stop the dreams, or make the stench lessen. Nothing had stopped the strange, whispering fire when it came to take his friends, and now, nothing could hold the dreams at bay.
He had resolved not to cry. At least, he would not cry here where the darkness could see him.
Tonight, he knew it would be too much. It had been three days since the fire, and none of his faith had availed him, not even the charm of threes. He needed to get away from the Havens, away from the smell of burnt hair and punky-sweet rot.
If he didn’t, he knew the dreams would catch him. They would catch him, and he would never awaken. He needed some time (even a few hours) where he didn’t have to breathe the figments and whispers of his dead friends.
The boy slipped down from the roof, trying to push away memory as he adjusted his small pack.
The memories came anyway, scented with sweetness and ashes.
“This way.” Cyrl had discovered this route. The Sindrian boy had laughed as he showed them, swinging down from the roof like a Riogiin wire-dancer.
“You have to step just so on the ledge.” That spot would eventually become worn from their use. “You have to be able to reach the thickness of the vines, or down you’ll go.”
Cyrl had made a “pop” with his thumb and cheek when he said it, and then grinned merrily. “I won’t have any of my men falling! Not on my watch!” He glanced at Tia as he said ‘men’. She rewarded him with a smirk.
“You boys can be judicars all you wish.” She tossed her hair. “I am a cunning rogue, slipping past the lawmen.”
“Judicars are paid to chase scoundrels like you.” Cyrl was attempting to be serious.
Tia laughed. “This is one scoundrel that will never be caught. Besides. You’re too slow.” She grinned at Cyrl.
He grinned back. They all liked the pretty girl, but Cyrl was the bravest. “Perhaps you can be a scoundrel that works with the law, helping to catch true villains from the shadows.”
She snorted, not unprettily. “A scoundrel working with the law? Unlikely.” She grinned. “Besides. I’m too smart to be seen with any of you.”
Rio, Tia, and Jaque had laughed, but the orphan had silenced them all, whispering sharply.
“You lot need to quit caper-fooling and sharp up”. They abandoned their antics immediately. The other four often followed the orphan’s words. He was ever the one who watched out for them, keeping them safe when they were on one of their secret missions into the city streets.
Tia smiled sweetly as the orphan let her go before him. “So courteous.”
He smiled back but said nothing. He would always remember that. He would always wish that he had told her how her hair was dark like night, or how she smelled like summer grass and faraway places, or that her eyes made him want to spend his afternoons writing poetry.
He had never told her.
With the recklessness that children call bravery, they had scampered down the vines, slipped through the lush gardens, and made for the far side of the campus. There, a great willow, older-than-old, would help them over the Haven walls.
The orphan could almost taste the memories of his friends as he scampered down the vines.
They were dead now. Rio was the eldest at thirteen. That placed him squarely in his ‘prenticing year. Jaque, the youngest, was three summers younger. He had started his ‘tiquities year only a few months ago.
The spectral fire had come. It had come and eaten them.
No
one could determine where the strange white fire had started; it
had simply seemed
to erupt from
the ground, whispering as it came. Parts of the gardens, the
dormitories, even the streets outside the Havens were blackened with
strange, almost greasy burns
that would not scrub away.
The cantors and the surviving orphans had worked most of the day to
try and clean the cobbles, but mostly seemed to have
simply spread the stink further.
The
orphan’s arms ached, remembering the labor. It made for
slow climbing,
but he didn’t care. If
he couldn’t get out, get away from this smell, he thought he would
go mad.
Of course, no one was supposed to leave the grounds alone, especially after dark. So, before he scrambled through the gardens, he made double sure that none of the cantors were out and about. It felt dangerous. Usually, the orphan had kept watch as they bolted through. Then, they watched for him. He had always felt safe while the others watched, particularly his eagle-eyed Sindrian friend.
Cyrl was gone. He had been sung into the white fire. He had smiled while his hair and skin and tears burned away.
Now, the orphan slipped up the older-than-old willow, and then dropped across the wall, landing on Oriele Street. It was already darkening. Autumn had stolen its way into the city, bringing with it the haunted Simenion wind from over the ocean. Hearing the wind sough through the twilit streets always seemed like such a sad sound to the orphan. It was as if the wind itself mourned the fallen world, singing some sorrowful tribute to all the lost things in the Hollowlands beyond.
For just a nonce, the orphan was convinced the gaunt dreamings were somehow following him, as if they slipped from shadow to shadow on the darkened street. He actually paused, looking down the cobbles, but no, nothing.
Nothing that could be seen at any rate.
It was strange that the lightmen hadn’t come to light the lamps yet. Maybe they wouldn’t, the orphan mused. The entire Warrens stank of fear and the deaths of children. It was better than in the Havens, but still, the stench was obvious. Why should the lightmen come? Everyone knew that only the poorest lived in the tangled Warrens, maybe it was too much to come and bring light. They had let the Havens burn, after all. No one had stopped that. Perhaps they were afraid of the strange white fire, afraid that if they came into the Warrens it would somehow follow them home to their rich manses and vils. It was not hard for the orphan to believe that the world was made of cowards, not now.
After the fire, there was an undercurrent of nervous panic in every adult he met.
They were afraid. They smiled, and told him all would be well, but they were liars. He heard their odd little lilts when they laughed, saw their flickering eyes. No one knew what exactly had happened, or who had started the fire. They believed that because he was a child that he did not see, but he did.
It made him angry. They shouldn’t hide the truth, just because he was a boy.
Here, on Oriele Street, the smell had begun to abate. He needed to be as far away from the gagging sweet smell as he could get.
It
did not matter how far he ran, however. Tonight, the shadows of
memory chased him.
Two
It had been three days before, on the Eve of Delving, when the fire had appeared. The orphan had been in his ward with some other boys, laughing and, well, being boys. It seemed so long ago, now. It was easy to be afraid he would never be able to be “just a boy” again.
“Do you hear that?” Shae was the one who had made it to the window first. The orphan had been sitting on his bed when it happened. Looking up at Shae, he could see the strange white light flickering on his face. The boy’s eyes were empty, holding only echoes of anything like laughter, or being a boy.
The orphan thought then that Shae looked as if he were dead. The strange smile that spread across his face was… unreal somehow. Wicked. Mad.
“Move. Let me…” The next boy’s words trailed off, caught as he was the moment he looked upon the light. The orphan watched, fascinated. It was as if whatever was outside was the most beautiful thing in the world.
That was only one of the memories. It was as if they were carved onto his heart. He remembered the cantor rushing into their room, calling out that there was a fire. None of the other boys moved. They were transfixed at the window. Cantor Rimmon had to drag them away from the strange, wan light.
Once outside, it was far worse.
The orphan saw his friends rush to the eerie fire, as if they were moths. They were laughing and crying and calling out to friends and family long gone. He could smell their burning flesh; see eyes and skin melting away from them as they laughed one final time.
He remembered Tia on her knees before the white flames. She was crying because she thought her father had been dead, but now, here he was! She bawled and held her arms out to a man who wasn’t there, and didn’t move when her yellow sleep-shift caught on fire. She shuddered when it licked her skin. It was as if the flame were savoring her soft flesh. All she did was laugh and cry and call for her father. It seemed like she burned for hours although the orphan knew that could not be true. Time seemed bent, and the world full of white flame, sweet smelling smoke, and whispering shadows that lived within the fire.
“Tia!” The orphan tried to run to her, to pull her from the flames. He couldn’t. It was so hot. Physically, he had a hard time moving towards the heat. Could the others not feel it? He felt his eyebrows singe, and his chest burned with every breath. It all seemed so far away, somehow.
But in his mind, he barely felt any of it. Later, when the dociere had looked at the back of his throat, the man said that he couldn’t imagine how the orphan could have stood in the heat so long. Burns are intensely painful while they happen, the man had said, but you can’t help trying to gulp in great lungfuls of wind. When the air is that hot… and that’s all there is to breathe....
No. At the time he honestly hadn’t felt the heat. He heard the whispers, and the secret screams that echoed behind the fire, but….
The orphan had no idea how he was able to hold himself away from the flames. In the end, even many of the cantors had been unable to escape the beckonings. The fire sang dark lullabies, and they drifted into it, borne on stark dreams and enticing whispers.
It felt like almost a full quarter-glass before the first judicar appeared although that could not have been so. He was an Esperan man, young, and afraid looking. When he saw the orphan, however, he immediately fell into his role.
“Boy! Step away from the girl! She’s gone! You need to come towards the street!” His voice boomed as he called, and he lost almost all trace of accent. Judicar voices were trained well, and the orphan could hear him calling even over the laughing of the burning children.
For the orphan, seeing the judicar’s blue and black uniform immediately helped him relax. In the entire situation, he was the only adult who seemed to have any grasp of the horror. He dragged his gaze away from Tia, and began to walk towards the judicar. The whispers clawed at his mind, like feral cats. It physically hurt. The orphan bit his lip, and forced his legs to walk.
“It took them all. I thought I could get her. It’s talking. It’s talking—” The orphan was babbling when he reached the judicar. The man knelt down. He was shaking his head, trying to focus.
“I hear it, young senir.” The man blinked, as if clearing his thoughts. “It’s talking to me too. I need you to get across the street. Go sit in the stoop, under the gaslight by the salts warehouse.”
“You have to save them.” It was as if the orphan was saying “The sun must rise.” This was a judicar. He was supposed to keep people safe.
The judicar gave him a smile. “I’ll try, mijiin.” The smile said something else; it said that the man believed the others to be lost.
The orphan saw it then. The man was afraid. He wasn’t some reclamation hero who felt no fear. He was just a person, just a young, Esperan man. The orphan’s heart sank.
If he were just a person, he couldn’t save them, could he?
Then, the judicar turned from the orphan and walked into the thick, greasy smoke. The punky-sweet smell was sickly, cloying. It was only a moment, before the orphan couldn’t see the man anymore. It was a physical effort to turn his head away and walk across the streets. Once there, he could still hear the whispering of the spectral flames.
It was only a few moments before the man returned. He had four of the cantors with him, and a few children. He was limping and had obviously been burned. He looked at the orphan.
“I sent my bird the moment I saw the flames, mijiin. The brigades should be here soon, or other judicars. If any ask, tell them Alejandro is the only official on the scene.” The orphan nodded dumbly. Cela, one of the youngest girls he had brought back, was crying inconsolably.
“Mother…” She was calling for someone that wasn’t there. Instinctively, the orphan reached for her.
“Wake up, little Cela.” The orphan stroked her hair as she cried. “It’s safe. You’re safe now.”
The judicar looked at the orphan a long moment, and then nodded.
“You’re hurt. You can’t go back in.” The orphan could see where burn-blisters were already peppering the man’s face and arms.
The judicar nodded. “That’s why they pay me the notes, and why I get the girls, young seniir.” He smiled at me, and then turned back toward the fire.
The smoke swallowed him a second time. The orphan watched as the judicar plunged into the flames, time and again, and brought out half-mad children, or cantors covered in blackened burns.
He kept going. Even when his arm was burned. Even when he couldn’t breathe. The judicar never stopped.
Soon after, the orphan heard the brigade sirens.
Soon
after that, the inquisitors came, bearing hard eyes
and a different kind of fear.
Three
The orphan was halfway across the borough when he stopped to catch his breath. The smell was faded here, but he could still catch traces of it if he tried. Perhaps it was just the bit that was in his clothing, or on his skin. He stopped at a fountain, and tried to scrub his skin off. It did little good.
There were no expansive gardens in the Warrens, unless you counted the one that the cantors grew in the Havens. This was an oddity in a city which prided itself on beauty and the growing of green things, but the orphan took it for granted. No, the Warrens were a garden of tangled streets and bent alleyway, with the city’s remnants drifting along the shadowy, often dirty streets. The orphan hadn’t realized where he was running to until he came to this small courtyard. There were stone benches, and a small, disused fountain in the center.
He remembered this place. This was where he had been found.
The orphan had no real memory of life before the Havens, but he remembered this courtyard. He had been small and hurt badly. Some guildsman had found him, and taken him to the Havens. The orphan had no idea how old he had been, but it was well before his lettering year. He slumped onto a bench, gazing emptily at the small statues of children dancing around the base of the fountain. Then, his eyes were wet and spilling over. Almost as if they had slipped up on him, silent tears began to stream down the orphan's face.
They were dead. Really dead. He would never see them again.
That wasn’t his secret fear, however. The orphan had seen those strange shadows capering and whispering within the white fire. No, he wasn’t afraid that they were dead; he was afraid that they weren’t. They were still alive, somewhere, wondering why he wasn’t with them. They were angry, that he hadn’t been able to keep them safe. That was his job. He looked out for the others when they went into the city, but here, he had failed all of them.
They would come for him.
Even the thought was terrifying. The orphan touched his medallion, three times.
“Don’t mind me, little master. I just have to get the lamps going. I’ll make my way along in a moment.” The lightman smiled at him, using a set of clavis wrenches to open the bottom of the gasworks lamp across from the fountain. The orphan smiled back, even through his tears. He liked the lightmen, he always had. Within the cantor’s stories, the lightmen were always protectors and bringers of wisdom.
“It’s…” The orphan drew breath trying to avoid the supp-supping that the young so often suffered after a cry. “It’s fine. I need to be on anyway.”
“I don’t know if that’s true.” The young lightman smiled again, pushing dark hair from his face. “You looked like you were doing just fine when I came in. I’ll finish up, and let you get back to it.” The lightman gave him a look. “It’s a wise lad who knows that one must occasionally let the megrims out.” The lightman’s words were casual, almost nonchalant.
“They’re all dead.” The orphan didn’t give any preamble; the words just tumbled from his mouth. “They burned. The fire whispered and called them, and they burned.” The orphan looked at the man. “Why did it happen?”
“You live at the Havens.” It wasn’t a question. The lightman walked over to him and sat on the bench.
The orphan did not shy away. He only nodded “I can see them.” He looked at the lightman, as if willing the man to pull the memories from his mind. “I can see Jaque playing throw-stones or draughts. I can see Emmle and the girls doing the skip-rope.” The boy’s eyes were red and sore. “But the fire isn’t even the worst of it. It was bad, but...” The orphan couldn’t say it. The inquisitors weren’t supposed to be the bad ones. Even so, they had killed children, and killed the ones who took care of them. Killed Rio and Paula and Fiordin and Wayn...
The orphan simply didn’t have the words.
“You can’t fix this.” The lightman was trying to be soothing. “There was nothing you could have done.”
The orphan was shaking his head, like a horse trying to tear loose from its traces. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen.” His voice sounded stubborn, childish even to him. “Not really.”
“You can’t go back and stop the fire. You can’t change that it happened. You can’t keep people from becoming—” The lightman took a breath, then pushed on. “—from becoming tainted.”
“Someone could have!” The boy was so angry. “Alejandro was there. If it were possible for one judicar to be there, then why—” The orphan couldn’t catch his breath. His fury wanted to tear apart the city, stone by stone. He was trembling, practically incoherent. He was trying to speak when the lightman, whose name he did not know, reached for him. He reached for the boy and put a hand on his shoulder, as a father or an uncle might.
“Yes, little sir. Somewhere, there is some noble guildsman who was too busy with painted… ladies to pay attention. Somewhere, there is a purifier who should have been on patrol.” He smiled sadly. “But they weren’t. The fire happened, and people died.”
Suddenly, it was all real. The orphan realized that some small part of him had been waiting. Waiting to wake up, waiting to discover it was all some mistake.
It wasn’t. They were dead.
At the first sight of tears, the lightman reached for the boy, and held him as no mother or father ever would.
Something broke within the orphan. It was as if he had never cried before. It was the sorrows of all the world pouring from one small boy. Soon, the tears were great, wracking sobs. Here, away from the strange smells and memories left by the fire, he could finally release that small part of him that had been holding on. Like the great gates at the waterworks, Sorrow and anger tore its way from the boy, and he was heaving in great, wailing shudders.
The man held him. The orphan’s small fists beat at the man, wailing.
The
man did not let go.
Four
Woven into the orphan’s tears were memories he wanted to lose. Being a boy, he did not understand that it is often these very things that shape who we become. All he could feel was the pain, the loss, and the utter confusion over what had happened. He was a child. He was supposed to be safe.
Yet the ones who he thought were there to make him safe were the worst monsters of them all.
Before morning, the inquisitors had been patrolling the grounds, wearing their official colors, scarlet and white. The strange whine of their equipment warbled across the ruins of the gardens and the wards. It was a tinny, shrill sound that seemed to tug at the mind, like tiny fish-hooks. The orphan hated the hungry way the sound felt as it ran across his skin. He imagined it to be great, grasping tendrils from some invisible, lurking mystery.
The mastiff was the worst part. The dog was monstrous and fierce.
The inquisitors themselves seemed immune to the sound. In fact, the inquisitors seemed immune to much that would have made them human. They knew neither compassion, nor sympathy. The entire time the men were on the grounds, he never once saw one smile, or offer comfort. They wandered the Havens, holding their strange, torch-like devices before them, the mastiff on a chain. Intently, they watched the strange, searing blue brilliance that danced and shimmered atop the device. If the eldritch light changed color or shape, the inquisitors became excited and spoke in hushed whispers among themselves. Several times, when it changed in the presence of a person, they would force that person to let the great dog sniff and paw at them. If the dog gave one of its rumbling growls, the inquisitors immediately took that person aside.
The orphan had to assume that they had found whatever they were looking for. Of course, he didn’t exactly know what that was.
He knew what they had found, however. The inquisitors questioned each of them; every man, woman, and child still alive in the Havens. The orphan was no different.
They were three hard, terrifying men. Two remained silent. One was working his equipment while the second held the dog. Only the third spoke. He was a small man, with hunter’s eyes.
“How long have you been in Elsador’s Haven?” He had asked the question three times, his voice like gravel. As he did, one of the others held the torch-like device towards the orphan. The keening whine had not changed in pitch while near him, nor had the brilliant blue darkened into a lurid, angry red. No. The mastiff sat, calm.
The orphan was confused. Could the man not remember what he had said? “I’ve lived here five full summers. I was in my lettering year when they brought me.”
“Where were you when the fires were first seen?”
There were dozens of questions. The orphan was trying not to be afraid. The cantors had told him that he didn’t need to be.
It was difficult. He was certain that dog could snap his neck if it so chose.
“Have you felt any nausea since the fires, or had any bad dreams, or blotches on the skin?”
“I haven’t. I told you I haven’t three times already.”
“Hard to believe, is all.” The inquisitor leaned in until the orphan could smell the garlic on his breath. “More than one hundred and thirty children burned yesterday.” His words were short, piercing. “Another forty may not survive. Everyone else seemed powerless against the fire. It was almost certainly some kind of sorcery.” His eyes narrowed. “We have questions for everyone who wasn’t affected.”
The orphan didn’t understand. He had been affected. Anger flared in his mind, but he held his tongue.
The man shuffled some papers. “In the days leading up to the fire, did you notice any of the portents?” He squinted at the papers, and then looked at the boy. “Food spoiling, or milk souring? Wood rotting, or iron rusting unusually?”
The man didn’t need to read the list. Everyone learned the portents in their ‘tiquities year. “I didn’t see any of the portents. I don’t think anyone did. If we had, we would have sent to the Forge.” The orphan closed his eyes, trying to control his tightened breath. “You and your dog might have been here days ago, if we had seen any.”
“Hmm.” The inquisitor had been disbelieving.
The orphan didn’t truly understand. It seemed as if they WANTED him to be guilty of something. He wasn’t. The orphan didn’t know why it had spared him, but it had.
In this, he was practically alone.
The Havens held just shy of two hundred orphans on the day the strange, whispering fire had broken out. Like a living thing, it had sought them out, racing across the campus. It lured them into itself with beckoning calls that only echoed in the mind. The orphan had heard the calls, of course, but he had somehow held himself away from that strange white flame.
This was what interested the inquisitors the most.
“Where were you when you first became aware there was a fire?”
The orphan sighed. This was the fourth time they had asked this question.
Most of the children had been mesmerized. As if asleep, they had wandered into the hungry flames. It had licked at their skin, like a hungry animal, and slowly stripped their flesh away while they listened to old friends, parents who were dead, or the welcomes of a new family.
They had not screamed.
“It’s true that you heard the whispers then. What did they say? Could you make out any words?”
The inquisitors questioned the orphan mercilessly. How had he escaped unscathed? How had he resisted the sweet whispers of the flame, or remained awake as its punky-sweet smoke filled his lungs?
The orphan did not know.
They finally left off of questioning him, after holding him for most of the day. He had been lucky. Many of the surviving orphans and cantans were taken away to the Lyceum, rambling or clawing at their own faces.
Others had not even been that fortunate.
The
orphan hated to think about that.
Five
Hours passed. Hours of crying the shuddering memories from his heart. Finally, as dawn touched the sky, the lightman spoke.
“My name is Rasmun.” The lightman’s voice was soft. “These are my streets, seven days out of nine. Find me again, here, on Sundering eve.”
The
orphan nodded.
Six
Things were better after Rasmun. The orphan still couldn’t let the darkness see him cry, but he was able to go through the motions of daily life without feeling his chest begin to tighten. The cantors attempted to keep the flow of life smooth and simple, although there was a massive rescheduling of classes and activities. The Havens were built for several hundred orphans, but now there were less than thirty of them.
“Today, we are going to discuss Aeldred the drae.” Cantor Eimle was one of the youngest of Elsador’s chosen, a pretty Riogiin woman who the boys all mooned over. The orphan liked her voice. All the cantors had well trained voices, but hers was like sweet spring wine.
“He was a reclamation hero.” That was Orwin, a boy still in his lettering year. Eimle nodded sweetly.
“He was. Aeldred was the first of the ancient Du’anni to travel beyond their bounds, into the Hollowlands. He was a masterful herbalist.”
Tulum, a quiet, dark skinned Kabian boy, nodded. “He writed…” the boy screwed up his face, trying to pronounce the book slowly. “Compendium Herbifica?”
“Wrote.” Eimle smiled at the boy. “You accent is much better, Tulum. And you got the name of the book correct, even if your vernacular is still a touch off.”
The boy beamed. When he had first come to the Havens, he had scarcely spoken the vernacular at all. Tulum was ravenous when it came to herblore, however. It was not unusual that he remembered the book.
“Most of the Herbifica was transcribed, actually. But yes, it is believed that Aeldred is responsible for it. Remember, the Du’anni had no written language that we know of, so he couldn’t have written it.”
It was a warm day, for mid autumn. There were only seven other students who were also interested in herbologies. They worked in the lavender garden, getting the plants ready for the frost, while Eimle walked around them. Her melodious voice was a counterpoint to the Simenion wind in the trees.
“What made Aeldred think that the Du’anni needed to quest beyond their bounds?” Patriec was a quiet girl in her ‘tiquities year. She furrowed her brow as she asked the question, her fingers buried in mulch and soil.
Eimle smiled at her. “That’s a good question. We don’t really know how long the Du’anni had been living in the Einholt. The stories say that Aeldred believed that he was led by radiant gods to convince the people. When he couldn’t, he simply left them, traveling into the hollows himself.”
“He would die.” Orwin spoke the truth that we all believed. “Even if he only stayed in the hollows for a day. The taint would get him, or the monsters would.”
Eimle smiled indulgently. “Of course no one can survive in the Hollowlands, Orwin. This is probably just a story to show that Aeldred was a hero, considered greater than other men.”
“It’s dumb. Stories are supposed to be true.”
Eimle sat on a stone bench, close enough that the orphan could smell her dark hair. It was incredible. He concentrated on the smell of the jasmine and mulch instead.
“Stories are true. That’s the important thing to understand.” Eimle was searching for words. “We find stories that mean something to us, that have truths we understand, and then we try and live those truths.” She looked around at us. “Aeldred the drae is a story about a man who believed in standing against evil. When no one would listen to him, he showed them what could be done, by doing it himself.”
The orphan paid particularly close attention to his hands. His chest was starting to tighten again.
“All of the Reclamation stories claim that Aeldred was an actual man, even though many of them show him doing impossible things.” She smiled at Orwin, then at the orphan. “The important thing is what these stories mean to us, here and now.”
“Aeldred never gave up.” Patriec smiled shyly as she said the words. “They said he could not be defeated.”
“You’re
talking about the Du’vetica.”
Eimle smiled at the girl, and then began to recite.
"The
Drae bore the unflickering flame,
That
the darkness,
the fear,
Cackling
in the heart of every man,
Could
not stand against.
Thus,
even in death,
He
stood undefeated.
His
victories written
in spoken words
The
words of those too cowardly to follow."
“I hate the Du’vetica.” Orwin grumbled. “It doesn’t rhyme, or make any sense.”
“It rhymes in the original Ghalan.” Eimle smiled at him. “Stories make the sense you give them, Orwin.” Eimle’s voice was gentle but insistent. “It doesn’t matter how you listen to a story, or how you tell it. What matters, is how you live the truths that a story offers.”
She sighed as the second dusking bell rang. The children stood up, brushing dirt from homespun shirts and trousers. “We’ll talk more about it on Wending, when we finish mulching the beds.”
Later, as the orphan lay awake in his cot, all his dark dreams were forgotten. All he could think about were Eimle’s words.
“Aeldred the drae is a story about a man who believed in standing against evil. When no one would listen to him, he showed them what could be done, by doing it himself.”
The orphan’s breathing was fast, and his heart pounded. There was something here, a truth that made his breath quicken.
He needed to speak with Rasmun.
Tomorrow was Sundering.
Seven
Fifth bell, Dusking was a lonely time at the Havens. Usually, the orphan had looked forward to dinner. Now, however, instead of nigh two hundred children in the hall, there were only thirty. It made the dinner hall seem vast, and empty. It was impossible to sit within and not be reminded of what they had lost.
“Someone is here to see you.” It was Jefe, a nervous boy in his ‘prenticing. Jefe had chosen to stay and receive training as a cantor.
The orphan pushed his platter away. He wasn’t hungry anyway. He didn’t even ask Jefe who it was, or what they wanted. Anything was better than sitting in a mostly empty dining hall, staring at all the ghost filled seats.
He followed the older boy out of the mess, and down Everts hall. Jefe was saying something, but the orphan wasn’t actually paying him any attention. The world was softer, somehow. Colors weren’t as bright, and sound seemed dim. None of this mattered, not really.
“— the courtyard.” Jefe smiled at him.
The orphan smiled back, wanly. “Thank you, Jefe.” He went down the curving wooden steps, into the twilit courtyard.
Even in autumn, there were flowers here. Mums, asters, and bellsong swayed in the Simenion wind, their various scents almost covering the faint smell of burning screams. The orphan was trailing his fingers through the bellsong when he heard the man’s voice. He grinned weakly at the sound.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to come back. I feel as if I am a nonce late” The man’s accent was Esperan, and thick. When the orphan turned, he saw Alejandro, leaning against one of the small fountains. His raven was perched on his shoulder, black against the twilight sky.
“Late. Late.” The bird repeated Alejandro’s word. The judicar grinned and scratched the bird on the back.
“I forget that you haven’t met my good, right hand.” Alejandro walked to the orphan and lowered his arm. “I’d like you to meet Juan Pablo.” The bird opened his wings widely and cawed at the orphan.
“Good. Good omen.” The orphan almost grinned at the bird’s croaked words.
“Juan Pablo. Like the Esperan lover?” Esperan lore was thick with romantic rogues and greedy Dons who ruled their people cruelly.
Alejandro smiled at the orphan. “Exactly.” He scratched at the bird's head and assumed a stage whisper. “The ladies really go for the talking bird.”
“Juan-Pablo” The raven said his own name as if it were a single word. “Good bird.”
The orphan shook his head, and then looked into Alejandro’s face. “What were you late for, Alejandro? I didn’t expect you back.”
The judicar dug into his satchel, wincing slightly. The orphan knew that all of the man’s burns could not be healed, not this soon.
“I owe a considerable debt, mijjin.” He looked up at the orphan. “A judicar always pays his debts. Honestly, everyone here owes you a service.”
“Debt.” The raven’s caw seemed wise, aloof.
“I don’t understand.”
“When I arrived, the other day, the…” He searched for a word, then shook his head. “…the fire had me, captured my mind the moment I looked upon it.” Alejandro gave the orphan a small smile. “I might have been lost if a young man hadn’t reminded me of what I was supposed to do. I would have been lost. If that had happened, then the people I saved would be dead now.” He squinted at the orphan. “This was a young man whose name I did not even know.”
The orphan cocked his head. “How did you find me, if you did not know my name?”
Alejandro gave the boy a dashing grin. “Judicar cleverness, young seniir.”
“Clever” Juan Pablo seemed to be mocking.
Alejandro rolled his eyes. “I described you to the first person I met in the Havens. He gave me your name and fetched you for me.”
The orphan shook his head ruefully as Alejandro continued to dig in his satchel.
“Here we go.” He pulled a small round object from his bag and handed it to the orphan. “I thought you deserved this.”
“What is it?” He knew as he looked, however. It was small and round, like a coin. There was a small hole on one end, so it could be looped through a cord. It was blue on one side and black on the other. On the blue side, printed particularly carefully, were words in tiny, neat script.
Alejandro De’veras, Eddon House, Vista avenue, Uphill
On the black side, there was a small relief of the Offices of the Just, set on Teris hill.
“It’s a judicar token. You deserve it.”
The orphan knew that the tokens were often given as rewards, or as a sign of favor. If he wished, he could easily exchange it for an iron note, which was more money than he had ever had.
He would never sell it, however. Judicar tokens were symbols. He had been marked as someone who had helped the city. It was hard not to feel a surge of pride, even though he didn’t believe that he deserved it.
“I didn’t really do anything, Alejandro. I was just there.” The token had weight, the weight of honor and recognition. The orphan hadn’t done anything to deserve that, he hadn’t been a hero.
“I saw what you did, little senir. When I walked up, you were trying to burn yourself to death for a girl who was already clearly lost. Then, I sent you to stand over by the Salt-house, and you did. When I brought others back to you, the first thing you did was comfort a crying child.” The judicar raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t do anything special. Anyone would have done those things.”
The judicar laughed. It wasn’t cruel, but it still hurt the orphan. The utter surprise contained in the laugh nettled him, somehow.
“Mijiin, I deal with people all day, every day. I have the entire warrens to watch over, and so, I’ve seen it all.” His smile faded. “It is not a normal thing for a person to think of others first.” He shook his head. “My days comprise of drunken fathers who sell their daughters on the streets, or dockside brawls where someone gets killed over a few silver slips.”
“Slips.” Juan Pablo jumped from Alejandro’s shoulder, and began to peck around on the ground.
“Exactly.” Alejandro nodded at the bird, as if he had just made some sage comment. Then, he knelt to one knee, so his eyes were level with the orphan’s.
“When trouble came, you were there for others. No one had to ask you, or convince you of anything. Your first thought…” The judicar snapped his fingers. “… was about the right thing to do.” The judicar took a breath. “That’s rare. You may not know it yet, but it is.”
Unbidden, the orphan had tears in his eyes. Angrily, he wiped them away. The darkness could not be allowed to see him cry. “I just want them back. I want it all back.”
The judicar looked at him stoically. “No. You won’t ever have them back. Life cast a die, and they were lost.” He softened his tone. “But even as the fire took them, you stood strong; you did what you could do.” The man cocked his head. “How old are you?”
The orphan was slightly taken aback by the turn in the conversation. “I’ll be in my ‘prenticing next year.”
The judicar smiled. “I thought that’s about where you were. Do you know what you will choose to do?”
The orphan shook his head. “I know I won’t take a new surname, whatever I do.”
The judicar smiled. “You will keep ‘Havenkin’ as your last name? Are you leaning towards being a cantor, then?”
“No. I won’t be a cantor, but I’ll keep the name.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I decided it the other evening.” The orphan looked at the man. “It’s the least I can do. It will help me remember.”
“There isn’t a guild who wouldn’t be pleased to train a young man such as you.” The judicar smiled and then turned serious. “A great man can be a great man anywhere. The city needs great guildsmen and merchants as certainly as it does great cantors and judicars.” He paused a moment. “The young man I saw the other evening will be great at whatever he chooses. Don’t forget him, in whatever you decide to do.”
“I won’t.” The orphan honestly didn’t understand what the judicar meant, but there was nothing else to say.
“Good lad.” Alejandro stood, squaring his wide brimmed hat on his head, and straightening his cloak. “Are you ready to go and right all the wrongs in the world, Juan?”
“Ready. Go.” The bird hopped up on the judicar’s shoulder. The man smiled at the orphan.
“I’m not speaking crooked, young sir. I saw the cloth you were cut from the other day.” The man’s voice grew soft, and his eyes narrowed. “Never lose sight of who you are. The world needs great people, in whatever you choose to do. ‘Good’ is fairly common. ‘Great’ is exceptional. Know the difference, and never allow the good parts of yourself to overshadow true greatness. Choose well.” Alejandro nodded at the boy, and then walked into the mist filled night.
The
orphan watched after him, long after the man had left.
Eight
It was late again when the orphan slipped from his cot. Last he had heard, the fifth evening bell had rung. Hopefully, Rasmun would still be about. The lightmen typically patrolled all night, making certain the lamps remained lit.
Stealthily, he crept from his dormitory and into the cool night.
The orphan couldn’t say what it was about Eimle’s words that had touched him so, but they had been like bells tolling in the night.
“Aeldred the drae is a story about a man who believed in standing against evil. When no one would listen to him, he showed them what could be done, by doing it himself.”
Alejandro’s warning, about the difference between ‘good’ and ‘great’ sang with Eimle’s words, a counter harmony. What had happened, with the fires, had been wrong. The cantors seemed willing simply to drift along, accepting the disaster. The rest of the city all just seemed thankful that it had “only” happened to the Havens.
The orphan was angry.
Tonight, as he slipped past the wall, dropping from the branches of the older-than-old willow, he tried to find a direction for that anger. What could he do? He wouldn’t even be in his ‘prenticing for another half-year.
He was only a boy.
When he found Rasmun, the lightman was sitting beneath the gaslight on the corner of Sandal and an alleyway. The yellow light flickered around the man, who was limping along at playing a flute. Rasmun’s eyes lit when he saw the boy.
“I thought you had forgotten me, young sir.” Rasmun put the flute in his small satchel.
“I had to wait for everyone to go to sleep.” The Orphan shrugged. “It’s harder to get away now than it used to be.”
Rasmun stood. “Shall we walk?”
The orphan nodded, just a touch confused. It was still difficult to set words to why exactly he was here. He simply couldn’t stand the smell at the Havens. It was weakening now, but still quite obvious.
At the Havens, memory stalked him.
Almost without meaning to, he gave his thoughts words, saying what he could never say while in the dorms, or in classes. “I was thinking about being a cantor, you know. Following Elsador, and working in the Havens.”
“Do you still want that?”
The boy shook his head. “I don’t think I can, now. I’ve learned the paeans. I love the stories. But...” He grasped for words. “It just doesn’t seem… enough, anymore.”
“That’s an odd idea.” Rasmun looked at the boy, then hurriedly clarified. “I mean, you have seen first hand what the cantors do, and how they care for their charges. Cantors have quiet lives, full of children and stories.” He lilted his voice upward. “Why would you think that’s not enough?” Rasmun turned them down an alleyway, headed toward Dockward square.
The orphan frowned. “It’s...” The orphan reached for words. “There need to be cantors. I know that” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t quite grasp an idea. “It’s not what I need to do, though.”
“Oh.” That was all Rasmun said. He said it with an air of nonchalance.
The orphan gave the lightman a look, not certain he was being teased.
‘The important thing is, it seems as if you are finding your question.” Rasmun spoke plainly, and then let the words drift. After an uncomfortable moment, the orphan looked up at him, confused.
“What question?” He sniffled.
Rasmun paused mid-stride, the yellow gas-light flickering over his thin face. He went on a knee and looked the orphan straight in the eye.
“Questions are important, young sir.” He gave the orphan a crafty smile. “Why, questions are some of the most important things we have.”
“The orphan frowned, twisting his mouth up. “Why is that?”
The man scoffed slightly, as if this were something he had heard posed time and again. “Some questions are easy. For instance: What to you gain if you tally a six and a nine?”
No pause. The orphan had loved his ‘rithmic. “Ten-and-five.” He grinned slightly. “Simple.”
“Most questions are simple.” Rasmun canted his eyes at the boy. “Simple questions don’t have much value however. What a person needs…” He paused, looking at the boy. “What a man needs is a hard question. An almost-impossible question.”
The orphan furrowed his brow. “Why?”
Rasmun laughed. Let’s see if you can figure it out. It’s a powerful idea, and you’ll remember it better if you find it.” The man had a ready, cunning grin.”You asked me a moment ago ‘What question?’ Let’s start there.”
The orphan ran his hands through his hair, a gesture that would, for the rest of his life, indicate puzzlement, or frustration. “Alright.”
“Think about the fire. Think about your friends.” Rasmun watched the boy closely. “Now, when you think about what happened, what do you want to know the most?”
“Why. I want to know why it happened.” The orphan’s eyes were like wintersteel.
Rasmun nodded. “The Esperans say that “Why is the great question.” Rasmun narrowed his eyes. “But ‘why’ is often too great a question, even for a long life. Tiny things happen that lead to great things, and every great thing creates scores of more tiny things.” He let his words sink in. “So, young sir.” Rasmun leaned in close to the orphan. “Be more specific. What do you truly want to know?”
The orphan was frustrated, but tried not to let it show. “I want to know why…” He let it trail off. “I want to know where the people were who were supposed to take care of my friends.”
Rasmun smiled. “Much better. Who were those people?”
“You know.” The orphan squirmed slightly. “The judicars, or the purifiers of the Forge. The fire started…” He drifted again, as if some memory had caught him. He shook his head. “No one was there.” He had tears again, but did not let them overwhelm him. “They just wandered into the white flames and died. By the time—” He wiped his eyes. “— the one judicar showed up, it was too late.”
“The purifiers did come, didn’t they?” The words were nonchalant. Rasmun knew they had, and what they had needed to do with the tainted children.
The boy nodded fiercely. “They sent their inquisitors.” His words were full of impotent fury, made all the more terrible from one so young. “They came after it was too late. They were in time to kill the children who the fire had touched.” He looked at Rasmun, trembling. “They only came to find out who had been tainted.” He paused, made his voice steel. “They only came so they could take children away to the wards, or kill them outright.”
Rasmun said nothing for a long moment. The stars above them looked on.
“So, you think that someone should have been able to stop the fire.”
The boy nodded, anger making his eyes dark. “Yes. Someone should have been there. They are… they were children. Someone should have taken care of them.”
A long moment of silence stretched between them then.
Rasmun stood, popping his fingers. “These are good questions. They are the kind of questions that a man can spend his life answering.”
“What do you mean?”
“Answers to large questions aren’t spoken, young sir. Answers to large questions are lived.” Rasmun made certain he had the orphan’s eyes. He bent close. “Your friends are gone.” The words had weight, had finality. “You can be angry. You should be angry. But just that won’t change anything.”
The orphan was full on crying again. It wasn’t the crying of a hurt child, however. These were tears of anger, fire, and steel. His fists were clenched tightly. He held the lightman’s gaze, not even blinking. “You are saying they didn’t matter. That they died doesn't mean anything.”
Rasmun’s eyes lit up. “No. Not at all. You are right. No one cared. Not enough, anyway.” He crouched again, took a breath, and went on. “The only person who can decide what those lives meant is someone who knew them. Someone who knew them, remembers them, and decides to make their deaths mean something. This is why these questions are so important.”
The orphan sat, just looking at the man. The lightman looked back, pausing in the heavy silence.
“My question isn’t really about why it happened.” The orphan blinked tears back. “My question is about why no one was there. Why they were alone. Why, in a city where there are hundreds of judicars and purifiers and bonded guildsmen, not one person was there to stop this from happening.”
Rasmun mused. “Why there wasn’t a hero.”
The orphan practically jumped from his skin. “Yes. That’s it exactly.” The words tumbled out, in a rush. “The cantors taught us hundreds of stories. There is always a hero, someone who comes along to make everything right. The hero never quits; no matter how bad it gets.” He grimaced. “Where was the hero here? Where was the person who was supposed to take care of them?”
Rasmun chuckled. “Are you certain there wasn’t one?” When the orphan looked at him blankly, the lightman continued. “You might be making a mistake. What if this isn’t the end of the story, young sir?” Rasmun grinned. “This could just be act one, the first part of some grand Riogiin play.” The smile touched his eyes now.
“But it’s over. It’s over and they died.”
“Their part is over, true. But yours isn’t. Their deaths have given birth to something else. They have made you ask questions you never would have asked, and think about things that you never would have thought.”
“None of that saved them, though.”
“No. It didn’t. But think for a moment. If the play were not over, then who would the hero be?”
The orphan said nothing. Rasmun stood, and sat back on the bench next to him. When he spoke again, his voice was somber.
“You are alive, young man. They live in your memories. The questions that you are asking will shape who you are, and what you do in the future. For the rest of your life, you will be the man who was in the Havens when the fires came. This is part of you now.” He gave the orphan a look. “Do you know what it takes to become a hero, young sir?”
The boy thought a moment, and then shook his head.
“A decision. That’s it. A simple choice. A hero is a person who has found a reason to try and change the world. They choose to do so. They make the choice again and again, whatever the cost. Whether they succeed or whether they fail matters little. Making the choice is what matters.”
The Simenion blew steadily off of the ocean, bringing the smell of waves and far lands to the orphan. He breathed it deeply and ventured a smile. It was perhaps his first real smile in days. He fingered the judicar’s token, hanging on a thong of leather around his neck.
“I’ve made my choice, Rasmun. I want my friend’s lives to have meant something.” The wind licked at the tears on his face. “Rio and Jaque, Cyrl and Fiordin and Wayn and Paula...” The orphan laughed to himself. “Even Shae. Goofy Shae….” He looked at Rasmun.
The lightman wasn’t smiling now. He regarded the boy with serious, earnest eyes. “Tell me.”
The orphan ran his fingers through his hair again, and then smiled. “I wanted to know where the hero was. I think my life is supposed to answer that question. I think I am supposed to be the one who is there, next time.” He pulled the token from underneath his shirt, showing it the lightman. “I even know who I should talk to.”
Rasmun’s eyes widened a touch. “A judicar’s oath is a large undertaking, young sir.” He drew a breath. “It binds you to your duty, to service to the city. You won’t be allowed to wed, or have a family line.”
The orphan shook his head. “I already don’t have a family line. I’m used to that.” He gave Rasmun a wry look. “I’ve already made the oath that matters. I want to take care of others. I want to stop things like this from ever happening again.” He looked at the lightman. “Being a judicar is just the best way to do that.”
“You sound as if you’ve made up your mind.”
“If this is what my life is for, then any other choice would be…” He trailed off, searching for a word.
“Cowardly?” Rasmun smiled as he said it.
“The orphan nodded. “Yes. It would be cowardly.” He looked at the lightman. “This is what I’m supposed to do.”
Rasmun smiled at him. “That’s a man's statement. It’s always good to meet someone who understands the value of a good question.”
The orphan smiled back and held out his hand.
“My name is Thom.”
The next title in this series is named
It takes fifteen years after The Whispering Flame
In this story, two travelers seek the encampment of Thom the Heretic, only to discover things are not as they seem. As a Gloaming Storm moves in (bringing with it madness and death), the two wrestle with secrets of their own. During their struggle to survive, they begin a relationship which will shape the world.
For updates on this series, Visit www.Irrationalworlds.com
The Whispering Flame