Flametouched Page 12

  After that first session at the House of Lords Davon had launched into a new career as the most notorious in absentia voter the government body had ever seen. He found that reading the arguments and proposals—which tended to be more concise in written form—much more palatable than listening to all the droning that inevitably heaved over into childish attacks and then lulled back to droning. He wondered how the House of Light compared but wasn’t keen on finding out.

  Still, one did not decline an invitation from Lord Ember or a meeting with the Eternal Flame, and Davon rose, collecting his coat from the rack and the invitation from his employer.

  “I shall return as quickly as I can,” he assured Mr. Lambert, who was busy informing the other clerks about Davon’s appointment. Not wanting to encounter any of the noble guests currently occupying the Main Hall, Davon took a back stairway that eventually led out to the gardens. He would walk the long way around the back.

  As he navigated around the side of the palace, passing statuesque guards at attention, the music faded, easing his mind. He had no pleasant memories of a ball. Balls and melancholy thoughts of his estrangement from his wife walked hand in hand in his mind, and of the many perks that came from being a commoner, exclusion from balls was a most welcome one.

  The Flame Cathedral sat opposite the palace on the other side of a circular plaza. A circular pool of water graced the center of the granite-tiled plaza, a statue of Joris Pulsipher, founder of Bittermarch, rising from its depths. Every evening, members of the House of Light launched little candle boats upon the still waters, little bits of flame defying the dead dark of the pool—a symbol of hope and victory. Their lights reflected off the surface, serene and beautiful. Davon contemplated their movements for a moment before continuing to the lofty cathedral looming ahead of him.

  Unfriendly to the lame and infirm, the round Flame Cathedral sat atop a mighty square slab of granite accessible by four sets of steep stairways of the same stone, each rising nearly twenty feet to the entrance. Smooth, slender columns encircled the building proper, and high arched entrances greeted visitors regardless of which of the four sides they chose to ascend. The walls of the building shot some one-hundred feet into the air, the highest edifice in Bittermarch and viewable from nearly everywhere in the city and its environs.

  Davon bounded up the steps two at a time, coming face to face with two cathedral guards by the doors, their long pikes pointed skyward with pistols tucked in black sashes at their waists. Deep orange stoles with embroidered flames accented their white uniforms, and they regarded him with watchful eyes.

  “I’m here by request of Lord Ember,” Davon announced, extending the parchment containing his invitation. One of the guards took it and perused it. With a nod he signaled for his companion to open the door, but did not return the letter.

  “Wait in the antechamber,” the guard instructed curtly.

  As a stranger to the Flame Cathedral, Davon was unsure of what to expect. Given the importance of the Eternal Flame, and in consequence of troubles with Creetis, he was unsurprised to find the antechamber—a room which stretched all the way around the circular Cathedral—awash with guards stationed by red stained doors imprinted with the yellow symbol of the Flame. Each door was numbered for identification. The outer doors closed, and the silent hall with its stone floor had a dungeon like feel in the night, the sparsely placed lanterns hardly adequate to illuminate the vast spaces. Windows built high in the outer wall would fill the room with light by day, but in the evening gloom, everything felt heavy and cavernous.

  He waited, hands behind his back, unsure of what to do. How would Lord Ember find him in the immense building? The flapping of wings turned his head upwards. Up in the dark rafters a bird fluttered about, having chanced an entrance into the building somewhere. It croaked a harsh greeting in the shadows: a crow. If it couldn’t escape, it would surely die. Perhaps there was an imperfection in a window, ceiling, or wall that permitted it ingress and egress. If that were the case, more birds might follow.

  Door sixteen to his left opened silently on well-greased hinges. Lord Ember, dressed in a gold-embroidered, white ceremonial robe stepped through, a smile on his face. Like the guards, he wore the orange stole, though his appeared to be of finer cloth and had a fringe of small tassels along the length of its border. Lord Ember was of average build and in his late fifties. A full head of snowy hair sat atop a round head, aged face and bright blue eyes projecting a friendly, gregarious levity.

  “Mr. Harper, I presume?” he asked, extending his hand. Davon noted the flame scar on his palm.

  He shook it. “I am, my Lord.”

  “It is very good to meet you, though we’ve no time for pleasantries at the moment. The Queen wishes the Eternal Flame transported to the palace for the final ceremonies at the ball this evening, so we must be quick. Would you follow me please?”

  Lord Ember led Davon through door sixteen and shut it. They stood in a small landing for two staircases heading up to their left and right. Ahead of them was another red door with similar markings to the one they had just passed through. A single lantern hung by it, warm light filling the small space.

  “Now, Mr. Harper,” Lord Ember began, “in consequence of your actions in connection with the Aid Society plot, the Queen has recommended you for presentation before the Eternal Flame. Even if you are not chosen, seeing the Flame up close and in person is an honor in and of itself that should not be scoffed at. The presentation itself is fairly simple, but I wish to prepare you against some things you may find startling, though from the details of the story I’ve heard, I’ve no doubt of your courage.

  “First, on the other side of this door is the audience chamber for the House of Light. There are five levels of seating accessible by these stairs. In the center of the floor is a wide, slightly raised platform. The Eternal Flame hangs high in the ceiling at night. When you enter, there is a lever you must disengage and the vessel that contains the Flame will come down slowly of its own accord.

  “My next instruction, and one of some discomfort to most being tested, is that you must disrobe before presenting yourself to the Flame. I assure you that neither I nor anyone else will be present in the chamber. You should sit before the vessel, legs crossed, with the back of your hands on your knees, palms open. If the Flame chooses you, it will brand your palms with the mark you see on mine. It will happen fairly quickly. If you are there longer than a few minutes and the Flame does nothing, you have not been selected and may leave. I will wait outside this door for you to return. Any questions about the particulars?”

  Davon had questions, but not about what he was to do. They could wait. “No. I will proceed as you have outlined.”

  “Very well, Mr. Harper,” he said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Good luck to you.”

  Lord Ember left. Davon entered the audience chamber and closed the door, sound echoing through the empty space. A solitary lamp burned on the circular dais Lord Ember had spoken of, beckoning him out of the gloom. High above, a fainter glow from the Eternal Flame bathed the center of the ceiling with a warm light. The room smelled earthy, like rocks just after rain, and the lower floor on which he stood was of cobblestone rather than the polished marble of the antechamber, a remnant of the old building the cathedral had replaced. Seating areas, but dimly seen in the poor light, rose five high, level upon level, toward the ceiling, each with red stained chairs behind a stone banister.

  Davon strode to the light on the platform, senses alive. Such large rooms, while friendly and impressive during the day, inspired a sense of foreboding in the dark. He removed his clothes quickly before he could feel too awkward about it, and finding the lever embedded into stone post near the edge of the stone platform, tripped it.

  A gentle clacking sound accompanied the descent of the Eternal Flame within its vessel. The stories said that Joris Pulsipher had found the Eternal Flame burning inside a kitchen pot after the Creetisian Parliament had burned his house down wit
h his family inside it. As the Flame lowered, Davon could see that it still rested in the same wide soup pot, handles and all. The pot had its fair share of scuffs and scratches, but as it settled onto the ground with a clank, the Flame stole his attention.

  In appearance, it was ordinary, nothing more than a cook fire in a pot, dancing eternally without diminishing or extinguishing. Absent, however, were any sounds of popping or hissing that accompanied a normal fire, and to Davon’s amazement, it put forth no smoke or heat as he extended his hand over it. How did it burn the prayers passed into it by Lord Ember or other members of the House of Light? Mystified, he sat cross-legged as he was instructed, placing his palms outward and waiting, entranced by the flame.

  And it came.

  Like a strange creature of fire, the flickering tongues of flame bent toward the rim of the pot and grasped it, pulling itself onto and then over the edge. It fell soundlessly to the floor where the tongues moved like blind fingers, grasping the grooves in the cobblestones and pulling the entire flaming mass forward in a patient tongue over tongue march toward its destination.

  Once it reached his legs it stopped for a moment and adjusted itself upright. Davon’s heart pounded. He had expected something dumb and elemental, but the Eternal Flame moved like an animal and exuded an impression of sentient simplicity. Three of the tongues of flame rose and stretched, elongating and thinning. Two bent toward his open hands, the third traveling toward his chest. Over his hands the threads of light hovered, still flickering and waving as if tickled by a breeze, while the third traced the scar lines of the sabercat, almost as if reading them in an attempt to comprehend.

  Abruptly, the three tendrils withdrew a space and then two shot forward. Pain coursed through Davon’s hands as the Eternal Flame etched its marks into his palms. Light exploded into his mind, immersing it, casting out darkness and relieving him of any weight of consciousness.

  Moments later he came to his senses, finding himself sideways on the cold stones. The Eternal Flame had retreated. A single blade of flame hooked around the rim of the pot and pulled the rest inside. He expected the marks on his palms—a single flame—to sting as a fresh burn would, but his hands felt whole. In appearance the Eternal Flame’s brands were light, like old scars, and about the size of the pad of his thumb.

  He was Flametouched. He would receive a gift. His heart beat hard for a moment, anxious and excited at the same time. In all his years, he had never thought to be presented to the Flame, much less chosen. But what would it gift him?

  Remembering his nakedness and feeling a chill bump his skin for the first time since entering, he donned his clothes hastily. The Eternal Flame flickered in its pot, now ordinary save for the differences he had noted earlier. Historians taught that the Flame had visited Joris before the Creetisian Parliament had burned his home. Had it crawled to him has Davon had seen? Or had Joris seen it in a vision?

  Davon returned to the antechamber, finding Lord Ember there waiting with a young man attending him. “Well?” he asked, eyes smiling.

  Davon presented his palms.

  “Welcome, brother!” Lord Ember extended his hand and Davon shook it. “Now, young Martis,” he said to his attendant, “go prepare the Eternal Flame for transport to the palace. I will come for it after I explain a few things to the newest member of the House of Light. Walk with me, Mr. Harper.”

  “May I ask a question before you begin, Lord Ember?”

  “Of course,” he answered, smiling.

  “What am I to expect with respect to the gift? I’ve heard of the Queen’s discernment and tales of long life and even a heightened intelligence. Are there common gifts? And when are they bestowed?”

  “There are a multiplicity of gifts, to be sure, that heighten physical, spiritual, and mental faculties. Those most common are the ones we associate symbolically with light, such as an increased ability to understand, the discernment you mentioned, and even increased intuition. But there are those members of our order blessed with long life or perfect health or even increased quickness and a fine dexterity. My gift is one of a perfect memory. In short, gifts of the Eternal Flame tend to take some aspect of who we are and elevate it to perfection. As for the timing of the gift’s manifestation, it usually comes gradually within the space of a few days.

  “Now, you likely know that the House of Light is also a governing body of Bittermarch. Our bylaws and responsibilities can be found in the library accessible through door twenty-seven. There you may also find histories and studies that will satisfy questions from the most pedestrian to the most arcane. We do vote on matters of state, but there is no in absentia voting; if you are not here, you do not have the privilege of voting. Participation is not forced. Not all of our members have the mind, will, or desire to entangle themselves in political maneuvering.”

  Davon couldn’t conceal a smile. This was good news indeed.

  “I see this pleases you,” Lord Ember grinned. “You are certainly not the first. There are those in the House of Light I have not seen since the ceremony, and others I wish I would see less. From reports of your deeds at the Boot and Wheel Caravan Company, you have a keen mind and deep reservoir of persistence and courage, so I hope you do come when important matters are at stake. Can I count on you?”

  “I’ll be just across the way if you should need me for anything urgent,” Davon replied noncommittally. It would need to be dreadfully important to drag him into some frothing debate. He’d rather grab a sabercat by its fangs.

  “Two more points and I shall release you for the evening. First, there are in the House of Light women and even a few children who have been marked. As such, we do not carry on in some of the more disgraceful habits of the House of Lords, such as smoking, cursing, or other bawdy talk.

  “Second, if you are an ambitious man, there are positions you may aspire to within our order, such as Treasurer, House Guard, House Steward, and so forth. We even have our own clerks if the Queen ever granted you a transfer. Of course, you’ll need at least a year or two as a member and to know the House of Light inside and out before you could reasonably expect to tender your candidacy for any of these positions. The House votes on officers the evening before the Day of Burning celebration.”

  Davon was extraordinarily pleased with his luck. The House of Light was so voluntary that he could enjoy his gifts without any of the bureaucratic nonsense he had feared his selection would subject him to.

  “I thank you for your good information and I will consider everything you have said.”

  “Very good,” Lord Ember said. In his bemused countenance Davon though he could detect an understanding that the newest member of the House of Light might be one of the more invisible members of the order. “Ah, but I forget. Once you have your gift, please come in and have it recorded for our history. The clerks’ offices are behind door number twenty-two. And to be forthright, the Queen has asked me to report on what happened here tonight. Is that agreeable to you?”

  “Of course,” Davon said. They stopped by one of the arched doorways leading to the outside. Davon couldn’t be sure which. He bowed. “Good evening, Lord Ember.”

  Lord Ember nodded in return. “Burn brightly, my brother.”

  Chapter 15

  Arianne wasn’t sure if she was more nervous about having her ledgers inspected or about the person who was coming to inspect them. How would Baron Carver behave in the house of the man he had killed? Surely his disguise as David Harper hadn’t tamed the wild heart of the man who had so passionately challenged her late husband to a duel and then shot him dead. As the Queen had said, the man’s disappointments in love and marriage might have driven him a little mad, and madness and passion never mixed well.

  She had received word that he had arrived in town late the night before and would come early the next morning. She had arisen early and breakfasted before everyone else and then ordered Mr. Garvis to fetch the ledgers and a table and bring them to the drawing room. He had just finished the task when A
rianne heard horse hooves clattering up the lane. She went to the drawing room window and pulled aside the curtain. And there he was, riding up to the house with the easy grace of an experienced rider.

  No matter how hard she tried, she could not fit the sober, bearded face with the clean-shaven and fiery lord that had taken her husband from her. A little of the anger she had felt about the disastrous events of nearly four years ago surfaced briefly, though she realized that she had turned that anger toward the general idiocy of men-folk in general rather than Baron Carver specifically. But her curiosity easily drowned out any lingering anger. Just how unhinged was the Baron? Would he behave in some unseemly way? Surely, if he had been able to keep employment in the Queen’s household, he was at least stable.

  Whatever her confused feelings or his emotional state, she was determined to act the perfect hostess and gentlewoman, showing this wild man from the north country wilderness what proper behavior and manners were about. She heard Mr. Garvis let Baron Carver in and poised herself by the table where the ledgers sat, composing her face, standing tall, and clasping her hands together. A few moments later, Mr. Garvis introduced her guest as Mr. David Harper, Underclerk to the Queen, and he entered. Baron Carver bowed and then turned his gaze toward the table.

  “Are those the ledgers?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. Arianne measured him up, finding it hard to read him. Garvis was still carrying the round hat and long, leather coat that Baron Carver had been wearing at Harrickshire. “Mr. Harper” dressed plainly in brown pants and a brown jacket, though his beard made him look a little wild for his civilized clothing.

  He walked to the table, lifting one of the ledgers and examining the cover. “If you prefer, I am perfectly comfortable working in the office of your steward or clerk. I fear I’ll be nuisance here in the main part of the house.”