The Seekers of Fire Read online

  The samodiva stopped abruptly and laughed, her voice echoing in the well's rumble.

  "Begone? I had not heard this in a long time. I wish that I could, little girl. You know not how much I wish that I could."

  The water. Linden could make all these sparkling little drops in the well shoot up to her. They could also propel the flask, for she wanted the flask, too. She would need it to get the water to Rianor. Why had she not thought of all this earlier? Had this creature made her forget what she had learned to do with water in the last few days?

  Now.

  The samodiva tried to scream just as the flask hit Linden's hands, but only emitted an unintelligible sound as a torrent of water drenched her. Linden dropped the dagger. She had no strength left to hold both the dagger and the flask, and the flask was more important. Rianor was more important. But she still had to somehow manage both objects, for the samodiva had come too close, her eyes wild with hatred and fear, wet white sleeves flapping around her arms, water dripping from her dress and hair.

  "Transgressor," the Byas woman's lips shaped, and something in her eyes pronounced that this was not a random insult, that it held a special meaning. Then, with a sigh that seemed to cut Linden's mind from the inside, both woman and well disappeared. A wanly light was the only lingering trace of them. And, the flask. Actually, the light was issuing from the flask, feint blue rays streaming from where the plug had become detached.

  Linden shook the flask, her fingers weaker with the motion, and gave a sigh of relief as a gurgling sound revealed liquid inside. Water of Life. With a surge of new strength, Linden started running towards Rianor—and collided with something.

  "No way, you wretched lowlife!" she hissed when this something tried to extract the flask, candle, and dagger from her torpid but clenched fists. She fought without seeing, her vision obstructed by hair falling over her face. Then, what felt like gentle fingers brushed the hair away, and a set of blurry contours floated together to form Rianor's face.

  "You should not call your master names."

  His eyes were hollow and his features pale, and there was blood on his skin and his previously neat coat. But he was alive and obviously able to walk and talk. Finally, Linden lost control. Her body shook and her feet dissolved beneath her, and she hardly heard the flask hit the stones just before she did.

  Linden

  Night 77 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705

  The first sensation when Linden woke up was of a piece of cloth against her mouth. She also felt the scent of Rianor's cologne. A moment later she opened her eyes to see his coat wrapped around her, while he himself was sitting beside her, holding her head. He proceeded to wave two fingers before her face.

  "How many fingers do you see?"

  Making her eyes follow the movement of his hand brought her dizziness and, a second after that, joy. This same hand had been not long ago lifelessly prostrated on the stones. Despite the protest of her jaw, Linden beamed.

  "How many fingers, Linde?"

  It sounded like an order, and the steely gray glint had set into his eyes again, but there was concern in his voice, too. Linden found herself wishing to obey him, punch him, and hug him all at the same time; instead, the corners of her mouth lifted teasingly.

  "I don't kn—Four?" Her voice was awkward to control and she coughed, Rianor holding her head up, his features worried and still.

  "You know, my lord," she murmured when her voice obeyed. "Most people would have tested my counting abilities before they took me as an apprentice."

  For a long moment his face remained unreadable, then a smile surfaced on it.

  "Ah, I am aware of that." He laid her head back and played with a lock of her hair. "Most people would also deem managing such a smart and provocative apprentice to be a challenge."

  "Is that supposed to be a compliment—" Linden bit back "or a threat," as his eyes surveyed her with a steely glint that was not exactly commanding but made her skin tingle.

  "Perhaps." Rianor bent over her, and Linden shivered as he drew very near, his hand releasing her hair and drifting down—and then the hand gathered the candle from the ground beside her body, and he stood up.

  "And perhaps I should tell you, my lady," he said with a teasing smile, reaching his hand to help her rise, "most people and I have very few similarities."

  "I think I know this already," she murmured, smiling at him—and then her smile faded, together with her momentary cheer and playfulness. She had not noticed immediately, but Rianor's face was illuminated too much. His candle was presently not the only light source. The other one was a stony pillar, looming where the samodiva and her well had been.

  Right now Rianor was looking through it as if it did not exist. Linden shivered, clutching her hands tightly to her body, resisting both the urge to scream and the urge to run away.

  Rianor

  Night 77 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705

  Rianor gritted his teeth and ignored his broken ribs, holding her tightly as she jerked, kicked, and even managed to bite his hand. Pity that his gloves had been so bloodstained that the healer had destroyed them. She tried to bite again, and he put his other hand on her throat, careful to keep the light away from her skin. The alternative was to slap her, and it would probably break her hysterics faster, but it would hurt and scare her more, too. He realized his mistake when she stiffened and suddenly found the wits to perform his wrist trick on him, then broke into tears while shielding her throat. He had forgotten that the blasted Mentor had nearly suffocated her a short time ago.

  Rianor reached for her again, and she stumbled back, a panicked look on her face. He caught her just before she would have left the area of light. A moment later, the Lord of Qynnsent was wishing for five armed Mentors instead of the silently weeping girl in his arms.

  "It is all right, Linde, I won't hurt you."

  She was so silent. She had not screamed even once, although she was terrified. Of him. Because earlier he had grabbed her and restricted the movement of her hands before she'd had the chance to do something she might later be sorry for—before she would do like his mother had done fifteen years ago, with the same unmistakable wild look on her face.

  "Do not worry about that, my boy, it is all right for ladies to be sometimes unstable," his father had told his eight-year-old son, "all of them break mirrors." He had been stable, High Lord Alastair, accepting that the alien light that lady Eleora had seen in the mirror was nothing but a fancy. He accepted the same for later experiences of that kind, too. Since no one but the lady's husband, her son, and her housekeeper knew about them, they were not even dangerous. Rianor had sometimes dreamed about that light. Then, five years later, his parents had died and teaching himself to not dream at all had been the best way—the only way—to obliterate the nightmares.

  Chasing the memories away, Rianor smiled at Linden.

  "Hurting you would not be too easy, even if I wanted to. I should have mentioned that you can break hands with that joint lock. You almost broke mine."

  And fortunately it was not broken in advance. He tried to stiffen his chest and breathe slowly, giving some rest to his broken ribs. His limbs were bruised but mostly intact, although the brutal pain in his head made it somewhat difficult to control them. Which was not to be tolerated. Rianor removed one hand from around the girl and focused his mind first on that hand's fingers and then, like Fight Master Keitaro had taught him, gradually relaxed each muscle up to the shoulder until his arm felt his again.

  Linden raised her face towards his. In the dim light her eyes were a darker shade of amber, glassy and expressionless, watching him, but seeing something else.

  "They say that seeing things that do not exist is even worse than aberrant thoughts," she said softly, "and that even Mentors cannot save you. Bers might, but no one knows if even they can. The Lost Ones are eating your quintessence, they say, so you stop seeing the world and then start seeing another one, an illusion. Evil that is not even
real."

  She trembled, and the veil before her eyes slowly lifted, making them once again smart, alive, and hurt. "Have you heard that, or is it something offered only to commoners? How can something that is not real be evil? Or good, for that matter. So I thought, as a Scientist, before. But I was not a Scientist at the moment when I saw what you did not. I was a scared fool. And I was not a scared fool earlier. I could control myself when you were in danger—when I fought her earlier—so how can just seeing something make me lose control now?"

  "Emotions build upon each other. You have been through a lot in the last four days, without a chance to recuperate."

  Two tears glistened on her eyelashes, breaking the amber glow in an intricate pattern. Before he could think about it, Rianor gently brushed them away, not wishing for the Mentors any more.

  "Linde. Tell me what I am not seeing." He looked at the bruises on her face and neck. "And what happened before that. After that, try to not think much. Rest a little if you can, and leave everything to me. I will find a way out. I have survived bad situations before."

  "So you have? This is good to know. It is good to know something about you, my lord Rianor. Or, should I say, my lord stranger." The amber eyes met his and held. "You obviously know things about me, since you are mentioning the last four days. Then you know that I, too, have survived bad situations. And you want me to not think."

  She shook her head, wet hair slapping cheeks already wet from new tears. "It would be convenient if I did not think, would it not? So that I did not possibly think of what you might do to me? Why did you fight for me tonight, my lord? Why did you take me with you? Are you a lord at all? Or, are you with the Bers? The nonexistent Master only knows how much compromising evidence you have gathered about me—more than enough, in any case!"

  The whip cut on his face chose that moment to start bleeding again. Rianor sighed, wishing that the blood would at least not get in his eyes like this, and that whatever hammered his forehead from the inside would stop. His vision blurred and his body quivered, and it was all he could do to not lean over Linden for support.

  "You—" He stopped and swallowed, fighting a sudden surge of nausea. But he must not sit or lie down now. He was not sure whether he would be able to rise after that. He had to leave this place as soon as possible and get to Qynnsent—he had to get her to Qynnsent. He was not prepared for having her there yet, but he would deal with it. He would have to deal with the Bers, too. Rianor clenched his jaw at the thought of them, which only made his wound bleed harder.

  And here she was, talking to him about them, fearing him, thinking him to be one of them ... He tried to control his rising anger with one of Master Keitaro's exercises but failed.

  "You, headstrong—heedless—scatterminded woman, do you think that I would be in this place and in this condition if I were a Ber or wanted to betray you to them!? And if I were, or did—whether or not I had gathered enough evidence against you before now, you just provided it to me with your 'nonexistent Master.' If you don't trust me, don't talk! If you so much want to think, at least be good at thinking!"

  It worked better than any promise or consolation. She glared back at him.

  "And you, insulting—presumptuous—conceited man! How dare you talk to me like that!"

  Rianor laughed, angry and amused at the same time. Nobody ever dared talk to him the way she just had. Well, the members of his own House, whom he treated like immediate family, allowed themselves the occasional, milder, retort. But outside people were civil, and many of the women were eager to please him, in many ways. And even though the maddening woman before him was going to be a Qynnsent lady soon, he should not allow her such retorts. He squeezed her, ignoring his ribs' complaint, as well as any pain she might feel herself, and brushed his lips to her ear.

  "Be very careful how you address me, my apprentice. I won't betray you to the Bers, but for all you know, I might be more dangerous than them."

  She shivered, but it must not have been fear. When she turned her head to face him again, the amber seemed to glow brighter than a lantern.

  "I will remember that, my lord master. I will remember it next time when something almost kills me because I am trying to save you, and you can't even see it!"

  Damn it, that was not the best time to teach her respect. Or to think how well she fit into his arms, not at all like a family member. She smelled of lavender, despite the grime and blood, and how on Mierenthia had he recognized this particular smell? Rianor slightly relaxed his grip and tried to focus on the vague thought that had started nibbling his mind. It seemed important.

  "And you!" Linden shouted to something in the darkness, "I told you to leave us alone! Stop your wretched tricks already!"

  "Quiet, Linde," Rianor murmured, his concentration broken. "I need silence for a moment."

  "Oh, so I am not a scatterminded woman any more, am I, your lordship?"

  "Linden, shut up, or I will force you to."

  But the vague thought was gone already. Rianor resisted the urge to grit his teeth, then locked her eyes.

  "You are trying my patience."

  "You are trying mine with your attitude—" She stopped abruptly in mid-sentence. "Rianor, this is wrong." The anger faded from her eyes. "We are spending our time quarreling, instead of finding our way out of here. For all we know, it might be her doing it to our minds. Or not. You were right to criticize me earlier for acting carelessly, my lord. But I am still acting carelessly, and so are you."

  He must have still looked irritated, for she shook her head at him and reached towards him, as if to stop his reply with a finger on his lips. Rianor snatched it, realizing what he was doing a split second later, just in time to tense his fingers and stop breaking hers. His anger faded.

  "Linde—" He held the light close to her fingers, massaging them gently. She did not protest. "Nothing is broken, thankfully. And I only wanted to say that you were right. Point taken, my lady. We do not quarrel any more."

  She had acknowledged her mistake when criticized. Rianor did not think he had ever seen a woman do that.

  She looked at her hand, then at his face and smiled weakly.

  "Will you teach me this trick, too?"

  Linden and Rianor

  Night 77 of the Fourth Quarter, Year of the Master 705

  Linden told Rianor about the samodiva, the well, and the pillar, as they moved to where they had awakened after the fall in order to recover her cloak. Although the temperature was bearable here, she would need the garment outside, where cold still gripped Mierber's night. He was still holding her hand but had postponed teaching her how to break fingers. Linden was glad he had not let go. His touch felt reassuring while she relived her fight with the well. He was gentle with her, too, although his other hand seemed to clutch the light a little too hard, and his jaw was set and his eyes narrowed and steely. He was walking steadily despite his disheveled appearance, and Linden did her best to ignore the growing numbness in one of her own legs.

  There was no question of stopping or even slowing down now. They had wasted enough time already. The reality of their situation was finally dawning on both of them, after the initial shock and relief of finding each other alive had faded out.

  They were in what looked like open space, even though it was not outside. An underground open space, and Linden tried to not think of that. No humans but Master Sewerers and their workers—and, evidently, Commanders—ever went underground in Mierber. It was both dangerous and aberrant. The fact that such enormous and dark space could exist underground in the city was almost more than Linden could bear. It had no walls or a ceiling. All they could see was grayish stones of all shapes and sizes on the relatively flat ground beside the slope, and stones on the slope itself. Beyond that, even though Linden's vision was enhanced by the pillar's light, was only darkness. There was no way to determine how far up the slope extended, or how likely the stones were to dislocate and hamper them if they would try to climb.

  "The healers
cannot possibly climb this." Linden frowned in the direction of the slope. "Not all of them, at least. Mistress Cadence is ninety years old and walks with a crutch."

  "They might never come here, it is far below their Passage—" Rianor looked at her. "Or, do they?" Again there was something in his eyes, like what had been there when her dad had first told them about the samodiva. It was not pleasant, and it made her cold.

  "I don't know. I told you. I know nothing about them. But you seem to do."

  He stepped closer to her, and his manner was abrupt, almost threatening. Then he sighed, reached out, and wrapped his coat around her over her cloak.

  "You are shivering too much, Linde," he snapped, "even though it is warm. Don't get too sick; I would rather not see, and especially not need, a Commander ever again in my life."

  * * *

  Linden was distressed, Rianor could tell. She said nothing, staring at the darkness, thin and pale underneath his coat, her fingers white from squeezing his handkerchief. He had been too harsh. After all, the damn father she seemed to love so much was a Commander, and Rianor had just effectively told her she would never see him again.

  He did not truly mean it. She was just a daughter, an ignorant child; Commanders and anything they had ever done or not done was not her fault. Her ignorance was a pity, in a way, for he had hoped to learn about Commanders from her, but Commanders were not the reason he had taken her. Rianor had not known who her father was when he had first seen her at the well. And he did not even blame Commanders too much any more.

  Rianor shook his head. This was wrong. His current actions were wrong. The hatred he was feeling right now was not his; it was the wild, thoughtless hatred of the thirteen-year-old he had once been. This place was getting to him, doing something to his mind. It should not. Could not. Rianor had long ago learned to deal with places like this.