Cleansing Fire

Triman Valina stood at the window in his study, his lips pursed in thought. The ninety years of his life normally sat lightly on his shoulders - he could have passed for a man half his age. Today though, the burden of both his personal problems and his stewardship of the Academy had taken a heavy toll on him.

He had battled with this decision for days now, pacing back and forth in this room until he thought he would go mad with frustration. To have finally come to a decision seemed like a weight lifted off his back. In the end, he had given in to simple human weakness – something a Steward was never supposed to display.

As both the head of his Order and Guardian of the Academy, his sacred duty was to protect the lands this side of the barrier from the overpowering darkness on the other side; the God Persidies had commanded it of the first Steward and through thousands of years they had never faltered – until now.

When Vala had fallen ill he hadn’t thought much of it – he’d worried of course but nothing unseemly to his station at least in public. In private, he had held her hand while her temperature soared and helped her get down a few mouthfuls of food when she was able. The healers had assured him it was nothing serious, that she would be up and about in no time.

Now though, none of them met his eye or even tried to keep him happy with their empty promises. She wasted away before his eyes and not one of them could do anything to help her. He had spent hours on his knees in the Temple imploring Persidies to hear him but the silence had been absolute.

For the thousandth time he cursed his decision to pursue Power over Healing when he was a student. If only he’d learned… but it didn’t help to obsess over it; he knew what had to be done. He’d be damned if he’d let her die when there was the slightest possibility still available to him.

Turning towards the corner of his study, he forced his eyes to focus on what seemed to be a much darker shadow, writhing with a strange energy. Even now it was hard to look at one of the Darklings without flinching. He certainly flinched when he felt its eyes seek his, a baleful green in the blackness of its presence.

“A decision your Excellency,” the rasping voice grated across his mind and he prayed that nobody would hear.

He took a deep breath and walked closer, within arms reach of the creature. Stretching out his hand, he steeled his nerves for what he knew would come.

“We have an accord. Tell your master I will do what he wishes of me in return for my wife’s recovery.”

The darkness seemed to flow towards him, stretching out in a finger-thin strand that came close to touching him. It hesitated as if unsure, holding off and then surged forward, wrapping his hand to the wrist.

Triman fell to his knees as he felt the flesh being seared from his hand, blackening and peeling away like layers of paper. He had to bite his lip to keep from screaming – this would all would be for nothing if someone heard him and came running to see what was wrong. Vala would never be saved and he wouldn’t be in a position to negotiate anymore.

“We have an accord. My master accepts your sacrifice. You will receive instructions as well as the cure once your part is done,” the voice was emotionless, empty of the heat that had consumed his skin.

The darkness pulled back and he was startled to see his hand, whole and undamaged. The Darkling noticed his surprise and uttered a short, barking laugh.

“Foolish man. Did you think the Master would leave you sullied to warn your kind?”

Still seemingly laughing quietly, the shadow began to melt into the wall, slowly returning the captured light to the room.

Triman shivered and looked at his hand, brought it shaking up to his face. Not a single mark and yet he could still feel the burning; dulled somewhat but present nonetheless. He supposed that would be a constant reminder of his bargain. If that was all, he could live with it.

Who would have thought one of them could feel emotion at all? In different circumstances the researchers would love to know that. May the gods forgive me for what I will do. Still, what harm could it really do? The Observers hadn’t seen a sign of the Skaji for hundreds of years and they could see far into the Barrier Mountains. Tomorrow he would travel out to the Barrier and make the small hole he had promised the Darkling.

The hills were filled with the sound of birds and a riot of butterflies threw colour to the wind as the sunlight filtered through the thick clouds. Caius watched his sister play, running at the butterflies, trying to catch them in her little hands.

He smiled in contentment as he allowed the first warmth of spring to bathe him in happiness. Today was perfect – not even having to look after Ilyana could ruin his mood. He listened to her laughter for a moment and judged that she was safe enough with the butterflies. He would just close his eyes for a moment, rest on this wonderfully soft grass and then they could return to the barn where they slept. Something in his mind tried to rebel against the rapidly approaching sleep but it wasn’t strong enough to keep him from laying his head on the soft grass.

He woke up to dusk and a feeling of panicked familiarity. This had happened before… something… no, there was nothing there. Ilyana! Where is Ilyana? Her happy shouting had disappeared and as he sprang to his feet he knew what he would find – the empty hills mocking him, the butterflies gone and the sky grey and oppressive.

Struggling to move, forcing his tired legs to run, he started shouting for her, knowing deep inside that it wouldn’t work. It hadn’t worked before, and it wouldn’t work this time.

“Ilyana! Ilyana! Where are you? Come back or I will be very cross!”

Even as he shouted, his mind flinched again and he had to fight to remember what he was doing here. His feet felt made of stone and nothing he could do was quick enough. Almost reluctantly, he started up the hill towards where she had been last, his feet dragging as if he was walking in thick mud. The verdant grass seemed slick now, mocking him with its health, tripping him as he climbed.

“CAAAAAAAY,” her shrill voice rang over the hills, filling him with fear that gave him some speed and he found himself on the crest of the hill. He wondered briefly why he couldn’t see anything until he realised he had closed his eyes against what his mind knew he would see. He forced them open; this was something he needed to see.

Ilyana, standing in the middle of a small dip between the hills, dead butterflies around her in a wreath of crumpled wings. Her hair whipping around in the wind, a few errant rays of sun glinting off the highlights. He stretched out a hand to her, trying to reach her from where he stood. When he looked again she was covered in flames. Oh gods, they’re everywhere! Oh Ilyana! For a moment, she looked surprised and then as the flames bit into her flesh, she began to scream in earnest, her small voice cracking with the effort.

“Ilyana, I’m coming! Stop Ilyana, roll on the grass,” he mumbled, disgusted at the lack of volume in his voice. He should be screaming, shouting till his throat was raw but all he could manage was a croaking whisper. He took a step forward and his legs locked, pushing him to the ground. He dragged himself down the side of the hill, closer to her, closer every moment, knowing he’d never be close enough.

The flames started to burn brighter and hotter, heating his face from even this distance and her voice rose to a deafening pitch that made him fall on his knees with his hands clutched over his ears. Magically amplified, her voice rang across the hills, shattering the calm of the world.

He knew what happened next, he would look up and meet her eyes – this had happened a thousand times before, he remembered now. He felt his head start to rise up and their eyes locked, together for the last time. The flames never obscured her eyes, not even in the end. He knew he was screaming and couldn’t…

Caius, or Balden as he was known now, clamped a hand hard against his mouth to stop the scream; sweat glistened on his skin and had soaked the bed. His silk sheets were rumpled, pulled from the bed and crushed where he had thrashed during the night.

Shuddering, he flicked a hand in the direction of a lamp and a flame sprang to life, bathing the room in a dancing light that did little to comfort him. No, he was a grown man now, not a helpless boy as he had been when she had died. The dark held no fears for him anymore.

Firmly, if a little unsteadily, he rose from his bed and went to sit at his desk. The room was much finer than any he’d had before. Huge windows on one side gave a commanding view of the Academy and a comfortable sitting room lay beyond one of the doors. In the austere working room, his desk was at least twice as large as before and all the furniture was much richer looking. He supposed it fit well with his new position as the Steward’s deputy but he had never paid attention to the trappings of such things.

Only one piece had been the same since he had first been a student here. He reached out now and took the portrait down from the special shelf he always brought with him. Ilyana gazed out at him, one of the only pictures he had of her now, painted by an old artist in Itycia in exchange for work done when they were boarding with him. Caius had been so angry with the old man then – what they’d needed was bread, not paintings but now he was glad for it, it was the last piece linking his sister to him.

It had taken him years to be able to even look at this painting after the day she burned. After many hours of searching, the Guard had found him almost unconscious near where she had burned, unable to move or speak, incapable of even looking at them.

An Initiate from the Academy had been sent to inspect the area, to see what might have caused her death since there was clearly a magical source. It was fortunate that he was in the area – sometimes it could take months for someone from the Academy to reach an area of need.

After some hours of deliberation and tests the man, Vokya, had come to speak to Caius. He had explained, as easily as he could, that Ilyana had been consumed by the Gift inside her. It had manifested much earlier than was normal and, because there was nobody nearby who could help her, it had grown out of control. He said that she would have felt almost no pain. Empty reassurances that Caius could never have helped didn’t stop the sight of her every time he closed his eyes.

Vokya had asked around and found out that they had no other kin, nobody to go home to. He had announced that he would be taking Caius back to the Academy with him and, when there had been no objections, had done just that. That was when he had received his new name, Balden.

Vokya was a kind master, if more than a little distant, and with time Balden learned to accept his new life and to learn his craft. It seemed that magical talent ran in the family; his mother and father had probably had the gift but were lucky enough that it had lain dormant for their short lives. He was determined to excel, fierce in his determination that there would never be anyone like Ilyana again. Through the years he had found many likeminded people in the Academy.

Balden sighed and put the portrait back on its shelf, Ilyana’s face towards him. Light was starting to seep in around the edges of the curtains; there was no point in sleeping again. There were so many things to do. Soon there would be no danger to those like Ilyana, no more lonely deaths.