The Sword of Sighs (The Age of the Flame: Book One) (10 page)

“Yes, Sarah. Once you know the art of it, you would be able to stand against the Fallen One—possibly the only person in all of the Worlds who could.”

“I am the Flame,” she said the words quietly out loud, tasting them on her tongue. “What do I do now, then? Those things are after us. I’m not going to have the time to learn any arts while they’re chasing us.”

“No. That’s true.”

“So, how do we kill them before they kill us?”

She looked at Mistress Ruth, and then at Ossen, and then back again, seeking their guidance. Mistress Ruth and Ossen also exchanged glances, as if agreeing on something.

“Mistress Ruth? Ossen? Tell me.”

The Herb-Sister acquiesced and nodded. “You’re right, my dear. There is a way to kill Fallen-born, but it’s outside my knowledge and that of the Wayfarer.”

Sarah turned back to Ossen, who was even more obscured in his pipe-smoke than before. His one eye shone from within the cloud, like a blue midnight moon.

“Ossen, tell me. Please. What must I do? Where must I go?”

The Wayfarer sighed. “You would need to travel to the Western Wastes that lie on the far side of the Mountains of Mourning. There is a lone mountain there, the Fellhorn, brother to the Shadowhorn, and there is something driven into the very stone of the peak that can slay the Shades that pursue us.”

“What is it?”

“The Sword of Sighs. It can only be drawn from the rock by one who bears the Flame. It will channel and control the Fire inside you, and it will allow you to lay the Shades to rest forever, but it will be a long and dangerous journey, Sarah. And not one from which you are certain to return.”

“But it’s one I have to make, Ossen. It’s my Path, right? If I don’t do this, I’ll never find a way back home?”

“Yes, Sarah. It is your Path. Yours alone. A way home may be part of it. I cannot see such things. But only you can decide if you wish to go on.”

Sarah sa quietly, retreating into herself, turning over everything that had happened – and everything that could happen from this point on.

“When must we go?” Sarah asked.

“Tonight,” Ossen said. “We must ride hard and fast and far. They will be at our heels the whole way now that they have our scent and their Master has His eyes on you. Will you have me with you, Sarah?”

She raised her eyebrows at the question.

The Wayfarer scratched lightly at the pink pucker of his absent eye. “I know things about what may lie ahead for you. If you will have me, I will go with you and walk the Path that lies ahead.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because a Wayfarer is no king to force his will upon others. I ask, and I await your words.”

Sarah bit her lip. “Yes. Please come with me, Ossen.”

He smiled, and so did Mistress Ruth.

~ ~ ~

They set out the following morning with Sarah mounted on a stout grey pony and Ossen astride his white stallion. Their saddlebags were packed with victuals provided by Mistress Ruth. She kissed Sarah on the cheek and embraced her tightly. Sarah watched the woman make no such gestures to Ossen, but there was a look in her eyes, and in his, of shared longing and sorrow, which made Sarah look away. She let them have a moment alone. Then Ossen was leading the way on his stallion, and Sarah was looking back at Mistress Ruth. Sarah was sure Mistress Ruth did not leave the doorstep of her lonesome house until they were well out of sight, with the Northway Mountains looming ever larger before them as they travelled on to the city of Highmount.

Chapter Eleven

Highmount appeared to be more of a fortress than a city to those who approached her. Great walls of grey stone separated the city into those with wealth and those without. The latter faced out onto the Grassland Plains and their part of the city was more often known as Plainstown than regarded as a true part of Highmount. In the event of attack, the poor would be marshalled to defend their betters from invaders. Or rather, they would fight while their betters fled to find sanctuary in the Three Kingdoms beyond. It had not always been so, but the centuries had worn away at the small society of Highmount until it became composed of two very distinct strata: the dissolutely decadent, and those born to poverty.

Ossen and Sarah rode into the richer part of the city through the Norn gate.

Sarah’s eyes could barely tear themselves from the soaring cleft of the Northway Pass, in which the city was built, until she saw the beauty of the buildings around her. In contrast to the functional grey stone of the outer wall, here there was pale marble, rare limestone, and black quartz threaded through with glittering veins of silver, bronze, and gold. High windows let light in to the palatial structures of villas and grand halls, all with porches and alcoves supported by towering concentric columns. The streets were remarkably clean, and gutters ran alongside the roads and pathways. Workers from Plainstown could be seen sweeping rubbish into these gutters. Ossen led the way to the largest building of them all—the Palace-Hall of Highmount, burrowed into the craggy stone of the mountain range itself. They dismounted and climbed the two hundred steps that led to its wrought-iron gates.

“Why are we here, Ossen?” Sarah asked.

“To help a friend.”

The guards opened the gates and ushered Sarah and Ossen in. They walked down the hewn corridor lit by flickering lanterns. In alcoves, Sarah saw the sanguine faces of kings and queens of Highmount, carved from turquoise-grey marble. Precious stones glittered as eyes in each one, making her feel she was being watched by the dead. They came to the Court and waited at the edge of the crowd. Sarah peeped through the gaps, catching glimpses of the underage queen, sitting awkwardly on the throne, and the regal woman at her side.

“That is Venna and her warden, Ianna,” said Ossen.

A man knelt before them. His bearing was noble and he was clad in leather armour. Long, dark hair ran down to his shoulders.

“I cannot be a party to this act, Majesty. It is a barbarity, what you suggest. A horror worthy of the bandits and thieves who roam the wilderlands. Save us, even the Molloi of E'phah were not so cruel. I beseech you to reconsider.”

Venna adjusted her position on the throne, but Ianna’s green gaze held steady upon the man before her, his head bowed, his knuckles to the ground.

“We hear your words, Earlman, and thank you for your plain speech.”

A tension left the air, and the Earlmen, Earlwomen, servants and slaves all seemed less stiff in their manner. Fewer hands hung near to their swords.

“Earlwomen and Earlmen of Highmount,” said Ianna, “we have been persuaded by recent counsel that we must be safe and guarded in these treacherous times. From north of the walls comes word of the Fallen One rising. Every day, merchants and traders arrive at our gates with only their own person spared by those who rule the Grasslands. This city of ours was built as a shield to the Three Kingdoms of women and men that survived the last war with the Fallen. I stand before you today and say we have a duty here that we are bound to, and with that duty comes a trust laid upon our shoulders. It is a heavy weight, true, but one that we all can bear together. If Highmount and its people do not stand as one, then all shall fall.”

Sarah watched Ianna lick her emerald lips, waiting for the whispers and chatter to die down.

“To this end, it is my sad duty to proclaim that at dawn tomorrow Jedda Ferra will be put to death at the stake in the Plainstown Square—for treason against the throne.”

A hush descended over all. None came forward. None spoke. Venna lay back upon the throne, shaken, mute, and tearful. Ianna smiled without shame. Two short, sharp claps were the sign that the audience with the Crown was over. All retired to their quarters in the city. None looked back.

Ossen led Sarah away without a word.

Chapter Twelve

Jedda was awoken by the sound of the cell door opening.

“Who is it? Who’s there?”

“An old friend, dear Jedda.”

“Ossen!” She flung herself at him as the Wayfarer entered the cell, her arms squeezing his lank, bony frame.

“How do you fare, daughter of Ferra?”

“You know how I fare. It has been four years.”

“I know, and we must talk.”

Ossen turned to the guards and gestured for them to leave. Neither felt sure enough to challenge the hard, unyielding gaze of the Wayfarer’s eyes. The iron door was closed, and Ossen’s ancient fingers swept about in the air. Jedda noticed a peace and quiet settling all about.

“A simple spell for privacy, Jedda. Now, tell me all that has transpired since I last walked the halls of your father’s palace.”

“There’s not much to tell, Ossen. Ianna is as she always has been. She knows how to charm and manipulate those she associates with. She knows their secrets, and she turns them to her advantage. Through them, she gained the support of the Earlwomen and Earlmen, so when father died I was locked away down here while she fashioned herself as Lady Warden with Venna on the throne.”

“Yes. The rank stench from that woman and Mikka Wyrlsorn permeate this place.”

“Mikka? The Council worm?”

“Oh, yes. I could see the blackness within each, as if it were in plain sight. They mean to use our journey in order to strengthen their hold upon the city and its people. Though they do not work as one, they might as well do so.”

“Our journey? What journey is this?”

“You know the tales I used to tell you? Of the warriors, the kings and queens of legend?”

“
The Sword!
You mean to go to the Fellhorn, after all.”

“Yes, I do. The Fallen One stirs, and so does A’aron’s spirit in that lost blade. And the Living Flame has come into the world.”

“She has?”

“She is here with me now, and she has accepted my assistance in leading her to A’aron.” The old man sighed heavily and leaned back against the cell’s stone walls. “And it is a long and dangerous journey we will take, Jedda. No man or woman of the Three Kingdoms has tried to cross such a span of distance since the last war. I have great fears for our safety.”

“I will go with you, Ossen, if that’s what you are asking. There is nothing for me here, except poison in my food, or a taint worked into my bedsheets by one of Ianna’s pet bitches. We will return to Highmount, with or without the Sword of Sighs, and stand upon its walls against the Shadow of the Fallen One.”

Ossen smiled at her.

And at that moment, the door to the cell crashed open, and a lone figure strode in.

Chapter Thirteen

Morning came to Highmount; cold, bright, and bitter. Ravens and black crows circled overhead, calling and croaking to one another. People lined the streets, all unnaturally quiet. Such a multitude was usually only seen on the festivals of Wintertide and Summernight. The hush was as solemn as that which had fallen over the court chamber when Ianna made her proclamation.

Jedda wanted to shiver from the chill that stole through her skin and bones. She was barefoot and clad in a plain white shift. The cart bumped its way through the streets. The Plainstown Square stood before the far wall, which marked the end of the pass and the beginning of the Grassland Plains beyond. When the city was first built, it was intended to be a killing ground for invaders seeking to reach the second wall. Now, it was a marketplace as well as a centre for celebrations and festival dance. On days like these, it was also used for executions. Jedda recognised faces that had fought against her on behalf of Ianna in the square. Her heart screamed that they were traitors who would see her murdered for their own ends. But as she looked into their downcast faces and wet eyes, she saw the truth. War was coming; she knew that as well as they did. The Fallen One was awakening, and all that stood between him and the Three Kingdoms was Highmount. Better Ianna on the throne, who would fight tooth and claw to keep the darkness out, than a civil war that would tear apart the city and possibly even spread into the Three Kingdoms. Her own eyes tearing, she nodded to those who had fought against her, and she hoped they saw her understanding.

The cart clattered to a halt.

In the centre of the square, where dancing-poles and braces of fireworks had often been assembled, were three stakes. Bundles of kindling and sticks had been piled at the foot of each one. Two of the stakes were already taken by Jorra and Kalla: Earlwoman and Earlman of Thanehold. They had given Jedda their swords when all others sided with Ianna. They were blindfolded, and they wore the same thin cotton shifts as Jedda. She wanted to call out to them, to say something, but her mouth was as dry as the rickety old wood of the cart from which she was led by the hand to her stake. Clouds were gathering overhead, dark and threatening. Jedda sent up a wish for the rains to fall and douse the flames that were to come. She was bound to the stake by the rough hands of hooded men. She could feel their fear in each trembling fumble of their knot tying. She was still Ferra’s heir, sentenced to burn for treason or not. A blindfold was placed over her eyes, but she shook her head hard before they could tie it in place. They drew hard breaths at her gesture and withdrew themselves. Jedda looked up to see Ianna there, stepping out of her sedan chair and not even sparing a glance for the gathered nobles and common folk. She had eyes for no-one but Jedda—the girl who had run screaming up the steps to the throne, sword drawn, to run her through. Jedda thought that, in her place, Ianna would not be so bold as to refuse the blindfold.

One of the hooded men strode over to Ianna and fell on one knee, knuckling the ground. The wind, damp and heavy, blustered around the square now, stealing away the words exchanged between Ianna and the executioner. Jedda saw him nod, arise, and bow before retreating into the shadows. The shadows came alight and burned as three executioners strode out of them, all bearing torches bound with cloth and soaked heavily in oils to keep the flames strong in the bad weather. They approached. Jedda felt her muscles harden as she watched the flickering fire that would soon ignite the kindling bunched around her. She drew in a breath and, raising her voice until her throat hurt, she addressed the gathering.