One Hot Miracle [ narrative ]
Axis Betelgeuse was a bright gem on the sea. Lanterns that burned on pure magic floated along the walkways of the city, illuminating everything in an orangish glow. Passersby were warmed by the lanterns as winds whirled in off the ocean. If it weren't for the smell of salt on those winds, Vera would have thought she stood on land. The walkways beneath her feet were solid and steady with no hint of waves moving beneath them. There were no towers, no stone spires, but somehow Axis Betelgeuse was enormous under the stars. Not since Vera was a little girl standing under the Arches of Inalen had she felt such awe. The architecture of the city was ornate and smooth, as if the Sun Elves invited a Dwarven artist to apply his work to pine instead of granite. Vera ran her fingers along one of the wooden pillars outlining the door to Naevain Auvraeshel's apartments. She came here at the Lady's behest, having received a note from Naevain that she had an item of particular interest at her home. Vera assumed the elf was referring to the paintings that Vera wanted to obtain while in the city. Only now, having seen parts of Axis Betelgeuse, she was unsure any canvas or letter could capture the craftsmanship and pure miracle it took to run such a city. If only Eragos could have seen this himself.
Vera frowned and placed her hand over where her locket rested beneath her uniform. Faxril had permitted neither her nor Naevain to go to Nimudrim's workshop with him. He wanted his proposal to be as genuine as it could be, which meant that he relied on his own voice first and foremost. Vera had never seen her brother so determined to be diplomatic and humble. Weapons and military personnel on The Archer caused a stir in Axis Betelgeuse and Faxril sought to appease the population, as well as the government that Naevain had acted against. The treasures he’d stripped from the brigantine were given to the city as a gesture of goodwill. If only he hadn’t been motivated by vengeance, Vera might have admired Faxril.
If only.
She reached out to knock on the large doors again. It took a great deal of wandering for Vera to get here. Naevain should have arrived first. She remembered the grand, stone home in Trone and how the doors opened before she and Faxril even ascended the steps. Vera stepped back to look across the street where elves glided along the pathway, moving quickly to wherever it was they had to be, but there was one that walked as she might have. He moved between the flowing bodies like a log on a river... a man in a dark coat and pointed hat.
"Might I help you, Lady?"
Vera turned for the woman who'd answered the door, which she held open halfway. The woman was a house servant dressed like a well-to-do merchant, much like Naevain's servant in Trone. There was an emptiness to her face, however, that suggested the household hadn't expected guests. A cold feeling bloomed in Vera's chest. She pulled out the letter she was handed only an hour ago. "I received this note, from your mistress," Vera said. She handed the servant the parchment. "Has she been home today?"
The woman took a moment to read the note, running her fingers across the ink as if to make sure it was real. Her dark eyes met Vera’s with an answer. Before she could respond verbally, Vera interrupted.
‘Say nothing, it is not safe.’
The door fell open wider as the servant stumbled back from the entrance. Vera was glad for the way the shadows fell through the door; the servant’s face was not nearly as exposed as it could have been. As subtle as telepathy was, the reaction most creatures had was not. "It doesn’t matter,” Vera said. She did not look to the street again, but was almost sure the man in the dark coat still lingered. “May I wait for her?"
“Y-yes…”
“Thank you.”
Vera quickly stepped across the threshold and shut the door herself. She rested against the oak for a moment as she collected her thoughts, looking down the halls as the servant stared at her. The air inside Naevain’s residence was sweet from all the flowers she kept in vases and pots in the hall, from the fresh fruit in bowls on the side tables, but there was a tension in this place Vera could not ignore. Perhaps she was paranoid, perhaps the note was a mistake, but Vera was rarely somewhere she shouldn't be. And Naevain was not the type of person to play games. It didn’t take a divine sign to see something was wrong. She removed the brown cloak from her shoulders, draping it over her arm. Vera drew her staff and held it up as one might a walking stick. She would have to act fast.
"I have to borrow one of Lady Naevain's cloaks," Vera said to the servant. "Can you bring one, please?"
"I shouldn't--"
"If you fear for your job, you can report it stolen as soon as I leave and direct the proper authorities to the docks. But give me the cloak."
The servant disappeared for a moment into one of the halls draped in silk, and returned with a long, dark blue cloak. Vera gave the woman her Rider’s cloak as she slid Naevain’s over her shoulders. It was too long, but served its purpose by hiding her uniform from view. With the hood drawn up, she simply looked like a vertically challenged denizen of Axis Betelgeuse. Vera put her hand on the servant’s arm before she could skitter off into one of the halls, never to be seen again.
“One more favor,” Vera said. “Is there an exit not visible to street?”
“The servants’ entrance, my Lady, but I won’t call the authorities…”
“No, do it. I'm going to need the help,” She hoped the man she’d seen across the street still lingered there, waiting. She hoped time did not burn as fast as it did in the back of her mind. Vera nodded to the servant. “Lead the way.”
***
The closer she came to The Archer, the more she realized the ship was safe. Regular patrols moved along the deck and two officers, both wearing Eistocene's colors and their weapons openly, stood at the ship's gate. Relief should have flooded her heart. Instead she only dreaded more the coldness she felt in Lady Naevain's apartment. Vera moved quietly in the darkness of Axis Betelgeuse's port. She avoided sailors from Lord Faxril's ships. She should have been able to trust Faxril's men and called them forth from The Archer without hesitation. Her brother would have been insulted if he learned she couldn't.
Vera knew, perhaps better than her enemies, that the colors of Eistocene reached deep into the soul. Despite sins and murders, despite how Beit-Orane had branded her, part of Vera still loved her House. She could remember wanting to fight for her father, to earn a better name among those who lived in Eistocene. As a child she'd longed for nothing more than the chance to prove herself worthy of one of the great armies. The pinnacle of might, of honor, was supposed to reside in the Red House. Under the gaze of Armas. Under the protection of the High Lord. What soldier, what warrior of the Free Armies did not aspire to dwell there?
She, alone.
Vera paused just across from the shadowed brigantine. Most of the torches onboard were out. Only one man patrolled the deck. This was not any guard formation of Faxril's, who so often took more care than necessary in a foreign port, and yet there was no evidence of struggle. No damage to the ship, no men in foreign colors lingering around the brigantine. She tightened her grip on her staff as she timed the guard's pacing. When his back was turned, Vera moved silently for the ramp. Vera lacked the natural ability of an elf but if she could sneak up on Eragos in the snow, the lone guard stood little chance of spotting her.
At least, not until it was too late.
She came to stand on deck just as the guard turned for his next pass. A flash of surprise crossed his face when he spotted her, but Vera knew he could not see past the darkness her hood created. His mouth opened to shout and she hit him with a clean strike to the throat through concentration of will. The guard coughed violently and fell over the side of the ship, making a clean splash in the sea. He was no guard at all, Vera decided, but a look-out. That meant the group knew the futility of their number if they were caught. Vera remained frozen after the splash to make sure she'd gone unheard. When all seemed clear, she moved for the captain's cabin. To her knowledge, everything else of value had been removed.
The halls of the ship were black. Stepping down inside was like stepping into an abyss, limited in width but unending all the same. Her staff would be difficult to wield in such tight quarters. Vera considered her knives as she saw the light from the captain’s rooms. She was adept at killing with knives, but she did better keeping her opponents in custody with a staff. A deterrent against extreme violence was needed, especially now as she slid along the hall. Vera nearly tripped when her foot hit a slick spot on the floor. If there was a body she hadn’t run across it…She paused, breathed in, slid her foot further along the floor…
Oil. Someone had poured oil.
“Hurry up. She’s moving.”
“Then knock her on the head again and give me some more time. He said it was hidden here.”
“And you’re going to believe a pirate you knocked bloody?”
Vera inched closer to the entrance.
“Do you want to report back, saying you didn’t get it?” There was a dry laugh. “Good luck facing the Lady. She’s already something furious.”
She could see Naevain’s dark hair from where she stood. The elf’s fingers twitched in the puddle of oil they rested in. Vera grit her teeth as she watched a man in red and black move over the shipmaker’s daughter. He picked up a paperweight from the desk.
Vera’s gloved hand touched the door.
The man juggled the weight back and forth. Naevain struggled to push herself up until his boot came down on her, pressing her against the floor again. He laughed and leaned over her. “Should I be merciful?”
“I was asking myself the same question,” Vera said. The two men turned, startled, toward where she stood in the doorway. Vera pulled down the hood of her cloak, exposing her uniform, and nodded toward Naevain. “Let her go.”
“Of course we will. ” The man removed his boot from the elf’s back.
“We didn’t plan on hurting anyone,” the man by the desk said. “We’re just assuring Lord Faxril’s loyalty to Beit-Orane."
How they were going to do that remained a mystery. Two things happened in quick succession: a paperweight was hurled at Vera's head and the man by the desk leapt across the space between them with knife in hand. She blocked the knife with a twist of her staff and bore her opponent's weight as he shoved her into the bookcase to her right. The paperweight stopped in mid air, only a foot from Naevain, and cracked into a dozen shards -- none of which hit the floor.
"What do you know of loyalty? Of Lord Faxril?" Vera hissed, angling her staff to strike her opponent's knee. He slashed outward with his knife as she slid away from him, along the wall. "What do you know?"
Shards of the paperweight flew at the elf's attacker; they cut into his flesh and caught the edge of his eye, making him bleed heavily. He cried out and clutched at his face. Naevain moved away, finally getting on her feet, and ran for the desk.
Vera struck her other opponent in the chin with her staff. The man's jaw slammed shut on his tongue before he could respond to her questions. He crawled backward as Vera took an empty swing at him. “Light it!” he coughed and threw himself out of the path of Vera’s staff again. “You fool, light the damn ship!”
When the man who could barely see around the blood covering his face reached into his pockets for his flints there was a burst of violence. Vera struck her opponent so hard that his neck gave a loud snap. His head twisted and he fell over choking on his own breath. Naevain, who now stood behind the desk, thrust her hand outward and hit the other man with a ball of oil that she’d formed from pure magic. As he struck the flint together, the man found he was too slow to stop the events in motion.
Both he and the brigantine caught fire at once. The man screamed and hurled himself out the door before Vera could stop him. The flames from his body ignited the oil that’d been poured in the hall. Fire climbed fast along the walls and the man’s cries cut out shortly after.
“This is bad,” Vera muttered. She dropped her staff on the floor, regretting that she’d have to part with it. If she had to go through fire, she didn’t want to be holding a piece of wood.
Naevain, meanwhile, was on the floor, rolling back the carpet that was there. Vera immediately went to her side and tried to haul her up by her arm, but the elf refused to stop whatever crazy thing she was doing. “We have to get out of here!” Vera said.
“But it’s here!” Naevain shouted back.
The ship groaned.
“What?” Vera gestured to the burning cabin. “What could possibly be--”
Naevain nearly tumbled back in pulling up the floorboard. She tossed it to the side as the flames gained strength across the room. “The pirate said it in gibberish and they thought he was only in pain. My teacher used to utter spells in that garbage…” She reached into the shallow compartment and pulled out a small journal. Naevain thrust it into Vera’s hands. “Here! Something to take back to Simanel!”
Vera took the journal. There was no time to look at the contents, but whatever was inside was worth burning a ship for. Worth killing Naevain for. The men must have used her to access to Faxril’s prisoners and then taken her along in case things went awry…
The ceiling started to give as Vera pulled Naevain to her feet. She guided her around the desk, picking up a silver pitcher that sat just on the edge of the top. Having a water mage in the middle of a fire had to count for something. She looked to the doorway blocked by a row of flames and then to Naevain, handing her the pitcher.
“Are you insane?!” The elf shook the pitcher. “I can not do anything with this!”
“Be creative!” Vera snapped. When Naevain coughed violently, Vera removed her Rider’s mask and put it over the elf’s face. The mask was made for hopeless situations like this one.
Naevain narrowed her eyes, holding the mask to her mouth with her free hand. For all the annoyance she made plain, she was thinking. A moment later she turned abruptly and threw the pitcher into the fire. Vera made a strangled sound of protest, but that died when two thin columns of water appeared between the flames and the door. Already the water gave off steam. It was Naevain who took Vera’s arm this time and they rushed together through the opening she‘d forged, into the corridor.
The smoke was thick, but once they were in the hall, Vera could see the stairs she’d come down earlier. Miraculous that there was still a path to them. She pointed Naevain toward the stairs and moved behind her. Something caught her hood, however, and she was jerked back as Naevain ran for the exit. Vera’s hand grabbed at her collar just as she felt a sharp pain scrape the back of her ribcage. Breathless, she fell to the floor.
“Lady Vera!”
Vera crawled forward. She’d been stabbed. Pulling the knife out displaced the pain just enough that she could momentarily breathe, but would do nothing for the severity of the wound. She looked over her shoulder. It was the man from the street, the one in the pointed hat and dark cloak.
“Vera!!”
“Get out!” Vera yelled. She scooted back, even as flames ran along the floorboards beside her.
“You have something of mine,” the man said.
“Yours?” she coughed. She pulled her feet under her. “Or my sister’s?”
The man lunged as Naevain screamed for her again. Vera threw herself at him, throwing all her weight into stealing his balance. They tumbled back together and Vera felt her wound stretch when she yanked herself back and punched him in the jaw. He made a muffled sound of pain…a small consolation. Vera shoved him through one of the doors, careless of the fire.
Smoke filled the small space of the room, but flames had not yet touched the wood here. They were climbing in slowly, like reluctant serpents, as Vera kicked her attacker in the chest. He wrapped his arm around his midsection and backed away, watching her. Expecting something. Smiling. The wound could have been fatal, but her blood was rushing through her so fast that…she should have had time to…Vera couldn’t feel her wound. She couldn’t feel the blood on her back. Her skin was cold, even in the heat. It wasn’t right.
He was smiling.
No.
“Yes.”
Pain bloomed across her cheek. How he crossed the room, how he struck her, she wasn’t sure. She fell to the floor with her knees taking the most abuse. She could barely see. What she could see, blurred. Vera looked across the floor as she held herself up from total collapse with one arm. The journal was just out of arm’s reach, sitting on the floor. It had come loose from her belt. She watched as the man picked it up. She was breathing heavily and coughing in the same beat.
“Poison. I‘m sure you‘ve guessed…” the man said.
A knife dropped on the floor beside her. The hilt bore the seal of Beit-Orane. Vera’s fingers stumbled over it.
She had to stop him.
“You must have been something special,” His boot came down on her hand, just as she’d gotten a proper grip on the knife. Vera bit her lip and felt blood trickle into her mouth. “This is courtesy of High Lord Gavrie.”
She wanted to spit at him, curse him, but she could barely stay up. When he moved his boot, she couldn’t unclench her hand from the knife. Had he broken her fingers? Vera coughed as she felt her heart flutter. It didn’t matter. He had been honest. The knife carried a poisoned tip.
If it was truly her father’s...she did not have very long.
He didn’t finish murdering her. The man in the pointed hat ran from the room as the fire began to dance along the walls, the ceiling. It was coming for her. It was coming for her. Vera’s arm shook as she tried to push herself up.
“Finish what you begin,” she whispered.
The colors of Eistocene, the beautiful black and red of the Red House‘s banners, were flaring out in the hallway. If there was ever wood keeping this ship, this world, together, Vera did not know it. Nothing was clear any more. There was nothing she could feel. She could see her mother in the doorway, her face a shadow and a quiver at her side. What did I tell you? You must fight. the High Lady said. You never listen to me. Now. Focus.
“Finish...” Vera whispered.
Flames were consuming everything, even the air.
Focus.
She could not breathe.
Focus.
The knife was hot.
Her heart was cold.
And there, in the distance, was a warrior built of fire. Smoke was his sword. He stood like a mountain, a gold sky above him and a road, as bright and blinding as he, twisted away somewhere far beyond...
“You really are an idiot. A young idiot,” Rider Agrippa said. He dusted off his gloves and gave her a severe look. “Well? Stop sitting there and get your horse. We have things to do.”