Child of Flame

Maybe he gasped.

Maybe knowledge, like a knife-edged flower, opened in his heart. If the shadow prince was alive, Alain certainly could not be in the afterlife, because shades could not dwell on the Other Side; otherwise they would not be trapped as shades on Earth.

“Who is there?” said the man, lifting his head. He doused the lamp, but he had a habit, not unlike that of Prince Sanglant, of tipping back his head as though he were sniffing the breeze, trying to catch a scent.

A sentry moved out from the fires, crossing the grassy clearing quickly. “Is there anything wrong, Seeker?”

The prince waited a few breaths, still listening. Alain was achingly aware of the creak of the trees, the sigh of the wind through lush summer leaves, the soft snort of Sorrow, a stone’s throw behind him, as she dreamed.

“Just an animal.”

“You shouldn’t be wandering out here, Seeker,” continued the soldier sternly, hands gripped tightly on his spear. “There are bandits still, you know what beasts the Pale Ones are. They’d rip you to pieces and then eat you raw. That’s what happened to my cousin. I hope we kill them all.”

“Even the folk in those villages we passed? Even the Rabbit Clan lady who sells incense in Western Market? Even the sailors on White Flower, whose captain is a half blood?”

The soldier gestured toward the sentry fires and the earthen walls, eager to return to their safety. “Wild dogs can be taught a few tricks, but they’re never tamed. And they’ll bite you when you try to feed them.”

“Hu-ah,” said the prince softly, “so swift a judgment and so harsh a cut.” He touched thumb and forefinger to the wick on the lamp, and fire flared, so startling that Alain jerked back, thumping his head on the tree behind him.

“What was that?” The soldier raised his spear threateningly and took a step toward the forest’s edge.

“A deer. Come, let’s go back.” The prince lifted a square of cloth overflowing with leaves and stems; tying diagonal corners gave him a means to carry his bounty. “I’ve got what I wanted.”

Waking his companions at the first blush of dawn, Alain heard a horn call, low and trembling.

Maklos grabbed his weapons hastily. “They’re off early today.”

“No need to hurry,” said Agalleos mildly as he stretched out the kinks that sleeping on the uneven ground had left in his body. “Aih! To be young again!” He grimaced. “I’ll never be free of these knots in my neck! There’s only one road, so we can’t lose them. We’ll reach the Spider’s Fort by afternoon. I wager they’ll stop there for the night.”

“Why so?” demanded Maklos. “Aren’t they in a hurry?”

“There’s a crossroads there, lad. West and north runs the path into enemy lands, as far out as they’ve forced the border. To the southeast they can march by the Carrion Road and cross the Chalk Path by the Bright River. It’s but a day’s march from Bright River to the City of Islands. They can sacrifice a prisoner there as easily as they can in the City of Skulls.”

“What is a Seeker?” asked Alain. When Agalleos looked at him strangely, he explained the encounter he’d had.

“Have you learned the language of the Cursed Ones as well?” asked Agalleos, surprised. Maklos had already started out and now, half hidden in the trees, turned to wave them forward impatiently.

Alain gathered up his gear, staff, pack, and the shield left by Shevros, while he gathered his wits as well. “I told you before: I only know the language of the Deer people, and that of my own country.”

They looked at each other, each seeing distress and bewilderment in the other man’s face. Rage whined and nudged Alain, urging him to move on.

“Come,” said Agalleos. “No doubt your spirit guides have given you some gift you weren’t aware of.”

No doubt. But his thoughts were so jumbled that three times that morning he tripped over roots and once slammed right into the trunk of a tree.

“Hsst!” Maklos sprinted back and shook him. “Keep alert! You could get us all killed.”

It was like chasing down flustered geese. For some reason, his hand—the one that had been bitten—began to throb again, although it hadn’t pained him since the day they’d crossed the Chalk Path. There went one goose which he had chased before: How could he understand Agalleos and Maklos? How could he understand the speech of the Cursed Ones?

And there, crossing its path, drawing his attention, another: The prince was no shadow. He was alive. He had been a shade in the world Alain had once known, a vision from times long past.