James Wyatt: In the Claws of the Tiger

The narrow door opened again, and Janik wheeled to face it. The knight stood beside the open door, inviting Janik in with a gesture. With a deep breath to steel his nerves, Janik stepped past the knight and entered a well-appointed audience chamber. The vaulted ceiling rose as high as a cottage roof, framing a colorful mural, another depiction of Tira Miron. The walls were hung with simple banners carrying various symbols Janik didn’t recognize. The left wall was pierced with four high windows through which daylight streamed, making the room warm and bright. The floor was black marble laced with veins of silver.

She’s not here, Janik thought with relief. As the knot of anxiety in his chest started to unwind, he surveyed the room and its occupants.

A large dais rose on the far wall. At its center, a sculpted wooden chair dwarfed the young girl perched in it-yet somehow Jaela Daran, the Keeper of the Flame, managed to avoid looking like a child. She sat erect, her soldier-straight back not touching the ornate wood behind her. Her hands rested lightly on the chair’s arms, occasionally moving to rub the smooth wood, almost like a lover’s casual caress. Her eyes took in Janik with intelligent curiosity, noting the short sword at his belt, his metal-studded leather armor, the traveling dirt on his boots. She wore a simple white robe tied with a cord of pure silver. A plain silver circlet was her only badge of office.

Janik sized her up quickly, then gave a start as a hulking shape on the floor next to the throne opened two small silver eyes and raised a monstrous head to peer at him. How had he not noticed it first? He supposed he had taken it for a large dog, but its four curved horns marked it as something other than canine. It looked at him for a moment, then settled its head back down on its two front claws, apparently returning to its nap.

Janik forced his attention to the half-dozen attendants standing beside and behind the Keeper. Their heads shaven and their bodies draped in shapeless robes, they gave Janik the impression of being ageless and sexless creatures, almost inhuman. He noticed one or two of them inclining their heads slightly to whisper in a neighbor’s ear. One was bending down to whisper to the Keeper herself.

So here we have the hands that hold the reins, he thought, and he began watching the attendants closely, trying to determine who really ruled Thrane.

“Janik Martell.” The knight announced him, then backed out the door, bowing. He closed it behind Janik.

“Welcome, Janik Martell,” the Keeper of the Flame said. Her high voice was a girl’s, but was strong and clear. “The Silver Flame has summoned you.”

Janik ducked his head in a minimal bow. “I’m honored,” he said, more than a hint of sarcasm in his tone. You summoned me, he thought, and I wouldn’t have come at all except for Dania. “How can I be of service to you?”

One of the attendants spoke. “You are aware of our Church’s mission?”

“You mean fighting evil, casting out demons, that sort of thing?” Janik couldn’t quite suppress his smirk. Back home in Sharn, the Church of the Silver Flame didn’t so much fight evil as curl up in bed with it. He studied the attendant who had spoken more carefully-the second from the left. He thought he detected the hint of a sneer on that one’s face.

“We are called,” another attendant said, more than a hint of disgust in her voice, “to wage war upon the evil spirits that prey upon mortals, and sometimes to do battle in the flesh with evil when it takes bodily form.”

“Hasn’t our world seen enough war?” Janik retorted.

“Enough is when the war is won,” the same attendant replied.

“No wonder Aundair is still looking warily across its borders.”

“We are not speaking of a war that can be fought with armies across borders.” This was a third attendant, the one directly to the Keeper’s left. She cast an imperious glance at the one who had been arguing with Janik, and Janik decided to watch this one more carefully.

Now here’s some authority, he thought.

“I am well acquainted with wars fought on a smaller scale,” he said. “I assume that this summons has something to do with my service for Breland during the Last War.”

“Thrane has no need of spies.”

Right, Janik thought, thinking of a few Thrane spies he had encountered during the war. “Then why have you called me here?”

The attendant on the Keeper’s left looked over her shoulder at the one on the end of the line, who stepped down off the dais and took a few steps toward Janik before speaking. These attendants had no visible weapons, but Janik moved his left hand to rest on the hilt of his sword as he adjusted his stance to face the approaching attendant.

“Your fame is considerable, Janik Martell,” this one said. “In particular, your discovery of the ruins of Mel-Aqat has drawn our attention.”

Janik could not hear the name of that place without Maija’s face forcing its way into his thoughts-the delight she had taken in Janik’s success, and then the utter contempt she had worn as she handed the Ramethene Sword to Krael. His eyes flicked over all the attendants again, his thoughts a jumble of questions.

“Yeah, I discovered Mel-Aqat. Found it, fought over it, came back alive. I’m not eager to go back there, if that’s what this is about.”

“It will be worth your while to return there.” The Keeper of the Flame spoke this time, her first words since she issued her welcome. Her eyes rested on Janik but they seemed out of focus, almost glazed over. Her hand had ceased its restless wandering over the arm of her chair.

Here we go-now for the bribes, Janik thought. Somehow, it was a comfort to know that the Church of the Silver Flame was just like any other government or organization. It’s always about money, even when you dress it up in vestments.

“Don’t waste your breath,” he snorted. “There’s not enough money in the world.”

The girl seemed not to hear him, and Janik suddenly noticed that all the attendants had shifted their attention to the Keeper, looks of surprise and-was that reverence? — on their faces. Even the beast at the foot of the throne was staring at her.

“What you have lost lies still in those ruins, still within your grasp.” Her eyes regained their focus and fixed on his, riveting his attention. “The Silver Flame calls you there.”

He held her gaze for a moment, drawn in by her mysterious tone. Then he looked away, shaking his head.

I have to admit, this girl is good, Janik thought. Whoever holds her strings picked a perfect puppet-she says her lines with feeling.

He met the Keeper’s gaze again. “No,” he said. “I’d sooner die than return to Mel-Aqat.”

He spun on his heel and stormed out of the chamber.

The same knight still waited for Janik, and escorted him to his quarters in the palace. He slammed the door to his suite right in the knight’s face, then stalked to a divan and threw himself down.

Mathas sat on a chair facing Janik, a heavy book opened on his lap. The elf’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead, but he waited patiently for Janik to speak. It was a long wait.

At last, Janik vented some of his churning anger with a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, old friend,” he said, shaking his head in frustration.

“I hardly consider time spent in your company after all these years a waste,” Mathas replied gently. “What happened?”

“They want me to go back to Mel-Aqat.”

“Why?”

“We didn’t get that far. They promised to make it worth my while, but I told them to forget it and I walked out. I’m not going back there. There’s no way.” He leaned back on the cushions, folding his arms behind his head and staring up at the ceiling.