David Farland - Sons of the Oak

“Have you ever immolated?” Fallion asked.

Smoker shook his head. “No.”

“Then how do you know that you can?”

“Power is there, always whisper. I know I can do. Fallion, immolation is easy. When rage take you, is not become fire that is hard.”

For long hours, Fallion had struggled to find any vestige of power. He’d tried shaping the smoke with his mind, imagining fish swimming through the air. He’d even tried pleading with Fire, seeking acceptance.

Now he peered over his shoulder, as if Myrrima might come walking the deck any moment.

And Fallion surrendered to rage. He thought about the past weeks, about how the strengi-saats had attacked Rhianna, about the fresh loss he’d felt over the death of a father that he hardly knew, about his terrifying flight from Asgaroth, his mother lying cold beside the fire, and last of all he imagined Humfrey the ferrin, broken and twisted like a rag.

The rage built as he considered the unfairness of it all. It became a hot coal in his chest, fierce and wild, tightening his jaw.

“Now shine,” Smoker said, exhaling, sending tenuous threads of blue smoke issuing from his nostrils. Fallion did not try to shape it, didn’t try to imagine anything.

He just let his rage release, like a light that burst from his chest.

A strengi-saat took shape in the smoke and floated up into the air, soaring, its visage cruel as its jaws gaped.

Smoker looked at Fallion with pride and gave a satisfied grunt.

Just then, at the back of the ship, Myrrima called.

Fallion whirled, caught a partial glimpse of her between the ropes and pulleys on deck.

Immediately he ducked, crawled over the forecastle, and went walking down the far side of the ship.

That night as Fallion slept, Myrrima told her husband, “We’ve got to put a stop to this. Fallion’s running with the crew, thick as a pack of wolves. And tonight I saw him with Smoker.”

Borenson lay beside her on blankets that had been washed in seawater earlier that day, and so smelled of salt. “Fallion’s a good boy,” he said with a sigh.

“He’s being drawn to evil,” Myrrima argued. “The Fire is pulling at him.”

“We can’t hold him back,” Borenson said. “We can’t keep him from gaining his powers.”

“He’s not old enough to choose wisely,” Myrrima objected. “Fire draws to its adherents more than any other power. It seeks to consume them. I think we should talk to him.”

“If we try to hold him back,” Borenson said, “he’ll think that what he’s doing is shameful.”

“Maybe it is,” Myrrima said.

From the cabin door came a soft clapping. It was late, and Borenson lay there for a moment wondering who could be calling when everyone else was asleep. Finally, he pulled on his tunic and opened the door.

Smoker stood outside in the shadows, a single candle in his hand, his eyes reflecting the light from it with unnatural intensity.

“Must speak with you and wife,” he said.

Myrrima was already throwing a blanket over her, wrapping it around her like a cape. She crept up behind Borenson, put a hand on his shoulder, and peered over.

Smoker said one word, “Asgaroth.”

“What?” Myrrima asked.

“Shadow hunts Fallion. Asgaroth is name of shadow. Fire told me. Is near.”

“On the ship?” Myrrima asked. She looked out the door. The other refugees in the hold were all abed. The animals slept. No one seemed interested in eavesdropping.

Smoker nodded. “Yes.”

“Where? In whom?”

“Not sure. More than one shadow on ship. Two, maybe three. I feel them. Not know where. They hide.”

Myrrima peered at the pale old man, the wrinkles of his face, and wondered. More than one locus was on the ship?

Myrrima had worried about this for days. Her water magic was strong in healing power and in protection; each morning she had been washing the children, drawing runes of warding upon them, just in case.

“Your magic help protect boy,” Smoker said. “But Fallion need more. He must fight. You know, I know. Day will come when must fight. My magic strong in battle, but is also danger. You know. You feel urge to surrender to your master. Fallion feel, too, thousand times stronger.”

Instinctively Myrrima had distrusted this man, but now he was proposing a truce. They had something in common; they both cared about Fallion.

“I don’t want him to lose himself,” she said. “He needs to understand the dangers.”

Smoker closed his eyes and bowed slightly, a sign of agreement. “Power seductive; come with price.”

“We both know that it doesn’t just come with a price,” Myrrima said. “Fire consumes those who serve it-just as it is eating at you. You cannot bear to be away from it. You smoke your pipe and take your dying slow. But you’re like a fly caught in a spider’s net, and there is no escape for you. You will be consumed.”

Smoker nodded, closing his eyes in resignation. “Still, is power he will need. Fallion very strong. You know: he very good, but dangerous. We both must watch him.”

At eight weeks, the coasts could not be spotted and Fallion was informed by the far-seer in the crow’s nest that they were in the realm “Beyond Inkarra.”

Inkarra had always been the edge of the world to Fallion. It was a loose conglomeration of kingdoms all inhabited by folks with white skin, who worked and hunted by night. It was a forbidden realm, and no one who ventured beyond its borders came back alive.

Fallion and Jaz were ecstatic. They were sailing into the realms of legend, through the Atolls, following a string of volcanic islands to the Mariners, and then on to the far side of the world.

Stalker bent over his charts one morning, considering his course, when Fallion saw the worry in his face and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“This is our course,” Stalker said, “right here through the Mariners. We’re supposed to stop at Talamok. I’ve got goods to unload.”

“Is there some danger?”

Stalker was slow to answer. He’d been trying to reach a decision. He looked at Fallion evenly. “Pirates,” Stalker said. “I think I’ll sail around it, strike for open sea. We’ve got enough food and water to get us ’ere, I think, if the wind ’olds.” He pointed at a small island on the charts, a place called Byteen. “It’s an unin’abited island. The crew can scurry out and gather fruit, maybe even ’unt pigs. How would you like that, eh? ’Unt some wild pigs?”

Ever since his childhood incident with the boar, Fallion had been terrified of pigs. But these island pigs wouldn’t be near as large as the ones in Heredon.

Stalker muttered, “Course, we might ’ave to fight some sea apes for the food.”

Sea apes often lived among the Mariners, swimming from island to island to gather fish and fruit. Sometimes, whole rafts of them would swim together, hundreds of them with locked arms, forming floating islands.

“Why not go to one of the other islands?” Fallion asked. There were dozens to choose from, maybe even hundreds, including at least one called Syndyllian that was two hundred miles across and showed three ports.

“Shadoath controls them islands.”

Fallion stood for a moment, unnerved. He’d heard that name before. “Shadoath is a pirate?” Fallion probed.

“You ’eard of ’er?” Stalker asked.

“I heard her name, once or twice,” Fallion admitted. “Who is she?”

Stalker wondered. The boy didn’t even seem to know that she had put a price on his head, much less that Stalker had just been worrying about whether he should accept her price. To do anything else was foolish.