Alex Bledsoe - Burn Me Deadly

Through the archway, I saw Marantz down by the stage. He seemed to be instructing the backwoods folk on how to arrange things, and they jumped to comply with his orders. He looked harried and exasperated, two things that would not improve his notorious temper. He strode back to the waiting room.

“On your feet, hummingbirds,” he snapped to us. His glare passed over me for a moment, but he gave no sign he knew I was out of place. “Your prophet is about to make his entrance.”

We collectively stood. Slow, heavy steps approached down the stairs. Two more of Marantz’s muscle boys preceded the old man, who appeared in the doorway, propped on a cane, his natural glower enhanced by the dim light. “Praise the flame,” the others muttered, and bowed their heads. I copied them.

“Bring the relics,” he said to Marantz.

The gangster stiffened, unaccustomed to being treated so cavalierly. But he only said, “Of course,” and nodded for his two men to obey.

“No!” the old man rasped. He had a really unpleasant voice, and when he raised it, it was hard not to wince. He pointed at Marantz with the finger of his free hand. “ You do it. You need a lesson in humility.”

Every muscle in Marantz’s body tensed, and his men looked at him as if he might pop and shower them with viscera. But he choked it down, nodded assent and said, “Praise the flame,” through his teeth as he went upstairs to follow orders.

The old man looked at us pilgrims with contempt. “As for the rest of you, the ceremony will begin as soon as he returns. You have until then to recover yourselves.”

One of the hill people approached the old man and bowed before him. “Father Tempcott,” he said, pronouncing the name carefully. “Welcome to your new temple.”

“Hmph,” Tempcott said. “As a young man, I attended temples of Lumina and Solarian that rose into the sky like the spires of great mountains. Now we are reduced to scuttling about in holes in the ground, like roaches.”

“One day, Father Tempcott, all will be restored,” the man said hopefully, his eyes still downcast.

“One day, yes, the world will burn,” Tempcott agreed. Then he caned past the man and went into the sanctuary.

Just then Marantz reappeared, staggering under the weight of a rectangular metal case three feet long and two feet square on the ends. It looked solid and old and heavy enough to make carrying it alone a daunting proposition. The cords on Marantz’s neck stood out with the effort, and we all stepped aside so he could stagger into the sanctuary with it.

More feet shuffled down the steps, and the red-robed women entered, filing past us with their heads down. All but one, that is; she had her hood pushed back far enough to look around, and stole glances at us pilgrims. She was young, probably around sixteen, but there was nothing of the demure religious acolyte about her. Yet she appeared to be neither slave nor captive, although some kinds of captivity don’t always show. They entered the sanctuary and lined up along the back wall.

One of Marantz’s men stuck his head through the archway. “Okay, boys. Your father is ready for you.”

We formed two lines and walked down the aisle between the benches. The other braziers had been lit, and their flames sparkled off the crystals embedded in the stalactites above us. Two drummers pounded a slow, rhythmic pattern that we immediately adopted as our pace. We filed neatly onto the benches, taking up the first four rows. The hill people took up two more behind us.

The metal box rested on the altar. Tempcott made his way slowly up the steps to the platform, then crept to the front, the thunk of his cane echoing in arrhythmic counterpoint to the drums. When he reached the lectern, the drummers rose to a crescendo and then stopped. The attendees said in unison, “Praise the flame.”

Tempcott cleared his throat, propped his cane against the podium and grasped it with both hands. As he opened his mouth to speak, he suddenly froze and squinted toward the back of the cave. “I see our final pilgrim has arrived,” he said with venomous sarcasm.

We all turned. Marantz and his goons flanked a tall, slender young man fumbling with a red scarf. Marantz helped him tie it in place, a gesture so friendly and kind it seemed completely incongruous. The young man smiled his gratitude. He was well dressed, a little drunk and instantly familiar: Prince Frederick, only son of King Archibald, and heir to the throne of Muscodia.

I studied the reaction of the others, trying to get some context. Did they even know their guest of honor? While there were a few whispered comments about his tardiness, he caused no undue surprise. Either they didn’t recognize him or they didn’t care. He was merely another one of their flock.

I had never met him before, but his image was familiar from the official family portrait hanging in Gary Bunson’s office. Frederick was a tall young man, still thin but with the beginnings of a paunch. His nose and eyes were red even in this light, and a thin sheen of sweat covered his face. Marantz helped him down the aisle to a spot on the first bench evidently kept open for him. He sat with a heavy sigh.

“Forgive me, Father Tempcott,” he said with his head bowed. “I was weaker than even I knew I could be.”

Tempcott hobbled to the edge of the stage and glared at him, but there was calculation in it; clearly he knew Frederick was his meal ticket. “You have disappointed me, as well as Lumina and Solarian. You were given a simple task and you failed to see it through.”

Frederick nodded. “I know that, Father Tempcott.”

“You are the brightest hope for our future, and you seem determined to bury your light under drink and women.”

“I’m truly sorry, Father Tempcott. Discipline is unfamiliar to me.”

Tempcott knew just how far to push it. Instead of pounding on the boy some more, he moved to the podium and said, “Now that we’ve gotten all our interruptions out of the way, let’s get on with what’s important.”

Frederick hunkered down into his seat, grateful to no longer be the center of attention. He looked hungover, possibly still a little drunk, but his contrition seemed genuine. Evidently he really did care what Tempcott thought of him, which seemed odd given his reputation. The Prince Frederick I’d heard about loved only drink, women and games of chance, in that order.

Tempcott stood silently for a moment, eyes closed, composing himself and restoring the sense of sanctity. When he spoke again, he was in full high priest mode.

“Behold!” he cried, startling us as his voice echoed among the stalactites. “The day of the flame is approaching, and only a few will survive it to walk among the ashes.” He looked up at the ceiling as if seeing his vision in the air before him. “Soot will drape the hills, and the river will run black with ash. Nothing green will remain, and the sky will be as dark as the hearts of wicked men.”

Then he scowled at us poor wretches. “But you, my friends, may be saved, if you can prove yourselves worthy to Lumina and Solarian. You have completed merely the first challenge to join their service; more and greater challenges lie ahead. Only I can show you the way, for only I am left from those who once prepared the path for their great return. Long ago we were legion, and our truth was feared and honored. Now we are merely tales told to frighten children. But you will be the first of the new flames to set fire to the land.”

He placed his hands on the big box Marantz had carried down. “Just as a flame requires fuel, a believer requires divine revelation. This precious relic is our sign, the fuel to our fire of belief, the proof that Lumina and Solarian once lived, and will live again.” He unsnapped the lid, reached inside and said again, “Behold!”