Richard Byers: The Captive Flame

In short, the process of debarkation was a tedious, aggravating chaos, and Aoth Fezim regarded the muddy, rutted road that ran away from the docks with equal disfavor. “Before the sea retreated,” he said, “Luthcheq sat on the Bay of Chessenta. We wouldn’t have needed to march from the river to the city.”

Well-brushed shoulder-length auburn hair, jeweled ornaments, and the golden threadwork in his sky blue jerkin gleaming in the morning sunlight, Gaedynn Ulraes grinned. “Oh, I’m certain of it, Grandfather. As you’ve explained so often, everything was better before the Spellplague. It was always summer, the streams ran with wine, and every woman was beautiful and eager to please.”

Aoth’s lips quirked upward. “Do I really talk like that?”

“Only when your mouth is moving.”

“I suppose it’s a hazard of longevity.” Or conceivably of actual immortality. The blue fire had touched him less than a century before, and it was too soon to tell if he’d stopped aging entirely or was just doing so very slowly. “Or maybe of being in a foul mood.”

“Difficult as it may be to believe at present, I suspect we’ll get all the men, beasts, and baggage off the boats eventually. Probably without taking too many casualties.”

“It’s not that,” Aoth said. “It’s Chessenta.”

“Well, you’re the one who decided to come,” Gaedynn said.

“Did I have a choice? If so, I wish you’d pointed it out at the time.” Aoth tried to drag his thoughts away from gloom and bitterness. “You, Khouryn, and Jhesrhi can handle things here. I should call on our new employer.”

“As you wish,” Gaedynn said.

Aoth turned toward Jet. The black, scarlet-eyed griffon, big even by the standards of his kind, stood watching the awkward confusion of the debarkation with an air of amused superiority. Altered by magic while still in the womb, Jet was Aoth’s familiar as well as his steed, and possessed an intelligence equal to, though subtly different from, a man’s. For that reason, his master could trust him to wander loose and unsupervised, even in proximity to horses.

Although, in a sense, Jet was never unsupervised. The psychic link they shared precluded it, just as it now enabled him to sense that Aoth wanted him. As he padded toward the pile of baggage with his saddle perched on top, he said, “It’s about time.”

Aoth draped the saddle over the griffon’s back, then stooped to buckle the cinch. “I said we’d fly by midday, and we are.” He swung himself onto the animal’s back and stuck his spear in its boot. Jet lashed his wings and leaped skyward.

From the air, it was possible to view the entire Brotherhood of the Griffon all at once, and thus to see how much smaller the company was than it had been a year before. Once again Aoth tried to hold somber thoughts at bay and share Jet’s exhilaration at getting airborne instead.

It wasn’t too difficult. He wasn’t glum by nature, or at least he didn’t think so, and he’d loved flying ever since he was a youth. Winter was dying but not dead, and a cold wind blew, but the magic bound in one of his tattoos warmed the chill away.

The grasslands beneath him were more brown than green, though that would change with the coming of spring. When he and Jet climbed high enough, he could just make out the mountains to the east. A wisp of smoke crowned the volcano called Mount Thulbane.

They reached their destination sooner than he might have wished. Jet swooped lower over the rooftops of Luthcheq. Someone noticed and gave a shrill squawk of surprise.

Aoth guided the griffon toward the towering cliff and the carved structure partway up, half jutting from the rock to overlook the city and half buried inside it. It was the citadel of the War Hero Shala Karanok, ruler of Chessenta, and-like many of the prominent folk in the city-the Brotherhood’s new patron lived more or less in its shadow.

Specifically, he lived in a mansion with a red tiled roof. Yellow banners emblazoned with crimson double-headed eagles flew from all the turrets, and the stones paving the paths outside were of the same colors. Aoth set Jet down in front of the house, dismounted, scratched amid the feathers on the familiar’s neck, and then climbed a short, broad flight of stone steps and knocked on the front door.

After a few moments, a servant in livery opened it. His eyes widened when he saw who was waiting on the other side.

Nature had made Aoth homely to begin with. He was short and barrel-chested, with features that were strong but coarse. Outside his native Thay, few folk viewed his shaved head and abundance of tattooing as flattering or aristocratic. In particular, strangers often considered his facial tattoos outlandish and grotesque, and of course the luminous blue eyes at the center of the pattern were overtly freakish.

So he was accustomed to his appearance attracting startled second glances and curious stares, and people’s reactions rarely troubled him. But now it occurred to him that if the doorkeeper understood what he truly was, his response would likely be more unfavorable still, and that irked him.

“I’m Captain Fezim,” he rapped. “Nicos Corynian is expecting me. Is he here?”

The servant swallowed. “Yes, sir. Please come in, and I’ll tell him you’ve arrived.” When Aoth entered, the other man hesitated again. He’d just noticed Jet.

“It’s all right,” said Aoth. “He won’t eat anyone who doesn’t bother him. Well, not unless it’s somebody who looks particularly meaty. You might want to keep all the fat servants indoors.”

The doorkeeper eyed him. “Sir is making a joke,” he said uncertainly.

Aoth sighed. “Yes. A joke. Now take me to your master.”

Predictably, it wasn’t quite that easy. The rich and powerful always made a man wait awhile, like it was necessary to demonstrate their importance. But eventually the servant ushered Aoth through an antechamber, where two halfling clerks hunched over the documents they were writing, and into a larger study where their master sat behind a much larger and tidier desk.

Nicos Corynian was a trim, middle-aged man with graying brown hair. His general air of patrician sophistication contrasted oddly with a broken nose and cauliflower ear. Aoth inferred that in his case, the Chessentan enthusiasm for athletics manifested as a love of pugilism, or at least it had when he was younger.

Aoth bowed slightly. “My lord.”

The counselor rose and extended his hand. At the same time, a huge green shape with a wedge-shaped head and shining yellow eyes peered over his shoulder. Startled, Aoth froze.

The apparition vanished. Nicos peered at Aoth. “Captain?” he asked.

Aoth had no idea what the vision meant. But it didn’t seem to be a warning of any sort of immediate threat, so he pulled himself together and took Nicos’s hand. The nobleman had a firm grip.

“Welcome,” Nicos said. “I was hoping you’d turn up before this.”

“Winter voyaging is always unpredictable. We hit foul weather while still north of Aglarond.”

“Well, the important thing is that you’re here now.”

“I am. My men will arrive within a day or two. I trust you’ve arranged for our quarters.”

“Certainly.” Nicos gestured to a chair. “Please, sit. Shall I ring for some refreshment?”

Aoth sat. “Thank you, my lord, but I’m all right. We can get right to business, if that’s acceptable to you. Where do you mean to use the Brotherhood-against Threskel or High Imaskar?”

Nicos cocked his head. “You’re well informed for a man just off the boat.”

“The ships put into port periodically on the voyage south, and whenever they did, I asked for news of Chessenta. So I know you’re contending with two problems at once. Brigands and beasts are raiding out of your breakaway province, and Imaskari pirates are harrying your shipping and eastern coast.”