Flame

By Donald Twain

A mysterious pilgrim has caught the attention of the Emperor of Moz and his wife, the Empress. To what lengths will they go to secure family secrets?

The Empire of Moz is the westernmost civilization of Yura. Its matriarchal structure has fascinated the rest of the world for millennia. Two girls born in their city's twilight will change the course of history.

"Flame" is Part II of Canticles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359716500

Book preview

Flame

Flame

FLAME

Part II of Canticles

By Donald Twain

©2019

The Pilgrim

Korella shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Under the watchful eyes of her fellow Mira, she dared not break protocol and draw attention to herself. The lamellar armor across her front and down the length of her spine made sitting in these wooden pews unbearable. Taller than most men by several hands, Korella felt ridiculous seated on a thin bench along the wall. She held the hilt of her jian high, the scabbard containing the razor thin blade within too long to push aside. Through the sights in her conical brass bascinet, she could see the congregation gathered below. Tribal leaders, holy men, politicians, and several foreign dignitaries, seated in lavish upholstery, encircled a small dais. Scores of farmers, as many as could fit in the space, filled the commons spaces at the back of the circular Democratic Hall.

From the second floor balcony, Korella could survey the whole scene below. Anyone who looked like they might cause trouble would have to contend with Korella and her team. The Mira personally served the Emperor of Moz and were handpicked from childhood to learn the ways of the sword, spear, and whip. Implemented primarily as a bodyguard unit for the Emperor, the Mira, knowingly or otherwise, functioned as letterless messengers for the Emperor’s vanity and lust to be feared. They took orders as they were given, value judgments aside. Their sole purpose was to obey the Emperor, and they were feared as much as he. It was said that a single Mira was worth five-hundred of any other man. Whether or not everyone in Moz believed that, the results spoke for themselves. Just what they were doing at the Democratic Hall Korella couldn’t figure. What message could he possibly be sending here? Which of the men below are succumbing to the intimidation of the presence of these killers? She told herself that none of that mattered. Her orders were to observe the gathering below, and so observe she would. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her jian. The star and cross amulets that hung from the scabbard hummed as Korella’s hand squeezed.

Upon the dais sat a man whose mien was one of infectious tranquility. It seemed to radiate out from him, and all assembled leaned in towards him at all times. The man’s habit was mean, rough-hewn sackcloth robes stained with dirt and blood. His feet were clean, but his sandals nearby were but peasant’s sandals, not at all unlike the footwear of the men toward the back. His face, however, shone in the sunlight pouring in from the windowed cupola above the dais. As he smiled, his pearl-white teeth spilled out from his mouth while both sides of his slick black mustache rose to meet his deep black eyes. The crowd was entranced. As the smile reached its zenith, his hands rose gently, palms up, supplicating. All of the people stood up from their chairs and applauded, cheered, and some wept. The man hadn’t said a word.

The din of the ovation was deafening. Korella’s helmet rang. She had to steady it with her free hand to still the vibration. A thought suddenly occurred to her that perhaps she had been sent here to assassinate this man. In theory, it shouldn’t present too many tactical complications. By the look of the crowd, however, they might not make it out alive, Mira or not. Korella knew what she was capable of, but there was something to be said for the frenzy of zealotry. She had seen it too many times. Her attention retreated back to the resplendent figure seated below. As he absorbed the adoration of his audience, his figure seemed to rise. Korella was certain of it. Ever so slightly lifted. His robes fell below him. The roar in the chamber went quiet. A collective, tiny gasp. Then silence.

As the room held its breath, the silence was broken by the distant hum of bells. Birdsong. Rushing water. Everyone felt true serenity, their pupils dilating with a bliss never before known. The man opened his mouth to speak, and what came out was the soaring soprano of an ancient Mozene opera. He gazed at them with such love and power. He cast his head about and caught everyone’s eyes, a moment which caused several to faint on the spot. Korella could barely see what was happening anymore. Something was wrong with the lighting. Perhaps a cloud passed overhead. She looked up. The cupola was dark. Below, the man on the dais was beaming, emitting so much light. All of the light.

Korella realized she could no longer see. She stumbled out of her seat. A Mira grabbed her.

What in Ima’s hell do you think you’re doing? She put her hand to her own hilt when she spied Korella’s ready arm.

Do you see what’s happening? He’s taking the light, Korella said.

Taking the light? She laughed. Our job is to sit. And watch. So what? It’s dark. It was getting late anyway.

Korella shot a look below. For one tiny moment, the man on the dais’ eyes meet Korella’s own. She stumbled, her fellow Mira propping her up.

"Are you alright, Mira?" the woman asked.

Korella recovered, though something had changed in her expression. The Mira looked at her warily and Korella began to speak strangely. Yes. Very well actually. When he looked at me—

She trailed off, looking toward the light through the tips of her fingers. The woman shook her.

Korella, look at me, she pleaded. It’s me. It’s Bria. She pulled off her helmet and threw it aside. She grabbed Korella’s face with both hands and brought her eye-level. Korella stared beyond the Mira with a lost look. Drool was collecting in the corners of Korella’s mouth as she grinned stupidly, head lolling to the worsening scene on the dais.

Bria shook her again. What the fuck is wrong with you? She peered around at the other Mira, all of them now crawling on their hands and knees to the balcony, some right over the edge. As their bodies thudded, they screamed in ecstasy. Bria started to tremble. Korella. Please come back to me. She put her forehead to hers. I need you.

Bria? Korella coughed and tried again. Bria, what is going on?

Everyone’s lost their fucking minds. They’re throwing themselves off the balcony! We have to get out of here. Now! Bria demanded. She picked up Korella’s helmet, put it on her, and took her by the hand. They stepped over their fellow Mira, some lying face up on the floor, speaking unknown tongues in a kind of ecstatic fever. Through the spiral staircase at the back, they made their way to ground level. There was plenty of room to maneuver at this point, most of the people now crawling over each other to reach out and touch the man on the dais. From this vantage, Korella could tell he was definitely levitating.

No, floating, she said.

What? Bria asked.

Look at him, he’s floating.

And he was. In a now phosphorescent ball of heat and light, the plain-clothed man with the well-kept mustache hovered serenely above a writhing human mass of adoration. Hands reached up from the pile of squirming bodies only to be pushed back down by another set grasping feverishly for the slightest caress of the man’s sackcloth robe. The soprano filled the space like an iron bell, light swirling, wind rushing, and people slobbering over each other to reach their new god. The holy man cast up his eyes as if longing of home. When they returned to the people, they were fiery red. The purest rubies held before a roaring flame. As he reached the highest pitch in the aria, the crowd ceased its mania, hanged on each wave of the perfect vibrato. In that moment of nirvana, the whole space filled with blue fire. It quickly turned red. The same red as the man’s new eyes. When the flames reached their final state, every organic thing exploded. The screams of pleasure transformed into lamentations of utter horror.

Everything burned.

Korella dived through the outer door the moment she saw the man’s eyes. Had Bria not shaken her from her rapture, she would be burned alive. Every layer of skin turned to blackest ash, with no death until your heart burst or your blood boiled. She tasted the air of autumn. Dirt beneath her hands. She stood to run from the Democratic Hall, now burning vigorously.

Bria!

She looked helplessly as the building collapsed. There was no sign of Bria. She wanted to fall to the ground and weep for her friend. Her lover. But, as a Mira, she stood and faced her death. She adjusted her helmet and unsheathed her jian. The star and cross amulets hung down. The jian was a gift from her uncle, a master swordsman in Kodemo. It was a priceless weapon of beauty. The rarity of his swords increased dramatically upon his untimely death, having been attacked by a mob for giving the gift of a sword to a Mira. Folk knowledge had it that interacting with assassins brought death to a whole community. Her uncle always believed that Korella had a good heart, and he never once thought of her as an assassin.

She clutched her jian with the memory of her beloved bladesmith. She was as good as five-hundred men. She had slain many. Korella was Mira.

As the once great building crumbled in a crackling heap, the shining man floated toward Korella through the carnage. His expression was one of utter peace, an image of a living buddha. His arms hung lightly to either side, silken hands with lazily splayed fingers. The robes at his arms flowed low and graceful. Without the need for purchase, his feet dangled comfortably, one slightly in front of the other. His ethereal soprano seemed less penetrating in the open air, but she could still feel it vibrating in her very bones.

Who are you? Korella yelled.

The singing stopped. The man’s serene expression wavered. He stared at her.

Who are you? she yelled again.

The only sound was the flapping of his robe in the wind and smoke.

Who—

Before the word could be uttered, she coughed molten rock from her throat. It set her immediately afire, but as she helplessly vomited more of the stuff, her bones simply melted. She collapsed in several pieces, the molten rock burning its way through her whole body. She looked around in shock. She felt no pain. She saw her arm. It was too far away. So were her legs. There was no body to be seen. She tried to turn her head but was frozen. As the molten rock continued to pour from her open mouth, the Korella that was now half of a skull thought one last time.

I never let him taste Kodemo steel.

A glowing miracle in the shape of a man touched the ground daintily near a cooling, black mass of molten rock. He walked across it. His body was unaffected by the extreme heat, his feet giving forth not so much as a sizzle when they made contact with the burning surface. He picked up a beautifully crafted jian and turned it over several times. His inviting smile grew inconceivably wider. The sword glowed brightly for one second before it turned to dust-ash and spiraled away in cyclonic gusts. All that was left was the star and cross amulets which fell into his perfect, glowing palm. His fingers closed delicately around them as he put them in his robe pocket.

The light around him disappeared in an instant. The sky lit up. It was almost dusk.

Heading west, walking unhurriedly down a dusty timber trackway toward the last amber moments of the evening, a man in simple sackcloth robes smiled at the halcyon surrounds of the Mozene countryside.

The beautiful autumn evening sang of its beauty as the wind through the trees

as rushing water

as far-off bells

birdsong.

*

The location of the Emperor’s Palace in Moz would elude the ignorant traveler. The winding, kempt streets and alleys of the city were enclosed by walls of blue and red, the colors of the Mozene standard. Shops, homes, and the palace all shared the same aesthetic. None of the streets had ever been named, and to find your way through the labyrinth of the city would mean you had spent your whole life there. Mozene residences contained impressive courtyards with rows of windows looking toward the center, as if to make up for the lack of them elsewhere. The palace, while indistinguishable from the buildings that surrounded it, differed from its neighbors in that its courtyard was half the size of the city. Far from a perfect square, as was tradition, it meandered through the city. It was filled with hundreds of buildings containing the royal residences, universities, servants’ quarters, and various military barracks. There was but a single entrance to the palace, though locals spoke of at least twenty or thirty not-so-secret exits built into the structure of the palace by the royal architects.

Just beyond one of these non-descript walls, next door to a one-room restaurant that served only fried gopchang- the best in the city, it was said-, was the Emperor’s personal salon. Ebony oakwood walls darkened the space, though the wall of windows, today with curtains undrawn, illuminated the space evenly. Intricate, hand-stitched tapestries hung perfectly still. The images, showing scenes of obeisance and religious rites, were of simple geometric design, though their idiosyncratic minimalist style had an unmistakable appeal. The lack of detail was made up for in abundant, saturated color. Crimson, gold, lapis, violet: the royal palette of Emperor Deuang’s reign, now in its one-hundred seventy-sixth year. Deuang himself knelt with his knees upon an iridescent green pillow. The gleaming white of his robe was edged in scarlet, decorated with deep-ocean blue lacework. His bare, shaven head revealed an identifying tattoo of three triangles linked together: the mark of the Leyan lineage, the name passed from his mother, the late Empress by the same name. He