The Ghosts in the Flames

By Seann Barbour

For centuries, the Four Kingdoms have lived in fear of the dragon Raksen-Kal, who roosts upon the peak of the Black Mountain. To satiate his hunger, a noble maiden is sent to the dragon as tribute every Autumn, with each of the kingdoms trading off the duty of sending the sacrifice year by year.

Shivuri is the youngest princess of Endaru, the smallest and poorest of the Four Kingdoms. Today, her cousin is sent to the dragon, and in four years' time, she will be as well.

As the day of her death draws ever closer, the young princess seeks solace in darkness, and explores the forbidden art of witchcraft. In doing so, Shivuri learns of secrets that would once have filled her with terror-- and of freedom that she never before could have imagined.

----

Please be aware this novel contains depictions of violence, gore, abuse, sexuality, and assault.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Seann Barbour
• Release date: Jan 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005094881

Seann Barbour

Seann Barbour exists. He exists and he writes fantasy and horror novels. Sometimes he writes books that are both, but sometimes he just writes one or the other. Occasionally he does other things.

Book preview

The Ghosts in the Flames

by

Seann Barbour

SmashWords Edition

Copyright 2022 by Seann Barbour

Contents

I

The Witchblood

II

Three Roses Eternal

III

Lovers

IV

The Wasting Death

V

Burn

I

The Witchblood

1

A chill wind blew across the Western courtyard, and the youngest princess of Endaru braced herself against it. It rushed through her long black hair, sending the dark strands flying about her head, her bright green eyes, and her pale, freckled face. The cold Autumn wind pressed against the thick fabrics of her white and gold-trimmed gown, hugging the garment to her small body. Now that she was sixteen years of age, Shivuri sometimes worried that she had reached the end of her growth, and that she was fated to be nearly a full head shorter than all those around her until her dying day.

She walked, pressing on against the wind even as it funneled its way down the garden paths, between plants and statues, and beat at her skin and bit at her eyes and lips. Her feet carried her across the cobblestones, and she used the green hedges as a buffer to protect herself from the icy gusts. Shivuri needed to duck her head only slightly to completely shield herself behind the shrubbery.

There, at the heart of the courtyard, stood an old fountain. The young princess believed that it may even be one of the oldest structures in the entire castle— perhaps even the first piece of stonework constructed. In the center of the fountain was a statue of a man, spear in his hands, standing triumphant over another man who cowered at his feet. It was a statue of Genva, the First King of Endaru, in his moment of victory against the dark sorcerer Vailoft, who had sought to crush the people of this land under his unholy rule.

From the base of the statue of Shivuri’s lauded ancestor sprang forth eight streams of water, each arcing outward and falling steadily into the stone-carved pond below. Four stone benches, curved and angled so as to form the quarters of a circle, surrounded the fountain. It was seated upon one of these benches that Shivuri found her cousin Havlon.

The girl was two years Shivuri’s senior, with golden-brown hair tied back in a thick and intricate braid. She sat now on the bench before the fountain with her eyes shut tight, her face deep in concentration as though she were doing her best to block out all the world around her. Havlon came here to sit at the fountain often. She had once told Shivuri that the trickling sound of the water helped her to relax, to clear her mind of distracting thoughts so that she could fully sink into herself and meditate in peace.

Shivuri herself had never been able to achieve such a state. Her mind seemed incapable of resting, or even of slowing down. Whenever she had tried to mimic her cousin’s talent for meditation, Shivuri would inevitably find herself distracted by stray thoughts and outlandish daydreams that simply refused to leave her head, and thus that peaceful emptiness eluded her. Havlon’s meditations were a feat that Shivuri could not reproduce in herself.

The other girl did not react to Shivuri’s arrival. The princess doubted that Havlon even noticed it. Her cousin remained seated, eyes closed, as Shivuri drew closer. The princess wore a smile on her lips, but as she approached that smile gradually faded. Havlon, Shivuri realized, was not relaxed. Her eyes were shut too tightly, her jaw was clenched with effort, and her entire body shook— far too violently to be explained by the cold.

Havlon? Shivuri asked, raising her voice just enough that it could be heard above the wind. Cousin? What is the matter?

Her cousin’s eyes fluttered open, and Shivuri was shocked to see how tired they appeared. Dark bags hung beneath them, and wet tears threatened to escape her reddened gaze and run down her cheeks.

For a moment, Havlon simply stared at her. Her look held such an intensity of emotion that Shivuri found herself taking an unconscious step backward. And then Havlon closed her eyes once more, pushed the tears outward, and turned away.

What’s wrong? asked the princess. In all her life, she had never seen Havlon in such a state as this. Her cousin was her closest and only friend, her confidant and her protector. She was friendly and animated, kind to all. Many were the afternoons that she had spent in this courtyard, accompanying the gardener Maralden, asking all sorts of questions about the flora that the woman cultivated here. She would even dirty her dresses by aiding Maralden in the planting, much to her father’s disapproval.

But none of that liveliness, none of that playful and adventurous spirit, was present now in the face that Shivuri had seen. Havlon looked, for the first time Shivuri could recall, small. She seemed almost broken in some strange and indistinct way. Shivuri realized that today it was Havlon who required comfort and protection, and to her horror, she realized that she did not know how to give it.

I am sorry. Havlon’s voice trembled. It was so quiet, so weak. Shivuri strained to hear her above the winds. I shall be leaving soon.

Shivuri did not understand. To go where? she asked. Were the Duke and Duchess leaving Endarn?

I… Havlon seemed to struggle with her words, her breath. Her voice choked and shook and shuddered. I will not be returning, Shivuri.

Something dark and heavy settled into the pit of Shivuri’s stomach. A shiver ran through her, down her spine and across her heart. A small part of her began to understand Havlon’s distress, began to piece together the terrible, awful truth behind her plight. But Shivuri refused to believe that the horror edging its way into the corners of her mind could possibly be true.

Yet even as she dismissed the dreadful notion, she had to ask. She had to know for certain. She had to hear it from her cousin’s own lips so that the absurd idea could be dashed away.

So Shivuri asked: Why not?

For a moment, Havlon did not reply. Then, slowly, deliberately, she turned to face her cousin, eyes open once more. She took a deep breath, and she tried to steady herself and put on a brave face. A smile stretched itself agonizingly over her lips, but it did not reach her eyes.

I am being sent to the Mountain.

The words struck Shivuri. She stumbled under the force of their meaning, the weight of their implications, as the whole world crashed down upon her. This could not be happening. She stared at Havlon as though the words she had said were unintelligible gibberish, mad and meaningless. Desperately, her mind grasped for some explanation, some possible interpretation that would give that statement another meaning other than the one Shivuri had feared.

Finally, she was able to utter a single syllable: No.

Havlon shook her head, her eyes downcast, her smile fading and sad. It is the truth, she said, her voice nearly a whisper. I am sorry, Shivuri. I will be gone soon.

Her voice faltered only a little, kept in check by poise and will. Even now, Havlon tried to stay strong for her cousin. Shivuri heard this, recognized it, and hated it. She despised her own weakness, hated that even in the face of annihilation her cousin felt the need to comfort her.

But that strength, she realized, was nothing but a facade. Shivuri could hear the terror lurking just below the surface of Havlon’s words. There could only be terror, only be fear and trepidation, for a journey to the Black Mountain was a journey to one’s death. It was the home and the domain of the dragon Raksen-Kal, who nearly two centuries ago had laid waste to the Four Kingdoms. Only the long-held promise of a yearly tribute kept the dragon calm, and so he remained, perched upon his mountain, looking down upon the kingdoms with his endless hunger and greed.

But why? Shivuri demanded. You are the daughter of a Duke! Does that not count for anything?

Havlon shrugged. I was never to be a Duchess. The titles shall go to my elder siblings, for I was always the last in line, the lowest of inheritance. And, as Raksen-Kal demands the sacrifice of a noble maiden… well, I suppose it just makes sense.

"No! Shivuri shook her head, trying in vain to hold back her tears. No, it makes no sense, Havlon! This is madness!"

It is not! Havlon insisted, and she choked upon her words. Her voice broke and cracked, and yet she continued on. I am a nobleborn daughter, just as the dragon demands. And I… I have never been of any importance to my family’s line. This was always to be my fate.

The tears now fell freely from both girls’ eyes. No… Shivuri insisted again, as though her pleading might change this terrible circumstance. She threw her arms around her cousin, and held her close and tight. Terror gripped her at the idea of what might happen if she were to let go.

I didn’t know! Havlon wept. "From the moment of my birth, I was chosen for the Mountain! I was always to be sent to Raksen-Kal! The First preserve me, I didn’t know!"

I will go to father, insisted Shivuri. He will undo this!

He will not, Havlon replied, for this was his doing.

Shivuri wailed and held her cousin closer. It was never supposed to be like this, was it? Havlon was her dearest friend— her only friend. Never in her young life had Shivuri ever imagined that the two of them might be torn apart in such a cruel manner.

If Raksen-Kal does not receive his tribute, he will rain destruction upon the Four Kingdoms, Havlon said. Her words were stiff and deliberate, a recitation rather than something spoken from the heart. It is my duty to offer myself as a sacrifice to the dragon. If I do not go to the Black Mountain, all of our people, and all the people of our neighbors, shall suffer terribly.

There must be some other way!

The dragon has reigned for one hundred and eighty four years, her cousin said. Armies have sought to drop him from the sky. Knights have quested to slay him. Priests have besought the First to drive him away. All have failed. If there were truly some other way, it would have been discovered long ago.

Shivuri shook her head, buried her face in her cousin’s dress. That cannot be true! she insisted. I will not allow this to happen! I promise you, I will find some way to save you from this fate!

Shivuri, you cannot!

"I promise! Shivuri cried, and she pushed herself away from her cousin. My father can put a stop to this! I will make him see reason!"

Havlon called out after her, but Shivuri paid her no heed. She raced away from the heart of the courtyard, through biting winds that howled and beat at her and stung against her tear-strewn face. Her feet pounded against the cobblestone path as she flew through the garden and threw open the doors to Castle Endaru. And she continued to run, never allowing herself to slow down, never allowing herself to pause or look back or contemplate what she intended to do.

For if she did that, if she let herself slow down and stop and think, then she might hesitate. She might give up and just accept Havlon’s fate. Shivuri wouldn’t allow that to happen. She owed it to her cousin to do everything in her power to rescue her from the dragon.

So she ran, ignoring Havlon’s cries of protest. She ran down stone hallways and up spiraling stairs, stumbling only a little as she climbed the tower. She ran down another hallway, past the knights who stood guard outside her father’s chamber. She burst through the wooden door before the knights could stop her.

Havlon is to be sacrificed!? Shivuri demanded. Her lips moved faster than her mind. She is to be sent to the Black Mountain!? Is this true, father?

The king of Endaru scarcely even acknowledged her. He sat at his desk and spared her only the briefest of glances before returning his attention to the missive in his hands.

The desk sat in the center of the chamber, upon a green carpet. Quills and papers and pots of ink lay across it, and the king sat with his chair facing the door. To his right was his bed, and to his left were dressers and an armoire and a changing area. The morning light streamed in from the windows, casting the chamber in a pale glow.

Wrinkles were beginning to show upon the face of King Genra II, ruler of Endaru. His once-black beard now had strands of gray in it, which became more numerous with every passing day. Here in his private chambers, he did not wear his crown, and so his balding head was visible. And yet his eyes were as sharp and alert as they had been on the day Shivuri was born.

Father!

I heard you, girl. The king spoke with a level voice, not bothering to hide his annoyance. This is not the sort of matter you need to concern yourself with. Go now, and do not interrupt me again.

"But Havlon is my cousin!"

You have other cousins.

She’ll die!

Yes, the king said, putting down the letter and standing from his desk. He was a tall man, the kind who towered over most everyone he met, and before Shivuri’s petite form he was a mountain in and of himself. Yes, girl, she will die. And if she does not die, if she does not go to the dragon as tribute, then thousands more will die in her stead. Raksen-Kal will let loose his rage upon the Four Kingdoms, and the other three kingdoms will know that it was because Endaru failed to meet its obligations. They will know this, because it is our year to send tribute, as we have done so every four years past, and as we shall continue to do every four years hence. This is the way of things. You know this— you have always known this— it is nothing new or novel.

Shivuri shuddered. He was correct, she knew. Yet still, who else did Shivuri have but Havlon? She had to try, regardless. But father… my cousin…

Have you never appreciated this truth? the king demanded, his voice dripping with venom. Does it perhaps hold the same weight in your mind as the Cathedral Palace of Revala, or the great bay of Talvost? Some distant knowledge, experienced by others but immaterial to yourself?

He strode around the desk and approached her. Shivuri craned her head to look up at her father, at his burning gaze, and she shivered. "Did you truly believe you could live your life while never knowing sacrifice? You? The third princess of Endaru? Daughter of the Royal Family? You thought you could live in ignorance when Raksen-Kal demands only nobleborn maidens? Perhaps, had you been born a peasant, you might have been spared this sting, but you are of the nobility, girl! I saw my own sister go to the Mountain when I was young, and now I must send my niece to the same fate."

The king shook his head, disgust plain upon his face. Perhaps you should see the Mountain up close, and watch as your cousin begins her climb up the trail. Maybe then you will better appreciate the truth of the dragon.

Tears and sobs threatened to overtake Shivuri. She trembled, turning her gaze away from the king. B... but father… she began, her voice small.

SILENCE! the king roared. "I will hear no more of your childish nonsense, Shivuri! In two weeks’ time, your brother shall take Havlon to the Black Mountain, and you will accompany them. You will see her to her destination— her destiny— and then perhaps you will better understand the sacrifices we are called to make, and the prices we pay for our peace!"

Shivuri’s whole body shook. She kept her eyes away from him and said nothing.

The king turned his back to her. Begone now, he said. I have no more time for foolish little girls and their tantrums.

As she turned to leave, Shivuri saw her mother, the queen, sitting upon the bed. She sat in silence, and when their eyes met she offered no words. Shivuri saw neither alliance nor comfort in her gaze.

So instead, dejected, she stepped through the doorway and walked down the corridor, struggling under the weight of the knowledge that she could not fulfill the foolish promise she had made to Havlon.

Nothing she could do would save her cousin.

2

The day should have been colder.

The wind was silent and there was naught but a gentle breeze. The sun was bright and its rays were warm against Shivuri’s skin. Her hands trembled, not from any sort of chill, but from the fears that filled her heart.

It was a warm day. It was a pleasant day. It was a day that stood in sharp, mocking contrast to the bleak emotions and the numb darkness that wrapped themselves around Shivuri and threatened to drag her into sorrow and despair.

She wore black, as did all in their retinue save for Havlon herself. Her cousin’s gown was a simple and traditional one, not nearly as modern or as fashionably cut as Shivuri’s own dress. Both girls’ sleeves fell loosely over their hands, hiding them from the world as was proper for a lady of noble blood. Hands were used for labor, and a lady did not dirty hers with such activities.

Shivuri stood outside the castle gates and looked down the road that led to Endarn. Before her awaited the carriage that would take her and her cousin to Black Mountain. Upon its doors was emblazoned the royal seal of Endaru: a shield with two crossed spears, representing the twin brothers Genva and Holarn, whose many battles and toils together had formed the great Southwestern kingdom. Knights, each dressed in the same shade of black as Shivuri, mounted their horses around the carriage, attended to by their squires.

And there, standing at the door to the carriage, casting a final, longing look back at the castle, was Havlon. She was dressed in white, clean and pristine and immaculate, and her hair was loose. The two girls’ eyes met, but they exchanged no words.

I’m sorry, Shivuri wished to say. I’m sorry I could not keep my promise. But she remained silent. There was a sense of understanding between them, and nothing needed to be said.

You are here. Good.

Shivuri turned from the carriage and her cousin to see Gensa, her eldest brother and the Crown Prince of Endaru, walking down the path from the castle. Behind him, his wife Yurali had finished her farewell, and was returning to the Eastern courtyard beyond the gate.

The prince wore a black tunic, artfully cut to emphasize his thin frame and broaden his shoulders, with a dark violet trim. He was a handsome man, with a black beard cut short and eyes as dark as their father’s. A thin saber hung from his belt and he carried himself, head high and shoulders back, with all the poise and all the pride of a man who would one day rule a kingdom.

Our father requested my presence, Shivuri said in a soft voice. Thus I am here.

Gensa nodded, his face betraying no emotion. Was it simply her imagination, that Shivuri thought she caught a fleeting glimpse of sympathy in his eyes? Regardless, it was gone before she could be certain, and her brother’s gaze soon focused solely on their cousin. The Four Kingdoms thank you for your sacrifice, he said.

Shivuri did not look at Havlon, but she heard her rehearsed reply: I give my life for our people, Lord Prince.

The knot in Shivuri’s stomach was heavy and sick. She did her best to ignore it, but its weight seemed to increase with every morbid thought that passed through her mind. Havlon would be dead by sunset. She would be devoured by Raksen-Kal, just as a maiden from Revala had been last year, and a maiden from Talvost the year before that. And then another year would pass, and Balkren would send a maiden, followed a year later by Talvost again, on and on in an endless cycle of tributes and deaths. Havlon was just one of many.

Shivuri composed herself— or tried to— and blinked back her tears. She was a princess of Endaru, a scion of royal blood. She could not show her pain to the world, to the knights who served her house, to her cousin who now prepared to give her own life to sate the dragon’s hunger. Such a thing would be unbecoming. It would be shameful.

No, she needed to be like Gensa. Her brother was calm and collected. Shivuri would follow the crown prince’s example and act as befitted her bloodline. She would bury the pain and the sorrow and the terror; bury it deep and pat the ground flat so that none would see even a hint of a disturbance upon the surface.

Gensa approached Havlon. He bowed to their cousin, and she curtsied in return. Then he stepped past her and opened the door to the carriage, extending his hand to help her enter the vehicle. She accepted, and the tribute was soon seated, ready and waiting to be brought to her death.

It was then that Gensa turned his attention once more to Shivuri, and she nodded and approached. Taking her brother’s hand, she let him help her into the carriage, where she took her own seat beside her cousin.

No sooner had she sat down than Havlon’s hand found hers. Shivuri gave it what she hoped was a comforting squeeze.

As she settled into the comfortable leather, Gensa climbed into the carriage and took his own seat across from the two girls, though he looked at neither of them. Was that nervousness she spied within her brother’s manner? It was difficult to be certain, though he definitely seemed less guarded now that he was solely in the company of family.

After a moment, the carriage began to move.

Shivuri’s eyes drifted to the windows, and the views that lay beyond. The horses guided the carriage across the stone bridge over the Endaran River, which connected the castle to the town of Endarn. The knights rode alongside the carriage, four on either side, halberds pointed to the sky. Behind the carriage rode the squires, out of sight of the princess, but close enough to heed the call of their masters at a moment’s notice.

Am I to simply watch our cousin go to her death, then? Shivuri asked. She had not meant to vocalize the question.

Yes, Gensa answered. Father wishes for you to see the Mountain for yourself, so that you may understand the weight of this. He hopes that the experience will temper your rebellious tendencies.

Shivuri could see buildings in the distance. They were circling around the town, rather than passing directly through it. The road to Black Mountain was one that few traveled.

Turning her gaze back to Gensa, Shivuri set her jaw and gave Havlon’s hand another squeeze. And so he makes me uncloistered.

The prince’s expression hardened. No. His voice was firm, in much the same way their father’s often was. You are not to leave the carriage without my permission. We keep to the Doctrines of Yuria.

Shivuri looked away, back out at the distant homes of Endarn. Suppose I see something tempting outside the window? she asked lightly.

The Doctrine of Cloister protected the daughters of nobility from sin and wickedness. Temptation and corruption lurked beyond the walls of their fathers’ houses, and through the Cloister they were shielded and kept pure. Thus they could one day bear children who were similarly uncorrupted, with souls free from the base natures that plagued the lowborn.

You won’t, Gensa said in a flat voice. I can assure you of that, dear sister.

Can you? asked Shivuri. If there is nothing tempting out there, then why am I kept in the castle?

Havlon squeezed her hand. Please stop, she whispered. Please.

Shivuri closed her mouth. She and Gensa shared a hard look, and then she looked back out the window.

She had wondered what it might mean that her father had chosen to send her out of the castle and into the world; if perhaps he was choosing to end her Cloister. But no— if anything, it seemed that the king believed this excursion would strengthen it, that seeing the brutality and darkness beyond the castle walls would drive Shivuri back inside them where it was safe, and inspire her to attend to her duties as a proper princess.

If that was what her father wanted, then loathe as she was to admit it, Shivuri was called by the First to obey; as a daughter, as a maiden, and as a princess. And yet, she couldn’t help but recoil at the thought. She wondered what might happen if she were to leap from the carriage, pulling Havlon along with her, and run into the hills. The knights would doubtless give chase, but what if the girls managed to outrun them?

Perhaps they would wander the wilderness until they stumbled upon a Troll Kingdom, where they would be received as honored guests by the reigning Trollwife. Or perhaps they would be rescued by some handsome and dashing nobleman with some minor holdings out in the distant countryside.

Or maybe they would just starve.

Silence filled their little room. Occasionally, Havlon would fidget beside her. She’d squeeze Shivuri’s hand, or Shivuri would squeeze hers, each simply reminding the other that she was there with her.

If only, Shivuri thought, I were a brave and gallant knight. I would ride up to Black Mountain and climb its slopes, and I would challenge the dragon and slay him. Havlon would be safe, and no maidens would be sent to the Mountain ever again.

But Shivuri knew that such fancies were just that: fancy, and nothing more. Many brave and noble knights had quested to the lair of Raksen-Kal with such a goal in mind, and each and