The blue flames, p.1
The Blue Flames, page 1
The Blue Flames
The Riverfall Chronicles
Book III
Jacquelyn Hagen
Copyright © 2023 by Jacquelyn Hagen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Edited by Elizabeth Ward
Cover design by Stuart Bache at Books Covered Ltd.
Map illustration by Luan Bittencourt
Author photo by Brit Raley
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ISBN: 978-1-958853-06-1 (paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-958853-07-8 (ebook)
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2023912183
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Published by Mastmarner Books in San Angelo, TX, USA.
jacquelynhagen.com
For my sisters and brothers who served with me at PSAB, where the majority of this book was written.
And for Mom.
You didn’t get to finish reading this one down here. That’s all right. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about it later. I love you.
Table of Contents
1. The Kingdom Is Near
2. The Last Straw
3. Runaway
4. Lunatic
5. Liar
6. Slave
7. Traitor
8. Pariah
9. Villain
10. Proof of Gratitude
11. The Watcher of Mastmarner
12. Sixth Sense
13. The Road to Redemption
14. Cousin Rupert
15. In the Garden
16. You Were Our Brother
17. Lessons
18. A Long Way Down
19. Lord Featherfield
20. Complimentary Breakfast
21. Shave and a Haircut
22. Mainland
23. Inkwell and the Entrians
24. In Which Knives Are Thrown
25. Aiding, Abetting, and Trap-Setting
26. Sparrowhaven
27. Keeping Up Appearances
28. Important People
29. Cages
30. The Ghost of Draff Alley
31. Special Delivery
32. The Diamond Court
33. Sympathizers
34. A Sign of Things to Come
35. Beatrice Babbin Makes Up Her Mind
36. You Won’t Be Lost Forever
37. Witness
38. Inkwell’s Answer
39. The Sound of Scheming
40. Prodigal
41. All the World Is Wilderness
42. Aches and Pains
43. Goodbye
44. Where It All Began
45. Dead Light
46. We’ve Been Burned Before
47. Home
48. A Cause for Celebration
49. Lock and Key
50. Everything Will Be All Right
51. Fenmire
52. The Middling House
53. Ink Makes Another Deal
54. The Wintry Wood
55. To Dash My Heart or Cast My Crown
56. Fight or Flight
57. Angel of Reckoning
58. The Brightest Light
59. Defender
Thanks for Reading
About the Author
Chapter 1
The Kingdom Is Near
It was a cold, grim morning in the city of Ciras. Seaborne fog rolled through the ancient streets like the mighty breath of God. Entrian lamplighters hurried to their work, placing their hands on the posts and casting two successive enchantments—one to bring the flames to life, the other to set a shield that would protect them from the elements.
A thick layer of snow covered the ground, but worse weather was coming. Only a few days ago the priests had declared that Eriaris would soon endure one of the most punishing winters in recent history. The residents of the West Country were already feeling the effects. Freezing temperatures had shattered windows and felled trees with heavy coats of ice. The sick and injured were filling up infirmaries in every town and city. The northern schools were preparing to close indefinitely, along with many of the temples. Those who lived in the Lockhorn Mountains farther to the east were urged to leave their homes and pass the season with friends or relatives if they could. Many had been able to use enchantments to ease their situations—reinforce bridges, calm their animals, keep snow from piling up against the doors—but only for so long.
It was this severity of weather that made the boy racing through the streets such a strange sight. In his thin shirt, patched trousers, and shabby pair of shoes, he was practically begging to be made ill. The lamplighters shouted at him to go indoors. Others merely clucked their tongues and shook their heads in disapproval. The boy seemed not to notice his pitiable condition but bowed his head against the chill wind and ran on, tightly clutching the note in his hand.
When he finally arrived at the gates of the Atturias Estate, he almost collided with them before he could stop. Ahead, a woman in a black veil was being helped down a flight of stairs to a waiting carriage. The boy grasped the bars of the gate with one hand and held the note high with the other.
“Audience!” he cried. “Audience with my lady! By my master’s command!”
The woman paused to look at him, then nodded to one of her servants. A young man in a long coat hurried to the gate, perturbed.
“What do you want?”
“I have a message for the Lady Madara.”
“Give it to me.”
“No, sir. I was instructed to hand it to her myself.”
The boy showed him the front of the note. It had been sealed with blue wax. The symbol of a flame was stamped into the center. The servant nodded.
“All right. But make it quick.”
As soon as the gate was open, the boy set off running again and managed to reach the lady just as she arrived at the carriage door. Without a word, he handed her the note. She tossed back her veil and broke the seal. No one watching her wrinkled, solemn face could tell whether the news was good or bad, but her steel-gray eyes shone bright as she looked at the boy again.
“Come with me.”
She led him away from the carriage and into a vast garden of hedges, statues, and flowers—still in bloom amid the snow and ice. They stopped beside a frozen fountain, well beyond the hearing of the curious servants.
“Well?” she said, turning back to him.
“Another Colonist is dead, my lady.”
She stiffened. Her hand went to the gold locket she wore around her neck. “When?”
“Two days ago. My master only just received word.”
“And he is certain they are dead? Absolutely certain?”
“Yes, ma’am. Commissioner Marlas himself delivered the body to the Lady Seherene in Vaterra. Someone tipped him off that the Colonists were seen near Harroway, and since he was already in the West Country on business, he got the idea to go after ‘em himself. He came upon ‘em on a mountain road and they scattered like roaches. One twisted their ankle trying to get away, and rather than get arrested, they blew their own brains out with a pistol.”
“I assume there was a name attached to this corpse.”
“No word on that yet, ma’am. But they did find that Harroway had harbored ‘em.”
Madara’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“Half the town’s been sent to Talas Prison,” the boy continued. “The other half are under house arrest until the next round of jail coaches can get there. They may have to move ‘em by airship if the pass gets snowed out. But Bill Stone himself is keepin’ watch there in the meantime.”
“So they summoned that old hound, did they? No doubt his hunters are swarming the Kurna Mountains as we speak.”
“Yes, ma’am. And they found another this morning.”
The woman snapped her gaze back to him, her eyes shining brighter. “Another?”
“They got her alive—at the foot of the mountains, half-frozen to death. They think the others abandoned her.”
The Entress took a step towards him. “A woman?”
The boy nearly backed away but managed to hold himself still. “Yes, ma’am. The Entress girl. Rivalia. She’s being taken to Stalikos this very moment.”
The old woman stood in stunned silence for a moment, then turned and began to pace, tapping the note against her open palm. The boy put his arms around himself and shivered, unable to ignore the bitter chill any longer. Another round of snow had begun to fall, the flakes as large as the delicate periwinkles somehow still growing at the base of the fountain. Madara soon came to a halt again and stared at the manor house in the distance. It stood stark against the bleak sky, rising above the manicured hedges and flower gardens like a massive gray headstone.
“What of the boy traveling with the Colonists?” she asked. “The runaway orphan?”
“There’s been no sign of him. At least not yet.”
“And how much do the people know? Has this been made public?”
“It’ll be in the papers this morning, all over the country. Folk are already praising the Lady Seherene for the victory. They say it’s all to her credit on account of the work she’s been doing. Some are even calling for her to be made an Elder on the High Council.”
The Entress lifted her face to the sky, her expression alternating between triumphant joy and inexplic able fury. The boy blinked the snowflakes from his eyelashes, then tumbled over the rest of his message without bothering to control his chattering teeth.
“My m-master wishes to know if you will meet with him. He b-bids me warn you that time may be sh-short.”
She seemed not to hear him. Her eyes searched the sky with rapturous energy. Her wrinkled mouth quivered. Her hand clenched the note with an iron grip. The boy, well-trained to be patient, bowed his head and hugged himself tighter. Slowly, as if waking from a dream, Madara’s gaze finally descended from the heavens and settled on the shivering, coat-less waif before her.
“Does your master treat you so hard as to send you out in such a condition?”
The boy pushed his unruly hair out of his eyes. “I’m a C-Cassrian. He says it would b-be a waste of good cloth to give me better garments.”
A look of revulsion soured her features, as though she’d just found a rat among her roses. “A waste indeed. You may tell your master I will answer him in my own time.” With a flick of her wrist, she replaced the black veil over her face. “Now clear off.”
She swept past him and strode to her carriage. A coachman helped her inside, rolled up the steps, and shut the door.
The Entress settled back against her seat as the carriage sped through the front gates and out into the ice-covered streets. Her heart pounded as she glanced at the note again.
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THE KINGDOM IS NEAR. BOY HAS DETAILS.
- P
Madara closed her eyes. The next moment, a corner of the paper was alight. She watched the flames dance along the sides, curling and blackening the parchment, then dropped it to the floor of the carriage where it crumbled into ashes.
Chapter 2
The Last Straw
Thirteen hundred feet above the Kurna Mountains, on a floating village concealed by enchantment and covered in a thick layer of snow, Delia Ingleby worked in the cowshed behind her house, pitching straw from the loft and spreading it across the floor. The cow looked on half-interested, chewing bits of hay and haphazardly swishing her tail. Two chickens were perched on the fence nearby.
It was good labor for a cold day. In one sweeping motion, she thrust the pitchfork into the bales, then chucked the straw down into the bedding area. Up, down. Up, down. Though it was a simple chore, she could focus on every detail, ensuring the task was executed to perfection. In doing so, there wasn’t room for any other thoughts. And therein was the great mercy of it.
When the job was done, she hung the pitchfork back on the wall and went to lean against the fence. A shroud of heavy mist rose from the mountains below. The sun struggled to peer through the thick clouds reaching down towards the peaks, showing only brief glimpses of a bronze-orange glow in the spaces between. The cow sidled closer and gave out a thin, mournful moan. Delia reached over the fence and patted her neck.
“Me too, girl. Me too.”
She rubbed her sore wrist and brushed aside a wisp of hair. It had become a game of desperation to find distracting activities. The chicken coop could be cleaned again, even though she’d done it yesterday. She could scrub the floors in her house, clean the windows, deliver firewood to the Dining House—all again. Hard work was nothing to her. She could bear the labor. Just not the silence; those moments of in-between when the horror rose like bitter bile and her heart burned with raw grief. She sucked in a breath of cold air and looked around, hoping to find another diversion. A figure was trudging towards her through the snow.
It was Evering. He looked thinner than usual, haggard and frail, as though he might blow away with the next gust of wind. There was a pair of dark rings under his eyes and a terrible haunted expression on his face. He barely glanced at her as he came near and put a hand on the fence post beside her. The cold had turned his ears and nose cherry-red. The wind tousled his hair as he looked out across the meadow.
“I, uh . . . finished loading the boiler. Noticed a few more leaks in the south corner. Did what I could to patch ‘em up, but . . . don’t know if it’ll hold.”
She nodded. “We’re down to the last of our straw. It’s been so cold I’ve had to use twice as much to keep Nyssa comfortable. Thankfully there’s still plenty of hay.”
The cow sauntered over to Evering. He reached out and rubbed her nose. Delia gazed at the young man but it wasn’t long before another flare of pain made her look away again. In the distance, the wind dusted a sheet of snow from the tops of the trees at the edge of the village.
“Did you sleep at all?” she asked.
He shook his head. “It keeps . . . repeating itself . . . in my head. Putting me back there, over and over again. I can’t stop it. No matter what I do.”
“I can get some of Caradoc’s sleeping tonic for you. I think it would help.”
Evering took a deep breath and nodded. Delia laid her hand on his but still couldn’t meet his eyes. She certainly couldn’t say how sorry she was for him. How she wished he hadn’t been forced to witness such horrible things on the road out of Harroway. How heartsick it made her to see what it had done to him. Such words would only compound the sorrow.
“You know,” he said, “I don’t really have a gift for fixing things. Tinkering around in the pipeworks and all that. My dad’s the one who . . .” His throat tightened. He turned his face before Delia could see his eyes grow wet.
“I know, Evering,” she replied. “We’re all doing the best we can.”
He wiped his nose on his sleeve and glanced up. Martin Whistler was stomping towards them, wearing a scowl noticeably darker than usual. As he reached the far side of the cow pen, he threw up his good arm in exasperation.
“Well, it’s impossible! Bloody impossible! Just as I knew it would be! I will not have that woman in my kitchen a moment longer! I refuse to be in the same room with her!”
Just then, Margaret Wallis rounded the bend in the cobblestone path, yanking the apron from her waist and balling it up in her hands. Her cheeks were bright red.
Delia suppressed a sigh. “She needs an occupation, Martin. We all do.”
“Then have her chop firewood! We’ll have nothing to eat if things go on like this! She doesn’t listen! Doesn’t take direction! And every word that comes out of her mouth is a damn smart remark!”
“You’re not doing too badly yourself,” Margaret replied, having caught up to them. “Or is ‘two-faced harpy’ now a term of endearment?”
Martin turned away, unwilling to even look at her.
Delia’s stern gaze moved to the young woman. “This is the last thing we need right now.”
“Oh, forgive me,” she answered with a bitter laugh. “Once again I forget I’m to be the cause of every wrong and misfortune in this place, as well as being expected to prepare meals beside a foul-tempered ogre!”
Martin whirled around. “I’m terribly sorry if my manners are not to your liking, Miss Wallis. I didn’t know I was supposed to be all smiles and charm when the world has gone to hell and my wife could be dead!”
The words ripped through the air like gunfire. Margaret’s gaze fell to the ground.
“Or Evering’s father!” Martin continued. “Or Caradoc! Or Simon! Riva! Jeremy! Ink! Not to mention whatever’s happened to the Plumsleys! But of course those names mean nothing to you, do they?”
