​The Flamebearer

ISBN:Softcover_978-1-4931-3,  EBook_978-1-4931-4882-0

Part One Chapter Two

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                                                                                                                                                                HE AWOKE TO A BURNING THIRST.  Muted bells chimed in the distance; the chapel ringing for prime. Ciaran lifted the coverlet and  looked down at himself, noting with some surprise his utter nakedness.  By some miracle he was still whole, though he had walked like a demon through hell itself.  What was he made of,  that he could endure the touch of  fire on flesh?  He bore no trace of any wound.  To the contrary, his body surged with renewed strength, keen as a blade tempered in the forge.

          He heard the hushed voices and muted footsteps of the servants as they moved about the hall, felt the uncertain whisperings of their thoughts. The reek of smoke clung to his hair and skin, to the bedclothes, the walls, the very air.  But there was still a roof over his head, God be thanked, and walls to keep out the damp.

           A soft rustling of skirts came near the door.  Quickly he covered himself.  Evaine entered - dressed and cloaked, as if to guard herself from some perceived danger.  The morning air brought a rosy flush to her cheeks.  

          "God's greeting, my lord."  She hesitated slightly.  "Pray, how is your health, sir?"  

          Ciaran noted with a sinking heart the crisp formality in her tone.  "I am well," he declared, studying her frankly.

          "Indeed? You seem hale enough, for all your heroics.  But shouldn't you be lying down?  You've been very ill."  She did not, he observed, remove her cloak.            

          "Have I?"  Ciaran tugged at the bedclothes.  

          "For hours you burned with fever," Evaine said, her manner at last warming a little. “You thrashed about so fitfully, we thought you might injure yourself; your mountainous guard out there volunteered to watch over you."  She looked at him gravely.  "Then this morning you went quite cold.  We thought you were dead." 

          Death does not come easily to one such as I, Ciaran thought.  He mustered a smile.  "Yet I live," he said.  "Due in no small part to your tender care.  I'm grateful.  I'm – I - "  he stammered, grasping at any excuse to keep her there.  "Please, my lady, before you go – you mentioned my companions – are they unharmed?  And the house - what treasures have you lost?"  

          "Your companions are well, my lord, though they're fretting over you like a couple of nurse maids.  The boy, Dafydd, seems especially anxious.  I'd keep my distance from the big red-haired one, if I were you, until his temper passes. I think he's still peevish from the interruption to his sleep.” Ciaran chuckled, knowing the Bruce's fondness for nursing a grudge. “Don't take him too seriously,” he said. “His bark is worse than his bite.” 

          She paused, appraising him briefly. The moment their eyes met she looked away.  "As for the house," she continued with calm detachment, "it's odd.  A bit of thatch, a good scrubbing, perhaps a coat of lime is all that's needed. Had I not been witness to it myself, I'd say the fire was all a frightful dream.  Still," she added, her voice low, "I can't help wondering what evil it bodes."  

          Ciaran was silent.  What evil indeed?  

          Evaine let out a small sigh.  "But we're all sound enough, by God's good grace."

          "And what of you?" he asked, impulsively reaching for her hands.  To his relief she did not recoil, but let her fingers rest in his. 

          "A bit rattled, but none the worse for it," she said.  

          "Your hands are cold," said Ciaran quietly.  He stared down at them, unable to look into her eyes.  The pallor of his own slim hands next to her glowing, delicate skin seemed unnatural.  "Lady, forgive me.  I never meant to bring you harm," he whispered.  

          "You mustn't blame yourself," she said.  A lock of her hair brushed his shoulder, fragrant with the faint perfume of roses. 

          Ciaran wet his lips.  "I'd like to do what I can to mend the damage.  I regret your loss more than you know."  He looked at her then, binding her briefly with the strength of his gaze. 

          At last she withdrew, moving discreetly about the room, collecting candlesticks and bits of wax from the lamps.  Ciaran watched her with growing dismay.  Something deep and exquisitely tender had passed between them, and he knew she had felt it as he had.  Yet she seemed resolved not to acknowledge any of it. They would remain strangers after all.  

          He knew she felt his eyes upon her, yet she would not raise her face to look at him.  "Lowri will be in with bread and broth," she said.  "You must be starved."

          "Hungry as a pack of hounds."  It was a lie, but it wrung a smile from her. 

          "You are feeling better," she said, looking at him at last.  She stood, modestly smoothing her skirts, her face in shadow.  Her smile was soft as the moon.  

          Don't go, he longed to say, but his tongue had suddenly frozen.  As if gazing through the veils of sleep, he watched her gather up her candlesticks.  Before he could summon the wits to call her back, she slipped away, elusive as a dream.