Chapter 2 of
Eyes of Fire
by Lauren Stinton
[Click here to read chapter 1]
Two days later, at nine o’clock in the morning, Hamal and Cale took a carriage across the city and entered the district of West Barrow, home to most of the city’s scholars and historians. The people who liked to study things lived in this district. Gregory Almes, one of Hamal’s reader friends, had a house on Lettering Street.
An hour after their departure, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of a house so far west that it nestled within the shadow of the city wall. Like many houses in West Barrow, this house looked fairly plain. Most people didn’t have fancy houses here because they spent their money on other things—like books and travel and education.
But Hamal did notice one interesting thing about this house.
“Are they building something?” he asked, peering through the carriage window. Someone had come along and destroyed the front lawn. Five large holes gaped up at the sky. One hole beside the cobbled drive. One next to the rose garden. One against the wall. Two others under some trees. The excess dirt had been carefully piled up next to each hole.
Cale leaned forward and narrowed his eyes at the deep scrapes in the earth. A moment passed as he used his gift.
“Experiments,” he said finally.
“What?”
“They’re testing the soil.” He smiled slightly. “Likely for the third or fourth time, I’d imagine.”
Hamal did not understand why that was funny. “Testing the soil? You mean, with an alchemist? Why are they testing the soil with an alchemist?”
“They explore caves, Hamal. That is their occupation. They are interested in the earth and the things of the earth—all manner of soil and rocks and what can be found under the surface. I imagine their natural interest has not abated, despite their recent setbacks.”
Recent setbacks. An interesting way to describe what had happened. Those were natural, common-sounding words, when the real story had not been natural or common. But Cale seemed to think that the trauma—or the setbacks, as he called it—would be overcome.
Hamal smiled. Good.
A servant met them on the drive. He was tall and thin, and his lips barely moved as he said, “This way, sirs.” He took Hamal and Cale up the stone steps and into the house, where there was even more dirt—dirt inside the house, in piles that appeared to be just as carefully arranged as the piles outside, only smaller.
“Oh,” Hamal said in surprise.
The servant sighed. “Yes,” he stated in a completely different tone. “Yes, I know. There’s no stopping them, and since their return three weeks ago, it’s been particularly bad. I have never—” His voice cracked to a halt as his eyes widened. He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. In the first voice, the one that sounded very formal, he continued, “This way, sirs. His lordship is in the library.”
The servant led them down a long hallway lined with bookcases. There were no books on these shelves. Instead, they were loaded with rocks. Some were rough and dark, full of holes. Some were spiky and sharp looking, and some were pretty. Hamal touched a shiny one that was the same color as spring grass. Imagine that—a green rock. They must have found it in a cave.
He ran into the servant, who sniffed and pretended the collision hadn’t happened.
“Sirs,” he said and opened the library door.
The smells of cinnamon tea and old paper followed the door’s movement. So did voices. A woman, talking about the military and an upcoming event that somehow involved the military, and a man, who thought there would be plenty of time for whatever event they were planning. All Hamal saw were more bookcases and more rocks, but there were actual books in here, which made sense because it was a library. Though he couldn’t see the speakers, he began to sense the presence of another healer. Someone who shared his gift with him.
“She’s here!” he whispered excitedly to Cale.
“Yes,” the seer replied.
They walked down three aisles of bookcases that looked as old as the kingdom. As they approached the end of the third row, the servant loudly cleared his throat, and the familiar voices cut off.
“Jon,” the woman called. “Are they here?”
“Yes, mistress.”
Hamal walked around the corner and stopped, grinning at the scene before him.
Saviana Elorton, sitting on Lieutenant Com Reardon’s lap.
“Why, Hamal,” she said and didn’t bother to pull her arms from around Com’s neck. She wouldn’t be embarrassed, he knew. Not this one. She didn’t know what embarrassment was, and she never cared what other people thought. “When I heard you were coming, I rearranged my schedule.”
Com laughed. “You have a schedule?”
“Quiet, darling. It is good to see you again, Hamal. Where is your silver-eyed friend? Did you remember to bring him too?”
Cale stepped up next to Hamal, and Savi’s smile widened. “Oh, there you are, my lord. Forgive me. I didn’t know you were here.”
Hamal highly doubted that was true.
Savi untangled her arms and stood from the couch, brushing off her dress in a manner that made Hamal think of digs and dust and the exploration of old places. She had a practiced hand.
“I must beg your forgiveness again, my lord, and apologize on behalf of my brother. After receiving your letter yesterday, he vanished somewhere within the worded catacombs—” She gestured with one hand toward the vast room around them. “—and we haven’t been able to find him. He is simply gone.”
From somewhere deeper within the library, a man’s voice came floating across the dust and bookcases. “Not true.”
“We fear he may be lost forever,” Savi continued in the same friendly tone.
“No, we don’t.” Garrick Elorton, Savi’s brother and leader of their underground expeditions, stepped around an overloaded bookcase. Dust as thick as white powder clung to the shoulder of his dark tunic, and cobwebs had pasted themselves to his hair. In one hand he held an old scroll, the paper darkening with age, and in the other hand was a black book. Also old, also dusty. “As always, thank you, Saviana, for your river of details.” He turned to Cale and lifted the scroll. “I found the map, Commander. If you will follow me over to the table, I can show you everything you need to know about the Dursen Head Mine.”
Garrick led them to a table set in a little “clearing” among all the books and other things. The table had been recently cleaned off, Hamal thought, judging by the papers and books stacked in nearby chairs. Garrick set the black book off to the side and then rolled out the map, smoothing it down with both hands.
“This is Dursen Head,” he said. “Two different renderings, as you can see. The one on the left is a copy of the original map drafted by a charter about nine hundred years ago. Here’s a more current drawing from one hundred years ago.” He tapped the scroll’s right side. “This is a charter’s work as well, so you can be certain of what you see.”
Hamal studied the map. Old lines, shaded areas, town names, all carefully drawn out or written down with old ink. Each shaft, and how it turned through the soil and stones. In the eight hundred years between drawings, the mine had grown considerably. It was a single shaft on the left side of the paper but more like a town of passages on the right. Charters knew the earth; it spoke to them, and their maps were always dependable.
Cale was already nodding. “They dug beneath the sea.”
“They did. Most of the mine lays hidden beneath the shore, but this arm here extends out into the water. Or beneath it, to be more precise. A few hundred years ago, it was thought that perhaps the e’nethaine knew more about the fabled treasure of Dursen Head than we landers did.” He grinned like this was a ridiculous idea.
Hamal didn’t think anything about the e’nethaine was ridiculous, and he knew Cale agreed with him. But neither of them tried to correct Garrick’s opinion.
“Some say the mine is haunted,” Cale said after a moment. “What do you say?”
Garrick’s smile hesitated. He seemed to notice the dust on his sleeve for the first time because he reached up and absently rubbed at his shoulder. “We run into rumors of ghosts from time to time, my lord. That’s fairly standard in our business—digging up the earth, discovering artifacts and unknown territory buried under cities and towns and the like. Plenty of ghost stories. But here?” He swiped his fingertip across the northern coastline. “This is a different kind of ghost story. You’d almost think the e’nethaine were involved somehow.”
I knew it, Hamal thought.
Garrick kept speaking. “I have never been to Dursen Head myself, but Savi and I have heard a few of the stories and they’re…unique.”
Cale frowned at Garrick. “How so?”
Garrick looked at his sister.
Savi, leaning against the lieutenant’s arm, made a face, wrinkling her nose. “Here is an example. A hundred years ago, Tome Dranda the charter—” She nodded toward the right side of the map. “—insisted that the mine’s register was not correct. The register reported twenty-three miners in a certain shaft that day, but the charter counted twenty-seven. Four extra men, walking about. These ghosts have weight. Enough weight that a charter can sense their steps on the earth and assume they are men. There are multiple reports of items moving, things going missing. Those stories are common enough in ghost stories, of course, but in this case, they’re unique because they all involve healers. No other gift—just healers.”
“In what way do they involve healers?” Cale asked.
She gave him an odd look. “You know about the treasure, don’t you?”
“I do.”
Hamal glanced at him, but the seer’s face gave nothing away.
“Well,” Savi said, still frowning, “according to legend, only a healer can find the treasure of Dursen Head. The gods hid some kind of massive treasure in the earth, and it is meant for a healer. Healers have been trying to discover it for centuries, but here’s where the ghost stories become interesting. If anything goes missing, is tampered with, or is broken in the mine, that thing will certainly belong to a healer and not another gift. Accidents happen, of course—but the strange things always involve healers.” She shrugged. “If the mine is truly haunted the way people say, it would seem that whatever lives there doesn’t like healers.”
“Interesting,” Cale murmured. He lowered his gaze back to the map but then, slowly, looked at Hamal across the table. “What is your opinion, Hamal? Why would ghosts prefer a healer’s belongings to those of anyone else?”
Hamal rubbed the top of his head. He thought about things—about his friend Gray and the e’nethaine and how the world was made—and eventually he said, “I don’t know. I’ve never understood that story about the Dursen Head Mine and a large treasure that the gods hid for a healer.”
“Do you think the legend is true?” Cale asked. “That the treasure exists and is meant for a healer?”
“Well, yes. I do know about that part. Even my grandfather says it’s true.”
“Ah.” Cale’s gaze grew sharp. “And what does Shel Galen have to say about it?”
“Just that there’s a treasure there, and eventually the right healer will find it.”
Everyone looked at him.
“What?” Hamal asked and wondered if he had dust on his clothes the way Garrick did.
Cale’s brows rose. “Nothing, I suppose. That is, we can discuss it later.”
Later, Cale leaned back on the carriage seat and looked at Hamal across the way. “You know, Hamal, that if a treasure does exist somewhere within the Dursen Head Mine, you are the healer who will find it. You understand this, do you not?”
Hamal laughed. “Do you think I’m like Savi and her brother? Hunting for treasures hidden in secret places? I’m not a treasure hunter.”
Cale did not laugh. “But perhaps you should be. I believe there may be a reason you—particularly you—are being sent on this venture. I can’t tell you what that reason is or why I feel this way. I have seen nothing concerning this mine and your future as of yet. It is just a sense. Something to keep in mind.”
Hamal felt the weight in his friend’s gaze, and he held that gaze for a moment, trying to think his way through this strange conversation. Every healer knew the story of the Dursen Head Mine, and many, many healers had gone there to try to find the secret treasure. Some entered the mine legally and some did not. The mine had had several owners through the years, and only a few of them allowed healers to enter.
Cale abruptly leaned forward and called the driver’s name. “Percy, turn north on Harbor Street when we come to it.”
“Yes, sir,” came the muffled reply.
Harbor Street would not take them back to Cale’s house or to the palace or to anywhere else Hamal thought they might need to go before leaving the city.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
The intensity eased in the seer’s gaze, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. “The king said I could have anyone I wanted for this venture. Well—I have thought of someone I want.”
– H –
Comment below or click here to find us on Facebook. Copyright notice: © 2020 by Lauren Stinton. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.