Read Online Lesson of the Fire by Eric Zawadzki - Free Book Online

learned, but might have forgotten. I share my
journals in the hopes my mistakes and failures will help others
avoid repeating them.”
    — Pondr,
    Collected Journals, edited by Weard Asa Sehtah
    Weard Einar Schwert fingered the hilt of his
marsord as he strolled through the citadel, the storyteller Pondr
at his heels.
    Once a place of functional beauty — the seat
of power of an empire — the citadel now went mostly unused. Three
whole wings had been left to the ravages of nature. When a ceiling
had caved in, one wing had completely separated from the building.
Many resident wizards would fight for that space, as close to the
citadel as they could be without being Mardux.
    Einar owned a marsord out of duty. It was
expected of a frontier magocrat to carry one, and Einar had no
illusions about that. It was duty, too, that had led him to pursue
the Chair. He had known Ozur Betrun from schooling, and Marrishland
would have been less for him. The man had been Flasten’s creature
and would have dismantled everything Einar and Rorik had fought for
their whole lives.
    Mardux Sven Takraf’s methods, questions and
proclamations spoke loudly of the weard’s dedication to his
ambitions. He certainly had no intention of surrendering the
northern frontier to the Drakes. If the tale the mapmaker Finn
Ochregut had brought to Domus Palus of Weard Takraf’s early days
held any truth at all, Sven and Einar shared many political
interests. Einar was certain the Mardux was readying Domus and its
allies for war, and that could only mean an expansion into Drake
territory.
    Einar knocked on the Mardux’s study
door.
    After a long pause, Sven spoke. “Enter.”
    Einar did so, noting the piles of records on
the Mardux’s desk. He knew they would be records of Domus Palus’
holdings. Einar had frequently heard Sven reading accounts and
notes aloud. According to the mapmaker’s tales, the Mardux had
Seruvus’ memory only for what he heard, not for what he read.
    Sven’s red cloak was now emblazoned with his
seal — a broken marsord consumed by flames. A former student of
Sven’s had come up with the idea to show the Mardux’s ascent to the
Chair, but Einar suspected Sven saw it as a reminder of a different
sort.
    “Weard Schwert,” Sven addressed him with a
nod. “You have brought the storyteller.”
    “The Traveller, Mardux,” Einar corrected
quietly. It had taken a forty-five day month to track down the
right one. He was not the only member of the wandering race in
Domus Palus.
    “That explains some.” Sven gazed at the
fire. “Let him in.”
    Even as Einar approached the door, the
Traveller stepped inside. He hastily sidestepped Einar and bowed at
the same time. It was an overly complicated gesture, and Einar
wondered how the man did not fall down.
    “What is your name, Traveller?” Sven
asked.
    The Traveller sat in a chair across from the
Mardux. He smiled and seemed to relax a little. “Do you play the
Game, Mardux?”
    “I have heard of it,” Sven answered,
coolness enveloping his voice. “We do not play it here in
Marrishland.”
    “I see.” The Traveller smiled slightly.
“Call me Pondr.”
    “Very well, Pondr. You told a remarkable
fabrication of untruths when last you were here. Enough of it was
close enough, barely stretched, for me to wonder as to your
whereabouts at the time. How much do you really know about me?”
    The Traveller leaned back and clasped his
hands across his chest and looked back at Sven. “You are a very
different person now than who you were when Nightfire came for you.
How much have you blocked out?”
    The Mardux’s face hardened. “I have
Seruvus’s memory. I could not forget even if I wanted to.”
    Pondr held up a finger. “I know of this
quirk of memory. Some remember all that they see. Others, all that
they hear. But none remember all they thought or felt.” He steepled
his fingers and leaned forward. “Can I tell you more about
yourself? You might enjoy it.”
    Sven raised