Chapter 12
Temple of Fire
Today would be the day... her first feast in over two millennia. The very air
quivered with her anticipation, a feeling she had not known since Rome had destroyed
her city, salted her land, and imprisoned her essence within her most remote temple.
Tanit knew her hunger would not be satiated nor her thirst slaked, but it was a
beginning. It would feed her strength. Another step toward her becoming.
< < + > >
Christmas Morning, 1982
Despite attending midnight mass the night before, Kymberlee Rayne's eyes
popped open at dawn on Christmas morning. She had awakened early on that day ever
since she was a child, and the tradition had followed her into adulthood. She rolled
over to gently awaken her husband, but, to her surprise, his side of the bed was empty
and cold. Where on earth could he be? Surely Derek wouldn't be working on
Christmas morning?
Kym quickly pulled on her robe and slippers, then gave her thick red hair a
quick brush. She shivered. The great house was cold and damp... in its silence, it
seemed empty. She hoped that her husband had put on his robe when he got up. He
might catch a chill, she worried.
She hurried down the hallway and through the library to Derek's office. Her
mood perked when she found it empty. Maybe he's not working... for once. However,
when she returned, her spirits plummeted. Derek was leaning over the far end of the
conference table, absolutely engrossed in a large volume of something-or-other. With
no difficulty, Kym sneaked up behind him and wrapped her arms around his chest.
Standing on her tiptoes, she whispered in his ear, "Merry Christmas."
Derek smiled and hugged her as best he could. "Merry Christmas," he replied.
"Did you sleep well?"
"Mmm... hmm," she said as she reached over to flip his book closed.
"Hey," Derek protested.
"No work today," said Kym. "Even my father doesn't work on Christmas."
"Even your father?" the precept repeated in pseudo-surprise. "Well... all right
then... I guess I'll have to stop."
"You do," Kym insisted. She curled her fingers into the belt of his robe and
started to pull him out of the room. "Come on...."
Laughing, Derek allowed her to lead him away. She gently tugged him down the
stairs to the Christmas tree, which stood regally in the drawing room's bay window.
Though the morning's light was gray and cheerless, the tree, with its lights and
multitude of shimmering ornaments, cast a glow of its own. He was impressed. The fat
Douglas fir had seemed rather bare the night before, but, during the night, Kym had
piled presents, shiny in foil wrap and bright bows, high beneath it.
Astonished, he asked, "Where did all this come from?"
"Your mother, friends, my family, me...."
"You?" he said in mock disbelief.
"Yes." Kym knelt to retrieve a long, slender package wrapped in gold foil and
red velvet ribbon. "This is from me... I want you to open it now," she instructed.
Derek had something for her, too, but said nothing... yet. "It's heavy," he said
as he shook it. He sat down on the piano bench to slip off the ribbon and gently peel
away the paper. The box itself was a work of art, lacquered and inlaid with coral,
abalone, and mother-of-pearl. He lifted off the lid to reveal a dagger. "A rondel," he
said with awe as he fondled the spiral bone handle. "It's exquisite."
"A rondel?" asked Kym.
"Yes... very elegant and very deadly," the precept explained. He lifted it from
it's fitted cradle and ran a finger lightly along the twelve inch blade. Examining the
round, brass discs of the pommel and the guard, he declared, "It's Italian... early
fifteenth century... a rather unique weapon... unlike the common dagger, poniard, or
main gauche...."
"Main gauche?" Kym repeated. He was losing her... not an uncommon
occurrence, she sometimes felt.
"Literally 'left hand'... during the Renaissance duels were usually fought with
a rapier in the right hand and a main gauche in the left, in place of the shield used in
earlier times. D'Artagnan would have fought that way. But this little beauty...," he
said, hefting his prize to gauge its balance, "wasn't used to cut and slash like the
others. It came along in the heyday of the armored knight. It was used as a last resort
in close combat... it couldn't pierce armor plate, but could go right through chain
mail... just like an ice pick... a pure, deadly, close contact thrust." He rose to show her
the proper method.
Kym laughed. "Read the inscription," she said. She had picked this particular
dagger because of its inscription, to which she had added her own touch.
"Proteggi mio innamorato," read the script, "protect my love," below which
a D intertwined with a K. Derek turned it over and on the opposite side, he recited,
"On our first Christmas."
Touched as he never expected to be, Derek said softly, "It's perfect, Liefje.
Thank you... so much."
"You're welcome," she replied, almost shyly. "I'm glad you like it."
With his finger, Derek raised her chin and leaned over to deeply kiss her lips.
He sneaked a hand behind her for a special package he had placed under the tree
earlier in the morning. Gently, he slipped it into her hands.
Unlike her husband, who, savoring the anticipation, had carefully removed the
ribbon and paper, Kym tore into her present with childlike glee. She felt Derek
watching her with apprehension. Inside the pretty carton was a music box, shaped like
a piano. On the little piano's lid a Victorian couple waltzed in a rococo ballroom.
Kym's eyes widened. It was the most beautiful music box she had ever seen. With a
graceful touch, she carefully turned the key. The tinkling theme from Love Story broke
the early morning silence.
"Oh, Derek..."
"Do you like it?" he asked anxiously as he helped her up.
"I love it," Kym replied. "Thank you, honey. I'll cherish it always."
A flood of relief poured through... he had been worried about this moment and
had tried to put real thought into this gift for his wife. He had never realized selecting
the perfect thing could be so difficult.
Kym stretched up onto her toes to kiss him. She laughed softly. "I hate being so
much shorter than you."
Derek laughed, too. Then he took the box from her hands and set it aside. "I'll
just have to come down to your level," he said, as he dropped back onto the piano
bench and pulled her close for a kiss. "Do we have time for this?" he muttered.
"Time... yes," replied his wife. "Privacy... no.... unless we want to give Mr. D.
a cheap thrill for Christmas."
< < + > >
Sverdlovsk, Russian Federated Soviet Socialist Republic, U.S.S.R.
As the chartered Aeroflot jetliner taxied for takeoff, flight attendants and nurses
scurried about the cabin making a last minute check of seatbelts and supplying a
comforting word and hug here and there.
"Shhh...," cooed Anya Spitskaya as she slid into a seat beside a worried five-year-old girl. "Don't be frightened," she said, fastening her own seat belt. "What's
your name, little one?"
"Katrina," the girl replied.
"A pretty name. Do you know where you're going?" the woman asked.
Katrina pointed to a note pinned to her new, green dress. In Russian and English
it read, "My name is Katrina Petrovna. My parents are Mr. and Mrs. James Womack,
Medicine Hat, Alberta, Canada."
"I'll bet you'll like it there," the flight attendant said. "It sounds like cowboy
land. Don't be scared... this is the fun part... the takeoff... when this old bird goes
rolling down the runway... then you feel her lift her nose up... and up we go. You get
pushed back against your seat and you look out the window to see all the little things
below, then the clouds.... It's magic." She patted the girl's hand, which tightly gripped
the armrest, and looked around the cabin at the cargo of infants and children, all
handicapped or ill, orphaned or abandoned. "Soon you'll all be in your new homes in
Canada or America."
"Do you think they can fix my legs?" Katrina Petrovna Womack asked.
Anya looked down at the child's bent and deformed legs. She doubted they
would ever be able to hold the girl's weight without braces, but at least in the West an
orphan child would have a chance.
"Of course they will, but you'll have to be very brave... but you're already that,
aren't you?"
The jet engines roared as the airliner's nose tipped upward and thrust itself into
the air. During the steep forty-five degree climb, the pressure pushed the children into
their seats. Some laughed at the pure excitement of it... those were the thrill seekers
or the natural born fliers... others stoically endured, while a few screamed in terror.
Suddenly, Anya felt the jet hesitate and its upward trajectory sag. She turned to
glance down the aisle at fellow flight attendant, Marina Komarova, who shrugged her
shoulders, but then went pale.
Anya turned back to follow Marina's gaze. An incandescent ball rose from the
cabin floor just in front of the cockpit door. It swelled into a swirling whirlwind of
golden flame, then seemed to shatter. Tentacles of fire shot through the cabin, spearing
each screaming child, then ripped out through the metal skin of the airliner's fuselage.
Anya Spitskaya's consciousness survived long enough for her glimpse the moon,
its whiteness shining in the black sky above.
< < + > >
Angel Island
In the library of the San Francisco Legacy House, thirteen-year-old Nick Boyle
stood before the immense fireplace. He was drawn to the great sword, resting in its
green marble stand, upon the mantel. Something about it seemed alive. He stretched
up to run a finger along the gleaming, double edged blade.
"What are you doing here?"
Startled, Nick spun about to see his father's stern face. "I... I...," he stammered.
"Derek said I could... I have an English report due after vacation on Robert Louis
Stevenson... Derek said there was some stuff on him in here."
"You mean Dr. Rayne said you could," Major Boyle corrected. "Did you do
your twenty miles today?"
"I did ten before we came, but Mom was in a hurry," the boy explained. "She
said we were running late."
"Then you should have gotten up earlier."
Nick looked down at his shoes. "But it's Christmas...."
"Christmas is just another day," was his father's cold observation.
"But even wars stop for a Christmas truce."
Boyle fumed. How was he ever going to prepare this kid for life, let alone turn
him into a soldier? "Don't contradict me, boy," he said, his voice deepened by
controlled anger. "Our enemies don't give a rat's ass about Christmas."
"But...," Nick began.
"Get out there and do them... now!" the major ordered. "All twenty."
"Mom'll kill me... I'm in my good clothes... and it's nearly dinner," Nick
protested.
"Don't whine... I hate whiners," declared his father. He slammed his open palm
down on the conference table, rattling the miniature planets of the brass orrery that sat
in the table's center. "An enemy doesn't care how you are dressed, or if you are buck
naked and starving. Do you understand me?"
"Yes... but... I already did ten," Nick mumbled.
"Yes, sir!... You are not out for a Sunday afternoon walk. You are training your
body and your mind for endurance. It is now four fifteen," he said, looking at his
watch. "Dinner is at six... if you pace yourself for maximum distance at maximum
speed, you might just make it. Move it!" he shouted.
Nick ran out, past Kymberlee, who had been standing in the open doorway. She
saw tears of rage and humiliation glistening in the boy's eyes. How could he do that
to his own child?
Shocked, she asked, "Johnny, why did you do that? It's Christmas."
"How I raise my son is my business. It's how I was raised and I've turned out
fine," Major Boyle replied brusquely, as he attempted to pass her.
Kym stepped into the room, closing the door behind her, blocking the man's
way. She bit her tongue to stifle the sarcastic remark dancing on its tip. "Remain
calm," she told herself before she continued. "That could be debated. I just don't relish
seeing innocent children hurt... especially under my roof."
"Nick's not a child any more... he'll be a man soon," Johnny countered. "It's
not an easy world out there. He has to be prepared... and there might be some question
about it being your roof," he added with spite.
Kym walked over to the fireplace, then turned in the alcove to face the soldier.
"And this is how it's done? This preparation?" she asked, ignoring his jab. "My father
never did this to my brothers."
Major Boyle looked at her... no expression crossed his face. "And your brothers
are weak," he said. "You are weak... your House is weak. I intend to forge Nick the
way a swordsmith forges his masterpiece." His eyes rose toward Derek's sword on the
mantle above the young woman's head.
Kymberlee swallowed her fury... no one, but no one, insulted her family... if
Kevin was here he'd send that bastard to hell to meet his maker.
"With a hot flame?" she bitterly retorted.
"Exactly," he agreed. "...to mold him... then sharpen him... forge again...
sharpen again. My son will not fail Derek, nor this House."
"You could also burn him," said Kym.
"It will make him all the stronger."
"Or it could break him. He's just a child!" she exclaimed.
The major seethed, but his temper would be controlled. "You are the child,
madam," he declared cruelly. "You think this is a game... it's real... it's deadly...
something you should have learned at San Juan Bautista. My son will be prepared for
battle. There is no other option."
Kym couldn't believe what she was hearing from a man she knew to be one of
her husband's best and most trusted friends... a man she knew both Derek and William
admired. "I have an option," she flared. "I could tell Derek and William what you're
really like. How you prey upon the innocent that you're supposed to be protecting."
"They know what I'm really like. I'm there for them... always," he countered.
"As Winston groomed Derek for his destiny, so I mold Nick for his own."
"Winston abused Derek? I don't think so," Kym said in disbelief. "You can
mold someone without crushing them the way you're doing to that boy."
Boyle disliked the way this confrontation was dragging on, but, after the
woman's blatant, dangerous disobedience at the Zarzuela House, things needed to be
said. "You ask Ingrid about Winston... she'll tell you the truth... it's not abuse... it's
survival skills. Derek's skills are different," he said. "My family is my business...
Derek and William respect that. I suggest you do the same. If not... Derek may just
find out about that little witches' coven of yours."
Kym's face drained of blood... she steadied herself against the alcove's wooden
pillar. Boyle knew that he had scored one. Shaken, she replied with a tremble in her
voice, "I was thirteen... and it was Wicca. There's a difference... and Derek, of all
people, will know it."
Sensing the advantage, the major forged ahead. "He's a Legacy precept. He
can't afford to make the distinction, and neither can the Legacy."
Realizing that she had been diverted, Kym swung back to her original course.
"That's beside the point. How can you call it survival skills?" she asked. "For Christ's
sake, Johnny, why don't you send him off into the woods with only the clothes on his
back? It's just as barbaric."
"He passed that test when he was ten... and to fight what we fight a little
barbarism is not a bad thing.... You're soft... too soft to be Derek's wife."
Kym retorted, "Well, maybe when I have a baby, I'll rough it around and really
'mold' my child. Then will I be strong like you?"
The major's anger was fading into exasperation. "You have no idea what it takes
to be a real parent. You think wiping a snotty nose or kissing a scratch to make it better
is preparation for life... for our life?" he asked with complete disdain. "You are a naive,
stupid girl. I don't want to see my son die... I will do everything in my power to teach
him how not to die... and how to become Derek's right hand, when the time comes."
Defiantly, Kym railed back, "For your information... when I become a parent,
I will never submit my child to this life."
"I hope you have a choice," the major said quietly. "Barbara Rayne swore the
same thing... once upon a time."
In her heart, Kym realized it was the frightening truth, but they could crucify her
before she would admit it even to herself. "If Nick chooses the Legacy, I know that
Derek will accept him with open arms... no matter how you train him."
Major Boyle had started for the door, but turned back. There was more. "I know
Derek will. My son will be a second sword to Derek... his protector and champion...
I will not send him to Derek unprepared for battle... a liability... as you are. So you'd
better pray that I do my job well, Mrs. Rayne."
"A 'liability'?"exclaimed Kym. A flood of curses gushed into her brain, but with
ladylike haughtiness, she continued, "Might I remind you that the Legacy paired us."
"And it was a mistake. The Legacy chose to match you because it believed that
your personalities were compatible... that there might be mutual affection... and that
the genetic mix would enhance the 'Sight' in the Rayne line.... It did not match you for
the sake of love... an unnatural love."
Appalled, Kym said, "There is nothing unnatural about love."
Your kind of love is dangerous for a man like Derek," the major argued. "I've
seen the way you look at him. The way you fret if he's ten minutes late to call. The
way you follow him around the house and check on him even when he's sleeping.
Your love is cloying. You'll try to change him, but you won't be able to. Derek can't,
because of who and what he is."
Kym, forcing back the tears that were just beneath the surface, sadly responded,
"He was hurt... and I'm sorry if love is a concept foreign to you. Truly, I am. You're
missing so much."
"Whose fault was it that Derek was hurt?" Major Boyle shot back. "You
couldn't follow a simple, goddamned order that he gave you for your own safety. He
could have gotten himself killed protecting you. If you don't grow up... don't decide
that you will be your husband's true partner, a soldier's wife and helpmate... or to back
off and butt out... whichever... if you insist on looking at life through the rose colored
glasses of your own desires... and fears... you'll be a widow in short order. Either help
him, or get out!"
Johnny Boyle turned and walked out with all the precision of a wooden soldier.
Kym, a ball of sickness churning in her stomach, dropped onto the seat of the
inglenook to the left of the hearth. Clutching a pillow, she drew her knees up to her
chest and softly wept.
| CHAPTER 13 |
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