Call Of The Flame (Book 1) by James R. Sanford

and those who met his stare stepped back, looking down, or quickly turned
to a companion.  Kyric didn’t even notice when his sausage fell off the stick.
    Morae stood in the stirrups, his head back as if catching a
scent on the breeze.  Kyric wanted to get away, but found that he couldn’t
move.  Suddenly Morae looked straight at him, and Kyric felt something stir in
his breast.  Inexplicably, he wanted to go to him.  So drawn was he that he
could hardly stop himself.
    “Sir!” the lieutenant said to Morae, snapping to attention
directly in front of him, “how may I be of service?”
    Morae looked down at him, not sure now if he had scented any
prey.  “Has anyone sailed for the open sea this night?” he said in a voice
sounding a bit too high for a tall man.
    “No sir,” returned the lieutenant, “they’ve all been
ferrymen and those rowing out to anchored ships and the like.”
    “Be sure to look in everything,” Morae commanded.  “Even in
water barrels or casks of wine.  And don’t forget that you can hide half a
house under a woman’s skirts.”
    “Yes sir,” stammered the lieutenant, now even redder in the
face than before.
    Kyric felt a tug at his sleeve as Aiyan dragged him into a
dark place behind the sausage stall, and from there into a narrow side street. 
If Morae turned to look for him after dismissing the lieutenant, he wasn’t
there to see.
    “His horse was lathered,” Aiyan said.  “He may have followed
your scent all the way from Karta.”
    “When he looked at me, I almost walked over to him.”
    “That’s the draw of the blood.  It will fade.  And I will
tell you something.  He may have followed the weird to the old docks, but when
you allow it to lead you, the weird sometimes takes you to places that have
nothing to do with your life or what you want.  So he couldn’t be sure why he
looked at you.”
    Aiyan hurried him along until they ran into the main
boulevard and a river of people.  “Like worldly eyes,” he said.  “It’s harder
for the spirit eye to see us in a crowd.  Still, try to stay empty.”
    “I’m so tired I really do feel empty.”
    “Not far now,” said Aiyan.  “We’re only a mile from Sedlik’s
house.”
    The street was the famous Way of Kings, and Kyric tried to
take in the ancient grandeur of the old city, the columns and arches and
wondrous facades.  This was all he had thought about during the last years of
his servitude, coming to Aeva, the birthplace of his civilization, the source
of the artwork, history, and literature of the Aessian culture.  He had dreamed
of standing in the Palace of the Old Kings, and in the Balerius, the great hall
of the god and goddess.  Sevdin might be the center of commerce, but if one
would seek to know the soul of Aessia, he would come to Aeva.
    They passed into the theatre district, where folks clustered
thickly in front of cabarets.  Below brightly-colored marquees, the tall commedia
houses disgorged patrons onto the street while carriage drivers vied for places
in the side lanes.  Aiyan kept looking behind, once even stopping and waiting
in a dark alley, but never spotted a follower.
    At length, Aiyan led them down a dim side street, still flowing
with tourists, the little paper lanterns they carried bobbing in the dark, and
they entered a neighborhood where narrow lanes ran chaotically, crossing each
other at odd angles.  Stopping at an unmarked door, Aiyan tapped lightly with
the knocker.  They waited a minute and he tapped louder.
    Something rattled behind the door and a tiny hole opened. 
“Who is it?” squeaked a girl’s voice.
    “Jela, it’s me, Aiyan.  Let us in.”
    Another rattle and the door flew open.  A young woman
wearing little more than a shift leapt upon Aiyan, her slender arms around his
thick neck.
    “Uncle Aiyan!” she squealed.  “But it’s the middle of the
night.  Are you alright?”  She pulled them into the house.
    A heavy-set man in a nightshirt