could pet Clarian’s horse.
“You can rub her nose.”
The boy gave the horse some green toppings from the vegetables. The mother shielded her eyes and looked up at Clarian. She saw the scar on his face.
“You’re the one. The scar. You’re the Ferryman.”
She turned her head and called to the other villagers. “He’s here! It’s the Ferryman!”
Villagers gathered about a bewildered Clarian. They reached up and touched his boots.
Rokkman galloped up, his lips a thin line. Clarian didn’t understand the attention.
“What’s this about, Rokkman?” Clarian asked, exasperated.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“You want something of me?”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
C larian stood before the Flamekeeper in the Chamber of Light.
“The Flame has chosen you, Clarian, to lead our army against the fierce Maggan. Why it chose you, I do not know. The Flame is pure intelligence that pours forth from the Immortal Ones. They surely know, but I do not. It matters not what you believe. Nor what I believe. It is written. It must be obeyed. I could not tell you until I was sure.”
Clarian was in a state of disbelief. “No. This cannot be. I am no one.”
The old Flamekeeper held Clarian’s gaze for a long while. “It is so.”
Clarian was less than confident and looked less than happy. He really didn’t want to be there and didn’t want the responsibility.
“You’re not sure. Not at all,” said Clarian.
“No, it’s true.”
“I have only led small bands of warriors in the Great Grasslands. I know nothing of armies.”
“I know. But the Flame is infinite intelligence, and it knows the path where it will lead you.”
The old Flamekeeper grasped the Sacred Crystal Sword in his hand. “Kneel, Clarian, the Ferryman, in the presence of the Flame,” he said.
Clarian knelt reluctantly on a violet carpet in front of the vessel containing the flickering white flame. Earlier, he had bathed and combed his hair, and now he wore the blue tunic of a Citadel soldier.
The Flamekeeper administered to Clarian his oath of allegiance to the Flame and to the Immortal Ones of the Crystal Mountains. Rokkman observed the proceedings from the shadows off to the side. The old Flamekeeper dipped a large, golden chalice into the flame, scooping up white and violet fire and pouring it over Clarian’s head so that it spilled down over him and seemed to penetrate and disappear into him. Nine times, the Flamekeeper dipped and poured the flames over Clarian, all the while murmuring secret and mysterious words.
The Flamekeeper placed his hand upon the ferryman’s head. “So, now, therefore, in the name of the Flame, this son of Orlan and Ranna, known to us as Clarian the Ferryman, chosen by the Immortal Ones of the Crystal Mountains to protect the Flame and the Karran people, is given the violet cloak as a symbol of his high office and as a symbol to the people that he stands forth as their protector, from this day forward.”
Holding a jeweled crystal sword in his right hand, he tapped Clarian on his left shoulder, his right, on top of his head, and then on his heart.
“Know that the Sacred Flame shall always be with you. It is a thought away, and it shall come when you call upon it. Now go, Clarian, for much work is to be done,” he intoned. The Flamekeeper placed a violet cloak over Clarian’s shoulders and patted him on the cheek.
Clarian lurched unsteadily to his feet, helped by Rokkman. The door of the Chamber of Light opened, and Clarian emerged into the outer office of the Flamekeeper. Waiting to greet him were others, including Lillan and Martan, and dozens of officers of the Citadel guard.
“May I introduce Clarian, Protector of the Flame, the Chosen One!” pronounced the Flamekeeper.
Everyone in the room bowed deeply to Clarian, and they all repeated, “Clarian, Protector of the Flame, the Chosen One.”
Clarian was so surprised, he did not know what to do. Immediately, everyone gathered around
“You can rub her nose.”
The boy gave the horse some green toppings from the vegetables. The mother shielded her eyes and looked up at Clarian. She saw the scar on his face.
“You’re the one. The scar. You’re the Ferryman.”
She turned her head and called to the other villagers. “He’s here! It’s the Ferryman!”
Villagers gathered about a bewildered Clarian. They reached up and touched his boots.
Rokkman galloped up, his lips a thin line. Clarian didn’t understand the attention.
“What’s this about, Rokkman?” Clarian asked, exasperated.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“You want something of me?”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
C larian stood before the Flamekeeper in the Chamber of Light.
“The Flame has chosen you, Clarian, to lead our army against the fierce Maggan. Why it chose you, I do not know. The Flame is pure intelligence that pours forth from the Immortal Ones. They surely know, but I do not. It matters not what you believe. Nor what I believe. It is written. It must be obeyed. I could not tell you until I was sure.”
Clarian was in a state of disbelief. “No. This cannot be. I am no one.”
The old Flamekeeper held Clarian’s gaze for a long while. “It is so.”
Clarian was less than confident and looked less than happy. He really didn’t want to be there and didn’t want the responsibility.
“You’re not sure. Not at all,” said Clarian.
“No, it’s true.”
“I have only led small bands of warriors in the Great Grasslands. I know nothing of armies.”
“I know. But the Flame is infinite intelligence, and it knows the path where it will lead you.”
The old Flamekeeper grasped the Sacred Crystal Sword in his hand. “Kneel, Clarian, the Ferryman, in the presence of the Flame,” he said.
Clarian knelt reluctantly on a violet carpet in front of the vessel containing the flickering white flame. Earlier, he had bathed and combed his hair, and now he wore the blue tunic of a Citadel soldier.
The Flamekeeper administered to Clarian his oath of allegiance to the Flame and to the Immortal Ones of the Crystal Mountains. Rokkman observed the proceedings from the shadows off to the side. The old Flamekeeper dipped a large, golden chalice into the flame, scooping up white and violet fire and pouring it over Clarian’s head so that it spilled down over him and seemed to penetrate and disappear into him. Nine times, the Flamekeeper dipped and poured the flames over Clarian, all the while murmuring secret and mysterious words.
The Flamekeeper placed his hand upon the ferryman’s head. “So, now, therefore, in the name of the Flame, this son of Orlan and Ranna, known to us as Clarian the Ferryman, chosen by the Immortal Ones of the Crystal Mountains to protect the Flame and the Karran people, is given the violet cloak as a symbol of his high office and as a symbol to the people that he stands forth as their protector, from this day forward.”
Holding a jeweled crystal sword in his right hand, he tapped Clarian on his left shoulder, his right, on top of his head, and then on his heart.
“Know that the Sacred Flame shall always be with you. It is a thought away, and it shall come when you call upon it. Now go, Clarian, for much work is to be done,” he intoned. The Flamekeeper placed a violet cloak over Clarian’s shoulders and patted him on the cheek.
Clarian lurched unsteadily to his feet, helped by Rokkman. The door of the Chamber of Light opened, and Clarian emerged into the outer office of the Flamekeeper. Waiting to greet him were others, including Lillan and Martan, and dozens of officers of the Citadel guard.
“May I introduce Clarian, Protector of the Flame, the Chosen One!” pronounced the Flamekeeper.
Everyone in the room bowed deeply to Clarian, and they all repeated, “Clarian, Protector of the Flame, the Chosen One.”
Clarian was so surprised, he did not know what to do. Immediately, everyone gathered around
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