Prince of Fire

by Linda Winstead Jones

  “I thought you said I might not be infected,” he said calmly.

  “Of course you’re infected! I tried to convince you and myself that it might not be so, but what these monsters spread is vile and poisonous and it spares no one.”

  He had no powers like her own, but he instinctively knew what she spoke to be the truth. In this instance, at least. The part about him possibly being her mate was ludicrous. Even if he had dreamed about her; even if watching her tremble and twitch in her naked trance last night had made him hard and had almost sent him into her arms.

  “The Grandmother can wait,” he said. “We will search for this wizard you have seen.”

  She sighed, obviously relieved.

  “But don’t forget what you promised. You won’t let me become like them.”

  “I won’t,” she said, her voice gentling.

  As Joryn collected the bracelet Keelia had set aside and dropped it in his sack, he wondered if he could trust the promise of the Anwyn Queen. She said she did not lie, but in this case would she hold out hope until it was too late? If he lost his soul, became a twisted monster and retained his gift for fire, he would quickly do more damage than these beasts had done in the months of their rampage. If he opened a door to the world in-between and let the evil from this world in, chaos would follow. Quickly and decisively.

  Would he have the strength to kill himself, if Keelia could not or would not? He looked at the dead monsters on the ground, and imagined himself in that state. That thought alone should be enough to give him the strength he needed.

  *

  In the courtyard of the headquarters of the Circle of Bacwyr, the newly appointed Prince of Swords, Lyr Hern, trained for a battle that might never come. With the exception of a few minor clan rivalries, me country of Tryfyn had been at peace for many years. His father had told him many times—and told him still—that while peace was lovely it was no excuse for laziness. A defeat many years ago had cost the Circle their legendary strength, and such a misfortune could not be allowed to occur again. All the Circle warriors trained daily at swordplay and hand to hand combat, but none was more dutiful than Lyr.

  The new sword was magnificent. Lightweight and amazingly sharp, it quickly became an extension of Lyr’s arm as he exercised in the yard that had been designed for this purpose. The grip was plain, but the balance was perfection. He felt as if he could wield this particular sword with two fingers if it became necessary.

  Straw-filled enemies surrounded Lyr, and he practiced making the cuts of a certain depth, or placing them on a particular spot in the lumpy body, and even carving designs in the cloth. There was an exhilaration in wielding such a fine weapon, and true joy washed through him.

  The only thing that was capable of making him halt his practice session was his mother’s shocked voice.

  “What have you done to your hair?”

  Lyr stopped and raced his mother, grinning as he lifted a hand to the newly shortened strands. When last he’d practiced with his second in command, the stocky, bald Segyn, the man had grasped his braid in one fist and—for a moment—gotten the upper hand. Later Segyn had laughed and proclaimed his baldness an asset in battle.

  Lyr was not bald by any means, but he no longer had nearly enough dark hair to braid. “I cut it.”

  “You cut it off,” she said as she strode forward. “All of it.”

  “Most,” he said as he lowered his hand and the new sword, “Not all.”

  His mother, Isadora Fyne Hern, was a powerful witch called the Star of Bacwyr by those in the Circle. To them, she was a powerful leader and advisor. To Lyr and his two younger sisters, she was simply an overprotective mother. She tsked as she moved close.

  “You had such lovely hair,” she said with a sigh, running her fingers over the short strands as if she could not believe what she saw.

  “It’s not proper for the Prince of Swords to be petted by his mum in the practice yard. People are watching, I imagine.” His sessions usually drew a crowd, whether he sparred with a live soldier or a straw-filled dummy. He didn’t understand why anyone would care to watch him prepare for a battle that might never come, but he had been told he was entertaining to observe.

  Even when he didn’t call on his magic Of shifting time.

  His mother dropped her hand. “Your cousin Duran is here, and he has a sealed missive from the emperor of Columbyana. He refuses to give it to anyone but you.” She seemed annoyed by that, and he imagined she had offered to deliver the message to her son herself and been refused.

  “We should arrange a banquet for this evening,” Lyr suggested. “We haven’t seen Duran in a long time.”

  “The plans are already under way.” She took his arm and led him from the practice yard. “Now, let’s go see what that message is about, shall we?” They stepped into the building which now housed his family as well as many high-placed members of the Circle of Bacwyr. When Isadora Hern had come here as a bride, twenty-five years ago, the Circle had been primarily housed in a series of caves. That had not been acceptable to the bride, and she’d quickly gotten the construction of these headquarters under way. As they walked down a long, wide corridor, she tsked again. “Your hair.”

  *

  Keelia wondered what she would’ve done if Joryn had insisted that they continue on their path to the cabin of the Caradon witch he called Grandmother. She knew, as well as she knew anything, that there was no time to waste when it came to stopping this madness.

  Fortunately he had seen the wisdom of her suggestion, and they traveled a different path away from the stream. -They would stop less often for rest, sleeping in shifts and for short snatches of time. From here on out they had no choice but to trust one another. They were truly comrades. Partners. Mates?

  He refused to believe that was possible, and she wanted to agree with him wholeheartedly. But there were too many facts which hinted otherwise.

  What if, against all reason, the Caradon kidnapper truly was her mate? Not simply the lover the prophesy had named, but her actual lifelong mate. What if he was the one she’d been waiting for? If something didn’t happen quickly, she would be forced to kill him before she knew with certainty. Was she meant to live her life alone, without that which she craved most?

  They remained on a narrow wooded path throughout the afternoon and into the night, and she sensed no malevolent presence. No presence at all. There was no recent scent of Caradon on this trail, other than Joryn’s, and his scent was different from the others. She had come to know it well. While the Caradon scent she had caught on the trail this morning had put her on edge, Joryn’s seemed more pleasant. More … hers.

  Last night’s trance should’ve satisfied her for at least a few days, but at the moment she didn’t feel at all satisfied. What if Joryn was her mate, and they only had these few days together?

  It didn’t matter. He had made it very clear that he didn’t want her in that way … or in any other way. He had been truly horrified at her suggestion that they might be mates for life, even if his life was destined to last only until the next full moon. She would never forget the expression on his face when she’d voiced her concerns.

  He wanted no bonds, no connection that went to the heart and soul. His freedom was important to him, and he was clearly horrified by the Anwyn traditions. Love, commitment, forever. Why did he. think of those as unwelcome burdens instead of heavenly gifts?

  Keelia knew she could play his game and beg him to make love to her, as he had suggested, and she could pretend that what she wanted went no deeper than the sexual connection to which he assigned so little importance. But that would be a lie of the worst sort, a lie of the heart.

  She saw well enough in the dark, and when she looked back, her gaze dropped to Joryn’s wounded leg to study it with genuine concern. He’d left that trouser leg rolled up, so she could see that the bite mark was already healing—at least on the outside. “Do you need to rest?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  She w
ished she could see inside him to know if he was truly well or if he was hiding his pain in the name of making progress. Even though he no longer wore the silver bracelet, his thoughts were dark to her. He did still carry it in his pack. Was that enough to keep all knowledge of him from her?

  “There’s water up ahead,” she said. “Not much further. Perhaps we should stop mere for a while.”

  His eyebrows arched in surprise. “You’ve been this way … ?” He stopped abruptly. “No, you just know what’s ahead, is that it?”

  “I know some of what’s ahead.” Not all. Not anywhere close to all.

  “When we come to water, we’ll rest but not for long.”

  He was as anxious to find the Caradon wizard as she was.

  As they trudged forward, she tried to imagine taking Joryn’s life if they could not stop the curse in time. She would rather be dead than be turned into a monster so she understood his request, but still… could she take his life? Could she continue to dream about lying beneath him, about hearing him laugh, and then, if time ran out and they didn’t destroy the stone, kill him? How. would she accomplish the task? Widi her claws or his dagger or some other weapon which she did not yet possess? She tried to imagine… and could not.

  They came upon a small pool of water, and not very far away from that pool was a flat, grassy area that would serve well enough as a place for them to rest. They would sleep one at a time from here on out. Monsters were out mere, and even though they didn’t smell or sense that the beasts were near, that didn’t mean the tilings couldn’t move near very quickly.

  “You sleep first,” Joryn said.

  “I’m not all that tired, and you’re injured,” Keelia argued. “Why don’t you go ahead and rest while I keep watch?”

  He looked at her oddly, and almost smiled. “You didn’t issue a command that I sleep first. You sound almost reasonable, and very unqueenly.”

  She could take offense, but chose not to. “I’m trying to compromise. I’m trying to approach this venture as your partner, not your Queen.”

  “You’re not my Queen.”

  “As I am very well aware.” She had to admit, while the words had initially annoyed her, she did wish Joryn would call her “My Red Queen” just once more. “Are you trying to start an argument? You seem very irritable tonight.”

  “I was bitten, which gives me the right to be irritable “

  “I suppose it does,” she agreed.

  He crossed the distance between them and placed a hand on her cheek. It was an easy hand, and the touch was gentle. That caress, simple as it was, reminded Keetia of her visions, and she wanted what she dreamed of to come true. She was tired of living in her head, of experiencing life and love in a pristine world of her own making, instead of in the real world where it came with complications and uncertainties. She had planned to visit that alternate world again tonight, to ease the pain of not having what she wanted, but suddenly that illusion of love seemed cold and lonely. She wanted more. She wanted all the complications that came with having a real and true lover.

  “Truth be told,” Joryn said, “I don’t think I can sleep. Not for a while, at least. Would you mind if I took the first watch?”

  “Not at all,” she whispered. “Wake me when you’re ready to rest. Don’t let me sleep too long”

  “I won’t.”

  He dropped his hand, and she drew her gown over her head. As the once fine frock was all the clothing she possessed at the moment, she needed to preserve it as much as possible. Besides, the night air was warm enough. She was very well aware of Joryn’s gaze on her body as she lowered herself to the ground, and she wished once again for a peek into his mind.

  Joryn swore he would never take a mate, but did he long, deep down, for more than fleeting relationships that were doomed from the beginning? Did he ever, in the .deepest part of his heart, long for that which he did not think he was meant to have?

  No matter how diligently she tried to see into Joryn’s mind, all remained inaccessible. Dark.

  Complicated.

  *

  The light rain that had been falling half the day hadn’t slowed Ariana and Sian’s travel, but it did mean they pitched a tent when it was time to make camp for the night. A few of the Anwyn soldiers pitched tents, too, but those who were on watch didn’t seem to be bothered by the gentle shower.

  Under the protective canvas of their shelter, Sian cast a circle of wizard’s light. Ariana studied the Prophesy of the Firstborn by that light, searching for a clue she might’ve missed. The majority of the body of the document was clear to her, except for the phrase One will find and wield the crystal dagger. One will betray love in the name of victory. The more she thought on it, the more sure she was that Lyr was meant to wield the dagger. Not only was he Prince of Swords and therefore gifted with blades of all sorts, he was also staunchly noble. She could not see Lyr betraying anyone or anything.

  The writings in the margins were even less precise than the body of the prophesy. The drawings were almost maddening, and in one margin there was written, Those who are called must choose between love and death, between heart and intellect, between victory of the sword and victory of the soul.

  Ariana had chosen between life and death when she’d had to decide in an instant whether to return to Sian and the battle or rest easy in the Land of the Dead. Sian said he’d been offered a similar choice when she’d asked him to take her life if Diella rose up and claimed possession of her body.

  What of the others? What of Lyr and Keelia? They had been called just as she had, though they didn’t vet know of the prophesy Sian’s grandfather had written on his deathbed. For Ariana, the decision had been an easy one. Sian proclaimed he’d faced no real choice at all, that he would not have killed her even if doing so would’ve saved the world. Realizing how detached Keelia could be, Ariana wondered if the choice of the soul, the choice of love, would come as easily for the Queen. And Lyr… Lyr was so young, and he was a soldier who would be naturally inclined to choose the sword.

  Ariana had realized that the growth of love in this world made the demon weaker, that the might of that powerful energy sapped the Isen Demon’s strength. Her cousins wouldn’t understand that fact. Not yet. Not until she had the chance to speak to them, face-to-face.

  “Your grandfather should’ve been more specific.”

  Sian wrapped a protective arm around her. “My grandfather wasn’t specific when he was well, and he was quite ill when he penned this prophesy.”

  His arm was warm, his body close to hers was comforting in a time when comfort was treasured.

  “I just wish I knew .. .”

  Sian rolled up the paper she’d been studying and moved it out of her reach. Though she was tempted, she did not try to snatch it back.

  “We are not meant to know,” he said logically and with a maddening calmness. “Not yet.”

  The rain increased and pattered more loudly against the tent above their heads, making Ariana glad for the shelter. And for the privacy. “I could not do this without you,” she said, dismissing her worry for a moment. Or two.

  The wizard’s light extinguished, Sian’s lips met hers, and Ariana gladly put war, demons, and her cousins from her mind.

  *

  7

  The bite on Joryn’s leg healed quickly, as was usual, but he could almost feel the poison in his blood. It did not weaken or sicken him, but still… he sensed the wrongness of the venom.

  As they traveled, Keelia chattered often, in a way she had not in the time he’d known her. She spoke about her family—parents, brothers, and a spoiled sister; aunts, uncles, endless cousins—telling tales from long ago as if he knew them, or ever would. The concept of family was not entirely wasted on him, but he did wonder at Ihe wisdom of maintaining such strong bonds over the years. He did not tell her that he found her tales odd. His wound—and the fact that she could not see with any certainty the result of it—had made her anxious, and the chatter apparently calmed her n
erves. He would wager that the Anwyn Queen was not often uncertain.

  In the two days since the attack, Joryn had often wished that he’d swallowed his pride and obeyed her early morning command for sexual gratification. Their coming together would’ve felt just as good as if he had commanded her to please him, he imagined. It would have been as pleasurable as if she had begged, as he’d angrily suggested. Being constantly close to her did nothing to ease his natural desire for her… though he tried to convince himself that he would’ve felt the same for any woman in this situation, even if she were not so beautiful or so brave.

  There was no trail to speak of in this wooded terrain, but he could tell that others had walked this forest not so long ago. Unnatural disturbances marked the paths they had taken. A broken twig, a bush’s branches moved aside, a scuffed place in the dirt or in fallen leaves. Keelia seemed not to see these disturbances, and yet she continued to move in a direction that possessed the markings of other travelers.

  She marched before him, her path taking them down for a long ways, and then up and across the mountain in a manner that was not at all arduous. Still, the journey was beginning to tell on her. Her hair was tangled, and her gold gown had been snagged on brambles and branches in several places and was also ripped along the hem. She scratched her own skin often, but she seemed not to feel the pain, and like him, she healed quickly. There was determination in her stride and even in her chatter.

  Without warning, she stopped. Caught by surprise, Joryn took one step too many and ran into her. When she stumbled at the collision, he steadied her with his hands on her bare arms. She did not shake him off as she once would’ve, but instead turned her head up to the bit of sky they could see through the treetops.

  “A storm’s coming. A big one.” She sighed. “We don’t have time for this delay, but I’m afraid we won’t make much more progress today.”

  Joryn studied the blue skies with skepticism. “It doesn’t look like rain, much less a storm.”

  “Well, it’s coming nevertheless.” She resumed her journey, but this time the path seemed to veer in another direction. “It won’t do us any good to get stuck in mud behind a curtain of rain that obscures our vision.”