Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  He traced it with his thumb.

  Her stomach contracted beneath his touch, and he heard the quick intake of breath.

  Tili drew back his fingers, both amused and chastising his stupidity for touching her. Yet a dart of surprise and attraction pushed his gaze to hers. Those green eyes were molten. Sultry. His thoughts careened from touch to reaction and back, eliciting a swell of desire.

  Cheeks stained—embarrassment or attraction, mayhap both?—Astadia shoved down her tunic. “You pleased now?” At her ill-spoken words, she shot a look at him, her gaze indignant and brightened by the flush. “I—is that proof enough that I can do this?”

  What was she like, when she did not kill or maim? When she did not feel the need to throw daggers, with her hands or her eyes? He wanted to see that side of her.

  Her lips parted.

  An ache wormed through Tili to know what this girl—for she could be no more than twenty cycles—tasted of. There was more of her he wanted to touch, which he shouldn’t want. But he did. And it frustrated him. He knew not what she’d been through. Nor would he take advantage of her or sully his father’s name or his own.

  Bouncing his gaze between those wide eyes and her lips, Tili somehow managed to reseat himself, closing his mind to the way her belly had rolled at his touch. Contracted. Involuntary.

  From his chair, he recalled how her throat processed the swallow that allowed her to resume her work. Gentle, more hesitant this time, she worked. Her fingers braced his head and adjusted the angle as she leaned in.

  ’Twas maddening the way she worked, her tongue caught between those pink lips. Her breath skating along his neck. Along his jaw as she stitched. Every once in a while, she’d crane closer, her breath a whisper along his cheek, driving him blazing mad. Loose strands of her hair brushed his chin, teasing him like that flash of flesh.

  Tili fisted his hand, forcing his mind to better places.

  Like death.

  There were dead Pathfinders. Dead Silvers. Who’d cut him. And he needed her tender—tending.

  She let out a huff, her breath tracing his neck and snaking down his shirt. He clenched his eyes. Opened and closed his fist. Open. Close. But it played, over and over in his head—touching her. Skin and muscle contracting.

  Somehow, his gaze found her lips. Watched them. Though she lived on the land, her lips were not parched or cracked. They looked soft. And he would know the feel of them. Even as that thought slid through his mind and will, a shadow moved behind her.

  Tensed, Tili realized it was the Tahscan whose scimitar throw had saved him in the battle. “Thank ye,” he called, grateful—desperate—for the distraction.

  The Tahscan stopped and stepped back into sight, frowning.

  “For saving me. Earlier,” Tili explained, pointing to the wound.

  The man screwed up his brow and shook his head.

  “When ye threw yer scimitar into the Silver’s chest.”

  The gnarled, thick brow pushed into the man’s eyes now. He pointed to Astadia. “Thank her.”

  Right. She was stitching him. “Aye, but ye—”

  “She grabbed the bloody weapon out of my hand and threw it.” He held up a meaty paw. “Never seen anything like it. The power that drove it—she might be a small thing, but she knows how to handle a blade.”

  Tili slid his gaze to Astadia.

  Annoyance played through her pretty features. “Keep still or I’ll drive this needle through your neck and bleed you.” She gripped his chin and turned it back to the tent opening. “Last stitch.” A moment later, she snipped the thread. Wrapped a clean cloth around his neck.

  “Ye? Ye did that?”

  “What? You think only men can?”

  “Nay.” He blinked. “I . . . ’Twas a Tahscan blade. I assumed—”

  “Mm,” she said, her breath teasing his neck again. “You did.”

  “I thank ye.” Somehow, Tili’s hand found her waist. His pulse roared at her response, the way she stilled, that belly muscle doing its dance again. The way her lips parted. The way her eyes drifted to his.

  Tili rose, catching her other side and pulling her close. Surprise flicked through him again at her small stature, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. But there was more surprise that she wasn’t pressing a blade to his throat as he took hold of her.

  Dark brown hair framed her round face. Her lips were pink like the blush that filled her cheeks and played thief with his mind, his willpower.

  Father would not approve. Tili wasn’t even sure he approved. He cared not. She was beautiful. Amazing. So soft beneath his touch. Tili angled down for the kiss.

  She curled into him

  Blazes! Don’t do it. Cross this line, there’s no going back.

  To temper the thunder of his pulse, he brushed back a strand caught on her lip. But the roar increased, especially when he traced her jaw and she shuddered and turned into his touch. Eyes closing. Then coming to his, their sultry message clear. She was ready. Willing. Very willing.

  Just because ye can, doesn’t mean ye should.

  The voice of reason, his father, was right. Kissing her, taking this innocence—was there an ounce of innocence in this girl?—made him no different than any other man in the camp. He would not do that. He would be set apart. Hoist himself above the fray.

  Tili lifted his head. Nudged her back. “Mercy,” he tried, but it came out a croak. When he saw the surprise, the hurt, the embarrassment that flashed through her, he pushed himself past her, forcing himself to break free of the headiness before it was too late. Before he caved. “Thank ye for the ministra—”

  Thunk! Something smacked the back of his head.

  Tili spun, feeling the raw tug of the stitches along his throat. Feeling the coldness in the hot air, caused by the loss of her nearness. Holding the back of his head, he scowled at her. “What—”

  “What is wrong with you?” Hands on those hips he’d held just a second ago, Astadia glowered. Her face was flushed, but no longer with attraction. With anger. Indignation.

  “Naught, I—”

  “Then is it me?” Her voice pitched, hurt playing along the piqued tones. “Am I not good enough for you?”

  “What?”  Tili scowled, hating the way her eyes seeped with anguish. “How could—”

  “That’s twice you stole that kiss from me.”

  Tili’s eyes widened, stunned. It wasn’t right for a woman to pursue him. He didn’t want that. It’d been the way of life all these years. He didn’t need another simpering . . .

  She was not simpering. She was . . . demanding.

  A new twist, that.

  “Are you afraid of a woman? Of me?”

  “Afraid—” Cocking his head, Tili bit off the phrase. “I’m afraid of nothing, save doing wrong by ye.”

  “Doing wrong?” Her expression, taut with surprise and hesitation, stood guard over her wounded heart. “How?”

  “We are at war, Astadia.” He motioned to the tent beyond, the chaos that had nearly decimated their numbers. “I have no idea if I will live to see the next rise, and if we do manage to survive this, what will be left of the kingdom I’m to rule.”

  “Rule?” She frowned, then lifted a hand. “Haegan is the prince.”

  “Of Seultrie, aye. I am—” Tili jerked straight, realization thudding against his supposition that she knew his identity. “Ye don’t know.”

  She shifted, clearly uncomfortable that he had a point she didn’t grasp. “What?”

  Tili swallowed, her attraction to him taking on a new light. A new . . . newness. No female had come after him without wanting his crown—as well as one of her own—and the power that would be his as king. This sprig of a girl, fierce with a blade and lightning-fast, made no pretense of her attraction and yet had no awareness of whom she pursued.

  Which made it all the more important that he refrain from indulgence. From compromising his integrity or hers. “Astadia, my father is Thurig, King of Ybienn and the Northl
ands. I am heir to the throne—if there is one left when I return.”

  Wide eyes bulged. Suddenly, she scoffed. “Then that’s it.” A shrug-nod-shake. “I’m not good enough. Because you’re a . . . prince?”

  “Blazes! Yer position has naught to do with my restraint.” His head wobbled again. Blast, he was tired. “I care not—” The world tilted. Tili steadied himself by gripping the back of the chair, his vision swimming as he then moved to the tent post. “Hiel-touck!” He cursed his weakness. His inability to convey his thoughts plainly to her.

  “Sit.” Her word was tight as she pointed back to a chair. “Yer head is still thick from the blood loss.”

  Trust himself to stay so close to her still? “Nay, I go . . .” He held the post, bracing and mustering the courage to walk out. Find his own tent. Get a good night’s rest. He clenched his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, willing the dizzies to flee.

  The air shifted beneath him, swirling, sweet. He opened them to find its source, and discovered Astadia’s wide, warm eyes glowing inches from his. She had ducked under his arm, her spine to the post he still gripped, and eased close. Very close. Strangely innocent despite her profession.

  Aye, that would go over well with Father, bringing home an assassin as my intended. And yet, there was so much that drew him to this assassin like a sparker to the Flames. “Astadia . . .”

  Touching his beard, she rose on tiptoes, gaze dipping to his mouth, and pressed hers lips to his. Soft. Gentle. Inviting. Warm. Teasing.

  Tili groaned at her plying, knowing he should step away.

  He inched closer.

  Shouldn’t touch her.

  Somehow, his hand came to her hip again. This time, when she drew back a fraction, desperation coiled through him. He tightened his hold, unwilling to lose this or her. Unwilling to listen to his good mind telling him to step off. A glimmer of a smile washed through her face before she angled in. Kissed him again, this time firmer, longer. More confidently.

  Willpower collapsing, Tili returned the kiss. Slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her against himself. He dove headlong into what he’d resisted. Her arms slunk around his waist and reached up his back.

  With a groan, Tili hooked an arm over her shoulder and crushed her into his hold. He deepened the kiss, alive with passion and urgency. Surprised by her willingness and softness. Her curves. Soft moans that rippled through her.

  A fiery pain shot through his neck—her fingers catching on the stitches. Tili grunted and jerked back.

  “Mercy, mercy,” she said, her breath coming in heaves. “Please—”

  Holding his neck, the fire excruciating, he let out a ragged breath. Shook his head and swallowed. “Blazes, girl.”

  She aimed again for another kiss, apparently as hungry as he was for what erupted between them. So sweet, so taunting was her kiss.

  “Oy,” Tili said, veering her back, cupping her face and tracing his thumb along her jaw.

  A frown tightened her features. “What?”

  “Enough,” Tili said, still trying regulate his breathing and yet seeing the hurt in her gaze.

  “You do not want me?”

  “Oh, naught could be more a lie.” And somehow, his lips were on hers again. Her face cradled in his hand, the other twisting into her hair and bracing the back of her head, holding her close. The kiss was instantly deep and passionate. He kissed a line along her jaw, relishing the moans that rumbled against his lips, fueling his passion. Knowing it would take little to cross the line. Knowing he wanted to.

  With a growl, he buried his face in her neck. “Nay nay nay,” he breathed hard. “This cannot be.”

  “Steward?”

  Tili flinched and drew straight. Glanced over his shoulder to where Tokar stood, the young man’s knowing gaze holding him hostage. Annoyance cloyed at Tili—both that he’d given in to his desires and that Tokar had discovered them. “Aye?” he snapped, refusing to step away from or release Astadia, to make himself look guilty.

  Yet in that instant, he saw the truth of this situation. He was a prince, tethered to the throne of Nivar, to leadership of a country and people. And she . . . she was an assassin. A killer. Death in the shadows. No loyalty except to the blade.

  She would never be accepted by the people. By his father. And therefore, no union would exist between them. ’Twas one thing to pursue someone not of noble blood, but to pursue someone covered in the blood of—the Lady only knew how many . . .

  Folly. ’Twas naught but folly.

  He angled more toward Tokar. “What?!”

  Tokar slid a look—disapproving and disappointed—between them again, before he shifted away and threw over his shoulder. “The Fierian would see you.”

  Tili ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Turned back to Astadia—but instead found an empty tent. Light glared then snapped shut as the side slat closed.

  “Hiel-touck,” he muttered with a heavy exhale, swiping a hand over his mouth and face. He knew better. Knew better than to turn his attention to the fairer sex. Trouble. It was always trouble.

  29

  Strange how the air felt cooler with his hair gone. Haegan ran his hand over his shorn head and smiled, remembering the gaping expressions from the Pathfinders. From Tokar and Praegur. It had been oddly liberating.

  His smile faded as the tormented murmurs from the healer’s wagon broke out afresh. The plaintive cries made Haegan tilt his head to see past the canopy shielding the Drigo and his father. There had been no progress, no healing. Only moans and wails. Murmurings. Agonized.

  Agonizing for not just his father, but for Haegan and those gathered. Those who had served and fought with the mighty Fire King. The mightiest in generations.

  Haegan climbed into the wagon and knelt at the cot where his father twisted and twitched, brow bathed in sweat. He swallowed hard at the ragged appearance—even with a shave and sponge bath. “Father.”

  His father stilled, wild vacant eyes searching the air. What world he saw, Haegan knew not, but ’twasn’t the one in which they stood.

  “Father, ’tis me, Haegan—I’m here.” He placed his hand over knobby fingers.

  For a blink, his father remained still. “Not real,” he whispered.

  “Aye, real. I am real, my father-king.” He squeezed his hand and edged closer. “I’m here. Haegan—your son. I’m here.”

  Frantic shakes of his father’s head tossed wavy blond hair. “Nay.” He groaned. “Nay, not real. Haegan . . .”

  “Aye, Fa—”

  “Haegan’s in the tower. Can’t walk.” Grief churned through the sunken cheeks. “My fault. Should’ve . . . stopped.”

  “Father, I’m here. I was healed, remember? Abiassa chose me. I’m the Fierian.”

  A blood-curdling scream wrenched his father’s spine upward. Contorted his face in rage and agony.

  Startled, Haegan pitched backward. Stumbled. Felt himself falling.

  A viselike grip clamped his wrist. Yanked him forward.

  Haegan stared into the hooded eyes of the Drigo, his mind rattled and ears scorched from his father’s wails, still shrieking through the day.

  The Drigo nodded to Haegan, as if to be sure he was steady, then released and moved to his father. Administered medications, balms. The screams quieted but little before Haegan pushed out of the wagon. Landed with a thud, his heart pounding. When he looked up, he found several people staring. Apologetic. Sympathizing.

  He shoved himself around, right into the broad chest of the Tahscan. “I beg your mercy—”

  “You saved him, Fierian.”

  Haegan snorted at the Tahscan commander. “I’m not sure what I saved, but ’tis not my father.”

  “Give not the victory to the Desecrator.”

  “For my father, the work is done. He is lost to madness.” Haegan ground his teeth, remembering well what it was like to be drowning in inflamed doubts and fears. “He was held too long, inflamed too . . . pervasively.”

  “You sa
ved him. Freed him from—”

  “Freed him?” Incredulous, Haegan shouted at the man, “Do you hear that?” He stabbed a hand toward the wagon. “Does that sound like freedom?”

  “It sounds like pain,” Praegur said, joining them.

  “Aye.” The Tahscan stayed calm, confident. “Freedom is never painless, Fierian.”

  Haegan sniffed and shook his head. Turned.

  “Maybe you should have left him there, then?”

  Stilled, Haegan closed his eyes. Told himself not to respond. Not to blast this warrior out of existence. Yet the words defied his will and escaped, “Left him there.”

  “You said he’s not free. If you had left him, he would have died. Is that freedom of which you approve?”

  Haegan swung around, a blue halo rushing out.

  Vaqar smiled and lifted his chin. “Your anger is also born of pain, Fierian. The pain of seeing one you love hurting.” He inclined his head. “He will heal. Perhaps not in total, but it will take awhile for the poison of her words to fade. While we wait, we fight—for those we love. We fight the Desecrator. We fight our frustration. Our weariness.”

  The words sunk in like a warm balm to his wounded soul. Haegan hesitated, lowering his wielding hand. Realized this warrior had probably lost someone he loved. “Was it a woman?”

  Small and faint, a smile rose then fell through his earthy features. “They all were.”

  “All?”

  “Sisters, friends, aunts.”

  “Why did you leave them?”

  “They rest in Primar’s embrace.”

  “They’re dead.”

  Again, Vaqar inclined his head. “At the queen’s hand. She punished them because of me, because I refused to bow to her will or the Infantessa’s.”

  “I . . . I did not know.”

  We fight—for those we love.

  Love.

  Thiel.

  He must find a remedy. Before it was too late. Before . . . Was it too late for her? Had Cadeif ravished her? If so, ’twould be the last thing he did.