Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  “Had I your gift,” Vaqar added, “I would have wiped out anyone and everyone after the death of my family. No mercy, no restraint. My response would have been only anger and violence.”

  Something in Haegan trembled at the thought. A piece of him, tethered to the past. To the cripple who had lain in the tower. The teen who fled a father’s rage. Was that only a cycle past?

  “I fear we warriors are all the same,” Graem acknowledged with a half smile. “Our hands are trained to war.”

  “Ye are not.” Tili held his gaze and let the words sink in.

  Haegan winced. “I’ve failed—I tried to kill Poired and couldn’t. He nearly killed me. Twice.”

  “Ye said they forbid ye—that ’tis not for ye to do,” Tili said. “Those incipients also used my sister against ye, to break yer thoughts, yer focus.”

  Aye. They had. And he must remedy that. “I have to learn to recognize the inflaming more quickly.”

  “That is my role, Fierian,” Vaqar said. “That is why the Guardian sent me. And though I would as soon cut off my nose as take in that stench again, it is an honor to serve the Lady with you if it means we free our world of incipients.”

  32

  Tahscan steel flashed in the midafternoon sun, delivering the land of one more Sirdarian. Cries of shock went up, but the crowd quickly stepped away. The people were as ready as he for the land to be rid of the vermin. They had been persecuted long enough by the darkness.

  Had Haegan seen that deliverance?

  Amid the people and routing trouble, Tili shifted his gaze up to the windows of the castle, searching for the prince. There, a curtain drifted closed. Just as well. Haegan was not a warrior, though he had been called to war. Truth be told, even Tili longed to leave this war behind, to sit by the fire for a few weeks and sip cordi. Laugh at Relig’s humorless reports on the state of Ybienn, and perhaps even entertain the odd offer of marriage.

  Entertain. But never take seriously.

  He scanned the unit with him—his men, Tralak, Asokin, Crigor—for a smaller, rounder face. Soft, full lips. He’d angered her by taking the higher road. Acting with honor. Honor, however, would have been not taking that kiss from her in the first place.

  “Sir,” a lean Pathfinder approached Laerian. “Reports are coming in of a handful of Sirdarians slipping out through the woods.”

  Tili’s gaze hit the blackened carcasses of the trees, their spindly arms stripped of leaves from a fire. No doubt incipient-incited. A thick haze still lingered.

  “Steward,” came a firm voice—a Tahscan. He nodded toward the northernmost edge.

  Tili saw nothing at first. But then, the slightest flicker of movement. Darting in and out. Small, lithe. Lightning-fast.

  Astadia.

  She must’ve spotted the incipients. She’d get herself killed confronting incipients. But as an assassin, she would know when the odds were against her. That would temper her, would it not?

  She’s still angry about Trale.

  “On me!” He threw himself up onto his horse, rammed his heels into the destrier’s flanks, and gave pursuit. His men pounded across the field and into the trees, spreading out to avoid the trunks and fallen limbs.

  Blinding light shot out. Trees cracked, thundered as they collapsed in exhausted defeat. Smoke billowed.

  Another explosion, this one more southward. He redirected his horse, men shouting directions.

  Crack! Boom!

  Each explosion he took as a sign that she was alive, still tracking. Immersed in the blackened remains of the forest, Tili followed the telltale cracks of wielding.

  It fell silent. Light surrendered to the smoky haze. Drawing his long blade, Tili slowed his destrier, listening. Readied for an attack. He slid his gaze to Adassi, the Tahscan, to see if he detected anything.

  C’mon, Astadia . . . where are ye?

  “The smoke is thick,” Adassi said, shaking his head.

  Was that impeding him? A potential weakness? If it was, then the incipients would exploit it.

  “South,” Adassi announced.

  “Yah!” Even as his heels met meaty flanks, Tili saw a shadow spirit through the smoky haze to his right. Was that Astadia? He veered toward her. Heat sent rivers of sweat down his back and chest. He ignored the tickle, attuning his senses to the popping trees.

  “There!” Tralak hissed.

  “Careful,” Tili warned. “Don’t hit the assassin.”

  “One less killer,” someone muttered.

  Tili jerked his eyes toward the voice but could not discern who’d made the comment. “She dies, ye answer to me.”

  Marginally repentant gazes slid away with lowered heads.

  As they rode, searching for incipients or Astadia, Tili grew convinced they were giving themselves away with the horses. He needed more stealth. Track the way Elan had taught him. He slid from the horse. Gave its flank a slap then scurried up to a tree. ’Twas quiet. Very easy to walk into an ambush.

  Stalking, he put every ounce of training into play. Freshly broken branches. Subtle depressions in the ash-covered floor. Though he skated his gaze around, he paid more attention to what he heard.

  The men moving farther off.

  Something told Tili to wait. To hang back. As if a hand rested on his shoulder, staying him. He anticipated an ambush from the rear, so he let the others move ahead and pivoted, walking backward. When their noises grew faint, he lifted a foot to trail them.

  Shapes peeled from the trees. Darker. Tall. His heart crashed against his ribs, watching them. Stealthy. Almost inhuman. Incipients.

  Ambush.

  Tili freed his dagger. Wished for the Nivari. For the seasoned fighters who knew the benefit of waiting. Listening. Even as he aimed at the closest attacker, he drew a second blade. Threw the first with a heated wake.

  It thumped into a man’s neck. He wilted to the ground with a soft thump. Dead. No crying out.

  Eying the unaware incipients stealing through the trees, Tili balanced the second blade on his fingers.

  Voices skated out, and he froze. One voice came from behind. Her voice. Astadia.

  Never losing sight of the incipient following his men, he sidestepped. As he did, her voice grew louder. And another. A man’s. Tili couldn’t afford to betray his position but itched to alert the others to the ambush.

  “You are mad.”

  “I assure you, I’m not.”

  At the lulled conversation, Tili slid up to a scorched tree and watched the two shapes in the gray veil. Astadia and . . . Drracien. What was she doing talking with the traitor? Is that why she’d come? Had she known? Was this a rendezvous?

  “No. I won’t go with you.”

  “You must have sensed you were not who they said,” Drracien said. “Trale was not your brother.”

  “He was more brother than you will ever be. Even dead.”

  A subtle crackling noise thrummed through the woods.

  “Release me,” she hissed, “so I can drive my dagger into your black heart.”

  Halo. Tili inched forward, peering through gnarled branches. As expected, a faint blue glow surrounded her.

  “Killing me won’t end this,” she gritted out.

  “Killing you? I do that, and I lose my own life,” Drracien said. “You have to come back. He wants you. He won’t stop until he has his daughter.”

  What was this? Tili himself struggled to breathe—was the traitor insinuating Astadia was Poired’s . . . daughter? And Drracien—her brother?

  “I am not his daughter! I have no father.” Her chin was tipped up, so completely that breathing had to be a chore.

  This was absurd. Laughable. Ludicrous!

  Why? Because you found her attractive? Kissed her?

  He’d kissed the daughter of the Dark One. Something in him recoiled.

  Inflaming. Had to be. Could be the only explanation for this. Drracien turning her will weak so she wouldn’t fight him? She was an assassin and could easily end him before he would k
now her blade had flown.

  And if Drracien’s manipulation worked, she might drive that blade against Tili without meaning to or even realizing she had.

  Tili gauged his options. Kill the traitor—would anything happen to Astadia in the halo if he did? Or would she turn on him, for killing this brother, too? He hadn’t killed Trale with his own hands, but in her eyes, he’d done that very thing with inaction.

  Why did he trust her or even care? If she was the Desecrator’s spawn, he couldn’t. She would try to stop Haegan from fulfilling his role.

  Matters not. Capture them both. Sort it out with the Fierian later.

  “Steward Tili!”

  Tili jolted. In a heartbeat, both Astadia and Drracien homed in on him.

  The traitor whipped back to Astadia. “Come with me.” Drracien held out a hand, the air around him tearing open.

  That black creature leapt from the space and sprinted at Tili. The terrifying, wispy raqine growl-chortled.

  Heart in his throat, he threw himself to the side. He felt the threat sink into his bones. Twine around his throat and squeeze. In the same instant, he saw Drracien wielding fervently—restraining the beast but also controlling the tear in time’s fabric.

  The bubble around Astadia constricted. She cried out, the scream seemingly lodged in her throat. Drracien drew the halo toward the tear.

  Wide green eyes came to Tili as he climbed to his feet again. Astadia hung in frozen terror, her mouth gaping. Body rigid. And yet everything about her seemed to beg for help.

  “No!” Though breathing was nearly impossible and a raqine paced violently between Tili and the tear, Tili pitched himself straight at the bubble. There was naught else for him to do but try. Though it may kill him.

  The shredded raqine shrieked. Claws lifted as he rippled into the air, jaw wisping open. It lunged at Tili.

  Knocked him aside. Tili thudded against the ground. But his fingers grazed the halo, the heat searing. That slight touch, his vain attempt to save her, had nudged the halo farther into the tear that started closing.

  He flipped onto his feet and again threw himself at the strange gap between worlds. The edges slid together, seams stitching tighter. As it snapped closed, Tili saw through the warping field Astadia collapsed on a black marble floor. At booted feet.

  Poired.

  Tili surged. “No!” He would not let them have her. He would not—

  A bolt exploded out. Struck him in the chest. Knocked him backward. Flipped him over and over. His back struck a tree. Crack! He dropped into darkness.

  • • •

  NIVAR HOLD, YBIENN

  Kaelyria was dead. Rotting and decaying, she lay on the cold slab of their bed. Her face as white as her hair. Gray lips. Blue fingers. Ethereally beautiful, she had been his but for a short time. Now, she remained in the eternal embrace of death.

  Aselan howled.

  He snapped awake. Drenched in a clammy sweat, he let out a gargled cry as he lurched from the bed and grabbed a chamber pot. He emptied his stomach, wishing he could empty the morbid images of her corpse from his mind. He spat and slumped back against the bed with a trembling cry. Agony tore at him, less from the wounds of the attack than from the hopelessness that grew each day without her. Arm propped on his knee, he ran his fingers through his hair, shaking. Pain flared through his fingertips. He glanced at them, cringing at the swollen remnants of Legier’s bite. ’Twould take time to heal. More time, even, than the bones that, days after his fall, had barely begun to knit back together.

  But he would never heal, not if she died. Not if he had to bury her.

  He must do something. Get out there. Find her. Track down the vile creatures who’d ripped her from the Heart. His heart. After he washed his mouth and face, he dressed, cursing the plaster-and-bandage bulk on arm and leg that made every action a chore. When, at last, he had packed a satchel of clothes, he hobbled down to the kitchens. Cook was already preparing the morning meals to break fasts. Leaning his crutch against the wall, Aselan took a couple of loaves of bread and a slab of meat. He rolled them in cloths and stuffed them clumsily in his satchel.

  “Does the king know ye be doing this?” Cook asked with a glare.

  “The king is abed, as he should be.”

  “He won’t be likin’ this.”

  “Naught I do is to his likin’.” Aselan slung the bag over his shoulder, grabbed the staff, and made his way out to the stable yard. ’Twas strange to think of Zicri and Chima not in their den. Everything had been upended in the last year. Why not the raqine as well? They were as tethered to this land as any other creature.

  He grabbed a bridle and led a black destrier out.

  “Stealing a horse of the royal guard holds stiff punishment,” came a gentle, teasing voice. Mother.

  Feeling a twinge of guilt at her presence, her awareness of what he intended, Aselan used his good arm to heave the saddle onto the horse’s back. As the heavy equipment thumped into place, the animal skittered, unused to such careless treatment. Aselan stroked its neck and considered how he would buckle the girth with one hand.

  His mother approached and ran her left hand down the horse’s shoulder, reaching under with her right to grip the girth and bring it into place. “Your father will not be pleased.” Using her toes for leverage, she pulled up on the straps to tighten the girth.

  Surprise bled into his guilt as he watched her help. “Aye, but I must go,” Aselan said. “I canno’ sit in here and endure one more night of dreaming she is dead because I have no’ come in time.”

  She glanced up at him, a hand still on the saddle. “Where will you search?”

  “I’m a skilled tracker.”

  “And a man blinded by rage and love with a body broken by enemy attacks.”

  Aselan shoved his crutch into his armpit and limped out to the bailey, the destrier walking lightly alongside, his mother trailing.

  “I thought I taught ye better’n this,” came his father’s gravelly voice.

  Hesitating, Tili looked at the leather thong of the rein. “I must go.”

  “Aye, ye must, but—”

  Warning bells screamed through the early morning.

  Heart in his throat, Aselan pivoted toward the guardhouse. Glanced at the towers.

  “Rekken! Rekken!”

  Shouts and screams went up in the village just outside the gate, proof of what the guard warned.

  He spun to his father.

  “In the house,” his father barked to his mother. “Gather the women and children into the passages.”

  Aselan thought of the way the Tooth had been attacked. “Nay—not the passages. They know about them. How, I know not, but they do. They’ll throw clusters down there.”

  His mother’s face went white.

  “Dress the Nivari in peasant clothes. Send them with the women and children out the south gate. They must ride for all the world toward Baen’s Crossing.”

  “They’ll think—” His father’s face brightened. He barked a laugh. “They’ll ignore them, want to target soldiers. Might just work.”

  “Won’t stop them, but could give the women and children necessary time.”

  His father slapped him on the back, then turned to his wife. “Do as he says.” Proud eyes lit on him. “Aselan—will ye lead them?”

  Aselan hesitated, looking to the Tooth. The mountain where she’d been stolen. The incipients would not keep her up there. They were not acclimated to the mountain. So they’d go down. South was the only option other than the Outlands. “Aye,” he managed.

  • • •

  THE CITADEL, HETAERA

  “I don’t care what you do to me, I won’t be your pawn.”

  Drracien couldn’t help but stare over Poired’s shoulder at the girl hanging in the halo. She had brown hair, not black like his. Green eyes, not blue. And yet, he saw it—saw the resemblance to his own features. His own fire. Not to mention the way she’d pitched herself at Poired as soon as the halo released her onto
the floor. Her viciousness had forced them to restrain her again.

  “Easy words hastily spoken,” Poired said, hands behind his back. If Drracien hadn’t spent the last month with the Dark One, he would have said the man preened. That he was proud. Proud of her.

  “True words earnestly spoken.” Hands out, Astadia worked to balance herself in the bubble, her adamancy undeterred. “What do you want with me?” She glowered at Poired, then Drracien. “I have no gifts, no abilities like you or your rogue of a son.”

  “Oh, you have them,” Poired chuckled as he circled her. “They may be dormant, because of your unfortunate upbringing. But that . . . mistake has been answered.”

  She scoffed. “What? Are you going to tell me you killed someone because I was left in an orphanage?”

  “Nay,” he said plainly. “’Twas not I who killed her, but your brother.”

  Drracien lifted his head, squared his shoulders. Hated that she would know what he’d done. And hated even more the surprise in her eyes. He could not help but wonder why they had been split up. Was it another attempt by that woman to stop them from becoming like the Dark One? What motivated her? Money? Power?

  “When someone steals from me, they pay,” Poired continued. “If they only have flesh and blood, I take that.”

  Astadia’s green eyes held Drracien. “You’re a traitor,” she snarled. “He called you friend.”

  So, emotions then. He was coldhearted and calculating like their father, so she must take after their mother. Whoever she was. “The Fierian does not know what a friend looks like,” Drracien said, his voice quiet. “He’s an impudent prince with a power he can’t understand or control.”

  “Which we will use to our benefit,” Poired said, standing at a window that overlooked all of Hetaera, the burned city.

  Her face screwed into a mask of hatred. “Or maybe he’ll fling one of those bolts at you and relieve your skull of that glob you call a brain.”

  Drracien arched an eyebrow. “You mean like I did to your lover?”

  “I have no lover,” Astadia said.

  But he saw the widening of her eyes. Felt her body temperature rise, the halo constrict against her. So, he’d been right to think the Ybiennese prince meant something to her. A mistake to reveal that.