Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  Throat raw, Haegan nodded as the king gripped his neck and shook it—not meanly. But in affirmation. Solidarity.

  “Why did ye show us?” he asked. “Ye could have hidden it, concealed—”

  “I would have you know what we face.” Haegan held their gazes, not so much for confidence, but because he was afraid of falling into the depths of darkness that held him.

  “Will Zireli improve?” Aselan asked.

  Haegan eyed the Drigo who lumbered back down the hall, giving them a long look before making his way to the king. “The answer is not known. He is vastly improved since I carried him from the dungeons, but . . .” Haegan shook his head. “The Drigo healer tends him, however, the damage to his mind—he is lost in his thoughts, as I was, but much worse.”

  “Yet, he called to ye,” Aselan said. “Yer dreams—ye told me once a man called to ye in them. Yer father, aye?”

  Smiling, Haegan nodded. “And that keeps my hope alive. Somehow, some crevice of his abiatasso harbors what remains of the man we once knew, and I believe that is what called to me, though I knew it not at the time.” He indicated to Vaqar. “Once you have been the puppet of inflaming, the familiarity of it is welcomed by a brain and body tired of fighting. I am weary, which is why”—Haegan angled toward his advocate—“I have instituted safety measures.”

  “We will no’ speak of it. ’Twill be carried to our graves.”

  Hide it? Conceal the truth? Haegan shook his head. “Nay, though I appreciate your willingness to protect me and my father, I would have you talk of it, have it always at the front of your minds.”

  “Why?” Aselan asked, bewildered.

  “The people must know the danger. Even you are not immune,” Haegan said. “And if ’tis forgotten, we are as well.”

  39

  On the southern plains of Vid, Poired stalked the path with his black raqine, past incipients with knees pressed to the hard earth. None dared bring their eyes to the Dark One, dared tempt his patience. His anger.

  Drracien knew that fear. He walked behind him, letting the anger and annoyance seep through his skin, sink deep into his bones.

  A cluster of red tents emptied of Silvers, their gleaming helms hiding the darkness beneath. An impressive sight. All the same, he wondered if there was flesh there as well.

  Resentment tightened his breath, his steps. He had not wanted this path. Aye, the enhancement of his abilities was nice. Though he’d always been strong in wielding, what he could do now . . . And tearing open the Void? Though it also tore at his abiatasso, he could not deny the glory of wielding such power.

  “Commander ka’Dur,” Poired said, met by the high-collared incipient who emerged from the main tent, flanked by four others.

  “My lord,” ka’Dur greeted as he bowed ridiculously low, his nose nearly touching the earth.

  Impulse taunted Drracien to stomp his face into the ground he seemed so eager to eat. To dirty the well-oiled hair and the—was he wearing powders? Disgust flushed through Drracien, making him hate this man. He seized the anger, feeling it sizzle through his veins. Fuel his wielding. What had ka’Dur done to earn Poired’s attention?

  And why had he not invited his lord into the tent? A slight to be sure. As if the thought alone produced it, ka’Dur stumbled backward. Drracien smiled. Apparently Poired did not appreciate the slight either.

  “What report have you?” Poired ducked inside.

  “Mercy, my lord,” whimpered ka’Dur, realizing his error too late.

  “He wields not in mercy.” Drracien bumped his shoulder against the lesser man as he moved past him.

  The segmented interior had seating arrangements, lush sleeping quarters, gold decanters and plates . . . but it was the cage in the far corner that made Drracien’s stomach tighten.

  It held a beauty of a woman with white-gold tresses and a cobalt gown. Eyes the color of a pale sky. Princess Kaelyria. Drracien would know her anywhere.

  “What is she doing in here?” Poired snapped.

  When she did not shrink as Drracien expected, he was drawn to her. “Haegan’s sister,” he said, stalking the cage. Inspecting her.

  “You promised she would be mine—”

  Poired flicked his hand. The man staggered again. “Yes—after the battle. After this is done! Be rid of—”

  “My father,” Drracien said, his heart beating a little faster at the thought of her dying. Because he already knew the Dark One would never reward anyone for anything. He would kill her when he was done. “Such beauty should not be wasted.”

  Poired glared at Drracien. “You want this woman?”

  “She’s barely more than a girl,” Drracien said, keeping his voice amused. Wondering why he would even answer the call within him. “But she looks . . . entertaining.”

  “I fear you will not want her, my lord, when you know,” came ka’Dur’s dull voice. “She’s—”

  Drracien pivoted. Thrust out a bolt and wrapped it tight around the man’s voice. “Think not that you know anything of me or my wants.” He had never been prone to bloodlust, but seeing this worm of an incipient squirm gave him delicious pleasure.

  Poired smirked. “Leave him, Drracien.”

  Just a little more and there would be no breath . . .

  “Son. I need him.”

  Hesitating just a few more beats, Drracien released the incipient with a huff. Dragged his hooded gaze back to the princess. Did Haegan know where his sister was? Drracien could not imagine—the princeling was far too concerned about her when last they met. If he knew, he’d have come.

  And still, she did not tremble or cower. She was incredible. Regal. Proud. What iron did they breed at Seultrie, beside the Lakes of Fire? Truly, he would know.

  “Sire, with all due respect,” ka’Dur whined, “I—”

  “When people say that, it really means with no respect,” Drracien countered, pulling his gaze from the pale eyes that fastened onto him. “That you think my father too stupid to know something. Is that it?”

  The incipient glowered as Drracien again swept past him with more condescension. Tendrils of hatred and embers reached after him. Drracien stopped. “You would test me?” He faced ka’Dur, relishing the fact he was several inches taller than the putrid one. Though the incipient held a high rank and had most likely wielded for decades, he was weak.

  “Drracien, leave him,” Poired said impatiently. “Cilicien, we must talk. What of the battle? The Fierian and our spies, our efforts to seize control?”

  Face crimson and hands trembling, the incipient scurried to his master. “All is good, sire. Our spies report with regularity. Well, one or two are late, but there is no cause for alarm. We outnumber them three to one.”

  The Dark One unfolded himself and stood, hands behind his back, at the far end of the tent. “I would use Zireli’s spawn.”

  “I—no!” Cilicien argued. “She is promised to me. You can’t—”

  Poired snapped up a hand, which smacked ka’Dur with an invisible punch. “You presumed to know my son’s mind, do you dare suggest you know mine as well?” Warmth flared through the canvas walls, swelling from his anger.

  Cilicien twitched and jerked his chin down. “No. Of course not, my lord.”

  Tossing back his overcloak, Drracien lifted a bronze censer by the handle from the trunk on which it sat, infusing the tent with a strong, spicy aroma. A memory clung to the wisps of smoke rising from the holes in the orb. “My tutor at the Citadel loved this smell,” Drracien spoke. “Said it cleared his thoughts.”

  “Aye,” Cilicien said. “It does the same for me.”

  Drracien pivoted. “Does it?” As he hefted the orb, tiny flecks of the smoking wad within flaked against his hand. “If it did, you would be aware that the Fierian has taken Ironhall and is amassing an army.”

  “Ironhall?” Cilicien scowled. “It’s in ruins. What could he hope to gain by taking it?”

  Working heat into the wad, Drracien started toward the incipient. “If you
r clear senses were on the mission the Dark One gave you and not distracted by”—he turned his gaze to the cage and the princess, who pressed her spine into the bars farther from him—“you would know he is fortifying it.”

  “I . . . I had not received word. As said, a scout is—”

  Drracien pitched the censer at the man.

  Ka’Dur caught it. Took a second—shrieked, dropping the orb and blowing on his scalded hands. “Fool!”

  Darkness loomed and grew, flooding from Poired at the incipient.

  Drracien held ka’Dur’s gaze, loving the way he seemed to have forgotten so much—who was with him, who he was, who he was not.

  “Take my son’s warning and the pain in your hands as a reminder that your gifts are not permanent and are at my”—Poired cocked his head—“mercy.”

  Pale and now trembling with both fury and terror, ka’Dur nodded.

  “Pull up stakes and start north. We make for Ironhall and the Fierian.”

  “But—” Cilicien swallowed, lowered his head. Then swallowed again. “They have the advantage, if he is there. He’s had time to refortify. He’ll be prepared.”

  “If he’s there?” Drracien drew up straight. “Are you yet again challenging the Dark One?”

  Ka’Dur flinched. “Nay—I only meant . . . won’t they be expecting us?”

  “Aye.” Poired nearly smiled. “But they won’t see what’s coming. He will see his sister, and that will be our advantage.”

  40

  “I would ride with ye.”

  Tili glanced at his brother, one forearm heavily bandaged, the other hand holding reins. The lower part of his leg, which he favored heavily, was likewise wrapped in thick rags and plaster.

  “The Drigo healer has seen to me. Ye know I have trained around worse injuries.”

  With a nod, Tili relented. “I could make use of yer tracking skills, brother.”

  Nearby Astadia checked her knives, head bent low, her brow surprisingly delicate. How had he not noticed that before? He slipped closer as she tucked a throwing knife into the sheath strapped to her thigh. “Stay close to me.”

  “I have not needed your protection before now—”

  “I fear Poired will return for ye.”

  Shoulder to his arm, she brought those large green eyes to his, telegraphing her own fear of the same. With a sharp nod, she returned to checking her gear.

  “Have ye no word of Kaelyria?” Elan asked as he secured a blanket. “Of her location?”

  “Nay, nor of Kiethiel,” Tili said. “But they will both be found. Alive.” He met his brother’s gaze. “I promise ye. Haegan will not give up on his sister or ours. He loves them both.”

  “From yer lips to Her ears.” A knavish look crossed Elan’s face. “What of yers?”

  “Mine?”

  Elan glanced over his shoulder to Astadia. “Has my warring brother traded his smelly stables and clanging swords for roses and sweet whispers?”

  Tili glowered at the elder Thurig.

  “Fresh-faced. Young. No blush, but there is an eager light in her eyes when she looks upon ye.” Elan’s teasing had always been relentless. “Mother says Father is not aware of yer affection—”

  “There is no affection.” He could not believe the lie so easily escaped his lips, even as his eyes sought their father, immersed in conversation with Colonel Grinda, then searched for Astadia, hoping she hadn’t heard either.

  She stood to the side, her foot propped on a crate as she tightened her greaves.

  “’Tis not what Peani or Mother said—that ye could barely breathe in her presence.”

  “Me? Paralyzed by a woman? Ye know better, brother.”

  Concern darted through Elan’s face. “Aye. But I’ve also heard of yer character from yer men, who give tale that ye were seen kissing the girl.” Elan’s dark eyes glinted. “What of her profession?”

  Hesitating, Tili hated the truth of it. “Ye know of her?”

  “Most here do and freely speak of it. Father will not approve.”

  Tili again looked to his father and prayed his hearing had turned as gray as his hair. “But neither did he approve when ye went to the Heart for Doskari.”

  “And ye saw how that ended. ’Twas painful. It tore at the family.” He squinted at Tili. “And yet, ye are unaltered.”

  Tili stuffed on his gloves. “Never have I known a woman like her.”

  “Mayhap because most women do not run about killing people.”

  Annoyance turned Tili away, but Elan caught his arm. “Give care, brother. Assassins are trained on ripping out hearts and swaying men’s attention. They are not trained to love.”

  “Does one need training for that?”

  “Give care.”

  Tili tugged free. “Ye said that already.”

  “Could ye not choose one with softer means of breaking hearts?”

  “What? As ye did?”

  Elan’s gaze faltered. “’Tis unfair.”

  “Exactly as I thought when ye left our home for her bed.” Tili huffed, then ran a hand over his head. “I would not spar with ye, Elan. There is too much grief in this world already.”

  “Aye. It seems only right that all men should have their hearts shattered at least once.”

  Tili snorted, thoughts still heavily resting on the girl nearby, the one who’d donned leathers and daggers. The one who could hold her own against any Pathfinder.

  ’Twas strange to think of her—in truth, to have concern for any female. He was trained to protect. What was to be said of a woman better trained than her bound?

  “The assassin rides with me,” Grinda announced.

  Heat shot across Tili’s shoulders, praying in earnest his father had not heard. Praying Astadia did not go with the Pathfinder.

  “Assassin?” Thurig asked, ears always too sharp. “Of whom do ye speak, Colonel?”

  With his back to his father, Tili eyed Astadia, who slid two short swords into their sheaths crisscrossing her spine. She showed nothing that betrayed concern or annoyance regarding the question hanging over the bailey as she caught Grinda’s hand and flew effortlessly up onto his mount. Nowhere except her eyes. Tili saw it. Hurt. Fear.

  Anger snaked through him. He fisted a hand. Whether over the taunts or that she clung to another man, he could not discern. Mayhap both.

  “Have ye not heard, King Thurig?” Grinda said, holding a gauntlet toward her. “We have the loyalty of a Devoted, one of Poired’s assassins.”

  “Aye, she’s also his daughter,” Laerian chuckled, nodding to Aburas, who would join them on the patrol. “Dare you to spar with her.”

  His father’s ruddy face neither colored nor paled. He simply measured the girl on the horse beside the colonel. “If ye trust her . . .”

  “Aye,” Grinda said, his hair bright in the afternoon sun. “As far as my blade extends.”

  “That close?” Astadia purred, her defiance a mask for the rejection inherent in their taunts. “You are a brave one.”

  Ripples of laughter sifted the tension that had built.

  “Mount up!” Tili turned to his destrier and snagged on his mother’s face in the door of the keep. Saw her remonstration. Her warning. Without acknowledging her silent signals, he hauled himself up. “We ride!”

  “Tili!”

  He glanced down as Haegan jogged over to him. “I did not want to give false hope, nor linger in it myself, but keep a weather eye out. Thelikor could return soon.”

  The Drigo who’d gone after Thiel. “We share reasonable hope for their quick return.”

  Haegan’s expression softened. “Thank you.”

  Tili rode after the riders already trotting over the footbridge and banking southwest toward the copse of trees and dried-up riverbeds. He spurred his mount, trying to catch up with Astadia. When he realized his intent had been to apologize for the teasing, for the taunt by Grinda, Tili drew back. She was more used to that treatment than most. An apology or any reassurance would only annoy her
, make her think he believed her soft or weak. How did one reach a woman like that? Tear down those barriers?

  Not denying her to Elan is a good start.

  Instead, he forced himself to stay near his father and spent the morning tracking, giving Grinda’s men time to sketch maps for strategizing later, for weighing risks and advantages of various locations. But even as they considered the dried riverbed—clear line of sight that ran east-west . . . and more of a demarcation line than a route for attack—he noticed Astadia now riding with Tokar. Talking. Laughing.

  What was that about? Those two had been near-enemies before. Need Tili be jealous—concerned?

  “’Tis a good location,” his father said in a deep voice that pulled Tili back to the mission. “He chose well.”

  Surprise tugged at him. “A compliment? For the son of Zireli?”

  His father’s eyes pinched beneath a smile. “’Tis a good man who can acknowledge the skill of another.” He chuckled. “Even if begrudgingly.” Thick fingers pointing, he went on. “The charred trees are helpful in hand-to-hand or sword fighting—even wielding—but they are also cover for advancing on us, especially as they are already burned.” Then a shrug. “But ’tis better than being in a city with thousands and putting their lives at risk.”

  A ripple of laughter, then quiet conversation caught Tili’s attention. No, it was her voice. Her voice drew him. Astadia. And that blasted thinblood. He was too young for her. Too scrawny. Not man enough.

  They’re very nearly the same age, aye?

  And yet she was twice the man as the thinblood.

  Spikes of fire peppered his arms, begging him to pull the reins in that direction. Twitched at his legs to quicken his horse.

  “How long has the assassin been with ye?”

  Tili jerked to his father, whose dark eyes monitored Astadia. “We discovered her before the battle at Iteveria.”

  “Discovered her?”

  “The men . . . found her.” Hands fisted, Tili fought the memory. “Praegur alerted me. They were intent on . . .”

  “Ravishing her.”

  Tili gave a curt nod.

  “And what did ye do?”