Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  “Cold-cocked the one with his trousers undone.”

  “And held her prisoner?”

  “Aye, until we could assess things.”

  “Why is she free now? She’s not of the Nine, and she murders for hire.”

  “I beg yer mercy,” Tili said, annoyed. “I forgot to check her papers and weapons.”

  His father scowled.

  “Lest ye forget, Father, we are not of the Nine either, and we are not imprisoned.” He nodded to Jadrile. “Neither are the Tahscans. We are in a war that defies political boundaries.”

  “But she’s a murderer.”

  “Are not we all, when ’tis considered?”

  “Ye defend an assassin?”

  “I defend a woman who has saved my life and the Fierian’s.” Across the field, he saw Laerian lift a hand. “If ye will excuse me . . .” He rode through the group to the Pathfinder. “What it is?”

  “Tracks,” Laerian said, dismounting.

  Tili joined him, crouching to better see and consider the imprint left in the dirt and ash. He rubbed his thumb over his lower lip, following the marks—several of them—northward.

  “Villagers?” someone asked.

  Tili shook his head. “Nay.”

  “Too small,” Astadia’s answer came at the same time as his. She met his gaze but forged ahead. “The shoe is wrong.”

  “Shoe?” a Jujak asked. “What shoe?”

  “She’s right,” his father-king said.

  Silence clamped the mockery that seemed all-too-ready to attack.

  “Go on.” His father yielded with a nod.

  Astadia hesitated, her gaze hitting Tili—revealing surprise and uncertainty—as if expecting that his father waited for her to make a mistake, so he could ridicule her.

  Wary of his father’s motives, Tili gave her subtlest of nods.

  “The shoe is tailored. Villagers wear sandals or boots they’ve made themselves or bought in a shop, if they can afford it,” Astadia spoke softly. “See the way the top of the imprint is sharp? It’s a tip.”

  “Incipients,” said Laerian. “They’re the only prigs who wear fancy shoes like that.”

  “Follow it,” his father suggested. “Lead on, girl.”

  This time, Astadia never looked at him. She shoved off, her steps soft and lightning-fast as she rushed through the charred remains of the woods. It proved a challenge, following her over the rough terrain on their horses. More than once, they gained only to have her surge ahead and vanish.

  “She toys with us,” his father growled. “Trying to lose us.”

  “She need not try for that. Perhaps she slows at intervals so we can keep up,” Tili offered.

  “Here,” came her voice, clear and steady.

  Tili drew up short at a small trough of a dried creek bed and dismounted. He stalked toward her, marveling that she was not out of breath.

  “What is it?” his father demanded.

  But Tili saw it, a body—more a skeleton.

  “Not twenty paces from the tree line,” Laerian muttered. “Must’ve been here during the assault when Poired destroyed the fortress.”

  She held her arm straight out, pointing. “Look.”

  Tili stood beside her and glanced in the indicated direction. His breath backed up. A straight path gave a perfect line of sight on—“Ironhall.”

  “This doesn’t make sense.” Astadia’s words were soft, confused.

  “I beg yer—”

  “The forest was burned during the last stand of the duke,” she said quietly. “So why is the body atop the litter and ashes, not within?”

  “Haegan,” Tili said, his thoughts crashing in on one another. “When the Fire King nearly pitched himself off the terrace—”

  “The wave,” Laerian said.

  “What wave?” Thurig demanded.

  “Aye.” Tili met his father’s frustrated gaze. “When Haegan wields under Abiassa’s guiding, it sends a sort of wave—combination of heat and shock—out.”

  “Killed half the population of Iteveria,” Grinda said.

  “The half that colluded with the Infantessa,” Astadia added. “This—this could be the result of his wielding for his father.”

  “He wielded against Zireli?”

  “Nay,” Tili said. “Gwogh suggested someone inflamed his father’s thoughts again, blurring reality and dreams . . . drawing him to the edge of the keep’s tower to pitch himself down. It angered Haegan. He threw out the wave.”

  “Aye, we heard a scream in the distance—here.” Laerian’s gaze fell on the skeleton. “Think ye this is who wielded against him?”

  “If it is,” Thurig said, “for the first time, I have hope of surviving.”

  “But it still doesn’t . . . match,” Astadia countered. “When Haegan sends the wake, it disintegrates its victims. This skeleton is largely intact.”

  “This was an incipient and some distance from the castle,” Tili observed. “Perhaps he had time to throw up a shield. Partially.” He grunted. “Lot of good it did him.”

  Astadia looked up at him over her shoulder with those beautiful green eyes. Then she jerked around. Frozen save her gaze, which darted through the forest of charred trunks.

  Tili felt the change. Sensed . . . something. He edged closer. “What is it?”

  “Someone’s coming,” she whispered.

  Silent signals by Grinda sent his Pathfinders scurrying into the trees. The stealth of their movements impressed Tili as the rest grouped up, hunkering along the dried streambed.

  This was the perfect route into the fortress, just as the person who was now a skeleton must’ve thought. But to arrive amid Pathfinders, a Tahscan, and an assassin . . .

  41

  Though she had not been this far east before, Thiel knew the land. Sensed the thrum in the air as she and Thelikor—still quite tall but not the massive beast who’d fallen from the sky between her and Onerid—followed the Westerly, a river that had some spring source and circled a one-time great fortress, then trickled out of existence in the plains.

  Feet blistered, lips cracked, she walked, hobbling along mile after mile. Because she must. Because if she stopped, the horrible truths might catch up. She’d cried nearly nonstop the first two days of their journey, unable to get the image of Cadeif’s death out of her mind. She’d begged and begged Thelikor to knock her unconscious and carry her. To use Drigo healing—of which he claimed to have none—to take away the hurt.

  She had never loved Cadeif, not the way she loved Haegan. But he was . . .

  She hesitated.

  Mine. He was mine.

  “Close.” Thelikor’s voice hung like a hot, heavy mist over her as he motioned down the river, which also had been too afraid to remain alive in this dark time. She envied it, having vanished. Dried. Died.

  The ache in her breast outweighed and distracted her from the ones in her body and head. Water. She needed water.

  She stumbled, and Thelikor reached for her. She shook her head, not wanting his help. No longer caring.

  “Mm, close,” Thelikor said, his trunk-like arm motioning.

  Thiel looked, and through the scarred, scraggly sentries, she saw the forbidding black stone in the distance.

  Thiel sucked in a hard breath, seeing men bleed from the shadows. From the crevices. She backed up, choked with fear. No strength. She had no strength to fight. And even less to flee.

  Why had Thelikor not warned her? Stopped her? Yet, something spiraled through her.

  “Halt! Do not move or we’ll bleed you where you stand.”

  Thiel fumed at the ambivalence with which Thelikor met the confrontation. “I am unarmed,” she said, lifting her aching arms as she glanced at the giant—“well, unless ye count a Drigo.”

  One apparently not in the mood to fight. That she could understand.

  “Thiel?”

  She started, blinking. Shoved the strands from her face, searching the horde surrounding her. Then she saw him pushing through the
small army. “Tili?” Exhaustion was the only thing that seeped through her, pushing tears to her eyes. Blurring her vision. A strangled laugh mingled with his name. She sagged, feeling every vestige of strength fail her as he rushed her. Her knees gave way.

  Arms encircled her shoulders. Pulled her into safety. “Easy, sister,” came his whisper.

  “Don’t pick me up,” she muttered, sinking into his strength. “They’ll laugh.”

  “Ever defiant.”

  “With my last breath.”

  “Aye, seems near.”

  With a near laugh, she shook her head, then rested against his chest. Hooked her arm around his neck—as much for the extra help in standing as to embrace him. “Yet too far.”

  “I carry,” Thelikor said, shifting.

  “Nay,” Thiel objected again.

  “Kiethiel!”

  She jerked. Turned in her brother’s hold, searching, wobbling. “It cannot be.” She had yet to catch sight of his face.

  “’Tis,” Tili whispered.

  “Father . . . ?”

  Her father’s broad shoulders broke through the gathered line. He stomped to her. Took her into his arms.

  “Father,” she said, fighting the tears. The relief. The joy. “Ye were so far away.”

  “Aye, but I’m here now.”

  “And I.” A voice she had not heard for years but had not forgotten.

  Thiel yanked round. “Elan!” She laughed. “Down from the Heart? How is it so? And to find ye—here, of all places?”

  Elan hugged her, and she pressed into his shoulder. “A story for another time.”

  “We should get back to Ironhall,” came a stern voice.

  Tili took the reins of his horse and led her toward it. “Ride with me.” He swung up into the saddle.

  Thiel reached up, but before she could even try, Thelikor placed her behind Tili. She slumped against him, the act of holding him a trembling effort as the entourage picked their way through the dead woods.

  “Are ye well?” Tili asked as they rode.

  “I am now,” she said, resting her cheek against his shoulder blade. She spotted a girl—familiar—riding, watching. Something in her expression . . .

  “Yer words are weighted.”

  “Aye.”

  “Haegan will be pleased to see ye.”

  She lifted her head, leaning on his shoulder. “How is he?”

  “Much changed.”

  “It seems everyone is. Father here. Elan down from the Tooth.” She sighed and turned her head again . . . once more catching the girl watching. But not watching Thiel. Watching Tili. “How is Father come here?”

  “Nivar was attacked by the Rekken.”

  “What?” She sat straight. “They are not large enough—”

  “Allied with the Sirdarians, they were more than enough. Too much—the Heart evacuated, then marched here.”

  She was almost afraid to ask. She could not endure another loss, not so soon. “And Mother?”

  “Here, in the fortress.”

  “Thank the Lady,” Thiel whispered, relieved to know her family was here, safe. But her mind swung back to one face. Haegan. Tili said he was much changed. Though she itched to inquire further, she withheld her questions, too afraid of the answers. Of the reality. They had not parted on the best of terms. It was so long ago . . . She ached for him.

  Over his shoulder, Tili turned concerned eyes to her.

  “Ask not,” she muttered, pressing her nose to his shoulder again.

  “Open the gate for the steward,” a shout went up.

  “Oh, aye,” she breathed around a laugh. “Steward Tili. Has the power gone to yer head yet? More ladies vying for your favor?”

  “Shut it,” he growled.

  Thiel laughed, grateful for the familiarity, the laugh in her brother’s tone. Her gaze drifted to the lone female among the warriors. No surprise the woman monitored Tili with a sidelong stare.

  Who are ye that ye stare so openly at a prince? And travel with trackers, soldiers . . . ?

  Hooves thunked against the boards of the footbridge as they trod into the bailey. The sound of sparring, swords clanging, and meaty grunts rushed out to greet them.

  “They’re at it again,” one of the Pathfinders mumbled. “Start at first light and keep at it until well past dark.”

  “Never is there enough training and sparring,” Tili responded. “The Dark One is at our door, and we have more greenies than soldiers. The sooner the villagers learn to fight, the better.”

  “Villagers?” someone snickered. “What of the Fierian?”

  “Ye challenge him, after seeing that skeleton?” Another dark chuckle. “Make sure I’m standing far apart when ye do.”

  “What are they talking about?” Thiel asked as the horses were brought about.

  But over his shoulder, she saw more than twenty men sparring with swords and jav-rods. Many missing tunics and pouring sweat in the midafternoon heat.

  Two were going to blows, one far more ferocious than the other, but the less ardent moved swiftly. Deflected. Parried. Then attacked with lightning speed. His broad shoulders rippled with each strike, the muscles toned but not corded like her brother or Aburas. Intensity flowed through his moves. His profile was sharp and strong, too. Aye, a looker that one. His shorn hair added to his severity.

  “Who is he?” she asked, not intending to say it out loud.

  Tili glanced at her, then in the direction of her gaze.

  Thiel chastised herself for being so distracted. “Nay. Forget I asked. I would see Haegan.”

  Exulted shouts went up as the two in the ring went rounds, drawing spectators and—once more—her attention. The handsome one had stealth, surprise, and speed. He was strong and determined. Quite impressive from this angle. She had to admit—the muscles were—

  “Steward is returned!” someone shouted.

  The men in the training yard yielded and spun to welcome their entourage back.

  Thiel was struck silent when the warrior turned. Pale blue eyes hit hers. It took a second for the face to register. She forgot the air in her lungs. Then breathed, “Haegan.”

  “Must I chain ye up, sister?” Tili asked with laugh.

  Haegan’s eyes widened, and he tossed aside the sparring sword. “Thiel!”

  She was off the mount, somehow—she knew not, cared not how—exhaustion and injured ankle forgotten. Amazed, mesmerized at the man rushing through the throng toward her.

  Man. Gone was the boy who’d stolen her heart. Shoulders and jaw squared. Determination laced the ridge of his brow, which had deepened. How had these changes been wrought in so short a time? His blues fixed on her as he pressed aside beast and man to reach her, squeezing her belly tight with churning anticipation like a giddy cocktail.

  In one fell swoop, she was in his arms, crushed to his chest. She tried to rein in her thoughts, but the muscular arms that encircled her were not the ones that had held her months past. The smell of sweat and combat clung to his skin, and somehow, she savored it.

  “Months have I longed and prayed to Abiassa for this moment,” he breathed against her neck, a thrill shooting down her spine. Released her and stepped back. His hands cupped her face as he stared. Those pale blue eyes, as always, undid her. Her stomach tightened. It had been so long . . . “Are you well? How do you fare?”

  “Well,” she managed. ’Twas a lie, but she would not voice complaints. “Better now.”

  His gaze pierced as he took in those words. He had no shirt on. She drew back, her hands running down his arms. The curve and swell of his muscles teased her fingers and mind—aye, in attraction but also alarm. There were ridges. Dozens of them. She looked down to see scars covering his arms. She started.

  “No need for alarm. I did this.”

  “Why?”

  “So I would not forget.”

  “Forget what?”

  Tenderness glowed in his eyes. “Who I am. Who I fight for.”

  Her gaze spill
ed across his bulked, tanned chest.

  “Mayhap ye could put a tunic on, Twig,” Tili growled.

  “And remove yer hands from our sister,” Elan said.

  Abashed, Thiel shifted aside—then grimaced as pain scored her ankle.

  “Kiethiel, I believe ye should be tended by a pharmakeia within the keep, where there is shelter from the sun,” Tili said.

  “And bare-chested princes,” Elan groused. “There is a Drigo healer here. He does fine work.”

  “Agreed.” Haegan took her hand and helped her toward the great doors of the keep.

  He was even a hand taller than before. How was so much change possible in such a short time? The reprieve from the heat was instantaneous as they entered the hall, and she sighed at the relief.

  “Kiethiel!”

  Thiel turned toward her mother’s voice, disbelieving her ears. The surprise stole her breath, giving the older woman the seconds necessary to reach and embrace her.

  “You look tired, but never more beautiful.” Her mother stroked her hair.

  “Ye lie,” she whispered, ignoring the sting of tears, noting her throbbing lips and head.

  “Come,” her mother said, leading her, “we’ll get you into a bath and clean clothes.”

  Thiel winced, her ankle again protesting. Tili was there and swung her into his arms, hustling her across the floor and up the stairs. This time, she would not object.

  Thiel glanced over his shoulder to Haegan, who stood in the foyer. But his expression, the fisted hands, warned he was not pleased that she was being stolen away from him. A conflagration of thoughts and feelings exploded in her chest, but none more fierce than the truth that she hated being torn from him again.

  “Fierian, we would have a word with ye,” Aburas said as he and a handful of Pathfinders darkened the door of the keep, stealing Haegan’s attention. Though he turned to go, he glanced back to her. She was glad to see the same torment in his eyes as what beat in her breast.

  • • •

  Talk to him or gut him? She wasn’t sure which would be less painful—for her. Was he done with her now? Is that why Tili had so easily discarded her when the beauty arrived? Astadia hadn’t been able to endure it and fled to the stables as soon as they returned to the bailey. Everyone loved the girl, though Astadia could not discern who she was. That she had been delivered by a giant bespoke her importance.