Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  “Stop it.” Tears slid down princess Kaelyria’s pale cheeks. “You are cruel.”

  “I believe, princess, the cruel hand was yours.” Though he could not stand to see her pained, she needed to realize her error, the troubles she had forced upon her own brother.

  “You know not of what you speak, old man!” Kaelyria sniffled as her handmaiden wiped her eyes and nose. Once more, fire laced her pale irises. “Go to him, Gwogh. You must. You must protect him!”

  Make a mistake, send the old wise man. He never thought he’d live out clichéd legends of the wizened wizard—though he wasn’t one—saving the realm.

  He grunted. The irony. “I am but an old man, as you clearly reminded me, retired from the Ignatieri and in the service of our king.” He smiled at her. “Your father-king, who is very angry this day, is unlikely to release me.”

  “You must help Haegan! Please.”

  “I beg your mercy, but I think this one is bigger than me.”

  “Please!”

  Gwogh turned and left the weeping princess. He stood in the antechamber, staring at the steps that led into the belly of Fieri Keep. The same passage he’d fled down three nights past, when this nightmare unfolded.

  “You know where he is.” The calm, smooth voice of Queen Adrroania wrapped around his ears. Had she stood here all this time, listening to his conversation with Kaelyria?

  Gwogh sighed without turning to her. “Those who spend time in the shadows are often consumed by them, my queen.” He faced her now.

  Tall and regal, she stood with her hands clasped before her. The gold circlet, returned to her brow once more, vied for dominance amid the thick brown hair she had passed to neither of her children. “I have made mistakes,” she said as her chest and chin rose, “but not the ones you suggest. And I’ve been punished for both, real and imagined.”

  “You attempt to work my sympathies, my queen, but they are not available to you. Not at this hour.” He supposed he did feel sorry for her. In fact, his heart could not withstand much more, watching this family and kingdom fall. “Yes,” he managed. “What happens in the shadows is brought into the light.” Oh, the weight of it all. Hands behind his back, he moved toward the stairs.

  Adrroania was at his side, touching his arm. “Please, Gwogh. Go to him.” Words earnest, fingernails digging into his withered flesh, she pleaded just as her daughter before her. “Please. Haegan needs you. He doesn’t know what’s out there. He’s smart, so very smart”—her gaze grew wistful and burdened with memories—“but as you said, unschooled in the ways of this world.”

  He’d never seen anyone hungry for knowledge like Haegan Celahar. A mind keen and sharp. But if Poired Dyrth caught up with him . . . Yet, a graver risk existed. One that—

  A delicate squeeze on his arm drew his gaze to the queen’s. “I did not do this to my daughter.”

  He narrowed his eyes, feeling the old surge within himself. “But you knew Cilicien intended to convince your daughter-heir to change places.”

  Adrroania did not yield. “I had no idea Kaelyria would . . . that she . . . would be paralyzed in his place.”

  “But you did know what she intended. Her actions were not to heal Haegan, but to prevent Poired from stealing the gift.” Gwogh pushed. He must. They were playing with a fire more dangerous than any had faced before. “You knew that.”

  Her hand fell away, and in her expression the realization of her guilt and the justice of her punishment came together. “Yes.” Tears filled her eyes. “Hear me when I say, I did not think it would work. I thought it mere fancy, a generous gift she believed she could pass to her brother.”

  “I understand.” And he did, so the gentleness he allowed into words was sincere. But so was his anger. “There is yet one thing I almost cannot forgive, my queen.”

  She stared down her perfectly straight nose at him. Daring him to defy her.

  And defy her he would, and blame her. “You let it happen, knowing . . . knowing about Haegan. What would happen to him. What it would change.”

  Surprise sparked in her eyes. She took a step back, question—uncertainty—plain on her delicate features.

  Why must I always be right?

  Gwogh trained his gaze on the steps. On where they must lead him. On what he must do. “Pray, my lady queen, that I am not too late or too old to stop what has been set into motion.”

  Haunted by truth and pursued by the gravity of the situation, Gwogh made his way to his quarters, where he bundled up what little he owned, then hurried down to the stables. He lured a massive gray mount from the stall. Smoothed a hand over the horse’s broad skull. “Tonight, we ride, my old friend.”

  The horse nickered and flicked his tail.

  Gwogh tossed up his bag behind the saddle and tied it. He secured a food pouch and water skin to the other side along with blankets. Though he would seek shelter at an inn, he could not guarantee his journey would afford time for the luxury his aged bones demanded. He would ride, guided by Abiassa’s Flame.

  7

  Drracien Khar’val tossed back another pint of fermented juice. Not quite as strong as ale. But then, the uppers couldn’t accuse him of being drunk when he returned to Sanctuary. He wrapped his arm around the curvy wench perched on his right leg as she planted a kiss on his cheek.

  “Are you really an incipient?” she asked.

  Drracien tensed. Why must they use that word? Instead of unleashing his frustration, he sparked her. With a yelp, she leapt up, rubbing her backside. He laughed.

  She grabbed his stein and tossed the remaining juice in his face.

  Raucous laughter broke out across the small room, and Drracien chuckled. With a lunge, he grabbed her, stole a kiss, then used her apron to wipe his face. “Thank you, mi’lady.”

  She shoved him backward and spun around. But not before he saw her grin. He trudged out of the tavern and headed down the road toward the village, toward home. Fingering his hair into place, and testing his breath, he wondered after his mother’s welfare. Well kept? Taking care of his siblings?

  In a working village like theirs, his mother’s sacrifice in surrendering him to the Ignatieri meant she lost a strong back and mind. Lost income and help. He worked hard to make sure her selfless act would not count against her. Or his siblings. They were forbidden by the Order from having contact, so he paid through the local moneylender, enough to keep his family clothed and fed.

  The darkening sky cradled the moons, forcing him to hurry. He’d do well not to return to the Holy City late. Another hundred paces delivered him to the market. From there, he stalked to the collector. Drracien stooped to enter through the low wooden door. Pushing in, he gave a double-rap. “Hello?”

  “Who goes there at this hour?” a voice boomed.

  Drracien moved into the lamplight. “Forgive me, Littien. I lost track of time.” He lifted the pouch from beneath his cloak and grinned. “But I doubt it’s too late for this.”

  Littien’s face brightened. “Drracien! As regular as the tax collector.”

  “Ah, but I come not to collect, only to deliver.” He dropped the pouch on the table beside a stack of long, thick ledgers. “You’ll be sure to record it on her account. You’ll see to it, yes?”

  “Of course,” Littien said as he eased into the creaking spindle-backed chair and raised his hands. “I do every month.”

  “I gave extra this time.” Drracien leaned in. “Tell her last month was overpaid. Winter’s coming. She’ll need extra provisions and clothes for the young ones.”

  “Generous for an incipient.”

  Drracien clenched a fist. “Accelerant.”

  The man considered him. “Word is, you’re not only practicing the arts, but teaching others as well.”

  Practicing the arts. As if he were a magician or conjurer. Drracien pushed aside the accusation in the man’s comment and focused on his mission. He fingered the pouch.

  “To think you were nothing but a beggar like the rest of us once.”
>
  She’d be proud of him, wouldn’t she? For making something of himself. Building a life . . .

  To do that, she’d have to know.

  Something warm slithered across Drracien’s shoulders. He recognized the heating. Calm, he reminded himself and mentally walked through the calming practice, so he would not be goaded. He’d risen above that. Learned to master himself. Master his temper. His desires.

  Yes, she’d be proud. If she knew.

  “You’ll see to it?” Drracien winked. “I’ll bring extra for you next time.”

  Littien roughed a dirty, ink-stained hand over his gnarled beard. “Of course, of course. I always do, don’t I?”

  Weight lifted from his mind, Drracien clamped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you, friend.”

  “She asks.” Littien’s eyes met Drracien’s. “Every time.”

  Hesitation held Drracien captive. “You haven’t told her, have you? Tell me you haven’t—”

  “No.” Littien swallowed hard, gaze bouncing to Drracien’s hand. So the accountant was afraid of being sparked. “But I daresay she almost wouldn’t take it last time.”

  “It’s your job to make sure she does.” Drracien squeezed the man’s shoulder. “If it stops for her, the extra stops for you as well.”

  “No need to threaten me, boy. I said I’d do it.” He waved blackened hands at him. “Now off with you. It’s late. I wish to sup and sleep.”

  “Good eve.” Drracien bowed and backed out of the small front room.

  In the cool of the night, he made his way back to the Holy City. Back to a better life. For him, for her. For all of them. He knew not how the doors had opened for him, only that they had. That Aloing had sent for him. Ordered his training commence at once. Beyond that, how the High Marshal even knew a poor kid like him had the ignition necessary . . . It’d been too curious to fathom. There certainly was no affection between them. The High Marshal had been a hard taskmaster, always pushing Drracien. Compelling him to work harder, better, so much so that at times, Drracien hated the graying old man.

  As he climbed the hill back to the city, he plucked an apple from a tree. Rather than immediately return to the accelerants, to the uniformity, the strict adherence to the guiding principles, Drracien allowed himself to linger just inside the walls. He sat on a boulder tucked into one of the crags. As he finished the fruit, he eyed the somber glow of lights across the walled city. It had been a good day. The indulgence of the juice. The stolen kiss. He chuckled. Girls had always given him more than one look.

  You’ve the look of your father, the rogue. How many times had his mother swatted his backside as she sent him scuttling out of their thatched-roof shanty when he’d been rotten. Apparently, his father had been quite the looker, with black hair and blue eyes, both of which Drracien inherited. He was also strong, of course. Drracien lifted his arm and flexed his bicep. Naturally—strong.

  And yet . . . yet, Drracien was here. In the Holy City.

  A rogue. In the Holy City.

  Doing well in the Holy City.

  Only because he’d set his mind to it. Determined to figure out what purpose the Fires had in drawing him out. His gaze rose to the blackened sky. As dark as searage. Twinkling with the fires of stars. Even there . . . the universe echoes what exists within the Elect.

  Elect?

  Maybe. He wasn’t convinced it was a great thing to be an accelerant. But it provided for those he loved. Kept them fed. Clothed. Sheltered.

  Unlike my rogue father . . .

  Shouts rose and mingled with cries.

  Drracien rose, eyeing the shadows, and searched for the source. He dusted off his pants as he moved in the direction of the noise. Sounded like an altercation. Shouts . . . laughter. Mocking laughter. He hustled through the inner arch just as the guards swung it closed for the night. Followed the noise to the right. Through a passage. Out into the market courtyard.

  By the butcher’s shop, a huddle. Laughter. Shouts. Cries.

  And in the middle of it all—Tortook Puthago. Should have known. A heat halo warbled around the head and throat of a young boy pinned to the high wall at the back of the alley.

  “It is said,” Drracien spoke loud and clear as he closed the gap between himself and the taunters, “those who cannot earn respect prey on the weak.”

  Tortook’s dark gaze flicked to him. “Come to join the fun, Marshal Khar’val?”

  Drracien eyed the others. Some were initiates. The girl with pretty green eyes was not. She was pretty, though. Curvy, too.

  No time . . . Both he and Puthago would both face needlings if they were late. Yet, if he pushed Tortook, perhaps his thirst for power would shift from the boy taking the punishment. “What? Could you not get Miss Green Eyes”—he pulled his gaze from her willing smile—“warmed with your charm, so you resorted to proving you had abilities?”

  The girl’s lips parted in surprise. She looked to Puthago, then stepped away.

  “You’re the one with a taste for ladies, Drracien. It’s your weakness,” he hissed.

  Blazes. What would it take? “Novice Puthago, you know the Guidings of the Order. Release him or I will be forced—”

  Tortook whipped around, his hands stirring the air as he did. “Forced to what?”

  In a heartbeat, Drracien shoved out his palm. A bolt faster than the blink of an eye ignited. Shot through the air. Sparked past Puthago.

  The heat bubble popped.

  The boy dropped to his knees, whimpering.

  “Who told you to interfere? I’m tired of your meddling!” Puthago took a step forward.

  With a grin, Drracien flicked a spark at the novice. The brown-haired reprobate responded too slowly. The trail seared across his cheek. He cried out.

  “Told you,” a younger boy murmured. “Nobody can outmaneuver Drracien.”

  At one time, the words would have filled him with giddy excitement at being recognized. But now, it brought only awareness of his actions, of his temper. Guilt shrouded him as he felt the gazes of the others. He backed up. Even as the fear swarmed him, Drracien saw Puthago’s smirk.

  Straightening, the impudent novice stalked toward him. Bumped his shoulder as he walked past.

  Who had been goaded this time?

  8

  Gravel crunched as he stepped from the clawing heat of the afternoon sun into the shade of a shop’s bright yellow awning. Haegan glanced down at his boots, wondering not for the first time where he’d gotten them. Being laid up in a bed for years made shoes a nonissue, except on the rare occasions when Gwogh wheeled him into the private garden beneath the great kyssups, their massive trunks a stable base for the ever-reaching limbs that shielded much of the southern portion of the realm from sun. Much like most of his life—sheltered, hidden. But the last couple of weeks . . .

  Standing in Luxlirien with the awning overhead and dirt beneath his feet nearly proved Haegan’s undoing. To feel, to sense! He eased closer to the shop wall, taking a moment to gain his bearings. Stow the awe that unseated his ability to think. He had to stuff away the memories, the fact that he was removed from everything he’d known and loved.

  Will I ever see home again?

  What an ignorant question! Of course he would. Get to the Great Falls. Return home.

  Thirty days.

  No. Twenty. He’d lost ten getting to this point. He swiped a hand across his mouth, watching the bustle of people going from one place to the next. They had purpose. Had loved ones. Lives.

  Who am I? What am I? Even if the Falls healed him, he could not return to Fieri Keep and present himself to his father. He’d been trained in no duties. Prepared for no role. To reign as the Fire King, he must possess knowledge, wisdom, leadership that—had he not been poisoned as a child—he would’ve had. In his stead, those instructions were given to Kaelyria.

  Kae . . . What have you done to me, sister?

  A woman with three children tugging at her skirts slipped into a bakery. A man escorted a woman in richl
y adorned brocade into a jeweler’s shop. Pangs struck Haegan. He recalled Kaelyria’s pleas about Jedric. Would father continue with the plans to marry the two? ‘Twas a fool’s errand, trying to bring peace to the realm through Vid and Jedric’s family. True, they had wealth, but not a strong moral base. At least, not Jedric.

  Two children erupted from an alley, shouting and laughing.

  Haegan shifted to avoid a collision, and a rock popped beneath his boot. He glanced down. Lifted his foot. A benign thing, hearing a rock crunch against the dirt. But to him, it was the sound of a miracle.

  “You step in something?”

  Haegan flinched. Glanced to his right, where Thiel and Laertes stood. “What?” Stepped in something? “Oh. No, I thought so.”

  “Well, come on.” Thiel took a few steps toward the town square. “We need to get supplies. You can get the dried meat from the butcher. How much money you got?”

  Haegan blinked.

  “Great fires!” Thiel gave him a soft shove and turned away. “Are you any good to us?”

  He thudded against the wall. Embarrassment and anger burned his cheeks. Could he help it? This wasn’t a planned trip. “Look,” he said, pulling away from the slats.

  But something tugged him backward—his tunic had snagged. Rrrippp. At the sound of coins spilling over the dirt, he jerked. When he glanced down, his breath caught as he took in the glitter of gold on the ground. Gold paladiums.

  Eyes alive, Thiel stabbed her dagger at the money. “Explain that!”

  “I . . .” He’d discovered the coins when he’d awoken in the wagon, but with his situaion and predicament, he had not given them a second thought. He’d had no money on his person in the tower. In truth, he’d only worn his cotton jerkin and bed pants. Like always. Occasionally socks in winter. Confined to a bedchamber, he’d had no need of coin. “I . . .”