Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  The riders pulled up and dismounted beside the large fountain in front of the—Sanctuary!

  The sight of the Ignatieri’s insignia on the wooden structure sent Haegan backward. Spiked an icy chill down his spine. He would be easily discovered here. Haegan pivoted and scurried down an alley. He broke out onto the other side of the market and narrowly avoided a woman carrying an infant. To his left a cluster of children followed another woman, their grubby fists dug into her apron and skirts.

  A man shouldered past him, a flank of meat tucked under his arm. A bit dirty, if you asked Haegan, but what did he know?

  Across the narrow road, he spotted Praegur backing out of a shop, his arms loaded with a bag. He shook his head and kept walking backwards—right off the step. He fell hard against the dirt road but scrambled to his feet.

  A woman and her daughter followed, laughing and smiling.

  Praegur glanced around as if looking for something. His gaze hit Haegan’s. His expression shifted from that of a cornered animal to that of—Haegan wasn’t sure what. He said something to the ladies, who glanced in his direction, too.

  Head tucked, Haegan angled away, not wanting anyone to take much notice of him.

  A hand clapped on his shoulder. “You saved me,” Praegur’s deep voice boomed. “Start walking.”

  Haegan did, stealing a backward glance. “What was that about?”

  “She’s convinced I should marry her daughter.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Did you smell her?”

  Haegan laughed. As they threaded through the crowds, his mirth faded. He felt as if something pressed against his chest, making it hard to breathe. “There are so many people.”

  From the side, a wail went up. A woman and her infant sat on a step, both crying.

  “What’s wrong with them?” He wanted to stop and hand off a paladium.

  “Not enough to eat,” Praegur said, urging him along. “Keep walking. If she’s thought to be begging, they’ll throw her in prison.”

  “They do that? But she’s hungry!”

  Praegur continued down the road, his hand never leaving Haegan’s shoulder. “The greater crime is that there’s not enough food. At least, that’s what they say unless you can pay for it. Which we can, thanks to you.”

  “How can they do that—turn away the poor?” Haegan slowed when he thought he saw Thiel across the clogged street, but as he searched, he could find no trace of her.

  Praegur shrugged. “Everyone’s afraid of the refugees, afraid they’ll bring disease and crime, or eat all the food.”

  “Do they?” Haegan suddenly questioned his education under Gwogh. “How can this be allowed? Why . . .?” Why doesn’t Father do something?

  “Because,” a voice growled from the corner. A man in black—one of the riders—stood there, holding a cordi. “The farther into the Nine Dyrth invades and is allowed to lay siege to, the farther north and west the people flee.”

  “Oh, go on with you,” a vendor said, waving off the rider. “We don’t need your kind here. Bring the accelerants down on us, you will.”

  “Me?” The rider laughed. “I am here but to trade and be on my way.”

  “Then do it!”

  The rider bit into the fruit with a decisive crunch and exchanged some coins with the fruit vendor, thanking him. Conducting his business politely, contrary to what the other vendor had said. But as he turned away, the rider slowed, his gaze narrowed on something.

  Haegan followed it, but saw nothing.

  “We should hurry.” Praegur nodded. Then Haegan noticed Thiel lingering in the shadows of a tree that spread its branches over two small huts.

  Without warning, the rider lurched forward.

  Right toward Thiel.

  “Thiel,” Praegur muttered before breaking into a run.

  Haegan rushed after him, his mind a tangle of questions again. Why would the rider care about Thiel? She’d hidden from them—was she afraid of being discovered? Had she stolen from them?

  “What is this? Far from your lands, are you not, Asykthian raiders?” The voice from somewhere beyond the crowd hissed through the air, entwining Haegan’s mind like a heavy mist.

  Asykthian! The name pushed his gaze back to the rider. Why had he not recognized their crest from the tomes he’d pored over, studying the sigils for each realm and land? They were the Ice Dwellers, Northlanders. Why were they so far south, away from their ice palaces and frozen rivers? Assassins, betrayers, those who consorted with beasts. According to the Legends, which Haegan had read more fervently than the gilded pages of the Histories, the Northlands were home to not only the raqine, but the Unauri and Drigo, and their lesser kind, the Raeng—ruthless, lawless assassins. Much like incipients, only worse. All were extinct, relegated to ink and parchment rather than breath and body.

  Save the Asykth, who were responsible for the murder of the Supreme King when they gained alliance with the Umelyrians. It was said Abiassa struck the Northlands barren and frozen for their part in the Rebellion. Legends held that the raqine and Drigo vanished in the fallout of that dreadful era, lost in the icy lands.

  The rider who’d spoken to them in the market stopped. Uttered something Haegan could not hear.

  “Blasphemy so close to the holy Sanctuary!” A sea of red, black, and gold streamed into the street, parting the crowd as if an invisible hand tossed them aside. There had to be a half dozen accelerants.

  “Invading our lands is treason!”

  “Since when is seeking food and provision—trading—a crime, Master Sentinel?”

  Only then did Haegan see the pompous Sentinel, an accelerant who had achieved the rank of Electreri, which enabled him to rule a town. “Beware those in power, Haegan. Power corrupts.” His old mentor’s warning whistled through his mind. Yet drew him. Was this Sentinel corrupt? How could one tell?

  “Since Dyrth and his minions swept over the southern plains. King Zireli ordered the borders closed.”

  “And how are we to know what is done in the south? We travel from the Northlands, in case you forgot where we are from.”

  “You are here as spies!”

  “You know not of what you speak, incipient!”

  A gasp trickled through the crowd—and through Haegan’s own chest. Calling a duly appointed and honorably charged accelerant such an offensive term could bring more punishment. Even Haegan knew that, locked away most of his life.

  The crowd quickly thinned as the rider’s lip curled, disdain pulsing with each breath as the Sentinel assumed the first position. And that emptying of the street afforded the arrival of the other riders, who were now mounted once more. The leader swung effortlessly up onto his horse.

  Heart thrumming, Haegan moved toward Thiel—or where he’d last seen her—but kept his eyes on the standoff. They needed to steer clear of this confrontation. Get to safety. Leave and get to Hetaera.

  A plume of heat warbled in the afternoon light. “You will respect,” the Sentinel said, his words again hissing as the embers of wielding bloomed around him, “the office which I hold while you are within our borders, Sir . . .?”

  “Considering the force you stare down, Sentinel, I would consider your actions and words carefully.” The man tossed back the long panels of his black jacket, exposing a scabbard and sword.

  Haegan drew up short. A challenge? He had heard the Asykthians detested accelerants as much as his father detested their leader, Thurig the Formidable, but to give witness to such a challenge was more than he’d imagined of this chaotic city.

  “I barter in these lands, but I do not owe fealty here. And there will be no respect where it has not been earned.” The Asykthian’s lips were so tightly drawn his nostrils flared.

  “Easy,” another rider muttered, nudging his horse around, then giving a low whistle.

  A burning in Haegan’s stomach tugged at his attention, but the almost tangible tension between these two refused to release him. He should leave. If the Sentinel spotted
and recognized him, he’d be captured. Couldn’t reach the Great Falls. Couldn’t heal Kaelyria. Go—run!

  “Let them make their purchases and pass,” came a loud but disinterested voice. The sentinel swung around. A dozen yards behind him stood a high marshal. This one should be—Haegan strained to remember his lessons, remember who served over Luxlirien—Marshal Gelas.

  “But sir—”

  “Have you ill intent here, Master Asykth?”

  “We have but one intent—to purchase supplies.”

  “Then do it and leave our lands. Your kind bring trouble and attention we do not need.” Gelas looked around the crowded city. “As you can see, our stores are dwindling. Be quick and buy only as necessary.” He started back to Sanctuary, his minions scurrying after him.

  “Never thought I’d see that,” Haegan muttered. “Asykthians are nearly as hated as Dyrth.”

  “That’s the difference,” Praegur said. “Nearly.”

  But it annoyed Haegan that the lawless raiders his father had often railed about were allowed to roam so freely. What if they were spies? What if their intent went beyond mere supplies? Anger thrummed through his veins. Gelas should have had them questioned. Detained at the least!

  Movement beyond the riders caught his attention. He strained to see and finally made out Thiel’s form slinking along the edge of the trees. He wasn’t sure why she wanted to hide, but if she came any closer, she’d be discovered.

  The rider’s massive horse swung around. Puffed air right at Haegan’s face. Then shifted. Whinny-screeched.

  As the horse reared, Haegan clenched his eyes shut, twisting away and using his arms to shield himself. He slammed into something hard.

  “Rigar!”

  The warbled call of his name sounded like a distant shout below water. Haegan shook his head. Shook off the hollowing of his hearing. Blinked. But there was no hearing. Or seeing.

  11

  Zireli stood at the window overlooking the Lakes of Fire. Lava and fire tumbled and churned, winding southward. Molten rock swirled, a hot spot flaring as a shelf broke away from Mount Fieri. It glided in a fiery dance along the river, its course altered by a massive, scorched boulder that neither yielded to nor overcame the fire surrounding it.

  Just as Zireli would be in the assault by Sirdar. Span by span, his forces had given ground over the last week. Now what remained of his army huddled outside Seultrie’s walls, waiting for Poired to execute his final push, to take the city, the keep—everything. Zireli had come to accept that there was little hope of overcoming Poired, but he would never stop fighting. No Celahar had backed down from a battle, from any challenge set forth. And that line would not be broken at his hand.

  But days laden with dark foreboding and ominous reports tested the edges of his reason. Tempted him to doubt. Shame drew his gaze from the Lakes. He did not deserve the gift Abiassa had given him, his failings so complete.

  “What else does your son say?” Zireli craned his neck to the right, to the overlook upon which Poired had mounted and sat in silent standoff against the keep. What he waited for, Zireli could not fathom.

  Parchment crinkled as Grinda looked at the dispatch. “Haegan was seen just south of Hetaera.”

  “Isn’t that the land of the Ematahri?” Adrroania’s voice shook with the concern Zireli felt as well.

  “It is, my queen,” Grinda said.

  “Let us hope Gwogh did a thorough job teaching him the lands and their threats—that Haegan will know better than to cross those savages.” Zireli stroked his beard, thinking of his son against that fierce race. Neither ally nor enemy, they were best left alone.

  “He has strength of mind,” Grinda said, “but has he the heart and stamina of a fighter? Pitted against even one Ematahri, he—”

  “We must trust,” Zireli said, turning and cutting off his general, “that his way is guided by Abiassa and protected by Deliverers. And that Graem and his Jujak find him soon.”

  • • •

  “Your mercy, mistress, but have you shelter and food?”

  The woman paused as she pulled the teats of the cow. Face blanched, she slowly rose, hands wiping against the dingy apron encircling her waist. “I . . .” Her gaze started for the small cottage then dropped. “I have little, sir.”

  “I need little,” Gwogh said as he glanced at her quaint home. The beams. The plaster protecting the south-facing wall against the heat. A fence, old but in perfect repair, created a pen that held two swine and wrapped around the small barn that abutted the cottage. She had little, yet her home sat in pristine order. He considered her. Aged, plump. Unlikely to be the sole tender of the property.

  “Take his horse, Verusel,” a voice spoke from the doorway, where shadows held its owner hostage.

  In response, a young boy of no more than twelve jogged from the rear of the property and took Gwogh’s horse. Looking strangely relieved, the woman strode toward the house.

  Then the man’s shape took form. He ducked beneath the doorpost, his dark hair long, shielding his face as he stepped into the late-afternoon sun. “You are welcome according to the laws of Alaemantu.”

  The local custom created by the Electreri demanded one night’s hospitality to those who journeyed. “I thank—”

  “One meal.” The man’s tone would brook no argument. “One night, Accelerant.”

  Gwogh suppressed his surprise at being recognized even dressed as no more than a traveler. He shot another look at the man’s hidden face. “Abiassa favor you, kind sir.”

  Pale, pale eyes drilled him with silent warning.

  A thought struck Gwogh like a sudden chill. In his days, there was only one manner of man who could recognize and be unafraid of an accelerant with such temerity. But they were gone—recalled to Abiassa like the Drigovudd.

  Gwogh inclined his head. “I assure you, I seek only to eat, sleep, then be on my way before first light.”

  The man had neither moved nor shown any hint of approval. Jaw muscle bouncing, he held Gwogh’s gaze. Tension roiled off him. Tall, though not as the giants of old, he seemed to contain a presence not his own. As if possessed by something.

  Or Someone.

  Gwogh felt a tremor of fear and awe trace his spine.

  Finally, the man stepped aside with a slight bow, though his expression did not soften.

  Gwogh advanced, every step a concerted effort, as if he climbed a steep mountain. And yet—a strange warmth saturated the air like a bidding. A yielding. Nervousness settled over him that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Had he chosen the wrong dwelling?

  Where I lead, you follow.

  Surrendering his jitters at the voice of the Lady, Gwogh entered. The main room spanned the entire length of the home, and a small passage led to at least two openings that he could see. All wood. Handmade. Simple but effective. A slight woman’s touch with the curtains and skirt around the washbasin stand.

  “I’ll have the stew on shortly.” The woman motioned to a basin. “Here, you may freshen after your journey.”

  With a quirk of his eyebrow, Gwogh washed his hands and dabbed his face, feeling refreshed. Drying off, he shifted.

  The tapestry before him ruffled in the air. Beyond it sat a pristine pitcher and another basin in front of a round window no bigger than the metal plate on the table. Beneath the window lay an ornately threaded carpet. The wood floor did not shine, but no trace of dirt could be found.

  All the elements for a ceremonial cleansing.

  A round table tucked in the corner left the chamber feeling cramped rather than cozy. Or perhaps that was the overpowering presence of the man who had returned and now loomed behind Gwogh. The woman had vanished.

  “A’tia will attend you when she returns,” the man said, his voice low and deep. Retrieving a pipe from the mantel, the master settled into his rocking chair by the fire.

  Gwogh lowered his gaze. Had he come to the wrong dwelling? His gaze struck the master again. No more than thirty-five, if that, though i
t seemed he wore experience and hardship heavier than his own age. Black hair—void of silver and gray. A sure sign.

  But the pipe . . . and the woman. Abiassa’s chosen never married, never smoked, and never indulged in any fleshly pleasure. And they were faceless in Her service. But as sure as he breathed air, Gwogh was convinced this man—

  “Pardon the delay.” A’tia returned with a pail of milk and retrieved the pitcher. “Rest and enjoy some warm milk.” She went outside and returned a few quiet moments later to fill the large black cooking pot. She worked quietly, chopping carrots and a potato or two.

  But Gwogh’s gaze returned to the quiet man. “Are you long in this realm?”

  Clank!

  With a start at the loud noise, Gwogh looked to the woman, who was wrestling fur from a dead animal. Then back to the man. Indeed. Such a being, bound and producing heirs? “Your son is a fine lad—”

  “Rabbit,” the woman interjected. “He’s good at hunting them.”

  “—master.”

  “Oh.” Realizing he hadn’t been speaking to her, A’tia jerked her gaze away, then stole a quick glimpse at the master. She wiped her hands and set before Gwogh a small bowl with bread and honey.

  Interesting. Was the food distraction, something to stop him from talking or asking questions? “What word comes from the city?” Gwogh tore a chunk from the loaf and dipped it in sticky sweetness.

  “We keep to our own,” the master said. “Luxlirien and Hetaera are places of pagans and debauchery. We have no need of that here.”

  “Ignore Medr—”

  “A’tia!”

  Though not loud, the power in the master’s voice seemed to echo in the small, heavily paneled home. Gwogh startled as if the man had shouted, and the effect was no less severe on A’tia, who dropped a bowl hard against the table.

  Gwogh recovered slowly, his mind churning. Anonymity? Is that what the man sought? He cleared his throat. “I did not meant to encroach—”