Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  “One meal. One night.” The master returned to his chair. “We have little need of discussion here.”

  So they sat. In silence. After some time, the boy, Verusel, joined Gwogh at the table but kept his eyes down and made no response to Gwogh’s gentle greeting. With each passing minute, Gwogh grew more convinced of whose presence he sat in. No, not whose. What’s. It would explain so much—his unusually long hair, his dislike for conversation. The pipe he held but did not light. If this man were of Abiassa, well then he wouldn’t be a man. He would care naught for pleasantries among strangers.

  But neither did the man seem aware of Gwogh’s quest. At least, he had not asked questions. Had not inquired of it, nor blessed it. He wasn’t even sure they did that. After several moments, he roused himself to pose another testing query. “I wonder, do you have any ale?”

  A’tia blanched. Cast a nervous glance toward the man. “Oh, he—we don’t drink spirits. But I have more fresh milk.” She delivered a bowl of hot stew to the table.

  So he avoided fermented drinks. “Just as I thought—er, I mean, just as well,” Gwogh said with a light laugh. “I need a clear mind when I set out.” He glanced at the late-eve meal. “Ah, this looks as something Abiassa herself stewed, A’tia. Well done, mistress!”

  The woman dipped her head with an obvious blush. “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s more than I’ve had in a day’s ride, and it will provide the nourishment to continue my course. A feast could do no more.”

  As the sun settled into the cool embrace of night, she finished the washing up and begged leave to retire for the evening. The boy disappeared, and Gwogh was shown to a small room, no bigger than a closet, with a cot and wool blanket.

  “It ain’t much, but it’s all we got.” A’tia retrieved a few belongings from the corner.

  “Is this your room?”

  “No, Verusel stays here,” she said.

  “And would the master be upset with me for taking his son’s bed?”

  “Oh, he’s not Verusel’s father. He’s watched over us the way a brother would—he don’ much like us telling people, but he showed up when Ematahri raiders killed my husband and left me for dead. He’s been here ever since. It ain’t proper, I know, for a woman to be living with a man who ain’t her husband, but there’s naught but protection that goes on with M—him.” She straightened, sniffing her mouth shut as she clasped her hands in front of her. “Will that be all, sir?”

  “I’m well. Thank you.” After she left, Gwogh set aside his pack then oriented himself in the room, deciphering which way the Citadel sat. Fingers splayed, he raised them out, warmed his inner being, then closed his eyes. And surrendered his mission, his life, his very breath to the cause of Abiassa.

  Righted within, he sighed. Noticed the darkness in the room. His cleansing had taken longer this eve. But then, the things he had done, the thoughts he’d carried . . .

  Something shifted in the shadows to his left.

  Gwogh’s heart shoved into his throat. He stumbled backward just as the form of the master filled his vision. He gave a shaky laugh, weakness trembling through his hands and knees. “Give care with the fright you throw upon this old man, master.”

  He stepped into the room. With the barest moonslight seeping through the curtain, the man’s corded muscles tightened, pulling against his tunic. His hand was down and to the side in a way that bespoke a firm grip on a weapon. A sword.

  Heat surged through Gwogh. So, it is as I thought.

  “What is the purpose of your journey, Accelerant?” The question carried the authority only one type of man would dare wield against an accelerant of Gwogh’s standing.

  But would not one of his kind know the answer to that?

  Hard eyes glinted—so pale. “I know only what She shares with me.”

  Startled, Gwogh inclined his head. “It is a sacred one, I assure you.” No, that wouldn’t be good enough. He must convince him. “I am sent by Abiassa to locate and protect one of her charges.”

  Jaw muscle popping, the man stood unmoving. Unanswering. Judging. Staring out the small sliver between the curtains to the night sky, the light stroking his strong face.

  Gwogh swallowed. He’d been in many a frightening situation before, becalmed by Abiassa. But never before in this tricky position. A question burned through his chest and lungs. The thought terrifying. But he must extend the invitation. It was the way. It was expected. An accelerant who did not had something to hide. “Would you test me?”

  The man lowered his head, his thick neck rotating as he slid his gaze back to Gwogh. “She would have you answer.” In a blink, he placed his hand against Gwogh’s chest.

  Time and light vanished.

  Gwogh struggled for balance as a searing, cleansing fire washed over him. He screamed at the pain of it, his arms thrown wide as he arched his back against the agony.

  And as if someone had snapped a band, Gwogh stood in darkness. And yet . . . not darkness. For he could see plainly, though there was little to see. This was the Void, the space that bridged the gap between Primar and where Abiassa dwelt with the Creator.

  In the yester of Nine and One, you set your hand against Me.

  Before him laughed and darted a young boy, chasing his sister and tackling her, pinning her even amid her screams of protest. He yanked her hair as a brother would and took off running.

  In a heartbeat, the boy lay stretched on a bed, surrounded by grieving parents and a confused sister.

  Your oath was clear and well embraced, yet you stood defiant.

  No, Gwogh replied. I foresaw what would come.

  Say you now that you are like Me, that you have the ability to know the hearts and minds of My Children?

  I beg Your mercy, My Lady, but I saw how fear would poison hearts. I saw what would come!

  Say you now that you have more knowledge and wisdom than I, who have set this world in motion?

  May and true—You set it in motion, but You also set upon men their own will. To act, to make their choosings. If I have exerted my best belief wrongly, then my life is Yours to take.

  Fire crawled over his body, consuming, searing. Singeing. I beg Your Mercy! Gwogh cried out, feeling as if his flesh dripped from his body like water from an icicle. I only sought to protect him.

  What you did was done in fear. You set your best belief against Me, against what I have ordained.

  Not with intent, My Lady. I believed it best—I believed that was my purpose in life, why I was set on this path—to protect—

  Think you that I need an aged accelerant to protect my chosen?

  No, my Lady, he panted, his hair matting against his forehead and sweat slipping through his beard. You have need of no one, but You choose all manner of people, no matter profession or age . . . or foolishness.

  Snap-clap!

  Gwogh dropped to the hard floor, bumping against the cot. Sweat clung to him, chilling his flesh. And if he were not out of his mind—for there could be no certainty at this moment—he saw steam rising from his skin.

  “Slumber well, Accelerant. Dawn comes early to a tired mind.” Swift and silent, the man turned, and Gwogh drew in a sharp breath. No longer could the man’s features be discerned, as if he had drawn a filmy veil over his face.

  “W-who are you?”

  “I am called Medric.”

  Wind swirled past Gwogh in Medric’s wake, the pardon felt in more than the air. “I’m alive,” he managed around a parched tongue as he climbed beneath the wool blanket to shake off the chill that seeped into his bones. Alive. With a shaky laugh, he closed his eyes, knowing Abiassa tested him even here. Pushed him to be excellent in Her service.

  Now he stood on the cusp of a time in which brewed a heated battle that, were the sparks flickering within him right, could determine the course of the planet itself.

  “Master Gwogh?” came A’tia’s soft call. “Are you well, sir?”

  He almost smiled as she peeked into the room, her face a c
urtain of concern. “Aye.” He was well. And alive. That was the most important.

  “Oh, thanks be to Abiassa!” She sagged, releasing a deep breath.

  Gwogh clutched the rough wool blanket, his gaze on the ceiling. “He is a marked one.” Thus, he believed, the reason for the man’s long hair—to hide the mark of Abiassa on his neck and face. “A Deliverer.”

  “Aye.”

  “And I’m alive.” He couldn’t stop saying it. He’d encountered a Deliverer—the very hand of Abiassa, inordinately gifted, absolute in his reasoning, swift in delivering justice—and survived.

  12

  “I envy him the freedom he has now.” Kaelyria could not keep the heaviness from her voice, though she knew this captivity was of her own making. A right decision, albeit a desperate one. Had there been any other way . . .

  “I wonder, do you think he’ll find a girl to love while he’s gone?”

  Kae almost smiled at that. It was strange to think of him out there, making his way to the Great Falls. “My brother will be so singularly focused and naïve, I’m not sure he would recognize love if it struck him over the head.”

  Kiesa laughed, her cheeks crimson.

  “You still fancy him, then?”

  “Oh, I—” Kiesa shook her head, the red rushing across her face and flaring across the tips of her ears. “I—” She looked past the beveled glass. “I know my place, my lady-grace. And I’m happy to serve you.”

  “Be at peace. I know your heart.” As she had known her brother’s. As she’d known he would surrender to her prodding. And prod she had.

  Once more the green fields littered with tents and the embers of small fires lured her thoughts away from the room that had become her prison. He was out there. Dutifully making his way across the Nine . . .

  A shadow shifted in the glass, drawing Kaelyria’s attention. What had she seen? It moved again—and her breath backed into her throat. Cilicien? Her gaze darted to the left, to the shadows outside her chambers. Was he here? Father would kill him if he caught him in the keep again! But first she would give this daemon a piece of her mind for the half-truths he’d delivered.

  “I . . .” She looked at her handmaiden. “Could you fetch me some warm cordi juice?” Kaelyria asked. That would only take a moment. “And some toast with jam?”

  Kiesa stood and inclined her head. “Shall I remove you to the bed, my lady?”

  The thought of being in bed with that accelerant in the room . . . “No. I thank you.” Eyes to the window, she searched for the shadowy reflection again. “I prefer this view.” Kae wet her lips as her handmaiden slipped out and vanished down the spiral steps.

  Bedecked in a long black cloak that fastened at his waist and whose high collar poked into his jaw, Cilicien ka’Dur seemed to float into the room. “And how does my lady princess fare this eve?”

  “Pleasantries do not become you, dark one.”

  His eyebrows rose toward his slicked-back hair, black as pitch. “Dark one, am I?” His cold, beady eyes slithered over her. “And how have I earned this title from one who not so long ago depended entirely upon my generosity and willingness?”

  Oh, that she could wrap her hands around his throat! Or wield—she did not need hands to do that, but even that was lost to her now. “You were not forthcoming with me, not in the full.”

  “And how is it you believe this?”

  “Consider my situation and be enlightened.”

  His mustached lip curled. “Forgive my boldness, Lady Princess, but you were convinced, were you not, that this should happen—at any price.”

  “The transference—yes! But you did not tell me I would be paralyzed as my brother had been.” She met his gaze evenly and there saw the glint of pleasure she’d anticipated. “You knew what would happen!”

  “Nothing was written—”

  “You knew!” The shout even startled her. “You knew yet you withheld the full truth of what would happen to me. Did nothing to prepare me for the cruelty of it.” If she could feel her body, she would wager it trembled.

  “Full truth.” Cilicien repeated and drew near her feet, hands clasped as he stared out the window. “Truth convinced you, did it not, that the only course of action prudent to protecting your gift was transference.”

  “Truth?” Was it? She wasn’t as confident any longer. “You call it truth, but I call it a shade of the truth you wanted me to see.”

  “One you were all too eager to capture.”

  Anger sparked through her at the veracity of words. She hated him almost as much as she hated herself for what she’d done. No more could she take his presence or what he represented. “What is your intention, Cilicien?”

  “Intention?”

  “Why are you here?” Her throat constricted, forcing her to swallow. It was the only indication that her heart pounded against her ribs. How strange not to feel it. “Why have you returned? Why are you not with your master?”

  He frowned. “Which master is that?”

  “Poired! Or Sirdar.”

  With a scoff, he shook his head. “There are more irons in this fire than Unelithien and the Nine.”

  “Then you did this—not for Poired?”

  “Ah, my motives are my own. My intentions”—again, beady eyes roamed her—“are my own, dear princess.”

  “Surely you know my father-king has ordered your arrest.”

  A smirk slowly slid into olive complexion. “I have heard.”

  Maddening, petulant . . . “Why are you here? What do you seek?” Agitation and irritation coated her question, but she cared not.

  “We had an agreement—”

  “Which was fulfilled.” Should she call for the guards?

  He cocked his head, those eyes probing her. “To your satisfaction?”

  She shifted her gaze to the windows once more, hating that satisfaction did not come close to what she felt. Yes, what she sought to accomplish had succeeded. But she had not fathomed the . . . rest. Haegan’s wandering. Her paralysis. Her father’s anger. Her mother’s grief. The kingdom’s despair.

  Satisfaction mattered not. This was not Abiassa Day when children received gifts, debts were forgiven, and men chose wives. She had carried out what was necessary. No more. No less. “It is done. We have no further business. I would have you leave.”

  A half smile bared his teeth. “You think to dismiss me so easily?”

  Kaelyria swallowed, unease coiling around her confidence and strangling it. “Yes.”

  “Forgive me, Lady-Princess, but I am not ready to leave.” He bent closer, impressing upon her the awful truth of her situation—though she would have wielded against him at one time, now she could do nothing but watch him crowd her. He pushed his way onto the cushion beside her, making room where there was none.

  Why had she not noticed before how his presence made her feel uneasy? “Get out.”

  He sneered this time. “You seem to forget yourself, princess. Or rather, forget that you are an invalid, weak in body.” His eyebrow winged up again. “And abilities.”

  “One shout from me and the guards will be upon you,” she hissed, her anger mounting. “They would drag you to the dungeons, where my father would sear that smirk off your face.”

  Chin tucked, he merely smiled, his eyes communicating his dominance and comfort therein.

  She struggled to breathe. “Now. Leave me.”

  “I think not.”

  The air . . . so thick . . . “Wha—”

  “Now . . . now you see who is in control.”

  “You serve Poired well.” The air wouldn’t move in her throat. Kaelyria felt the heady swell of panic in her breast.

  Eyes dark and menacing, he curled his fingers into a fist . . . one . . . after . . . another. As if tightening them around her neck. “A little hard to breathe, princess?”

  Her temples throbbed. Scream! She had to scream. But she couldn’t. A hot tear slipped from her eye and slid over her cheek. Alone, with nobody to help, she would
die here. With this putrid accelerant squeezing the life from her lungs.

  “Perhaps a little fresh air . . .”

  The edges of her vision ghosted as his other palm swam a circle over the pane. Crack! The tinkling of breaking glass grew faint in her ears.

  Wind gusted across her cheeks. Where was it coming from? She couldn’t see. Didn’t care. Air! I need air!

  Kaelyria felt herself sliding . . .

  A scream warbled somewhere distant.

  Pop!

  The stranglehold broke! She gasped. Hauled in a greedy breath of air. Blinked away the grayness. All at once she saw and heard too many things. Green swam in her vision. Grass? How was she—

  Kae screamed this time, realizing she hung out the window. “Help!” she shouted, long and primal. “Help me!”

  A Jujak swung out from below a sheltered area near the main door. He looked around, then up . . .

  Kaelyria’s tears blurred her vision. Chilled winds smacked her face and yanked her hair from its knot. Crack! The window broke more. She shifted. Screamed again.

  Hands gripped her shoulders. Pulled her up.

  Kaelyria fought the wild panic as she was drawn back through the window, noting the blood smeared across the glass. The jagged glass.

  “Easy, there. I’ve got you.” Mother! Her mother had her. “Help me!”

  Stronger hands caught Kaelyria’s shoulders. Lifted her from the terrifying heights she’d hung from. Carried her from the cushioned seat.

  Tears burned the backs of her eyes, but Kae refused to cry before this Jujak, this warrior.

  “No, not there. It’s too cold here now. To her chambers.” Her mother swept ahead, motioning out of the tower. She stepped over something—no, not something. A body!

  “Kiesa!”

  “She’s alive,” her mother said without stopping.

  A handful of Jujak clanked up the steps, slowing as they met on the stairwell.

  “You,” her mother said, pointing to two warriors. “Take my daughter’s handmaid to the pharmakeia, then bring him here at once. His nurse can tend the girl, but the princess needs him immediately. The rest of you—Cilicien ka’Dur is in the keep. Find him and secure him until the king’s return.”