Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  Praegur and Tokar lay to one side, unconscious. Yet again, no wounds.

  Standing in the middle of the corral, Laertes stared at the door—at her.

  She hurried forward, opening her mouth to call his name when she saw the massive dark form bending over something in a corner. Bending over Haegan!

  Lucent Rider! Two—there must be two here. How else could she explain his sudden appearance and the bodies strewn like hay across the yard?

  Frantically, she waved Laertes to her. He neither acknowledged her nor moved—only stared. Eyes wide. Frozen.

  He would spoil her attack against the intruder. Again, she repeated her gesture. But the boy did not move. Thiel shifted forward, deliberately placing her foot so as not to make a sound as she reached for the ten-year-old. Her finger scraped against the rough fabric of his tunic, but a thrill of cold shot through her.

  “He cannot hear you.”

  The deep, resonating voice vibrated through her chest and head like a resounding gong. Thiel jerked. The large form faced her. Draped head to toe in black, features shielded but by what she knew not for there was no fabric over his face, the Deliverer straightened to his full height. He seemed to grow and grow until she thought he’d knock against the beams.

  Thiel took a step back.

  “You gave him the pill.”

  She hauled in a breath. How could he know that? Fear tugged at her, willing her to move away.

  “Nothing is hidden from Her.”

  He reads my thoughts!

  “You are chosen as his protector.” The Deliverer shifted aside, drawing away his cloak and revealing a sleeping Haegan. He seemed so peaceful. So handsome. So unaware. “Leave not his side until the time is fulfilled. Give him no potion.” The Deliverer inclined his head. “Am I understood?”

  Dragging her mind from the fog of his power and the incredible events, Thiel nodded.

  “You sought to subdue what Abiassa has placed in him—”

  “To protect him!”

  He shifted and in that second, he seemed ready to attack. His right arm swung to the side, hand on a hilt she hadn’t noticed before. He stared at her, and suddenly his eyes were there. So white and pale it seemed they had no irises. Power and intensity illuminated them, the glow so bright it reminded her of a smithy’s kiln. “The potion killed him.”

  Killed? A gargled cry shot from her throat as Thiel’s gaze darted to Haegan.

  “He is restored. You must remove him from here.”

  “But the warriors. He’s . . .” Surely he knew the men in this clan wanted Haegan dead. “They will kill me if I try to leave with him.”

  Once more his eyes receded into the black veil of nothingness. Though the black shadows hid him and she could not see his face, somehow she knew he smiled. Felt his amusement at her words. “He has them distracted. Go at once.”

  Her mind wrestled free of the fog. What? What was he smiling at?

  That’s when she realized there was no sound. Not only here in the stable, but . . . everywhere. Keeping her eyes on the Deliverer, she turned her head, listening. She glanced at Laertes, who remained frozen. She hesitantly moved to the archway that opened in the rear yard and revealed the camp. No movement. No chatter, shouts, laughter. Thiel dragged herself back to the Lucent Rider.

  “Wake your friends. Take Haegan to the Falls. What happens there must happen. Remain at his side, steadfast warrior. He will need your sword and your counsel.” The Deliverer turned away, and as he did, he vanished in a blur with the word, “Go!”

  “But we’re being hunted!” Instantly, in her mind’s eye, a route through the forest streaked out, glowing as it progressed. Was it his way of saying that was the safest way?

  At her feet came rustling. Praegur and Tokar pushed upright, confusion clouding their faces as they looked up and found her there.

  “Wha—” Tokar jumped to his feet. He scowled at her. “Where did you come from? How did I get on the floor?”

  “Ah!” Laertes shouted, stumbling forward. He stopped, as if he’d been cut short when the Deliverer had frozen him. He whirled in a circle, frantic. “Where . . .? I saw him! He—” He spun toward them, his chest bouncing up and down with excitement. “Did you see him?”

  Praegur rustled his hair. “Easy.”

  Haegan groaned, a hand going to his head as he peeled himself from the stack of hay. Suddenly, he straightened. Glanced around, searching the room. Then his gaze darted to the ground, the stalls, and each of them. “What was in that pill? I feel like I died.”

  Ignoring the question and the guilt that came with it, Thiel knelt in front of him, her thoughts overwhelmed in a tangle of disbelief, worry, and astonishment. “We need to leave.” She touched his leg, surprised at the thrumming warmth that poured off him. “Are you well enough?”

  His gaze hit hers. “I feel”—he shook his head, disbelief in his blue eyes—“stronger than ever.” Then he frowned. “A second ago, everything ached. What was in that pill you told me to take?”

  “Later,” she muttered. He lived. Explanations could wait. She hooked a hand beneath his arm. “We need to leave. Now.”

  “But we don’t have any supplies,” Praegur said.

  “And I doubt those warriors are going to let you go anywhere with him,” Tokar said. “They want him strung up and dangling from a tree.”

  Thiel pushed them toward the gate and opened it. “We have our lives. That’s all we need right now.”

  “But—”

  She spun. “If you do not move, we will not have that!”

  “Ain’t nobody gonna answer my question?” Laertes demanded, wagging his hands. “Did anybody else see what I sawed?”

  Thiel gave him a gentle push into the woods, remaining at Haegan’s side.

  “There you go again,” Tokar said. “Making up wild tales to cover your nightmares.”

  “I know what I sawed.”

  “Saw.”

  • • •

  Captive. Behind bars the Auspex sits caged in corporeal form to the unbending general, and in mind and spirit to the will of Sirdar. Never his own, he watches. Understands. Within the person who existed before being tethered to darkness. Though a glimmer of his old self exists within the frail frame, he can no more bring about his own designs than he can speak his own thoughts.

  Even now, he sits, watching.

  In walks Onerid, adorned in battle dress. The high, thick collar molded from the hide of a boarbeast protects his neck from a death blow. His long red coat that marks him as the right hand of the High Lord Commander covers much of the black and silver breastplate that bears the image of Sirdar with daggers of fire shooting out like a thick, flowing mane. He cuts an impressive, forbidding figure.

  Tossing down a pen, Poired slumps against his richly carved chair, the blood-red velvet fabric silhouetting his broad shoulders. “Time already?”

  Onerid nods in deference to his commander. “Think of it as a break from the tedium.”

  “From one tedium to another.” Swiping a hand over his bearded face does nothing to wipe away the frustration. “What is the point?”

  “It’s a psychological battle.” Onerid swings the silvery helmet to the right and tucks it beneath his other arm.

  “Against whom? Me?” Poired pushes up from his chair and heaves a sigh. He detests the ritualistic standoff.

  The great one struggles to restrain himself. His restlessness has become apparent to all who have given witness to his comings and goings. Though he does not sit in a steel cage as the Auspex does, Poired is caged nonetheless. His movements are caged. His thoughts caged within a fortress of hatred and a thirst for Celahar blood. A thirst fueled by Sirdar’s venom coursing through his veins. The curse of his power lay in the little-known truth that he could not stray from Sirdar’s Eye or Voice. He was as dependent on his host as a person is on the organ thumping in his chest.

  “The battle is psychological—against me. They sit up there in their high places and mock me,” he g
rowls loudly. “The battle would be won if he would release me!” Poired snatches his greaves from his servant. He sits, his strong frame defiant of the years he abused it.

  “My lord commander.” A private guard enters and goes to a knee, knowing not to speak until granted permission, lest he end up staining the ground with his blood. “A messenger from Hetaera.”

  Poired glares at the intrusion, then waves off the servant, no doubt glad for the delay in sitting on his mount for the next three hours. He moves to his desk and drops onto the cushioned seat. “Bring the messenger.”

  The sentry steps out, never showing his back to his commander, then reaches to the side. He hauls in a boy garbed in all black. Eyes wide, face pale, the newcomer is as terrified of the commander as anyone with common sense would be.

  “Speak,” Poired growls.

  The sentry nudges the boy, who stumbles forward. “Your Grace—”

  “I am no king, boy.” Agitation and meanness are the hallmark of the great military leader. “No need for titles since you are not owed to me. Get on with your news.”

  “Y-yes, High Lord Commander. Word comes from my master. He says the people continue as normal, confident the fires of Zaethien will burn, and the”—his gaze travels the tent, replete with armor and weapons—“Tharqnis armies will remain south.”

  “As planned,” Onerid says with a satisfied smirk.

  “They are but a bunch of fattened cows, comfortable in their lives.” Poired snorts and flings a paper to the side of his desk. “It amazes me how blind and complacent people are until you step on their necks.”

  “Apathy and selfishness give us more room than fear.”

  “Weak, putrid . . .” Poired flicks a finger at the sentry. “You’re still in my tent, boy.”

  With a half-bow, the boy wrings his hands. “S-sorry, sir. I just . . . I get scared when I see uniforms.” He dusts brown hair from his eyes. “I mean, not scared the way I was when I had to get past the Jujak, but here—all these warriors. I could wet myself!”

  Poired stands, seeing in the boy something he has not seen in many. Bravery. He lifts an apple from the sideboard and hefts it in his hand. “You saw Jujak?” His mood is less cordial now. “In Hetaera.”

  “Oh, no. They wasn’t in the city.” The boy has locked onto the fruit, hunger numbing his brain. “Were it not for the fires, I would’ve run straight through their camp with them sitting there in their fancy uniforms and all. But it’s a good thing I’m watchful. My master tells me I’m quick and quiet, which is why he sends me here.”

  “Where, boy?” With a gentle move, he places the apple in the boy’s palm.

  Wide-eyed wonder glosses the boy’s eyes at the treat he now holds. But confusion knots the boy’s gaze. “Where? Here, sir. To you.”

  “No,” Poired says, squeezing the boy’s hands in his own. “Where were the royal guard, the Jujak?”

  “In the hills. Outside the city.” He whimpers, pain crushing his small fingers. “Please, High Lord Commander—my hands.”

  With a thrust that sends the boy spiraling backward out of the tent, Poired frowns. He ambles back to his seat, fingers tracing the desk, and then looks to Onerid. “What are Zireli’s lackeys doing in Hetaera?”

  “Feckless cowards—probably fled the city when we first razed the outer villages. They are good, but they’re not the Maereni.” Onerid lowers himself to the other chair by the fire pit.

  With a slow nod, Poired considers his general’s suggestion. Then his face clears and hardens. “No,” he says slowly with narrowed eyes. “The boy said they were in uniform. If they were hiding, they would’ve shed those cloaks before leaving Seultrie.” His expression once again clouds.

  Onerid leans forward, oozing intensity. “Think you Zireli has fled the capital?”

  “No,” Poired mutters, leaning back in his chair, his gaze lost in thought. “I saw him watching from the balcony of his chambers.” He snorts. “Thinking to defy me.”

  “Then the queen or princess?”

  “Adrroania would never leave Zireli—or her daughter. Zireli is foolish enough to believe himself untouchable in that fire-walled fortress.”

  “Who then? The prince?”

  “The cripple?” With a barked laugh, the high lord commander dismisses the idea. “I’ve seen the light in the high tower. Still relegated to isolation and a dull existence with an addled accelerant. I think not.”

  “Then . . . why send the Jujak to Hetaera? Could he have learned of our plans?”

  Poired sits still and silent for several long minutes. “Bring the Iteverians.”

  Onerid hesitates for only a second before leaving Poired with his tumbling thoughts. The worry hangs off him like an ill-fitted tunic. He remains motionless until his general returns. “Trale and Astadia Kath, sir.”

  Behind him stand a plain young man and woman. Wearing belted green tunics that drape to their shins, they go to a knee as one and incline their auburn heads, long hair twisted and secured down their spines.

  “You summoned us,” the young man says as they rise effortlessly to their feet.

  “How do you like it here, Trale?”

  The young man seems to glare, but that would be foolish. “You’ll forgive us, sir, but we find it too hot and arid.” His green eyes go to the woman. “We would wish for a greener climate.”

  “Good. Perfect.” Poired stood. “Go to Hetaera.”

  “Hetaera.” Agitation coats the way Trale speaks the name of the great city.

  “Zireli’s Jujak are there. Find out why and return.”

  Trale does not move or comply. It is obvious to all who know them that the two long for their home, Iteveria, and the lush woods and cliffs overlooking the Nydessan Sea. To be sent farther inland, toward the Sanctuary . . . it is an affront to all they hold dear. “Sir, you promised—”

  The young woman stiffens suddenly, gasping for air. She clutches at her throat as if that can release the fiery hold on her. Distress lines her delicate, elegant features.

  Fury ruptures the quiet veil over Trale. He lunges for Poired, but the woman’s hand stills him, her other scratching at her neck as she pleads with glassy eyes for Trale not to confront Poired. She gasps, her face reddening.

  Though power roils through him and skill unmatched in the realms rests with his touch, Trale stops short. Draws up his shoulders, his green eyes, and snaps a modicum of acquiescence to the high lord commander. “Because you command us.”

  27

  The dream wouldn’t leave him. In the days following their escape from the Ematahri camp—surprisingly uncontested—the words consumed his thoughts. Unfathomable words, saturating his mind as he trod over rocky knolls and up steep inclines. Those words and the pill. He’d felt himself falling into a bottomless pit after swallowing it. Had Thiel tried to kill him? Could he trust her after that? He didn’t want to, but she seemed to know what she was doing. And staying with the Ematahri would not be good for his health. That much he knew. So, for now, he’d hike, camp, and keep watch. He’d follow her direction.

  They trekked single file to hide their numbers and because the path often made it impossible to pass in pairs. Thiel set a relentless clip, stopping for only a few hours each night, leaving no time or energy for conversation. Even when darkness hung like a thick blanket, she moved on for hours as if she had a torch. Which she didn’t. In the days since leaving the Ematahri camp, she had spoken little except to give orders and tell them to hurry.

  As darkness settled at the end of the eighth day, tempers ran short.

  “It’s night,” Laertes whined. “We ought ta be sleepin’. Like what normal people do.”

  “It’s late,” Tokar said. “He’s right that we should rest.”

  “No.” Unrelenting, she maintained her pace. “We have to get to the Great Falls.”

  Tokar huffed. “It’s been days since we left the Ematahri. No one’s following. We need a break.”

  “We must get to Hetaera.”

&nb
sp; Laertes tripped. Pitched forward. Haegan shifted to avoid stumbling on top of him. The ten-year-old grumbled but picked himself back up.

  “Rest would do us well, Thiel.” Haegan felt bad for countering her, but they all needed to recover. “One decent night’s sleep.”

  With a huff, she glanced up the hill, as if she could see. Which she couldn’t because the trees blocked the moonslight and nightfall blanketed the rocky path. “Fine. There’s a cave ahead. We’ll rest for a while inside.”

  “And how do you know that?” Tokar asked. “And why do you listen to Twig but not us?”

  “Just move.” Up around another turn, then a dozen paces farther and she turned off the beaten path. Soft, plush grass, slick from the damp air, softened their steps as Thiel hiked to a small clearing. “Here,” she said, squatting beside what looked to be an ordinary boulder. “In.”

  On all fours, Laertes peered not around the boulder, but under it. A second later, his shadowed form disappeared beneath the earth. “Whoa!” he called, his voice echoing. “Watch yerself.”

  “You slide down,” Thiel explained. “Then it widens.” She met Haegan’s gaze. “You next.”

  He tucked himself into the thin sliver of space and felt gravity pull him. He slid and his feet thudded against a rock. He blinked but saw nothing. The scrriiitch and thud of others descending pushed him backward, but he was afraid to move much more, concerned there might be another drop-off.

  A spark hissed as a flame flared to life and chased darkness from the cave. Tokar waved the torch around, squinting past its brightness to their surroundings.

  “Where’d you get that?” Laertes asked.

  “In the corner.” Tokar motioned toward a small pile of torches. “Now, bed down.”

  “Where’s Thiel?” Haegan peered up at the pale light at the opening of the cave.

  “At the entrance.” Praegur nodded to the top even as he lowered himself against a wall.