by Ronie Kendig
Haegan froze, recognizing the heat signature of an acceleration. “You’d wield against me?” The shock was surreal. No matter how hard he tried and no matter what he did, it seemed the world pitted itself against him.
“Only to stop you.”
“Stop me?” Haegan held out his arm. “From what? You—”
“Stop, please!”
Right. Look away and the rogue would wield. “No more games. You weary me!”
“Please. Stop.” Drracien’s expression changed as did his tone. And his posture. He wasn’t just wielding. This was . . . advanced wielding.
Confusion and curiosity collided in Haegan. His anger abated somewhat. Who or what was Drracien? “You hid from the sentinels. Why?”
Drracien frowned. He straightened, his hands falling to his sides. “I know who you are.”
“You’re an accelerant. Of course you know who I am—the crippled prince whose father your order answers to.” He shoved a hand through his hair, defeat clinging to him like the dampness cloaking the mountain.
A small sound disturbed the silence down the hill from them. Drracien immediately turned toward it, his eyes narrowed. “Debate later. Right now we have a bigger problem.”
“What?”
“You’re being tracked.”
30
Torchlight skittered into one shadow after another as Gwogh followed the bent servant into the foyer of the great hall of Hetaera’s Sanctuary. Above them, colorful glass windows slept, waiting for the morning light to spread their glory. Stone arches swung upward . . . all the way to the mural bathed in the somber glow of torches. The ever-lit depiction of Zaelero’s mighty battle served as both a reminder and a charge to the Ignatieri to maintain the Flames and instruct future generations.
Gwogh shivered in the chill. It was cold here. Where it should not be.
“This way, Sir Gwogh.” The servant shuffled onward, away from the private residences of the marshals, and toward the offices, training cellars, and courtyards. The farther they went, the more the chill pervaded Gwogh’s bones. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong here. Very wrong.
The silence. The darkness. It wasn’t just the shadows of night. Gwogh flexed his hands, ready for whatever purpose this servant, whom he had once called friend, had in dragging him to the school. When they rounded the corner to the reception hall, Gwogh broke his silence. “There must be some mistake. I requested an audience with High Marshal Aloing.”
“Yes.” Eliatzer continued onward. “You asked me to take you to him.” He unlocked a heavy steel door.
“Yes, but his residence is on the ninth floor.” The physical representation of the Nine Kingdoms the Ignatieri were charged with defending.
“Indeed.” Eliatzer did not slow as he shuffled, undeterred by the questions, across the open auditorium. Hauntingly empty, the gilded bannisters and seats seemed to mock Gwogh’s subservient stature in the last decade, since he was sent out of Sanctuary to Fieri Keep to watch over the crippled prince.
“I fear I do not understand—”
“None of us lessers do,” Eliatzer mumbled as his sandaled feet scraped against the passage that curved down . . . down . . .
“I beg your mercy, old friend, but what—”
“Here we are,” Eliatzer declared. He placed two hands on an enormous door, his whole body shuddering as he pushed with great effort.
It wasn’t until the barrier angled inward and light caught the ornate carvings that Gwogh’s lunch squirmed in his stomach. “The morgue.”
He entered the open room with one stone slab after another jutting from a center cavern that dripped frigid water. Cold enough to hold a body until burial. Cold enough to make Gwogh feel as if spikes had been shoved through his limbs.
“Why are we here?” But even as he asked, he saw the body, carefully laid out. Garbed in the ceremonial high fashion. Black and red intertwined among the rubies stitched into the thigh-length cloak. A massive citrine joined the collar, and tipped up the chin of the high lord, whose white-gray hair had been neatly combed back. The thick tapestry of his office draped elegantly over his waist and down the sides of the stone edifice. The red sash of his office.
Gwogh’s eyes slid closed, his mind refusing to take in the truth: Aloing was dead.
He moved closer, but kept his hands to his sides, though they itched to touch the high marshal. His mentor. Friend. Unrivaled, Aloing had trained Zireli, raised him when his gifts were made known at a very young age. One of the grandest and gentlest accelerants Gwogh had ever known and trained with. And the fiercest when angered. When the Flames were violated. When the Codes rejected. His gifts bordered on Deliverer strength. Not even Dromadric could touch the level of his wielding, though it had been close. Something he had frequently taunted his oldest friend about. “What happened?”
“Now, that’d depend on who you asked.”
A spark crackled through Gwogh. He flashed a glare at the servant. “Explain yourself.”
He cocked his head to the side and shrugged. “It would be my advice, Sir Gwogh, that you speak with the high marshals and the grand marshal.”
“Why will you not speak truth and release me from this anger?”
Eliatzer’s eyes widened in understanding, his gaze flicking to Gwogh’s hands.
“You’ve been around novices and conductors too long if you seek to gauge the depth of my anger through the embers.” Gwogh held up his hands. “What do my embers tell you?”
Uncertainty shook the man’s head, but the eyes told much more—that he felt the circle of heat around his throat and mind, though he saw no indication of Gwogh’s wielding. That Gwogh’s gifts were far more advanced than the young patrons and sparkers who practiced in the training yard. That he’d underestimated the wrong person.
“I would have the truth,” Gwogh said.
Gasping, the man rubbed his throat and temple, scowling. “That’s what I been trying to say—there are several truths floating around. I heard them.” He swiped a hand at the air. “There is no call to hurt a poor man.”
Unaffected by the false humility, Gwogh maintained his ground. “You led me to this morgue to shock me.”
“I led you here to show you the truth.” Eliatzer shuffled toward the high marshal’s body. Bending, the aged man unfastened Aloing’s collar.
“What are you doing? Unhand him!” Without thought, Gwogh sent a focused spark at the man’s right shoulder.
Eliatzer swung back, gripping the spot that sizzled with spirals of smoke. “Look! Look at his throat.” Tears streaked the man’s face. “I meant no disrespect.”
Gwogh reluctantly dragged himself to the high marshal’s frozen form, such an unnatural state. Eyes still on the servant, he sent him a searing glare.
“Look,” Eliatzer pleaded.
Finally, Gwogh turned his gaze downward. First to the face nearly as gray as the neatly combed hair. The pale lips. And finally, the throat. Thin black lines snaked up and around his neck. Dozens of them. “Scoriae.”
“See?” Eliatzer surged forward, victory in his wrinkled, hooded eyes.
“This makes no sense.” His mind tripped over the implications. The ramifications. His gaze flicked to the old man. “You’ve had your fun. I’ve played your games. Now, you will tell me what happened.” When the man opened his mouth, his expression clearly set to challenge, Gwogh pressed on. “All versions.”
Eliatzer sagged, lowered his head, and nodded. “Let’s leave this cold place. We’ll go to my room and talk there.”
“No.” Gwogh sensed an urgency to gather truths and leave the Sanctuary. “I will have the truth—truths—here. Now.”
“But it’s so cold.”
“The truth usually is.” Gwogh nodded. “Please. Begin.”
“First, I should say I wasn’t witness to none of these stories. I just hear them, that’s all.” Eliatzer rubbed his neck. “First truth going around is that the high marshal’s protégé killed him during an argument. Then the young
accelerant jumped out a window and escaped over the rooftops of the Citadel.”
“What level was his protégé now?”
“Just tested and passed for marshal.”
So quickly? “You’re so certain. How is it that you know so clearly the rank of a student?”
“Everyone knows Drracien. Powerful, that boy. I heard some liken him to Zireli. A prodigy, they called him.” He shrugged. “But he was wild. Powerful and wild.”
“Indeed.” Gwogh remembered Aloing’s words about the wild boy of the lessers. He also remembered the destiny Aloing believed the boy born to.
“And what with the way young Drracien Khar’val vanished, it would seem that was the right truth.”
“Except for the scoriae.”
Eliatzer’s cheek twitched with a smile. “Except for that.”
Gwogh scowled. “I will take my leave of you now.”
The man’s eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. “Oh, no, sir. I—” He gaped. “Don’t you want to know the other truths?”
No, he had heard more than enough. Gwogh inclined his head. “I thank you for your time and consideration. You have been truly helpful.” He ducked and stepped into the night, moving at a pace that would tell others not to interfere. And a pace that put great distance between himself and Eliatzer, who was scrambling to perform his duty of seeing him out.
Back in the rotunda, he hurried as quickly as his seventy-two-year-old legs would carry him and turned left toward a small alcove. He palmed the wall and a panel slid back. As soon as he entered, the door closed.
Even after all these years away, he remembered. To the right, he found the rope. Pulled down. Then worked it hand over hand.
His mind rang with the singularity of the events that had taken place in the last weeks. Losing Haegan. Kaelyria bedridden. All those years he’d been convinced the Fierian was at least another generation away. That he would die in peace, that the worst time of Primar’s history would not open up before his eyes.
But had he been convinced? Or had he convinced himself, desperate not to be a part of that bloody prophecy? He pinned himself in the corner of the lift, gripping the half wall with both hands. He closed his eyes. Please let it not be in my time.
But only an old blind fool would believe it was not. As only a blind fool would believe Abiassa’s timing could be influenced by a mere mortal. His gaze rose to the darkness, where the shaft ended. The chill had already invaded Sanctuary. And he wasn’t referring to the winter chill. But the chasing away of Abiassa’s Fire.
31
“Tracked?” Huffing as he struggled to keep up with the agile accelerant, Haegan stumbled. “Wait.” Cursed weak legs. They might look like warrior’s legs, but they were clearly not. Or maybe he just hadn’t perfected the art of using them. “What”—he gulped air—“makes you think”—huff—“I’m being tracked?”
“The bodies.”
“But how do you know that’s connected to me?”
“Because they were in your wake. Same path you took.” Drracien stopped, one foot on a boulder, and glanced at Haegan. “Did you not hear anything behind you?”
“I heard plenty.” Sweat dripped off the fringes of his hair plastered to his forehead. “Grunts and crunches mostly.”
Drracien did a double-take. Turned away, his hand going to his mouth, then swung back. Held out his arms. “What did you expect? A formal announcement by herald?”
Haegan’s face flushed, making him suddenly grateful for the darkness. “It was a city! How was I supposed to know—”
“You’re a wanted fugitive. You should be hearing trouble in every creak and pop. When you have Ignatieri watching for you, Jujak hunting you, and Deliverers—”
Haegan hauled in a breath. “Deliverers?” His panic screamed, squeezing tight against his ribs. “They’re disbanded. When my grandfather—”
Brows knotted, Drracien angled toward him. “Deliverers are never disbanded.” He sliced a decisive hand through the air. “They live in peace and anonymity until Abiassa calls them to judge.”
“Judge?” He hated the way his voice squeaked. “What—why?” His head hurt trying to make sense of things. He just wanted to get to the Falls, to just . . . survive.
“What did you do, prince?”
“I told you not to call me that!”
“Hey.” The firm fierce voice of Thiel cut through their tension as she slipped into the open, moonslight softening her olive complexion. “You might as well light a fire and summon the Jujak.” Her scathing expression scraped over Haegan, then Drracien, upon whom she turned her full attention.
Good. Mayhap she would carve that smug expression off his face.
“What happened?”
“The prince here got lost.”
“Lost? You abandoned me! I turned my head and you were gone!”
“Quiet.” Thiel touched his hand, her gaze still on the accelerant. “I trusted you to protect him—”
“I don’t need his protection!”
“No, you need a babysitter!” Drracien’s hair dipped into his eyes. He shoved it back. “I had things to take care of that I could not do with him latched to my side.”
“Like what?” Thiel folded her arms.
He huffed. Looked away.
“Let’s go.” Thiel was looking at Haegan, anger blazing through her amber eyes.
“Wait.” Drracien caught her arm and moved in close. If the proximity was not enough to set a new anger ablaze in Haegan, the way Drracien peered down at Thiel was. Haegan drew straighter, positioning himself alongside the two. “Release her.”
After skating a sidelong glance to Haegan, Drracien focused on the winsome beauty between them. “We all have our secrets. Mine are . . . dangerous.”
Why didn’t Thiel push him back, the way she had with Haegan? “Most are, or they wouldn’t be secrets.”
“If I were caught in the city—”
“Sanctuary,” Haegan corrected. “He snuck into the Citadel of the Ignatieri.”
Eyes wide, Thiel did step back then. “Why?”
“I’m an accelerant,” Drracien said in a condescending tone as he slid a hateful glare at Haegan.
Shaking her head, Thiel said, “No, why sneak? You belong there. Why not just walk in?”
There was a long pause as Drracien’s gaze shifted to one then the other. For the first time, Haegan noticed weariness behind the arrogance in those eyes.
As if realizing his slip, Drracien sneered. “As I said, I’m an accelerant. A sought-after one.” He smirked. “Highly sought after. As in dead.”
“A good reason, then, to avoid them, not seek them out.”
“Who wants you dead?” Haegan asked.
“Every accelerant in there. But mostly Grand Marshal Dromadric.”
“Of what do they accuse you?”
Drracien stretched his jaw. “Murder.” His dark eyes met theirs. “Of which I am not guilty.”
Thiel stumbled out of his grip. “You bring death to us, Drracien.”
“What of him?” He swung a finger toward Haegan. “Prince Haegan, son of King Zireli, wanted for high treason by his own father, who sent Jujak after him! Tell me, which do you fear more?”
Thiel let out a frustrated breath. “Both.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. Then turned back to Drracien. “You specifically singled out Haegan to accompany you. Why would you do that, then leave him? Were you trying to get him caught?”
Drracien snorted.
“Explain yourself. How you justify abandoning him, then returning to me as if with a clear conscience.” She was fiery when angry. And that had been a lot lately. “Were you hoping he’d be caught?” She whisked away from him, holding her head. “Why I trusted you, I don’t—”
“I wanted him with me because I knew you had feelings for him.”
Thiel’s mouth hung open.
So did Haegan’s.
“You know not of which you speak,” Thiel hissed. “He is under my charge. I have f
eelings for all of them—Praegur, Tokar—”
“Then you knew.”
She eyed him warily.
“You knew he was the prince.”
Thiel looked down.
“And you let him go with me. Into the city. Knowing it could be an ambush.”
“Do not turn this back on me, you—”
“I said I would go. It wasn’t for her to say yes or no, as if I were a child.” Haegan stepped closer. “But if you knew I was the prince—”
Drracien curled his lip. “I did not know. Not until I was in the market. A friend slipped me the paper—the wanted poster. I knew then that if I stayed with you, we’d both get caught. I knew if I broke away from you, you’d hide.”
“That doesn’t make sense, to intentionally leave him in a crowded city where he’s clearly wanted.”
“Look.” Drracien brushed his dark hair off his forehead again. “The truth—I overestimated him. He looked strong. But once we were in the Citadel, I saw he was slow and that he didn’t belong in the city. The crowds affected him. Shut him down.”
Haegan flared his nostrils. “I am not used to crowds.”
“I know the passages of the Citadel—better than most.” His lips compressed, a truth—or lie?—hidden behind them. “I was confident I could escape or fight my way out. I knew he could not.”
“All the more reason for you to remain at his side!”
Humiliation coiled around Haegan, pushing his head down.
“It is not meant as a slight, Prince, but a truth.” Drracien faced him now. “I know not how you have come to be here, but I have doubts. Questions.”
“Pray, speak your mind.” Haegan balled his fists.
“You were known as the crippled prince. Was it true?”
“Was what true?”
“Were you crippled?”
“I . . . I was poisoned as a boy. I’ve spent the last ten years in a tower with an aging accelerant as my only friend and tutor.”
“What happened to your sister, Princess Kaelyria? Rumor holds she’s been injured.”
