Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  Head down, Haegan tucked all his disasters over the last weeks into a neat pile, wrapped them in a protective casing called humiliation, and stowed them beneath his pride. And his need to protect what few secrets he had left. “If she is an assassin, then she had plenty of opportunity to end my life. But she did not.” He heaved a sigh. “I have one day to figure out how to get the waterfall without being seen or stopped.”

  “Yeh?” Tokar appeared from behind, thudding along the path with Praegur and Laertes. “Well, unless you’re willing to do the Ignatieri ritual, you aren’t stepping into the pool.”

  Haegan frowned. “Ritual?”

  “As I tried to explain earlier.” Praegur thumbed over his shoulder. “Just came from the center of the encampment. High marshal has a table set up. He’s ordering all who want to enter the Great Falls for Kindling to register.” He raised his eyebrows as he looked at Haegan.

  “It ain’t cheap eaver.”

  “Either.”

  “Whateever,” Laertes threw back, with wide eyes for emphasis. “What with you getting our gold stolen—”

  “They were my paladiums.”

  “—don’t matter who they belonged to, now does it? Because they’s gone.”

  “They’re gone.” Even Haegan cringed at his correction this time. They were poor. Several dozen gold paladiums in the pocket of some thief.

  “Exactly. We ain’t got them. We’s poor, with what little the High and Mighty”—he pointed to Drracien—“got us.”

  “Payment or not,” Haegan said quietly as they rounded the last corner, “there’s a bigger problem.”

  They passed a tent that smelled of fumes from a tanner, who sold leather boots, coats, saddles. Two men stood haggling with the lean but muscular owner. At the next stand, brightly dyed fabrics and knitted pieces. But farther in, the largest area offered benches and tables in neat rows. In the center of the eating area sat several large cast iron pots breathed steam, forced by crackling fires.

  “Communal,” Praegur muttered. “Everyone pitches in. If you don’t have food, you donate time to help cook, serve, or clean dishes.”

  “Or do what I do, and slip away so’s nobody is the wiser.” Laertes laughed.

  “It is a mark against your character that you do not volunteer,” Haegan chided the boy.

  “It’s a mark against my survival if I live by their rules. They ain’t looking out for no one but ’emselves.”

  Haegan shook his head and kept walking. Reforming the lad into an honorable citizen would take longer than a month.

  “So your bigger problem,” Tokar said, clearly not wanting to drop the discussion as Haegan did. “You’re a wanted fugitive.”

  “Hey.” Haegan shoved his gaze around, making sure nobody had heard. Unfortunately, several had, but they turned their backs to them. He was about to breathe a little easier when a flash of green exploded between two men.

  Jujak!

  Two of the royal guard. Their gazes homed in on Haegan. “Stop!”

  A hand shoved him. “Go!” Drracien hissed as he simultaneously threw a punch at Tokar.

  Haegan hesitated.

  “You fool! Go!” He launched himself at Tokar. The two rolled on the ground, knocking into a table where a family sat eating. People scattered, the table upended.

  Seeing the diversion Drracien had created, Haegan sprinted out of the gathering and back into the woods. Someone stepped into his path, but he banked left. Darted around a copse of trees and threw himself into the thick brush of the forest.

  The vines latched onto him, tugging and forbidding him to pass. One caught his sleeve and yanked him backward. Eyes probing the dense vegetation for the Jujak, he fumbled with the vine, prickly and sticky with the sap of mauri trees. He finally freed himself and plunged through the sea of leaves and branches.

  Through the thicket, he saw the small tent their group used and vaulted in that direction. He avoided a boulder, almost laughing at its vain effort to stop him. “Not this—”

  Oof! Haegan faceplanted. He flipped over and realized his leg was caught in a vine. He tugged hard. “Stupid things.”

  “Here,” a voice called not too far away. Not far enough away. “Broken limbs.”

  Haegan cursed his carelessness as he struggled once more against the vines. Though he tugged hard, he could not wrest his foot free. He reached for it and froze. Razor-sharp thorns had embedded themselves into his shoe and pants. Their blade-like tips sawed at his leg. He grimaced but refused to cry out. If he were caught—

  “No. Don’t allow the thought. Forbid it. Conquer it.” His father’s words from somewhere in his distant childhood seeped through the pain and panic.

  He yanked hard. Harder.

  Hobbling one leg to the side, he hauled himself onto his feet, hunched over. Then, not caring, he ripped away. And fell again, this time with searing pain biting through his ankle. Unless he had a knife, the vines weren’t going to yield. Grimacing, he turned on his knees.

  A fist collided with his jaw. Haegan went sprawling backward, an explosion of pain radiating through his head. He landed hard, needling thorns digging into his back and shoulders.

  Dark and large, a shadow loomed over him. Yanked him up by his tunic and punched him. “You stupid, self-absorbed—” The fist flew again.

  At the clack of his teeth and squirt of blood through his mouth, something came alive in Haegan. Heat rushed through him. No no no. Not against his father’s elite. He couldn’t unleash whatever was in him against the Jujak.

  A curse singed the air.

  “You okay, Captain?”

  “Fine,” the man growled as he pushed away from Haegan.

  Hurting from head to toe, Haegan climbed up.

  A long blade captured sunlight and threw it in his eyes as its sharp edge slid under his chin. Bigger and older, the other warrior almost smiled at him. “Ah-ah,” came a taunting warning as cold steel pinched Haegan’s neck.

  Haegan hissed and drew up straight, rigid. His nostrils flared as a trickle of warm blood slid down his neck. He swallowed.

  “Prince Haegan.” The captain eased back as the other intentionally raised the sword, forcing Haegan to strain upward. “Please.” He nodded, a ferocity in his eyes blazing. “Give us a reason to break you.”

  The hatred, the fury in this Jujak’s tight lips and narrowed eyes warned Haegan off. This wasn’t the time to fight. Only as the captain shifted did Haegan see the Seultrian crowned flame on his tunic. Valor Guard!

  The captain’s hand went to the gold sheath at his belt, where he freed a dagger.

  Haegan drew back.

  “Make sure he doesn’t move, Mallius,” the captain ordered as he knelt. He swiped the blade against Haegan’s pants and boot, slicing away the vine.

  When he straightened, he seized Haegan by the back of the neck and hauled him to his feet. “You’re the worst kind of traitor, betraying the Fire King. And your sister.” He thrust him forward—right into the iron grip of Mallius, who’d produced shackles and secured Haegan before he could blink. “By my oath to the King and the Nine, you will pay.”

  37

  Heat plumes warbled and danced across his fingertips. A spark leapt from one to the next, as if skipping rocks but with fingers. He’d done it since he could remember, a way to pass boredom. But this wasn’t boredom. This was agitation. The other four were arguing, the boys trying to explain to the angry Thiel, who sat with her leg resting on blankets as she reclined on her cot, how they’d let the prince get caught.

  “Why didn’t anyone go with Haegan to protect him?” Thiel asked, her voice hitching.

  Bent forward, hands dangling, Drracien met her gaze. She was pretty. Very pretty. Though she hid it with the boyish cut and drab clothes, Thiel owned beauty. But right now, she owned anger and fear more. Her eyes sparked with disapproval. He could almost read her thoughts, that he was powerful enough. That instead of fighting with Tokar, he should’ve spirited Haegan to safety. Or sparked the warriors. Or
maybe the horses. That almost made him grin.

  Drracien tore his gaze away. Perhaps she was right. He’d made a mistake.

  But he could take no more rebukes. He still couldn’t sort why Sir Aloing had so violently come against him, rebuked him. Tried to kill him. Forced Drracien to defend himself, which in the end, injured the high marshal.

  Or why Haegan’s sister transferred her gifts to him. Because that’s what had happened. Had to have. Transference wasn’t about physicality. It was about embers. Wasn’t it?

  Those who wield with great power have great responsibility. How many times had Drracien himself barked that to the sparkers in the training yard? Having the gift to wield did not mean you were better than those who could not.

  “Because. What with him”—that’d be Drracien—“punching him”—Tokar—“the people went ever’ which way. Plowed right into us, they did. Knocked me on my padding, what little I have.” Laertes brushed his backside.

  “When I looked back,” Praegur said, his voice deep and quiet as always, “there was no sign of Rigar. I had no way of knowing where he went.”

  “Where he’s gone is to the holding cages in the middle of the Jujak camp just over the next hill.” Drracien folded his arms over his chest. “And if he’s there, the Ignatieri will be informed.”

  They all stared at him now. Tokar entirely too close to the attractive brunette. The young boy, who reminded Drracien of his half brother. And the Kerguli. All watching him.

  He sighed and dropped his hands to his lap again. “What happened with the prince, the transference, does not happen.”

  The Kerguli frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “No,” Thiel held out a hand, her expression fierce. “Forget that. What are you implying? What will they do to him?”

  “Get the truth out of him, no matter the cost.”

  “His father-king won’t allow that.” Thiel seemed to have gone pale, even with the warm glow of their small lantern.

  “Zireli is the supreme ruler.” Praegur nodded.

  Drracien wet his lips, hating that he must be the one to deliver the news, feeling that somehow, he was responsible for the news itself. Not just Haegan’s capture. “Zireli is the supreme ruler”—a collective sigh went up—“over the land and its people.”

  They still didn’t get it.

  “The Ignatieri, the grand marshal are supreme over all matters involving accelerants and wielding.”

  Several blank stares met his explanation.

  But Thiel sagged. “And Haegan was restored when his sister traded.”

  Holding up a finger, Drracien knew he must correct her. “When his sister employed the use of an incipient—and not just any, but a rogue high marshal—to perform a type of wielding that has been forbidden since Zaelero the Second took the throne.”

  Wide brown eyes glossed. “But Haegan didn’t know!”

  “They don’t know that!” Drracien pushed to his feet. “The high marshals will want to question him.”

  “And he will beg his innocence.”

  “Which they will not believe.” He paced, desperately wishing for the training yard to wield and work off some of the stress building in his shoulders. “So they will employ more . . . aggressive means of extracting the truth.”

  “Bah!” Laertes shoved both hands through his shaggy blond hair. “They’ll kill him, what with him not knowin’ the truf.”

  “He knows the truth—but not all of it,” Drracien said. “Haegan doesn’t know that ka’Dur has been banished from the Ignatieri for the last year.”

  “Did the princess know?” Thiel asked quietly.

  “That is not an answer I have.”

  “We should find out.” Thiel perched on the edge of the cot, her leg precariously propped to the side. “If . . . if she did not know, then she can save him. Speak to the king. Seek mercy and a reprieve.”

  “You must jest,” Drracien said with a barked laugh. He held a hand out in the direction of the Jujak tents where his new friend was held captive. “How long did Zireli’s son sit in a tower-like prison and rot? If he could deny the existence of his own son for ten years, he is unlikely to extend any pardon or compassion to him now.”

  • • •

  “Inspire them, Medric. Touch their hearts and minds. They are as much his journey as the Falls.”

  He stood in the tearing Void and saw the fledglings through it, which was no obstacle to Her or the Sent. The future had not been withheld from him. Through the raw fabric of time, he saw what would happen to the young prince should he, in his compromised state of being, enter those waters. “The transference jeopardized him.”

  “And the Falls are the only way to repair that.”

  “It will be violent, Great One.” Perilous. Perhaps even deadly. He ached with concern for the one on the cusp of manhood.

  “Consider the journey, Medric.”

  Her reprimand stung the air. He gave a nod and tucked his chin.

  “Go.”

  Medric stood in the forest, ten paces from the tent of the fledglings. Even now he could hear their conversation, though a person at this range would hear nothing. He stalked toward them. Saw through the material that afforded shelter against the elements and corporeal beings, but not against his kind. Not against Abiassa.

  “I say we clear out. Leave him. This isn’t our trouble.” It was the one they called Tokar. A lot of brawn. Good brains. But short on wisdom. “He’s a curse. Has been since you two insisted we drag his lifeless self out of that tunnel.”

  “We ain’t leaving no friend. No way, no how.” The youngest of the fledglings had wisdom beyond his years, having fought for every moment he had lived and breathed. Clearly, his life had been sparked by Abiassa. “If we leave him, then what’s to say you won’t leave me some day. I ain’t trusting you, Tok.”

  “You have to listen to us. We’re older.”

  “And stupider.” Laertes looked to Thiel. “Not you of course. Him. But I ain’ leaving this mountain unless Rigar—Haegan, whateva’s his name—is wif us.” He moved to the cot and sat behind Thiel, as if seeking her protection and affirmation.

  “He’s right,” she said. “We can’t leave him there.”

  “Why not? He’s with his people—those guards are his father’s! He should go back.”

  “If he goes back now, his sister what sent him won’ neve’ get healed. And then that—that be what trouble we don’ want.”

  “We won’t leave him, Laertes.” Thiel was so resolute.

  Medric ducked into the tent. As he stood there, half expecting them to alert to his presence, they did not. They stared. Unmoved. Locked in the grip of time, which Abiassa held. To his immediate left stood the Kergulian.

  No, not yet.

  Stepping deeper into the gathering, he reached the lad first. He touched his shoulder. “You will see what others miss. You will guide where others are lost. You will succeed where most fail. Your loyalty is rewarded, fledgling.”

  Two strides carried him to the tallest of the group. Tokar. He placed his palm against the chest already cording with muscle. Medric stared into gray eyes that could not see beyond the void of time. “Restless but strong. Impetuous but skilled. You seek a path separate from him, but it will be a painful one if you choose it. Dread and death will be your only companions when you are not aligned with him. Might and honor are yours, from one sea to another, if you choose the right battle, warrior.”

  The weight of those words pushed Medric to the oldest fledgling, the one whose life would suffer cruelly should he seize the wrong path. Dark hair hung in his eyes. Fire roiled through his irises, visible only to accelerants, Deliverers and Abiassa herself.

  “You have a strong gift. One that will take you far. As with the other, two paths lie before you. One will bring death and darkness. You are drawn, powerfully drawn within your deepest parts, to the power wielding grants. That will be your gift, or your curse, apprentice.”

  The girl. Medric knelt beside he
r. His large hand dwarfed her head. “Asykthian warrior you are. He will depend on your wisdom and even your sword. You will depend on him, too. Before you rides a day, mounted on the wings of a raqine and the might of a Drigovudd, that will thrust you to the other side of the planet, far away from him. Misery will be your comfort. Pain your healing. Look not for joy, for there will none in the Reckoning, warrior.”

  Though she could not hear him with her natural ears, she heard him with her inner being. And she would cling to the words the way a warrior does to battle. For she was a champion. A mighty one.

  Medric stood. Touched the girl’s hair. Smiled as he felt a trill of affection run through his fingers. She was favored by Her Lady. Her hair . . . her hair will grow. Her stature will grow. Her renown will grow. Her love will grow.

  But then his gaze fell upon the Kergulian. Medric closed the half-dozen paces between them. Rich brown eyes. “Friend. Counselor. Advocate.” His hand covered the entire left quadrant of the man’s chest, right over his heart. Heat exploded. Light as well. “He will turn to no other for advice the way he will with you and his champion. You will serve him until the end of your days. He will rule over you but not lord over you. Abundance and blessing will be yours for the sacrifices demanded of you on his behalf. You will be Her voice to him. And to him alone will you be able to speak until the Reckoning.”

  Medric drew back his hand, sensing Praegur’s resistance to releasing the direct channel to its Source. Those who were hungry and tasted the fruit of Her craved more. More touches of her presence. More of her righteousness. The hunger in this one bordered on starvation. And he fed as a newborn at the breast for the first time.

  “Forgive me, Counselor.” He patted the spot that still burned with Her Flames. “This will hurt when the Void closes.”

  At the door, he glanced over his shoulder, overcome with the dreadful paths facing these five. The girl and lad. The general in young man’s skin. The accelerant. The advisor. An ache spread through him. What they would endure . . .