Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  Drracien suddenly seemed abashed about answering.

  Thiel shifted closer. “Drracien?”

  His jaw muscle flexed and he flared his nostrils in his reluctance. “It’s the mark of Abiassa.”

  41

  Strong winds tugged at his cloak and sleeves as he raced the mighty beast through one Ybiennese town after another then down the main road to Nivar Hold. Thurig as’Tili aimed through a tall line of trees. His brother would follow. But if he hurried, there would be time. He grinned and focused ahead. They broke through the pines into a flat stretch. Three mountain ranges sat in protection of the mighty Askythian realm. Houses littered the road. Prosperity—of soul and pocket. His father had done well by the people, and they loved him for it.

  And it annoyed him. When Kiethiel had returned after her kidnapping, the people threatened and hard times descended. Ybienns so rife in their animosity and mistrust. Then his sister left, and the realm settled into a comfortable complacency. Removed from eyes, removed from thought, as the ancients had said.

  He guided the beast across a pristine white meadow, sailing effortlessly from one incline to another with only a soft thump of the agile paws. The frozen breeze skimming the mountains bit at his face, a welcome after the too-hot territories of the south. Over a river steaming against the fresh-fallen snow that lined its banks. Down the snowy embankment. Tili saw a wagoner lumbering toward the main road. A bit of that rebellious side his father always berated him for took possession of him. With a tweak of his knees against Zicri’s flanks, he jumped the beast over the wagoner.

  “Fool boy!” the wagoner shouted, cracking a whip in the air.

  Another few bounds and they broke into the open. Zicri slid, his paws digging into the snow for traction. He realigned himself, then threw himself forward. On to the tall trees that formed a protective border around the estate of King Thurig and Queen Eriathiel. The beast snorted, clearly disconcerted with the incredible pace and the wall before him.

  Prince Tili pushed his gaze to the right and then to the left. Certain nobody was in sight, he leaned forward. Pressed his stomach to the beast’s spine, feeling the undulating strength of the past roaring through him. Sliding a hand along the black fur, he closed his eyes. Trained his mind to the thrill surging through his mount. And though the elements tore at them and the sound would be unintelligible to any other, Tili spoke the language of the ancients. “Eghat au’moni ighthieri, Zicri.”

  With a primal scream, the beast responded. Tili gripped handfuls of fur and let his legs slide back along the spine. With an enormous thwap, wings unfurled from a secret fold in Zicri’s shoulders.

  Four meaty paws thudded against the ground and kept moving. Yards from the gates. Zicri shook his powerful neck, as if relishing the freedom to spread his wings. He tucked his head. A purr trembled through his body, warmed by the hard ride.

  Noting the purr—a cue—Tili tightened his grip. With a growl, Zicri launched upward. Into the air. Over the road. Despite himself, Tili laughed. The thrill never got old. The experience new every time.

  “Aha!” He laughed as the force of Zicri’s rise pressed him against the black fur, borne up on the wings of one of the mightiest creatures of all time, the raqine.

  Zicri gave two thunderous flaps of his wings and locked them. They sailed over the gate.

  Guards shouted and pumped their fists and weapons. Tili pushed his attention to directing Zicri to their landing spot. The inner courtyard.

  Father will kill me.

  The thought drew a sly smile. “There.” A slight crinkling carried on the wind as Zicri maneuvered his wings to catch the right current and change direction. With a graceful elegance that belied his monstrous size, Zicri descended.

  Watching the cobbled courtyard, bustling with a horse-drawn carriage rolling toward the main entrance and a few servants scurrying into a side door, Tili hesitated. Searched the castle windows. A shadow moved in the far left. Father’s study.

  He cringed. Snapped his gaze back to the carriage. “Foul fires!” he hissed as he recognized the Earl of Langeria and his daughter entering the main courtyard.

  Quickly, Tili guided Zicri over the castle wall and landed on the far side of the dens. As paws touched earth, wings tucked beneath the thick hide, and Tili dismounted. Steam radiated off the dense fur. With a hearty shake from head to tail, Zicri let out a satisfied moan and nudged his nose beneath Tili’s chin—giving him a balmy blast of nostril air. Pungent but an honor.

  Tili smoothed a hand along his friend’s spine, which was nearly at shoulder height, and smiled. “Me, too, Zicri. Me, too.”

  A beefy man emerged from the den with a cluck of his tongue. “The king will have yer head if ye keep doing that.” He held out a hand to Zicri, who nudged his long snout and black nose against the proffered welcome. “And if he doesn’t, I will. Ye put them in danger riding like this.”

  “Be at peace, Klome. I would sooner give my life than put Zicri in danger.”

  Klome glowered, but walked alongside the raqine, who now looked like nothing more than a cat. A large cat. A very large cat with the strange, broad skull of a dog.

  “I hope ye weren’t so careless in the southlands. If the thin-bloods realize they still exist, they’ll come hunting.”

  “I’ll put an arrow between the eyes of the first man who tries.” Tili gave Zicri a nod, and the raqine lumbered into the dark den. A growl-purr emanated from within.

  “Chima’s been mooning after him since ye called him out.”

  “And truth,” Tili said with a laugh. “That is why I would never take a wife and why I knew Zicri needed some freedom. A man wants a ride in peace. ”

  “Bah!” Klome swatted the air. “The day ye think those creatures are human is the day ye die—they’re so much better than us. More loyal.”

  “Ye chide me yet bestow human qualities to a beast.” With a wink, Tili backed toward the door to the castle. “Rest ye well.”

  “Rest. Ha! With ye and yer brothers—” He stopped short. “Where are they with my horses?”

  “Yers?”

  “I muck and feed them. Yes, my horses.”

  “The king might have something different to say.”

  “Indeed,” came a stern, stoic voice. “The king does have something different to say.”

  Tili widened his eyes and stilled. Slowly turned. Saw the scathing expression hidden behind the wind-weathered skin and the wisdom-streaked beard. Silver and black hair had been smoothed back and hung to his broad shoulders.

  With a bow, Tili did as decorum demanded. “My father, I have returned.”

  “Don’t think I didn’t see ye flying Zicri.”

  He dared not look his father in the face lest he betray his amusement. “I felt it prudent to return with all haste. I have news—”

  “It will wait.” King Thurig turned back into the house, his broad shoulders adorned with his official cloak and the gold sash of his title. “The earl is waiting.”

  Freeze the Flames! Yaorid, Earl of Langeria, wanted to find a strong political connection to secure more land and raise his title—and many, many chins—all by marrying his eldest daughter, Peani, to Tili.

  “Maybe when I’m sixty,” Tili muttered as he slipped into the darkened passage. Took the servant’s stairs past the kitchens up to the fourth level, where the private rooms offered sanctuary. His manservant, Gaeord was there, sweeping a brush over the green jacket with the gold embroidered symbol of the Asykth—the raqine. “No,” Tili said, removing his dirtied cloak and tunic. “The blue one.” It was less . . . just less.

  “I’m sorry, Master as’Tili, but the king insisted on this one.”

  With a disgusted sigh, Tili stomped to the steaming tub of water behind the curtain. “He wants to shackle me to that mare.”

  “I think Earl Yaorid’s daughter quite pretty.”

  “Many cows are pretty, Gaeord. And she has as much brain as one.” That wasn’t true, but saying it improved Tili’s foul mo
od a little. “Where is the queen?”

  “Preparing for the dinner.”

  “Dinner?” Tili hissed as he slid into the water and washed himself. Dinner meant dancing. Meant entertaining. Meant stiff conversations and batting eyelashes. He threw his back against the tub. “Flames, take me away from this madness! Give me wings and the sky.”

  “Oh, the king will take a whip to yer hide if he hears that talk.”

  “He’s three floors down, creating a writ that will forever seal my heart to blackness and despair. He will hear nothing but the praises of Yaorid, who will be fattening his coffers and his ego.”

  “Ye are the eldest—”

  “No.” Tili whipped the tip of the bath brush at the curtain separating him from Gaeord, water spewing across the floor. “No, I am not the eldest.” He scrubbed harder, trying to erase the stigma of Elan’s betrayal. He soaped his hair, scrubbing furiously as he fought the tide of memories.

  “And that is all the more reason to be what yer father and this realm need, master. Ye are the eldest acknowledged son, and as such, ye must secure a wife and heir to hold the throne.”

  “Secure?” Tili halted his scrubbing. “Ye secure a sow. Ye secure a deed.” He dumped a bucket of water over his head and swiped the excess from his face. “Ye do not secure a wife.”

  Gaeord brought a towel and held it out. “In Ybienn ye do.”

  Tili flicked the brush at the curtain again, this time intentionally flinging water over it to nail the servant. Tili climbed out, dried off, and dressed. “I must speak with my mother before dinner.”

  “Ye haven’t time, master.” As if to chime in, the courtyard bell toned. The loud gong reverberated around the tiny city thriving within the walls of Nivar Hold.

  While Gaeord laced boots up Tili’s calf, Tili worked to dry his hair. Was there a way to thwart this ridiculous plan to marry him off? Would it be too much to wish for a world war that would draw him away for, say, forty years?

  Resigned to his fate, he made it to the grand hall in fifteen minutes, having evaded Gaeord’s plan to spritz him with cologne. If Peani didn’t like the way he smelled, she could go back to Langeria. At the double doors, he peeked in. And frowned. How had his brothers already bathed and made it to the hall? This did not bode well.

  Relig stood tall—the lanky beast—beside their father. With a drink in one hand, he held the earl’s daughter captive with his gaze.

  “You have hidden from dinners and balls since you were a boy.”

  Tili spun at the soft, endearing voice of his mother. She struck an elegant figure, her hair done up in graceful loops, each one tipped by a pearl. Her lavender gown shone beautifully against her olive complexion. “Mother.” He inclined his head. “I have news!”

  She raised an eyebrow and nodded to the doors. “Any attempt to stay the execution?” She smiled and tucked her hand through his arm. “Come, Peani is a vision, and you insult her with your indifference.”

  “In earnest, Mother. I have news.” He took her hands and pulled her toward a chair. “Ye should sit.”

  “You will not earn me a glare from your father by distracting me.” She tugged her hands free. “Come. We must hurry.”

  “I found her, Mother.”

  She froze. Her skin blanched. “You are wretched, Thurig as’Tili, to use that as a delay. I rebuke your—”

  “Mother.” He held her and peered solemnly at her. “I found her.” He breathed a smile and nodded. “Kiethiel is well. A bit thin, but well. She is ye reborn, even with hair shorter than mine.”

  Covering her mouth, she squeaked, her brown eyes pooling with tears. “Please.” She shook her head. “Please do not torment me with cruel jests.”

  “I do not.” He squeezed her shoulders. “In earnest, I saw her just outside of Luxlirien. She’s with”—no, he should not mention the Fire King’s son—“friends.”

  “Why did you not bring her?” Tears slipped free. “How could you not—”

  “She refused.” When his mother spun away, he hurried to stop her. “But only because she felt she had something she must complete.” He snorted a laugh. “From Abiassa.”

  Nor would he mention how Zicri had shown himself to the Seultrian prince. Raqine never did that with foreigners. Never. Not unless a bonding verse had been spoken.

  “The Flames. She believes in the Flames.” She turned and lowered herself into the chair, clutching a hand to her breast. “I knew . . . she could not . . .” A sob wracked her. “I will not grant you a reprieve for allowing her to remain apart.” She drew a long breath and let it out, her shoulders relaxing. “But I will trust my darling girl.”

  • • •

  The scene was all too familiar and all too humiliating. Ten years ago, Haegan had lain in bed while the finest healers, accelerants, and even a little-known yet revered pharmakeia stared at him. Poked him with needles. Took samples—all kinds of them. All trying to understand what he’d been poisoned with that would cause such a complete and debilitating paralysis. They had come to no real conclusion other than to say he would never again use his limbs.

  “Be thankful he’s alive.”

  “At least he can talk and think still.”

  “Thank Abiassa she didn’t give him the gift of wielding.”

  Words meant as comfort proved as sharp and cruel as a blade run through his gut.

  Now, stretched out with his hands tied to two posts and shirtless, Haegan knelt on ground that was perpetually damp from the waterfalls. Behind him stood a bevy of soldiers and accelerants. Inspecting him. Assessing him. They muttered. Shouted. Touched him. Pushed his back, sending shards of pain through his spine.

  “It’s immature,” came a nasal pronouncement. “In its infancy.” A huff issued forth. “New. It’s new.”

  “I don’t care if it’s new. I want to know what it means.” Many stories had been told of Laejan’s intolerance for accelerants as Kaelyria sat with Haegan in the tower. How Laejan had refused to place a single accelerant on the Jujak. How he’d nearly killed a recruit when it was discovered he could wield. “If you can’t tell me that—”

  “Put aside your petty disdain, Laejan, and listen,” the accelerant said. “It means he’s marked. That’s Her mark.” Swirls of black and red swam into Haegan’s view. Head to toe adornment. Glittering gems—citrine. A high marshal. But he didn’t recognize this one. Head held up, the high lord cast a sidelong glance at Haegan, leaning away. As if . . . as if . . .

  He’s afraid of me.

  Laejan muttered an oath and waved off the accelerant. “All I need to know is if this will endanger him on the route back—”

  “Him?” The high marshal chortled. “Endanger him? My dear general, your fear should be for yourself.”

  “What in blazes are you talking about, Adomath?”

  “If you will refrain from flinging your weak tongue and curses around, I will explain.”

  Armor clinked. Boots thumped. Nervousness flitted through the gathered throng. And Haegan shifted with them. He dared not speak—he didn’t want to miss anything.

  “You said the mark is new.” That was Mallius speaking now. “Where did it come from? How did he get it—he left the tower only a month ago.”

  “From a Deliverer, of course. Only they walk in the Void between our world and Hers. Only they stand before Abiassa.” The high marshal lowered himself in front of Haegan, but did not touch his knee to the damp ground or lean too close. His eyes pierced Haegan and narrowed. “Have you the ability to wield, prince?”

  “No!” Haegan’s voice pitched, but he shook his head. “No, I’ve been a cripple, trapped in a body that failed me long ago. I have no training. Ask Captain Grinda—his father visited me in the tower. Ask h—”

  “You should be grateful for this,” Adomath spoke over Haegan’s words. He stood and lifted his chin. “It is a favor—”

  “Don’t give me lectures. I just need to get him back to the king.”

  “Lectures fall on deaf ears. My
words are a balm. If he had the ability to wield, you could consider your lives forfeit for the beatings you gave him, but also for those who would wage war against you and Zireli for allowing this scourge to run free.”

  Scourge?

  “I would secure him—”

  “Why? He just admitted he cannot wield.”

  “That mark is the sign and herald of many horrible things to come. Secure this boy and hurry him at once back to his father.”

  “No!” Haegan shoved his gaze past the Ignatieri tents to the crashing, roaring waters. They could not remove him tonight. He must be here in the morning. And if it cost him his life, he would get to the water and immerse himself. Free Kaelyria. He cared not the price. “It’s imperative I enter the Great Falls.”

  Laejan sneered. “Get him up. Return him to the cage.”

  “Please, I—”

  “I would keep a close eye on him, General. Marked and empty.” Adomath clucked his tongue. “There is no telling why a Deliverer marked him. History only records three such pitiful creatures. All were put to the Lakes by their families for the devastation they caused.” He once more scowled down at Haegan. “It is beyond my ken to understand why he was chosen. It’s never happened to one without the gift.”

  “Perhaps he has conspired with the Raeng or with Sirdar himself.”

  “What! No!” Haegan thrashed against the two Jujak who lifted him from the pole he’d been tethered between. “I have never conspired with anyone, let alone the Lord of Darkness! I would as soon end my life as—”

  “Please, do us that favor.” With a twirl of his robes, the high marshal spun away.

  Laejan waved a dismissive hand at the religious order. “Go back to your tents. It will be good to be free of your presence come midday tomorrow.”

  “I would leave now. Hurry him back—”

  “No. We are under orders to remain in support of the sentinels through the noon meal.”

  Nostrils flared, Adomath glowered. “Make sure he doesn’t enter the water.”