Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  Would Gwogh ever arrive? What if they’d been captured? Or arrested by the Jujak, who had been waking when Thiel spirited Haegan to Nivar.

  Thwap!

  Thiel jolted, nearly tumbling out of the chair. She stomped to her feet and spun around, her heart galloping.

  Pao’chk stood with a wretched smile. “Did I frighten ye?”

  Thiel huffed and started back for the chair, but a large book now sat on the edge of the table. “Wha—?” She swallowed her question. It was a stupid one. She knew what that was. “Parchments.”

  This time, a genuine smile filled his face. “Some of the oldest known to mankind here.”

  “Here?” She laughed. “What? In the Northlands?”

  “No,” he said, mixing another potion to administer to Haegan. “On Primar.”

  “The planet! Are ye mad?” Her laugh echoed through the room. “Ye say it as if there are Parchments”—it was ridiculous even to voice it—“on other planets.”

  He laughed. Hard. Then straightened. “Yes.” And went back to work.

  The healer should use his own potions on himself. Perhaps he did, and that was the source of his crazed speech. Shaking her head, she returned to the chair and glanced at—

  Blue eyes held hers.

  “Oh!” She jerked forward. “Haegan! You’re awake.” She pivoted to the healer. “He’s awake!” Then back to Haegan. She lifted his hand and held it between hers, next to her face. “How do ye feel?”

  Hooded, his eyelids drooped. He breathed. Once. Twice. His eyes slid shut.

  Thiel scooted closer. “Haegan, please.” She squeezed his hand. “Please come back. You must.”

  “He will,” Pao’chk said.

  But I want him back now.

  • • •

  “Can I not have . . . simpler gowns?” Asking for pants and a tunic would send her mother over the balcony, but to Thiel, asking for less gaudy styles seemed reasonable.

  “Simpler?” Her mother lifted her hand to the row of gowns that hung in the wardrobe. “I had her remove all gems, Kiethiel. If she removes anything else, ye’ll stand in naught but a shift.” Gliding across the room, her mother closed the distance between them quickly. “What is this, my child? Irritation only came to ye when ye were impatient. What needles ye now?”

  Turning to her bed, Thiel rubbed her forehead. In earnest, she cared not about fabrics, gems, and glittering things. She wanted Haegan to be better, Gwogh to be here, and to feel like she belonged somewhere. “It’s taking forever.”

  “Ah, Prince Haegan.”

  Thiel rounded. “Do not say it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like he’s some whim or . . . as if ye think me a fool for being concerned about the Celahar heir.”

  “That you care for him is a sign of compassion and character,” her mother said. “But give care where you lay your affections, Kiethiel.”

  “Affections?” Her face warmed. “I—”

  “Kiethiel!” Her brother’s shout echoed through the hall into the upper apartments.

  Sprinting to the door, Thiel felt her heart vault into her throat. She grabbed the door and flung it open.

  Tili skidded to a stop. Grinned. “He’s awake.”

  After hiking up her skirts, she ran down the hall, descended the passage, using the stone wall to ensure she didn’t pitch to her death in her haste. She skidded around the corner and flew down to a lower level, where the guest rooms waited.

  Relig emerged as she reached the room. He considered her with a frown. Remembering herself, Thiel released her skirts and slowed to a walk. Smoothed her gown and hair. “Is he . . .”

  “Asking for ye.”

  With a smile, she tucked her chin and eased around the corner. But the smile vanished when she saw Haegan’s near-panicked expression. She rushed to him. “What’s wrong?”

  Relief washed over his face, his eyes brightening when he saw her. “Thiel.” He closed his eyes. “My sister—”

  “Shh. Be at peace. Father has sent word to Seultrie. We await a reply.” When he didn’t respond, she tensed. Had he slipped into unconsciousness again? “No, please stay with me.” She was about to kneel when Relig slid a chair toward her. She smiled and scooted it closer. “Haegan?” Sadness gripped her that he wasn’t talking now. Or looking at her. “Haegan. Are you well?”

  He swallowed, his gaze on the ceiling now. “I can’t feel my legs.”

  The sound of his voice was a relief instantly replaced with raw grief. “Are—are you sure?”

  He scowled at her. “Of course, I am. Do you think—”

  “Easy,” she said, touching his shoulder. “I meant no harm. It’s just ye’ve been unconscious for a fortnight. And in that time, ye attempted to kill us several times while submerged in the deep sleep. Ye had the use of your arms and legs then. Perhaps . . .”

  “What? My body is still unconscious but I am not?” He snorted, his sarcasm a surprise.

  She felt more than saw her brother slip into the room to show his disapproval for the way Haegan spoke to her. It had to be the potions. He was rarely rude.

  A pained expression rifled his handsome features. “Mercy, Thiel. I . . . after all those years in the tower, then to have the use of my legs and arms and lose that again . . .” A lone tear slipped down his face.

  Thiel thumbed it away, resting her elbow on his pillow. “Mercy, Haegan. I feared the same when I went after ye in the pool. Ye were under for so long.”

  His blue eyes took her in with a look of awe. “You? You pulled me out?”

  With a faint smile, she felt the heat crawling up her neck and into her cheeks. “I had help. But ye needn’t sound so surprised, tunnel rat. Remember, ye are the one who said I was the strongest person ye knew.”

  He smiled. “I meant in heart.” As his gaze shifted to the ceiling, that grief crested his amusement once more. “Why is She toying with me? What have I done to so soundly offend Her? To what end did She allow my healing then rip it from my hands—my whole body!”

  Relocating her hand to his shoulder, Thiel lowered her head. Fought the emotion thickening her own throat. “I don’t know.”

  He breathed a laugh as quiet settled between them. A full silence, brimming with regret and agony.

  “Yet,” Thiel said, her voice barely above a whisper as her mind journeyed through the time they’d had together, “without that gift, I would not have met ye.”

  A dark shape shifted in the corner, a subtle reminder to them both that Tili stood guard. “Relig went for the healer.”

  But once Haegan’s gaze met hers. Thiel ignored her brother. Haegan was so very handsome with his wavy blond hair and eyes as clear as the Crystal Sea beyond the mount. Such a kind, earnest person, too. Though they’d only journeyed together for a month, she knew him to be one of the best people she had ever met. And a quiet, frightened part of her secretly hoped their paths never parted, though it seemed inevitable. Even thinking it alarmed her, for fear of cursing her heart’s desire.

  His brow dug hard and fast into a frown. Sorrow washed over his face. “I am—”

  “—as thick-headed as the day I trampled yer body in the tunnel. Or the night ye tracked me into the woods where I spoke to my brother.” She bobbed her head toward Tili. “Or the night ye nearly fell off the cliffs overlooking Throne Road, convinced ye saw a raqine.”

  “It was the same night,” he said.

  “Wait. He thought he saw a raqine?” Tili’s voice thundered through the room, breaking their moment.

  “It was dark,” Haegan growled. “My eyes deceived me.”

  Tili’s laughter was long and hard. “What madman have ye brought to the hold, sister, thinking he saw a raqine? Don’t ye know, prince? They haven’t existed for centuries.”

  “Tili,” Thiel chided him, rolling her eyes.

  Clearly Haegan didn’t remember Chima’s rescue or the flight to Nivar Hold. His face turned red. Embarrassed. Haegan looked at her brother, then closed his
eyes.

  “Tili, please.” She motioned him out of the room.

  But her brother stiffened. Scowled at the two of them. “For decency’s sake, I should stay. It would not be proper—”

  Thiel huffed. “I’ve spent the last month sleeping on the ground at his side,” she said. “Think ye that sitting in a room with him will impugn me after that?”

  Tili’s shoulders squared, his expression dark. “I’d keep that to myself, Kiethiel.” He slid a warning glare to Haegan, who did not see it. “I’ll be in the passage.”

  With a sigh of relief, she focused on the Celahar heir, leaning closer. “Haegan.”

  “I was supposed to be healed.” Anger tinged his words. “Have you any idea what this means for Kaelyria? For Zaethien and the Nine? With my father on the field, Seultrie is defenseless!”

  “Please, no more,” Thiel said, clutching his hand.

  His eyebrows twitched.

  “What?”

  He stared at the wall by the foot of the cot. “How is it that I am paralyzed, yet I can still feel your touch? Still feel the chill in the air?”

  She glanced at their hands, confused.

  “That would be because you are not paralyzed, my prince.” Gwogh entered the room, leaning on his walking stick.

  Surprise leapt through Thiel, followed quickly by hope that her friends had finally made the journey as well.

  “What? No proper greeting for your old tutor?”

  “Gwogh!” Haegan looked truly surprised. “You are a cruel friend, for you see with your own eyes I cannot move.”

  Thiel looked to the door. “The others—”

  “Are with Thurig, explaining themselves.” Gwogh seemed much taller than before as he folded himself into the corner on the other side of the cot, allowing the healer to enter the room. “As for you, young prince, you cannot move because Pao’chk has been administering a precise regimen of remedies to keep your muscles sedated so your healing could be thorough.”

  “Then I am not paralyzed?”

  “Only because of the medicine. Once it wears off, you will have your full . . . abilities.”

  Haegan breathed a laugh, then closed his eyes again. “I’m healed.” He whispered the words, as if he feared they would suddenly become untrue.

  Thiel slipped out of the chair and knelt beside his cot, her heart full of his joy. “You’re healed. Thank Abiassa.”

  “What do you remember, my prince?” Knuckles on the mattress, Gwogh bent in. “Of your jump?”

  “That it was terrifying,” Haegan said with half a laugh. His hair curled around his face, blond and shiny from the baths the servants had administered as he recovered.

  “Give this to him.” Pao’chk nudged a cup into her hand. “Slowly. Don’t spill it or choke him.”

  Annoyed with the implication that she would be so clumsy, Thiel rose from her knees and peered into the murky concoction. “What is it?”

  “Never ye mind,” Pao’chk tapped her shoulder in remonstration. “Just give it to him.”

  “It is the antiserum to what has kept Haegan sedated,” Gwogh said with a nod.

  “Oh.” She gave the healer another seething look as she lifted the tin cup to Haegan’s mouth, then tilted it so the contents streamed in slowly.

  Haegan cringed.

  “Hot?” she asked.

  His face wrinkled tight. “Bitter!”

  “Much like the truth, eh, Gwogh?” Pao’chk’s tone was not unkind, but neither was it friendly.

  Gwogh used two fingers to wave off the healer.

  “What does he mean?” Thiel asked.

  “Trouble is what he means.” Gwogh smoothed his beard, staring at his charge with great thought and consternation. Or maybe that’s how the accelerant always looked. “If he were not the best healer in the lands, I would never open my door to him.”

  Pao’chk snorted. “He says that because he knows I’m right.” He motioned to Haegan. “Go on. Tell him. He needs to know.”

  “Know what?” Now Haegan seemed concerned. “Gwogh?”

  The elder eased onto the edge of the cot, his size straining the wood. He touched Haegan’s shoulder. “When your strength is back, we will talk. For now, rest. And remember. It is important that you remember what you saw at the Falls.”

  Haegan frowned. “I told you—”

  “It will come.” Gwogh’s smile never reached his eyes. “Call for me when you remember.”

  “Must you always be so cryptic?”

  “Yes.” This time, the smile did reach his eyes, but faded quickly. “In times like this, especially. Forgive me, my prince.”

  47

  Seven days since the concussion had hit him. Six days since he’d lain awake with the terrible awareness that he was now but a fraction of himself. But he must not let anyone know. He must harbor the secret as long as possible, even with the searing stench of Poired’s breath at the gate of the keep. He felt it more than ever, the impending doom. The defeat. The fall of the Nine.

  A day not so far in the past would’ve seen him railing, his pride filling him with anger. But this time, the woes were for his people, for his family.

  Haegan.

  He hadn’t just failed him. He’d shamed him. Now, according to reports from the Great Falls, which had come in at breakneck pace, his son was lost. The explosion that had lessened Zireli’s ability to wield had also claimed his son’s life. He was completely lost to him now. And Zireli was filled—no, consumed—with a need to right this wrong.

  “Abiassa . . .” Her name faded on his lips, his guilt stifling. Why would She listen to him this time? “Please.” What could he say that might move her and the Creator? The supreme being? “For him . . . show me.” Grief strangled Zireli. “Help me make this right.”

  Haegan was dead. What right could be made of that?

  A tearing drew his attention to a dark corner of his bedchamber. He lifted his hand to send a spark into the fireplace when a shadow shifted. A dart of terror shot through him as a blur coalesced before his disbelieving eyes.

  “Deliverer,” he whispered. His training told him he should stretch prostrate before the Hand of Abiassa. That he should beg for Her mercy. Instead, he plunged off the bed. Threw himself at the immortal. “I beg of you—my son! End my life if you will, but . . .” Asking for Haegan’s life, which was already lost, would be foolish. But those were the only words he had. “My son.”

  Piercing eyes held his. Though the Deliverer said nothing, Zireli heard “Come.” ricochet through his mind. The being turned and melted through the stone wall.

  Zireli pivoted and flung himself at the bedchamber door. He ripped it open and burst into the hall, searching the darkness for the Deliverer.

  “Your Majesty!” The chamber guards straightened, but not before their gazes swept him. “Would you have me fetch your robe, sire?”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Sire?”

  With Poired encroaching on the city, staff had been reduced and lamps were minimal in order to avoid giving away the location of the family within the keep. His eyes strained to see past the tapestries, down the hall . . .

  There! Atop the stairs waited the shadowy figure.

  “Wait!” Zireli sprinted after the Deliverer, who vanished as he moved. But each time the Void Walker vanished, he appeared almost instantly in another location. This time down a corridor leading to the library. Zireli rounded the corner and found himself immersed in utter darkness. He ran unyielding, the passage memorized in his youth, the steps as familiar as conducting forms. In the library, a sliver of light pushed past the closed curtains.

  On the thick rug woven in the pattern of the Crown and Flame of Zaethien, he stood, waiting. Anxious for the Deliverer to show himself again. Minutes ticked by with the firm, solitary stroke of the hall clock. Each stroke a solid thunk, the vibration detectable against the wood floor.

  But as he attuned his senses to his surroundings as any accelerant would do, Zireli knew he was alon
e. Why? Why would the Void Walker bring him here, then leave?

  “Come on,” he mumbled. “Show me your will.” He twitched his fingers, aching for what had been lost. For the Flames ripped from his very veins. He ached for answers. For a way to restore all that had been lost, all taken for granted.

  The door creaked open. A guard stepped in. “Sire?”

  “I must wait for him.”

  Silence gaped. “For whom, sire?”

  Zireli refused to look at the guard. “Did you not see him?”

  “Him?”

  Of course. Deliverers revealed themselves to only those whom Abiassa willed. I must look the madman. “Leave and close the door.”

  “Sire?”

  “Do it!” Zireli snapped, then felt a tinge of remorse. “Wait outside, if you must. But leave me.”

  Acquiescing, the guard stepped out and secured the door.

  Zireli closed his eyes. “I beg your mercy,” he muttered. “Show me what I missed. I beg you—do not leave me here, in the dark. I want to defend your people, my son!”

  How long he sat here, he could not say. Only that he had somehow missed the Deliverer’s direction. The point. He wandered the dark, the lack of light, chilling. Frightening.

  He sniggered as he stood at the empty fireplace. When was the last time he’d been afraid? Now he stood here, nearly powerless. Poired ready to tear down the walls around them. Crush the Celahars. Steal the last hope of Primar. “Do not let this happen. Show us. Show us how to stop him.”

  He moved to the twenty-foot painting of his father, sensing a disapproving chill that made him shudder. All those years with the ability to wield, the adherence to the Guidings, the heat.

  The heat.

  Zireli turned back, glanced at the fireplace. He’d not felt a chill there. Yet there was no fire. He backtracked and stood there. Extended a hand.

  Warmth.

  He traced the mantle, the detailed stone cool to the touch. Around the cornice . . . Chuckling, he pressed his hand against the plaster. “Warm,” he whispered.