Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  Wouldn’t move.

  His body wouldn’t respond.

  “What are you doing?” He gritted his teeth, straining his shoulder muscles to free himself from the heat that haloed him. “Release me!”

  Thurig watched, unmoving. Silent.

  The angle made it impossible to tell if the king was angry or annoyed or . . . amused. Leaves crunched as he started walking. Walking away. Why was he leaving him?

  “Where are you going? Release me!”

  “Free yerself, prince.” Thurig continued down a path Haegan hadn’t seen before, one that led quickly into the sunlight.

  “Thurig!”

  Light embraced the king and carried him out of sight. Haegan tugged and strained in futility. Anger rushed in, a happy ally to feed his thirst for revenge. His hands ached. His mind burned. Haegan ground his teeth against the pain. What was Thurig doing? How had he even learned to wield?

  It was a trap. He came to punish me. He knows what I am.

  Gwogh. Haegan would kill the old tutor for betraying him. He knew—he knew all along and said nothing. Hid the truth. Lied. Deceived.

  Heat spiraled through Haegan’s veins, coursing with a virulent poison of fury.

  The bubble around him tightened. Constricted. Haegan couldn’t even move his neck or fingers now. He shook, livid. Release me!

  He tried to open his mouth. Could not. He thrashed within his paralyzed—

  No! No! He could not be paralyzed again. Could not be trapped within an immobile body. Thurig, I will kill you! I will dismember every limb and feed you to the raqines. I will steal your daughter, and your wife will weep!

  Hatred dark and powerful strangled him. How long he hung there, Haegan could not tell—until he noticed the vanishing sunlight. The ache in not just his muscles, but his bones. His very soul.

  Abiatasso.

  He’d never had it. Wasn’t born with it—that’s what they’d told him. That the gift of power and wielding had been granted to his beautiful, perfect sister. Not to a weak, crippled prince. Ludicrous how life had come full circle to find him paralyzed again, as he was before this journey began.

  And alone. He was alone. And an abomination. One that would destroy everyone in his wake. Everyone who knew him. Every land that he set foot on. How could this be? How was it that he, who had had no powers . . .

  Defeat pressed in on him. He wrestled. Fought the imprisonment. So hard he struggled to breathe. Though he tried to shout, nothing came out. Save a tear. Then another. He moaned. He was weak. Just as his father had said. Haegan huffed, hating the truth. Hating life. Hating his very existence.

  “He’s cursed.”

  Tokar had been right.

  I will leave. Tears streamed freely up Haegan’s forehead and dripped from his hair. The thought of leaving Thiel forever dug a hole in his hope. And Kaelyria—he could never see her again. I am destruction named.

  He had to get as far away from all of them as he possibly could. It was the only way to protect those he loved.

  Haegan wiped the tears.

  Then froze, staring at his hand in front of his face.

  Free!

  Giddy elation trickled through him.

  Ha! Good, he would track down Thurig, make him pay—

  As if of its own mind, his hand froze. His muscles once more restricted. “No!” Haegan tried to move, but the halo thickened. Glowed brighter. Stronger.

  And I grow weaker. More debilitated.

  Haegan backtracked, remembering what had brought about the second wave of paralysis. He’d discovered he was free. Then was happy.

  Then angry, vowing to make—

  Anger.

  That was the key. The angrier he was, the stronger the halo.

  So. How was he not to be angry?

  Thiel.

  The very thought of her seemed to push the sun back into the sky. Haegan closed his eyes. Thought of her touch while he lay recovering. Her hand over his. Their near-kiss at the Falls. Her smell. Smile. Curves.

  Gravity exerted itself.

  Air popped.

  Haegan dropped. He landed with a hard thud. Pain darted through his shoulder. He held the joint and rolled with a groan to his side. He sat up and glanced back up at the spot where he’d been suspended, half expecting to see the halo there. But only leaves fluttering in the wind met his gaze.

  A rustling to the side divulged a dark shape. “I thought ye’d never figure that out.” Thurig emerged from a shadowed alcove of rocks and trees. He started for the path Haegan had seen him take. “Come. I’m starving.”

  Stunned, Haegan stared at the king. “How—how did you get there? I saw you take the path.”

  Booted foot on a stump, Thurig paused. Glanced back. “Ye saw what yer anger wanted ye to see.”

  “You left!”

  Sadness pinched the lines at the corners of Thurig’s eyes. “I never left, Haegan. Yer anger tore ye away from me.” He pointed to the shadowed spot. “I waited there the entire time.” He grunted. “Well, till my legs grew tired.” He lifted a shoulder. “I may have napped. Once.”

  Haegan dusted off his pants as he moved toward Thurig. “I don’t understand—”

  Thurig sighed and started walking again. “I know, prince. I know.”

  “No, I mean—how did I see you leave yet you didn’t move?”

  “Yer anger forbade ye from seeing any other options.” Thurig shifted closer. “Haegan, ye respond with anger. It’s the first thing ye reach for.” He held his fist out between them. “Ye clench yer fingers so tight around that injustice and let it burn.”

  A flame erupted with a whoosh. “It consumes every thought—it consumes ye.” Thurig opened his fist and twisted, banishing the flame. “With the he-ahwl abiałassø that canna’ be the order of things. Ye must train yerself to reach for wisdom first.”

  “How?”

  “Time.” Thurig nodded. “And practice.”

  “But I still don’t understand how you got me to believe you left.”

  “There are two different forms of wielding. Lower ranks are kept to the heat in the air, drawing the moisture from it and igniting what’s left.” Thurig started walking. “They are restricted to that, and for good reason. Only among high marshals who take the red sash, and the grand marshal, of course, is the latter taught. It is . . . invasive. Cruel if wielded incorrectly.”

  “Invasive? Cruel—how?”

  “We enter the mind using a tendril of heat.”

  “Mind control?”

  Thurig laughed—and to Haegan’s surprise, it was a nice, friendly one. “Abiassa, forbid! No, we only amplify what the person allows, the thoughts they already entertain. If ye are happy, it can be enhanced. If ye are full of anger and hate—”

  “You’ll become furious.” His heart skipped a beat. “Is that why I’m to be the Fierian? Because I’m angry?”

  Thurig clapped a hand on his shoulder “No, Haegan. The Fierian, believe it or not, is not a punishment. It’s a gift.”

  “Gift? The Parchments say the Fierian will destroy every living thing.”

  Pausing outside the door of the house, the smell of some meaty stew drifting through the cracks, Thurig stopped and faced him. “Haegan, do ye think your father or I enjoy war? That we enjoy the loss of life, cutting down soldiers?”

  “No one hates war more than those who fight.”

  Thurig nodded. “What must be done, for whatever reason Abiassa has foreseen, must be done.”

  “Then . . . then you don’t hate me?”

  Thurig turned into the house. “Perhaps that should be saved for another day.” He hesitated. “Oh, and ye might want to release Chima from her den.”

  “What?”

  “Ye ordered her back to the den. She will na come until ye free her—ye see, yer anger affects not only yerself, prince, but those around ye.”

  • • •

  Seven days of exhaustive, never-ending instruction. Haegan’s arms ached. His mind felt numb.

 
Beside him, Drracien reset himself in the form they’d be practicing. Thurig watched from a few paces away. “Again.”

  Haegan slumped and sagged.

  “Again, prince!”

  Though he balled his fists, Haegan rolled his thoughts away from the anger, which was fed by exhaustion and frustration. What was the point in driving him so hard? It took years to learn to wield—they’d both had years to learn. He had but seven days. Seven endless, excruciating days.

  His friends were riding horses and splashing in the river. Atop a large bay horse, Tokar taunted him, mocked him. Clearly he hadn’t been informed of Haegan’s new status as Destroyer of Worlds. Praegur sat on the edge of the wall, watching Haegan. His speech still gone.

  Frustration blossomed—no, exploded through him. Enough! Enough journeys. Enough lectures. Enough things going wrong. Enough being cast out then cursed!

  Blazes! Why was this happening? He’d asked for none of it.

  “We can use your anger and turn it against you,” Drracien said. “When you reach for anger, you leave your abiatasso unprotected. Then the enemy strikes.”

  “I will learn not to be easily swayed.” The halo crackled and popped, sizzling against his skin.

  Drracien chuckled. “If it were so easy, don’t you think all would do that?”

  “The enemy will know yer weaknesses. One way or another, he will weed them out and use them against ye,” Thurig said.

  “I have no weaknesses for them to use! I’ve been locked away for the last ten years!”

  Thurig’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Is that right?”

  The tone made Haegan hesitate. But he wanted this to end. “Aye.” Would they hold him here forever? If he distracted himself, that should free him, right?

  Folding his arms over his chest, Thurig considered him. “I would have a word with ye, Haegan of Zaethien.”

  Haegan stilled, meeting weathered brown eyes. Drracien stepped away without being asked, giving them privacy.

  “It has been told to me that ye asked my daughter for the right to escort her to the ball.”

  Haegan swallowed.

  “I’m afraid I canna permit that.”

  Grinding his teeth, Haegan fought the anger trickling through his veins.

  “Think ye that I would allow my daughter to be seen on the arm of someone who—”

  “Is weak?” Haegan snapped.

  “Ye have shown no valor by which to earn the right to court my daughter. Ye have no accomplishments to recommend ye.”

  “I’ve been a prisoner for the—”

  “And what? That is your excuse? Look at Grand Marshal Viloren—blind and deaf, yet one of the most influential thinkers and accelerants of his time! And ye think I would excuse yer empty credentials because ye were bedridden?”

  Indignation coiled around his frustration and squeezed.

  “Haegan.”

  “What would you have had me do?”

  “Use the gifts ye were given. Yer mind, yer heart. Be a man!”

  “Haegan.”

  At the crack of his name, he noticed the thrumming in his limbs.

  But it was too late. His vision bled red.

  “Ïmnæh wæïthe!” Thurig shouted.

  The halo crackled around Haegan, subduing him. Anger spurted through his mind.

  “Remember,” Thurig growled as he stormed toward him, his neck nearly invisible amid his thick chest and broad shoulders. “Remember what I taught ye!”

  Suspended above them, Haegan glowered at the king. Drracien stepped into view, his hands extended toward Haegan.

  His anger crested the humiliation. He hated that they had beaten him. Hated that he’d lost again. That his temper could be so explosive.

  “Push your mind from the anger,” Drracien murmured.

  Right. Thiel. His only haven. Tonight was the banquet. She’d wear something amazing.

  “We will not be able to—”

  They’d dance. Her in his arms.

  The halo popped. Haegan dropped, hitting his shoulder hard again.

  “Well done. Much faster.” Thurig headed away, calling over his shoulder. “At least we didn’t miss dinner this time.”

  “But it took the both of you to restrain me.”

  “Aye,” Drracien said. “He grows stronger, while we struggle.”

  “The Kindling.” Thurig nodded. “Be thankful, Haegan, that we are lessened. Or I might’ve been tempted to smite ye a few times.”

  “My gift is growing stronger?” Haegan felt ill. “But I can’t even control what little I have now.”

  “Which is why yer calming must be more powerful and alluring.” Thurig lifted a bushy eyebrow toward Haegan as he hesitated almost midstep. “What is yer calming source?”

  Heat bled into Haegan’s face.

  “Ah.” Disappointment hovered in the king’s brown eyes. “I see.” Apparently, he did.

  And the heat rose a notch in Haegan. He looked down.

  Drracien stood over him, holding out a hand.

  With a defeated sigh, Haegan accepted the help. He brushed off his tunic, glancing back to the river. Thiel wasn’t there now. Neither was Tokar. Haegan scratched the side of his face and turned toward the house. “Never realized I had such a controlling anger.”

  “I’m not convinced you do,” Drracien said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “A couple of things—I think Thurig turned your thoughts against you—”

  “He—” Haegan snapped his mouth closed, remembering what the king had taught him in the woods, about using one’s own thoughts against one.

  “And I think as the Fierian, your abilities are . . . concentrated, more powerful. Including your anger.”

  Then why should he even try? Haegan threw him a look, unable to conjure anything positive within himself at the moment, then gave a half smile to Praegur, coming their way.

  “You have the he-ahwl abiałassø. I’ve been doing some research in Thurig’s library. I think it means ‘all-consuming,’” Drracien said, tugging off his gloves. “I believe that means whatever is in you is what will be amplified.”

  “Either way, anger is a deadly fire in my system.”

  “The wrong anger, the first-reached-for anger—yes. That will be destructive.” Drracien quirked his lips. “There is such a thing as righteous anger.”

  “Of course.” Weary of the lessons, Haegan welcomed his mute friend with a tight forearm clasp. “I would imagine you’ve had your laughter quota met for the day, watching the king slaughter me.”

  Praegur smiled, held up a finger, then lifted another. More than one day.

  Haegan shook his head. “You can lie to me, Praegur. Nobody would know.”

  “Hey, princeling. Have ye learned to not burn down my house yet?” Tili shouted from the stable yard, where he was grooming his horse. With a laugh, he bent down to retrieve a bucket of water.

  Haegan sent a spark flying. It struck the wooden bucket. Shattered it. Water exploded in Tili’s face. Shock pulled the Asykthian straight, his eyebrows up, his mouth gaping as water dripped down nose.

  A grunt beside Haegan snapped him out of his own shock. Praegur stood with his mouth agape, too. Not exactly smart. “Run,” Haegan whispered. In the split second before he pivoted and took off, he saw Tili barreling at them like a mad bull.

  Forget prophecies. Haegan might not survive the night.

  51

  Too many people. Too many voices.

  Deftly avoiding a cluster of females whose dresses were too tight or too low, Haegan tucked himself into a corner, feeling crowded and unable to breathe. He leaned against the wall, working through his frustration that Thurig had overruled him in escorting Thiel. He sipped a glass of fermented cordi juice, watching the doors. Champing for Thiel to make her entrance. Then again, everyone here anticipated that moment. The ball was, after all, in her honor.

  Praegur threaded through the noblemen and their wives with a plate of petite cakes and sweets. He had nearly c
leared the throng when a woman reached out and took one of the sweets, no doubt mistaking him for a servant.

  Praegur scowled at her.

  She bristled.

  Annoyed, Praegur huffed. Grunted and shoved the plate at Haegan, who smiled.

  “You should’ve worn the other suit. You look like one of the servants in that white.”

  Praegur stabbed a finger at Haegan’s shirt and grunted. White. He then tugged at his own lapel. Not white.

  “Yes, well, they are colorblind then.”

  Snorting, Praegur focused on his food. A few minutes later, Tokar and Laertes joined them, the younger holding a very large plate.

  Haegan laughed, “Is that a platter, Laertes?”

  The boy shrugged. “They was out of plates.”

  “Liar,” Tokar said with a smirk.

  The idea of the boy removing an entire platter of cakes and sweets made them all laugh. And suddenly, rather than feeling like a prince, Haegan felt more like a rebel in a crowd of nobility. Somehow, he didn’t mind.

  Not a dozen paces from them, a group of twenty-something men stood proud and stiff, staring down their noses at Haegan, Tokar, and Praegur. One of them snorted. “As if they have a chance at her hand.”

  “Yeah, what’s you got that we ain’t?” Laertes said around some cake.

  “Class, for one.” The man arched an eyebrow.

  “But no personality what to win a princess wif.”

  “A soiled one,” someone in the crowd muttered.

  Haegan started, searching faces to rout the vile singewood who had spoken the words. “You have no character.”

  The man closest stood straighter. “We have no need of character. We have titles. Wealth.” Again, he stared down that long nose that Haegan itched to punch. His head wagged like a dog’s tail. “What do you have?”

  Haegan could feel the heat of his anger. And didn’t care. “I—”

  Drracien stepped between them, dampening Haegan’s anger like the bucket of water that had drenched Tili earlier. “Good evening, gentlemen. I believe you’re missing the grand event.”

  The arrogant nobles spun around.

  Winging an eyebrow at Haegan’s arm, Drracien stepped out of the way.