by Ronie Kendig
The man spun, the heel of his hand flying toward Haegan’s face. It stopped a fraction shy of Haegan’s nose. “Speak not of what ye not be knowing, thin-blood.”
“Byrin,” a voice snapped into the hollow passage.
The soldier’s flaring nostrils bespoke his anger. “What?” His hot breath flowed strong against Haegan’s cheek, as he looked to the newcomer.
“He waits,” the other man said.
Byrin grabbed Haegan’s tunic and jerked him forward.
Haegan stumbled into his thick chest.
“Be glad, thin-blood,” Byrin hissed in his ear, “that our cacique wants ye alive.”
Haegan righted himself, suddenly longing for the droning of an old accelerant, one he’d long grown tired of but endured for lack of any other companionship. He’d spent the last ten years shut away from the rest of his father’s court, away from his parents as well. Beside his sister—“I would have answers.”
With a thrust, Byrin tossed Haegan through an opening.
Haegan stopped cold, surprised not only at the dense crowd before him but the enormous hall they’d entered. Light stones hung in gleaming braces, throwing the light around the hall. The ceiling rose to a towering center, where a tiered candelabra dangled more light stones. Tapestries of whites, light grays, and ice-blues depicted various scenes—one a man on the mountain. Another a gathering of white-cloaked men in a hall.
No, not a hall—this hall.
Incredible. Especially the way the light stones played with the tapestry threads. Beautiful! Two men stepped from the throng and caught him by the arms. They drew him forward through the tangle of bodies.
“What is this?” Haegan demanded, his patience thin. “Release me at once!”
As if yielding to his will, both men pitched him forward—to the ground.
On his knees, Haegan slid across the stone—straight toward roaring flames. He was headed straight into a massive pit in the center of the great hall. Heat breathed against his face, hot and hungry.
With a yell, he threw himself backward, his bandaged hands working against him. His knees felt the scorch of the flames as he fought to escape the conflagration. Haegan scrabbled to a stop. Only as a breath shuddered through him did he see the figure among the flames.
Haegan’s chest squeezed. Air caught in his throat as he stared up at the man, whose face glowed with the light of the flames. Sitting among it and yet not devoured? What was he? A Deliverer?
Byrin grabbed Haegan’s collar, holding him in place like a wild dog. “The thin-blood, Cacique.”
Haegan blinked. Only then realizing the cacique sat behind the flames. A great pit separated the leader from the men. Leathers and pelts covered the massive seat upon which he sat. Black hair, shot through with gray, curled and framed a stern face. A trim beard traced his jaw and lip. He wore a leather vest, well-oiled but also well used, tied in a crisscross over his chest and about his waist. His arms were bound in greaves, much like the Jujak and Valor Guard.
Haegan should stand. Halfway up, he met resistance. Hands clapped his shoulders, forbidding him from fully finding his feet, and pushed him back down.
“Why are ye on my mountain?” the cacique demanded.
Haegan recalled his countless lessons in diplomacy and propriety. “I believe I have the right to know the name of those who—”
“Ye have no rights here,” the cacique growled. “Ye are in Eilidan lands and ye disgrace Legier with yer thin-blood presence.”
Haegan started at the tone. “I beg your mercy—”
“Beg as ye like, but ye will not have it.”
Surprise held him fast. Diplomacy had failed.
“Why are ye on my mountain?” the cacique repeated
A sharp poke in his back pushed Haegan forward as Byrin barked, “Caciques don’t ask a third time, thin-blood.”
Haegan swallowed, then looked at the man on the chair. “It was a mistake.”
A resounding chorus of oochak! rang through the large hall, startling Haegan. He studied the gathered men. They might not wear the glittering finery of the Valor Guard or Jujak, but they were fierce and well muscled, their expressions and faces hardened by life in the mountains.
“Costly mistake,” the cacique said. “Not many are willing to admit they entered Eilidan lands.”
“It was not of my will, good sir,” Haegan managed. “My raqine—”
A guffaw silenced his words. Rumbles of laughter filtered through the room—just as they had on the cleft when he’d mentioned Chima.
“Ye are young,” the cacique said. “But not so young as to believe legends and myths. Some call us savages, but even my men”—he motioned to the burly group—“the Legiera know not to believe such fancy.”
“Next he’ll be tellin’ us he’s a prince.”
“Nay,” someone grumbled, “he be not that stupid.”
A chill traced Haegan’s spine. They mocked him, imprisoned him. Yet there was an edge in their expressions, waiting for him to give a reason to end his life. And he felt the probing glare of the cacique. “Clearly you would be rid of me as willingly as I would be of this”—he glanced around—“place.”
The cacique’s expression remained stony. His fingers flicked.
A shadow peeled from the wall. Another man as enormous as the mountain in Haegan’s cell, except this one wore a dark gray tunic, stomped into the firelight.
“Ye’d think the youngling had never seen a Drigo.”
Haegan’s mouth went dry. “D—Drigo are myths.”
“And yet ye believe in raqine.” The cacique’s words were as sharp and swift as a blade.
“In truth I have spoken, Cacique. ’Twas naught but a mistake to be on this mountain—”
“Aye, that is truth,” the cacique muttered.
“How fair can a system be if such a simple truth is not heard and considered?”
“Then ye—a stranger and a child—would question our elders and laws?”
Haegan inclined his head. “Nay. But I would seek your mercy—”
“Which I have said ye will not have.”
“Then to what end is this meeting?” Haegan held out his hands. “To determine my expulsion? My death?” Silence draped the cavernous meeting hall. Unnerving, unbending silence. Haegan shifted, his words echoing in his ears—my death. “You mean to kill me then.”
Fist to his lips, the cacique squinted across the flames at Haegan. “Tell me, youngling, have ye no concern for the woman ye dumped on Legier?”
“I dumped no one. As for my concern—aye. I asked your man of her but he gave no answer.” She was dead and they meant to taunt him. He would not give them fuel.
The cacique considered him. “Curious that ye argue but do not inquire after her health.”
Health? Then . . . “She lives?” Hope ignited, taunting and cruel. When there was no response, Haegan took a tentative step, anxious for an answer. “I did not ask because I believed her dead. No one mentioned her and when I inquired of your man”—he nodded to Byrin—“I was ignored.”
With stiff, powerful movements, the cacique stood and crossed the room, situating himself in a large, carved chair at the head of a table to Haegan’s right. “What is yer name?”
Even as Haegan thought to turn toward the cacique, a sword slid into place against his neck, keeping him still. Why did he seek Haegan’s name? Was it of importance?
A man, bent crooked, hurried to the cacique with a silver platter of food and set it on the table. Another delivered a goblet and poured steaming red liquid into it.
The mark—they’d seen it. No, he would expect more fear. Less mocking. Perhaps they had word from the Nine about the fugitive prince . . . He could not recall from his Histories what sort of alliance or non-alliance the Ice Mountains held with the Nine. Would the truth hinder him more?
More? They intend to kill you!
“Very well,” the cacique said, his elbows on the table as he lifted a leg of meat as long as his arm.
“Since ye lied to us about the circumstances of yer arrival, invaded our territory, and refused to speak and give witness to yer identity, ye will be my prisoner until better judgment finds ye.”
“I am called Rigar.”
With a glare, the cacique dropped the food. The platter clanked against wood. He shoved the chair back, an ominous groaning of wood on wood as he stood. Fire roared in his eyes as bright as the pit now behind him. “Ye think me a fool, thin-blood?” His sneer darkened his eyes to black. “Ye think because I live in the mountain, I have no skill? That I am ignorant—”
“N—no.” Haegan stumbled back, but hands propped him in place. Refused him escape.
The cacique stalked toward him, his long white fur cloak swinging. “Ye dare bark orders at me. Ye dare threaten my people when ye dump a dead girl at my door.”
“Dead.” Haegan couldn’t breathe. Kaelyria— “But . . .” He had hoped the cacique’s mention of her health meant she had survived. Questions assailed him. How far had she fallen before Chima caught her? Had she struck something? What if she’d hit her head when Chima landed? Or simply frozen through?
Frantic. Desperate. If she had died . . . then in truth, he was the only one left to save the Nine.
As Fierian.
No. No, he would find another way. He could not accept that mantle. He would not destroy. There had been too much destruction already. Still, the imperative remained—he must return. “I demand—”
Like a flash, the cacique was there, stabbed a palm at Haegan. Fury lit the leader’s eyes. “Demand?” As palm met nose, Haegan’s head snapped back. He crumpled.
Pain seared his neck and face. Warmth slid across his upper lip and down his chin. Haegan gathered his wits, reeling over the attack.
“Ye will not make demands of the Legiera, thin-blood!”
Haegan wiped the blood away, grinding his teeth. “I have done nothing to deserve this abuse or imprisonment. Release me and her body, so I may return to my home and give her a proper burial.”
“Seems he might be too big for those pelts,” someone grumbled.
“Ye hold no authority here, youngling.” The cacique flicked a finger at Haegan. “Or would ye test my icehounds?”
A low growl climbed the walls and struck Haegan with a terrible chill. Icehounds. Haegan refused the incredible urge to search the hall for the vicious beasts.
Silvery-blue, the hounds slunk through the throng with teeth bared, snarling. They were beautiful. Terrifying.
“Toeff, return him to his cell,” the cacique said.
What was to keep them from locking him away forever? “You can’t do this!” As the enormous man again morphed out of the shadows—how did he do that when he was so impossibly large?—Haegan locked onto the leader. “Answer one question. Please.”
Expectation hung in the room as the cacique waited, his demeanor no more accepting than before.
Haegan tempered his anger. “What have you done with her body?”
Brown eyes held his. “The dead are important to ye, then?”
“Not the dead. Her.”
“Yer mate?”
Haegan gritted his jaw. Would a confession reveal too much? What harm would it be to answer? Nothing political could be gained.
The cacique, bearded and brawny, considered him for a moment with keen, probing eyes. “Remove him,” he instructed the giant.
When Toeff moved in, Haegan started. “I must return to Asykth!” Rally the warriors. Talk with his mentor and seek the advice of those he trusted most. And what of Thiel?
The cacique was on his feet. “Ye are of Asykth?” That intense gaze once more tracing every inch of Haegan’s body.
Haegan hesitated, sensing the challenge. Sensing the danger he’d stepped into. And remembering far too late how the men of the mountain and the Asykthians had long been in civil dispute. Their hatred for each other nearly as strong as his father’s for Thurig the Formidable, King of Asykth.
Disgust replaced anger. “All the more reason to hold ye captive. Secure him.”
4
Legier’s Heart, Northlands
Never had he seen such beauty and such danger. Aselan, cacique of the ice-dwelling Eilidan and protector of Legier, stood at the entrance to the chamber in which the healers had lain the woman. When they’d nestled her in the pelts, her skin had been as pale as the fur of the icehounds at his side.
Hoeff, twin to Toeff, tended the desperately ill woman. Despite Hoeff’s enormous size, his actions were gentle and caring. It mirrored the soul of the giants, the heart to serve, heal, and aid. Mesmerizing how the giant’s massive hand somehow seemed soft against the silkiness of her alabaster hair over the snow-colored pelts. White on white—camouflaged. Just as his battle pelts protected Aselan when he left the safety of the Legier’s Heart.
Hoeff lifted a white linen packet from an etched alcove in the stone and laid the poultice, a salve most likely, on her throat. With almost a reverence, he drew the Caorian wolf pelt to her chin.
Now that she was properly covered, Aselan dared cross the threshold. When the Legiera lifted her from the snow, she’d looked old enough to have produced a long line of heirs. But now, with color seeping back into her face . . . she was young. Much younger than he—perhaps not more than twenty. To his nearly thirty, she was but a child. It would bode poorly for him as cacique if she died. The Council of Ladies would take it as a sign of his failing leadership.
“Will she live?” he finally asked.
Hoeff stopped. Skated a glance over his shoulder. With a sigh that sounded more like a groan, he lifted a shoulder. “She not breathe stench of Death now.” He creaked around and stared down at her. Shook his head. “But healing will be long. Slow. If happen at all.” Another shake.
Aselan had never seen Hoeff so disturbed. And neither had he seen the gifted healer unable to draw the bite of the mountain from a body. Asykthians scoffed at the idea that Drigo had other-worldly powers, but the Eilidan had seen them work miracles time and again. Though Toeff and Hoeff would be the first to say it was not their gifts, but what Abiassa allowed.
“Why slow?” Was it the Lady Herself slowing this healing?
“Hoeff not know.” The healer reached his long arm to the medicinal table where ground herbs sat beside a shallow bowl. He dumped the mashed contents into a pot of water, steam rising from the spout. “Though she badly injured, most of what ail her—” Again, he shook his head, long tight locks waving. “Hoeff not find source.”
“Keep looking. She must live.” Warm, soft fur brushed his hand, and he rubbed Sikir’s ears, grateful for the ever-present company of the hounds.
“Yes, Master.”
Hesitation in Hoeff’s words held Aselan at the door. “What concerns ye?”
“The source—Hoeff not think it . . . worldly.”
“What else is there?”
“Master know.” Hoeff lifted a small towel and dipped it into the poultice-laden water. He drew it up, steam swirling around his large hands, and wrung it. Gently, but without the consideration most men would provide, Hoeff brushed aside the girl’s blonde locks and tugged aside the collar of her bodice.
Aselan turned away—but not before catching sight of the pendant resting in the hollow of her throat. By the Flames! He jerked his gaze down, his heart pounding. Sikir and Duamauri growled at his changed heart rate.
“Master?” Hoeff had seen the pendant, too. His large, bulging eyes came to Aselan’s.
“How have ye not seen this before now?”
Hoeff shrugged. “The Ladies dress her, but Hoeff keep her covered, as required in the first few days.”
The Ladies. “Say nothing to anyone. I must speak with the Legiera,” Aselan said quickly. Like shifting icebergs, the pieces of the last two days were slipping and colliding. Holding her here—if it was her—would be cause for war.
“But she—”
“I know!”
“If they—”
“I know!” Aselan smooth
ed a hand over his beard, thinking. “I know, Hoeff.” He fought off the panic that threatened to unseat the confidence he’d rebuilt over the last few years. Confidence that he could be a leader. But this—this girl could ruin everything! “Don’t let anyone see her.” He started for the passage, desperate to escape the daunting truth, desperate to wash his hands of this nightmare. Then he stopped. If she died . . . if she died under his care—“Can ye heal her?”
Hoeff gave a shrug, grief stricken. “Hoeff not know, Master.” Tears welled in the giant’s eyes. Not healing someone was akin to killing them in Drigo honor.
“Hiel-touck.” Even muttering the oath did little to appease Aselan’s panic. Striding through the passage, he felt that panic slip into anger. By the time he reached the fifth level, the heat of fury coursed through his veins. With the icehounds trotting in front of him and intent to sound the alarm, he rounded the last corner.
Ingwait stood there, her wrinkles all the more prominent with the head-to-toe gray garb. A simple braided silver circlet crested her forehead, where sprigs of hair sprung out defiantly. Head and neck bound in a white pelt, she held her hands before her. Confidence wreathed her.
It made sense now. “Ye.”
She gave a slow nod.
“Ye knew and allowed me to shelter her here?”
“As the Drigo would tell ye, Abiassa brought her to the mountain.”
“Abia—” Aselan’s anger vaulted. “This wasn’t the Lady. This was a raqine lost in the storm.”
Ingwait’s laugh rippled through the cavernous platform. Her green eyes sparked. “Have ye ever seen a raqine get lost?”
“Ye realize the war brought to us now?”
“A war for yer heart, Thurig As’Elan, one I have long told ye would come, even before Doskari chose ye.”
At the mention of his late wife, he shouldered into her. “Those people—her people, the Southlanders—they will obliterate this mountain and all in it if they learn she is kept here. They are accelerants, Ingwait!” Through gritted teeth, he spoke with vehemence. “I will not allow my people to die because ye want to fulfill yer own prophecy.”
