by Ronie Kendig
“My prophecy?” Her voice went shrill. “Ye forget, Aselan, who put ye on the pelted throne and set ye as guardian over Legier.”
“Cacique,” a voice came from behind.
Aselan shifted to Byrin, who stood with his brother, Teelh. The two must have seen the rage in his expression; their eyes widened, Byrin asking without words what had happened. Teeth clenched, Aselan gave Ingwait one more glare before storming toward them. “Call the Legiera.”
Immediately, Byrin turned to the void that gaped over the high platform, cupped his hands over his mouth and made a loud, long trilling noise. It echoed through the community, to every level and cave.
Aselan stormed to the warrior’s hall and shoved through the double-hung doors. Even as he reached the pelt throne, he noted that his men were gathering. He swiped a hand over his mouth. Planted his hands on his leather belt and stared into the ever-roaring of the pit. Flames danced and popped, crackling like his nerves.
“We’re here.”
He faced the men, nodding as Teelh secured the doors with a heavy beam. “We have a problem that for now can go no farther than this room.” He heaved a breath he did not want to breathe. Carried thoughts he’d rather gouge from his brain. “The girl is heir to the Fire Throne.”
Dead silence gaped. Then complaints shot up. Faces blanched and anger quickly replaced surprise.
“And the Servant of the Lady knows,” Byrin muttered.
More shouts and groans.
“That old woman knows everything.”
“Kill the girl!”
“Is the boy her brother?”
“Can’t be. The prince be paralyzed. Everyone be knowin’ that.”
“Brother or guardian, they mean naught but trouble for Legier’s Heart.”
“I say bury them both—nobody will be the wiser.”
Disappointment pulled at Aselan. “We will be the wiser,” he barked, his tone echoing the growling of Duamauri and Sikir. He paced the floor. “I called this meeting to determine our options. If word of their presence reaches the Fire King, we will be dead.”
“Speaking of that fire-breathing dragon, how did he not stop the boy from stealing his daughter?”
“Yeh—he would’ve singed him alive.”
“Unless the princess sneaked off with the boy. Is he her lover?”
“Send them down the mountain,” Byrin finally said. “Send them down and make sure they find their way to Ybienn.”
“Yer brain is frozen,” Markoo muttered. “That storm is mighty angry. Tellers are saying we will be buried for another month as Legier rages.”
Aselan lowered himself to the pelted throne. Seated on the edge, he bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He roughed his hands over his face and beard. Legier himself seemed set against them.
“Cacique.” Teelh squared his shoulders. “I’ll take them. Deliver them safely to Asykth. ’Tis our only hope to avoid war.”
Aselan wasn’t surprised. Teelh was one of his most loyal men and the best tracker, who could find his way out of a thousand forests blind. Which was exactly why Aselan couldn’t allow him to go. “Too risky—if we lose ye—”
“Ye doubt me?”
Aselan snorted. “Nay.” But then he sobered. “Nor do I doubt Legier’s anger at this hour.”
“Why? What have we done?”
“I know not, Teelh. I know not.”
“If she be the heir to the Fire Throne and it be found we have her, there will be naught but fire and ashes left of us.” Byrin stepped forward, his position as Aselan’s second affording him the right to stand at his side. “We must send them down.”
“Ye would risk yer own brother’s life?” Aselan asked.
“Me own brother rather than the thousands of Eilidan within the Heart.”
“Oochak,” Teelh responded with the warrior chant.
Torment gripped Aselan. The storm would kill all three and nobody would know until first thaw. “I need another option.”
“But—”
“If Teelh dies going down, the heir and that boy die, too. If that happens, we guarantee war.” Aselan sighed and his gaze drifted, seemingly of its own accord, to the second table, where Markoo sat, stein in one hand and stone light in the other, staring at the table through a tightly knit brow.
“Markoo?” Aselan had long considered him as a brother, not simply because their ages were nearly well matched, but because Markoo held nothing back.
Long brown curls shielded grey-green eyes that lifted to meet Aselan’s.
“Have ye thoughts?” Many times the younger man had presented scenarios that had been more . . . pacifist. And he had borne the brunt among the men, who called him weak and lacking. Still, Markoo sat resolute in his more peaceful thoughts. Aselan would not have him change.
A wary gaze took in the room as Markoo considered the men, his stein, then slowly came back to Aselan. So, he did have an option. One that would not carry well with the men.
“Ye have no fear to speak yer mind here,” Aselan said, a true statement but also a remonstration against any who might mock or attempt to silence him.
Markoo wet his lips then swiped his thumb along the stein. “Befriend the boy.”
Scoffs scraped the room.
“Quiet,” Aselan warned. “Go on.”
Metal scuffed wood as Markoo pushed the stein aside. “The storm forbids anyone into its bosom, even the Fire King. Befriend the boy while he must remain, find out who he is and why he’s with the princess.” He motioned to the hall. “We all saw he was unwilling to speak at certain times—yet willing to make demands where he had earlier been terrified.” Markoo lifted his chin. “That lends that there are hidden truths, and perhaps things we can use to advantage.”
“How?” Byrin barked.
“He sees himself as her protector.”
“A failed one—she nearly died,” Byrin growled.
“But still her protector.” Markoo shrugged. “If we show our intentions are not to harm him or befoul her, as her protector, he can be a voice of reason when the storm lets up and they return to the Lowlanders. Perhaps even stay a rage by the Fire King. And speak truth to the Asykthians that we did no harm.”
Well-spoken. Yet . . . “What if he’s not her protector but her lover?”
“I assure you that is not the case.”
That the boy dared enter and speak brought Aselan to his feet. He faced the side entrance where the boy now stood. “Ye tread dangerously, thin-blood, entering the Hall of the Legiera.” Aselan’s gaze slid to the giant behind the boy.
Burly Toeff shrugged, a slight movement barely discernible with the thick-skinned, short-necked build of the giants. “He would answer the question.”
5
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
Thurig Kiethiel gripped the hilt of the sword in both hands, noting the way her slick palms loosened her grip, endangered her ability to spar. She ignored the bead of sweat that dropped into her eye. Hair clumped and matted to her face, she tried to slow her breathing. Focus on her goal—disarm her brother as’Tili, leader of her father’s loyal guard, the Nivari.
A glint barreled at her.
Sucking in a breath, she parried. Stepped sideways, but not before feeling the sizzle of Tili’s blade in the air. Steel clashed against steel, jarring up her arms and into her shoulders. She growled and shot daggers from her eyes at her brother. “Mother will have yer head if ye harm me.”
“Then ye must be faster, dear sister.” He gloated. Danced to the side, turned and drove his sword at her again, hard. “For I am to serve our brother at his wedding.”
“Knock ’im in that curly head of ’is, Thiel!” Laertes shouted from the side. “Yer leagues faster than some knobby-kneed prince what’s gots fancy boots and stockings of a girl.”
The fury that spread over Tili’s face gave her guilty pleasure. “Stockings.” He lowered his chin and brow. “Ye would have a boy do yer fighting?” He straightened, shrugged—tipping his blade
narrowly close to Laertes, who gave a shout and jumped back. “But then, maybe girls aren’t meant to—”
Thiel lunged.
And Tili was there, sharp and focused as a raqine in battle. The blades shrieked as he drew his along hers until he managed to work her sweaty grip against her. Her sword clanked to the floor and slid across the marble.
Only as she stared in disbelief at her retreating weapon did she feel the sting of his blade against her cheek. She touched a finger to it and drew it back. Bloody. She gaped angrily at him.
“Be it my fault that ye are easily distracted and overcome?”
She slapped the sweaty hair from her eyes and growled. “Give me a horse and I will pound ye into the ground!”
“A steed? What, would ye have dreads and ride half-clothed as well?”
Anger stamped through her. He mocked Cadeif, the warrior who had interdicted and saved her life when she was but fourteen, claimed her among his people to protect her. “Had ye met an Ematahri in battle, ye would not be so fast to mock them.”
“I mock nothing, dear sister.” Tili sauntered over to her weapon and used the tip of his blade to hoist it from the floor, tossing it up and catching the hilt. “I have great respect for the savages.”
“Those savages saved my life! Taught me how to fight from a horse.”
“That is well—in the Outlands or in their forests.” He extended her sword over his arm to her. “But here, where winter is more brutal than those warriors?” He shrugged. “Horses are not always an option, Kiethiel.”
She grabbed her sword, noting that the others—still-silent Praegur, and Tokar—watched from the side, their sparring partners enthralled with the spat. “Then what? Winter will defeat me as well? I am not capable enough to live among the Nivari?”
Confidence, which held him sure and bold, slid away. A mask of confusion and surprise gave chase. “Nay, sister.” He motioned around, holding out his arms. “That is why we train. Nivari are strong fighters. With blade, with dagger, with hand. It must be this way so we may war on whatever terrain the battle arises.”
Cadeif had pushed her hard to fight from bareback. To not be on the ground, which was weak. But where was he now? And Haegan?
“Then perhaps I no longer belong here.” She pivoted, the petulance of her words pushing her from the training room. What madness had driven her to such foolishness? She had better sense than that!
“Thiel.”
At Tili’s call, she tucked her head and hurried down the long hall with its great height and chandeliers, unwilling to be cajoled. Patronized.
“Thiel, wait!”
She pivoted, slipping through a side passage, praying she was quick enough to evade her brother. She broke into a run, sprinting past the servants and narrow corridors that ran along the nooks and crannies of Nivar Hold. Passages she had used as a child to escape her embroidery and other futile “women’s” work. She would have had a sword, even then!
A brown door caught her attention. Hesitating, she glanced at the floor. Noticed no glow from the other side. She dashed inside the room, quickly secured the door and rushed across the floor to the chair facing the great pit. She dropped against the thick fabric and pulled her knees to her chest. Curled there, with no fire in the massive fireplace, she quickly noticed the chill of the great library. Hugging her knees did nothing to chase away the shivers, but she drew them tighter still when she heard the handle creak. She sucked in a breath and stilled her breathing.
Light spilled across the wall-to-wall books. The illumination seemed to reach toward her. She cringed, resisting the urge to shield herself from the light. But it swept around the chair, casting a shadow on the wall.
Then vanished. The latch secured.
With a sigh of relief, she relaxed, her temple against the wing of the great chair. The cooler air here aggravated the cut on her cheek. She touched it, found the blood had clotted and closed the wound. He may have given her a scar. Father would tan his hide for that. Haegan . . .
She almost laughed. Haegan would’ve had one of those light-exploding moments and wiped out the entire room.
A pang shot through her chest. She missed him. Worried for him. He had left five days ago and there had been no word. What if Poired captured him? How she longed for answers. And a fire.
Breathing against her fingers lessened the ache of the lower temperature, but still cold tremored through her limbs. She gritted her teeth against it, wondering if it was cold wherever Haegan was.
“There is no word of that among the spies,” her father had said when she implored him to send a search party to rescue him. But there had been something in his eyes that stopped her from probing for more answers.
Which left her—Thiel’s teeth chattered—believing Haegan lost in some barren wasteland. Injured. Probably fighting off wolves and wilderbeasts.
Or dead.
He could be dead.
He is the Fierian, Kiethiel. His purpose is not yet fulfilled, so he cannot be dead.
Then where was he?
She would not forget the kiss. He had been talking and purposeful on the night of her gala, when without warning he bent and kissed her. So tender. So wonderful. She blushed at the thought, grateful for the solitude and darkness to hide such an unwarrior-like act.
But she loved him. Her brother had guessed as much when she cried like a fool the night Haegan was told of his identity and the prophecy. She cried because she saw the hurt and fear in his eyes. It was not difficult to recognize them since they mirrored her own. And she hated herself for it. She would be stronger for him. She must be.
A cozy warmth wrapped around her, seducing her into a near sleep.
Warm. So very warm.
Thiel frowned. Lifted her hand and curled her fingers. No ache. How . . . ? She glanced to the side.
Moonslight caught a crystal votive and reflected a face.
With a yelp, Thiel lurched from the chair, right foot back, ready to fight.
Amber glowed against the fire pit. “Mercy, Kiethiel.”
Mouth dry, she breathed his name, “Drracien.” Shaking off the alarm served to anger her. She slapped his shoulder. “Blazes, ye gave me the fright!”
He held out his hands, placating. “I hope—”
“Did ye follow me? What do ye want?”
He smirked. “Forgive me, my lady, but”—he motioned to the chair—“I believe I was here first.”
She looked to the pair of high wing-backed chairs. Truth. When she entered, she had been intent on escape and not inspected her surroundings. Great way to get killed.
“You seemed to need the quiet solitude. I said nothing for fear of intruding.”
“Or chasing me away.”
Drracien inclined his head, black hair dipping over his dark eyes. He had never been subtle about his attraction to her. In truth, to all females.
“Ye . . .” Another glimpse at the chair she’d been in. “Ye warmed me.”
He pursed his lips and offered a shrug. “You seemed cold.” He splayed his fingers and pushed them toward the ceiling.
“No!” She caught his hand. “Please. If ye light it, the others . . .”
That smirk was back. “But, my lady, we are alone in the dark.”
Heat fanned through her cheeks. “No,” she said, looking toward the main door that led to the residence hall. “We’re not. There are many in the house this dark eve.” She reached for the brass handle.
“You are worried about him.”
Thiel hesitated before the beveled glass. “If ye intend to cajole me—”
“Only to reassure you.”
“I know.” She huffed. “He’s the Fierian. He has to be alive.”
“Yes . . .”
Thiel frowned and faced him, noticing a hesitation. “What?”
Drracien swallowed and flashed his palms out with a shake of his head. “It might sound crazy, but I can feel him.” He stared at his hands. “The Flames he stole from the others, from me . .
. I can feel it, but the full strength is out of reach.”
Anger bit through her resolve to leave. “Stole from ye?”
“At the Falls.” Drracien shrugged. “I can’t explain what happened when he jumped in, but I was . . . lessened. I believe every accelerant experienced it.”
“What madness do ye speak of?”
“It makes sense, for him to have such extraordinary power, for his purpose, there is only one accelerant needed.”
“But many are needed to fight Poired.” A streak of panic lit through Thiel. “Are ye saying—”
“No.” He walked to the fireplace where a small blaze now glowed against the stones. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his forehead. “It’s why I was here, trying to think through it. If Gwogh had but stayed to answer our questions, if I still had access to the libraries of the Citadel, I could search out the answers. Determine what’s happening. How Haegan’s rise to power—”
“Rise to power?” Thiel’s voice pitched, echoing in the library that consisted mostly of glass and books.
Drracien gaped at her as if she’d stepped from the Great Falls again.
“Of course.” It made sense. Haegan had to rise to power. How else would he bring about the prophecy of razing the lands and cleansing it of Poired and his army? It just sounded so strange. Yet . . . he was a prince. “’Tis just . . .”
“So hard to get used to, isn’t it? To you, he’s the bumbling boy who nearly got us killed a half-dozen times.”
She glanced at her hands, the green stone of Nivar tangled in her family’s ring. It captured the light from the pit. “He was only supposed to step into the waters and heal his sister. Go home. Live happily ever after.” She pried her gaze from the ring and looked at Drracien.
Flames danced and popped, light and shadows playing over his handsome face. He was an enigma. Quietly rebellious. Fiercely loyal. Their relationship had started with threats and animosity. Now he seemed content here. “He believed in ye, right from the beginning. Why have ye not gone after him?”
Something roiled through Drracien’s expression as he held his hands toward the pit, savoring the heat. But then he laughed. “Step outside and I would explain.”
