by Ronie Kendig
She glanced at the darkened window. The weather had steadily worsened in the days since Haegan’s departure, the brief respite from winter now ended in a swirling snowstorm.
“In earnest, ye can sense him?” She swallowed, afraid to hope. When he didn’t answer, she stared up into his dark eyes. A strange nausea swirled through her that she could not sort.
“In earnest.”
A shuddering breath rippled through her. Not from the chill in the library. But from relief. “Then he lives.”
6
Legier’s Heart, Northlands
“I am Haegan, son of Zireli, king of Zaethien and the Nine Kingdoms, supreme commander of the Nine armies.” He stood with strength he did not feel, inwardly or outwardly. “The woman who died on the cliff was my sister, Kaelyria, heir to the Fire Throne and the Nine.”
The men before him exchanged slow, meaningful glances and made Haegan shift, all too aware that he stood alone in this world now. None of his family remained.
“Ye have brought a heap of trouble on me and mine, coming here with the princess.” The cacique walked a wide berth around the fire, his face etched in anger. “Ye bring war to us.”
The words seared Haegan’s heart and conscience. “I . . . I tried to save her. I meant to return to—”
“Tell me why I should not throw ye out into the storm, let ye fight yer way back to yer double-minded weaklings.”
Haegan had no doubt the cacique would make good on his threat. “Because I can testify that my sister’s death was no fault of yours,” Haegan said, grateful once more for the mental sparring Sir Gwogh had engaged him in many times. He sighed, allowing his shoulders to slump just a little. “In truth, my death would pass quietly in the rage of this storm. There will be no retribution. For there is no one to wage it.”
The cacique hesitated—his icehounds came up—then glanced to the man on his right. He faced Haegan. “Speak plainly.”
Haegan swallowed. Shoved back the cruel images from the mouth of Fieri Keep. “The Fire King is dead. As is the queen. I am the last of the Celahars.”
Surprise and shock rippled through the enormous room. The men grouped up, muttering. One shouted, “He means to entrap ye, trick ye into believing this, then he’ll bring the Jujak to the Ice Mountain.”
“Nay, I have conjured no trap,” Haegan asserted, sending out a firm, reassuring look. “If the Jujak come, it will be but for a singular purpose—to capture me.” He tried to steady his ramming heart.
“The Legiera would have yer story, Prince.” The cacique lowered himself to his pelt throne and leaned back, the icehounds reclining at his feet. “Start with how ye’re no longer paralyzed.”
At least they had not killed him yet, but Haegan wondered at the wisdom of sharing so openly among people his father had nearly considered enemies. Abiassa, guide me . . .
But he began. “Poired Dyrth and the armies of Sirdar encroached on our lands, threatening our people, overtaking our neighbors. Fear was rampant and many believed Seultrie would fall. Though my father-king traveled with his Valor Guard and the Jujak to stave off the enemy’s advance, we were losing. In an act of desperation, my sister made a pact with an accelerant to transfer her gifting to me.”
“Are we supposed to believe this?” Byrin groused from a chair to the right of the great throne.
“Let us hear him out,” the cacique said, holding up a hand. “But I warn ye, thin-blood, already yer story reeks of rot.”
“I speak only the truth,” Haegan said, but he felt the issued warning. “What my sister did not know is that the accelerant was disgraced, removed from the Brotherhood. What his motives were, I know not, nor did she. Through him she effected a transference, a long-forbidden act of exchanging gifts. My sister knew this would heal me but she did not know the cost—her own health and strength. She lay in Seultrie, paralyzed in my place, while I was forced to flee the keep, the Fire King’s wrath against me great.”
“The Celahars destroying their own house,” someone chuckled. “A fabler couldn’t weave a tale so great!”
Haegan cringed at the taunt. His family had unwittingly destroyed themselves, and the truth of it pained him. When they only sought to protect what Abiassa had bestowed. Did he not owe his father’s memory some defense? But what was he to say? What could he do?
“Prince?”
Haegan blinked away the burning and the thoughts. “I beg your mercy. It has been . . . hard.”
“Mayhap he needs time in the crèche with the younglings.”
Sobered, Haegan straightened his shoulders. “I fled to the Great Falls for the Reckoning. Kaelyria told me it would heal us both, restoring all back to former states, but me to full healing. Having been paralyzed, hidden from friend and foe, I took the bait. Greedily.”
“I bet ye did.”
Guilt hung like a lead stole around his neck. As he came to the part at the Falls, he faltered. If he explained what happened, it would reveal him as the Fierian. What would they do to him? Throw him out regardless? He could not blame them if they did.
“So ye journeyed to the Falls.”
“Aye. I did.”
“And ye were healed.”
“Of a sort. Only, I learned from my aged tutor, who tracked me down, that Kaelyria had not told me the full truth of her endeavor.”
Aselan tilted his head to the side, stroking his beard. “And what was that?”
“That she would never recover. The transference, it is true, healed me. But it robbed my sister of her strength—”
“Ye said that already, thin-blood,” Byrin groused.
“—and her gifts.” Haegan held his peace.
“Gifts.” The cacique stilled. “She lost her ability to wield the Flames?”
Was he so cruel as to ask the question when his sister was dead? Anger turned bitter on his tongue. “Her death has made that question irrelevant, I would think.” His words came out harder than he’d intended.
The cacique twitched. “Ye said the Fire King is dead.”
Haegan managed a small nod.
“Ye saw him die.” Aselan was on his feet, head angling from one side to the other as he closed in on Haegan. “Yet ye said ye were returning to the Asykthians.”
Haegan nodded. “I . . . I was injured at the Falls. One of the companions I made in the weeks leading up to that event turned out to be the daughter of Thurig the Formidable.”
The cacique stilled. Stared at Haegan. Hard. “Daughter?”
“She had been . . . on a journey. But when I was injured, we were close enough to her father’s home that she delivered me there to recover.” Haegan left out the part about how the Falls had devastated his body because it was the ignition point of becoming the Fierian, the destroyer of all this world knew. And he should probably leave out that Thiel rescued him on a raqine. That he and Thiel had a mutual attraction. That he’d kissed her before spiriting back home to try to save his father. That his every thought these last few days was of getting back to her.
“She took ye to Nivar Hold?” Doubt hovered in the cacique’s words.
“Aye. While I recovered there, word came that Poired had lain siege to Seultrie. I left at once to help my family.”
“What could ye, an injured boy, do to help? And how did ye reach Seultrie?”
“As I said, I rode a raqine.”
“A raqine.”
“They are real,” Haegan bit out.
Snickers skittered through the hall.
“And how did ye intend to help?”
Haegan looked at his bandaged hands. Thought of how his anger had driven him southward, how he was ill-prepared to face the powerful Dyrth. How the Deliverers had stopped him from killing the madman. It had been foolhardy to think he could stop him. Humiliating.
“Think not to withhold answers from us, thin-blood.”
Haegan considered Byrin, his burly size. A threat lay within his words, as if he were daring Haegan to lie. What did they know? Could they know he was t
he Fierian? If they’d seen the mark on his back . . . What would they do if they knew?
“I see so much in yer eyes, young prince. So much ye hide. So much ye protect.” The cacique stood over him—and yet he didn’t. They were eye to eye, the same height, but somehow the cacique had a much larger presence. “My concern is the danger ye bring. Yer very presence threatens my people.”
Haegan swallowed. “It is . . .” He ached to release the burden. But would it mean his death? If he died, then Seultrie would have no one to lead her. The Nine would be undefended. “I did all that I knew to do.” He had already failed once. What else could he do?
Aselan’s eyes narrowed. “No.” He shook his head. “There was more than that behind yer eyes.” The cacique stepped back, nodded to Toeff. “Return him to his cave.”
• • •
“It makes no sense. All we know of the prince—crippled and without gifts. Yet, here be this boy who can stand and wield. How? Ye believe the thin-blood?” Byrin muttered at Aselan’s side as they watched Toeff escort the prince from the hall.
Shoulders slumped, head down, Haegan did not have the arrogant bearing expected of a spoiled prince. But the son of Zireli lived with shame, so he wouldn’t be wrapped up in himself. But his tale . . . “I know not.” Something was missing. Something important. “Once the storm eases, we send Teelh out to verify the Fire King’s death. See what news he can find.”
“But we saw on the cliff the boy can wield.”
“Aye.” Aselan bobbed his head. “But my concern is how he has it and the kind he has. Let us hope he didn’t figure out the purpose of the grass.”
“If he removes it, there’s no telling”—Byrin shuddered—“the danger.”
“Aye.” He sighed. “I’m going to check on the princess.”
“When will ye tell him she lives?”
“When I am convinced the Eilidan are safe.” He clasped Byrin’s forearm and patted his shoulder.
“Oh. Verified this morning—Chima is in the nest.”
“I thought as much.” Aselan almost smiled as he made his way to the lower levels, where the stones were warmer and the passages quieter, where healers worked their gifts and Eilidan were healed. The halls were hushed, the caves even more so as he trudged to the far end. Amber light glowed outside the door, the wood propped open.
Hoeff always insisted on it when tending a female.
Aselan stopped at the opening and greeted the Drigo healer. “Ye are acknowledged, Hoeff.”
Head large and eyes seemingly larger, Hoeff nodded. “Thank you, Master.”
Covered by a half-dozen Caorian pelts, the princess lay on the dais, her face glowing beneath a sheen of perspiration. But the stone lights sat along the lower edge of the dais. For warmth. Aselan frowned. Why would she need warmth? Most patients needed cooling bladders during illness. “Why the stone lights, Hoeff?”
“She very cold. Hoeff notice if he keep her warm—much more than Eilidan—she better.”
“Thin-blood,” Aselan muttered at her.
The Ladies had clearly tended her again. Her silky white hair now lay in a braided halo that rimmed her forehead. Pelts tucked around her slight frame teased the edge of her chin. Color seeped into her cheeks.
“Then she improves?”
“Hoeff think so. But slow.” He moaned and gave a disappointed shake of his head. “It make no sense to Hoeff. Poultice not work.”
“Have ye used yer gifts?”
“Of course, Master. Hoeff use night and day—the poultices.”
Aselan touched his arm. “No, friend, yer gifts.”
Eyes widened. “Forbidden.”
And it had been with good cause—Drigo healing on a human was like trying to drink from a waterfall. Most Drigo were unable to reduce their potency to be effective for human patients. “For Eilidan.” He nodded to the princess. “But she is Seultrian.”
“But she still Abiassa’s child. Hoeff cannot harm her.”
“She is not simply a child of Abiassa, Hoeff. She is a wielder of the Flames.”
Hoeff’s hard intake of breath was startling. He shifted. “No.” Stared down at his patient, her hands. “She wield?”
“Try.”
Hoeff frantically shook his head and stepped back, hands clasped together. “No. No, Master. Hoeff not hurt anyone. She will call me home. Hoeff will return to the Dark Halls.”
Aselan touched his arm.
“Do not make me, Master.”
“Peace.” Though Aselan knew a single word from him would be taken as a command by the Drigo, for they existed but to serve, Aselan would not abuse that. “I will not ask it.” Though he wanted to. He wanted answers. Wanted to weigh the princess’s rendering of the events at Seultrie against her brother’s. He wanted to see her eyes.
“Master, Hoeff must leave for replenishment.”
Aselan nodded and moved aside to allow him to exit. “She is well to rest alone?”
“Yes, Master.” Hoeff shuffled down the long passage, which darkened and lit in response to his movement.
Aselan glanced at the ailing princess again, something holding him there. A small moan drifted from the dais. Was she well? In pain? He returned to the cave and studied her, assessed her. She didn’t move. When she moaned again, he stared down the passage. He should not be alone with her, and he did not have the skills to aid her. Perhaps he should call Hoeff back.
Softly, she moaned again, her delicate brows knit.
Aselan started toward the dais, then thought better of it. Once more, he glanced down the passage, seeking Hoeff. The stone hall lay empty, the warm glow of stone lights his only company. He moved to the dais and frowned down at her, then eased onto the healer’s stool.
Motionless. Her lips relaxed. Her eyes closed, peaceful.
Had his mind conjured the noises? “Princess?”
Still nothing. No sound. No movement.
He glanced at the stone lights, thinking how Hoeff said the ambient warmth was helping her heal. Yet her brother said she’d lost her ability to wield. Perhaps the warmth of the stone lights was a comfort, a balm? He shifted one stone light closer to her face. If he could talk to her. Ask her—
Blue eyes stared back at him.
Aselan started. His heart tripped into his rib cage.
Drowsy and seemingly unfocused, her pale eyes drifted back beneath the cover of her eyelids.
“Princess,” Aselan called her back from the dregs of sleep. “Princess, can ye hear me?”
A small grunt. She shifted her head. Her lips parted and she swallowed, her brow knitting. Her eyes fluttered again. She breathed heavily, as if it took every effort to wake herself.
“Wa—” She went still again. Eyes closed.
“Princess?”
“Water,” she murmured, unmoving.
Though he should not be alone with her, Aselan went to the tending table and lifted the ceramic pitcher. Blocking his path, Sikir lay stretched along the wall, head propped back against it, not fully surrendering to sleep. Aselan stepped around the hound to pour water into the tin cup then knelt at the dais. “Here, Princess.”
Her eyes opened again. She locked onto him quickly this time.
“Water,” he held it up for her view, then to her lips. He cupped a hand behind her neck and lifted her, so she could sip the liquid, then set the tin to her rosy lips. “Drink.”
She rallied and leaned into the water, her manipulations clumsy from the illness and long sleep. Her hand came from under the pelt and braced the back of his. The difference in their coloring—hers so pale and soft, his dark and callused—struck him. His large, hers delicate. His cold, carrying the ice of the mountain that had been his home these last ten years, and hers holding the warmth of the pelts and stone lights. “Easy,” he muttered as she drank.
Like an ice dagger it hit him. Aselan saw her hand. Stilled. Haegan had said she was paralyzed. Her ice blue eyes came to his as she shrank back against the pillows. He slipped his hand free, ign
oring the silkiness of her hair. The warmth of her neck.
She wet her lips and swallowed, her features weary. “Thank you.”
Duamauri came to her bed and sniffed.
The princess’s eyes widened.
He should ask how she could move. Or perhaps her brother had lied? “Ye—”
But exhaustion dragged her quickly into that ragged sleep. Aselan set aside the cup and pushed himself back onto the healer’s stool. Why would the prince lie to them?
7
Legier’s Heart, Northlands
“Come down and enjoy the fire.” The taunting laugh of Poired Dyrth sifted through the thick smoke and ash as he stood on the overlook of the Lakes of Fire and stared up into the castle.
Hungry, angry flames danced over the fields, leaving them blackened and sizzling. A barren path that reached toward the keep. A spark shot across the distance. Latched onto the wall. Crawled up . . . up.
Smoke filled his nostrils. “No.” Haegan watched from his bed, powerless. He was alone, paralyzed, the keep abandoned. If the fire reached the chamber, he would die.
With each lunge, stones gave way, dropping hundreds of feet to the earth. Piece by piece, the fortress surrendered to the flames, their sharp claws digging into the stone. Ragged teeth chewing through mortar.
He searched the chamber for help but only saw the dangers—curtains that kept the cold out would also keep the smoke in. The hand-carved bed with its posters would become a funeral pyre. “Help!”
“There is no help for the worthless,” Poired shouted, his laughter echoing, as if he had two voices. As if he could be in two places at once. “Are you worthy, Fierian, to face me?”
Haegan shook his head, sweat dripping and burning his eyes. Each drop became a spark. He jolted. Jumped. Tried to get away, but the heat made his body pour sweat. A loud groaning pulled his gaze to the walls. The center bowed and collapsed in defeat.
“Fight me, Fierian! Are you afraid? Afraid you will be as your father, weak and a disgrace to the one you serve?”
“You cannot even name Her,” came his father’s shout.
“Why would I? She is but a figment, a spark of hot wind.”
At the sound of his father’s voice, Haegan scrambled, suddenly able to move. The burning floor singed his hands and knees as he searched through the clouds of smoke. “Father! Father, where are you?” But the roar ate not only mortar and rock but his words as well. “Father!”
