by Ronie Kendig
“It changed me.”
She frowned.
He could play this ruse no more nor bear the pain of it. “They say I am the Fierian.”
Eyes widening, she fell back against the pelts, all joy and vigor gone from her. “The F—” Her face twisted in pain. “You?” She shook her head, her gaze drifting momentarily to the cacique who stood guard. “No.” Again, she sat forward and touched his arm. “You cannot wield. ’Tis impossible to be the Fierian without the embers and abiatasso. And in truth, you do not want that, Haegan. It’s . . . the Fierian is a scourge.”
“I can,” he whispered. “I can wield—you gave me yours.”
“No.” She scowled. “That’s not possible. Cilicien said my gifts would be but stored within you, but without the abiatasso, which is there at birth, you could not wield.”
“I fear we both know the character of ka’Dur.”
She deflated. “Aye. A wretched creature. I ignored my own judgment out of desperation.” Glittering pale blue eyes took him in, searched him. “You can wield. Truly?”
“You needn’t sound so surprised—I am not a complete singewood, as you insisted for so many years.”
Pain creased her forehead. “I beg your mercy. It was a cruel taunt by a miserable, spoiled sister. And not an ounce true.” She sighed. “Then you will do it, be the Fierian?”
“‘Do it’ implies will and choice. I have neither.” He sighed.
“But Seultrie—”
“Aye.” Truth burdened his shoulders with guilt and responsibility.
“I cannot go back, brother.”
“Of course, not now.” He gave her a reassuring nod. “But when you’re recovered enough.”
Grief carved painful lines in her pretty face. “I am dead.” Her voice tremored. “You know how cruel they are to the invalid.”
“Aye,” he said, his chest tightening. “Well aware.”
“And at a time like this, with Poired raging—” Kae’s lower lip trembled. “They need a strong ruler, Haegan. I cannot go back. I will not.”
He saw her resolve. Separating brick and mortar was been easier than separating his sister from a decision once set.
“You know what must be done, Haegan, especially now that you can wield.”
Haegan frowned.
“He has spoken often of returning to defend Seultrie,” came the cacique’s rough voice.
Kaelyria nodded, smiling. “It is right, Haegan.” Tears made her eyes seem large. “I was never meant to rule.”
“You are the heir.”
“Only because the succession was changed when you were poisoned.”
Gwogh. Haegan tasted the bitter truth of that statement.
“They already believe me dead. Better to let them think so. You cannot argue it.”
“I can. My mind is keen enough, but I am no warrior. I would be a king who cannot fight in a country engulfed by war.” He glanced at the cacique. “Even he showed me I am ill qualified.”
“Then he can train you.”
Haegan stilled. Felt the cacique do the same.
“He’s to leave on the morrow.” Aselan sounded terse. Decided.
Kaelyria looked at Aselan and seemed to share a silent dialogue with the cacique before slowly turning back to Haegan. “Must you?”
His heart thudded against the question. “The realm is without leadership. Our people—”
“So you have thought about taking the throne.”
“I thought you dead. There was no one else.”
She studied him, and he had the sense she saw straight into his insecurities. “Does Kiliv Grinda live?”
The question took him aback. Was she suggesting he cede the throne to his father’s top general? “To my knowledge, he still lives.” He glanced at Aselan, who shrugged. No news had penetrated the storm.
“Then borrow a week or two. If winter rampages here in the North, as Aselan has told me, the cold will have settled at least as far south as the Siannes. With our father dead, Poired has probably encamped in Zaethien or Luxlirien until the thaw. You know Grinda—as long as he draws breath, he will hold the Jujak together. They will be waiting when you return.”
Aselan cleared his throat. “She’s right, Princeling.” His voice betrayed a grudging admiration that made Haegan uncomfortable for multiple reasons. “No general worth his salt would attempt the Siannes in winter unless he had no other choice.”
“Stay,” Kae said. “Learn what you can from Aselan, so you are better prepared to fight.” Her hand covered his. “It will give us more time as well, before you head off.”
Haegan didn’t like this subtle alliance between his sister and the cacique. “We should go to Ybienn together. Maybe craft a way to carry you—”
“No!” a roar erupted behind them. Though it vibrated the beams, the voice was not angry. Hoeff stepped toward them. “The princess not go. She rest. Heal.”
Haegan twisted toward the cacique.
“Hoeff has complete authority over the healing caves and patients. He does not like when we go against his instructions, not that I would.”
“But you are Cacique.”
“And he is Drigo. Have ye tried to cross a Drigo?” There was mirth in his voice. The cacique stepped into the room a little farther. “It has been but six days since ye arrived here. The princess was on the verge of death. Ye yerself believed her dead.”
“But if we carry her—”
“That ye speak such reveals yer ignorance of Legier and the Cold One’s Tooth. Both would shred a person not used to the heights or rigors of navigating the spines.” The cacique shook his head, arms crossed. “No, for the sake of peace and the well-being of my people, the princess will not leave the Heart.”
“And you will train my brother,” Kaelyria said, no question in her words.
Aselan gritted his teeth. Then nodded. “I will train him.”
18
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
Would that Thiel could claw out of her skin, free herself from this useless, idle nonsense. But she was a Thurig. Daughter of King Thurig and Queen Eriathiel. As such, it was required that she give welcome to the Earl and Countess of Langeria and their daughter, Lady Peani, pledged to marry Thiel’s brother Relig.
With her parents and three brothers, she stood on the platform of the great hall, surrounded by a sea of nobility who’d ventured out on this icy winter day.
A trumpet sounded. The official pronouncement that the Langerian contingent had entered the courtyard. An anticipatory murmur rippled through the crowd. Expectant faces looked to her father, who stood proudly in his full-dress uniform. Relig shifted nervously beside him, ready for his bride-to-be to make her appearance.
The large, carved doors swung inward. Silence dropped. The herald stepped in, squared his shoulders and announced, “The Earl and Countess of Langeria and the Lady Peani Ibirel.”
Among the party were at least a dozen Langerians, led into the parting sea of bodies by the earl and countess. Behind her parents, Peani walked resplendent in a peach gown that made her dark skin glow. Her small tiara, nestled amid coils and braids, sparkled as she and her parents bowed low before the king.
“Yaorid, Lumira, welcome to Ybienn,” King Thurig’s voice boomed across the Grand Ballroom.
The earl stepped back and held a hand toward his daughter, who waited, cheeks flushed, for the official welcome. “King Thurig, it is an honor to present to you and your son, in hopeful respect of his continued agreement to take as his bound, my daughter, Peani Clarentia Ibirel.”
Ever graceful and elegant, Peani tucked her right leg behind her left and gave a low bow. Only when the girl ducked out of view did Thiel see the three behind her. Members of the Violet Sea Watch, no doubt, by their severe uniforms designed for protection against the bitter elements but also to strike fear into the hearts of their enemies, the Rekken. Skin weathered dark from years on the water. Black hair from the long line of Langerians. The Watchman in the middle stood tall and s
tared boldly at Thiel.
Heat shot through her. Haegan would singe the blood from the impertinent man. She pushed her attention and annoyance to Relig, who seemed to have frozen in his spot as he waited for their father to turn to him. Only then could Relig accept Peani, though the formal ceremony would not take place for a fortnight.
Finally, her father stepped aside and looked to Relig, who released the breath he’d been holding and moved regally down the three steps to the main floor.
The earl extended Peani’s hand toward Relig, who clapped his feet together and gave a curt nod to Yaorid. “With the favor of the Lady, I accept yer daughter and from this moment forward bind my heart and life to hers, if she will have me.”
Peani rose, her cheeks positively crimson. “It is my honor, Prince Relig—and my pleasure.”
Pleasure? Peani had added to the formal wording. Thiel looked to her mother, who was smiling at Relig as he led Peani up onto the dais, a symbolic gesture of her leaving her family and joining theirs. The pair faced the crowds.
“Celebrate with us,” the king announced, “as House Nivar is joined to Ibirel of Langeria.”
As the nobles queued up to offer their congratulations to the couple, Thiel could not help the jealousy digging hard into her heart. Had Haegan remained—would that be them? Instead, she stood here, cocooned in silk and satin, celebrating. Haegan could be in dire need of help. Dying somewhere awful. Or already dead.
“He will return, sister,” came Tili’s deep whisper at her ear.
Thiel glanced over her shoulder to where her brother stood, his broad chest slashed with the imperial sash, which identified him as the crown prince. “Then why has he not come?”
“Because he’s a thin-blood and unable to tell time,” Tili muttered good-naturedly.
But what if it was more? What if—
“His purpose is not fulfilled, so he must yet live.”
At his matter-of-fact words, she looked into her brother’s eyes. Siphoned strength she’d lost. Courage that had waned. “I pray ye are right.”
“Rarely am I wrong.” He straightened, his gaze drawn to something. Thiel turned and was surprised to find the Watchman before her, his eyes—appropriately—on her brother.
The broad-shouldered Watchman bowed curtly. “Yer Highness.” His fist crossed his chest and thudded against a leathered badge. “I am Yedriseth of Haroessa.”
Surprise coiled through Thiel—Haroessa. One of the four noble houses of Langeria, known for their might and hardiness.
Tili edged forward, extending his arm. “Well met, Yedriseth. I recall the demonstration of the Watch two years past. Ye won the match.”
Yedriseth inclined his head as he clasped forearms with her brother. “Sadly, that was my brother.” He straightened, his jaw angular and seemingly carved out of stone. As he released her brother, he slid his gaze to Thiel, an obvious hint that he wanted an introduction.
“Ah.” Tili chuckled, his hand coming to the small of her back. “Sir Yedriseth, allow me to introduce my sister, Kiethiel, only daughter of Thurig the Formidable.”
Yes, dear brother, please remind him of our father’s formidability.
Yedriseth bowed. “Princess, it is an honor.”
As propriety demanded, Thiel acknowledged him with a tip of her head. “I thank ye, sir.” But catering to this nobleman wasn’t in her blood.
“Will ye remain for the entirety of the festivities?” Tili asked, saving her from an awkward silence.
Yedriseth nodded. “My unit is assigned to the earl’s protection. We will escort him back to Langeria once the binding is complete.”
Tili angled his head. “Is the threat from the Rekken so great now, that the earl needs a military escort?”
Yedriseth’s expression hardened. “Greater with every rise of the moons.”
Moons. “Not the sun?” Thiel asked.
“Aye,” Yedriseth said with a smile, apparently pleased she had joined their discussion. “The Rekken prefer nocturnal attacks.”
“Cruel,” Thiel muttered.
“And lethal, Princess. They give no care to innocents or damages. They are intent on one thing: war.”
A familiar face bobbed through the crowd, snatching Thiel’s attention and focus. “If ye will excuse me,” she whispered, hurrying off the stage and weaving through the crowds toward Drracien. Though she lost sight of him a couple of times, she eventually homed in on the accelerant.
“Tell me it is not true.” Thiel gripped Drracien’s hand tight. “I beg ye.”
The brooding accelerant gave her a surprised look. “I would say whatever you wanted to have you throw yourself at me like this.”
Thiel rolled aside her irritation and his words, focused solely on one thing. “It is said the Fire King and Queen Adrroania are dead.” She squeezed his hand again. “There are rumors Haegan is as well, that he could not have survived Poired’s attack.”
Drracien lifted a shoulder. “What am I to say? I was not there.”
“Ye said ye could sense him—the embers.”
“I did,” he said with a nod.
Hope squirmed through her fears. “And still? Ye can still sense it . . . him?”
After a light shake of his head, he shrugged again. “I haven’t given it much thought. I—”
“Swear to me that he is still alive.”
Drracien’s dark brow rippled and he drew back.
She could not endure not knowing any longer. She must have the truth of Haegan’s situation. “Do it—swear!”
“He is honor bound only to Abiassa,” came Tili’s quiet but reprimanding voice as he joined them, his posture stiff. Disapproving.
Drracien lowered his gaze . . . to their hands. Only then did Thiel fully understand her brother’s disapproval and Drracien’s suddenly sweaty brow. She was holding his hands. In public. Before Abiassa and everyone. Thiel withdrew her touch and straightened.
“Yer oath is to Abiassa alone, is it not, Accelerant?” Tili’s gaze roved the all-too-attentive crowds, but his words were laden with warning.
“It is,” Drracien said quietly. “The Guidings forbid us from swearing oaths beyond that.”
Thiel bristled. “Tili, ye know well I only meant—”
“Peace, dear sister.” He situated himself between her and Drracien, still watching the people. “The reports—”
“Were vague.”
Tili’s gaze darkened as he scowled at her. “The Fire King is dead.”
“Aye.” The grievous loss did not belong solely to the Nine but to all of Primar. And served to lessen Thiel’s grief a fraction. “But there is no proof Haegan died as well.” She nodded to Drracien. “Our friend here has said he could sense the presence of Haegan’s embers.”
Tili’s eyebrows rose. “This is true?”
“Of course it’s true,” Thiel hissed. “What? Am I liar now?”
“Ye are a woman concerned about the man she has thrown herself at,” Tili said with a chuckle.
“Would that be me or Haegan?” Petulant, unrepentant Drracien never knew when to stop.
“I threw myself at no man!”
“Good eve, accelerant,” Tili said, pulling Thiel from the shadows. As they walked, he angled toward her. “Ye shamed yourself—”
“Drracien is merely a friend.”
“I meant with yer treatment of Sir Yedriseth.”
“Yedriseth?” she squeaked. “He sought—”
“Respect. Ye gave him none.”
Thiel lowered her head. “Ye know well he sought more than that. He had intentions.”
“Every eligible male in the realm has intentions toward ye because ye are daughter of the king.” He huffed. “No matter yer own tied-up affections, ye must act with grace.”
“I will not be pandered to and flirted with just to further a kingdom.”
“What of Haegan?”
Thiel stilled. Frowned at him. “What do ye mean?”
“Assuming he is alive, he is to be the Fi
re King, yes?”
A trap lay within that question and she dared not answer.
“And think ye that ye are ready to be his queen? Think pandering and flirtations will cease merely because ye wear a different crown? Whether with Father or Haegan, many will seek yer favor because ye influence men of power.”
Thiel turned to him, surprised. Her brother might have mischief and cheek, but he was a shrewd leader already. “What of ye?”
He frowned. “I am yer brother. I need not yer favor. And yer wiles influence far too much as is decent.”
She punched his shoulder playfully. “I meant that ye are a man of influence, Tili, so what will it take for yer head to be turned by a girl?”
He grunted, his expression dark and serious. “Much.”
• • •
“Hands up!”
Fists raised to either side of his face, Haegan stood in front of Aselan, who had shed his pelts and leather tunic for a lighter, linen one. For the safety of the men and the people of the Heart, Haegan wore the bandages and the sangeen leaves, lest he become angry during the training and inadvertently lash out.
“Up,” Aselan growled, adjusting Haegan’s right hand a little higher. “Protect yer face and neck.”
Haegan nodded, sweat trickling down his temples and chest. Six or seven Legiera stood by, ready to assist with his training, and all too willing. Already his arms ached from holding them up.
“Feet!” Byrin shouted from the side, his large, pelted foot sweeping Haegan’s out from under him. “Light on the feet.”
It was hard to relax when his thighs were burning and trembling. But he clambered upright again and forced himself to comply. To learn.
Aselan slid side to side, bouncing as if on air. “Stay light. Ready. Relaxed.”
Haegan’s gaze drifted to the cacique’s feet as he nodded.
Thwak!
Pain thudded against his jaw, the reed in Byrin’s hand flashing away even as Haegan tasted blood and stumbled.
“Yer hands were down,” Aselan said.
Frustrated he could not keep his hands up—how many times had Byrin struck his jaw?—Haegan grunted. Wobbled back into place.
“Feet. Stay on the balls of yer feet.”
Huffing, Haegan pulled himself back into place. Reminded himself he’d asked for the training.
