Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  “Learn what?” Kaelyria asked.

  Truth? Was his sister deaf? Did she not hear their conversation? “Wielding! Fighting.”

  “Yer anger seizes ye now, does it?”

  Haegan frowned at the bold servant.

  “Remember what Thurig told ye of yer anger and wielding?”

  How could she possibly know what Thurig had said? He’d warned Haegan that he clung so tightly to his anger over injustices that he became volatile.

  “What if it were more than that?” Aaesh said. “What if yer anger was not merely yer own?”

  Now, Haegan scowled. “What right have you—”

  “Haegan!” Kaelyria shook his shoulder.

  Haegan grimaced, her tight hold crushing against the bruises from training. He grunted and pulled away, giving her a searing look. “That hurts!”

  “Mercy—you just frightened me.” She looked to the servant girl, then back to him. “Are you well?”

  Haegan’s gaze hit Aaesh, who gave him a strange, ethereal smile then left the room.

  “Better now,” he said with a shaky laugh. The impertinence of the servant. He would need to speak with Aselan. “I am not used to the way of the Eilidan.”

  Kaelyria drew back, blinking. “I . . . neither am I. But—are you well, brother?”

  He rubbed his forehead. “Tired, I suppose.”

  Her expression said she did not believe him but would not argue. And he was glad. “I will leave you to rest then.”

  “Good,” he said, managing a smile. “As I have no doubt Aselan will be dragging my bruised body from the pelts long before I am ready.”

  • • •

  Nivar Hold, Ybienn

  The fortnight before the wedding was supposed to be one of parties and extravagances. In truth, it was a week of introducing Peani to the greater families of Ybienn so they could fawn over her.

  Thiel did not begrudge the beauty the attention. But she was loath to spend one more minute playing the king’s daughter when she should be doing something to find Haegan. Anything.

  A few days after the gathering at the Raechter estate, Thiel accompanied the other ladies to the nearby monastery, which was said to have been built long ago by Draorian, one of Baen’s Six. Loitering by a window overlooking the broad lawn, Thiel spotted children playing crux, a game involving a bat and a net suspended between two poles. Amused, she glanced back to her mother and the others, who were enthralled by the conductor’s explanation of the paintings adorning the walls, then she sneaked out the door. Hurried across the snow-crusted lawn.

  A feathered ball popped into the air, one of the more spry lads sending it in the wrong direction—straight toward Thiel—instead of the net. She let the ball drop so it didn’t sting her palms, then retrieved it.

  “’ere, Miss.” The boy holding his hands up for the ball could be no older than Laertes. “Give ’er a throw. Ye can do it.”

  Cheeky twig. Thiel pitched the ball at the net, making it cleanly through the formed hole.

  The boys gaped, then looked at her.

  “She’s on my team,” said a smaller boy, earning him a broad grin from Thiel.

  “She cannot play. She’s too old,” the pitcher said.

  “Don’t ye know,” Thiel teased, “’tis not proper to tell a lady she’s old.”

  After a short debate, it was decided she could play. But only outfield. As they told her where to stand, Thiel saw a blur of gold move along the hedgerow. She frowned, distracted momentarily when the feathered ball popped into the air once more. The pitcher snagged it just as Thiel again spotted the gold uniform. A Watchman?

  Curiosity drew her to the row of hedges. She peered around the corner and its long path, and discovered the notable Yedriseth. Shoulders drawn back, he towered over another man, his posture screaming confrontation. But their tones—despite only being twenty paces away—were low. Angry. The other man was shorter, rounder. Hair rimming his head like half a bread ring filled with spiced meats. There was something familiar . . .

  “Miss?”

  Thiel flinched. Looked over her shoulder. She raised a hand, then glanced back to Yedriseth, who had locked onto her now. “I thought I saw the ball go this way.”

  “It’s right here,” the pitcher declared.

  “My foolishness,” she said, hurrying back to the lads. She positioned herself so she wasn’t facing the hedgerow, but would be able to see when Yedriseth emerged and who he was speaking to so animatedly.

  She clapped as the boys made another netter. What was taking Yedriseth so long? He’d seen her, hadn’t he?

  The ball went airborne—and she caught it this time. Tossed it back to the pitcher.

  “Yesterday I saw ye in the training yard with Prince as’Tili. Now I find ye are inclined to athletics as well?”

  Heat shot through Thiel’s spine as she realized Yedriseth stood behind her. But how? Where had he come from? “Four brothers.” And an Ematahri warrior-sponsor.

  “Four?”

  She could not believe she’d made that mistake when the change had happened so long ago. “One is no longer among us.”

  “Ah, by the Flames, I am sorry. But they have a sister to be proud of, one so unafraid of adventure and willing to lift a sword. Were ye my sister, I would be proud.”

  Thiel glanced up at him, surprised at the compliment but more annoyed than pleased. Despite her irritation, she would not set him straight. Her brothers had not groomed the fighter in her. That had been Cadeif. And the training had served her well in protecting Haegan—well, as best she could.

  “Do all women train with the Nivari?” His gaze was soft, admiring. “Or just the princess?”

  The door to the gallery opened and her mother and the other ladies spilled out. The queen’s eyes found Thiel at once.

  “Ah, I have been missed,” she muttered, glad to avoid his query. “If ye will pardon me, Sir—”

  “It is my duty to return ye to the queen and countess.” He offered his arm, and though everything within her demanded she refuse him, there was no legitimate reason for the slight.

  Thiel rested her hand on his arm, and they started across the lawn. The queen watched, her expression stiff.

  “The queen does not appear to be in good spirits.”

  “She has a daughter she cannot tame,” Thiel said, before she thought better of it.

  “On the sea, a woman like ye would be the honor of her sect.” His words were quiet, and he said no more as he delivered her to the other ladies. With many thanks to the conductor, they loaded into the sleigh. On the way back to Nivar Hold, the Watchmen and Nivari trotting alongside the sleighs, Atelaria whispered anxiously, wanting word of what Yedriseth had said to her.

  Had he promised to love her always?

  Had he asked about Atelaria?

  Why must Thiel always win the good men?

  There was only one good man Thiel held a romantic interest in. And he had yet to return to Nivar. But as the coach bounced and trounced back, her mother’s gaze more than once lanced Thiel. A reprimand was coming; she could feel it.

  When they arrived at the hold, Thiel set out for her own room at once, but her mother’s request to speak privately thwarted her escape. Thiel closed her eyes. “I know ye would reprimand me—”

  “Reprimand?” Mama gave a soft snort, then went to her armoire and opened it. She drew something out then came to Thiel with it.

  “What is this?”

  “Ye are to write down everything ye saw today, and at the Raechters.”

  “Why?”

  Her mother’s eyes were not harsh, but they were also not yielding. “Because ye are told to.”

  “Write down what I saw?”

  “Every detail, no matter how small.”

  “I am tired. I hate writing. I want—”

  “Ye will do it every day, Kiethiel. And each morning, bring it to me.”

  Exasperation wound through Thiel. First she must attend every silly event with Peani and the wed
ding party. Now, she had to write them down, as well? Was she to carve out her eyes, it would be less painful!

  • • •

  Though snow covered the rear lawn of Nivar Hold, a massive fire roared in the pit. Around it, Thiel sat with Praegur, Tokar, Laertes, and Drracien, drinking warmed cordi juice.

  “That brother of yours is likely to kill me—by running me into the ground,” Tokar grumbled, shaking his head. He stretched his arm, grimacing.

  “If he runs ye hard, then he sees hope in ye,” Thiel said.

  “Which is more than we can say.” Drracien teased a tiny flame from the fire and balanced it on his finger, staring into it as if it held answers he sought.

  Tokar grunted. “You’re just jealous.”

  The accelerant pinched the flame out of existence. “Of being knocked in the head with a training sword? Of being beaten to a pulp trying to learn close combat?” Drracien scoffed, rolling his fingers as he turned over his hand. A brilliant blue flame danced on his palm. “I do not need brutality to render my enemies ineffective or dead.”

  “That’s what the weaklings say when they can’t master the sword.”

  In a heartbeat, Drracien flicked the flame at Tokar.

  It grabbed onto his tunic. A dull orange now, it spread in a quickly widening circle, the flame eating through the fabric. Tokar threw himself up with a shout. Patted his chest.

  Drracien laughed so hard the rest joined in.

  With a stomp, Tokar lunged forward.

  “This seems the livelier party,” came a new voice.

  Thiel recognized it. And ignored its owner.

  “No party,” Tokar muttered. “Just good friends enjoying the fire.”

  “Mind if we join ye?” Yedriseth came around, the firelight flickering against his handsome face as he and his three Watchmen motioned to the stone benches.

  Though Thiel felt Drracien’s gaze, she said nothing. Did not look at him. Must Yedriseth pace her? She did not want his attention. She did not want his sidelong glances.

  “Any word of Prince Haegan?” Drracien asked.

  This time, she looked at the accelerant. “Not yet. But word will come.”

  “You speak of the Fire King’s son?” Yedriseth asked as he sat with his elbows on his knees.

  “Ye know another Haegan?” Thiel asked, her words more sharp than she probably should’ve allowed.

  “I am certain he is not the only boy of that name in the Nine,” Yedriseth countered. “Ye are sure he is alive?”

  “Yes.” Thiel shot Drracien a look, willing him to agree.

  He complied. “It is very likely.”

  “Ye know this how?”

  She nodded to him. “Drracien is an accelerant.”

  “In earnest?” Yedriseth seemed to consider him more seriously now. “I thought Thurig banned all accelerants. And especially after what happened in Hetaera.”

  “What happened?” Tokar asked, his words challenging. Agitated. Thiel tried to quiet him with a glare, but he had never succumbed to her plyings before.

  “A high marshal was murdered by one of his own,” Yedriseth said.

  “And what?” Tokar chuckled. “You think our friend is a murderer because he’s an accelerant?”

  Yedriseth lifted his hands. “I spoke no such words.”

  “The Fire King is an accelerant as well. Is he a suspect in your book, too?”

  “The Fire King is dead,” Yedriseth said.

  “Haegan is an accelerant,” Thiel said. “Is he also suspect?”

  Yedriseth seemed to deflate. “I beg yer mercy, Princess. I did not intend a confrontation.”

  Mayhap, but he did it so well. She saw a shadow move inside the house. “If ye will excuse me . . .” She hurried away from the group, feeling her skin crawl, her annoyance rise.

  “Princess.”

  Thiel clenched her eyes. Kept going. Searched for the shadow. Had it been Tili?

  “Princess Kiethiel, please wait.”

  With a huff, Thiel stopped. Turned.

  “I beg yer mercy. I meant no offense out there. I only wanted conversation and company.”

  “I should free ye, Sir Yedriseth, of any misconceptions.”

  His dark features were rimmed with confusion now. “My lady?”

  “While I appreciate yer interest, please be aware that I will in no way return yer affections. My heart is wholly committed to Prince Haegan, and that will not change.” She let out a shaky breath, relieved to have put the truth out there quite plainly, so he would beg off.

  Sir Yedriseth gaped.

  Had she been too harsh?

  Then he laughed.

  Thiel frowned.

  “I beg yer mercy, Princess, but . . . ye are mistaken.”

  She scowled.

  He looked down, rubbing his forehead, as if embarrassed. “In this, ye are right—I have sought yer audience and attention. But it is not for the reason ye presume.” He swiped a finger over his lip. “I am ashamed to admit it, but I had hoped to befriend ye so I could have an introduction to Prince Haegan.”

  This time, she gaped. “Haegan?”

  “Aye.” He smiled again, nervously.

  “How—why?”

  “He is to be the Fierian, yes? I . . . would give him my sword.”

  • • •

  Legier’s Heart, Northlands

  Trust. He’d put his training in Aselan’s hands, and indirectly, his very life. Which was why he’d allowed the Legiera to blindfold him and lead him through passages until the increasingly chilly air raised the hairs on the back of his neck and his ears popped.

  It’d been three weeks of training. The bruises were an ugly yellow, and though Haegan had learned much and the techniques were coming more easily to him, he was far from a warrior. But Aselan had not given up on him, nor had he ridiculed or taunted him. The only thing Aselan had done was push Haegan. Farther and harder than Haegan thought he could endure.

  “No talking from this point onward,” Aselan said quietly.

  Haegan nodded as Byrin and Teelh guided him up over some sort of stair or ledge.

  “Easy,” Aselan said. “Three steps down.”

  Haegan made it, toeing the stone. A strange warmth filtered out to him as the path they walked leveled out. With it came an odd smell. Earthy. Musty.

  A cool hand cupped his arm, which told him the men who had guided him weren’t holding him any longer. This hand was cold. Not warm as theirs had become.

  “Okay, thin-blood,” Aselan whispered, his voice barely audible. “Remember what I taught ye. Count to five, then remove yer blindfold. Once ye hear the bell”—what bell?—“ye will have ten very short seconds to get free.” Something was laid around his shoulders, and Aselan adjusted it.

  Ten seconds? To get free? But he wasn’t bound. What would happen after the ten seconds? Was he standing on a cliff’s edge? But again—what danger could present itself? They were in the Heart.

  “I—”

  “Shh.” Aselan laid a hand on his shoulder. “Ten seconds after the bell.” He patted his back.

  Suddenly, darkness whooshed in. Loneliness. Ten heartbeats—each one reminded him of a year he’d been in that tower. Alone as he was now. Chilled. As he was there, lacking the Flames. Five seconds had passed, so he removed the blindfold, only to find a dark room.

  A bone-vibrating gong rattled the air around him.

  Bell! Haegan started counting, suddenly aware that time had slowed to a painful cadence.

  One . . .

  He strained to see in the darkened area. Blinked rapidly, aware another second had fallen away.

  Mounds surrounded him. Black. Some were small, no bigger than his knee. The rest were at least shoulder height. He moved, his feet light, his thoughts racing.

  Three.

  But then . . . then the mounds started moving.

  Heart jacked into this throat, Haegan froze.

  A rumble trilled through the cavernous space. Light seeped through a crack in the
ceiling. No, not a crack—a gaping hole far overhead. And the mounds—they were shifting. Morphing.

  Four.

  By the Flames! They weren’t mounds. Raqines! Dozens. Curled in for the winter’s slumber. Never wake a wintering raqine.

  Haegan trembled.

  A rock crunched beneath his foot.

  Thwap!

  A large raqine snapped around.

  Haegan ducked. Dropped his gaze but skated a look through the area, searching for the exit. He spotted the three stone steps they’d led him down. A narrow—very narrow opening—to safety.

  But even as he realized that, even as another second fell away, Haegan realized the ground beneath him was not gritty or hard. It wasn’t rock or silt.

  Fur.

  His brain buzzed.

  Fear spiraled through him with the adrenaline speeding in his veins.

  More rumbles. Another thwap.

  Then a rush of wind with a firm slap. Wings. That’s what Chima’s wings sounded like.

  “They’re waking, thin-blood. Hurry if ye want to live!”

  A growl trembled through the nest of raqines, a meaty roar that seemed to draw the rest of the great beasts from their long nap. Haegan stayed low, using the larger size of the raqine to shield him as he bounced on his toes from one spot to the next.

  Another thirty paces to the steps.

  How many seconds? Haegan faltered, realizing he’d stopped counting. He tripped. A blast of heat rushed over his shoulders.

  “Augh!” Haegan glanced back, stunned to find a raqine stalking him.

  The beast was nearly twice the size of Chima. How had it grown so large? Teeth bared. Its hackles rose.

  Haegan edged backward. Knew if he stopped moving, he’d be their first meal of spring.

  “Haegan—out of time!”

  He pushed himself. But at the same instant, the raqine crouched. Muscles rippled.

  Haegan shouted—but it was lost amid the chortling, primal scream he knew well. Chima seemed to fall out of the air. She landed and spun, rocks and dirt spraying Haegan as she faced off with the other raqine. Both roaring and snapping.

  “Now!” Aselan ordered.

  With a lunge, Haegan threw himself through the narrow opening.

  Hands pulled him back. In shock, he watched as the much larger raqine and Chima rolled in the dirt. They both came up with a disgusted snort. The larger one roar-chortled at her, as if reprimanding Chima for the move, then shook out his pelt and returned to the others.