by Ronie Kendig
Chima shook out her fur twice, looked over her shoulder—startling Haegan with fire-red eyes—and sent a chortle his way.
“Chima.” He took a step forward.
“Nay,” Byrin said, holding him back. “She not be yer pet, thin-blood.”
Haegan frowned.
“She protected ye because ye are bonded, but she still be a raqine. And that be their den. Ye don’ enter the den, especially so near the end of the wintering.”
Haegan nodded. Swallowed. Shook off the shock, the terror. “And ye put me in there?”
Aselan nearly smiled. “We knew yer raqine would protect ye.”
Disbelief rattled through him. “I didn’t know there were so many.”
“Now ye see why we stay in the mountain.”
“For their protection, or for yours?”
“Both.” Aselan smiled. “Come, we must talk.”
Back in the great hall, a feast was served. Haegan sat with Aselan, surprised that the cacique allowed him a seat of prestige.
“Teelh will take ye down the mountain in the morning.”
Haegan stilled, a thick leg of meat in hand. “Tomorrow?” His stomach clenched as he glanced around at the men. He had not thought he’d regret leaving this place, but the men had trained him. It’d created a bond he hadn’t realized existed until now. “So soon?”
Byrin guffawed and slapped him on the back. “Look, the thin-blood has a taste for the cold after all.”
That he did not. But for the friendship, the kinship—yes.
“Ye are to take the Fire Throne, and Poired is poised to overrun Luxlirien. Ye must go.”
Haegan nodded. Aselan was right.
“The task before ye is not one I envy, Haegan. But know ye will always have friends in the Heart.”
“And my sister?”
Aselan hesitated.
“How long will you allow her to remain?”
The cacique seemed to let out a breath. “As long as it pleases her.”
“She may not choose to leave.”
Aselan said nothing.
“I would ask, Cacique Aselan, that you pledge to protect her. I would not want to have to return to judge you for mistreating her.”
Aselan smirked. “On my oath as a Legieran.”
“Oochak!”
“Good. I thank you.” Haegan nodded, sensing a great relief. A rightness, for the first time in many days. “Oh—and one thing. I would recommend you relieve Aaesh from her duties. She does not know how to hold her tongue.”
Aselan frowned. “Who?”
“The servant girl. The one who brought my replenishment and clean clothes.”
With another frown, Aselan gave a nervous chuckle. “Ye jest. No woman has tended ye—it would violate our laws. Toeff alone has brought ye food and clothes, and there is none here by that name.”
“No,” Haegan laughed. “You toy with my mind.”
“I think ye do that well yerself, my friend.” Aselan laughed and excused himself from the table. “Eat up and rest up. The morrow comes early.”
• • •
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
“Yield!”
Applause rippled through the sandy training yard where Tili had pinned another Nivari in a mock battle. The setting sun cast long shadows over the arena, with darkness soon to put an end to the demonstrations that were part of the final festivities before the evening’s feast and tomorrow’s wedding.
Thiel watched as her brother rose from his mock victim and clasped forearms before turning and bowing to the king and the crowd. From the side of the yard, Relig smiled at Peani, who sat with the nobles on the platform.
“My king,” Tili spoke loudly to break the din of the crowds. “As champion of this event, I have one request.”
Her father chuckled. “Name it, champion.”
Tili gave a cock-eyed nod. “I would challenge the Princess Kiethiel for one final demonstration.”
Surprise tumbled through Thiel’s chest. She peeked at their father, then back to Tili. Would they allow it? Would Mama? She dared not look.
“An unusual request,” her father said, his expression neutral.
“For an unusual event.” Tili stepped toward the platform, gesturing widely to the spectators. “I would have the crowds witness that even our women are strong. That the Lady Peani has chosen well the family with which she will rule.”
Her father glanced to his right, to her mother, the queen—who had drilled Thiel on attire and court politics and ladylike manners until her ears bled. She would never let this stand.
Then her mother turned her gaze to Thiel, and a tiny smile slid over her lips, as if they shared a private joke. The look in her eyes—Thiel couldn’t breathe.
Pride.
Queen Eriathiel nodded.
Thurig stood and faced Thiel. “A challenge has been set, my daughter . . .”
Thiel rose as well, and her smile felt it might split her cheeks. “A surprise to be sure, Father, for I did not think my brother would have himself bested in front of Abiassa and everyone.”
At her absurb threat, the crowd’s nervousness was broken by laughter.
Her father guffawed and took her hand, leading her to the stairs, where, releasing him, Thiel descended onto the training yard. Makule and Tokar were there. At once, they began strapping a protective leather vest onto her torso.
“Does he intend to humiliate me?” she asked as Makule laced up greaves on her arms.
“I know not—there is only this: Tili is never one to go easy.”
“And I have the childhood scars to prove it.” She grinned.
“Chin up, then. Watch his eyes.”
“We both know that does not work with Tili.”
“Aye,” Makule said as he handed her a sparring sword. He winked and bumped her shoulder with the side of his fist. “Glad to see ye have yer wits about ye.”
Duly protected, and suddenly feeling ridiculous, she strode out into the yard with the soft crunch of sand padding her steps and the shouts of the crowd hiding the drumming of her heart. “What game is this, brother?” she asked as they stood together.
His brown eyes glinted with no mischief. “No game. Ye are a worthy fighter, Thiel.” Her brother was handsome. And arrogant. And the best man she knew—save Haegan.
Surprise tugged at her, then her eyes narrowed. “Ye mean to distract me.”
“I mean to show that my sister is a fighter.” He took her hand, turned to the crowd, and held it up. Then bowed. When he faced her again, he released her hand. “As I taught ye.” He paused, then gave a slight smile. “Nay, as the Ematahri taught ye.”
More surprise. Her brother had spoken little of her time with the fierce woodland fighters, so to hear him encourage her now . . . Thiel stepped back with her right foot and let her arms hang loosely at her side, sword gripped firmly. Relax, Etelide. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly.
The sparring bell rang.
Thiel remained as she was, watching her brother, who crouched a little lower and began to circle her, his sword in front of him. Not tense, but also not relaxed. He was ready.
He grinned.
Distraction.
She turned, waiting. Felt her pulse knock up a level under the crowd’s scrutiny. It was normal for him to feint right then lunge left.
And he did. She crossed her arms before her, bringing the sparring sword up and expertly blocking his strike as she swept away and to the side.
The crowds cheered at her agility in deflecting his attack.
Tili grinned again.
Heart thundering, Thiel stood ready. But she felt the spike of adrenaline. The fear that she’d humiliate herself.
Tili dove in again, this time left. She swung around, dipping low with both hands on the hilt and drove the weapon up. Clack! A deflection. He slammed down, but again, she blocked. Then struck. He blocked.
Though only three clacks of their swords, it felt like a dozen.
“Let your enemy
tire himself,” Cadeif had always instructed. But she’d never been good at waiting to get stabbed.
Thiel rushed in.
Her brother circled his sword around hers. Her wrists twisted and she knew if she didn’t counter, he’d disarm. Thiel ducked and rotated, coming up and shoving herself away. Panting, she drew back her right leg and arm. Ready. Or at least, looking like it.
The crowd was shouting. Behind Tili, she saw their father come to his feet. He gripped the rail that separated them. “Father will skin ye alive if ye harm me,” she taunted.
“Then ye had best fight well, or I will hold his anger against ye.”
And he was diving in again. Swords clacked. The vibrations numbed her fingers. Tili was fast, she knew, and this was not his most ardent pace. He was going easy on her. And somehow, that annoyed Thiel. “Ye are slow, brother.”
His eyebrow arched. “I thought ye’d never notice.”
And like lightning, he was all feints and strikes. In a blink, she felt the blow of his wooden sword against her backside.
Laughter rippled through the crowds, and heat through her face. She turned, nostrils flaring. He would pay for that.
“Aye,” he said with too much pleasure in his voice and eyes. “There be the sister I know.”
In a series of parries and thrusts, he was whirling her around the yard in a complicated dance of swords and maneuvers. She stayed with him, holding her own. Focused merely on watching his eyes and movements. Ignoring the shouts of the crowds. The cheers. The verbal winces.
With a feint to the left, then back to the right, she clapped her sword against Tili’s side. He grunted, but just as quick—when she had taken a second to gloat in making contact—he caught the back of her left knee. She stumbled, nearly going down. The crowd gasped, but Thiel rolled through it. Steadied herself.
They were both breathing harder now—puffs of steam marked each exhale—and a bead of sweat tickled down her spine.
She swung up, determined to catch him off-guard. But she should have known better than to think she could outwit her brother in his arena. With a splicing move, he drove her arms up. Caught her wrist. Whipped her around and pulled her tight against his chest.
Thiel gasped as the blunt force of his leathered chest knocked the breath from her. Then she slumped against him. His sword pressed into her throat before she could blink.
“Well fought, sister,” he said. “But I fear—”
Bells pealed through the city, an angry shout rising above the exuberance of the crowd. Even before the sound registered in her mind as the alarm, Tili had nudged her toward the stands. “Get inside,” he said, casting away the wooden training sword. “To arms!” All around them, the crowd erupted into a frenzy of action as people scrambled away from the arena and Jujak stormed to the armory.
“What is it?”
“Inside,” he hissed, already moving toward their father. Without stopping, Tili gestured to the Queen’s Guard. “Get the women into the hold!”
Tokar met him at the base of the stairs leading to the platform. When Tili saw him, he pointed to Thiel. “Get her in the house!”
She would not be relegated to the house for all the citrines in the Nine. “Go,” Thiel said to Tokar, but when he stalled, she nodded. “I am well able to get to the house on my own. Go.”
He didn’t need another encouragement. She waited a few seconds, watching her father’s expression go hard as he stormed down the steps of the platform. A few feet away, the Nivari traded sparring swords for steel, handing Tili his weapons and a shield. A heartbeat later, still buckling sword belts, the men rushed toward the gates. Thiel seized the chaos of the moment to slip away from the women being herded back into the hold and give chase.
Nivar’s gate had been secured with the darkness that had fallen sometime during Thiel’s contest, but through the press of Nivari and the remnant of Haegan’s Jujak, she saw the foot gate opening. Shouts went up, but, unable to make out the words, Thiel struggled closer to the source of the commotion. Jostling and pushing, she stumbled and fell against someone.
Captain Makule glanced over his shoulder then scowled. “Nay, Princess, ye’ll stay back. We know not who has come upon us unannounced.”
Frustration coated her. She tried a line she hadn’t voiced in years. “I am the princess—”
“Aye, and King Thurig will have my head if any harm comes to ye.”
“And what will he say . . .” Dark shapes swarmed behind Makule, torchlight lapping over them. Three men. One was Tili.
Whispers drifted on the cold wind, and one word: “Eilidan.”
“Savages.”
“Traitors.”
Thiel’s heart caught in her throat. “Eilidan never leave the mountain.” Why would they come down? The storms had stopped, but it would be treacherous still. And more than that—Eilidan never came to Nivar.
Makule pushed forward, muttering something about not letting a savage into the hold. The soldiers gave away to their captain, and Thiel fell in behind him.
“Makule, with me,” Tili barked as the captain reached the edge of the crowd.
“Aye, sir,” Makule said.
Thiel stepped to the perimeter, eyeing the curious forms draped in pelts. Ice clung to the fur-coverings. Head, hands, legs, feet. She could not even be sure they were men under the multiple layers protecting them. Their shoulders sagged; it probably hurt to walk.
What would be so urgent the Eilidan would leave Legier?
“Kiethiel.”
She started, snapping her eyes to her brother, expecting a reprimand for not being in the hold. There was anger in his expression, but instead of a chiding, he handed her a parchment. “To our father. At once.”
The opaque seal of the Eilidan cacique glared back at her. As’Elan! She snatched the letter and turned to sprint to the house. But the crowds were too thick. The spectators too curious. She pushed hard through them, then broke right, racing past the blacksmith and around the side of the raqine den and the stable yard.
Thiel burst in through the servant’s entrance, remembering the day she’d landed on Chima with an unconscious, near-death Haegan. Up to the second level, nearly knocking over poor Atai.
“Give care, Princess!”
“Mercy!” She used the banister to haul herself up the last few steps. “Father!” Her voice shot down the long hall. She stopped, uncertain where he would have gone from the training yard. She’d thought he’d gone with Tili.
“Kiethiel.”
Behind her. She skidded to a stop and pivoted. Saw him coming from the receiving room. “Father!” She waved the parchment.
Still wearing his official overcloak, he grimly accepted the missive and turned back into the receiving room. A fire roared in the pit, warming her even as she entered.
He broke the seal.
“What is it, Father?”
His gaze scanned the words. He hadn’t moved.
She eased up behind him, straining to see over his shoulder. “Father?”
He started. Tossed the parchment into the flames. “Leave, Thiel. I must receive our visitors.”
“Who are they?”
His brown eyes could not hide the truth from her. “Eilidan,” he said. “The cacique’s best tracker, Teelh. He seeks shelter for the night.”
Cacique. “As’Elan.” Though the question of her brother’s welfare burned on her tongue, she dared not unleash it. Father’s eyes warned her not to. “Will ye grant it?” She could ask Teelh how her brother fared.
“Law of Alaemantu demands it,” he snapped. “I could do no less.”
“Father,” Tili’s voice broke in as he entered. “Teelh of the Eilidan is here.” He stood at the door, hands behind his back, gaze strictly on their father.
“Allow him in.” When Tili turned to leave, Father nodded to Thiel. “Out the side passage with ye. Hurry.”
“Why would they come? And in winter? It makes no sense.”
“Thiel,” her father said. “Go no
w.”
“King Thurig, I present Teelh of the Eilidan.”
Halfway out the side door, Thiel angled and saw Teelh enter. Alone. But there . . . there had been another with him outside. Two men in pelts had come through the gate. “Where was the other?”
“This is a most unusual situation, Teelh,” her father growled as Thiel made her retreat. “Our lands have long been forbidden to the Eilidan.”
“Aye.”
“Ye know the penalty for invading.” The hard words stalled Thiel in the side passage, her attention irrevocably drawn back to the room where the burly tracker stood, now without his pelts.
“’Tis no invasion, King Thurig, I assure ye.”
Tili strode toward the side passage, blocking Thiel’s ability to watch and listen. He gave her a chiding look before pulling the door closed. Frustration pushed her down the hall. Past the sitting room, where the glow of a fire provided more light than the torches.
Metal clattered against china.
She stopped. “Mother?” Thiel slipped into the room, nudging the door open farther.
A white shadow rose like a storm from a chair. The other Eilidan, still wrapped in pelts. Ice and snow clung to the fur, sparkling where it had begun to melt. But then the eyes—the eyes came to her. Thiel’s heart vaulted up into her throat. “Haegan.”
Pale blue eyes stared back. “Kiethiel.”
Tears burned her eyes. She wanted to throw herself at him, but something about his manner, the tension radiating through his bearing, kept her in place. “They said ye were dead . . .”
His smile faltered. He shrugged. “I fled . . . Poired chased me from Seultrie. I could not save my father. Nor my mother.” He shuddered through a breath. Then straightened. Then he seemed to shrug off the weight of that memory. “But Kaelyria is alive.”
“Yer sister?” Relief rushed through Thiel. “That is good news, Haegan. I am very happy—”
“She’s injured and paralyzed, but alive.” His jaw muscle flexed.
Only then did she think of what he must’ve seen. What he’d done. She took a step forward, her hand reaching for him as if of its own will. Pain. So much pain in those blue eyes. And hooded in exhaustion. “Sit,” she said, indicating the large chair. A steaming bowl of stew sat on a small table beside it. “Eat.” She scooted the table closer, then drew the pull cord for the servants.
