by Ronie Kendig
• • •
Nine stitches to seal the cut bestowed on him by Yedriseth. One stitch for each kingdom. The coincidence did not escape Haegan. Was this Her way of mocking him? Or tormenting him? The next morning, face tight with healing scabs and swollen flesh around the threads, Haegan was not surprised to find Graem Grinda and Lieutenant Mallius stalking into the room.
“Our prince. We only just received word.”
“I told them not to worry,” Haegan said. “The attacker was alone.”
“They’ve taken the other Watchmen into custody.”
Haegan nodded. It made sense, though he doubted any of the others had been involved.
“King Thurig has asked the Langerians to attend him this morning,” Grinda said.
“Aye, but you owe them nothing. They should be here, begging your mercy,” Mallius groused.
With a lifted hand, Haegan said, “Leave it. There will be fighting enough when we return to the Nine.” They went down to the meeting room, the door ajar and voices drifting out. Concern over canceling the wedding on the day of the event reached Haegan.
The Southlands were burning and the Northlands were celebrating—a wedding, but a celebration all the same. It rankled.
“Please. Haegan.” King Thurig waved him into the room.
Inside, he found also the earl and countess of Langiera—neither would meet his gaze. Queen Eriathiel came to him with a sympathetic look. “My dear boy—I beg yer mercy. On the night of yer return . . .”
“Thank you for your concern.” He lifted a hand toward his jaw and throat, but did not touch the site. “It will heal.”
Tili and Relig were there as well, the elder eyeing the ugly gash. “Ye would fit in with my men, now. Not so pretty and long in the lash.”
Haegan smiled, but felt the tug of the threads in his chin.
The earl stood. “Prince Haegan, I would like to offer a formal apology. I have sent one of my guard back to Langeria to question his family. We are quite confounded—he is of noble blood. Langerians do not promote violence.”
Haegan inclined his head but said nothing.
“He attacked ye because ye are the Fierian?” Thurig asked.
“He stated as much,” Haegan said.
“With the ideas many hold about the Fierian, I am not surprised—not that I condone or sanction the attack,” Thurig said.
“Of course not,” Haegan agreed. “It was an awakening for me.”
“How so?”
“It makes sense that I am not the only one to despise the thing I am to become.” Haegan sighed. “And as such, I must inform you that I will be leaving.”
Thurig scowled, his thick brows angry. “Leaving?”
“Seultrie must be represented, and it’s imperative I see to that.”
“But ye have no army.”
“There is an army,” Haegan said, glancing to the two Jujak with him. “Where, I know not. But I will find the remnant. I must. My father would have done as much.”
“Aye.” Thurig stroked his beard. “Then the wedding should be delayed.”
Haegan lowered his gaze. “I would not interrupt your celebrations. Please do continue.”
The Langerians looked between him and Thurig, hopeful.
“In earnest. The snow has not receded enough for me to travel yet, but as soon as it does, I will depart.” He nodded. “If you would excuse us.” There was no legitimate reason, other than Haegan had grown tired. Of talking. Of explaining. Of thinking of what was to come.
“Of course—but Haegan, we must still talk about yer time in the mountain.”
Haegan nodded, then bowed and left, the two Jujak trailing on his flanks. Where he was going, he didn’t know. He just needed to breathe. He found himself standing on the balcony overlooking Nivar Hold. Amazing how the snow could make a place look peaceful when danger and threats lurked everywhere.
With a long sigh, he looked to Graem. “I would meet with the Jujak. Talk. Plan.”
“Aye, sire.”
“Princeling.”
Haegan shifted toward the familiar voice and smiled. “Drracien.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to steal my ‘rogue’ moniker.” He nodded to the scar.
“Couldn’t let you have all the fun.” Haegan turned back to the expanse that spread before him. To the right, the training yard, but ahead, beyond the main gate, Ybienn stretched out in curling streets and undulating hills. Falling snow blurred the villages to blues, purples, and browns. Buildings huddled beneath the majesty of Legier and the Cold One’s Tooth.
“Were you truly in the mountain with the Eilidan?” Drracien asked.
“Aye. Chima deposited us on a ledge there. My sister and me.” Haegan drew a hand over the stone balustrade and sighed. “She is ill, and it was not possible for her travel down the mountain with me.”
“And why did you return?”
“To lead the people of Seultrie—they need someone.”
“What of Poired?” Drracien snorted. “I thought you were going to banish him to the Lakes of Fire.”
Guilt coiled around Haegan.
“That’s what you intended, was it not?” A note of injury had crept into the accelerant’s voice. “That’s why you raced out of here on that raqine, leaving all of us behind. Not asking for help. Not seeking any.”
“Have you a point, Drracien?” Haegan started back into the house. “My mood is as foul as the weather on Legier.”
A volley of heat struck between Haegan’s shoulders, pitching him forward. He caught himself and spun back, frowning. “Did you just spark me?”
“You need training.”
“And what? You’re going to train me?”
Drracien held his palms out to the side. “I’ve been training accelerants for the last several years.” He rotated his arm and wrist. Stared at his fingers, which he moved in a wave. Heat slid over each finger, then under the next, then over.
The idea was sound, but Haegan’s mood . . . his agitation over recent events put him off. “I would not risk my temper this day.”
“You have not the luxury of picking days, Haegan. He’s out there. He defeated you once. And badly from the way you favor that wrist.”
Stilled by the words, Haegan had not even realized he gave attention to the pervasive ache. “It was not . . . Poired.”
“Come,” Drracien said, clapping him on the shoulder. “We’ll go to the sparring hall, and you can tell me.”
There was nothing better to do. And to his surprise, the guards did not follow them past the stairs that led down into the sparring hall on the first level. Haegan felt relief at that. He stretched his neck as they entered a long, empty hall. At the far end, he saw stacked rows of sparring gear.
Gear that would do no good against his explosive gift.
Drracien cleared an area, then went to the far wall and retrieved two jav-rods before returning to Haegan.
“Your wrist, you said it wasn’t Poired.” Drracien laid the jav-rods down and gathered two lengths of rope. “Who then?”
“A Deliverer.”
Drracien stilled, his face pale. “You jest.”
Haegan ground his teeth and looked at the rope. “What’s that for?”
“You’ll see.” He thrust his chin toward Haegan. “I’d remove the tunic.”
“It’s freezing!”
Drracien gave a cockeyed shake of his head. “Not for long.” He slipped out of his own tunic, tossed it to the side, then lifted a jav-rod.
Reluctantly, Haegan complied. He removed his tunic, balled it up and pitched it in the corner.
“Blazes!” Drracien hissed. “Your back—the mark!”
“What?” Haegan asked, looking over his shoulder but unable to see anything.
“It’s . . . changed.” Drracien walked around him.
The marred mess had been there since he was saved from certain death near the Great Falls. He’d jumped after Thiel, who’d slipped off a rock and fallen
a terrible distance. Then later, when held captive by the Jujak, the Ignatieri had come. “High Marshal Adomath said I was marked by Abiassa.”
“It has to be Her,” Drracien said. “When I first saw it, it looked as if you’d been bruised, but there was even then a semblance of meaning to it somehow.” He came in front of Haegan. “But now it’s almost a full symbol.”
“Like what?”
“The Fire Triangle—but double. It’s—” Drracien snapped his mouth shut.
Haegan scowled. “What?”
Drracien shook his head, his expression different. “It’s what we teach first-years. The elements of fire: air, heat, and fuel.” He pushed his dark hair from his eyes.
“Why would that be on my back?”
Drracien shook his head, then a flicker of something flashed through his eyes. “Perhaps . . . perhaps you are the embodiment of it.”
“You make my head hurt.” Haegan nodded to the jav-rod. “Going to run me through?”
Drracien smirked. “Arms out. Palms up.”
Pushing aside his irritation, the questions about the marks on his back, the one on his soul, Haegan complied.
With care, Drracien adjusted his arms so they were spread wide, palms still up, then he laid the rod across it. “First rule of wielding—master your body.”
“My body?” Haegan scowled. “Or the rod?”
“As of this instant, they are the same.” Drracien stepped back. “Do not allow the rod to drop. No matter what. And you cannot hold it any other way.”
Haegan straightened. “You jest.”
“Not this time.”
“I need help focusing my wielding—”
“For someone who was laid up in a bed for ten years, you aren’t very patient,” Drracien said.
“As you said—Poired is out there, burning cities, murdering Seultrians and anyone in his way. I do not have time to—”
“You’re right.” Drracien lifted his rod and with an arcing swoop, brought it to bear on Haegan’s.
The rod vibrated through his arms. Bounced against his palms. And the right side fell, then the left. It clattered against the marble floor.
“Rushing into the fray with no skill but a gut full of anger worked really well protecting your family, didn’t it?” Drracien drew back his hand, fingers curled away and his palm pushed out. “Tell me—where is your father?”
Shamed, Haegan looked away.
“And your mother? You have no need of lessons, so tell me—”
“I will tell you that Poired took pleasure in killing my parents. He would have killed Kaelyria as well, had my mother not protected her.” Haegan’s heart thundered. “And just when I had the advantage and could have killed Poired, Deliverers stopped me. They appeared between me and that evil creature. Told me it was not mine to kill him. But I would not be sated. I would not yield. I had him. I could have ended all this.” Haegan bounced his hand. “In my palm, the purest, most violent light I’d ever seen bloomed. And I struck out—But the Deliverers did not aid me. They stopped me—”
“Haegan,” Drracien said, his voice calm, “focus.”
“Not only did they stop me,” he said, breathing around the anger and searing cold pain that filled his lungs, “but they punished me.”
“Focus.”
He held up his forearm. “Punished me.” He slapped his chest. “For trying to stop this madness. For trying to return peace to the Nine.”
“Haegan!” Drracien’s voice snapped through the din in Haegan’s head.
He blinked.
Drracien nodded to his hand.
Only then did he notice the white flames dancing around his hands. “Why give me this ability if I cannot use it against him?”
“I know not, but you must learn to draw on that fire without anger.”
“Why?”
“Because anger controls you. The Flames must be wielded from within, with the righteous judgment of Abiassa.” Drracien produced a beautiful flame on his hand. “It’s the first guiding.”
“Drracien, I have not years to learn how to do this.” Frustration pushed him to the bench that lined the wall. “Poired has taken Seultrie, killed the Fire King.” Disbelief choked him. “I never thought . . . my father was so strong. How did he not stop him?”
“The Kindling.”
Haegan looked up at his friend. Every hundred years at the Great Falls it was said the hand of Abiassa touched the waters at first light, providing healing to all who entered at that appointed time, kindling healing and hope.
“When you went into that water, it sapped my gifts. Since you left to return to Seultrie, I’ve spent every waking hour wielding the Flames.” Drracien squatted in front of him. “All this time and I still am not back to full strength. Likely, your father experienced the same weakening.”
The words seared, drilling right through the last of his strength. The dreams—the terrors. The reality—watching his father murdered so violently. And . . . if Drracien’s words were true, had Haegan by default murdered his own father? “I didn’t steal your gifts!”
“I dare not accuse you, Fierian.” He smirked. “Come. We must teach you to draw on the embers without anger. Lest you begin your destruction in this very hold.”
20
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
Celebration bells rang through the city, signaling the formal binding of Prince Relig to Peani of Langeria. Thiel stood on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, small city, and villages beyond, watching her brother wave to the people, who cheered him loudly. Peani was a vision in her white gown and veil, a crown of Nivar now nestled in her dark curls.
Thiel squeezed her fingers, smile frozen on her lips. The ache for it to be her and Haegan renewed. She stole a look into the house, searching the hall for him, but he was not there. As if he should dog her steps like a lovesick boy.
“Amazing, that Prince Haegan said to go on with the wedding,” Atelaria said. “He was nearly killed!”
“He would not have a grand celebration stopped on his account,” Thiel said. He was a better man than most.
“I just can’t believe Yedriseth did that.” Atelaria whispered, the crowds still cheering, her brother still fawning over his new bride. As he should.
Thiel did not want to remember. Did not want to think about the angry cut across Haegan’s jaw. How she’d seen things in her encounters with the Watchman—things she should have pursued to understanding. “This is poor conversation.”
Her mother turned and gave a subtle nod, apparently approving Thiel’s ending the chatter about the attempted murder.
Atelaria straightened. “Of course.”
Tili shared a laugh with their father and the earl, then his gaze hit Thiel. A flash of concern winked through his expression. Thiel shifted around to move to the other side of the balcony, but her cousin caught her arm.
“You have yet to make good on your promise, you know. Will you make the introductions?”
“To Haegan?”
Atelaria blushed. “No, to Tokar.”
The scowl could not be stopped. But then, perhaps her dithering cousin would be a good fit for Tokar.
It was not soon enough that the family turned back into the house. After a brief respite in the family room for Peani to refresh herself, they joined the crowds in the great hall for the dinner feast. At every table, guests had been placed with care, alternating male and female. At the head table, Thiel found herself between Peani’s father and Tili. Two longer tables jutted from theirs and extended the length of the great hall. Within sight but not close enough to talk, Haegan sat awkwardly between the two daughters of Councilman Holdermann. One, plump with her first child, was nodding off amid the chatter. The other’s incessant giggles and the way she insisted on touching Haegan’s sleeve grated on Thiel’s nerves.
“Remember,” Tili muttered to her quietly, “flirtations and pandering.”
“She does not have to be so obvious,” Thiel growled.
A man’s arm slid b
etween Haegan and the girl, delivering a plate of food. Something tripped in Thiel’s mind. The man served, set down a goblet for the girl. Thiel glanced at the servant, willing him to move aside so she could see Haegan.
The servant stepped around Haegan’s chair and slid a goblet—
Wait.
Thiel’s heart skipped a beat. His hair. Half a ring of meat pie. Another beat lost. She grabbed her brother’s arm. “That man.”
Tili stilled, his gaze following hers. “What of him?”
“He was with Yedriseth the other day. Arguing in the hedges of the churchyard.” She watched as he lifted a plate from the tray and removed its cover. The only one that had a violet laid across the meat. “Tili—the food.”
Her brother was already sliding up. He walked swiftly, giving a signal to two of his men. He whispered something to the Nivari even as he continued toward Haegan.
“Princeling,” Tili said as he bent forward. “I would have a word with ye.”
Haegan frowned, glancing at Thiel, who raised a cup to her mouth—more to hide her nerves than to quench thirst. She nodded, and Haegan rose to follow Tili out of the hall.
One Nivari lifted the food and goblet, while the other hooked the rotund man’s arm with a free hand and guided him out of the hall as well.
Thiel breathed a little easier. Looked at her own food, untouched before her, then slid a glance to her parents, who acknowledged her but then carried on so as not to create alarm. The air swirled beside her and she turned to Tili.
Only it wasn’t her brother. “Haegan.” She searched where he had once sat and found her brother flirting unabashedly with the councilman’s daughter, who ate up the attention. Thiel almost felt sorry for the girl. There was as much substance to her brother’s intentions as there was to water.
“Seems the food tastes better up here,” Haegan said. His eyes were bright against his green coat and sash of nobility. A plain circlet was a surprising addition to his attire. He glanced down at himself and shrugged. “I am unsure where the clothes came from. They were in the wardrobe when I arrived back.”
Mama. Her mother never overlooked the smallest detail.
But the cut on his face seemed to stiffen his speech and manner. It was hard to look at, hard to think that just a little lower and the attack would have been a murder.
