by Ronie Kendig
He wasn’t sure whether he or they had the bigger adjustment. They made their way through town, the townsfolk pausing to notice them, some stopping their business altogether and staring. For a moment, Haegan forgot the circlet sitting atop his head, pushing his blond curls into his face.
They met up with Tili’s hundred on the southern plain, and together, they made the six-hour trek beyond the Black Forest to the border. The lands here were rugged and hilly, a remnant of turbulence stretching between the Ice Mountains and the lesser mounts leading to the Great Falls.
“We’ll camp here,” Tili announced to Aburas, then guided his mount over to Haegan. “Follow me.”
Haegan jabbed his heels against the horse’s flanks and hurried behind him up an incline. Tili slid to the ground, and Haegan did the same, matching the Nivari commander’s large, powerful strides up a steep slope. Behind a bramble of brush and trees, they crouched and peered through the vegetation.
“The Valley of Draorin.”
Beyond the open field that ran nearly a league, Haegan started at what spread out before him. Six massive statues lined a road that led to a thriving city. “Who are they?”
“Baen’s Deliverers.”
A chill scraped Haegan’s spine. Deliverers. “Baen Celahar,” Haegan muttered. “The first of my ancestors to take the throne.” Given the name Zaelero II as king.
Tili nodded. “Aye.” He angled his shoulder down and pointed. “In the center of the Crossing, ye’ll see his statue.”
Amid multi-storied buildings it was hard to see the statue. “Why here? That battle happened in Hetaera, leagues from here.”
“Draorin, Baen’s right hand, settled here. The city rose up around him and when he died, they built this.” Tili motioned. “Look to the north. It’s worse than the reports.”
White walls were now blackened. Plaster crumbling. Sections of walls and buildings missing. “Why damage a city when they’re looking for me?”
“That city represents everything ye are. Poired is looking to tear down every artifice that might give them hope.” Tili shrugged. “I am surprised the statues still stand.”
“Where are the Sirdarians?”
“Unknown. Perhaps hiding in the trees northeast of the city.” Tili studied the land for several long seconds, giving Haegan time to work through his own thoughts.
What would he do if confronted by Poired’s men? Haegan could just see himself wielding in a panic or rage and destroying the entirety of the city. Yes, that would make them want to crown him—officially—as their king.
Something in the air tugged at Haegan’s awareness. He squinted, staring into the town as if he could see the people. Hear them.
“What is it?”
Haegan shook his head. “I know not. Something . . . something’s not right.”
Tili’s gaze snapped to the city, his eyes darting over it.
“I think they’re still there. Or someone is—maybe spies.”
“How do you know?”
Wincing at the question made him look weak. “I can . . . feel them.”
25
Outside Baen’s Crossing, Kingdom of the Nine
The Jujak and Haegan’s friends gathered as he, Grinda, and Tili returned from the overlook. As they approached the group, Grinda tilted his head toward Haegan. “Feel them?” he asked in a lowered voice. “Your father had great wielding abilities, and I was with him all his years, but I never heard him say something like that, not at this great a distance.”
Was he wrong then? Was it his imagination? Haegan shoved a hand into his hair—and immediately felt the restraint of the crown. “I cannot explain it. I just . . . know.”
Reaching the gathered men a few strides ahead of them, Tili beckoned to Aburas. “Set a double guard. I want no surprises while Prince Haegan enters the city.”
“What’s wrong?” Tokar asked.
Though his friends joined him, Haegan noted that the Jujak hung back, uncertain of their place until General Grinda stepped forward. “We have reason to believe the enemy may still be in Baen’s Crossing.”
“What reason is that?” Tokar asked.
Grinda looked at Haegan, who hesitated. “I . . . I can feel them.” Or something. He didn’t know what it was, exactly.
The Jujak shifted, glancing at each other.
“Is this part of your being the Fierian?” Graem asked.
“I—”
“That’s an impossible query to answer,” came Drracien’s voice, “since there has never before been a Fierian.” The slick accelerant made his way through the armored Jujak, who moved aside readily to let him pass. “Who is to know what abilities he might have? Pray he does not turn them on you.”
“Why?” a Jujak asked.
“Ghor, leave it,” Graem said.
“I’ve seen him wipe out twenty Ematahri with a few well-placed words,” Tokar explained. “Fried them out of existence.”
Haegan’s heart thumped, his painful past laid bare, but he noticed the Jujak seemed less hesitant.
Because they are now afraid of me.
“What are we to do?” Graem asked.
“Ride into Baen’s Crossing—openly,” Grinda said. “We are there in response to the attacks. Ask questions. Commander Thurig has agreed to send some men into the city to blend in and ask around. Between us, we should find what we’re looking for.”
“What’s that?” It was the one Graem called Ghor. Mistrust and animosity tumbled through his face.
“Da enemy.” Laertes’s voice piped up from between two Jujak.
Haegan’s eyes found the boy, chin jutting, standing tall, though he was half the size of the men around him. “Yes,” he said gently, “which means it will be no place for a boy.”
Laertes’s face fell, but Tili beckoned him over. “The lad will stay with me. I’ve yet to have the chance to train him, and now seems as good a time as ever.”
Surprised at the deft attempt to protect Laertes’s pride, Haegan nodded at Tili, then focused on Drracien. “Would you ride with me?”
Drracien’s eyebrows shot into his shiny black hair, then he grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Claerian,” Captain Grinda called to one of the Jujak. “The standards.”
Something in Haegan twisted and bent sideways as a lanky man went to his mount. There, he removed two sets of three rods, which he screwed together to form two long poles. Then he drew out two lengths of fabric—one the green field and gold crown with the tri-tipped flame, the sigil of House Celahar. Next came the gold flame on the red field, the emblem of Abiassa and the Nine Kingdoms. He handed one to another Jujak, then the pair stood ready beside their horses.
Graem met Haegan’s gaze and nodded. “Mount up!”
With the Jujak creating an outer frame of protection as they descended the hill toward Baen’s Crossing, Haegan rode flanked by the two Grindas and followed closely by Praegur, Tokar, and Drracien. They crossed the half-league with ease and speed, their shadows stretching long in the sinking sunlight. His gut roiled at the thought of riding in so aggressively. Yet, with the standards proclaiming their identity and loyalty, he could only hope the people of Baen’s Crossing would see they were here to make a stand. And the enemy would see their attacks would not go unanswered.
Awe speared him as they approached the main gate. At a signal from the general, Graem heeled his mount and the beast surged ahead across the last hundred paces to the gate, hooves thundering. “Open in the name of Prince Haegan!”
Bile rose in Haegan’s throat.
“Open in the name of the prince!” Graem shouted again.
Faces peered over the walls, then, “Open the gate! Open the gate!”
With groaning and creaking, wood surrendered. By the time Haegan reached the entrance, the gate yawned wide. They trotted in, taking in cobbled roads and narrow passages. Curious eyes peered from windows and doors. Marble pillars lined the sides of the main road as they slowed their horses to a walk, heading for the
Sanctuary, sure the city seat would be nearby. The streets began filling with people, who trailed them the full ten minutes to the city center. Speculative eyes studied him. Some scowled and shook their heads.
“Are you truly Haegan?”
“He died ten years ago!”
“Nah, he was sickly.”
“Well, he don’t look sick to me!”
He wanted to stop and argue, prove himself, but there would be no defense, no frantic pleas of his identity. Only his actions could convince them that he was truly the prince, that though he had been sick—and might as well have been dead—he now rode into the city, well and healed and their future king. Because Poired had killed his father.
Beside him, Graem ceaselessly scanned the people, as, no doubt, did his fighters, who now rode ahead and behind.
A shout and the sound of a scuffle rose off Haegan’s left flank. “Beg off,” someone growled.
Haegan resisted the urge to look back, but when he heard the sound of a fist on flesh, he shifted his gaze—
“No,” Graem whispered, edging closer with his mount. “Quiet and confident, an assured leader—that’s what they need. Your men will take care of it.”
After another bend, the entourage spilled out into the main city center, where the massive statue of Baen Celahar, later known as Zaelero II, stood in the middle of a reflecting pool. On either side towered the two headquarters of the elected officials who held power: Sanctuary on the left, city seat on the right. On the steps of the former, a half-dozen Ignatieri waited behind the high marshal, who stared down his perfect, straight nose at Haegan. So much like Cilicien ka’Dur. The thought sent a shudder through Haegan.
On the right, a man stood before the door to the city building, wearing a simple tunic that bore the emblem of Abiassa alongside another symbol, the Glass Dagger, used by Baen to slay Dirag the Desecrator. The mayor.
Claerian and the other standard bearer led the way to a central position before the great statue, while the remaining Jujak fanned out behind, creating a cushion between the crowds and Haegan’s small party. Haegan had watched enough official processions from the tower to know the city’s two representatives should present themselves to him in welcome.
But he was not officially set in. Would they acknowledge him?
Silence gutted the din as the crowds filled in every crevice and nook of the square. Here and there children laughed, oblivious to the painful void shrouding them.
Uncertainty fastened to Haegan, tempting him to shift. Look uncomfortable. But he refused. Ever so slowly, General Grinda’s hand twitched and drew up his thigh, a sign of his impatience at receiving no welcome.
Feet clapped against the cobbles, sharp in the silence. The mayor of the city strode forward from the city hall, straight toward the statue as if he might walk right into it. A sturdy fellow with no sign of gray hair or wrinkles, he pivoted and came directly in line with where Haegan waited.
The mayor bowed. “Your Highness,” his voice rang out, echoing and hissing at the end. On a knee, the mayor waited.
Grinda waited.
Haegan wondered—waited. Was he to acknowledge the mayor now? No, both leaders were to present themselves. The hesitation of the Ignatieri thickened the already-palpable tension. Murmurs drifted through the crowds, the disrespect evident to all present.
Grinda cast a glance to his son. In response, Graem clicked his tongue, the command to his destrier. Reins clinked as the great horse hopped forward.
A patter of feet on the cobbles stilled Grinda and his son, but outrage roiled off the burly general.
Three Ignatieri fluttered into view on the left. The lesser two stopped at the fountain, but the third—a high marshal—continued, turning to stand before Haegan. He bowed but did not kneel. “My liege.”
The generals seemed pacified, but still angry. As was Haegan.
Turning his gaze to the first man, Haegan spoke clearly, “Mayor, I thank you for your ready and warm welcome.” His shifted his gaze with deliberate hesitation to the accelerant. “High Marshal, your reticence concerns me.”
The accelerant did not flinch. “Forgive me, my liege, but there has been an attack—”
“And that is cause to disrespect the crown prince?” It was hard to project confidence when he felt anything but.
The high marshal stilled. “No. I beg your mercy.” His oily voice sounded anything but apologetic. “It is only that you are not yet set in.”
“How much more allegiance is needed before,” Grinda grumbled. “Think you, the new Fire King, will ally himself with one who determines his actions on appearance alone?”
The dynamics of Ignatieri and the Fire King were intricate and myriad. Though Fire Kings were most often trained by the grand marshal, the king maintained superiority.
Haegan swung down off his mount.
Grinda grunted, clearly not pleased Haegan had dismounted, and got down as well.
Haegan stalked toward the mayor. “Please—stand that we may greet one another and talk.”
The man came up, young eyes meeting Haegan’s as the prince gripped his forearm and clasped his shoulder. “The days are dark and hard. I appreciate your reception. I would have your name.”
The mayor’s stiffness fell away and he smiled. “Jarain Fal’Raen. It is an honor, my prince.” He bowed his head again.
“Thank you, Jarain.” Haegan turned to the accelerant. Older. Annoyed. “High Marshal.” Haegan extended his hand.
Hooded in apathy, the marshal’s eyes showed nothing but disdain. “I am High Marshal Eftu, Haegan.”
At his side, Grinda tensed at the informality and disrespect. But Haegan, remembering the lessons with Drracien, sent a spark from his hand to the high marshal.
The accelerant gasped, his ridiculous headdress faltering atop a narrow head. He steadied it, eyes bulging. “’Twas said you could not wield.”
“I suppose it was also said I was crippled, sick, or dead.” Haegan released the man. “Now, I would speak with you both.”
The mayor nodded. “In the great hall, sire. It should be ready.”
“Would you not prefer the elegance of Sanctuary?” the high marshal purred.
Haegan glared at him, reminded again of Cilicien ka’Dur. “I thank you, no.” He nodded to Jarain. “Please.” As they climbed the numerous steps, Haegan felt the strange unease again and let his gaze slide to the right, across the sea of faces in the city center, though they had become dim in the swiftly fading light. What was it? What lingered here?
Marble greeted them, opulence defined in the gold chandeliers of the grand foyer. The mayor held a hand to the left, where more of the same waited. A large tapestry depicting the pivotal battle of Zaelero against Dirag hung over the great fire pit. From there, two long tables spread out, draped in red satin and aglow from the twenty-four stick candelabras. Haegan raised an eyebrow at Jarain when he noticed the steam and wonderful aromas that rose from the platters of food nestled on the tables. “Sentries saw the banners, and we ordered preparations at once,” Jarain said.
“Very kind,” Haegan said, but his attention faltered as he caught sight of a door swinging closed at the far side of the room, a blur of fabric disappearing into the darkness.
Haegan was unsettled. It was with some effort that he focused on the mayor once more. “I beg your mercy, Jarain. I did not come for a feast, not when you and your people are so freshly grieved over the attack.”
The man’s face went white. “Thank you, sire. The grief is deep—my own father, the former mayor, was killed trying to stop the Sirdarian spies from escaping.”
Haegan flinched. Closed the gap between them and took the man’s forearm in solidarity. “We have much in common, Jarain Fal’Raen. As I’m sure you know, I recently lost my father at Poired’s hand.”
“Some reports differ,” came the sniveling voice of the high marshal.
“The death of King Zireli is a great loss to the Nine,” Jarain said, casting an uncertain glance at the
high marshal.
“For your kind words, I thank you.” Haegan motioned to the elaborate feast. “Come, I would hear of the attack, and we might as well enjoy the hard labors.”
At the head table, Haegan sat with Jarain and High Marshal Eftu, as well as Graem and the general. Tokar, Drracien, and Praegur were brought in as Jarain explained how the Sirdarians had come up from the south with stealth and secrecy. “Once discovered, they fought their way out of the city, our guards giving chase. But . . . the Sirdarians escaped.”
“They came with one purpose,” the high marshal snapped.
“In pursuit of what?” Haegan asked. Did it seem a bit chilly? His gaze hit the fireplace, where flames danced and sap crackled. Its light a nice, ambient glow.
“The Fierian,” Jarain said with a sniff. “I cannot believe anyone believes in that demon.”
“He is no demon.” The high marshal’s eyes now narrowed and fixed on Haegan. “He is sent by Abiassa to be a cleansing fire.”
They do not know . . . ? Amazement clutched Haegan that word had not already reached the people of the Nine that he had been named Fierian. Or perhaps it was only this far corner where his identity was not known. It was good. Better even. But would his credibility be questioned?
“Death and destruction,” Jarain spat, flicking his wrist as if to banish the Fierian into lore once more.
“He does not tell the whole truth,” the high marshal said.
“Honestly, Eftu,” Jarain muttered. “Leave it.”
But High Marshal Eftu was undeterred. “Whispers through the city were that the Sirdarian spies were asking after you, Prince Haegan.”
The words thudded against his heart and conscience. “Were they?”
“They did not elaborate,” Eftu droned, his words seeming too much an effort for the marshal to utter. “But speculation is rampant, and, since you are here, I can only imagine the rumors are true.”
“And what rumors are those?” Perhaps the truth was not so unknown as he had hoped.
“Many, my prince,” Eftu said. “Some say you murdered the Fire King, your own father.”
Haegan considered the high marshal, trying to ascertain his position.
