by Ronie Kendig
“Others say you betrayed your father and stole your sister’s gifts. And there has been an even stronger rumor, mostly from the north—”
“I am here,” Haegan said, “to rout the Sirdarian vermin from the city.”
“Oh, they are already gone,” Eftu said.
“No,” Haegan countered, shouldering away another wave of coldness. “They are here.”
Eftu frowned, leaving Jarain to sputter and nearly laugh. “I watched them leave, Prince—”
“Are you certain?” Haegan asked in a way that was not a question.
“Of course I am—they left the city.”
“Then mayhap they left spies,” Graem offered as he dragged a chunk of bread around the porcelain plate, slopping up gravy.
Jarain paled.
If the mayor had watched the Sirdarians leave, spies would explain why Haegan sensed something here. In fact—he’d tried to ignore the chill, but it was strong. Relentlessly strong. Right now. So cold and tainted now with such a foul odor that Haegan grew ill. He looked away, frowning. Swallowed, forcing back the bile rising in his throat.
“My lord, are you well?”
“Aye,” Haegan managed as he stood. “If you will pardon me but a moment.”
Graem was on his feet.
“Nay,” Haegan said and held up a hand. “’Tis well. I shall return—”
“I have orders not to leave your side.”
He looked to the captain, who stared back impassively. With a glance across the table, he met Drracien’s gaze. Shoved a wake of heat at him, hoping he’d understand.
Out in the main foyer, Haegan pulled in a ragged breath. Leaned against a pillar for support and to gain his bearings.
“Are you well?” Graem asked.
“I—”
Drracien appeared, dark brows drawn together. A question in his eyes he did not ask. He closed the space between them.
Chin tucked, Haegan thought through the feeling. He angled in closer to Drracien. “Is it possible for me to . . . sense them?”
Hesitation guarded Drracien. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Frowned. “Why?”
“This feeling”—Haegan snapped his gaze away—“no, not a feeling.” He gripped his head, again reminded of the circlet. He sighed. “Every now and then, I get a chill not related to the weather. But in there, in that hall, it was so strong I could smell something. It made me sick.”
Dark eyes probed his, weighing. Considering. “I know of no accelerant being able to smell them,” Drracien said. “But as I said earlier, nobody’s been the Fierian.” He shrugged. “It may well be.”
“Reassuring.” Rolling his eyes, Haegan turned away.
“We are in uncharted territory. Nothing is impossible and everything possible.”
What if I’m wrong? What if there is no chill and no Sirdarians are here? Then he would look the fool, feeding the rumors of his madness, giving credence to the reports that he had killed his father. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he paced.
The chill returned. Icy. Painful. Wincing, Haegan drew up.
“My prince?” Graem reached toward him.
In the far corner a blur caught Haegan’s eye. But almost as soon as he saw it, it was gone. As was the person.
Haegan shot in that direction.
“My prince! Wait!”
Darkness had fallen, but he sprinted into the night, rolling his fingers to illumine the way. A door clicked shut a dozen paces ahead. Haegan threw himself at it. Barreled out. Down a flight of steps, nearly falling.
He stopped and scanned the darkness, but he could see nothing.
He closed his eyes, shut out the distractions. Focused on the—
Cold. To the right.
He chased it, determined to capture this person. Conviction pushed him on. A Sirdarian. Around a corner.
A wisp of white fabric, like the servants in the hall had worn.
Spy. The word hissed through his mind. He sprinted down the hall, shouts coming from behind as the others struggled to stay with him.
“My prince, please stop. It’s dangerous—”
But Haegan ran on, resolute. They would not get away with killing people. They would not hurt innocents while on a warpath against him, nor would he allow them to walk casually into the dark night and escape justice.
He pushed down the narrow street. Was it not enough to murder his own father and mother in front of him? And now, Poired sent his soldiers out to hunt him, kill his people?
A four-way juncture presented itself. Haegan would not be so easily thrown off. Not this time. He slid his eyes shut again. Focused on that stench. On the chill. But it seemed to have faded.
He turned a slow circle, trained on the temperature, the voices of his friends in the distance as they searched for him while he hunted this spy.
There. He nearly smiled and shouldered into the darkness. It was getting stronger now. He could feel it. The chill. The smell. He ran. Faster. Harder.
They broke out into a road and ahead, aiming for the side gate, a form rushed through the night.
“Stop,” Haegan growled.
But it only seemed to fuel his quarry.
Palming the air, Haegan arced his hand down and up, then drew it and the heat back to himself.
When a distant scream rent the night, Haegan stopped, watching helplessly from twenty feet away as the person shoved out a spark. It hit someone, and they crumpled to the ground.
“No!” Anger shot through Haegan’s veins. He clawed the embers he’d drawn up, gathering the fiery storm to himself.
Another ball of light appeared at the far end of the path. The spy was going to wield against someone else. Trying to throw him off. Stop him.
“My prince, no!”
Haegan punched his hand forward, palm open, ignoring the voice behind him.
“Nooo!”
Darkness shattered.
Light erupted.
Satisfaction spiraled through him as he waited for the images of night to return. The somber glow of the moon slowly unfurled its hem and spread it over the road. Over a body in the middle.
Haegan smiled. Got him.
From a building, someone rushed into the road. Knelt at the body.
“Is he dead?” Haegan demanded, striding forward. At least he had served the people. Protected them.
“Haegan, no. Please—come back,” Graem pleaded.
“Princeling, you must come.” Drracien said.
“Is the spy dead?” Haegan insisted, vindication heady.
“Spy?” a man spat, shoving upward. “This is no spy—this is my brother!”
Haegan frowned. “No, I—”
“The prince killed a servant!” someone shouted.
“And a child,” said another.
“No.” Haegan glanced back. The small frame—it’d been a child? “It wasn’t . . . He—”
“The prince murdered a child and servant, just like he did the Fire King!”
26
Legier’s Heart, Northlands
“Sirdarians skirt the southern border of Ybienn and the Rekken continue to threaten from the north.”
Leaning against his pelt throne, Aselan smoothed a hand over his beard. Sikir came to his side, looking for another ear rub. “Threatening but not attacking.”
“Not yet,” Byrin groused from the table. “And most likely, they dare not tempt Legier during winter’s prowl.”
“Aye,” Teelh put in. “But the weather has been warmer than usual since the prince’s departure. ’Tis but an invitation to them to move against the Northlands sooner.”
“Scouts also saw Southlanders ride out under the escort of the Nivari.”
“Southlanders? Ye mean the Jujak?”
“Aye.” Byrin looked to Markoo, then both of them studied the table.
Their reticence to speak made Aselan hesitate. They would only act so if they felt their thoughts would be unfavorable to their cacique. What would be unfavorable at this hour? They’d already f
oretold attacks from both the north and south.
The Fierian.
His mind caught up with the news and put the pieces together. “The Fierian rode out with the Jujak.”
Byrin gave a curt nod.
“South,” Aselan muttered, imagining the reason, “to respond to the attacks.”
“No doubt,” Byrin agreed.
“And what about that gives ye cause for concern, Byrin?”
His man stood. “He rode out like a king.”
Aselan leaned back against the throne. “King.” Haegan had been gone from Legier’s Heart less than a week.
“I would wager,” Byrin began, folding his arms, “that he acts under the advice of General Grinda.”
“Agreed,” Aselan said. “The Fierian must show himself, must show that Seultrie is not undefended, that the Nine has a leader.” His mind drifted to a pair of pale blue eyes, wondering how she would react to hearing her brother was taking the throne. “As long as he stays to his business, what concern is it of ours?”
“But Cacique,” Bardin spoke clearly, “the Nivari rode with him.”
Slinging his gaze to Bardin, Aselan considered the words. “Do ye worry about an alignment between Ybienn and the Nine?”
“Aye, and it should unnerve every man in the Heart,” Bardin growled. “We have remained in the safety of the mountain with a tenuous agreement with Thurig. What if Haegan holds sway over him? What if he—”
“Mayhap that is why the cacique has held the princess,” Capit offered quietly.
“Aye,” Byrin said with a grunt. “Keep her here, and if war comes to Legier, she can speak on our behalf. Wise. Very wise, Cacique.”
“Or be our hostage. A trade.”
Grumbles and nods of grim agreement rippled through the room. Though Byrin’s thought agreed with him, Aselan would not allow them to believe a lie. “The princess remains here because it is not yet safe for her leave the mountain. She would need a wheeled carriage, and that’s not possible until the first thaw.”
“That is what we tell them.” Teelh nodded. “It is believable and will buy us time.”
“Maybe she’ll take a mountain man during Etaesian’s Feast.”
At that, Aselan laughed. “She would no more have one of ye than the scoundrel her father pledged her to.”
“She was pledged? To who?” Teelh asked, his face a mask of worry.
“Jedric.”
“He’s a puppet of the Dark One!” Teelh shot up, pounding a fist on the table. “What if they learn she is here? That muarshtait Jedric could come looking for her.”
“That is a fear we will concern ourselves with only when they enter the Northlands.”
“Think ye they will come here?” Doubt and concern weighted Byrin’s question.
“There has been no word of Jedric—or anyone—searching for her. She is believed lost in the battle for Zaethien.” This turn in the conversation would not bode well. “They assume she is dead.”
“Aye, but Haegan took the princess in front of Poired and his army, and now he goes to the Nine—they will soon know where their princess hides.”
“Aye,” Byrin mumbled, his gaze dark.
Aselan could not deny it. “’Tis a concern—but no more than the armies coming here. We train throughout winter as always. We have the Heart, and they are not trained in mountain fighting or living.” It was why the Eilidan had remained in the mountains, concealed among the clouds, and rearing hardy children to not just survive here, but thrive. “Let us put our attention where it is best spent.”
After a chorus of ayes, Aselan motioned to Teelh, who held the order of minutes. “What next, friend?”
“Ingwait and her Ladies of the Heart.”
Grumbles spiraled through the cavern . . . until someone muttered a joke about Etaesian’s Feast, then a shout of laughter went up. The doors were opened and in came the Ladies of the Heart. With women outnumbering men, the Ladies oversaw Etaesian’s Feast and the Choosing. All in the hopes of bearing more sons to defend the mountain.
Aselan stood and welcomed Ingwait, their representative, but he’d rather work the kitchens than listen to the plans for the Bonding. It was yet two months out, but they required the permission of the cacique to proceed.
Forty mind-numbing minutes later, plans were approved—a celebration to officially start the week-long ceremony that included the Choosing banquet, the Honoring, and the final Joining Ring.
Formalities decided, Aselan dismissed the Legiera and headed to his cave.
“Cacique,” Capit called from behind as he strode the stone passage.
Aselan turned.
“For the Bonding, is the princess eligible?”
The cheek of him. Aselan stowed his annoyance. “Is she a citizen of Legier or the Cold One’s Tooth?”
Capit shifted.
“There is yer answer.”
With a smirk, Capit backed away. “Just wondering.”
Aselan started again for his cave, shoving a hand through his hair. The counsel meeting had worn down his mood. And the thought of that impudent pup thinking he would have anything to induce a princess to select him for the Choosing . . . He snorted, doubting there was even a man in the Heart who would be enough to induce Kaelyria Celahar to betray her family or her oath to the throne and Nine.
Laughter spiraled from the left, drawing closer. He turned and found Hoeff pushing the princess’s wheeled chair. Gray pelts tucked around her legs made her near-white hair brighter.
Hoeff said something to her, and she laughed again. Shaking her head, she covered her mouth. Was she always so happy? So lighthearted? It called to him, her laughter. He did not hear much of it. Not since Doskari died.
Those pale eyes found their way to him, and her brows rose. Her lips formed a perfect circle.
“Master,” Hoeff said, his voice rumbling through the passage as they neared the juncture.
Safer ground lay in the murky eyes of the hulking giant. “Ye are acknowledged, Hoeff.”
The Drigo bowed his head.
“We go to dine,” Kaelyria said, her cheeks red. Were they so deeply shaded before now?
“I see.”
“Excuse me, Cacique,” came the stiff, annoyed voice of Ingwait from behind the giant. “Hoeff, yer help is needed.”
Frozen in indecision, Hoeff looked to his patient, then to Ingwait. As a Drigo, he could not abandon his charge. Yet he was being called to help elsewhere. Hoeff was distressed, not sure which to serve. To Aselan, this smelled of a setup, especially after the words Ingwait had scalded his ears with before the prince left.
The bustling woman gave him a sniff. “Surely the cacique can push the princess to the dining room,” Ingwait said, taking the arm of the giant. “Come, ye are needed.”
A trap, definitely.
“If I am intruding or if this is a problem . . .” Kaelyria said, sensing his hesitation.
Aselan stepped behind the chair and took the handles. “’Tis well.” He guided her wheeled chair to the next juncture and turned right. His mind tripped over the scent flowing back to him, saturating his nostrils in her essence of sowaoli petals and some herb he couldn’t pin down.
The thrum of the chatter in the hall was a welcome change to the silence clogging the passages.
“Cacique?” a young man called from a table, where he sat with a half-dozen others.
“Aye, Matyon?”
“Have the Ladies meted out the details for the Choosing?”
Aselan sighed. “Aye.”
“Oochak!” The shout echoed through the dining hall as he pushed the princess to the end of the head table. Carilla, a table wench, hurried over and removed a chair so the princess’s chair could fit. Though he normally sat in the middle, he chose to remain with her so she was not alone. A moment later, Carilla returned with two trays of food and warmed cordi juice. Aselan sat straight as she set out the meals then hurried off to tend another citizen.
“Aselan,” Kaelyria asked, hesitant.
“I’ve been wondering. Do . . . do we pay for this?”
Surprised at the question, he paused. “Everyone pays—by carrying out their own duties to ensure we are all warm, fed, and healthy.”
“But I carry no duty.”
“Ye are a guest.”
“Is that why you’re not sitting in your normal seat?”
Again, he hesitated.
“She was waiting at your seat then hurried here, to adjust the setting.”
He gave a light snort. “There is little ye miss.”
“You do not have to nursemaid me, Aselan.” Kaelyria’s gaze did not rise to meet his as she set a napkin across her lap. “I recognize your duties are many and as their leader, you—”
“—still have to eat.” He lifted a fork, flashed a smile, then dug into the pulled meat and vegetables. It was a good way to quiet her concerns and his own ramming thoughts. He should be above, poring over maps and discussing scout reports with Byrin. The ones not mentioned in the meeting hall. In the minutes as they ate, the silence grew. And grew painfully. Awkwardly. Obvious.
He should talk to her. Put her at ease, but words betrayed him just as Ingwait had. And of what use was he with small talk? He would wager she had neither time nor patience for it herself. She was, after all, a princess. No doubt King Zireli had been training her to take the throne, to—
“What is the Choosing?”
The meat caught at the back of his throat. Aselan coughed, thumping his fist against his chest. He dropped his fork and took a drink of juice. After wiping his mouth and taking another sip, he cleared his now-burning throat. “’Tis . . .” He coughed again. Searching the knots of the wood table for direction. How was he to speak of such a thing with a . . . a . . . an unbound woman? In fact, he questioned sitting here at the head table alone with her. But he could not abandon her.
Laughter drifted through the air between them. “I fear I have inadvertently stepped upon a precarious topic.”
“Aye,” he said, feeling the heat. Then he chuckled. “Aye, ’tis better put to one of the Ladies.”
“Ladies—that’s a formal title, aye?”
“Here among the Eilidan a cacique is chosen to guide the men, to wage war, and to protect the mountains. But the Ladies of the Heart are the true heart of the mountain, they oversee the women.”
