Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  Gwogh’s heart fell. He could not argue the Guidings, the laws which placed the Nine’s ruler on the throne, but he had hoped . . . hoped to sway the Council against the Contending. “Time is short, my brothers and sister. Sirdar advances. We are facing things we have never encountered before. We cannot afford mistakes and pointless delays at this time.”

  “All the more reason to be sure we do not warrant another display”—Kedulcya nodded to the empty chair—“of Abiassa’s judgment by disregarding the laws in place since Baen’s Council.”

  “Aye,” Voath said. “There are many questions regarding the prince’s actions in the last few months, and a victory in the Contending will silence those objections.”

  Therein lay the caveat Gwogh feared—a victory.

  “Indeed,” Voath continued. “There has been talk of the prince’s role in the death of his father.”

  “You mean, in trying to save his father,” Traytith corrected.

  “I mean—”

  “Gwogh has a point,” Falip put in. “Do we have the time to conduct a Contending? Choosing candidates—”

  “They are all but chosen,” Kedulcya countered. “It is common to maintain a list of Contenders in each kingdom.”

  “But Haegan’s transgressions—”

  “Transgressions?” A storm moved through Gwogh. “They are but accusations with no merit. Some conjured.”

  “But the accusations exist,” Aaold said. “And they persist in the minds of the people. The Fire King is dead, as is the queen. The princess—”

  “Princess Kaelyria,” Gwogh interrupted, “is with the Eilidan, sick and paralyzed, but alive.”

  “With the Eilidan? In the Northlands?” Kedulcya seemed particularly put out at this news. “’Tis no fitting place for a princess.”

  “Fitting or not,” Traytith said, “if she’s there, we must confirm it. Voath, make a note to send a messenger. What of her gift? Was there mention?”

  Gwogh sighed. “It is believed lost.”

  Silence stretched for a moment as each accelerant glimpsed the agony of such loss. Falip was the first to speak. “Lost. Then she . . .”

  “Is no longer eligible to Contend, even if she were physically able,” Gwogh finished. “The succession has fallen from her, and we cannot look back.”

  “Of course,” Voath said, glancing around. “As for Haegan, there is another consideration—as Fierian, he is Abiassa’s Chosen. Dare we presume to put him through a Contending?”

  “But chosen ruler and chosen destroyer—”

  “Not destroyer,” Gwogh said quickly. “Chosen Hand.”

  Griese conceded with a nod. “Still, the two are mutually exclusive. Nowhere in the Parchments does it state one is the other. If that were the case, Zireli could have been the Fierian.”

  Kedulcya sat taller. “Except that Zireli did not fulfill the prophecies, and while the Parchments may not explicitly state the Fierian will be king, they also do not explicitly state he won’t.”

  “Well said.” Gwogh had long ago come to appreciate Kedulcya’s logical mind.

  “However,” Kedulcya continued, “the allegations against Haegan are too numerous and too serious to be ignored. As Aoald has already pointed out, rumor has taken root.”

  “Forgive me,” Falip said. “But I fear I am lately come and ill informed. Just what are these rumors?”

  Voath cleared his throat almost apologetically and consulted a piece of paper in front of him. “Well, to begin with, there is Haegan’s association with an accelerant accused of murdering High Lord Aloing. He’s also known or supposed to be responsible for the deaths of twenty Ematahri warriors.

  “It is also speculated that he conspired”—Voath’s eyes skirted the room, avoiding Gwogh—“with his tutor to manipulate his sister into the transference, so he could steal the throne.”

  At this, Gwogh laughed. Hard. “My dear Council—to believe this one, we would have to promote Haegan to Foreteller. His mental prowess would surpass everyone in the world.”

  A few smiles went around the room, but Voath read on. “In the Citadel, the gossip is that his education was left to a stripped accelerant.”

  Gwogh sighed. “All at this table know I was not stripped. A decision was made, which we all accepted.” He pointed to Voath. “That charge will be struck, as we cannot address the truth of the situation openly.”

  “Agreed,” Kedulcya said firmly.

  Nodding, Voath looked back at his paper, making Gwogh groan inwardly. Did all the world have a grievance against Haegan? “And among the soldiers, he is criticized for his association and relationship with the daughter of the Fire King’s most renowned enemy, Thurig the Formidable.”

  “‘Most renowned enemy,’” Gwogh repeated with a sniff. “They are cousins—distantly.”

  “Very distantly,” Traytith said.

  “And last I looked, the Northlands were not an enemy of the Nine.”

  “Neither are they friend,” Kelviel added.

  “You speak truth. What else, Voath?”

  “The last is a serious charge of collusion with Poired—”

  “Collusion!” Gwogh could not hold back his anger this time, but he swallowed his retort. “I beg your mercy. Go on.”

  “General Negaer himself reported that on the bridge to the Keep, the prince conversed with the Dark One, then mounted a raqine and left Seultrie to the enemy.”

  Gwogh tapped the table to stem his frustration. He could not help but think of the empty seat.

  “It would seem to me,” Kelviel said quietly, “that the Deliverers would have dealt with Haegan most severely had he colluded with darkness.”

  “Yes,” Gwogh said, enlivened by Kelviel’s words. “Yes, indeed.”

  “Perhaps they did.”

  Gwogh frowned at Griese. “Explain.”

  “He has an injury to his arm, given to him by a Deliverer.”

  Gwogh sat back, wondering how Griese knew this.

  Kedulcya put both elbows on the table and her eyes settled on Gwogh with understanding and regret. “So you see, old friend, I fear the only way to proceed is to force Haegan to put the people’s concerns to rest. There must be a Contending.”

  Kelviel nodded. “I agree. Prince Haegan must compete in the Contending. He cannot simply be handed the Fire Throne.”

  “Even as Abiassa’s Chosen.”

  “Chosen Fierian. Not necessarily the Fire King.”

  “We must be prepared,” Traytith said.

  “And we must have faith,” Gwogh countered, “in the will of Abiassa. She set the prophecies, and he met every one without even knowing!”

  Kelviel sighed. “But as Kedulcya stated—the Fire King and the Fierian are not necessarily one and the same. We must be prepared to set someone on the throne in case they are not.”

  It was a lost battle. Gwogh stroked his long beard, heart heavy. Haegan would contend. And he would do his best. But the Contending was a series of trials that tested wit, leadership, wielding, and physical strength. The once-crippled prince, who had only just learned four months ago that he even had the abiatasso, didn’t stand a chance against those who had practiced—honed—their gift for years.

  The windows rattled, the floor vibrating beneath them. Gwogh frowned, then his gaze shifted to the glass, where he saw a wake of heat retreat.

  “Can we search the Parchments?” Kelviel said.

  “Are you concerned?” Kedulcya asked, eyebrows creased.

  “Aye, because though the Council will have a voice—each of us will send our Contenders—there is another granted a voice in this.”

  “Dromadric.”

  Boom!

  The windows shook again.

  “Wha—?” Kedulcya was first on her feet, rushing to the panes of glass.

  Gwogh went after, watching that wake of heat slide backward, to its owner no doubt. “There are few accelerants that powerful these days,” he mumbled. Yet, in the air he could sense the young man’s abiatasso. Haeg
an.

  Another explosion sent the rippling wake streaking right for them.

  Kedulcya screamed, spinning away and shielding her face.

  Gwogh watched. Believed. Trusted. The wake rushed up. Smacked the glass. But did not break it.

  “It’s coming from the training yard,” Griese announced.

  “It’s the prince,” Kelviel said. “We should see this for ourselves.”

  36

  Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine

  Only his second day in the Citadel and Haegan stood in the training yard, dripping sweat beneath the glaring disapproval of High Lord Adomath. Why in the blazes had Adomath been chosen as his instructor? Months ago, the man had tried to get the Jujak to dispatch him to the eternal darkness. Called him a scourge.

  If he was going to survive this, Haegan had to tuck aside that memory. Focus on the unorthodox training methods. Sending heat—and only heat—high into the heavens. Shake the glass, he was told, but don’t break it.

  “Again!” Adomath shouted from the raised dais at the corner of the training yard.

  Gritting his teeth and drawing in a half breath—all he could drag into his lungs—Haegan snapped his head, spraying the sandy yard with droplets of sweat.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  Haegan glowered. He locked onto the high lord before stepping back with his right foot. Palmed his own chest as Adomath had instructed, then curved his hands out, sending the wake upward. His forearms and thighs trembled as he used his stance for additional strength. Wishing he could skim Adomath, sear some of that attitude off him. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he saw the marred mess on his arm. A reminder of the Deliverer who’d punished him for dipping into vengeance. Anger.

  This time, the puny heat plume barely rose above the training walls.

  “Weakling!”

  The word stung. Painful echoes from his childhood. Haegan coiled his hands into fists as he stood beneath the reprimand.

  “How are you to save this world if you cannot withstand training? Do you think our enemies will wait while you rest?”

  He gritted his teeth.

  “Again! Stronger this time, if you wish to sup.”

  He had missed the midday meal because he failed to impress the marshal. Already, he’d sent up a couple of dozen plumes. The exercise had grown tedious.

  “Now, Prince Haegan!”

  Huffing out a breath, Haegan cocked his head. Stepped back. Had no tolerance—

  Shapes moved in the shadows of the observation deck, its canopy gently flapping in the afternoon breeze. Haegan could not make out who had joined them, but he resented having an audience witness his inability to more accurately control or sustain his gift. Yet, he knew it imperative to succeed. He would face Poired again one day.

  Or would he? Why would the Deliverer say it was not his to kill Poired, then allow him to do it later? But if not Poired, someone stronger.

  Sirdar of Tharqnis.

  Fear crashed through him. His heat plume went sideways. Smacked Adomath. Flapped hard against the canopy, revealing those on the observation deck. All garbed in thick, dark robes. The Council.

  “You must focusss,” Adomath hissed, his own anger palpable.

  “What good will heat plumes be against Poired or Sirdar?”

  “Who said anything about either of them?”

  “The prophecies,” Haegan spat back, shoving his sweaty hair off his forehead.

  A gentle word came from the observation deck but was not loud enough for Haegan to hear. Adomath pivoted, as if surprised by the presence of the audience, then gave a curt nod. He faced Haegan with a sneer. “They want a demonstration.”

  “I thought I was training, not performing. Am I a dog—”

  “At this rate, I’m not sure you’re doing either.” Adomath snapped his fingers, and two conductors rushed onto the training field with targets. They set them in a random pattern, then scurried out of sight. “Hit each target at the same time.”

  Simultaneously? Haegan looked at Adomath as if he’d instructed Haegan to split himself in four. How was he to do that? He considered the arrangement of the targets. Adjusted his position back and to the left. Then with a thrust of his arm, he sent a wide, thin wake barreling over the targets.

  They toppled. All six. He turned to Adomath, whose face had gone red.

  “All six with separated flames.”

  Frustration tightened the muscles in his shoulders. “You did not clarify.”

  “Straighten the targets,” Adomath instructed the conductors, who complied immediately, then nodded to Haegan. “Repeat it. Correctly.”

  For a second Haegan considered defying him. Why was he being made to conduct like a child?

  Because you don’t know how to conduct.

  Aye. And Adomath seemed intent on humiliating him with that fact. Condemning him. Criticizing. Eying the targets, he tried to think past his anger. To shove it aside. To remember what Thurig had taught him. There—there was a man, an accelerant, he could respect.

  “Now—again. And strike each with a separate flame.” Adomath’s sigh carried loudly over the yard. “Remember—start here,” he said, holding his hand to his chest.

  It was an awkward technique that slowed Haegan. His mind tripped trying to wield with fancy forms. It scared him that he could not correctly wield. That he was a combustible tool. So he would comply. He was not the master here.

  He palmed his chest, reaching out and sensing the elements. Drawing on the heat of those around. Of the city. Of fireplaces. He arced out. Flames spiraled from his fingers. But the angle was wrong. He saw it as soon as the fiery daggers shot out. He’d only struck four.

  “You are a disgrace!” Adomath shouted.

  Haegan spun. “Am I to be trained, or am I to be humiliated?”

  “The humiliation is of your own making.” Adomath nodded. “Again. Focussss, Prince Haegan.”

  Anger roiled through him. He could feel it, the wake bubbling around his fingers. “Wrong wake,” he whispered to himself. A piece of him tore off. He clenched his eyes. “I did not want this. I did not want to be this . . . scourge,” he muttered. “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

  “Prince!”

  Haegan flinched. Turned. Flung out some fiery daggers but knew instantly they would fail, too. He didn’t have the right arc. Or trajectory. Or life.

  “Failure!”

  “We all know your view of me.” Haegan jerked toward Adomath and hauled off his shirt. “You are not here to train me, but to mock me. To humiliate me. How long will you demean me from your pedestal?”

  “I am—”

  “Enough!” He threw his hands downward to emphasize the word.

  In the space of a blink, a wall of glass shot upward from the ground. Dagger-sharp spikes glittered in the afternoon sun all around him. Pristine, beautiful. He stared at the pieces, disbelieving, then looked for whoever had thrown them at him.

  A chorus of shocked gasps wove through the observation deck. Murmurs quickly followed, shaming him more that they’d felt the need to defend the high lord against him.

  Haegan grabbed his shirt and started for the exit. Threading his arms through the sleeves, he hauled in greedy breaths. Fed-up breaths. Angry breaths. He tugged his tunic over his head and rounded the corner, falling into the damp, earthy darkness of the tunnels beneath the Citadel.

  Ambient light flared, glowing brighter as a figure came toward him.

  Haegan hesitated, feeling the embers churning still. All too ready to use them again. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “You are inordinately gifted,” came a deep voice. Familiar. Yet . . . distant. Seconds later, the man came into focus.

  “Grand Marshal Dromadric.” Had he seen the eruption of Haegan’s anger?

  “Leaving so soon, my prince?”

  Next to the Fire King, the grand marshal was above all, and as such, Haegan struggled to find balance in how to speak or act before him. But the elabo
rate overcloak seemed to sweep in the bitter scent he’d detected before. What was that?

  Next to Dromadric, I am nothing. The thought filled his mind. “I beg your mercy, but . . . I seek solitude.”

  “I would imagine so after training all day with Adomath.”

  Was this a trap? Haegan would not trust any accelerant—except Drracien. And Thurig. “He is well-versed at prying the worst from me.”

  Dromadric chuckled. “He is good at that with most everyone, but he is also a very skilled accelerant.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “But he is not schooled in how to train the Fierian.”

  Was that a jibe? Mocking?

  “Do you realize what you did in the end, when you let yourself loose?”

  “I didn’t—” The glass. He didn’t want to think about it. “I . . . It’s never happened before.”

  For several long seconds, Dromadric studied him. “Tell me, have you wielded before on sand?”

  Sand? His mind tumbled through all the places he’d practiced and trained. The yard. The patio at Nivar. The forest. “No, most always on grass. Sometimes rock or gravel.”

  Dromadric gave an appreciative nod. “Do you know how you created the glass?”

  Haegan hesitated. He knew lightning strikes on the beach sometimes created a pure glass. But . . . that was different.

  “You superheated the sand—sparked with your anger, you made glass. Maybe anger isn’t your problem.”

  “You mock me.”

  “Most certainly not. Especially not with the power you hold without putting a thought to it.” Dromadric had a tall walking stick, which he switched to his other hand. “Would you humor me for a moment and return to the training yard?”

  Annoyance rippled through Haegan. “I am tired.”

  “I promise this will be worth the remnants of your strength.” Dromadric was already walking.

  Haegan stood in the darkness, irritated. Why would they not simply leave him alone?

  Mercies of Abiassa—he could do with Thiel’s calming touch right about now. Hold her and pretend this training yard did not exist. That the glass had never happened. When he finally returned to the fading daylight, he found Dromadric standing in the middle of the yard, without his walking stick.