by Ronie Kendig
“When you threw your hands out, your anger roiling, did you think?”
Haegan blinked. “What?”
“Did you think? Or did you just do it?”
“I just . . . wanted Adomath to stop ridiculing me.”
Dromadric nodded with a near smile. “Indulge me—tell me the story of the Ematahri you killed.”
Affronted, Haegan took a step back.
Dromadric held out a staying hand. “I pass no judgment. Please—tell me what led to it, and what happened.”
“They were attacking me and my friends. We had done nothing wrong, save mistakenly entering their territory. Five against dozens.”
“They bore down on you?”
Haegan nodded.
“Then what?”
“I only . . .” He couldn’t make sense of it. “I only meant to protect us.”
“You wanted them to stop.”
“Aye.”
Dromadric made a grunt at the back of his throat, his eyes on Haegan. Studying him as if he were a horse for purchase. He was intrigued. Curious.
The scraping of metal against metal drew Haegan’s attention. A dozen steel gates around the yard pulled up, leaving dark, gaping maws. Growling emerged before the heads of the—
“Icehounds.” Haegan stepped back, the earlier taste again in his mouth. “What . . . ?”
Growling hounds stalked. But these were not the highly trained breed he’d seen in Legier’s Heart. These . . . these had fire in their eyes. A thirst for blood.
“What happened?” Dromadric asked, whirling around with indignation. “Who opened the gates! Shut them!”
Immediately, they slid shut. Too late! And a mistake—now Haegan and the grand marshal were enclosed in the yard with the beasts. Haegan’s heart shot into his throat as the dogs homed in on them. Circled. Foam dripped from their jowls. Razor-sharp teeth bared. He threw himself backward, bumping against the grand marshal with a yelp. “Help!”
There’s no one there. The thought thumped his mind, and in a split-second check, he confirmed it. The observation deck sat empty.
We’re going to die.
“Get back,” Haegan shouted to the grand marshal. “Go for one of the tunnels.”
“We haven’t time,” Dromadric said, his voice even.
“How can you be so calm?”
“They feed on our fear.”
Haegan started at the words.
A hound lunged.
Haegan flashed out a hand. Felt the dog’s hot breath and heard the jaws snap. In a blink, the dog was gone.
Another from the left. No—two. Haegan stabbed at the first. The dog yelped and vanished in a puff. The other, however, latched on this arm. “Augh!” He flicked his wrist, and the dog flew, engulfed in a ball of fire. Ash fluttered to the ground.
Before he could even register it, Haegan felt the attack from behind. Like a prickling along his nape. He roared as he stretched his back, throwing out his arms, hands fisted. Breathing hard, terrified, adrenaline coursing through his body, he pivoted. Turned a circle. The training yard lay empty. His heart thundered.
Dromadric stood with assessing eyes.
I just killed five dogs. “I . . . I think they’re . . . gone.” ’Twas cruel. “Why use dogs for training? ’Tis heartless.”
“Yes,” Dromadric finally spoke. “It would be. If they were real.”
“What do you mean—they were! I felt their breath on my face.” He lifted his right forearm. “One clamped onto—” Haegan stopped short. Stared at his arm. His unaffected, unbitten arm. No marks. Not a scratch. He blinked. Turned his arm over. “I heal . . . quickly . . .”
“That may be true, but there was no bite to be healed.”
“I . . . I don’t understand.”
“The icehounds were in your mind, Haegan. I merely inflamed your thoughts, your fears.”
Inflamed my fears? “That’s not possible.” Yet he knew it was. Had heard of accelerants with that much power. The thought terrified him.
“Not for an untrained accelerant, and the practice of inflaming is not allowed for any but the highest of our Order, but it was necessary.”
“Necessary?” Haegan felt spittle at the corners of his mouth, tears burning his eyes. “Why? Am I dog that I must do tricks now?”
“No, what you are is the most powerful accelerant I have ever encountered.” Dromadric stepped closer, tilting his head to the side. “Haegan, you don’t need training because your abilities far outwield any in this Citadel, perhaps even mine.”
“Even if that were true, I can’t control it. Conquer it.”
“Conquer it?” Dromadric sniffed. “My boy, anger is your fuel. As for control—well, you might not be able to spark others the way children do to each other, or split a flame into multiple parts—yet—but you can control it. The Flames did exactly what you, from your thoughts, told them to do with the icehounds. Each scenario where you’ve had this great explosion of power, the Flames obeyed. They protected. Yours is not an ambivalent gift meant to police the realm, as most here have.”
Destroyer. Hated. Murderer.
A spicy, pungent smell struck Haegan’s senses. Probably something used to kill the odor of the training yards. “If I cannot split a vein of fire into four parts . . . how am I to be the Fire King—”
“Fire King is a different matter.” Something flickered through Dromadric’s expression, but Haegan wasn’t sure what. “But the Fierian is meant to destroy. It was written that in the days when darkness overtakes the land, Her anger would be the answer.” The grand marshal patted Haegan. “That’s you.”
“But I can’t . . .” Life was too precious.
“You already have. It has begun, whether you would have it or not. But do not lose heart in the Contending—”
“The Contending.” He’d forgotten. Of course. There was always a Contending. His father and Thurig had battled it out. All his forebears had. But he’d . . . forgotten. Or secretly hoped he wouldn’t have to participate.
How am I to be the Fire King if I cannot remember the laws?
“Yes—fear not. Losing the Fire Throne does not diminish your task as Fierian.”
“Losing?” Haegan met the grand marshal’s eyes. So, even the greatest accelerant had little faith in his abilities. I do not belong here.
Haegan had the strong desire to sneeze, thanks to the pungent odor again.
“You are chosen as Fierian, Prince. Be grateful. I am sure your father would not fault you—after all, you’ve had no formal training. We cannot expect a boy to become a man overnight, even if he is the Fierian. You were probably Her choice because of your inexperience.”
• • •
Gwogh pulled himself into the shadows as the tall form of the grand marshal cast a shadow at his feet. Dromadric soon swept past the dark alcove that concealed Gwogh and strode down the corridor. Earthy, pungent odors trickled into the air. And it wasn’t the straw-strewn floor he smelled.
Grief tore at Gwogh, who waited until the passage was empty once more, then peeked into the training yard. The prince sat on the edge of the dais, holding his sweaty tunic. Head down, shoulders slumped, he looked defeated.
I have failed you, my prince.
Gwogh had known for a decade the boy would be the Fierian. He’d trained and tutored to equip him with the best knowledge. Challenged him in duels of wit to prepare him to face any political adversary. But he had not prepared him for the one thing he must face first—himself.
Warmth spiraled around Gwogh, sending a strange chill up his spine. The scent was sweet, aromatic, specific—it pulled him around. Though he knew what—whom—to expect, his heart still wobbled, as did his confidence. Abiassa knew every thought. She knew he had failed. Was it time for judgment?
Wrapped in shadow but also in light, the august Deliverer met him with a steady, piercing gaze that he felt to his toes.
Gwogh inclined his head. “I am here but to serve.”
“Fear not for the boy,�
�� Medric said. “She has ordered his steps.”
“Then you heard—” The Deliverer did not need to hear. His kind walked the Void and talked with Abiassa. “I fear Dromadric attempts to turn the boy against the path. I believe he hopes Haegan will fail the Contending.”
“The Contending is a tool of man.”
Heartsick still, Gwogh nodded. “But you know—you know Dromadric . . .” To speak it, to give voice to the evil he had just witnessed, the twisting of words and Legacies, Prophecies . . .
Medric said nothing.
So he did know. Of course he did. “Then why have you not delivered us from his faithlessness, prevented him from infecting Haegan—the Fierian—with doubts?”
“Trials are wrought by fire, not by deliverance.”
“But you intervened regarding Baede.”
“You question Her?”
Gwogh sighed, struggling to tame his response that was spoken in truth and frustration. “Nay.”
“It is hard to understand Her ways when your eyes are darkened by your own pursuits and blurred by the cares of this world,” Medric spoke, his voice seeming to be everywhere at once. “Give care not to the empty pursuits that will bring Dromadric down, but to the purpose She has given you, Gwogh.”
Desperation clung to hem of Gwogh’s robes like the dust and dirt of the passage. He wore them heavily, weighting his heart, mind, and abiatasso. “I beg your mercy,” he muttered, not to the Deliverer, but to Abiassa.
“Your heart is right, Gwogh. This is why She chose you.” Medric gave a nod, something severe snapping through his vibrant eyes. “However, the throne must be protected so that darkness does not seep in through cracks while the world looks to the east.”
“How?” Gwogh moved forward a step, hope sparking in his chest. “How can it be protected?”
“You will find the answer in Baen’s Blood Oath.”
37
Outside Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
A rich green canopy dangled overhead, embracing Trale and protecting them both from the elements. He held the stone, wondering if perhaps the Infantessa had protected them. It might make sense. From the growth of stubble on his own chin, he judged they’d been unconscious for several days.
They had wound the eastern path to Hetaera on the mules they’d found tethered outside the small hut. The old man and youth were gone. In their place—food, fresh clothes, and a few coins. When he and Astadia had finally sorted out how long they’d been out of it, they’d raced through the city, scurrying to make up the time lost.
“I don’t like it,” Astadia said as they paused at the lip of the woods and stared over the open valley. A short rise predicated the great city. The tops of buildings peeking over looked deceptively small. “Things are wrong.”
He’d felt it, too, but she looked for reassurance, and they could not afford hesitation now. “You’re only saying that because it was easy.”
“Yes,” she bit out. “Who leaves money and mules and clothes for strangers? Two badly injured strangers? And how are our injuries nearly whole?”
“Your complaining is injuring my ears.” It didn’t make sense—she was right. And he didn’t have answers. At least not ones someone in possession of their faculties would believe. What good would it to do throw out meaningless theories?
Trale dismounted and led the mule off trail. “We should walk from here.”
“The spire,” Astadia said. “Look!”
He glanced through the trees and squinted, the sun unrelenting this morning. But he saw the Spire of Zaelero, and on it—the Celahar standard. “Infantessa be praised.”
Astadia whipped toward him. “‘Infantessa be praised?’ You jest!”
Trale swallowed. “His standard—it means the prince is there.”
“Aye, but that has nothing to do with the Infantessa.”
He didn’t know why he’d intoned her name. It embarrassed him, but he didn’t need his sister’s jabbing. “He isn’t king yet—there will be an entire process, approval by the Council of Nine, the induction, then his formal coronation.” He slung his pack over his shoulder. “We need to get him before any of that happens.”
“Are you crazy?” Astadia lifted her leg over and slid off the mule. “We won’t get anywhere close to him now that they intend to set him in.”
“We’ll find a way.”
“How? It’ll be impossible.”
He spun to her. “Since when have you been such a complainer? When did you decide the life of an assassin was too difficult? It’s adventure, remember? That’s what you said.”
“It was a way out—of the boredom and abuse,” Astadia growled. “We agreed to do this and save our lots until we could escape. A way out of that man’s clutches and prison. I would’ve done anything to be rid of that place and him.”
“And you have, so don’t grow a conscience now. The Infantessa wants Haegan, and we’ll bring him to her.”
“But why? What does she want him for?”
“I think she wants to save him.” Trale wasn’t sure where the words came from, but once spoken, they seemed truer.
Astadia scoffed. “You cannot believe that.”
“I do. She was . . . earnest.” Beautiful. Sensuous. He wanted to get this done and return to her as quickly as possible. “I didn’t detect malice from her.”
“But you detected her curves, no doubt. Took a clout to the knees because of your wandering eyes.” She touched her temples, shaking her head. “Did we meet the same Infantessa?”
“Are you jealous, Astadia?”
“What?” Her green eyes bulged. “You’re my brother—why would I be jealous?”
“If I do this for her, she might favor me. Invite me to stay at her court.”
Stilled, she frowned. “Have you lost your faculties? You are nothing but a hired killer to her. She says go, you go. She says kill, you kill.”
“And if she keeps me—”
“Keeps you?” She slapped the back of his head.
“Hey!”
“What is wrong with you? Whatever that old man gave you to eat must’ve been drug laced. We are saving to escape, Trale. Do you recall?”
He scowled. “Of course I do . . . but . . . we don’t have enough resources.” Trale shrugged, wondering if she was right. Had the old man drugged his drink or food? It would explain why he’d slept so hard. And long. Days, they’d slept. But he’d woken refreshed. Not hung over or battered, despite the injuries. “Regardless, we have a mission. Whether Poired sends us on it or the Infantessa—we obey. As they command.”
He slapped the flank of the mule, who nickered but didn’t move. “We have a prince to catch.”
• • •
Legier’s Heart, Northlands
From this snowy vantage, he could stare across the realms. It seemed a thousand leagues spread out, intersected by the forests of Ybienn and the mountains of the Great Falls. Spring was fanning its warm breath over the more southern plains. But here, on the mountain, a blanket of snow still held spring at bay.
Aselan lifted a foot and set it against a boulder, then leaned an arm on his leg as he contemplated the political changes of the Nine Kingdoms. Of the prince who’d gone out from Ybienn a week earlier. Made of sturdier mettle than he realized, Haegan still had much to learn. And he was facing one colossal nightmare. Scouts had brought word that Poired was marching toward Hetaera. If he took that . . .
The subtle crunch of a boot alerted him to company. When no further noise was made, Aselan knew who’d joined him. Few knew of his thinking spot. “Have ye come to reprimand me again?”
A snort. “I could no more reprimand ye than we can tame the raqine.” Byrin came closer, his boots crunching in the foot-deep snow that washed the area in a pristine blanket of crystal-white. “Ye look to the south.”
Aselan nodded.
“Because of the princess?”
Pushing up, Aselan scowled at his first. “I look to the south because a powerful enemy wag
es war there. I weigh our future, our options.” He planted his feet firmly and stuffed his cold hands in the pockets of his heavy cloak.
“Think he’ll take Hetaera?”
Aselan’s gaze traced the distant terrain—just beyond that lay the thriving country and its extravagant capital. “He is powerful and shrewd. Hetaera must be taken to solidify his hold on the Nine. If he succeeds . . .”
“The Nine are lost,” Byrin finished his thought.
“He is a gifted accelerant, cowed into service by Sirdar, a Void Walker, if ever there was one. The Nine are headless and thrashing for direction.” That very morning he’d received word of the Contending. He almost pitied Haegan. Aselan had enough to contend with in the Heart. He did not envy the thin-blood the troubles of nine realms.
“Void Walkers are supposed to be the hand of Abiassa.”
“Think ye that only the good walk there? It’s a chasm between worlds.” Aselan scratched his beard, then smoothed a hand over it. “If Sirdar is to stake his claim as supreme ruler, Poired must break the backs of the Ignatieri as much as the governors. And that can only be completed in Hetaera.”
“What of the princess?”
Aselan sighed. “Ye are relentless in mentioning her.”
“But it must be asked—she is the heir to Seultrie.”
“A right she has surrendered, as a cripple and stripped of her gift.”
“So ye do not think her a threat?”
With a scoff, Aselan folded his arms over his chest, still watching the horizon. “A threat to what?”
Byrin gave him a shrewd look. “Then ye no longer believe ‘It would be foolish to not at least consider the possibilities’?”
Aselan turned a scowl on him.
Byrin raised his hands in mock surrender. “Yer words, Cacique.”
“And I meant them. But she has been here over a month now and caused no stir.”
“Except among the men.”
With an acknowledging nod, Aselan ignored the tightening in his stomach. The thought of anyone bothering her . . . “I am not surprised. She is beautiful.” And alluring and intelligent.
“I came upon her in the cantina,” Byrin said. “She asked of our plans to defend against attack.”
