Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  Did she? “What did ye tell her?”

  “That she need not worry.”

  “And that went well, I’m sure.”

  “She said she was not worried. She had ideas.”

  Aselan arched his eyebrows.

  “They ain’t half bad, either,” Byrin conceded.

  “What’s this?” Aselan laughed. “Are ye going soft on her?”

  Byrin huffed. “’Tis her own fault—batting those snowy-blues around.”

  A smile tugged at Aselan. It made sense—why Byrin saw her as a threat. Aselan could relate. She was infectious. He had given her more thought than he should, considering the situation and wars springing up around the planet. But ’twas of no use to speak of her. To entertain thoughts of her. “Things are changing. I never thought I’d see the day when the Rekken would come out and brazenly attack Langeria.”

  “Ye think they’ll come here?”

  “There is no reason for them to come,” Aselan said, but then added, “except for a show of might. And that has always been their vice.” Thick clouds clung to the mountain peak, shielding the men from the sun and blue sky. “We should be on alert. Train harder.”

  “But we’re here, in the Heart. No one has ever dared attack.”

  “And that is why we must expect it. We are not impenetrable or impervious.”

  “But we have the safeguards.”

  “And far too few men.” It had always been a struggle to keep a decent band of fighters ready when the few men within the Heart were also farmers, tanners, blacksmiths, and herbalists. And women had outnumbered men for generations. Even he had no heir. Neither did Byrin or his brother.

  “This mean ye’ll be placing yer dagger at Etaesian’s Feast?”

  Turning, he slapped Byrin on the shoulder. “Ye first.”

  “Oh, I intend to.”

  Aselan stopped short and considered the burly man. “In earnest?”

  “Aye,” Byrin said, his expression serious. “I’m no young man, and as ye said—we need more men.”

  Startled at the thought of Byrin binding himself to a woman, Aselan searched for a response. “Have ye someone in mind?”

  Byrin, close to Aselan’s thirty-four years but grayer and burlier, dropped his gaze. Guilt. Embarrassment. What was this? Who . . . ?

  Ah. “The princess.” Why did that annoy Aselan?

  “Ye know well the women choose,” Byrin groused. “And the likes of her probably won’t have nothing to do with a mountain goat like me, but . . .”

  “I would not be so sure.” And that annoyed Aselan more. Kaelyria had dismantled every preconceived notion he held of her. She was sturdier than he’d expected, more resilient, more intelligent. More beautiful. “Her will is strong.”

  “There’s that,” Byrin said with a frown. “But ’tis her royal blood and titles. She wouldn’t have someone as lowborn as meself. And I’m not sure I could tolerate her highborn ways and demands.”

  “’Tis not a fault, simply a fact, but here”—Aselan nodded to the cleft rising above them—“she seems settled and content not to be highborn.”

  Byrin stared at him, then grinned. “So I have a chance?”

  “Why would ye ask me? I have no idea what chance ye or any other dozen men have.”

  “Then why ye be fisting yer hand?”

  Surprised, Aselan slid his hand back in his pocket. “I have work to do—as do ye. How’s the nest?”

  “Quiet. I think ’tis nearly time.”

  Aselan nodded, making his way through the snow-laden thicket back to the hidden entrance to the Heart. But he glanced to the south one more time, his worry complete about being tangled up in the war.

  “Tell me we’ll avoid engaging,” Byrin muttered as he climbed the rope ladder.

  “As long as we can.” They descended into the Heart. The two parted ways at the main juncture, and though Aselan felt a powerful tug to check in on the princess, he forced himself to his cave. There, he went over notes, scout reports, inventories. But his mind kept swinging south. War.

  He bent forward, rubbing his knuckles. What he wouldn’t give to seek his father for sage counsel. Talk to him, weigh options.

  Here, the men were ready to defend to the death their home, the Heart. But was there a way to avoid war? An honorable way? He had been set in power here because of his marriage, but it did not mean he was ably equipped. He hadn’t really thought of himself as inadequate—he’d long known he’d do anything for the Eilidan—but this . . . a single bad speck of judgment could eradicate every mountain dweller. That guilt would not only be carried through Eilidan history, but would be a black mark against his father and the Nivari, merely by blood-association. He’d shamed his father and Nivar enough already.

  “You look distressed.”

  Aselan raised his eyes only, peering beneath the rim of black curls shielding his face. How had she rolled that chair to his door without his hearing? He leaned back with a long-suffering sigh. “Much to consider in light of what’s happening in the Nine.”

  She held out her hand, asking if she could enter.

  Aselan started from his chair.

  Kaelyria flashed her palm and smiled. “I’m able.” White-blond hair swinging over her shoulder, she rolled up to his desk. “It’s nice to regain a little of my independence.”

  “Rightly so,” he said, his gut tight as her scent swirled around his head, tangling his thoughts. “I’m sure ye were quite independent in Seultrie.”

  She gave a groan-laugh. “You have no idea.” Hands in her lap, she sat as the epitome of elegance. “I’m sure Nanny said at least a few unkind words about me to the other servants.” Nose wrinkled, she scrunched her face. “I was quite spoiled. Things were perfect—I had all I wanted. My father was king.” Her voice broke. Eyes glossed. She looked away. “I beg your mercy. It was an unexpected thought.”

  Instinct told him to extend a hand of comfort. Instead, he sat rigid. “’Tis a fresh wound.”

  “Too fresh.” She brushed a tear from the corner of her eye. “I was even the perfect sister.” Shaking her head, she lifted the tail of her gold chain belt and feigned fascination. “In truth, I was pompous and selfish. Visiting my crippled brother made me feel like a good person, made me look good.”

  Aselan felt the frown slide across his face.

  “See?” She nodded. “There you have it—even you believe it selfish.”

  “Ye mistake my frown for disdain. Yer actions may have reflected well upon yer person and name, but I doubt ye did it solely for yer reputation. There is no doubt of yer love for Haegan. I believe ye to be resolute and true.”

  Did that sound like pandering? Flattery?

  Her blue eyes glittered at him. “It is no wonder you are cacique.”

  It surprised him how her words slid over his weary soul like a warm balm. “Why is that?”

  “You have a way with words—a dignified way—and with people.”

  He laughed, pleased she thought him dignified.

  “No, it’s true. I see how they respect you. Though you aren’t Eilidan by birth, you are their cacique and their loyalty is absolute.” She smiled. “I’ve had conversations in the cantina with Carilla, whom I believe has more than a few fond thoughts of you.”

  Heat climbed into Aselan’s face, dismissing the image of the young girl. “She’s but a child.”

  “She is of child-bearing age. Isn’t that what is important to a ruler?”

  “Not just.”

  “Well, she is not the only one who has bestowed generous praise on you or your appearance. I’ve heard some say you are handsome.”

  He could not help but stare into her pale eyes, searching after the answer to a question he dared not ask—had she thought that of him? She found him dignified, but that was far from handsome. He swallowed and shook his head to dislodge the thought. “Handsome does not protect the Heart or her people.”

  “So you embrace it?”

  He started. Did she think him vain?
“No, I—”

  “Peace, Aselan,” she said around a smile. “I tease you.”

  He breathed a laugh. “Aye, and well.”

  This time, she laughed. “My brother often said the same.” Uncertainty flickered through her gaze. “You mentioned the Nine—have you word of Haegan? Tell me what’s happening out there.”

  Should he tell her? About the giants, the Rekken, the incipients?

  “Think not to hide truth from me, no matter how painful. I read people better than most read the Parchments.” A smile wobbled on her pink lips. “Already I see in your eyes concern. Come. I would have the truth, Cacique.”

  Aselan leaned forward, his fingers grazing the sheer material covering her arm. “He is well—at least, that is the last report my scouts have.”

  Wary blue eyes held his. “You wouldn’t speak just to quiet my fears, would you?”

  He smiled. “I probably would, but in this, I speak truth. There was an altercation at Baen’s Crossing, but he is well. I’m sure, mentally, he’s challenged, though.”

  She frowned.

  “’Tis said yer brother summoned the giants back from the land of the ancients.”

  Kaelyria gaped. “You mean the Unauri—like Hoeff and Toeff?”

  He nodded. “Many witnesses give testament that the Drigo transformed into their advanced state.”

  “Vudd—but they lost that ability centuries ago.”

  “So ’tis said.”

  “You jest,” she said with a laugh. “This strains credulity.”

  “There is more, better.” Again, he nodded. “The Drigo wiped out a band of incipients, who ambushed yer brother and his friends. Then the leader of the giants silenced a faltering accelerant. Stripped him of his powers and robe right there.”

  She laughed. “How I would have loved to see that!” Her words were wistful and awed. “And the Nine?”

  “Poired advances toward Hetaera.”

  The princess sighed, worry weighting her ice-blues. She did not belong here, as much as he might will it. ’Twas more fitting that she be with her brother, her only family. Not among mountain dwellers and cold weather. She’d chosen to remain here to heal. And she had done that.

  “We should look into seeing ye down the mountain soon.”

  She cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure ’tis safe for me to see the passages? That I’m not a spy?”

  The words stung. He looked down. “That was a conversation I ­handled badly. I regret using the truth so.”

  “But it was still truth.” Her fingers brushed his arm, and he met her open gaze. “You were looking out for your people, and any good ruler would. I should not have let my emotions blind me.” With a sigh, she leaned back and looked away. “If you wish me to go, I will go. But”—she lifted a shoulder in a shrug—“I have nothing to go back to.” Her hand fluttered to the chair she sat in. “My . . . condition. They would look down on me. I would be no more than a pitiable creature there.”

  What was she saying? “’Tis yer home.”

  “I have no home now. It is besieged. Where would I live?”

  “Yer family keeps a house in Hetaera, does it not?”

  She looked down again. Swallowed. “I do not want to be pitied . . .” She placed her other hand on his, stirring something strange and deep in his gut. “I heard them. The unthinking, cruel comments hurled throughout the realm about Haegan, ‘the poor crippled prince.’ They only knew he could not use his body, not that his mind was sharp and alive.” Her gaze rose to his, saturated in wretched fear. “I do not want to live like that. I know it’s horrible to admit, but”—she wet her lips—“here, I am accepted. At least, as much as can be. I don’t feel . . . The people here are different, kind. They care.”

  He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not with her holding his hand. Hope clawed through him like spring on the mountain.

  She smoothed a hand over his and straightened her shoulders, the princess in her emerging once more. “I seek asylum and refuge with the Eilidan, Cacique. Will you grant me this request?”

  His heart thumped against his ribs with each breath.

  “Of course, it is not my will to retain”—she swallowed—“my titles here. I know that wouldn’t help my situation. I’d take on duties like everyone else. I mean, obviously I can’t do anything that requires standing, but I could write. Or translate reports. Or . . .”

  His mind tripped. Fell against the chasm his hope trod across. “Ye would embrace the way of the Eilidan?” A drum banged in his chest.

  Blue eyes snapped to his. “Yes.” Then she blinked. Seemed to gather the remnants of her dignity, modestly doused in embarrassment. “I mean—for a time. Perhaps just until Haegan settles somewhere, after the wars.”

  After the wars. His thoughts rampaged, plummeting down that chasm. He could hardly envision that future with the wars just starting. “Ye will have to request permission from the Ladies. My authority rests in protection and defense of the Heart. Theirs in everything else. If they approve, then I will present it before the Legiera, though I daresay that won’t be a problem.”

  “No? Why?”

  “Half have inquired if ye are eligible for Etaesian’s Feast.”

  Her cheeks reddened and she drew back, releasing his hand.

  “Have no fear. I assured them ye have no interest in taking an Eilidan as yer bound.”

  “I only just arrived . . .”

  He nodded. Of course. Focus on the asylum. “If ye will put it to paper, the request can be made—for asylum.”

  The smile that returned besieged his heart. The Lady help him—he’d probably do anything for this princess.

  38

  Icy blue eyes glared down at him, stunning Haegan with a silent reprimand. One he’d often perceived in those eyes. Chastisement. Disappointment. He had never lived up to the great warrior and statesman Zireli Celahar had become in his lifetime. And now in death, his father seemed greater than before, though his visage had been relegated to oil and canvas in the Honoring Hall of the Citadel.

  Larger than life. Fiercer than the Lakes of Fire. The Crown of Flames tangled amid citrines, the purest of stones on Primar, the representation of the abiatasso, sat atop his trim golden hair. Somehow, the fiery crown had seemed to enliven his father’s eyes—as if they needed enlivening—which were strikingly blue. Zireli had been the name and king who struck fear and respect into the heart of the Nine like no other since Baen. Even now, Haegan’s heart faltered, knowing he had failed him.

  Would that you were here to instruct me . . .

  But then it wouldn’t be Haegan facing the Contending. It wouldn’t be Haegan chosen as the Fierian.

  Abiassa had known. Known the enemy would kill his father. Steal everything Haegan had in life.

  “He was resplendent.”

  The kind voice turned Haegan toward the woman who stood a head shorter and considerably rounder. She had been in Thurig’s home. Been one of those who had upended his life with the confirmation of the Fierian prophecies. A Council member. Haegan glanced back to the painting. “Aye.”

  “Not practicing?”

  Haegan hesitated, pushing aside his annoyance as he slowly shook his head. “Between sessions.” He sighed, a weariness having dug itself bone-deep in him. “I beg your mercy—I recall meeting you in Ybienn, but . . .”

  “I am Kedulcya.” She motioned to the carpeted hall and started walking.

  He had neither the temperament to endure a lecture nor the energy to fight one. So he fell into step with her.

  “At the end of the week, the Contending will begin.”

  “Dromadric mentioned it.”

  Indignation flashed across her features. “Did he?”

  “Along with the truth that he did not believe me capable of winning.”

  Hands clasped beneath her ample bosom, Kedulcya could not hide her disappointment.

  It pained him that no one believed in him. Truth be told, he did not believe in himself. “I must win,
” he said, more to himself than the Councilwoman. “I do not want to be the first Celahar in two hundred years to fail.”

  “One hundred eighty-three.” As if it made a difference or lessened his shame. “What you must remember, young prince, is that all your forebears were trained nearly from infancy to win that throne.”

  “Your words are meant as comfort, but I must beg your mercy as it does nothing to dull the blow.”

  “No,” she said with a long sigh. “I supposed it would not. The Contenders will start arriving soon. I urge you to learn all that you can of each one. Were you to . . .” Her gaze darted around nervously.

  “Lose?” Anger and hurt writhed through Haegan’s chest.

  “It will be imperative that you form an alliance with the winner. I’ve already spoken to the other Council members to ensure ready and definitive support for you as Fierian.”

  Haegan could not believe his ears. “How well you have planned for my defeat, Kedulcya.”

  “I—”

  “If you have no further need to detain me, I would be alone with my thoughts and inabilities.”

  “Prince—”

  “Good day, ma’am.” He clapped his heels together and bowed, then pivoted and stormed out of the Honoring Hall, barely resisting the urge to send a furious spark against the canvas of his father’s image.

  • • •

  Nivar Hold, Ybienn

  Beneath each hand lay a cauldron of emptiness. Thiel stood at her wardrobe, one hand fingering the leather forearm plating with the braided bands, a sign—she had thought then—of Cadeif’s protection. The other hand held Haegan’s tunic from when he’d gone into the Great Falls. She’d delivered him to Ybienn for tending and healing, and the tunic had been discarded by the pharmakeia. Stained, torn, it resembled the prince more than ever.

  Uselessness created as big a hole in her as Haegan’s absence had.

  “Ye did well.”

  Thiel closed the drawer and shut the doors of the wardrobe, then turned to her mother. “When?” It felt strange, almost another symbolic gesture—putting the past, Haegan and Cadeif, behind her. But the former she didn’t want behind her. She wanted him in front of her. Right here.

  “Had ye not roused yer brother, he might have been too late to secure Yedriseth that night.” Her mother nodded to the hall. “Come, walk with me.”