by Ronie Kendig
“Don’t think because you stunted his volley, that I owe you anything.”
Haegan frowned. Had he said anything like that?
“You’re a weak scourge, Fierian.”
The insult cut. But Henem’s words tugged at him—Degra used strategy. Got in her opponent’s head, defeated her foe. Was that her plan? To make him doubt himself? Too bad he didn’t have the ability or training to inflame her thoughts.
“They should take your throne away.”
“Angering me only makes my gift more powerful, Degra.”
“Does it?” She arched an eyebrow. “Show me.”
Her greedy gleam made him realize he’d given away a tactic. Yes, he was more powerful, but he was also less focused. Less able to control what happened. It just sort of . . . happened. As if someone else controlled the wielding.
He should distract her. Over her shoulder, Tili wielded with Cypal Webst. “They seem a good pair.” Only because of the comment Degra made in the Sanctuary did he take that route. Her pandering to the prince, whom he’d once called friend.
She looked back, holding the wake between her fingers. Then without looking at him, she flicked the ball.
Haegan quenched it and tossed it at her.
Hand up, she bounced it back.
Was he dead yet? Because that would be better than this. Bored. So bored. So annoyed. He hated it. Hated sparring. Poired was out there raping the land and killing citizens of the Nine and Haegan was here . . . vying for a throne.
The gong rang again, and he headed toward the deck.
“Now we begin the inflaming trials,” Adomath said. “Kenro, report to the grand marshal’s chamber. The rest of you—lunch. You’ll eat and study until you are called.”
Tili moved with purpose out of the yard, narrowly avoiding bumping Haegan’s shoulder. Haegan gritted his teeth. But . . . up in the viewing stand, he noticed something. He wasn’t sure what, but his mind had snagged on it. He scanned the faces. Saw no one he knew. Of course. Only family members were allowed—Thiel could have come, but she hadn’t. And Haegan had no family here.
His thoughts jumped to Kaelyria. How was she?
The face.
Haegan hyperfocused. Darted his gaze over each person. His mind registered shock—Drracien? He stood behind someone.
Just then, like a wisp of smoke, Drracien disappeared.
“Thin-blood,” came Tili’s taunting call.
Haegan looked back.
“Food. Ye’re a little pale.”
Anger plucked at Haegan, but before he moved, he again checked the stand. Drracien wouldn’t be foolish enough to come here. Would he?
Haegan stowed his specially-treated gear to protect against burns, and headed out. He walked the narrow boardwalk between the training yard and the Citadel. The boardwalk had plastered walls on both sides that were kept in pristine condition. Even the locked doors were highly polished Caorian oak, a very expensive wood he’d only seen in Fieri Keep and Nivar Hold. Haegan came upon one, scanning the carved images. A battle scene. Zaelero.
Would he ever rise to be as great? Or would he shame the name of his ancestor?
As the thoughts and questions tumbled in his mind, he noticed the lock. Not latched. Alarmed, he nudged it open. Peered carefully past the step that led down into a meadow, the warmer weather just coaxing new life from the grass. A half league away, a copse of trees provided twiggy shade.
A figure moved there. Female.
Wait. He craned his head. “Thiel?” His heart skipped a beat, though he reminded himself he was angry with her. But had she been waiting? To apologize? He checked both sides of the boardwalk, then plunged into the field, shutting the door behind him. If someone locked it, he’d be caught.
But he didn’t care.
He jogged across the open field. “Thiel?”
To the right, she moved deeper into the trees.
Haegan slowed as he came upon her spot. “Why are you seeking me out? I thought—” He stopped short. The face wasn’t familiar. No—it was. But not Thiel’s. “Who—”
From the side. He felt it. A shift in the air. In the tension of the way the breeze moved. Haegan lifted a hand. Pain scored his cheek. Flung him backward. His head thudded against a tree. He slid sideways.
The attacker was on him. Pinned him to the ground and threw another punch. Haegan remembered Aselan’s training. He thrust two fingers at the attacker’s throat and the man fell away.
Haegan pulled himself up.
Saw a glint of steel. They were going to kill him! “Augh!” He threw up his hand. The next few seconds blurred. The attacker swung back and upward, somehow suspended in the air above him, hand extended with the dagger.
Haegan scrabbled away, finally looking at his attacker’s face—and stilled. “I—I know you.”
A girl. Eyes were frantic, but she didn’t move.
That’s when he realized he’d somehow haloed her as Thurig had done to him many, many times. Haegan snatched the blade, his touch breaking the halo. She dropped hard, her forehead bouncing off the ground. She rolled to the side and moaned.
The man was on his feet.
Haegan set his right foot back and held the dagger toward him. “Stand down, or I will kill you.”
“With dagger or fire?”
Haegan flexed his jaw. “Whatever it takes.” And it hit him, the sprigs of new foliage behind the man. The girl. “You . . . you two were at the Great Falls.”
The girl came off the ground, heel of her hand to her chin, stretching her jaw.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Easy.” The man motioned placating hands at Haegan. “We’re not here to kill you.”
The girl shot him a look of surprise.
Sister. That’s right. “Your sister disagrees.” What was her name again? He’d only heard it once, but it was something like Asteria.
“Astadia wants to kill you for beating her.”
Yeah. Astadia. She was a lot like Thiel. Not as pretty, but just as feisty. Haegan flipped her dagger. Holding the blade, he extended it to her.
Her eyes widened as she tentatively took it.
“You aren’t here to kill me?”
Astadia looked to her brother. Shook her head.
The brother sighed. “Our intention is not to harm you—”
“Good, since you gave your word at the Falls not to harm me or my friends.” He shrugged. “So, you lured me out here for what purpose?”
“We are to take you back to Iteveria.”
Haegan blinked. “I will go nowhere with you.”
Shouts went up from the training yard. His name carried on the wind.
“They’ve noticed I’m missing,” Haegan said. “If I were you, I would leave the city before I have time to alert the Sentinels or Jujak.”
The man took a step forward, hands still out wide in a gesture of peace. “If I could have just a word first . . .”
42
Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
As soon as the thin-blood entered, Tili locked onto him. It’d taken Haegan too long to walk from the yard to the chow hall. Tili lowered his fork when he spotted the knot on his cheekbone. And a scrape. What happened?
Haegan accepted a plate of food from the server and made his way to an empty table, where he sat at an angle, shouldering Tili out of his view. His head low, he scooted the food around his plate, not really eating. What weighed on the prince’s mind? Who had he encountered that left reminders, yet did not provoke the prince to report the incident?
Tili lifted his plate. Stood and moved to the table with Haegan. He slid it down. “To whom do I owe the thanks?”
Though Haegan’s gaze slipped a peek, he did not raise his head. Or respond. Lips went tight. Jaw muscle twitched beneath fuzz.
Settling on the bench, Tili hooked his arms around his plate, focused on the prince. “The knot—looks like ye got punched. Who can I thank?”
Haegan jerked his hea
d down. “Nobody. I walked into a door.”
Now he lies. “The Contenders will enjoy hearing that,” Tili said, finishing off his bland meal, missing Ybiennese food, with its spices and meats and vegetables. “Ye’re making it too easy for them.”
“Them?” Haegan stabbed a small piece of meat and lifted it to his mouth. “Or you? And what do you care as long as you win?”
“So ’tis fair to be petulant and shame yer father?”
“Don’t,” Haegan growled.
Tili held his gaze. Let the prince think what he would about Tili’s motives. But he would not abide abuse toward the prince or any of those he considered family or friend. That he’d been attacked and hadn’t reported it . . . “Who punched ye?”
“I told you—”
“Ye lied.” Chin tucked, he drove his gaze into Haegan. “I saw more strength in ye in Ybienn than here. I know not what’s chipping away at ye, but get yer head on straight or ye guarantee losing that Fire Throne, Princeling.”
Haegan’s gaze flickered. “That would make it easier for you, so why do you care?”
“I do not need anything made easy for me. But the Contending—’tis not only about wielding, thin-blood. ’Tis the head—and ye have a good one, if ye dare use it.”
“Why are you doing this? Why come for the throne? You don’t even like the Southlands.”
Tili nearly looked away. But he must focus the prince. “Where were ye? What took ye so long to come from the training yard?” Maybe another tactic would work. “If ye were with my sister, blazes help me, I will put ye down.”
Haegan scoffed. “You think she did this to me?”
“She didn’t?”
“It wasn’t Thiel, but by the Lady, I wish it was. I’m so sick of this. Poired is out there, and we’re in here—sparring.”
“And ye are ready to face him?”
“Aye,” Haegan hissed.
Tili set a challenge in his eyes and barked, “Because ye finally have control of that gift?”
Shoving up, Haegan snorted. “I don’t need lectures. I would try, rather than hide in here with you, oath breaker. ”
“Ye should try something other than simpering and scurrying away like the tunnel rat Kiethiel calls ye.”
Haegan leaned over the table, breathing heavily.
Tili came up, meeting him. “If ye worked to deserve that gift ye have, if ye were focused on being the Fierian, ye would have a chance.” He straightened, stepped back, then tapped the metal plate. “This Contending will prove one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That any one of us on that throne is better than ye!”
• • •
Heat warbled around his hands, surging from the pit of his stomach as he watched Tili stride away. Haegan flexed his fingers, the Northlander’s reprimand ringing in his ears. It been the final knife to his courage. As if Astadia’s dagger had cut through him. He wished it had. Then he would be dead. Freed of this curse.
“It’s not true,” came a soft voice from his left.
Haegan shifted his gaze enough to see the sleeve of Henem’s tunic beside him. He felt the wood bench creak as she joined him.
“I wouldn’t be better,” she said. “I might have abilities with the Flames, but I’m not a ruler. Much to my father’s dismay.”
If she was looking to someone for binding, she was aiming at the wrong target.
Henem leaned closer, her hair brushing against his arm. “Did you know—”
Why wouldn’t she just leave him alone? He huffed and turned to her. “I am pledged.” Not technically but close enough.
She drew up. “I beg your mercy?”
“I’m pledged to someone else. I love her.” Though he was furiously angry with her. But he held his ground with Henem.
“As am I. We marry at the next full moons.” Her brows rippled in confusion. “Wait—you thought—” She laughed.
Haegan punched to his feet and stalked away. Only as he moved did he see Kenro sitting at the table with his head in his heads, his expression blank. Beside him, Ociliama rubbed his back.
Haegan hesitated.
Ociliama shook her head.
Inflaming. Why would the marshals let those already interviewed return to the mess hall?
To scare us.
Haegan stalked out of the dining hall. The inflaming was all about manipulating thoughts. Dromadric had done that to him already. It’d been terrifying, but . . . not terrible.
“They use your worst fears.”
He stopped and looked over his shoulder to Degra, who sat on the half wall, her legs hugged to her chest the way Thiel often did, all trace of her former animosity gone. “Who does?”
“The high lord and grand marshal—they draw out your greatest fear.”
He turned toward her, noting the way she drew away from him. “You’ve already been?”
A nod.
“What is the point of exposing a fear?”
“To see how you react to your worst dreams. To simply know what that fear is, so we face it.”
But it was handy information for the grand marshal to know everyone’s fear, wasn’t it? “Dromadric did that to me in the training yard a couple of days ago—used a fear against me to exploit my gift.”
“Are you really the Fierian?”
Haegan shook his head and lifted his shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “So they say.”
“In Kerral, they teach that the Fierian is the savior. He’ll free us from the plagues.”
Haegan snorted. “How?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. But there’s always an illness of some kind. The air is rife with it, and the waters are contaminated. It’s why most are leaving.”
“But my father spoke highly of Kerral. He loved it there—the rugged terrain. How long has it been like that?”
“Last two years. It’s bad. I was so relieved with Mistress Kedulcya plucked me from the training yard.”
“Prince Haegan!” Adomath called across the courtyard.
Haegan spotted Adomath standing at the entrance to the high tower, where the offices and classrooms were.
“Your turn,” Degra said.
Haegan started toward the high lord, but Degra caught his arm.
“Just remember,” she whispered, “You’re only as strong as you think you are.”
Which meant he wasn’t strong at all.
43
Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
Blindfolded, Haegan was led through a maze of passages. But then the hand of his guide fell away and Haegan waited. A cool breeze swirled around him, tinged with a spicy—that spicy—scent. He’d really grown to hate the chill in the air away from the Lakes of Fire. “What is that smell?” he muttered to himself.
But wait . . .
The last time he felt that chill someone had been wielding. The incipients in Baen’s Crossing. As he remained in place, the temperature dropped. So . . . the strange chill and smell. Were they associated with incipient wielding?
No, that wasn’t possible. He stood in the great Citadel.
An ache spread up his neck. Freezing yet burning. His head—his head throbbed, like his brain was swelling and pushing against his skull. Haegan gritted his teeth against the sensation, turning his head to try to ward it off. He rubbed the base of his neck, trying to loosen the knot that sent shooting pain up into his head.
A taste, bitter and minty, coated his tongue.
Nausea swirled.
Haegan fisted his hand, braced against it. He would not be sick. No weakness. He must fight. Must retain the right to the Fire throne.
Why? You don’t want it.
It was true. He didn’t want it. He’d shown himself to be more than incapable. He disgraced his father’s name, shamed him. His father, the mighty Fire King. One of the most powerful since Baen. And he had Haegan for a son.
Failure. Embarrassment.
“You can remove the blindfold,” a voice spoke calmly.
Haegan tugged it off. Blinked rapidly as he took in the setting. The training yard. He groaned. Must he show his ineptitude again? The gates squeaked and his heart hitched. No, not again.
Six massive icehounds, their fur dingy gray and eyes glowing, stalked him as they emerged from the shadows.
Wait. They’re not real. He remembered. Dromadric had done this before. Haegan relaxed, though his mind wrestled with what it saw, what it smelled.
Smelled? He didn’t recall a smell last time.
The closest one snapped.
Haegan watched it, not moving. He’d be strong. Show them. Besides, this was conjured from his fears. Did they think he wouldn’t remember this scenario?
Another lunged into the air.
For fun, Haegan flicked a spark.
The icehound came unheeding.
It’s not real. It’s not real. Instinct drew up his arm.
The hound clamped on. He stared in confused horror as the icehound’s teeth sank into his flesh. White-hot pain streaked through him. “Augh!”
He dropped to his knees, the agony unbearable. The teeth were like blades; all sliced his skin at once.
Alarm shot through him. The hounds were real. He had to protect himself. They’d tricked him. He flung up his arm. Light exploded and with a yelp his arm was free. Haegan searched the yard. The hounds that remained lay unmoving.
A man bent over one of the bodies.
Blond hair. Green tunic. Tri-tipped flame and crown.
The man rose, slowly turned.
“Father!” A tickling sensation in his forearm reminded him of the bite. He wrapped it with the tail of his shirt as he started forward.
Flames roared, separating them.
He lifted a hand to protect his face, arching away from the inferno. No, this wasn’t possible. His father was dead. Killed by Poired. Was the fire real? Each step he took made the heat hotter. The flames louder.
That’s when he noticed his father yelling something. Waving him back. “No, don’t come for me.” He then turned and knelt at the hound again.
Only it wasn’t a hound. “Thiel!” She lay curled on her side, her dark hair spilling over the ground. And blood. So much blood.
