Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  Haegan cared not what flames stood between them. He threw himself forward. Fire tore at his clothes. Singed them. But he was through.

  His father was gone. “Father?” Haegan looked around.

  No, he’s dead.

  But Thiel . . .

  She lay at his feet now, blood haloing her head. They wanted him to think he’d struck her with his blast. But he hadn’t. He’d struck the hound.

  Was she real? Or wasn’t she? He hated this game. Why keep throwing scenarios then erase them? It only strengthened his resolve not to be afraid.

  The hound was real. His father wasn’t.

  He had to know if Thiel was real. Haegan knelt . . . and stretched out a hand for her. But he drew it back, feeling foolish. She couldn’t be here. This was the inflaming.

  His stomach roiled. That smell filled his nostrils again.

  Haegan reached toward her. Touched her. Real. Soft, warm. “No!” He rolled her over. Her arm flopped to the side, limp. “No! Thiel, please!”

  But she wasn’t moving. Wasn’t breathing.

  “Please!” It couldn’t be true. “You can’t die!” He pulled her into his arms. Her lifeless form slumped against him.

  Anger roiled through him. He howled.

  Crack!

  Haegan blinked way the tears. Light flooded the training yard. He glanced about, confused at the change. But Thiel . . .

  He looked to her.

  And shoved back with a shout.

  She was gone. In her place a stuffed target.

  Haegan climbed to his feet. Swiped at the tears. Fought the anger. “This is useless,” he shouted. “Are you done yet?”

  Adomath emerged from a side chamber. “The test is over, Prince.”

  Breathing hard, shaking off the belief of Thiel’s death, he ground his teeth. “This is a waste of time.”

  “Everyone must be tested.” Adomath pointed to the boardwalk. “You can go now.”

  Exhausted, furious, Haegan huffed. Stomped out into the passageway.

  A howl rent the afternoon. Darkness spread over the sky. The claxon at the city gate sounded, its wail piercing. Shouts and orders rang out on the other side of the wall. Haegan scaled it and saw Jujak and Sentinels sprinting toward the main gates with shouts of “Poired!” and “The Dark One attacks!”

  Boom!

  A concussion pitched Haegan backward. He caught himself, then jumped from the wall. He sprinted through the streets, aiming for the main gate. People screamed and shoved. Dogs nipped at his heels.

  He pushed through, determined to make it to the front. He would not let Poired kill another person. Not one more.

  But you’re weak.

  Haegan slowed—then reprimanded himself. He could not be weak. Could not fail.

  Where were the Grindas and Negaer? Jujak clogged the streets, warning the people back into their homes.

  “No,” Haegan shouted, but his voice was lost in the chaos. “Not in their homes. To the fields!” If they stayed in the structures, they’d burn with them. “To the fields. Get to the fields!”

  But nobody listened. They ran. They screamed. They fell. They raged.

  Haegan must get to the gate. It was the only way to save Hetaera. To stop Poired and save the Nine as well. But it was like trying to wade through a churning sea, so thick were the citizens and panicked animals. They pushed against him. Forced him back.

  He shoved his hand forward, wielding. A path cleared, the people nudged out of his way. See? I can do it. Control. He had control.

  Within seconds, he was at the foot gate.

  General Grinda sat atop his horse.

  Wasn’t he too exposed? “General”—even as Haegan spoke the name, the general looked at him, then to the side—“you should move back.”

  Then Haegan followed the general’s gaze. Off to the right, Kaelyria sat in a wheeled chair. “No!”

  Arrows thudded into Grinda’s chest. A fireball knocked him off his mount. He dropped on a sea of people, who carried him away in their panic.

  “No! Nooo!” Haegan gripped his head. Not Grinda! He was like a father to him. He had to get to Kaelyria before—

  “Fierian,” a voice roared into the static din. “Face me!”

  Haegan swallowed, watching as the bridge cleared of people, toppling aside until Poired Dyrth was revealed in the act of beheading his sister.

  “Nooo!” Haegan’s gut churned. He felt sick.

  You’ll only fail.

  Poired grabbed Kaelyria’s bloodied head by the hair and lifted it from the ground, then cast it aside. “You’re the last Celahar, Prince. Let’s end this!”

  I can’t do it. Anger pushed him around the thought. He crossed his arms. Drew them to his sides. Then shoved out. The shot was perfect. Spirited straight toward Poired. Powerful. Thrumming.

  The Dark One froze. Looked shocked.

  But the flames rippled. Sputtered. Died.

  Poired roared, his laughter haunting and menacing.

  “No,” Haegan breathed. It was a perfect shot. How had he missed?

  Because you can’t control it. You’re weak.

  He tried again. This time, the volley died even sooner.

  Poired laughed harder. “You are so weak. A disgrace.”

  “No.”

  “It is good Zireli is dead so he cannot see the failure you are!”

  Haegan shoved outward but nothing happened.

  Poired leered. “Dried up, Fierian?” With but a puff of air, an entire mountain of fire barreled at Haegan.

  He dropped and shielded himself, feeling the searing heat wash over his spine. He lifted his head, peeking through the flames . . .

  And saw another man. Lying in a dark, dank corner. A gnarly beard wreathed his face. Eyes nearly swollen shut. His lips were cracked, bleeding. His limbs hung out of the clothes like sticks. Vacant eyes stared at Haegan.

  Then the skeletal man lifted his head with a vestige of former dignity.

  And he knew. Knew. “Father.”

  A bony hand reached toward Haegan, his father giving a guttural cry.

  Haegan surged forward. “Father!”

  Hiss. Clank. Pop!

  The world snapped away.

  44

  Citadel, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine

  “Grand Marshal! Grand Marshal!”

  Gwogh hurried in the opposite direction of Adomath, who rushed toward their brother, who had collapsed in his chair. Gwogh raced to Haegan’s prone form and knelt. Blood seeped from his nose.

  “Kedulcya, we need your gifts,” Gwogh called, but when he looked up, she was tending the grand marshal. “Leave him. This boy is our hope, our future.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then came to him. She moved her hands over Haegan’s body. “His signatures are”—she shook her head—“phenomenal. So high, I can’t get a reading.” Forlorn eyes came to Gwogh. “I can’t do anything.”

  “You must.”

  “I don’t know where to start!”

  “Start where it’s hottest—he overexerted.”

  With a huff, she focused her healing efforts, eyes closed. Hands trailing an inch over Haegan’s body. Down then up. Up then down. She finally came to rest over his head. She frowned. Screwed her brow tight. Her fingers moved as if she were massaging his muscles. But she massaged air.

  “He’s . . . I think he’s fine. Just . . . resting.” With a reassuring nod, she climbed to her feet and returned to the grand marshal.

  Gwogh motioned to Kelviel and Griese. “Remove the prince to the sofa.” As the men did so, he watched Kedulcya. “How is the grand marshal?”

  “He needs a pharmakeia.” She wrung her hands. “He has significant injury to his head and heart.”

  “What is wrong?” Adomath demanded. “This has never happened! He’s done the inflaming on every accelerant in this Citadel.”

  “Yes,” Gwogh said, his voice grave, “but never on the Fierian.”

  “What does that mean?” Adomath growled. “He is th
e grand marshal!”

  “None of us has the answer.” Gwogh could only offer that, as it was the truth. And any speculation at this point would be foolish.

  “We are in uncharted territory,” Kelviel agreed.

  There was something in his voice that drew Gwogh’s attention. But the pharmakeia from the first floor rushed in to tend the grand marshal. A few moments later, four sentinels came in with a cot to transfer Dromadric from his office to his bedroom under the pharmakeia’s supervision.

  “Are you well?” Gwogh asked Kelviel.

  The Hetaeran representative nodded. Then shook his head. “I saw him again.”

  Gwogh’s chest tightened. Dare he ask? “Who?”

  “The Deliverer.”

  Eyes wide, Gwogh tried to take it in. Looked around, half expecting to see Medric again. “The same one?”

  An almost imperceptible nod. “Only at the end. Right before they both collapsed.

  “What did he do?”

  Kelviel gave a sharp shake of his head. “Stood between them. It was like he thought that should be enough.” He rubbed his forehead. “Then his sword vanished and he snapped out his arms to them.”

  Gwogh glanced at the prince again.

  “And light—light exploded. When it cleared, Haegan was down. And the grand marshal. He severed the connection.” Kelviel stared as if still seeing the Deliverer. “To protect him.”

  “Haegan, yes . . .”

  “No, Dromadric.”

  “Tell no one of this.”

  “I have no desire to.” He frowned. “But why not?”

  “If Medric has appeared—if he had to intervene . . .” Gwogh did not want to voice his thoughts. He let his gaze drift to the door they’d carried the grand marshal through. “Let’s remove the prince to the mansion.”

  “Not the barracks?” Kelviel asked.

  “No, there will be no more trials for him. At least, not from the Contending.”

  • • •

  The scent of jasmine and cordi dug through his brain. Haegan shifted, felt something solid at his side. He pried his eyes open.

  A round face peered up at him. Beautiful brown eyes. Rosy lips. A smile to make all aches go away.

  When he leaned forward, he froze. Inflaming? Was he in the trials still? He sucked in a painful breath.

  Thiel pushed up. “What’s wrong?”

  Haegan tensed. Swallowed. “My neck . . .” But he blinked. “How . . . how are you here? We’re not allowed visitors—”

  “I snuck in,” she said, smiling softly. “Should I get the pharmakeia?”

  “No.” Haegan lifted an arm. Groaned. He pried open his eyes again. Though he lay on his bed, it was the one in Celahar Mansion, not the barracks. And Thiel had been lying beside him. A good thing her brother had not known her whereabouts.

  The trial—seeing Kaelyria murdered, though through Inflaming—haunted him. “My sister . . .” He dropped back against the pillow. “Why does my head hurt so much?”

  “Sir Gwogh said it was the inflaming,” Thiel explained. “Though he gave no further explanation. Just that ye must rest. But I saw the worry in his eyes, so I came.”

  He rubbed his temple. “I had no idea what was real and what wasn’t.” With a sigh, he closed his eyes again. They’d made him think Thiel was dead. He looked at her. Touched her arm. “Real.”

  She smiled. “Aye.”

  “I feel like a Drigo pummeled me into the ground,” Haegan said, trying to swallow against a dry mouth. He coughed.

  “Water,” Thiel muttered as she lifted a pitcher from the stand and poured a glass for him. “I hear ye fared much better than the grand marshal.”

  Haegan frowned. “Is he”—what if he’d killed him?—“well?”

  Thiel handed him a glass. “I heard he is recovering but very ill.”

  “The trials.” Haegan felt a stab of panic, which made everything hurt all over again. “I need—”

  “Ye’re not in them any longer,” Thiel said.

  “But the throne—”

  “I’m pretty sure ye more than proved yerself, whatever they were after,” Thiel said, annoyance on her pretty face.

  “I injured the grand marshal—they will not easily grant mercy for that,” Haegan snapped.

  “Please, don’t worry about it. Rest. ’Tis important. Ye were badly injured.”

  She placates me. “You would have your brother win the trials?”

  “Do not start that again.” She scowled. “I would have ye well enough to do what Abiassa wants of ye.”

  Evading the question. “I thought you believed in me. But you showed up with your brother, who is trying to take the throne.”

  “Haegan, please—”

  “Why don’t you leave, so I can rest.”

  Hurt roiled through her face. “I only want—”

  “I know what you want,” he growled. “Go on. Go. I need to rest and do not need you milk-maiding me.”

  “Milk-ma—”

  “If you will excuse us,” came Gwogh’s gravelly voice. “I would have a word with the prince.”

  Thiel whirled, startled.

  “And I am sure it is only our prince’s exhaustion concealing his manners at this hour,” Gwogh said. “And I will grant mercy for your presence here, Princess.”

  Guilt-ridden at his treatment of her, Haegan stared at the cup he held, relieved when she hurried out the door. “What happened to me?” he asked, anxious to have the massive memory gap filled. “What do you remember?”

  “Besides that”—he shook his head, the world tilting—“nightmare?” He waited for his vision to clear. “Nothing.”

  “The inflaming. Can you tell me what you saw?”

  A whirl of thoughts and images swarmed him. Around a moan, he said, “It’s all muddled.”

  “Take your time.”

  Haegan considered his tutor. “You only say that when you’re digging for information.”

  “With a very large shovel.” Gwogh smiled. “When you’re ready.”

  With another groan, Haegan launched into a detailed account of what he’d experienced. The hounds. The attack, Grinda, Kaelyria. Poired.

  “You are afraid you can’t protect her,” Gwogh said when Haegan mentioned Thiel.

  “Aye,” Haegan said, hating himself for ordering her out of the room just now.

  “And when you faced Poired? What happened then?”

  Haegan swallowed. “I tried to wield, but nothing could touch him. Everything fell short. Then shorter and shorter, until I could no longer wield at all. Then he blasted me. I ducked, threw up a shield to protect myself, and as it rushed over me, I saw him.”

  “Poired?”

  “No.” He could see him still. “A bearded man. In a pitch-black area. His skin seemed to glow. I think it might have been a cell. But he was ghost-thin with a thick, dirty beard. Then he lifted his head.” Haegan swallowed. Hard. His heart thrummed, remembering. Aching. “It was my father. Next I knew, I woke up here.”

  “Mmm,” Gwogh said, nodding. Thinking. He sighed. “Your greatest fear is not the icehounds, or Thiel dying, or Grinda or anyone else you know.”

  “It’s failing my father.”

  Gwogh tilted his head. “I fear not—I think perhaps, you fear that maybe he survived, that he lives to see you fail the legacy he would have left.”

  Haegan knew the truth of it, though he’d never let the thought into his mind before. But hearing it from Gwogh . . . “When I was with the Eilidan, I met a reader.”

  Gwogh gave a nod. “I’ve heard of her.”

  “She was bizarre. Has some weird ideas. She gave me something.”

  “Did she?”

  “Top drawer.” Haegan pointed to the bed stand. “Would you hand it to me?”

  With a curious look, Gwogh moved to the drawer. Tugged it open. Taking a step back, he inhaled quickly, snapping his hands tightly to his sides. He slammed the drawer closed. Took a shuddering breath. “You test me, my lord prince.” />
  Haegan narrowed his eyes. “You withhold things from me.”

  “Only in the interest of protecting you.”

  “Is that what you were doing when you poisoned me?”

  Pale, Gwogh looked to the stand again, as if he could see through it. “Wegna told you this?”

  “Aye. And she showed me I’m the only one who can open that book.”

  “The Kinidd,” Gwogh said with a sigh. “The holy writs.”

  “That book, penned supposedly by Abiassa, and I’m the only one who can open it.”

  Gwogh shifted, and it seemed the old tutor began to understand what Haegan was thinking.

  “Wegna said I struggle to control my gift because of the poison and the Falls.”

  Gwogh gave a slight nod.

  “What does she mean?”

  “That had I not poisoned you, you would have grown up learning to control what was in you.”

  “In me? You mean . . .”

  “The abiatasso has been with you since birth.”

  Indignation thrummed. “And you—you poisoned me? To what? Stop it?”

  “Stop it? No, that could not be done. I did it to hide you.”

  Grief crashed in on him, suffocating the breath he tried to take. The one person who had filled his days, made him laugh, believed in him . . . “Someone should have hidden me from you!”

  “I understand your anger—”

  “Do you? What if this gift could have protected Seultrie? Saved my father?” Haegan’s anger vaulted over his exhaustion. “Because of you—they’re gone. And you even want to take the throne from me and give it to Thiel’s brother!”

  “No. That’s not—”

  “Leave!” Haegan shouted, feeling the warbling in his hands and not caring. “Leave me at once!”

  45

  Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine

  Thiel stepped through the door to the darkened library within the Citadel. Books on shelves lined the walls, and stacks sat at the base of the shelving and some even on tufted benches. Somber glowing stone lights gave the library a warm feel. Or perhaps that was the result of the massive fireplace behind a heavily carved table and embroidered chair, also carved. Just as the gray-bearded man sitting in it was carved with lines of age.

  Torchlight spilled over his long, scraggly hair. “Come in, child,” he said.