Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  Tili caught her arm and pulled her back, giving her a stern look. “Nobody moves until we all move.”

  “Grass is wet around the dome,” Tokar muttered

  Realization dawned on Tili. “That’s because it’s not glass. It’s ice.”

  The girl shrugged. Pointed. “Then use your wielding.” She shrugged again. “Melt the ice, retrieve the jewel. Then take it to the peak. Pretty straightforward.”

  “Which means it’s not,” Tokar said.

  As the tenderfoot echoed the words in Tili’s head, he scanned the fence. The grass. Looked back at the woods. If something came out of there, they’d never see it because they’d be facing the wrong way.

  “So what do we do?”

  “It’s obvious,” Darielle said. “Skirt the fence and come up along the outer fence line to the dome.”

  That might work. But Tili wasn’t convinced. Still too easy. But maybe the challenge was that the jewel was frozen inside the ice dome.

  Screaming, a whistler sounded over the mountain.

  Darielle jerked her gaze skyward. “I suppose—”

  Another whistler went active.

  “Two?” She whirled to him, eyes wild. “Two more contenders lost? That makes four gone.” Ashen, she placed a hand on her stomach, looking to the dome.

  “Okay,” Tokar said, swinging his bow in front of him and nocking an arrow, ready for whatever was going to come at them on this challenge. His determined gaze met Tili’s. “Thoughts?”

  Tili scanned, and scanned again. What were they missing? “D’wyn, what do ye see?”

  “The grass,” D’wyn said with a bob of his head toward the field.

  Adjusting his position, Tili eyed the field. Squatted, tilting his head to take in a better vantage. His gut clenched. “Minefield.” He stretched an arm out, pointing to variation in the patterns, broken bits of dried grass used to conceal the mines. The Council wouldn’t wound anyone with real explosives, but they’d used something to mark those who would die.

  “I think Darielle’s suggestion is valid,” D’wyn said. “Skirt the fence around to the dome.”

  “They’ll have thought of that,” Tokar added.

  “Aye,” Tili said, crouching lower and assessing the perimeter, “but the Council anticipated more contenders would just rush across the field, believing the dome was the challenge.” He straightened and turned to D’wyn. “Ye lead. Slow and easy. Watch for the mines.” To the others, “Fall in behind. Step only where he steps. If ye die, ye die alone.”

  Darielle widened her eyes and slipped behind Chwik, who’d kept his head down and mouth closed.

  Maybe he sounded too harsh. “So, don’t die,” he added. “D’wyn, go.”

  They trekked slowly along the fence, most watching the ground. Tili bounced his gaze from D’wyn, down the line of the unit, and out to the field, then back to his unit.

  A hand snapped up.

  But Chwik and Darielle didn’t see it, their gazes on their feet.

  “Stop,” Tili growled to them.

  She glanced back at him, but she was still moving forward. Didn’t see Tokar and Chwik step to the side. Her foot—

  Tili lunged, hooked an arm around her waist and pulled her up and back against his chest. Arms swinging out, she yelped. Flailed. “Keep still,” he hissed in her ear.

  A whistler streaked into the air.

  Darielle froze, as did Tili, but then he lowered her, the back of her head against his shoulder. “Wa—was that for us?”

  “No.” He pointed to the ground. “Mines. Eyes forward at all times. Let’s move.”

  She twitched a nod, her frame rigid.

  He’d broken nearly every rule of propriety manhandling her, but she hadn’t been eliminated. And that was the point. They advanced on the field without further incident, sidestepping two more well-laid mines before coming upon the dome.

  D’wyn scanned around the dome. “It’s clear.”

  “So, five Contenders are gone,” Chwik said as Tokar squatted before the dome, studying it. “That leaves six.”

  “Five,” Darielle corrected, wide-eyed. “Prince Haegan didn’t show.”

  The thought struck Tili hard. Haegan hadn’t shown. Still . . . “We need to focus. There are two more trials, and we’ve spent nearly half our time.”

  Darielle motioned to Tili. “Use the Flames. Melt it. You can see the jewel there, and we can’t go forward without it.”

  Why did it still seem too easy? And dangerous?

  “Aye, wield,” Chwik said, a greedy gleam in his eye.

  “Wait,” D’wyn said. “Look at the ice.”

  Tili leaned in closer.

  “There are . . . specks in it.”

  So not just ice. Then, perhaps . . . “Explosives?”

  D’wyn nodded. “My speculation is it will react to whatever we use—whether wielding or daggers—the blade could ignite it.”

  “Can it be turned over?” Tokar asked.

  “The weight of it, though,” Darielle commented.

  “Let’s try,” Tili said, going to a knee. He scraped around the bottom. “’Tis set in firm,” he mumbled. Dug down. And down. “Blazes,” he growled. “’Tis inches deep.”

  “Maybe wield and shield,” Darielle said.

  “Too risky,” Tili countered. “One wrong manipulation and we’re all—”

  Another whistler screamed into the sky.

  “The Lady and the Flame,” Darielle whispered the oath. “Those things scare me every time. I’ll have nightmares for weeks after this.”

  “Everyone dig,” Tili said.

  They all went to work, using daggers or hands to scoop out the marsh-like ground. Mounds of soggy earth bled through their trousers, but they managed to free it. Then they all pushed, Tokar and Tili guiding the dome onto its side, the ground giving a slurping suction.

  “Careful!” Tili shouted, afraid any impact could ignite one of the pustules. Back in the muck, he wiped the base clean. “Just as I thought.”

  “What?” Tokar leaned from the other side.

  “The pustules are only about an inch deep.” He placed his hand on the ice and focused a light heat only in the bottom center. The melting was slow at first, then quickened. “D’wyn, while I’m doing this, sight a path to the next fence.”

  “Aye,” D’wyn said.

  Tili’s hand slid up inside the dome.

  “Easy,” Tokar said softly, his breath shallow.

  “Almost there!” Darielle nearly squealed.

  Tili trained his mind on the process. On melting as little as possible. His fingers neared the jewel. He stared at the red orb, distorted through the wall of ice. His fingers inched closer . . . closer . . . His arm nearly in up to the elbow, he felt the tension release. Grab the jewel, get to the next objective. It’d—

  Plish!

  In stricken, awful horror, he struggled to register what had happened. One second the orb was there. The next, a red river rushed down his arm.

  “No!” Darielle gasped, covering her mouth. “No, no!”

  Tili extracted his hand and studied the crimson residue on his forearm.

  “You ruined it.” Darielle fisted her hands. “They told you to be careful. That was our only hope to win.”

  Disbelief held Tili tight.

  “You stupid fool—that’s what happens when a Nivari is put on Mount Medric. You really think you’d be a good king? Look—”

  Tili was on his feet. Warned himself to calm. To be respectful. “It wasn’t the jewel.”

  She stumbled backward, but—blast her, if she didn’t nearly step on a mine again—Tili tugged her forward. “What? But we saw it!” Her cheeks were stained the same color as his forearm.

  “It was gelatin.” Tili shook out his arm, then planted his hand on his belt. “It was a distraction and cost us time.” He roughed a palm over his jaw, then pointed to the fence. “D’wyn?”

  The Kergulian nodded. “It’s clear.”

  “Let’s move.
Get to the fence and regroup.”

  49

  Somewhere in Unelithia

  “It would be easier to hate them if they were mindless,” Trale said, his stomach pressed to the rooftop as they peered down a street that had emptied at the rhythm of marching Sirdarians. They would soon round the corner and come into view.

  This morning, Haegan and his guides had crossed into Unelithia. Not via the traditional route with papers presented at the border. That would have been too easy, even though they had no papers and risked arrest. They could’ve even taken the difficult route, walking the Nydessan Highway and risking their pockets to thieves and lives to mercenaries.

  But no, Trale led them through the wasteland, across the vast Citrine Lake, and then had them scale the great wall of stone lights, which left their hands scalded after the hour-long climb.

  Haegan watched in a nervous anticipation. “It’s said in Seultrie that Sirdar controls them.” If he was captured, they would kill him or turn him over to Poired. Who would kill him. Either way he was dead. As he waited with the assassins, Haegan could only hope the two who flanked him had honor.

  Honor among murderers. Did that even exist?

  Trale inched lower as the column of soldiers stepped into the torchlight and headed toward them. Haegan followed, anxiety clawing at him, shredding his courage. They should not be here, out in the open. Were the moons bright? It could betray their presence.

  As the shinking-thuds of Sirdarian boots grew louder, Trale patted his shoulder. Pointed behind them to the rear of the building. Where was he going? Haegan, staying as low as possible, circled around and scrambled after him, stunned when Trale sailed into the air, over the edge of the building.

  Disbelieving, Haegan stopped cold.

  Astadia ran past him.

  Jarred by her movement, Haegan started forward. As he drew closer, he saw the other rooftop, lower but there. Relief coursed through him, but still he hesitated a fraction before pitching himself off the edge. He tripped on landing and shoved out his hands to break his fall. Dirt and tar scored his palms. He came up, wincing but refusing the whimper that crawled up his throat.

  Trale leapt to another rooftop with his sister right behind him. Limbs aching, Haegan worked to keep up. After a half-dozen ups and downs and sprinting between buildings, he ached for a breath that didn’t hurt.

  He had lost his mind, chasing assassins across rooftops. “Whe—” Breath trapped between as gasp and gust, Haegan tried to swallow. His throat was dry. His lungs burned. He swallowed and pushed not to lose his guides. If he did, he’d be alone in a city filled with Sirdarians. Ruled by Sirdar under the Infantessa.

  Haegan rounded the corner after the siblings. And stopped short. Darkness and shadows gaped before him. Where had they gone? He took a few tentative steps, searching for them. “Trale,” he hissed into the emptiness.

  Something plunked him in the head.

  He cringed and rubbed the spot. Turned a circle. Where were they? Panic began a slow march through his chest, thudding harder, faster, with each breath he took in isolation.

  Was this their plan? Lure him here to be apprehended? Surrounded by enemies, by those who would see him crushed, he was ripe for the capture.

  “Trale,” he growled through clenched teeth.

  Another rock struck his head. He looked up, spotted an iron ladder. But nobody there. A shape moved beneath the moonslight along the edge of the other rooftop. Astadia was scurrying out of sight again.

  Haegan hurried to the dangling ladder. Leapt and caught it. Oh, Lady of Mercies! His arms ached. Muscles burned. Trembling, he hauled himself up. Hooked his arm over the first rung, but his weight nearly forced him to surrender. Teeth gritted, he reached for the next rung. Drew up his leg. His knee struck the iron. It rang with what seemed like an ear-splitting clang. He slipped, dangling.

  Below, a flash of light danced beyond where he hung. Blood spilled out of the building, a pub by the raucous noise coming from within. Sirdarians gathered outside the door, talking amongst themselves. A couple of them donned silver helms with red plumes.

  Dread rushed through his veins. If he could see them, they could see him. He dared not move. Dared not fall. Iron dug into his armpit, sharp and cruel. A burn radiated through his joint. Raced down his bicep. He gripped his elbow to support himself, hopefully take some of the pressure off his shoulder. Off the iron cutting into his flesh.

  Drop. He should just drop and crouch. Pray they didn’t see him. It’d be faster. And he wouldn’t be in pain any longer.

  But he would need to untangle himself from the ladder—without noise. He gripped the bar with his left hand and tried to haul himself up.

  “No,” came the frantic, urgent whisper from Astadia.

  At the same time, iron rattled.

  The ladder clanked. Dropped another rung. A loud clang and vibrations jarred the rung from his hands. Haegan fell. Landed hard. Pain shot through his head, which hit the ledge.

  “The roof!” came a deep, angry shout.

  Blazes!

  A soft thump near his shoulder startled him.

  “Up now, or you’ll get us all killed.” Astadia grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. Half dragging him back the direction they’d come.

  “No,” Haegan barked. “The Sirdarians are coming.”

  “Shut up and move!” After releasing him, she raced to the edge. “C’mon.”

  Haegan was at her side quickly, looking for an escape. The drop was easily three meters into a pitch-black alley. But he’d shatter his leg if he jumped. The wall of the stairs from the building pressed against his left shoulder. “How are—”

  “There,” Astadia instructed. “On the ledge.”

  Which was half the width of his hand. “Have you lost all reason?”

  “Never had it in the first place,” she muttered, climbing over and walking along the ledge as if it were a sidewalk.

  Blazes. If he didn’t, he’d be shown up by this girl. And caught by the enemy. Swallowing his fear and pride, Haegan ventured out, using the stairwell for support as he balanced on what felt like a wavering reed. He flattened his stomach against the wall, palms pressed to the still-warm plaster. Now his limbs trembled for another reason. But if Astadia could do it . . .

  “Up,” came the lone, hissed command.

  Haegan carefully tilted his head back to look up at the top of the stairwell. A foot above him. But gravity tugged at him.

  “Whoa,” he grunted, flattening himself again.

  “Up,” Astadia insisted.

  How was he supposed to get up there. “How?”

  “Jump and grab the ledge.”

  “You have lost all reason.”

  “Now or they will find you.”

  Haegan huffed. Peered up at her, unwilling to peel himself away from the wall. He crawled his fingers up the wall. Insane. He could ride a raqine across leagues, but climb a wall? Fingers gripped the ledge. Fear gripped him.

  A vise-like grip clapped onto his forearm. Another onto his other. Trale must’ve come back, thank the Lady. His shoulders rose above the wall and he bent forward, using the assistance to make the last few inches. He rolled to offer his thanks to Trale.

  But only a pair of angry green eyes met his.

  “We have seconds”—her lips flattened and nostrils flared—“to make this jump. Do not cower behind the crown, Prince.”

  “What—”

  Astadia pivoted and came up, already running. She sprinted the five feet diagonally across the stairwell roof and threw herself into the yawning darkness. It felt like she hung there for eternity before dropping onto another ledge, rolling out of the momentum. She came up and spun around, waving him on.

  There had to be at least five, maybe seven feet between the stairwell and that roof. Might as well be a hundred.

  “Now or die,” she said.

  Haegan pushed himself up. If she could do it . . . With all he had in him, he lurched from the roof. Shot forward. Launched in
to the air. Proud of himself for making the leap.

  Astadia’s eyes rounded and her mouth opened. Alarm rippled through her face. She spun and dove farther into the darkness.

  Where was she going? Panic stabbed him.

  Pain snapped around his ankle.

  Yanked him back down onto the roof. Bounced. Air punched from his lungs. He arched his back, groaning. Squeezing his eyes. When he blinked, Haegan stilled. Blood smeared the sky above him. Towering over him, silver helms grabbing the moonslight, were six Sirdarians.

  Alarm shot through him. He thrust a hand toward them without thinking, refusing to be taken easily.

  A strange, burning metal clamped his wrist. Nausea roiled. Pain scorched his temples.

  50

  Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine

  Ambush. Tili eyed the knoll at the base of Medric with speculation and dread. It was the perfect spot for an ambush. But what would they encounter? More shriekers? Landmines? Taking a knee, he steadied his nerves. Took a moment to rest as he considered options, how to get around the smaller ambushes.

  “What are we supposed to do?” Chwik asked quietly.

  “The knoll,” Tokar said. “There’s something on the other side. “

  “There is also something on this side,” D’wyn said quietly.

  “I haven’t heard a whistler in a while,” Darielle said. “How do you think the others are doing?”

  “D’wyn.” Tili turned to the man. “How many traps do ye see?”

  “Only three, but the pattern . . .” The Kergulian gave a baleful shake of his head. “They worked hard to conceal the others, but there are more. I’m sure of it.”

  “Agreed,” Tili said. “Whatever we’re supposed to do is on the other side of that rise.”

  “My legs and arms hurt,” Darielle said. “My back, too—everything hurts.”

  Tili focused on the land and ignored the girl’s complaints. She was sent to test him as much as this trial, he was certain.

  Chwik moved around Tokar and came toward Tili.

  Then he dropped. Screamed.

  Tokar was there, holding Chwik’s arm as he hung over the lip of the in-ground trap that had given way beneath, saving him from dagger-like spikes sticking up from the belly of the pit. Of course, they weren’t real, but the danger most likely felt raw and virulent to the one dangling over them.