Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  As the wind leveled off, consistent and a roar in their ears, Laertes straightened. Pumped a hand in the air and gave a long, victorious cry. It was hard not to smile. And Thiel had to admit—she’d missed this. Feeling the wind in her hair. The fresh, crisp air. Watching land blur past below their feet and Chima’s agile body. Missed Chima. Zicri. Racing Tili through the skies, though they would never admit such mischief to their father.

  For three hours, they soared to the south. A tap on her shoulder made her look back to Praegur. He pointed to the ground. Hundreds of feet below them, she noticed a blackened area, but didn’t recognize it. As Chima continued her course, Thiel saw in the far distance the Lakes of Fire. But that meant . . . she twisted to look back toward the blackened patch. The Throne Road! The forest on the eastern side had been burned!

  She snapped around to the front, scanning. A gorge ran the length between the Siannes and Ematahri land, which rested on the border of the Outlands. From this vantage, she detected movement. What was it? “Chima, descend low! North.”

  The commands were simple but effective. Her father and brothers knew them in both the plain tongue and the tongue of the ancients. It didn’t matter—she just needed to scout the gorge.

  “What’s wrong?” Laertes asked, glancing back at her.

  But Thiel focused on the gorge. “Low and fast, Chima,” she shouted, Chima’s ear close to her as the great beast turned and dipped down.

  “Whoa!” Laertes shouted.

  They dove and had to hold on tight, but Chima soon leveled off and soared over the gorge.

  Thiel’s heart rammed into her throat as she sorted what had drawn their attention. Three columns of Sirdarians. Marching through the winding gorge. Straight for Ematahri land. “Up, up, Chima!”

  They went vertical, straight up into the clouds. “Fast and true,” Thiel shouted.

  With powerful flaps of her wings and an arch of her back Chima rumbled with a formidable growl as she lurched forward.

  Like an arrow, she shot through the sky. The wind tore at them, unusually warm in this season and so close to the Siannes. They sailed to the edge of Ematahri territory, and Thiel guided Chima down. “Hurry,” Thiel said. “They saw us.”

  “Da blood cloaks?”

  “No, the Ematahri.”

  “But I ’fought dis wasn’t deir land yet?” Laertes said, following her and Chima into the thick woods. Praegur brought up the rear.

  “’Tis not. But they have scouts. Trust me,” she said, shouldering into her pack. “They’ve seen”—movement ahead—“us.” She just hoped it wouldn’t be—

  “Etelide.”

  Heat rushed up Thiel’s spine and across her shoulders as Chima stopped beside her. Slowly, she came around to her left and looked. Her heart tripped. “Cadeif.”

  Taller than her by a head and a half, stronger by leagues, he stood with a spear in one hand, a sword in the other. Thick black coils dangled down shoulders and nearly reached the center point of the crisscrossed bands that had been dyed in the blood of his enemies. Formidable like her father, gorgeous like none other. Around his neck now hung a stone. A green stone.

  Thiel drew in a slow breath.

  “You are forbidden from entering our lands,” another warrior—Zoijan, Cadeif’s longtime friend and first fighter—barked. “When you were here last, because of your twig, we were visited by the Lucent Riders.”

  Thiel kept her gaze low. “I beg yer mercy, Cadeif. There is so much—so very much happening.” She braved a look at his terse face.

  Dark brown skin. Corded neck and muscles that had crushed enemies. He left no doubt what he could and would do. She reached toward Chima, the raqine giving a purr in response. But it was a different sound—not friendly but a nervous warning. “I know ye . . . I know we are not on good terms, but I would ask that ye hear me out.”

  Cadeif stared. Only stared. Anger coiled around his singewood-dark eyes.

  “Tell us why we should not kill you all right now,” Zoijan demanded.

  Chima bent down and rumbled a low growl.

  “We flew over the gorge,” Thiel said with a shaky breath. “Sirdarians are coming.”

  Zoijan pried his angry glare from her and looked to his archon.

  Still staring at her, Cadeif flicked a nod. Zoijan snapped out commands, and four Ematahri peeled from the shadows and sprinted across their path and into the other side of the woods. They would try to get a high vantage to verify her story.

  “Ye should prepare to”—telling them to leave was like telling a dog to stop panting—“fight. They will be here by nightfall.”

  “We know,” Cadeif said, his expression unaltered. “We invited them.”

  58

  Castle Karithia, Iteveria, Unelithia

  Darkness fell over Iteveria and bathed Karithia in an iridescent shimmer from the water tumbling past the balconies. Of course, Astadia Kath could not see that from this room—a servant’s quarters buried far below the main levels and stuffed with ten bunks, a small fire, and hay for sitting. Their custodian, as they called him, stalked down the stone cellar, verifying all his hostages were in bed. Though he didn’t call them ­hostages—such terms were forbidden—that’s what they were. Movements closely monitored. Clothes provided. Meals served once a day. Still, this was a vast improvement over what they’d had camping with Poired.

  But Trale, the obedient hound of the Infantessa, lay upstairs in a real room with real bedding and real food.

  As the custodian came back by, returning to his office, Astadia lay motionless.

  The witch of Karithia had a power over Trale that went beyond natural. She didn’t know what her brother saw in the hag, why he fawned and followed her around like a leashed dog. But enough was enough. They’d delivered the Zaethien prince as commanded. Yet she hadn’t released them. And Trale showed no interest in leaving.

  Astadia would change his mind.

  Snoring rattled through the cramped quarters.

  She threw away her thin blanket and slid from the bunk, toes silently finding the floor. Trale had taught her how to slip in and out of a room—just like the one she fled now—without being noticed. She rushed through the darkened passage and up a level. He’d also taught her how to pick a lock—the one at the single high window tonight—and quick as a mouse, she was scurrying along the ledge of the palace, an empty chasm gaping into pitch black far below. She didn’t care. She’d climbed bigger. Higher. With carefully placed hands, she scaled the bricked walls. Sidled past the main dining hall and up to the third level. Astadia went quickly but skillfully along the balconies to Trale’s.

  His guard stood with his back to the terrace, an ever-watchful guardian. She had to get the man outside to catch him by surprise. She tossed a pebble at the glass.

  Plink.

  The guard glanced over his shoulder but simply shifted his stance. Stayed.

  With a huff, Astadia picked up another. Threw it harder.

  Thunk!

  The guard turned. Scanned the terrace.

  Come on, she willed him outside.

  His hand went to the lock.

  Yes.

  He flicked it and slid open the door. As he walked the balcony, his gaze went to his right. She came from the left. Slipped up behind the tall man. Hooked an arm around his throat and pulled back, pressing his head forward to cut off his air supply. He struggled, but she held tight.

  When he finally went limp, she caught his hefty bulk and dragged him back into the room, so he wouldn’t be seen by another guest who might not be able to sleep. She laid him in front of the door, then leapt onto the bed.

  Trale came up, dagger in hand, his age-old instincts still intact.

  Blade to her throat, Astadia grinned. “Hello, brother.”

  “Astadia,” he said with a growl, slumping back. “What are you doing here?”

  “I want a warm bed,” she said sarcastically. Then slapped his temple—only then noticing the knot on his forehead. “What happened?�
�

  “Nothing.” He pushed her away and finally saw the guard. He shook his head. “You can’t do things like that in her home. She will be angry.”

  “Why do you care about her? We did our job, Trale. It’s time to leave.” Feet tucked under her, she hugged herself. “I don’t like it here. It’s wrong.”

  “It’s not wrong. The Infantessa is very good to us.”

  “You mean, like only giving you knots on your thick skull instead of chopping it off?”

  “She’s not like that!”

  Astadia scowled. “You are the one who told me she was dangerous.”

  “I was misguided.”

  “Mis-what?” Astadia’s heart thundered. “What is wrong with you? We need to leave. Now. While she isn’t awake. We can be out of Iteveria before sunrise.”

  “No,” Trale said. “I need to stay here. She needs me.” He shook his head, eyes taking on more clarity. “The—the prince needs me.”

  “Needs you? She’s using you!” Why could he not see that? “And that prince deserves whatever he gets, coming here of his own will. She—”

  The guard groaned.

  “Out,” Trale ordered. “Quickly!”

  “I want to leave this place,” she hissed, hurrying to the door. “Make a plan, Trale, or I leave on my own. I won’t wait forever.” Out the window, she slid the door closed. Hopped to the ledge of the balcony and cast a glance back. Her brother helped the guard up, telling him he must have been tired because he’d fallen and hit his head on the glass. He protects her but not me. Betrayal sluiced through their relationship.

  She eased over the rail and shuffled toward the next balcony. About to lower herself, she caught sight of a dull glow through the glass. It was Prince Haegan’s room, wasn’t it? A shout went out, and she nearly leapt backward, forgetting for a heartbeat that she stood over nothing but open air. She held fast, trying to sort what was going on in there.

  The prince shouted again. She angled sideways and saw him. He thrashed in the bed. Dreaming.

  The light—the light was coming from him. That’s right. The prince was an accelerant. She’d heard rumors while traveling the Nine to capture him. Some even said he was the Fierian. Wouldn’t that be a riot—for the Infantessa to have the enemy of Sirdar in her very home? Served the witch right. Astadia didn’t care if she had the prince of the Nine or the Fierian or anyone else hostage. The Infantessa could not have Trale. Astadia would fight to the death for him.

  A shadow moved. She flicked her gaze to it. Saw nothing. But then—

  Astadia sucked in a breath. And froze. The Infantessa stood just inside the prince’s room, hand extended toward him. What was she doing to him?

  Haegan screamed. Arched his back, lost in some hellish nightmare. One created or agitated by the Infantessa.

  It was cruel. Wrong. She was wrong.

  Light blossomed. Grew. Spread over Astadia. She looked down, realizing she was fully illuminated. When she glanced up, the Infantessa stared back, glowering. Then shoved her hand at Astadia.

  A burst of fire barreled out.

  Astadia twisted around. Jumped off the ledge. Heard shattering glass. And dropped. Straight. Down.

  59

  Castle Karithia, Iteveria, Unelithia

  Exhaustion weighted Haegan as he slipped into the chair at the dining table with Trale. Here it was, the evening meal and he felt like he’d just awoken. Sleep had been elusive, staved off by nightmares of unreal proportions, where he could not discern reality from fiction.

  But his father—his father! Burning alive. Writhing in brutal agony in a dark, dank cell.

  “Are you well, Prince Haegan?” Trale asked.

  Haegan looked up, feeling the dull ache of exhaustion along the ridge of his brow. Torchlight felt like daggers behind his eyes. His sinuses were packed. “I am well. The Infantessa has been so kind—it is an honor to be here.” A strange nausea swirled. Most likely from the headache. And lack of sleep.

  “You look as if you could use a rest,” Trale said.

  “Aye,” Haegan admitted, but he noted the dark circles beneath the assassin’s eyes. “Am I mistaken, or are you tired as well?”

  “I have trouble sleeping—comes with my line of work.” He paused, looking troubled. “Have you seen my sister? I can’t seem to find her.”

  “That’s because she left Karithia,” came the authoritative but soft voice of the Infantessa as she entered with four men.

  Haegan and Trale struggled to their feet in her presence.

  Lowering his head until she took her place, Haegan knew the assassin was anxious to speak of her notable pronouncement. The butler drew out her chair, and she slid in front of it, sitting as the chair came under her.

  Trale and Haegan sat, as did the newcomers, who seemed to perch strangely tall in the presence of the Infantessa. Haegan could not help but note the strange chill that ate at his bones had grown worse. His joints ached from it.

  “Please,” Trale said, “Infantessa, could you tell me of my sister’s departure? It’s most unusual. We never leave one another, if possible.”

  She shrugged. “I think she was jealous of me, with all the lovely attention you bestow upon me, Trale. Her custodian said she left Karithia in haste.”

  “When?”

  Nydelia lifted a hand. “This morning, I suppose, but honestly”—she batted her eyes at them—“I couldn’t be sure. Planning a ball in Prince Haegan’s honor has taken all my time, I’m afraid.”

  “A ball?” The thought wearied Haegan, and he did not think it ­possible to further exhaust him. “To what end? I am only a guest.”

  “Oh, surely you know how important you are, Prince Haegan,” she said with a laugh. “The prince of the Nine, here?” She scoffed. “The dignitaries are dying to meet you!”

  “I did not think my presence would be welcome,” Haegan said, irritated that she would so widely announce his location.

  “You are sadly mistaken, my prince,” she said. “Besides, if we are to marry, you must meet our allies.”

  Haegan froze. His mind would not process her words. “Marry?”

  She sipped her soup and slurped it delicately—everything she did was delicate and pretty—before setting down her spoon. “Of course. That’s why you came, isn’t it? To secure an alliance?”

  “I—I came because Trale said you sent for me.” An alliance would be good. The thought startled him, but he was too tired to fight trivial things.

  At this, the man on her left slid her a glowering look.

  “Sent for you? Oh, I think our dear Trale must have misunderstood,” she said.

  “Yes, I misunderstood,” Trale muttered. “I beg your mercy, Infantessa.”

  She touched his hand, then petted it. “You are such a dear, Trale.”

  Something . . . something wasn’t right. It burned at the back of Haegan’s mind. Wrestled to be free. The thought fought the restraints of exhaustion. What . . . what was he going . . . to think?

  He would be King of the Nine. I will need an heir. Nydelia is pretty and strong.

  “My uncle is here to approve of you, Prince Haegan,” she said, pointing with her fork that held a chunk of meat. “Isn’t that right, Uncle?” Sliding the meat into her mouth, she seemed especially happy.

  But her uncle did not. Dark eyes, burning with hatred, seared into her, then turned to Haegan.

  He blinked. Familiar. Very familiar. Panic jammed his heart. Fire roiled through the man’s irises. The Desecrator!

  ’Tis your imagination. Surely he would not be here.

  And then there was a smile on her uncle’s face. “Of course, but I’m surprised you have found anyone good enough for you, Nydelia.”

  She laughed, a sound melodic and light.

  Yet heavy. Dark.

  Haegan gripped his head. His thoughts were a tangled mess.

  “Are you well, my dear?” Nydelia asked, lifting her glass of wine. “You seem a bit peaked.”

  “Tired,” he mutte
red. “I . . . I haven’t slept well.”

  “Perhaps you should go rest. The ball is in two days, and you will need to be in your best shape.”

  “Of course.” Obediently, Haegan set aside his napkin, stomach rife with nausea. “If you will excuse me.” He pushed back and stumbled out of the dining hall. Though there existed a strange thrumming, it was dull. Easily ignored.

  But the Infantessa—she wanted to bind with him! What an honor!

  60

  Castle Karithia, Iteveria, Unelithia

  “You nearly ruined everything!”

  Poired stood motionless before Infantessa Shavaussia, working to barricade his own anger against her. Careful to protect his thoughts. It wasn’t that she could read minds, but she was the most powerful incipient he’d encountered—outside his own abilities. She could take every little sliver of doubt a person possessed and work it against them. “You treat them as playthings. He is the prince—”

  “And I have relegated him to a fawning puppy.” She drew off her gloves as they entered her sitting room. “Wine,” she demanded of Paung and continued to her wide veranda overlooking the sea. “Have you found the girl’s body yet?”

  “Nay,” the servant said.

  Poired’s fist clenched.

  “With the tide,” the servant continued, “it will take a few days for it to be washed up.”

  This time the witch had overstepped. “Killing the girl—she was mine! You asked for their help, I allowed you—”

  “Yours?” she snarled. “She is a captive of Sirdar, and as such—”

  “You go too far!” He could not stop the sneer. But he did manage to hold back the fire. “What if he had recognized me? You play with them like pets, and it will bring your destruction!”

  “My abilities protected you, shielded you.” Her eyebrow arched as her gaze traipsed his trim physique. “What it this, Poired? Why so much anger over a dead girl? She’s an assassin. No one.”

  Fury tremored through him. But in a breath, he regained himself. “Give him to me. Give me the prince. I will end this and guarantee your continued . . . amusements.”