Heir to the Sun

by Jennifer Allis Provost

  “We’re underneath the grand steps,” Caol’nir whispered, then he stepped out of the tunnel. He squinted, the daylight blinding compared to the damp darkness he had just emerged from, and motioned for the rest to follow.

  “You’ll see to the gate?” Tor asked.

  “We will,” Caol’nir affirmed. Tor nodded, then grabbed Caol’nir in an embrace that was as awkward as it was unexpected.

  “Be safe,” Tor said hoarsely. “I will not lose another son.” Tor released him and ascended the palace steps, the elves trailing close behind.

  “We’re not staying together?” Alluria asked.

  “He is going to retrieve Caol’non,” Caol’nir explained.

  “And we?”

  “We,” Caol’nir began, smiling at her with that grin he knew she loved so, “are going to invite our friends to join us.”

  ###

  “We’ve reached the end.”

  Lormac pushed open the door that was so out of place alongside the dirt walls, and surveyed their location. “It would appear that we are in the corridor outside the great hall,” Lormac announced. “Balthus, please request an audience with Sahlgren.”

  “You’re announcing our presence?” Asherah asked.

  “A good king—a true king—always treats his opponents honorably, regardless of what they deserve,” Lormac replied. They stepped aside as Balthus and his warriors filed past, then Asherah moved to follow.

  “Wait,” Lormac implored, his hand on her arm. Asherah began asking what they were waiting for when Lormac kissed her hard.

  “Another elfin custom?” Asherah asked breathlessly.

  “A Lormac custom,” he replied, tracing her jaw with his thumb. “I refuse to enter a battle without first kissing my mate. No matter the outcome, you need to know that I love you.”

  “You think the outcome may be bad?” Asherah asked, and Lormac saw fear in her eyes.

  “No matter what happens when we walk through that door, I will be right beside you,” he murmured. “Every one of my warriors is sworn to defend you with their lives. You are the safest woman in Parthalan.” Asherah nodded, and he crushed her against him. “When this is done, I will take you home—”

  “And give me those sons?”

  “We will start working on them, yes,” Lormac finished with a wry grin. There was a soft noise from beyond the door; Balthus calling them, letting his king know that all was well. “My star, know that I love you.”

  “And I love you, my mountain,” she said, kissing him again. They stood shoulder to shoulder, fingers laced, and walked out of the tunnel into the palace of Teg’urnan.

  Neither saw Harek as he crept out of the tunnel behind them.

  ###

  Tor strode through the palace, hardly acknowledging those he passed. While he had never been one to abuse his power or position, today he drew the authority of Prelate of Parthalan around him like a suit of the finest mail. He entered the king’s chamber and made his way to the corridor that joined it to the great hall, knowing that the captain of the king’s guard would be standing behind the king’s throne.

  “Caol’non,” Tor said. His son turned, and Tor motioned for him to join him in the king’s chamber; once inside, Caol’non stared at the elfin warriors.

  “What is happening?” Caol’non demanded. “Why are you with elves dressed for battle?”

  “Come,” Tor said, his voice resonating throughout the chamber. “There are things you must see.”

  ###

  “Just open them, man,” Caol’nir growled, trying very hard not to strike the gatekeeper. As a member of the con’dehr, Caol’nir far outranked the gatekeeper, and the man should have thrown open the gates immediately upon request. However, that hadn’t happened, and Caol’nir’s exasperation with the man’s need for protocol was wearing thin his temper.

  “My lord,” the gatekeeper said patiently, “I have explained to you, they’ve been ordered shut. My hands are tied.”

  “I’ll tie them, all right,” Caol’nir muttered. Alluria whispered for Caol’nir to control himself, lest the gatekeeper raise the alarm, then she tried reasoning with the man.

  “Who ordered them closed?” Alluria asked.

  “The Prelate,” the gatekeeper responded.

  “Impossible,” Caol’nir snapped. “My father has been in the north for many moons. He has issued no such directive.”

  “The new Prelate,” the gatekeeper clarified.

  “My brother? My brother Fiornacht?” Caol’nir asked, and the gatekeeper nodded. “He is dead, killed by mordeths sent by the king. Now open this gate!”

  The gatekeeper stared, slack jawed. Caol’nir could not decide if the man would faint or call for guards, but he was done with this foolishness and struck the man unconscious.

  “Should have done that in the first place,” he grumbled. He propped the gatekeeper’s limp form against the wall, then turned his attention to the various ropes and pulleys that controlled the gates.

  “Can you open it?” Alluria asked.

  Caol’nir pursed his lips; in all his years of training, first with the legion and then the con’dehr, Caol’nir had learned nothing of engineering.

  “What about this?” Alluria asked as she depressed a lever that Caol’nir had not so much as noticed, and the massive iron gates swung open with nary a creak.

  “Nalla, I truly would be lost without you,” Caol’nir said, then grabbed her hand as they ran to the tower. Once they reached the top, Alluria looked out over the plain toward the eastern foothills, and created a puff of fire in her hands. That in itself was not so amazing, for her, but then she used her newfound power to throw the flames far above their heads.

  “The fire is as beautiful as you,” Caol’nir said as the sparks rained down on the plain. “As beautiful as you.”

  ###

  Upon the crest of the hill, Rahlle stood near where Torim had died. When Alluria’s fire leapt over the great plain Atreynha touched his shoulder, then the sorcerer raised his arms and the carefully constructed illusion dissolved away. The residents of Teg’urnan, who heretofore thought they had merely experienced a small tremor early in the morning, now saw that they were not only upon a hill that had not existed the night before, but they were surrounded by Ish h’ra hai.

  “It is done,” Rahlle murmured, his head bowed as his now sightless eyes saw the Teg’urnan that was.

  “Great works of magic require a sacrifice,” Atreynha said. “You did not need to use yourself.”

  “To stop the king, it is worth it.” With that, Atreynha grasped Rahlle’s elbow and led him down the hill.

  ###

  “You did not wonder at the Great Temple being closed during the day?” Tor asked Caol’non.

  “The king told us that Sarelle sealed the doors early yesterday,” Caol’non replied. “I did not presume to question the High Priestess.” Caol‘non glanced over his shoulder at the ten elves that shadowed his father but didn’t ask what their purpose was, not after Tor’s reaction to his earlier queries. The man who never withheld information from his sons had told Caol’non that all would be revealed shortly and refused to say anything further.

  “You did not think to question,” Tor repeated. “It is Olluhm who decreed that the doors were to remain open from dawn until dusk.”

  “The king—” Caol’non began.

  “Leave it, for now,” Tor said as they approached the northern doors. “As you can see, they remain sealed.”

  “Sarelle must not have reopened them yet,” observed Caol’non.

  “You are correct,” Tor stated. “What you don’t know is that Caol’nir came to the temple yesterday, and I’m about to show you what he encountered.” Tor produced a smooth white stone from within his tunic and unsealed the door.

  “Olluhm’s balls,” Caol’non swore, then covered his mouth against the stench. The altar stone was shattered at the base of the altar, the steps dull with dried blood. He stared, aghast, counting the seventeen morde
ths on the temple floor.

  “Are they all dead?” Caol’non asked, bending to arrange a fallen priestess into a more dignified position. Tor jerked his head, and the elves set about collecting the priestesses to the rear of the temple.

  “Nine priestesses still live,” Tor replied. He did not know if Sarelle still lived and, truth be told, he cared not about her fate. “If Caol’nir had not been here, I imagine all would have perished.”

  “Alluria?”

  “She is with Caol’nir.” Tor walked around to the far side of the platform, following the path Caol’nir had described in horrid detail, and looked upon his eldest son.

  “No,” Caol’non said, sinking to his knees upon seeing his brother. Tor crouched beside him.

  “Alluria said that when the demons attacked, Fiornacht was the only con’dehr here,” Tor said, his eyes never leaving Fiornacht’s face. “He fell before Caol’nir opened the doors.”

  “Caol’nir killed the rest?”

  “Yes.”

  Caol’non grunted. “Caol’nir said he would cross the plains of hell for Alluria. I never thought that hell would be here.” Tor squeezed Caol’non’s shoulder, and they mourned Fiornacht together.

  “My lord?” One of the elves roused Tor.

  All of the priestesses had been arranged with as much grace and dignity as possible, save Fiornacht and Serinha. Tor rose to his feet, Caol’non following suit, and stepped aside for the elves to retrieve the bodies.

  “Keep them together,” Caol’non called after the elves, then explained to his father, “Fiornacht loved her, easily as much as Caol’nir loves Alluria.”

  “Do all my sons have a penchant for priestesses?” Tor asked. Caol’non’s sheepish face was answer enough. The moment was all too brief, and they watched Fiornacht receive his place of honor among those he had given his life to defend.

  “How do we stop him?” Caol’non demanded. “The king must die.”

  ###

  Lormac marveled at Asherah’s calm demeanor; if he were about to confront the man who had ordered his enslavement, his skin would be crawling. As it were, he was fighting the urge to barge into the hall and strangle Sahlgren where he sat. Then those assembled before them shuffled about, and Asherah saw the king for the first time.

  “So that’s him,” she murmured. “I don’t know why, but I expected to recognize him.”

  “I wonder if he’ll recognize you,” Lormac said. Asherah pursed her lips, and Lormac silently berated himself for letting her accompany him. Torim had died only that morning, and now Asherah was to come face to face with the man responsible. He briefly considered sending her back to the camp with Balthus as an escort. Asherah need not endure a meeting with Sahlgren or the battle that would surely follow on this already terrible day.

  Lormac turned to his mate, taking in her squared shoulders and the lift of her chin, and he knew that Asherah would not suffer being left behind. She truly was warrior born, and he loved her all the more for it.

  “You know what I love?” Lormac asked her. “That you left your hair loose.” He thrust his fingers into her hair, raking them through the pale strands. “I keep imagining it flowing wildly about you in battle. You are beautiful, my warrior queen.” Asherah cocked an eyebrow at him—he loved it when she did that, too—but before she could respond, Balthus returned and advised that they would be announced directly.

  “The Lord and Lady of Tingu!”

  Lormac noted how Asherah’s fingers dug into his forearm as they approached Sahlgren. The faerie king was seated upon a throne wrought of gold and gems, far larger and more ostentatious than Lormac’s throne. The grandiose elements did not end there, for the dais itself was cloaked in plush crimson velvet, making the throne appear balanced upon a giant cushion. Drapes made of the same rich fabric, edged in gold, surrounded the whole of the dais, giving the effect that the king was a puppet upon a stage.

  “Lormac,” Sahlgren called, descending from the dais. His clothing was as pretentious as his throne, and the king was wrapped in velvets and silks with lace ruffs at his wrists and collar. A silver chain glinted amidst the heavy fabrics, shining silver orbs reflecting the light. “It has been too long.”

  “It has,” Lormac replied, forgoing any elaboration. He had a reputation for arrogance among the fae, and meant to use it to his full advantage.

  “I didn’t know you’d taken a mate,” Sahlgren continued, now gazing upon Asherah. If Sahlgren thought it odd that the Lady of Tingu chose to meet the King of Parthalan attired in leather armor rather than a gown, he made no indication. “My lady,” Sahlgren greeted, extending his hand.

  “My lord,” Asherah replied. Her words were clipped, and she did not accept the proffered hand, preferring to clutch Lormac’s arm ever tighter.

  “You’re fae, are you not?” Sahlgren continued, and Asherah nodded. “Lormac, you’ve deigned to dilute your fabled bloodline with one of my kind? Tell me, how did you come across such an example of loveliness in the cold north?”

  “She found me,” Lormac replied, pulling Asherah against him. “She escaped from a prison called a doja and came to Tingu, begging for aid.” Sahlgren’s mouth twitched, but he made no other sign of recognition.

  “A doja?” Sahlgren asked. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “Oh, they’ve become quite common,” Lormac assured. “They are scattered across Parthalan, and recently some have been erected in my land.”

  “Who runs these prisons?”

  “Mordeths.” Lormac replied. “The demons are enslaving your kind, Sahlgren. Don’t you want to stop them?” Lormac continued, raising his voice for the entire hall to hear.

  “Yes!” Sahlgren agreed. “Call for the Prelate, we will deal with this at once.”

  “My lord!” Tor strode across the hall, Caol’non at his side and ten elves close behind. “I am here at your command.”

  “Where is Fiornacht?” Sahlgren asked, then more elfin warriors assembled behind Lormac.

  “My son is dead on the temple floor,” Tor replied, his calm tone belying his fury. “But you knew that, didn’t you? You knew he would die when you ordered Sarelle to seal him inside with the mordeths!”

  “I hold you accountable, Sahlgren,” Lormac proclaimed, his voice cold. “For crimes against your kind and mine, I judge you guilty.”

  “You cannot judge me,” Sahlgren shrieked.

  “I can, and I have.” Lormac then spoke to Balthus, his eyes never leaving Sahlgren. “Take him, and throw him in whatever passes for a dungeon in Teg’urnan.” Balthus moved to apprehend the faerie king, but Sahlgren backed toward his dais. “Come along, Sahlgren, you won’t know true suffering until I inter you at the Seat,” Lormac taunted. Sahlgren continued backing away while he fingered the gaudy chain about his neck. Every time he moved, the heavy silver baubles glinted.

  “Stop him! The necklace is hung with portals!” Asherah yelled as Sahlgren flung the chain to the floor. The portals melded together, the edges becoming a swirling, organic mass of magic and limbs as demons pulled themselves free of the arcane doorway and leapt into the hall. Lormac shouted for his warriors as Belenos stamped out the portals and Tor and Caol’non rallied the con’dehr. Amidst the confusion, Sahlgren fled the hall.

  ###

  “We’re leaving?” Alluria demanded, as Caol’nir rushed her toward the stables for the second time in as many days.

  “Yes.” Caol’nir didn’t look at her as he replied, choosing instead to shield her from the crushing crowd. As the first company of the Ish h’ra hai descended into Teg’urnan, a wave of bodies flowed toward the palace, threating to sweep his slight mate away.

  “We cannot,” Alluria said.

  “Alluria,” Caol’nir began, tugging her toward the stables, but she stood firm. “If you won’t walk, I’ll throw you over my shoulder,” he warned. When she still didn’t move, he was forced to look at her. “What would you have me do?”

  “Fight for our home!”

  �
��You hate it here! I want to take you away from this place so you never have to look upon it again!”

  “You do?” Alluria asked, shocked, then she murmured, “I thought we would always live here.”

  “It was to be my gift to you,” he said softly. “I want to take you far from Teg’urnan, far from everything you hate about this life.” Alluria stared at him, and Caol’nir added, “But if you want to stay, we can.”

  “What about your father, and your… Caol’non?” she asked.

  “Rahlle severed my father’s oath, so he need not remain. As for Caol’non, he will need to make up his own mind.”

  “So your great plan was to just leave? How would they find us, if they wished to?”

  “They could. Alluria, we don’t—”

  She touched her fingers to his lips. “Why are you really doing this?” Caol’nir drew her against him, brushing his hand against her cheek; he needed to get her away from the palace and into hiding before the mordeth that marked her came looking, but he didn’t know how without making her seem like a liability. She wasn’t a burden; she was his life. Caol’nir resolved to tell her frankly, when King Sahlgren emerged from a hidden doorway.

  “Stop him,” Caol’nir shouted, and with a flick or her wrist Alluria had the king pinned against the stone wall. “Where are you off to, my king?” Caol’nir demanded, but Sahlgren ignored him as he stared at Alluria.

  “You’re her daughter, aren’t you?” Sahlgren asked. Alluria looked to Caol’nir, who shook his head. “I knew I’d found you that day on the road when you called yourself Annalee. So tell me, is the whore’s daughter truly Olluhm’s as well?”

  Alluria flinched as Caol’nir grabbed Sahlgren’s throat. “Her mother was no whore,” Caol’nir growled.

  “Oh, but she was,” Sahlgren sneered. “She plied her trade at The Swan. Ask your father if you don’t believe me.” Caol’nir drew back to strike him, but Alluria stayed him with her hand on his shoulder.