Embrace the Fire

by Tamara Shoemaker

  One of Lanier's eyes twitched in the long silence that followed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Sebastian made a concerted effort to relax his spine. He stepped away from the man and released the chair. His sharp breath resounded in the room.

  Frost and ice spidered outward from the chair where his grip had pressed, feathering in furls and curlicues. Lanier's gaze was still resentful. It rested on Sebastian's face, not the chair. Sebastian turned toward the door.

  “We leave mid-morning.”

  His pain-filled hands gripped the brass doorknob and pulled it open. The first portion of his plan was already in place.

  * * *

  It was not an ideal day for travel. Rain sloshed the dirt roads, miring the carts in mud up to the axles. Horses slipped, neighing as they flailed. The mules were more sure-footed, but the only mules in the mass of men and horses pulled the carts that held weapons, canvas, cages, and food for creatures, Dimn and soldiers: the materials of the battlefield. The soldiers all rode hot-tempered stallions from the Elven Ward, and their hooves were not made for such conditions.

  Before the hour was up, mud caked Sebastian's horse to his withers, and Sebastian's own clothing was the same uniform shade of reddish-brown. Water dripped from his dark curls and neatly-trimmed beard, tracing down his clothing, flowing over his frigid hands.

  Lanier rode beside him, his head down in the driving rain. “Your Grace, I wanted to understand why you so suddenly chose to travel to the Forgotten Plains this morning.”

  Sebastian swiped at a rivulet coursing too near an eye. “I wish to review everything for myself and to speak with Jerrus, as he's been on the ground now for a while. Not,” he added, “that I owe you an explanation for my decision.” He paused. “It is the honorable thing to do.” Bitter emphasis rested on the word.

  “Your Grace, I do not believe Greyham meant what you've made of his words.”

  “Don't you?” Ice cracked Sebastian's voice. “When one man casts another's honor upon the altar of defamation, the only option is to fight.” He narrowed his eyes at his Commander. “Lanier, I am well aware that my brand of honor is not the definition that has passed down through the generations. But I am, at least, honorable to myself. I have ambition, and I will never do something that will take me backward from my goals. There is honor in that, and Greyham cast aspersions upon it.”

  Lanier's silence was deafening even in the rain. At last, he opened his mouth. “Did you believe I was pulling you back from your goals this morning?”

  “When you challenged me before the Council? Aye.”

  Lanier tightened his gloved hands around his horse's reins. “You do not trust me, Your Grace.”

  “That's nonsense.”

  “Is it?” Frost edged Lanier's gaze. “You never used to question anything I did, because my life is in your service. What has changed, Your Grace?”

  Sebastian didn't speak. He recognized the truth of his Commander's words. He didn't trust the man. Not anymore. Not after Sebastian had struck at the heart of Lanier's service by elevating Cedric above him months ago.

  A shout rang up the line. “Take cover!”

  A volley of arrows burst from the steep, tree-furred hills on either side of the road. Sebastian's horse reared, screaming as an arrow grazed its neck.

  Movement flickered in the underbrush of the woods on both sides of the road. A blue cloak flashed behind a nearby tree—Lismarian blue.

  More horses screamed. Men shouted up and down the line.

  “Get to safety!” Lanier shouted. He brought the flat of his sword down on the rump of Sebastian's mount, and the horse lurched into a gallop. Sebastian clung to the mane. He'd lost his grip on the reins in his surprise, and he stretched to reach the leather straps as they jerked wildly in front of the animal's pounding hooves.

  He nearly vaulted over the head of the horse before he managed to grasp the reins, straining to slow the animal. The horse, already lathered, tossed his head in protest. A quick glance behind showed Sebastian that he'd left his men, and he was alone.

  Fury lit Sebastian's mind. Another betrayal. Erlane had known that his men were infiltrating during their parley. He had the nerve to talk peace, while all the time, his men crept through the countryside. It was an overt act of war.

  He should have run the devil through in his Council chamber.

  Sebastian glanced behind him. It was several days' journey to the Forgotten Plains. If he rode hard today, he might gain access to the Griffon Pass, bring some Griffondimn back to do battle with the attackers, but by then, it would be far too late.

  As he considered his options, which weren't many, his horse cleared the underbrush of a particularly thick section of path. A stone house stood to the right, smoke furling from its chimney.

  Sebastian reined his mount to a stop on the stone pathway before the door. He tossed the reins over a hitching post and took the stairs up the stoop two at a time.

  At his knock, the door slowly opened and two eyes stared out at him. The woman was white-haired and bow-backed, but her eyes burned an intense blue. “Yes?” she croaked.

  “Have you anyone about the place that can ride for help?” Sebastian's icy hands dripped rain, and the burning cold seared him even more strongly now.

  The weathered face peered up at the royal crest on his sodden mantle and at the golden crown that wove through the yellow and gold fabric. Recognition and acknowledgment flared in her eyes. “Nay, Your Grace. I am alone.”

  The sounds of pitched battle clashed in the distance. Sebastian shook his head, turning for his horse. “Then I must try to make for the Griffon Pass to seek help.”

  “If it's help you need, Your Grace, I can offer it.”

  Sebastian's eyebrow lifted. “What help can you give?”

  In answer, the old crone slid the sleeve of her misshapen gown over her collarbone. Despite the wrinkles that creased her aged skin, Sebastian could read the mark of the Siren on her shoulder.

  “You're a Siren?”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  Sebastian couldn't quite twist her words into truth. “You do not affect me.”

  “Your Grace, I have yet to speak my native tongue.”

  Sebastian stared at her. He couldn't reconcile the image of this crone who smelled of sour milk and woodsmoke with an irresistible Siren.

  A trace of a smile creased her weathered cheeks. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. It lilted, smooth and clear as a flawless diamond, soft as silk, sweet as honey. “Come in, Your Grace.”

  Sebastian felt he should say something about his men, that he needed to help ... help ... something, but he couldn't remember what. His sense of urgency had vanished into a desire, stronger than anything, to enter this woman's house, and to ... what? She hadn't told him.

  The door widened, and the Siren's mouth gapped into a toothless smile as she beckoned him. “Come, Your Grace. You must be tired and hungry. A long journey will wear on a simple man, but a man that carries the entire country on his strong shoulders, well ... you need a rest.”

  “Just ... left this morning,” Sebastian mumbled, confused, as he stepped into the relative darkness of the house.

  “Did you indeed?” The crone grasped Sebastian's hand in her talons, but Sebastian couldn't flinch. He could look at the hand, and he dimly determined that it was bent, twisted, and decrepit, but he couldn't bring himself to care. All he knew was that he had to get closer to that voice. Its compelling clarity had to submerge him in its crystalline depths, or he would dissolve, a shell of a man with no purpose and no meaning in life.

  The voice spoke again. “A drink, Your Grace? To revive you?” Those misshapen hands were busy over a glass decanter that sat on a small table by the fireplace. Amber liquid spilled into the vessel. The woman's back was to him, her dirty hemline dragging the ground.

  She turned to him, holding the glass. “Never fear, we will go to your men, Your Grace. This is but a momentary distraction.” Her smile was brittle. “Dr
ink this, Your Grace.”

  Sebastian couldn't figure out what to do. He needed to get back to his men, but the voice held him anchored to the floor.

  Her hand held an intricately carved goblet. He wondered idly if she had purchased it from The Crossings; it was reminiscent of some of the fine merchandise set out by the people in the markets there.

  “Drink, Your Grace.” Her voice held an extra measure of compulsion. Her milky blue eyes intently watched the progress of the goblet travel to his mouth. The amber liquid winked at him in the light from the window, dark flakes settling in its depths.

  Dark flakes? Sebastian shook his head to clear it. “What drink is this?” His voice slurred.

  “Just drink it, Your Grace. You will feel better.”

  For some reason, Selena's dark eyes swam before him. His former mistress's final accusations before she'd exited this life four months ago echoed in his ears. Dark magic will take your soul, Sebastian, she'd said.

  He hadn't agreed with her, but now he wondered if in his drive to retake his throne, he'd made too many enemies, slapped too many hands ready to slide the dagger into his heart.

  With a monumental effort and a crash, he sent the goblet into the flames. The fire boiled into the chimney, blazing in a brilliant flash of alcohol-fueled inferno. Anger shook Sebastian to his very core.

  “Did you try to poison me?” he shouted.

  Terror lit the crone's gaze. Her Siren spell slipped away as she quailed before him. “Of—of course not, Your Grace. I merely thought you would feel—”

  “What do you know of what I feel?” Sebastian kicked over a chair that stood beside them, and his fury blazed even hotter. He strode across the room and picked up the rest of the alcohol in the decanter and hurled it against the wall. “Who do you think you are, treacherous witch?”

  “Please, Your Grace,” she faltered. Her voice squeaked as she tried to wield her Siren language again.

  Sebastian crossed the room in two steps and gripped the sides of her face with his hands. “Do you work for Nicholas Erlane? Do you?”

  She gasped for air, and in frigid shock, Sebastian watched ice feather her skin where his hands touched. It raced across her body and down her neck. Her skin turned gray, her eyes stilled, sightless, blind, dead.

  Sebastian jerked back as if he'd been burned, his breath coming in sharp spurts. The woman stood, frozen, a statue of ice, devoid of life and breath.

  He shook his head, struggling to erase the image of the ice encroaching on her flesh. He turned for the door and burst out of it, swinging onto the back of the horse and thundering along the road as if all the ghosts of the past chased him.

  Chapter Five

  Kinna

  Kinna was frustrated, and when she was frustrated, she did ridiculous things, such as asking Lincoln to stay behind with Chennuh while she sneaked into the rear of Sebastian's army flank alone.

  Lincoln shook his orange-haired head stubbornly. “It's not happening, m'lady. I'm your Seer Fey Guardian by rights of the treaty set forth by your great-great-great by hundreds of years grandfather, and I can't break the pact. You remember the pact? The one that produced the Amulet that everyone seems to think is so important? There is no way I'm letting you sneak into Sebastian's camp when you are who you are and he is who he is, and nothing stands between you and death if you're caught.”

  Kinna yanked on her fiery-red braid in frustration. “I can't afford to mess this up, Linc,” she pleaded as dusk layered the Plains. “Chennuh is so big, and if he accidentally hits anything, invisible or not, Cedric will remain trapped, and likely we'll hang from Sebastian's gallows at dawn.”

  “Did he look well, then?” Lincoln asked, his typical teasing attitude temporarily gone.

  Kinna shook her head. “He was very thin.”

  “So it's not likely he'll be up for a sprint across boggy plains, then.”

  “I'll help him.”

  “By the Stars, you will.” Lincoln snorted. “Thin or not, he's still taller than you by at least two orlachs. You'll need Chennuh if only for an escape plan.”

  Kinna glared at him. “Please, Linc?”

  Lincoln didn't give in, which stretched the already heightened tension from lack of sleep and too much stress, and Chennuh took advantage of the situation to give the Pixie a playful nip when Linc stepped too close. The bite resulted in a ragged tear down the side of Lincoln's breeches, and before Kinna knew it, she was standing toe-to-toe with Lincoln in a hushed word war in which he told her exactly what he thought of Mirage Dragons, particularly ones with a penchant for irritating Pixies. And he was still going with her into camp.

  Pixies always won word wars.

  Kinna glared out across the camp from a rock's vantage point, her arms crossed, her foot ticking time to the rapid succession of her thoughts while Lincoln sat, comfortable as you please, with his back against a tree and his hands locked behind his head. “So what's the plan?” he asked as if he were wondering what they should have for breakfast the next morning.

  Kinna frowned. “I don't suppose you'd care to sing the entire camp to sleep, would you?”

  Lincoln grinned. “That could be fun. Want to try it?”

  “No.” Kinna shook her head, pointing at the flags that snapped atop the guard tents in the glow of the full moon. “As soon as the bell rings for guard changes and they post the new shift flags, we'll go in.”

  “How?”

  “On Chennuh, invisibly.” Her tone was grumpy, which made Lincoln grin even wider.

  The Pixie stood and ambled to her side. “You can do this, Kinna,” he said. “The three of us, we make a good team.”

  Kinna crouched lower, narrowing her eyes as she watched the camp. “Never would have thought I'd hear you claiming Chennuh on your 'team.'”

  “Me, neither.” Lincoln glanced back at the Plains. “I wonder how long it will be before Erlane attacks? Sage said the Lismarian king was meeting with Sebastian in The Crossings—they were supposed to negotiate water passage rights, because Erlane's navy is clogging the Channel, and trade from Sanlia and Ongalia has to be maintained for both Lismaria and West Ashwynd’s economic necessities. They're still hoping to stave off war, but—” he shook his head as he stared at Sebastian's amassed forces littering the Plains, “—I think it's a vain hope.”

  Kinna straightened. “What else did she say?”

  Lincoln shook his head. “That was most of it; Sage wouldn't say much.”

  Kinna sighed. “And Cedric's going to be in the middle of it unless we get him out of there.”

  “Sage was strung tight as a wire,” Lincoln commented. “I'd guess most of it had to do with the stress she's under with Julian as head of his Pixie Division.” He left the rest of his sentence unsaid, but Kinna heard it anyway. The rest had to do with you, Kinna. She frowned.

  Movement near the camp perimeter grabbed Kinna's attention. She stood. “There's the shift change. The new flags are going up. Chennuh, let's go.”

  The Mirage, who had curled into a contented, reflective ball behind her, snorted as he raised himself to his feet. Kinna slid her hand along his neck, quickly running up his haunch until she stood on his back before leaning over and handing Lincoln up as well.

  The Pixie's face immediately sported a sheen of sweat. He sat between two fins, holding on securely. “Let's just get this over with,” he whispered, his eyes on the Dragon's neck as Chennuh bobbed his head.

  Kinna crawled up Chennuh's neck, stretching her fingertips for the topmost fin, the one that would twist all of them into invisibility.

  A snarl buffeted Kinna's ears, and she turned with a cry. Six ogres advanced on them, clubs swinging above their distended heads. Their Dimn stood behind them, crossbows in their hands, their eyes lowered to the crosshairs, and their arrows notched.

  The Ogres themselves were fleshy creatures, their spiky hair sparse on their huge heads, their jowls hanging nearly to their chests, their sharp teeth visible where thick lower lips drooped away fro
m the upper ones. Rings circled the center cartilage of their nostrils, and loose chains swung from the circlets—the main method of control the Ogredimn used for their creatures.

  And they say training Dragons is hard, Kinna thought as she stared at the nearest Ogre.

  Chennuh swung his head with a roar, and fire lit the clearing behind them.

  They'll see; they'll hear! Kinna cautioned the Dragon in her head, glancing toward the army on the Plains, but Chennuh's instincts had taken over.

  “They're too far away!” Linc shouted as he leaped off Chennuh's back directly into the path of an Ogre, somersaulting to the side when the beast took a swing at him. “Don't hold Chennuh back, Kinna!”

  Three of the Ogredimn released their shafts, but the arrows bounced harmlessly from Chennuh's scales. One grazed Kinna's boot. She jerked her foot higher on Chennuh, clinging to his mirrored fins. “Chennuh, there!” she cried, pointing at an Ogre who had moved in front of the Dragon and raised his club to smash it on Chennuh's snout.

  Chennuh released another river of flame. The Ogre hit the ground, smoldering beneath the blast. Like Trolls, Ogres had thick skin that resisted heat, but beneath a blast like that, he stood little chance. The Ogre lay inert while the others advanced.

  Chennuh bit and slashed and roared and belched flame as Kinna tried to be another set of eyes for him. She'd drawn her knife from her boot, but it was little use against such large creatures. One Ogredimn came too close, but she caught him by surprise when he turned his head to command his Ogre. The knife slit his ear, lopping off half of it. Blood flowed down his neck, and he crumpled to the ground.

  Lincoln's voice sang out clearly from a tree where he'd climbed above the fray. The remaining Dimn slowly lowered their weapons, though the Ogres took longer to respond to the Pixie's charm.

  Pain crashed into Kinna's leg where one of the clubs found her boot. She whirled, her blade streaking across the Ogre's cheek.