Fire Walker

by Trudie Skies

  Or they had. Before the riots.

  Did they still?

  No Fire Walker would have poisoned the King—they weren’t a threat to their own people, whatever the angry city folk thought. Which meant it could only be the Hartnords.

  But there were no Hartnords left in Solus. They’d fled back to the north.

  There was only Gareth.

  Mina leaped up. “It’s him. He did it. He poisoned the Queen. Gareth!”

  “What are you talking about, girl?”

  “Gareth poisoned the Queen! He’s a Hartnord—”

  “Have you lost your senses? He’s the King’s Left Arm—”

  “Which means no one would suspect him! Prince Wulfhart knew him, said he served King Reinhart. Who’s to say he’s not serving them still? Spying on us? He could have sought revenge—”

  “Sit down and cease your nonsense!” Iman bellowed. “You know nothing of his past, and if you did, you’d not make such foolish accusations.”

  Mina crossed her arms and leaned on the dresser. “Then tell me. Why does a Hartnord serve the King? What’s in it for him?”

  “Gareth may be a Hartnord, but that doesn’t make him the enemy. Don’t give me that look, girl. Talin knows him, and his loss. They fought side by side during the last war. Gareth was Princess Aniya’s lover.”

  “The King’s sister? Who died on Hartnord land?” As she said it, the lantern’s flame flickered and Tira appeared. She nodded confirmation.

  “Yes. Gareth served King Reinhart as his ambassador back then. He was a charming sort, and Princess Aniya took a shine to him. They kept their entanglement quiet, or Khaled tried to—he wasn’t keen on his sister bedding a Hartnord. But there was no stopping Aniya from getting what she wanted.

  “It was Gareth who suggested Aniya act as envoy for Sandair, and they travelled to Hartnor together. As soon as they crossed the border, they were attacked and separated. Gareth blamed Reinhart, but he also blamed himself. When they couldn’t find her, he threw himself at the King’s feet and begged for death.”

  “Did Gareth kill the Princess?” Mina asked to her mother more than Iman. Tira shook her head.

  “Was he responsible?”

  Again, another shake.

  “The King didn’t believe so,” said Iman. “He told Gareth he’d be more useful gaining vengeance than throwing his life away, so Gareth fought by our side in the war. He turned his back on his own people and gave us every advantage.” Iman took a deep sip of her wine before she continued. “We decimated the Hartnords. In battle after battle, city after city. It was King Khaled himself who ended the slaughter. Who tired of it. Killing Hartnords was never going to bring his sister back. Gareth has remained by the King’s side ever since.”

  Mina stared into the lantern’s flames. Her mother gave a solemn nod, confirming Iman’s tale.

  How did she know so much about Princess Aniya’s death? Were they together in the afterlife? Not for the first time did Mina wish she could hold a proper conversation through the fire.

  Hours passed in silent agony with only a faint fluttering of anxiety detectable through the bond. Still, Mina jumped at every noise. Neither she nor Iman managed to sleep.

  Dawn rose before a knock rattled the door. Mina leaped up as Talin pushed through. She wrapped arms around him, and Talin squeezed her tight. “I can’t stay. You must both pack and leave for Arlent immediately.”

  She let go and stared into his dark eyes. “What? Why?”

  Iman stood. “The King?”

  “Sleeping, for now. He’s… it’s his heart. A soul wound from Vida’s…” His voice hitched. “He’s alive, but at his age—he’s taken ill and may not recover.”

  “The Queen’s really gone? And the babe?”

  “The Green Hands couldn’t save either of them.”

  Iman rubbed a hand down the full length of her face and hissed a soft curse. “Vida didn’t deserve this. What caused it?”

  “The Green Hands are still examining her, but they believe she ingested something which triggered a false labor. I’m not sure if the intent was to target her or her child, but she lost too much blood. I… felt it. Through Khaled’s bond to her, I felt her life leaving her. And Khaled… gods.”

  A gut-wrenching cry whined through the blood bond. Talin alone would understand what it meant to lose a wife and child.

  “Does Gareth believe the Hartnords did this?” Iman asked.

  “Yes.”

  Another curse. Iman sank onto the lounger. “How?”

  “There’s a drug the Hartnord royal family uses to end unwanted pregnancies and keep their bloodline pure, so Gareth says.”

  “Why would Hartnords have such a thing?” Mina said, aghast.

  Iman gave a bitter laugh. “Seriously, girl? Young women do sometimes get pregnant when they don’t intend to, even in royal families.”

  “Then Prince Wulfhart did this,” Mina declared.

  “Perhaps,” Talin said. “Gareth thinks so, although he doesn’t believe Wulfhart intended to kill the Queen.”

  Blood for blood. But an innocent unborn child? She’d thought Prince Wulfhart odd, but not a murderer. An assassin. A child killer.

  “As the King’s Right Arm, I’ve assumed command. We’re holding a Council meeting shortly. The King is in and out of consciousness but had the clarity to give one command.”

  “Which is?”

  Talin’s eyes burned with a dark intensity. “War. We must prepare for war.”

  The blood bond went cool as though steel had sliced through it.

  War.

  They’d be marc hing north to once again face Hartnords on the battlefield—an enemy she knew little about. It wouldn’t be the same as fighting a duel or winning the tournament. No, this would be real fire and blood and death. Her hands shook by her sides.

  Talin squeezed her shoulder. “Return to Arlent now. Don’t wait for me. Lune guide you and keep you both safe.” He released her and strode from the room before she could object.

  Iman stomped to the dresser and pulled out clothes. “You heard the man.”

  “We can’t just leave!”

  “Talin knows what he’s doing.” Iman shoved clothes into a sack. “Hurry it up, girl.”

  “What about the Fire Walkers? What about the King? What if he—he…” She couldn’t say the words. “What we are doing? Running back to Arlent and letting Talin fight a war on his own? He’ll need us.”

  “He’ll have Jonan. Arlent will need us. War won’t reach the Duslands, but raiders always take advantage. Someone will need to protect Arlent. You’ll get your glory then.”

  “This isn’t about glory!” She flapped her arms. “He’s my father! I’m not running to the desert when my family and friends are marching to war!” Iman had said all men would be called to war; that meant Alistar and Raj, too.

  Iman grabbed a spare boot and brandished it like a weapon. “Does it not occur to you that if you stay, you’ll worry him? Distract him? He’s the King’s Right Arm. This war will be on his head—”

  “He doesn’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  “And Rahn doesn’t have to rise and set each day. But he’ll do it anyway.”

  A knock sounded at the door. Mina took a deep breath and strode to it, throwing an angry glare over her shoulder. She jumped back at the face waiting there.

  Zavar Xanbond twitched as he eyed Iman behind her. Prince Ravel’s sorran still bore a scar across the bridge of his nose from where Iman had smashed it during the tournament. Mina held no sympathy for him; he’d poisoned her in their match and earned his own disqualification. Her shoulder bore the scar from his blade.

  He straightened his silver sahn, regaining his composure. “Prince Ravel requests your presence at the Council meeting, Lady Arlbond.”

  Iman threw the boot across the room and it smacked the wall with a thud. Her scowl twisted into something sour.


  Zavar’s face puffed into that of a smug fig merchant. “Now, if you would, Lady Arlbond. The Council can’t wait.” His grin grew positively wolflike. “Or shall I pass on your refusal to our new king?”

  13

  THE COUNCIL

  “Our new king.”

  Those words stole Mina’s breath. She hadn’t fought through the tournament, risked her honor, her House, and the lives of hundreds of Fire Walkers to throw that all away. “King Khaled is still alive,” she spluttered.

  Zavar strode down the hall and she jogged after him. “For how long? The King is rather unwell. He’s not fit to rule—”

  “And you think your master is?”

  “My Prince has trained his entire life for this role. He understands the concerns of modern Sandair, whereas his father, Rahn guide him, refuses to see the danger.” Zavar stopped and rounded on her. “We live in dark times, Lady Arlbond. The Hartnords have killed my aunt. She was—” His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “She was kind to me.” Zavar closed his eyes for a moment, and when they opened again, hatred burned bright in them. “I grew up beside the border. I saw Hartnord savagery with my own eyes. No one understands the threat of a Hartnord better than my House and I. We need a man of strength to lead us.”

  Prince Ravel was not that man. She clenched her teeth and followed him through the Keep’s many corridors. A dead Hartnord king and now a dead Sandarian queen. Everyone was out for blood. She understood that need for revenge, but this was going to tear their kingdoms apart.

  As they strode through the gardens, they bumped into Alistar. He slid to her side and kept pace with their march. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

  “War.”

  He hissed a curse.

  They entered the military court. This part of the Keep was occupied by the King’s personal guards, the soldiers, and the city guards. She’d wandered here once looking for training space before the tournament, but they had no patience for former Academy students. This was where the King and his three wardens spent most of their time, so Talin had informed her. And where the Council of Housemen convened.

  The courtyards here were not filled with flowers, trees, and water fountains, but with racks of silver swords. Even at this early hour, men in bronze scale armor worked through drills. Their war cries and the stench of sweat sent a shiver down her spine. How many of these men would bleed in the coming weeks? How many would die? Each yard they passed held a different group of men, and the quality of their blades and armor increased until they reached men in golden armor and red leather. The King’s own royal guards.

  Zavar stopped before a marble double door, reminiscent of the wooden entrance to the Academy with its carved symbols. Fourteen sigils had been etched into the marble, some more worn than others. The newest was Lune’s crescent—the symbol of House Arlbond. And one had been scratched out, erased, though its outline remained—a three-forked flame. In the middle, split between the two doors, was the large round symbol of Rahn. The Bright Solara. Two royal guards stood on either side and parted the doors, allowing Zavar to pass.

  Mina followed him into a cavernous room, its glittering marble walls Lune-white with tall windows. Housemen were gathered around a large triangular table with points colored in faded red, orange, and green representing the regions of the Solands, the Duslands, and Gaisland. Scrolls, maps, and wine cups covered the table’s surface.

  Behind them stood their sorrans, and, to Mina’s surprise, chairs for each of the three high priestesses of Sandair. Leila sat in the middle in her flowing red robe, her face already hardened into an unwelcoming glare. On her right was an old Gaislander woman in a green robe with a sash covered in knots to indicate her status as a trained Green Hand. And to her left sat a heavily pregnant Solander woman in a blue hooded robe. The High Priestess of Lune.

  The blood bond pulled her attention to Talin, who sat near the red point of the table, which was marked with the symbol of Rahn. His own chair, beside Lune’s crescent, was empty. He didn’t look surprised to see her; no doubt he’d felt her approach through the bond, though his expression looked weary. Defeated. Beside him, Prince Ravel rose to his feet.

  “My lords and ladies. I saw fit to invite our tournament champion. Before we begin what is destined to be a profoundly difficult meeting, I wish to put forth an addition to our agenda—a vote of no confidence in my father’s ability to rule as king.”

  Mutters rippled through the room. Alistar stiffened beside her, and she followed his gaze to his father by the Gaisland point of the table. This close, the resemblance between Alistar and his father was uncanny.

  A chair scraped across the tiled floor. Salasar stood. “My Prince, your father fell ill only a short time ago. Give him time to heal and grieve. His Right Arm can handle his affairs until—”

  “The Green Hands say my father’s heart is weak and beyond repair. He may never wield a sword again, Lord Sarabond, and what use is a king who cannot raise a blade and ride into a war that he has declared?”

  A short Gaislander in a green sahn and matching turban stood. The Guardian of Gai. “Now is not the time for rash action, my Prince. Our Queen was taken from us—”

  “My mother was murdered before my own eyes, Lord Nazim. I felt her dying gasps through my own blood. There will be time to mourn. Now is the time to act.” The Prince’s amber eyes flared. “I will honor my father’s dying wish. Blood for blood. But my father cannot lead the charge. As much as I respect the great Lord Talin, it is the blood of the Bright Solara who should lead our kingdom. I can lead us. Let me avenge my mother.”

  His speech sent a shiver down her spine. Prince Ravel wielded his anger as a weapon, and the Housemen fed off his emotions. She could see it reflected in their tired faces.

  Their mutterings renewed. Some Housemen nodded; others looked less convinced, their faces pulled taut into uneasy grimaces. How could anyone have forgotten the Prince’s crimes so soon? Talin sat expressionless, considering the Prince’s words, but she felt his anxiety. Who would dare stand against the Prince? This was the Solaran Tournament all over again, with no combatant willing to face him.

  Criticizing a grieving son would make her a monster. But if she needed to become a monster, then so be it. She stepped up to the table. Alistar grabbed her arm and pinched sharp. She bit back a yelp and glared at him. He mouthed one word: Don’t.

  The pinch pulled Talin from his stupor. He rose to his feet with slow, considered movements, and the murmurs died out. “We are all shocked by Queen Vida’s death, none more than I. She was a dear friend who supported me through the loss of my own wife. I, too, wish to see justice. I stand here today as the King’s sorran, as his Right Arm, to fulfill his commands. I do so in line with our Code of Honor, and with rules abided by for generations and generations of my King’s bloodline. It is that same Code of Honor which states a prince must win the Solaran Tournament before he can hold the crown.”

  She swallowed a sigh of relief.

  Talin smiled. “The tournament my daughter won.”

  The Housemen leaned over the table to get a better look at her. Blood rose to her cheeks, but she held her chin high.

  The Prince’s lips churned with a repressed sneer. “Lady Arlbond should never have been allowed to compete in the tournament, my lords. Her victory should not be recognized.”

  Heat flared in her gut. “The King recognized my victory, Prince.”

  “Yet the Code of Honor does not. Women have no place in the tournament.”

  “A woman still won fairly, my Prince,” said one of the priestesses—the pregnant High Priestess of Lune. “She won to your rules.”

  Prince Ravel turned to the priestess and inclined his head a fraction. “With respect, Lady Sarabond, this is not a matter for the temple.”

  Lady Sarabond? Mina flicked her gaze to Salasar, who’d returned to his seat and was now grinding his teeth. Salasar’s wife was the High Priestess of Lune?

  The p
riestess—Lady Sarabond—didn’t look impressed, nor cowed by the Prince’s dismissal. “The Temple of Lune represents all of Lune’s daughters, my Prince. That includes her.”

  “Yes, yes, we’re not here to discuss the validity of some woman’s accomplishments,” drawled a familiar voice. Lord Farzad Fellbond. A hefty man Mina had defeated in the tournament. He dismissed her, and Lady Sarabond, with a flick of his wrist. “It’s irrelevant if this girl cheated her way through the tournament—”

  “I didn’t cheat!”

  “—to make some sort of tale for the crowd to eat up. We all know Prince Ravel would have won, should have won, and that the King named him his heir.”

  “Are you forgetting the crimes he committed?” Heat tingled her fingers and she flexed them into fists by her side. “He poisoned people. His own father!”

  “An unfortunate accident, yes, but he has been punished enough.”

  “What, by being locked inside his golden palace and pampered like a child?”

  Some of the Housemen muttered and shot glares her way. A warning burned through the blood bond, and Talin shook his head subtly, enough for her to catch it.

  “My mother has been murdered, Lady Arlbond,” Prince Ravel snarled. He let his eyes drift from Houseman to Houseman. “I have spent these past weeks making amends to prove to you all how deeply I regret my actions. Know they came from a place of fear. Not fear for myself, but for my kingdom. You all witnessed my helbond ceremony a year ago, when my dear brother was so terribly injured. I could not abide the threat posed to the people of Sandair by Fire Walkers hiding among us. And look where we are now. A Fire Walker set in motion this chain of events that killed my mother and brought us to the brink of war.” The Prince closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them again. “But the Fire Walkers are not the point of this meeting. We must move forward. I ask you to place your faith in me.”

  The Housemen murmured their agreement. How had he won back their hearts and minds so quickly? The city folk in the taverns still cursed his name.