Ignite the Fire: Incendiary

by Karen Chance

  I was glad for my ignorance; glad I didn’t know.

  Footsteps, quiet but echoing in the stillness, hurried toward us. I wanted to look up, to see who it was, but the fey didn’t turn his neck or even lift his head. Not until the footsteps faltered as they neared us, and a hand found our back.

  And then, when he did look up, his face was hot. I could feel the anger staining our cheeks, even without being able to see it. And his expression must have matched it, because the bearded fey we’d seen below abruptly drew back a few steps.

  “When?” my fey said, his voice hard.

  “A few days ago. He had it moved in shortly after you left.”

  “How . . . convenient.”

  “He wants to throw you, Arsen—to provoke a reaction—”

  “I know what he wants.”

  “You mustn’t let him!” The hand was back, this time clutching our arm. “I know what this means to you—”

  “Do you?” My fey—Arsen, I guessed—rose to his feet and gauntleted his hand again. “Do you indeed?”

  The bearded fey paused, and then shook his head. “No,” he said. “In truth, I can’t imagine. But my prince—”

  “Don’t call me that! There is but once prince here, and he is a monster.”

  He started down the corridor again, but his feet faltered after only a few steps, as if the silent cries echoed in his head, too.

  “It was beautiful,” Arsen said, looking around. “Like nothing I’d ever seen. I was barely old enough to hold a sword, but after father . . . after father’s death, I was head of house. I was required to be there—”

  “I know—”

  “Do you?” he said again, turning back to the older fey. “My first campaign, my first chance to prove myself, any boy’s dream. Not that I expected to have to. I was in titular command, but it was merely a symbolic post, the king said. To prove to others that my father’s treachery hadn’t tainted his view of the entire clan. It was an honor . . .”

  He gazed around again, but the bearded fey did not. I could see him in glimpses, whenever Arsen’s eyes went past, and he was keeping his own squarely fixed on us. “I should have come with you,” he said. “Then and today. I shouldn’t have allowed you to see this alone.”

  Arsen acted like he hadn’t heard, and I honestly thought that might be the case. Because, when his voice came again, it was tinted with wonder, as if he was back there, in that watery memory. “It was like nothing I’d ever seen,” he said again. “Beautiful beyond words, beyond imagining. A different world.

  “I expected a palace, but there wasn’t one. Huge, golden shells provided housing, spread across an entire mountainside and spilling into the valley beyond, all under the waves. They grew gardens of sea crops, which tiny schools of fish swam across, like colorful birds. Children darted in and out of kelp fields, playing like ours do in a forest.” He turned on the older fey again, his voice anguished. “Do you understand? They were just like us—”

  “I understand—”

  “Do you?” It was louder that time, echoing off the gruesome walls, and coming back to us, as if out of a hundred throats. The bearded fey started slightly, and his eyes darted about, as if he was feeling the eeriness of the moment, too. It honestly felt like the whole corridor was screaming.

  But then he hurried forward and his hand caught our arm. “Keep your voice down! I beg you—”

  “Beg him,” Arsen said, throwing off his hold. “Beg the one who slaughtered them under a flag of truce. Beg the one who tore their king apart, with his own trident. Beg the one who claimed it as my doing, my victory, my honor.

  “Beg him!”

  Arsen took off, striding down the corridor this time, fury in every step.

  Until our arm was caught again, in a grip like steel. Arsen tugged against it, but went nowhere, something that seemed to surprise him. But the bearded one was stronger than he looked, and he held on, with both hands now.

  “Don’t let my failings cause you to do something rash,” he said quickly. “We have plans, plans that an outburst, however warranted, could undo—”

  “Don’t tell me of your plans,” Arsen hissed. “I’ve heard that tale before, time out of mind. That’s all the nobles do, they plan. To make themselves feel like they’re doing something, to be a sop to their consciences, while he plunders and mutilates and kills—”

  “And what would you have us do?” the bearded fey asked, in a low voice. “You know better than most what happens to those who move against him. Why do you think he brought this here? Yes, he wants to provoke some rash action that will allow him to finally lay your family low. But this is a message to us, as well. Follow Arsen’s lead, and end up like these poor bastards, like his father before him—”

  Arsen moved so fast that I didn’t even see him, and I currently was him. Yet it took me by surprise every bit as much as it seemed to do the bearded fey, when he was jerked off the ground and slammed into the wall. And held there, one handed, buy a furious prince.

  “Do not dare to speak his name!”

  “I haven’t, have I?” the bearded fey asked. His voice, worried and furtive a moment ago, was suddenly clear and cold. “But I do speak of his fate, and well I might. I would not see you suffer it, and spill your blood uselessly. And thereby play directly into the king’s hands. Aeslinn wants an excuse; your anger will give him one—”

  Arsen abruptly released him, and only fey reflexes kept the portly figure from sprawling on the floor. But he kept his feet, and also kept talking, although it would have been more prudent to stop. And to fail to follow when Arsen strode off again, clearing the stone wave and passing into a tunnel of what looked like frozen water, but which I slowly realized was stone, too.

  It looked like blue agate, but it wasn’t, at least not the Earth variety. It had a shiny, smooth surface, but instead of the usual mineral waves or quartz occlusions, this had . . . something else. Different bubbles of blue, some deep azure, some pale cerulean, some almost milky white, bumped against the surface all around us, splattering in odd, round shapes before disappearing again. It was like standing in the middle of a giant lava lamp, both beautiful and disturbing.

  Only Arsen didn’t seem to notice, perhaps because the bearded fey had not chosen the better part of valor. Our arm was caught again, and this time, Arsen turned with a snarl. But the older fey did not back down.

  “Your word.”

  “I don’t owe it to you!”

  “No, you don’t. You owe it to them, to those who walked this path before you, to your father—and yes, I’ll name him. He deserves to be named, to be remembered, for what he did: Áskell of the Mountains, prince of the noble house of Iárnkaré, last scion of the ancient Rock Wolf clan. When we still lived in caves like savages, your family led us; when magic first stirred in our veins, your people ruled.” Arsen tried to pull away, but the old fey held on. “Long before the gods came, long before our world was torn asunder, you called and we came, and we followed.

  “They will follow you again. But not now. Not yet.”

  “Then when? After he’s destroyed us? I don’t care who leads; I care what we become—”

  “And without you, what do you think that will be? Patience—”

  “And how many more will die while I am patient?” Arsen said savagely.

  “However many need to. Better to lose some than all, and to forfeit a battle than a war. You want revenge, I understand—”

  “Then you understand nothing! What’s done is done!”

  “And may yet be undone. Your father died for a cause he believed in. Honor him by completing that task, not by throwing your life away to no purpose.”

  “It has a purpose if it removes that thing from the throne!”

  The bearded fey just looked at him calmly, and said a single word. “If.”

  Arsen stared at him for a moment, then tore away, striding down the hallway. This time, no one followed. Although I honestly don’t think it would have mattered.


  His thoughts were too jumbled to listen to anything else anyway, and so were mine.

  There were more wonders to be seen, but I barely noticed. We exchanged the blue expanse for a white one, with walls of what looked like ice. The cracks in the brittle-looking exterior constantly changed as we strode underneath, with soft, splintering sounds that kept making me flinch, thinking the whole ceiling was about to come down.

  After that came huge crystal formations in a dull pinkish red that curved over our heads like a bower, like masses of stone flowers, and which should have been lovely. And in a way, they were, like walking through a garden—one caught in a stiff breeze. Because the rock clusters were moving, opening and closing and wafting back and forth, like garlands blowing in the wind.

  Or like what they were: living rock.

  But as amazing and beautiful as I would normally have found it, Aeslinn’s trophy wall had left an acid taste in my mouth, and a creeping sense of horror up my backbone. It had killed my sense of wonder, to the point that I was thinking of trying to pull away. To leave this strange journey, even though I knew I’d probably never have this chance again, to see how Faerie worked from the inside, to understand even a few of its leaders. So, I stayed, as we approached what proved to be the final stretch, this one clad in obsidian.

  It was as black as night and covered not only the corridor itself, but the huge doors at its end, which were opened by a couple of fey guards as we approached. It spilled all over everything like a puddle of ink, and yet . . . there was movement in there, too. Little plinks, like falling raindrops, showed up in the midnight color occasionally, only visible by the light that they disturbed on its surface.

  And there was a lot of surface. We walked through the doors, but not into another room as I’d expected, but into a short corridor that was completely black—walls, floor and ceiling. It gave me a weird feeling, like I was falling into nothingness. The stone didn’t help, seeming to absorb any light that dared to enter, and yet, in the darkness, I could still hear them: plink, plink, plink.

  It was the only thing I could hear, as the stone muffled sound. It was like walking into a sensory deprivation chamber, and I suddenly realized that I wouldn’t do very well in one of those. I would be gibbering inside a minute, something I could now confirm with absolute certainty, since that was about the time it took for us to traverse the hallway.

  And finally burst out of the other side, after what felt like a year, giving me half a second to feel genuine, heartfelt gratitude, before—

  “Where is that bastard Arsen?”

  Chapter Thirty

  T he voice stopped my feet, or it would have if I’d currently had any. Since I was just a metaphysical backpack, we kept moving forward, despite the fact that that was the last thing I wanted to do. Because I’d know that bellow anywhere.

  Aeslinn.

  The world suddenly went swimmy, but I didn’t think it was from shock. I’d already figured out where we were headed, and had been bracing myself for it. But my surroundings blurred anyway, until I was once again seeing two scenes at once.

  But this time, they weren’t two different scenes, like in Gertie’s stairwell. But more like two almost identical ones that had been superimposed over each other, making everything blur around the edges. I blinked and things snapped back to normal, so quickly that I’d hardly had a chance to realize that anything was wrong.

  Except that I suddenly felt really unwell.

  But passing out in someone else’s body didn’t seem to be a thing, because I recovered in a few seconds, and looked up to see the king pacing in front of a massive stone chair in an obsidian clad throne room. The chair looked like it almost could have fit his giant form and was up a steep set of stairs, also obsidian, which were broad and deep but only carved in front. The rest blended into an eruption of black rock from the floor, with huge jagged boulders spearing the throne upward toward the soaring ceiling.

  At least, I assumed it was soaring. But the ceiling was obsidian, too, making it so dark that I couldn’t see the top, just a collection of shadows. It matched the rest of the room, including the floor, which was so highly polished that it could have served as a mirror.

  There was no second throne, such as a queen might have used, or much other furniture, except for a few tables scattered around. And some standing candelabras that weren’t in use because they weren’t needed. All the light anyone could have wanted was flooding in through a stretch of large, arched openings along the wall behind the throne, so many and so close that they almost amounted to a missing wall, looking out over the massive mountain range.

  I supposed they also explained why the room was so stark.

  With that view, it didn’t need anything else.

  The king was looking fairly impressive today, too, in silver-gray robes as unadorned as his hunting attire, but made of what looked like silk, with a subtle pattern on the outer one that caught the light whenever he moved. There was a matching circlet on his brow, keeping the long, fair hair contained, and a ring with a huge emerald on his hand. Yet he somehow managed to give the impression that he had just rolled out of bed.

  Mircea would have been appalled.

  But I didn’t get the impression that Aeslinn needed to impress anyone. The only other person in the room seemed cowed enough already. He was dressed in simple, dark blue robes that puddled around his huddled form, although I thought he might have been taller and even more slender than most fey when standing.

  He looked up after a moment, showing me that I’d been right. His face was almost gaunt, which was a shame as it could have really used some more weight. It would have made the overlarge Adam’s apple slightly less prominent and filled out the sunken cheeks. It might have even distracted from the wickedly sharp nose; seriously, he could have cut somebody with that thing.

  And then Aeslinn began speaking again, making me jump.

  “Answer me, toady! And get off the floor!”

  The functionary rose back up, and tried a small smile, although it trembled at the edges. “Yes, sire. Lord Arsen has been summoned—”

  “And has arrived,” my fey said, striding forward and making a low bow that veered just on the right side of parody.

  It allowed me to glimpse myself—or rather, Arsen—for the first time in the shiny black floor. He was handsome, broad shouldered, and silver-haired—in other words, just like all the others. Except that the feather on his helmet was red, a color that seemed entirely too cheerful for the Svarestri.

  “Lord Arsen,” Aeslinn said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “How kind of you to join us. Get tired of slumming with the village girls, at last?”

  “Not at all, Your Grace,” Arsen stood back up, smiling. “I find it quite refreshing. And you’d be surprised what gossip the tavern wenches give up, once in their cups. For example, did you know that a group of trolls has taken up residence in one of our abandoned mines? They’re over in Deepdale, by the Kalbaek. I could take a party of knights and clear them out—”

  “I don’t care about trolls!” Aeslinn bellowed, striding over and grabbing our shoulder. “You’ll take him on Earth, you understand? I tire of this idiot’s excuses—”

  And then it happened again. The room went swimmy, and I was suddenly seeing another, similar scene. The throne was the same; Arsen was the same; but Aeslinn . . . was wildly different.

  This time, his robes were purple, a dark shade that was almost black, with a subtle iridescence to it. The color reminded me of black pearls, although he wore none of them. Instead, tiny jet beads made intricate patterns all over the heavy, lined satin of his robes, almost quilting it. They caught the light whenever he moved, making him appear as if he was covered in black diamonds.

  The outfit was beautiful, but it didn’t flow like the lightweight silks he’d had on a minute ago. But the heavier weight was probably needed, I thought, my attention caught by what was happening outside. Where the mother of all blizzards was raging.

  That was proba
bly why the candelabras were now lit, casting puddles of golden light on the floor, which mirrored them back in dark reflections. The walls echoed them, too, which was fortunate, or I doubt anybody would have been able to see much of anything. Because there was nothing left of the beautiful view outside except for lashings of white.

  Snow and ice pounded what I assumed was a ward or transparent shield, since the blizzard outside stayed that way. But frost had formed on the walls and floor beside the openings, nonetheless. It covered the king’s great chair as well, fuzzing the arms and back and spilling down the short flight of steps leading up to it.

  Weirdly, he’d been sitting in it anyway. I could see the imprint of his body, looking ridiculously small against the large surface. But instead of him melting the snow, as I’d have expected, he seemed to have done the opposite. Where he’d sat and along the nearest arm rest the frost was thicker, almost enough to count as snow.

  It sent a chill through me, although I wasn’t sure why.

  “—have they?” Aeslinn was saying, his hand clenching on our bicep.

  His grip was strong enough that I could feel it through the armor. Maybe because his fingers were indenting the heavy metal, and sending frost scurrying over the surface, threatening to freeze the joints. Arsen had a brief impression that a larger hand gripped him, a giant’s hand, but he shook it off and answered calmly.

  “Yes, Your Grace. The forces of King Cae—that is, Lord Alacono—have been stopped at the Morroway. The river is frozen, but they cannot hope to pass. The storm you have sent is too much for them.”

  “But for how long?” Aeslinn demanded, his hand tightening. “Am I to keep this up forever?”

  “Not forever, Your Grace. They will freeze if they tarry too long. There is little cover there.” Arsen had carefully changed neither his tone nor his volume, but if he thought that would influence the king to do likewise, he was disappointed.