by Amy Raby
“My family is not like yours,” Rayn added. “Your relatives—they are all competent, all capable. Mine . . . well . . .”
“None of us have perfect families,” said Celeste. “Your father may be mad now, but at one time he was an excellent king who taught you everything you know. My father, on the other hand, massacred thousands.”
Rayn blinked, taken aback. “You make a sound point.”
“I am not my father, and you are not yours,” said Celeste. “Let’s go in.”
Konani, the caretaker, ushered them into the room.
Zalyo was sitting at the window, staring out. He glanced at them briefly before returning his attention to the window. “Arrick, is that you?”
“No, it’s your son, Rayn,” said Rayn. “And I’ve brought someone else to see you.”
“Not now,” said Zalyo. “I’m waiting for Arrick.”
Rayn looked quizzically at Konani.
Konani whispered, “An old fleet captain, I think.”
“Oh, I remember.” Rayn addressed his father again. “Sir, Captain Arrick isn’t available—”
Zalyo waved his hand. “Go and fetch him. There’s an attack ship in the harbor.”
Rayn went to the window. “That one?” said Rayn, indicating a ship that was just dropping anchor.
“Yes!” cried Zalyo. “Get Arrick right away.”
“Father, that’s a Mosari merchant ship.”
Zalyo rounded on them. “Is it your place to question me, you . . . you . . .”
“I’m your son.” Rayn’s voice broke as he said it. “I came to introduce you to my fiancée, Princess Celeste.” He’d told her in advance he would not mention where she was from; Zalyo had a habit of becoming fretful at any mention of Kjall.
Zalyo’s eyes went back and forth from Rayn to Celeste to Rayn again. “What is this nonsense? You’re distracting me when our nation is at war! Why are we not firing on the ship? Get Captain Arrick.”
“Sir—” began Rayn.
“Who are you?” demanded Zalyo. “Have you come to take my window? To take my throne? I’ll not have it. Konani!”
“Give me a moment,” said Konani, rushing to him. “I’ll quiet him.”
Celeste and Rayn let Konani take over with his soothing voice and moved to the back of the room.
Rayn’s voice trembled as he spoke. “I’m sorry. I was hoping this would work, but clearly it’s not going to. He’s just . . . he’s . . . Look, Captain Arrick died six years ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Celeste. “I have a thought. You can tell me no if you’re not comfortable with it.”
“What’s your thought?”
“I can use mind magic on him.”
Rayn shook his head. “Absolutely not. I don’t want his mind tampered with.”
“Before you decide, hear me out,” said Celeste. “I can use a suggestion to quiet his fears and remind him who you are. It’s true that a suggestion tampers with the mind, but the effects are temporary. It will wear off within the hour, and it may help him remember a few things. I’m not familiar with his particular condition, but I’ve used suggestions for healing purposes before.”
Rayn sighed and looked back at Konani, who was making soothing gestures at a ranting Zalyo. “We’ll try it. Just once.”
They crossed the room to the window, where Konani raised his hands to warn them off. “Your Majesty, he’s not having a good day.”
“Let’s try just once more,” said Rayn.
Celeste projected her suggestion immediately. Inya is not at war, and there are no attack ships in the harbor. This is my son standing before me, whom I raised from infancy.
The lines in Zalyo’s face relaxed. His stared at them slack-jawed. After a moment, he said, “Rayn?”
Rayn took Zalyo’s hand in his own. His voice broke as he answered, “Yes, Father, it’s me.”
“You’ve grown, son. Is that the Ormathian Mantle you wear?”
“Yes, Father. I’m king now.” Rayn looked apprehensive, and Celeste bit her lip as she awaited the former king’s response.
Zalyo shook his head. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. I remember so little—”
“Don’t apologize,” said Rayn.
“You won your ratification vote?” asked Zalyo.
“Yes, Father.”
“I knew you would,” said Zalyo. “Always, you made me proud.”
Rayn’s face crumpled. Celeste placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently.
Zalyo looked up at her. “Who is this young lady with you?”
Rayn rose from his kneeling position and slipped his hand into hers. “This is Celeste, my fiancée. I came here to introduce her to you.”
Zalyo studied her. “She’s beautiful.”
“She certainly is,” said Rayn.
“You’ll take care of my son, won’t you?” asked Zalyo.
“Every moment of his life,” Celeste promised.
Epilogue
Celeste felt both nervous and a little ridiculous as she made her way through the crowd with Rayn, clasping wrists with friends old and new. It was their wedding day, and this time she too was wearing the Inyan face paint. Her wedding dress was lighter in weight than a Kjallan one would be, on account of the weather. It was an elaborate gold-and-white garment of tulle and satin, embroidered with thousands of tiny pearls. Rayn, who followed just behind her, was dressed in silver, the traditional color of Inyan bridegrooms.
It was a fine day, which was fortunate because Inyan royal weddings were held outdoors, and if it rained, they had to be postponed. She and Rayn had chosen for their location the hidden cove where he’d given her the ring cowrie. She greatly preferred the sounds of sand and surf to the hollow echoes of an indoor hall.
Before the ceremony commenced, it was customary for the bridal couple to greet all the guests. That way, they could be spirited away immediately after the ceremony to their private chamber for the all-important consummation of the marriage—not that this particular marriage hadn’t been well and truly consummated already.
The inaugural members of the Inyan Mathematical Society were in attendance: five men and three women. She clasped wrists with each of them as she moved down the line.
Near the end, she came to the Kjallans. First Justien and Nalica, and then her family. It amazed her that Vitala had made the trip. She was hugely pregnant now and accompanied at all times by a Healer, in case she went unexpectedly into labor. It was entirely possible that Vitala and Lucien’s second child might be born in Inya, or, more likely, on the Soldier’s Sweep during their voyage home.
She hugged Vitala gently, and then her brother.
“Are you really going to walk through fire?” asked Vitala.
She glanced back at the enormous line of firewood that had been set up on the beach. There was a ramp leading over it, so they wouldn’t have to walk directly on the wood, but she supposed the ramp became quite hot when bathed in flames. “As I understand it, yes, we do.”
Lucien’s brows furrowed. “You’re sure this is safe?”
“Rayn insists that it is,” she said. “The tradition goes back to the days when fire mages were considered priests to the fire spirits. Walking through fire assured everyone that the spirits approved the match.”
“They’d better approve this one,” said Lucien, “or they’ll have a war on their hands.”
“When do the officials light the fire?” asked Vitala.
“At the last minute, right before we walk through,” said Celeste. “Otherwise we’d be boiling out here.”
At the end of the line, they came to Rayn’s family: his mother, Kin-Lera; his younger sister, Rilia; and his older sister, Selda, who had traveled here for the ceremony in the company of her Mosari husband. Aderyn sat babbling hap
pily in Kima’s arms. And Zalyo was present, accompanied by two caretakers.
It was clear to Celeste that Zalyo would never recover; the damage to his mind was incurable. But he suffered less now from paranoia and anxiety. Over the years, Councilor Worryn had exacerbated the man’s symptoms by whispering in his ear about supposed wrongs that were being done to him. Now that Worryn was out of the picture—imprisoned for his crimes—Zalyo was more at ease. Rayn made a point of visiting with him several times a week to play Knots, a simple tile matching game. Zalyo tended to forget the rules and cheat, but that didn’t matter. The point was spending time together. Some days Zalyo recognized Rayn and some days he didn’t. When his father’s state distressed him more than he could handle, Rayn came to Celeste afterward. They’d learned some mutually enjoyable techniques for quieting Rayn’s inner fire. And while thus far Celeste had not used her mind magic on Zalyo a second time—Rayn preferred as little interference with the workings of his mind as possible—they knew it was an option should Zalyo become too confused and agitated to find peace.
Now Celeste kissed Aderyn’s cheek and clasped wrists with each of her in-laws, ending with Zalyo. She then left them to Rayn, who hugged them all in turn and whispered in their ears.
They’d reached the end of the line. It was time for the ceremony. Directed by the officials, they walked arm in arm around the line of firewood and took their place on its far side, so that they faced both the firewood and the crowd beyond it. A trumpet sounded, and an official said something in the Old Language. Then he repeated the words in Inyan.
Celeste listened with half an ear. It was a familiar litany of invocations to the gods, remarkably similar to what she’d heard in Kjall on countless occasions, although it was interesting to hear it in another language. She glanced at the ocean, bringer of gifts, and looked up at her fiancé. Would she ever tire of gazing at him? Even now, after knowing him in the most intimate of ways, she was amazed anew by the fact that he was the most beautiful creature she’d ever laid eyes on.
“It’s time,” whispered Rayn.
The officials standing on the other side of the firewood dipped their lit torches into it. The wood must have been treated with something, because it rushed up in a great wall of flame before them, emitting a blistering wave of heat. Suddenly they were alone. Everyone else was on the other side, and the fire lay in between.
Celeste felt the heat for only an instant, and then she was surrounded by cool air. Rayn was using his magic.
He grinned. “Shall we?”
She nodded nervously. All they had to do was pass through that flame, and they would be married.
They stepped up onto the ramp. She would have shrunk from the flames, but Rayn moved steadily forward, encouraging her with his confidence. In front of them was an inferno. She swallowed.
Rayn stepped directly into the flames, and she went with him. All around them was fire. She felt nothing—even her feet, on the iron ramp, were not hot. Since this would likely be the only time in her life she stood inside a fire, she took a moment to look around.
Her mouth fell open. All around her, the spirits danced. They were red and orange and yellow, their elongated limbs twisting and gyrating to an unheard rhythm. Fascinated, she stared. Their dance was exuberant, and they sang in rushing, crackling voices. She could not make out the words. It was a language foreign to mortals.
“You see them?” asked Rayn.
“I do.”
He tugged at her arm. “They are a private people—we cannot stay.”
Looking through the flames, she saw the crowd waiting anxiously for them to emerge from the fire. All the people she loved were out there, save the one she loved most—and he was by her side. She stepped forward with Rayn, out of the fire and into her new life.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for reading Prince’s Fire! I hope you enjoyed the book.
If you’d like to know when my next book is available, you can subscribe to my newsletter at http://www.amyraby.com, or follow me on Twitter at @amyraby, or like my Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/Amy.Raby.Author.
Prince’s Fire is the third full-length novel in the Hearts and Thrones series. The first book is Assassin’s Gambit, and the second is Spy’s Honor. You can find links to these books at http://www .amyraby.com.
I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative. Please consider leaving an honest review at Goodreads or your favorite retailer.
All the best,
Amy Raby
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Amy Raby is literally a product of the U.S. space program, since her parents met working for NASA on the Apollo missions. After earning her bachelor’s in computer science from the University of Washington, Amy settled in the Pacific Northwest with her family, where she’s always looking for life’s next adventure, whether it’s capsizing tiny sailboats in Lake Washington, training hunting dogs, or riding horseback. Amy is a Golden Heart® finalist and a Daphne du Maurier winner.
Read on for a look at the first novel in Amy Raby’s Hearts and Thrones series,
Assassin’s Gambit
Available from Signet Eclipse.
Prologue
His body moved against hers, chafing her skin. Vitala shifted beneath him and tried to remember his name. Rennic, maybe. Some spy in training from the practice floor who’d leapt at the opportunity to engage in a different sort of practice.
“Not much into this, are you?” he murmured, pumping away.
Right—she was supposed to act like she enjoyed this. And if she couldn’t fool this Rennic fellow, she’d never fool the emperor. She moaned and writhed, convinced, as always, that such obvious fakery couldn’t work. And yet it did. He quickened. The hard muscles of his arms tensed against her, and his rhythm accelerated. His eyes fluttered shut.
She ran her hands down his back.
Her mentor’s words echoed in her head. Remember the nature of the emperor’s magic. If your timing is even a little bit off, he’ll see the attack coming, and you will fail.
She knew the difficulty of her task and the importance of getting the details right. She would practice until every move had the slick perfection of a well-played Caturanga game.
Rennic grunted, beyond speech. He jerked and gasped. The moment had come.
A touch of her mind and a flick of her finger, and from out of nowhere a Shard glinted in her hand. She stabbed the tiny blade into the soft flesh of his back. He didn’t react, probably didn’t even feel it. Another touch of her mind, and she released the spell it carried—a benign white-pox spell, easily cured. Not the more fatal alternative.
With a grunt that could have been satisfaction or pain, he collapsed atop her, sticky with sweat.
She yanked the Shard out of his back, and he jerked in sudden awareness. He twisted and stared at the inky Shard, now daubed red with his blood. “You get me with that thing?”
“It’s a good thing you’re not the emperor,” said Vitala, “or you’d be dead.”
1
“Vitala Salonius?”
She set down her heavy valise on the dock’s oak planking. The man approaching her looked the quintessential Kjallan—tall and muscular, black hair, and a hawk nose. He wore Kjallan military garb, double belted, with a sword on one hip. On the other hip sat a flintlock pistol with a walnut stock and gilt bronze mounts, so fine and polished that Vitala found herself coveting it. His orange uniform bore no blood mark but instead the sickle and sunburst—the insignia of the Legaciatti, which made him one of the emperor’s famed personal bodyguards.
“Yes, sir. That’s me,” she said.
His handsome face broke into a smile. “My name is Remus, and I’m here to escort you to the palace. I’ll get that for you.” He hefted the valise with ease and gestured at a carriage waiting at the end of the dock.
She followed him, swaying at the
sensation of being on dry land after two weeks aboard ship. Remus’s riftstone was not visible. Most Kjallan mages wore them on chains around their necks, concealed beneath their clothes. The collar of Remus’s uniform hid even the chain. He was certainly a mage—all the Legaciatti were—but she could not tell what sort of magic he possessed. Was he a war mage? That was the only type difficult to kill. She relaxed her mind a little, opening herself to the tiny fault lines that separated her world from the spirit world, and viewed the ghostly blue threading of his wards. He was well protected from disease, parasites, and even from the conception of a child.
They arrived at the carriage, a landau pulled by dark bays. At Remus’s gesture, she climbed inside. He handed her valise to a bespectacled footman, who heaved it onto the back and strapped it in place. Remus, whom she’d expected to ride on the back or up front with the driver, stepped into the carriage and sat in the seat opposite her. Of course. The vetting process began here. He would make small talk, and she’d have to be very, very careful what she said to him.
The carriage lurched forward, and the Imperial City of Riat began to pass by the windows—wide streets and narrow ones, large homes and small ones, with the usual collection of inns, shops, and street vendors crammed into the available spaces. She spotted a millinery shop, a gunsmith, a Warder’s, an open-air market with fresh imported lemons. A newsboy with an armload of papers cried his wares from a corner. Kjallan townsfolk moved about the streets, buying, flirting, and trading gossip. The citizens caught her eye with their brightly colored robelike syrtoses, while slaves in gray flitted by like shadows. The city was pleasant enough, but unremarkable. Well, what had she expected? Marble houses? Streets lined with diamonds?
“I hear you’re a master of Caturanga,” said Remus.