Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  Still. He must talk with Negaer. Plan tomorrow’s strategy. Discuss Haegan and plot their effort to locate and retrieve him. “I would speak with yer general,” Tili said, shoving his bedroll under one arm. “There is much to tend to before we can close our eyes to the danger.”

  Where had Tokar gone? He searched the shapes around them. A cluster of men stood near the fire. He glanced beyond. Then behind. “Have ye—” When he shifted back to the front, Tili blinked.

  The once-gangly youth who had fouled every match in the training yard at Nivar Hold, now stood shoulder to shoulder among the best of the men. When had that happened?

  “My liege,” the Pathfinder prompted. “This way.”

  Surprise spiraled through Tili at the cluster of tents that had sprung up off to the side, out of sight and earshot of the fire pit. When his guide held back the flap of the largest one, he saw a long table with a map already spread upon it. To the right of it sat a cot piled with soft pelts and pillows. Suddenly, the aches in his backside gnawed greedily at his will, longing for the comfort of rest.

  Nay. Duties first.

  Negaer strode into the tent and nodded at Tili, then approached the table. He was followed by Major Draorin, one of the men who had accompanied Tili out of Hetaera, and a Pathfinder with a steaming cup in hand.

  “To ward off the aches.” The general’s smile was deep and inviting as he motioned to the cup. “Drink while we talk.”

  “What is it?” Warm drink on the belly might fast put Tili to sleep.

  “Warmed cordi, sir,” the Pathfinder said.

  “Nay.” Tili rubbed his brow. Warm and fermented? He’d be out in a blink. “I thank ye, I—”

  “It’s not fermented,” the Pathfinder assured. “We have no use for such luxuries.”

  “You’ll need its hardiness for our talk,” Negaer prompted, planting himself on a bench inside the tent. “Come. Talk. As a keen steward, I know there is much on your mind.”

  Plying my will . . . ? To what end? Did they not serve the same throne and Abiassa? He accepted the cup and lowered himself onto a chest, grateful for the uncomfortable press of wood against his backside, keeping him awake. “Nice tent ye have.” Again, he eyed the cot.

  “Glad you like it, but ’tis yours while you are under our protection.”

  “I couldn’t.” Yet he could. In so many ways.

  “No false humility here, my liege. ’Tis yours.”

  Tili considered the man, his blond-gray hair and weathered features. The hard lines had clearly been carved into him from years in the sun, from a life devoted to violence of action, but there was also a gentility, an honor behind those hazel eyes.

  Beside him, Major Draorin stood respectfully and offered a subtle nod that somehow encouraged Tili. Though he’d met Draorin only two days prior, he had quickly understood his worth.

  Tili gave a nod. “I thank ye.” He tipped the cup to his mouth and the scent of spiced cordi swirled around his nostrils. Silky warmth slid down his throat and coiled through his chest and aching muscles. Soothing. Comforting.

  He had no sooner finished the drink than the general was grinning. “Better?”

  “Indeed.” Tili licked his lips.

  “’Tis not much,” Negaer said, “but should suffice until more suitable provisions can be prepared.”

  “It will serve well enough for now.” Tili fisted a hand over his mouth to hide the yawn stretching his jaw muscles. “Now, I would have us ­discuss the route and contingencies for locating the prince.”

  “But of course,” Negaer said, sipping his own steaming cup.

  A strange . . . headiness lilted through Tili’s mind. Unfamiliar, a thwapping noise distracted him. Tent flaps? He glanced there and found them tied back. So what then?

  Beyond the opening, a banner snapped. On its dark field, a raqine flared beneath the tri-tipped flame.

  Beneath.

  Ybienn beneath the crown. When had they had time to make such a thing? That the sigil of Ybienn should be subordinate to the Nine cloyed at him. Yet he saw in the design that it was not simply beneath. The wings of the raqine supported the flame. Supported the crown. Allies.

  Tili raked a hand over his face and stifled a yawn, his limbs like lead. His eyelids drooped.

  “I would beg your patience a little longer, my liege.” Negaer indicated where Rhaemos had entered with another map and spread it across the table.

  As Tili struggled to his feet, Chauld stalked through the tent opening, followed by Tokar. Two Pathfinders took up positions behind their general and captain as the officers gathered around the map-strewn table. Strange. Though he had been ready to command his father’s army in Nivar and Ybienn, here Tili felt like he did at six years old when he’d sneaked into his father’s war council meeting. Like an intruder.

  “We continue southeast toward the bay, just north of Caori’s border, and bank northward into Vid before heading east,” Negaer said. “Here, here”—he stabbed a finger at several red Xs on the parchment—“and here are Sirdarian strongholds.”

  “We must avoid them,” Colonel Chauld said.

  Annoyance played along Negaer’s furrowed brow. The colonel’s comment was more open dialogue than instruction—of course they must avoid the Sirdarians. Poired and Onerid would take too much pleasure in gutting their contingent. “Aye,” Negaer finally growled. “Avoiding them brings us to the prince faster.”

  Negaer motioned to one of his men, who stepped out, and returned with another steaming cup, which he delivered to Tili. “My men know the terrain. Already we have scouted it and feel it best provides a path to success for this mission.”

  Considering the proffered cup, Tili knew he shouldn’t—’twould be too warm going down, too soothing—when sleep already beckoned. Still, he accepted it. “General, I side with ye on this. Anything to bring us to Vid sooner.”

  “And to Haegan,” Tokar spoke up, receiving a stiff glare from Negaer for having spoken out of turn.

  Tili sipped, secretly relishing the heat that coaxed the pain from his muscles. The fight from his body. Exhaustion plied against his strength. Fighting the heady invitation to slumber, he planted his hands on the map and stared down at it.

  Why was it so blasted hot? Heat radiated through night, the product of an unusually warm spring and the fact there were no nearby trees or springs. It made him long for Ybienn’s cooler temperatures and lush vegetation. But then, in the last week or so, everything had made him long for Ybienn—the contending had ended in a nightmarish attack by incipients . . .

  Nagbe.

  “I agree,” he forced himself to say. “Through . . .” What was the name of that place?

  Crushed as the image of the broken body of a young boy lying on the table far below the Citadel filled his mind, Tili rubbed his forehead. Nagbe had been dealt a deathblow by General Onerid, Poired’s right hand. Ultimately, however, Tili had been responsible for the boy’s death. If only he’d failed the final test—which he technically never completed because they had been attacked on Mount Medric—and left the boy in the cave. If only he’d brought the ruby from the cave and not the boy as well, then Nagbe still would be alive.

  The foolish thought drew him up straight. Or maybe that was the grief he avoided. The truth was, they would have all been slaughtered, along with everyone else in the Citadel. The boy would have died in the cave, alone, instead of in Tili’s arms.

  He pointed. “The . . . thity.” Why was his tongue thick?

  He blinked and Draorin stood over him. Tili drew back, startled at the stealth of the long-legged major. Then the great man tilted sideways.

  The tent blurred into nothingness as a voice rumbled, “Good rest, Steward.”

  2

  EMATAHRI CAMP, OUTLANDS

  “I cannot believe ye invited them!” Thurig Kiethiel stared down the great Ematahri warrior with a mix of revulsion and shock. If she knew what was good for her, she would yield her anger and don contrition. But she had never obeyed tho
se impulses. “Do ye wish to bring all the Flames down on yer head?”

  The tall, broad-shouldered warrior had been born and reared on the land. Wildness lurked in eyes tormented like the stormy sky. As did all Ematahri, he wore his dark hair long, tied back and braided down his spine.

  Cadeif flexed his jaw, and a bare pectoral muscle streaked with paint twitched. As he fisted his hands, tight red bands strained against his biceps. Those dangling cords had been dipped in the blood of his enemies and marked him the leader of his people. All reasons she should stop antagonizing him.

  “You think I am to take counsel from a traitor?” he growled, his lip curling.

  Surprise roiled through her at his harsh words. Where was the consideration he’d long given her? The affection?

  Cadeif stomped closer, rage perched on his corded shoulders. “You think I will trust the one I protected with Kedardokith, yet who repaid my gift by bringing the Lucent Riders against my people?”

  “Lucent—” Thiel stumbled back, nearly tripping over a thick, gnarled tree root. “I–I didn’t bring the Riders.”

  Well, not technically. That had been Haegan. But not technically him either. They’d come because of him. He didn’t bring them. There was a difference. Was there not?

  “They came,” he roared. “They judged!”

  Thiel’s breath caught. “Wh-what do ye mean they judged?”

  Cadeif swung his arm, and the back of his hand connected with her temple. The blow sent her sprawling.

  Her ears rang as she stared up at him, stunned. Hurt. Digging her fingers into the litter of the forest floor, Thiel took a second to compose herself. “Please. Listen to me—”

  “I do not answer to you!” He spun away, muttering something in the Ematahri language to Zoijan, his right hand.

  She caught snatches of their words, but not enough to understand. His body language told her plenty. Being struck in the head filled in any gaps. He hated her. Though she should have expected it, it left her baffled, grieved.

  Never quiet about his hatred of her, Zoijan stood over her with a dark smirk. His expression sent a shiver through her as he reached for her—

  Chortling ripped the air, startling them and shoving Thiel’s shoulder-length hair into her face. They turned to where Chima stalked toward them through the forest, head low. Beside her walked Laertes, and behind him, Praegur. Hackles and meaty jowls lifted, Chima bared her razor-sharp teeth. Challenge set in her fiery eyes as she glowered at Zoijan. And . . . had her eyes changed color? A red hue burned like an ember.

  Zoijan’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his sword.

  “A threat against me is a threat against her.” It wasn’t a whole lie. But he probably didn’t know that each raqine chose one person with whom to bind. That person had full protection because they were connected deep, some said through the Void. But it wasn’t Thiel that Chima would protect. At best, she tolerated Thiel.

  Zoijan lowered his sword. Casting a wary glance to the raqine, he motioned to Thiel. “Up.” As Ematahri bled from the trees, he nodded to the others. “Bring them.”

  With a grateful nod to Chima, Thiel came to her feet. Chima again chortle-growled when a warrior grabbed Thiel’s arm. Though he flinched, he did not relent. “Walk.”

  They wove through the dense vegetation to the encampment.

  “How long have ye been in these woods?” she asked.

  Only the near-impossible-to-hear crunch of his steps answered. That and the thrumming of Chima stalking them on a parallel path through the forest. They broke from the line of trees into a clearing, and there she found the familiar setup of the Ematahri camp. As well as their cold, bitter glares.

  • • •

  West of Luxlirien

  “Defeat.” Boards creaked as Sir Gwogh paced the upper room of the tavern, stricken that he had been so unprepared, that they had so wholly failed Hetaera, the Citadel, and Abiassa’s people. Three weeks had passed since the Contending was disastrously cut short on Mount Medric. He and the few others remaining of the Council of Nine had accomplished next to nothing. Three weeks of sending scouts, who never returned, and waiting for information that never came.

  A shout arose from the street below. He paused at the dusty half-moon window and stared across the smoldering village. A lone Jujak rode toward the tavern. Gwogh watched the man’s progress. Noted the tight way he rode. “He’s injured.”

  “It’s Qaocit,” Kelviel said. “The scout we sent west.”

  “He had ten men with him!” Falip Wrel exclaimed, his white hands fluttering to his throat.

  Gwogh looked at him in distaste and wondered, not for the first time, if they had made the right choice in Wrel. The Council newcomer was always a little excitable—a less-than-ideal trait in these troubled times.

  “He will need a pharmakeia,” Kelviel noted.

  “There’s not one for leagues,” Gwogh said. “We will have to do.”

  “Child, prepare the cot there for him,” Kedulcya said to her attendant, Elinia, a winsome young woman of seventeen with raven hair.

  The three watched the Jujak rein in outside the half-gutted tavern, then turned as heavy boots thudded on the wood floor below. Two villagers helped Qaocit up the steps and into the room they’d converted into a miniature command center.

  “On the cot,” Kedulcya instructed as she and Elinia scooted aside.

  “Sir Gwogh,” Qaocit said around a grimace as he was lowered to the stretch of hide and wood, “the Sirdarians are encamped at the Throne Road crossroads.”

  “Encamped?” Gwogh drew closer. “You are sure?”

  Qaocit lifted a bloodied hand from his side. “Caught a bolt from an incipient before I could gain enough distance. They pursued, but I lost them along a ravine—which was once the River of Shadows.”

  Kedulcya and Elinia knelt beside the soldier and began ministrations, first cutting away the stained green fabric of his uniform.

  “What number?” Gwogh asked.

  Qaocit breathed a dark laugh as his gray eyes came to Gwogh once more. He shook his head. “Hundreds, if not thousands. I could not count them, but they were as ants filling that gorge.”

  “Thousands,” Kelviel hissed to Gwogh. “How? How can there be so many here already?”

  “They have been razing villages for over a year. We have too long focused on finding the Fierian, and the enemy has stolen right into our midst.” Grieved, Gwogh stroked his beard.

  “But finding the Fierian was important.”

  “Aye,” Gwogh said. “Imperative. But we should have divided our efforts sooner. And now, now we must gather the remnant.”

  “Agreed,” Falip said. He seemed to have control of himself again, and his face had settled into a thoughtful mask.

  Gwogh considered the newest Council member. What thoughts churned through his mind?

  Kedulcya worked steadily on Qaocit’s injuries, lifting an eye on occasion to the others.

  “They aren’t moving,” Falip said slowly, seeming to let the thought gain substance, “because they are gathering. The crossroads is a four-corners site, the meeting of the Northlands, the Nine, Outlands, and Southlands.” His lips thinned. “They are there to gather strength and numbers.”

  Gwogh’s mind turned toward the girl and the Counselor. He’d sent them there as much for safekeeping as for them to persuade the Ematahri. Was he too late? Had he been wrong?

  “I beg your mercy,” Elinia said, hands full of bandages and ointments her mentor had prepared, “but if the enemy is there, between us and the Ematahri, what of Praegur—and the princess and boy?”

  “Aye,” Gwogh grunted.

  “Praegur is the Counselor. He’s divinely connected. We need him,” Kedulcya said, panic etching itself into the lines of her face. Her brow tangled. “Gwogh—”

  He nodded. “Aye,” he said once more. “We must retrieve them all. Kedulcya, go with Falip. Once you have the three, journey east on the south side of the Shadow River as fast as you can
—check the cities of Zardohar and Daussi for survivors. Gather any accelerants or villagers who can fight. I will do the same along the northern routes, checking Fraelik and Lirwen. I’ll venture also to Zaethien and so on, until we are gathered back at Vid with an army to support Haegan’s rise.”

  “Rise?” Kelviel snorted. “He fled. He left us—”

  “He will find his strength. She will help him—and we are an extension of that. Feed not your fears, Kelviel. Feed your fury against the Dark One.”

  • • •

  CASTLE KARITHIA, ITEVERIA, UNELITHIA

  Fires burning bright.

  Water cold and brittle.

  Smoke thick and choking.

  Voices loud and quiet.

  Haegan Celahar gripped his temples, curling in on himself. Burrowing beneath the thick blankets, he growled, willing the dichotomies away. Silencing the chaos. But it didn’t work. Somehow, his attempts to quiet the raging storm only strengthened the howl within.

  “Release the Fierian! Release the Fierian! Release the Fierian! Release the Fierian!” The voices roared through the night. Through the day. Through first rise. Twelve bells. The great feast. On and on. Maddening. Reassuring.

  For the last fortnight it had echoed, making demand of . . . someone. It was startling at first. He’d spun around, searching for the voice, the owner, but only found the quiet beauty of the Infantessa’s palace. “Pray, did you hear that?” he’d asked of Thomannon. Of Trale. Of servants. Even of the great queen herself. Alas, none heard the voice demanding someone release the Fierian. All dismissed his questions as readily as they would an annoying insect crawling over their hand.

  That was enough to drive him mad, but then there existed a second voice, hollow, tinny, and insanely quiet, piercing his every thought. Though but a whisper against his soul, it called—no, screamed to him. The whisper that punctuates the thrum of the heartbeat like respiration.

  Haegan curled tighter. Groaned. There was nothing worse. If only that would stop, then he—