by Ronie Kendig
“Haegan . . .”
This, this voice, proved cruel and tormenting. A ghost vaulting from his failed past. “Father.” A moan, miserable and raking, clawed through his chest. That voice haunted him with unrelenting fervor.
“Prince Haegan,” Thomannon said firmly. “Twelve bells meal is served.”
Ignoring the servant would only elicit anger, which invariably brought a beating—not with hands or fists, but through more of that voice. He’d had plenty. Most days. Most meals. Because he cared not if he ate. If he lived. If he died. Existence no longer mattered.
Hands gripped his arms, tossing him from the bed.
“Release the Fierian.”
The Fierian.
Why did that sound familiar? The word displeased the Infantessa. She’d flown into a rage more than once at the voice’s demand.
Haegan blinked. Looked at the patterned rug beneath his fingers. How had he gotten here? Why?
“You must eat, Prince,” Thomannon intoned dully. “The Infantessa wills it. If you do not, you will not be strong enough to sit at her table.”
Her table. A place of honor that I never had at home, where I was relegated to the tower to hide the affliction. “Of course,” Haegan muttered, climbing onto all fours. His limbs trembled beneath his own weight. He could not disappoint her.
But as he crouched there, staring at the swirls of the carpet, something . . . something important—
“Prince!”
Haegan shook his head and lumbered to his feet.
A robe wrapped his shoulders. “There now, Prince. The table awaits.”
Haegan stumbled across his bedchamber into the receiving room, where a table boasted a dozen different delicacies. I was never so elegantly served in Fieri Keep. He owed her great thanks. “Where is she, the Infantessa?”
When Haegan blinked, he found himself staring at a bread roll. He lifted it, disappointed that it was hard. When had he sat in the chair? He abandoned the bread and lifted his soup spoon, only to realize the room was too dark to see the contents of the bowl. “Is it dark, Thomannon? I can’t see—”
“No, Prince. There’s plenty of light.”
Haegan blinked again, and there was light. “Ah.” Odd. A hunger stirred in him, but not for food.
Wasn’t there something he was supposed to do? Something important . . .
“Haegan, help me!” The insistent words dug through his deep thoughts. Gripped him tight. He knew that voice. A familiar voice. Once strong—
“Father,” Haegan whispered.
“Your father?”
Haegan dragged his gaze to Thomannon, who stood to the side, waiting with an apathetic expression. “My father?” Why had the servant brought him up?
“My prince,” Thomannon said quietly, “your father is with Aaeshwaeith Adoaniel’afirema.”
Pain snapped through Haegan’s head. With a groan, he gripped his temples, trying to stem the violent roaring. His ears hollowed against the excruciating sensation. He blinked rapidly, feeling as if he’d popped up in a lake with water running over his ears and eyes.
Swallowing, he glanced around. Where was this dirty, dusty place? But more importantly—“What did you say?” That’s what caused his head to ache.
The tall servant jerked. It seemed he’d realized or seen something terrifying because his face went white.
Haegan frowned, straightening as if he stood on a great plain, unencumbered. Hauntingly alone. But even as he waited there, he remembered sitting at a table, eating. Yet the table seemed dirty and unused for months, years. Where were the platters of food?
What was he doing here?
This was . . . wrong. It was all wrong.
Wasn’t it? He didn’t belong here.
Yet I belonged at Fieri Keep and had been put in a tower, shamed.
As the waters of confusion rushed back at him, Haegan turned a glare to the servant. “What did you—”
But it was gone. His thought. His . . .
He looked at his hand. A spoon. There was a spoon in his hand.
Was I eating?
3
EMATAHRI CAMP, OUTLANDS BORDER
Old bones did little to help with stealth, but after a week of trudging across scorched lands to get to this place, Kedulcya would not let that stop her. She slunk through the dense patch of trees at the far end of the gorge with Elinia. In the lead, Falip hissed and drew up short, sidestepping a tree. Kedulcya and Elinia did the same, Kedulcya’s heart loud in her own ears. Curse their eagerness to get into the camp—they had nearly missed the sentry on patrol.
Too close. As she saw the brawny Ematahri step their way, his gaze searching the shadows where she hid, Kedulcya made a tiny gesture to Elinia. Then, raising her hand, she stepped into the open, haloing the warrior in a bubble. At the same time, as they had practiced over and over, Elinia flicked a dart at the warrior’s temple, strangling his cry of alarm. The tension and his weight shifted as he went limp in the bubble. Kedulcya grunted, struggling to keep from dropping him.
And then the burden lifted. Balance rushed in, and she met Falip’s steady gaze as he, without effort, assisted her in lowering the warrior to the ground. She nodded her thanks and released the halo, then Falip and Elinia dragged him aside.
“We must hurry,” she whispered and started deeper into the forest. It took them another fifteen minutes before they reached the edge of the Ematahri camp. A twenty-foot radius gaped between the trees and the huddle of tents.
“There,” Elinia said, pointing to where thin white saplings formed two cages. One held the girl. The other the Counselor and the boy.
Kedulcya nodded to Elinia. “Spark them—gently—to alert them to our presence.”
The raven-haired girl focused her wielding and threw a dart at Praegur, who sat with his spine pressed against the wood. Arms folded, legs crossed, he looked to be asleep. The spark flew quick and true, pricking his arm. The Counselor swiped at the spot but didn’t rouse, no doubt thinking it an insect.
Kedulcya indicated for the girl to repeat it. This time, the spark was brighter, which meant sharper.
Praegur grunted and flinched, slapping at his arm and no doubt seeing a small black dot. His gaze shot to the trees, so Falip peered out just enough to reveal their presence.
The Counselor unfolded his arms, then shook his head. A moment later, another sentry who had worn the path around the perimeter walked into view. Chest bare, breeches stained and dirtied, he patrolled with power and confidence.
They would need to time this perfectly. And that couldn’t happen on this round. She touched Elinia’s arm to stay her, and they both slunk back into the shadows, farther out of sight.
“You spark,” she said to the girl, then to Falip, “You catch him.”
Both nodded. Then waited as the sentry made the wide circuit. In that time, Praegur had risen and gone to the adjoining cage where Kiethiel looked to him. And though Kedulcya could hear nothing, the Counselor must have spoken, for the princess turned her gaze—only for a second—toward the trees. Then she was on her feet, talking to Praegur, shaking her head. Frowning.
“What are you doing there?” someone shouted, sending Kedulcya and the others into hiding once more. A guard stalked toward the cages. “Get away from her!”
A massive shadow grew beside Kiethiel and became the great raqine. Kedulcya felt herself shudder at the sight of it. By the flames, she hated those beasts, though she knew they were created by Abiassa as well. If she never rode one, it would be a lifetime too soon.
The Ematahri pulled levers and a section of the cage opened—and the young boy moved willingly into the one with the princess.
A knot formed in Kedulcya’s stomach. Why were they relocating the lad?
“You. Let’s go.” They pulled Praegur from the cage and a warrior grabbed his arm and led him past Kedulcya and the others, right into the woods.
To relive himself, she guessed.
“Go,” Kedulcya hissed to Falip. “
This is our chance.”
They sped after Praegur. It might take longer—they’d need to return for the boy and princess. But they could secure the Counselor. And no matter what Gwogh said, Praegur was the point of this endeavor.
They scurried after the two and found them less than fifty paces outside the camp. The man shoved Praegur forward, motioning for him to hurry.
Falip rushed the guard and hooked his neck before he could cry out, snapping him with a bolt and dropping him to the ground.
“The girl,” Kedulcya said. “We must hur—”
“No.” Praegur’s voice was filled with authority. “She will not come.”
Elinia gaped. “She has to. She’s the Fierian’s—”
“She will not,” Praegur repeated. “And she said if you try, she will betray your presence to the camp. Her purpose is here with these people. She will not give up yet.”
“But the boy—they are both important.” Kedulcya stilled, anxious for them. Angry at them. Annoyance flared. The girl had been headstrong for a long time. She glanced toward the camp and through a copse of trees to the cage. Saw Kiethiel staring back through a sliver of space. The girl inclined her head, then shifted away.
“She does not get to decide,” Kedulcya bit out. “She—”
“Stop! Sound the alarm! They’re—”
Falip sent a fiery dagger at the warrior, felling him even as he turned to run. “Now!” he shouted. “We must go!”
“This way,” Praegur said. “To the ravine.”
Falip pointed in the opposite direction. “But our horses—”
“Are too slow,” Praegur said as he fell into a lope, then a full-out sprint.
With no choice but to follow, their group ran with all their might after the Kergulian who’d been chosen by Abiassa. Kedulcya would trust him. Her legs quickly grew tired. Strangely, it dawned on her that she trusted the Counselor more than she did the Fierian. That was something she would need to amend.
As they broke into a small clearing, Falip grunted. “Great. Now we die in sunlight instead of shade.”
Hope vanished. Dread rushed over her, cold and forbidding. There was nothing here but a downy field, fed by a struggling stream. How could she have been wrong? She looked to the Counselor, who shielded his eyes and looked to the sky.
She followed his gaze. Dots blipped, then grew larger. As did shouts and threats from the trees.
“Raqine!” Elinia squealed.
Praegur shared a smile with her, their excitement spilling over to Kedulcya.
She marveled. Again. “But how . . . ?”
Praegur shook his head. “I know not. Only that I wished they were here when I saw you in the trees.”
Two of the great beasts descended, and Kedulcya realized Abiassa was going to force her to eat her words. To flee, they would have to ride those beasts.
One, amber coated and amber eyed, landed beside Praegur with a firm thump and satisfied trill. Praegur touched its side, as if thanking the great animal for the rescue, then mounted. He held out a hand to Elinia, who slid atop the beast with little effort.
Should she just die here? Was it better than riding—
“Kedulcya,” Falip shouted from the other raqine. “Now.”
Swallowing her anxiety, she mounted the beast. They lifted and she squeaked her fright, then clung to Falip like a babe to its mother as they canted to the right then veered away, the furious objections of the Ematahri falling away with the roar of the wind.
• • •
CASTLE KARITHIA, ITEVERIA
“Your bath awaits, sire,” Thomannon said.
Haegan dragged himself from the bed, feeling every ounce of exhaustion and aches from the festivities the night before.
Standing on the thick-carved rug, he hesitated. What festivities? Laughter and chaos rang through his head like a gong, but it was a blur—a painting doused with water, colors running, bleeding. Making it impossible to decipher one thought from another. One memory from another.
Surely there had been a party. Why else would he feel so wrecked? When Haegan left the comfort of the carpet, he hissed as frigid marble bit his feet. He hurried, anxious for the heated waters. He nodded to Thomannon and waited for the manservant to leave, then stripped and stepped into the steaming enclosure.
Silky waters rushed over his head and shoulders, enveloping him in warmth and luxury. Strength seeped into his muscles and ligaments. Each day, he lingered here more, savored the rejuvenation longer. In fact . . .
Haegan reached for the knob and twisted it hard right. The panel above shifted back. Water exploded over him in a torrent, allowing more of the falls- and ocean-fed waters to drown him. Pound his body.
Palms against the marble wall, he leaned into the deluge with a moan. Let the water pummel tension knots from his shoulders and neck. He sighed and let out a long, pleasured breath. Brilliant. His head felt clear for the first time in . . . ages.
Just a few more days and then the ball.
Wait. Hadn’t that ball come and gone?
Water sliding down his face, he stared at his feet, groping for a memory that seemed just . . . out of . . . reach.
No, it’s only been a few days. He’d arrived to visit with the Infantessa and return home with a new alliance forged between Iteveria and the Nine. No need to battle Poired. They could talk and live in peace.
But memories, distant yet growing sharper as he focused on them, told him perhaps more than a few days had passed. How long then? A week? A fortnight? Nay, ’twas not that long. Yet how could he explain Trale as a friend now? They’d shared laughs and barbs over the nights.
Nights. More than one. More than a few, he was certain.
Why could he not remember? What ailment seized him? Haegan tilted his head back, frustrated that his brain felt immersed in a vat of murky muck. Blinking, he stared up at the panel that directed the curtain of water.
A dark shape danced on the glass.
His heart hiccupped, and he shifted away. Smeared the water from his face, glancing around. His heart tripped at the thought of someone seeing him in such a state. Where had it come from? He scanned the room, then the glass—
There! Again. Dread coiled as he latched onto the shape. A reflection. Of what? A man. Holding something massive. A stick? A sword!
Haegan swung around. Eyed the large arched windows and beyond the balcony. Out over the sea. The city. Nothing. Just the dazzling white set amid a vast emerald forest. Was he going mad?
What then was in the glass? He looked back up at the spot where he’d last seen it. Heat shot through his chest.
The reflection was still there.
“This makes no sense,” he muttered as he stepped closer to the panel. Water rushing over his body as he stared up. How could it be there, and yet not . . . out there? Droplets splashed his cheek. He turned to the windows once more. This time, water drenching his vision, he saw. Saw the man in the distance. He pushed his sodden hair from his face, blinking, disbelieving. His eyes lied to him. That man would be . . . monstrous if he was truly that size. Impossible.
“Fierian, you are needed.”
The call, the voice, so pure, so hot, coursed through his chest and down into his stomach as if fed by the water itself.
Fierian.
Yes. A strange certainty hit him. He was the Fierian. How could he have forgotten? He scratched his jaw. The fuzz there drew his attention. Nay, not fuzz. Beard. But . . . this much growth told him he had not been here a week. Nor a fortnight. Nausea swirled. Months?
No no no. This could not be.
But how could he argue the facts, the evidence? If it’d been a month, then . . . Grief gripped him. Such negligence! To have so wholly abandoned his course. His calling. His gift.
He must leave. Leave now. How could he have done this? Been so careless? “Have mercy, Abiassa!”
Urgency speared him. In a near panic, he shoved open the glass door, grabbed his robe, and wrapped it around him. Hurrying across the m
arble floor, he was careful not to slip. His feet hit plush carpet.
So nice. So soft.
It was nice of the Infantessa to provide me a home. To provide friendship. She treats me so well—much better than I was treated in Fieri Keep. Was it not better to be treated well than scorned as a cripple?
A shiver ran through him. He glanced at his still-wet chest and the towel around his waist. What was he doing?
Something . . . outside. An ardent current of emotion pulled at him. Forced him to look out the windows of his room. The waterfall. No, the sea. The sparkling waterfall cascading down the great cliffs to the sea below was so beautiful.
Besides, who could like the smoky skies around Seultrie?
“Sire?”
Haegan whipped around, some scant impression of a dark shape still lurking in his mind as he met the servant’s confused expression. “Thomannon.” He glanced over his shoulder. Something . . . What . . . ?
“May I help you, sire?”
“I . . .” Haegan coiled his hand into a fist. What was I doing?
“Your clothes, sire, are laid out on the bed.”
Haegan looked at the tidied bed where a clean, crisp doublet waited. “Of course.” Was he going somewhere? “Thank you.”
• • •
LEGIER’S HEART, NORTHLANDS
She lay at his side, wrapped in pelts and warmth. Aselan, cacique of the mountain-dwellers, outcast of his own blood, widower, now bound to a princess. Bound by the sacred rights of the Eilidan.
Gently, so as not to wake Kaelyria, he rubbed a strand of her very long, white-blonde hair between his fingertips, which itched to touch her, confirm for the thousandth time that this was no dream. She was his. She had chosen him during Etaesian’s Feast. Come with his dagger and a world of beguiling in those ice-blue eyes.
He had argued at first. Told her she knew naught of what she offered. That she was too young, he too old. That he would not war with the thinbloods over her. A lie that sat bitterly on his lips. Truth, he could scarce believe she had come to him that night. That she’d chosen him. Beauty against the black of the mountain—him.
“I can feel you watching me,” she murmured, eyes closed. “Still think I misunderstood?” Silken strands spilled across their bed, haloing her porcelain face.