by Ronie Kendig
“I think ye’ve shown me, but I might need more convincin’,” he said, his innuendo anything but subtle. He leaned down and gently kissed her shoulder.
She brushed long fingers across his beard. “Although we’ve known each other but a short while,” she whispered as she rolled onto her back, “it seems I’ve known you all my life.” Her kiss was warm, inviting. Intoxicating.
Aselan pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat. With a soft moan, Kaelyria curled into him, sliding her arms around his shoulders as he trailed kisses up her neck, along her jaw, and captured her lips. And once more made her his bound.
Afterward, she lay smiling at him. Touching his beard, as she had grown fond of doing. “Ingwait asked about heirs again.”
He kissed the spot near her ear, cupping her face. “’Twill happen in its time.”
A low rumble sounded from the floor. Aselan’s gaze jerked to the icehounds at the foot of the bed. Duamauri flipped up onto all fours and stood facing the wooden door, growling. Hackles rising.
Drawing the pelt to her shoulder, Kaelyria eyed the hounds as well. “What is it?”
Even as she asked, he heard steps approaching their chambers. “Stay,” he ordered the hounds as he slipped into trousers.
“Cacique!” came the shout of Byrin, his first.
Grabbing his leather tunic, Aselan swept aside the pelt curtains that divided his sleeping chamber from the main area. “Come.” He threaded his arms through the sleeves as the burly man entered with two others. Alarm coursed through him, noting Byrin’s dark expression and the soft movements of Kae behind the curtain. “What is it?”
“The Rekken!”
Aselan stilled. His pulse slowed. Yet sped. “Where?” he breathed, already fearing the answer.
“The Spine.”
He pushed his gaze to the rock ceiling, as if he could see across the Cold One’s Tooth and the rugged length that ran around Nivar and up to the Violet Sea. He should not be surprised, yet shock pummeled him into action. He snatched his peltcoat. “How have they come so close without an alarm being raised?”
“I know not, but there can be but one answer.”
Their farthest scouts were dead. “Ye found them then?”
“Nay, no sign.”
Aselan swallowed. The journey from the Violet Sea up to the Spine took more than a month. That meant . . . “The feast.” He stuffed his feet into the hide boots. “They used Etaesian’s Feast against us.” And not just the feast, but the distraction of the men as they got acquainted with bounds and family life. “Gather the Legiera.”
Byrin nodded. “In the hall, waiting. But do ye think ye should be goin’ out with . . .” His gaze shifted to somewhere behind Aselan. “Ye have more to consider now.”
Kaelyria. He felt her presence before she glided up beside him, knelt and assisted with the straps to secure the pelts. “Even my father, king of the Nine, went to war with his men,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “I would expect no less from Aselan.”
“I beg yer mercy,” Aselan said, touching her cheek.
Though she put on a brave face, tears swam, turning those pale irises to ice.
“The hounds will stay with ye.”
“Are you sure?” she asked, glancing to Byrin, who seemed just as surprised.
“I’m going to the nest.”
“The nest?” Byrin balked, his ruddy face reddening. “Are ye mad?”
“I need an aerial view. If there are Rekken on the Spine, where else are they? How close? How many? They seek to attack and we must be prepared.”
“If they see ye—”
“I will use care,” he growled back. But the danger existed—if anyone saw a raqine come from the tunnels, they could find their way to slaughter the entire nest. “The Rekken have taunted us and Nivar too long. If they are invading, we must know when and where.”
“Pharen will no’ be happy to see ye waking him before his sleep is over.”
“I fear our alarm has already awakened the great beast.” Aselan started for the door, then hesitated. Glanced back to Kaelyria. “I’ll return.” About to leave, he spotted her scarf and snatched it up.
“Something to remember me by?” she asked, a wistful smile on her lips.
Aselan hesitated at the sentimentality she read into action. Yet—
“Aye,” Byrin said, pushing him onward.
Thin shoulders straight, she clasped her hands and gave a nod. Duamauri slid up next to her and pressed his flank against her leg. Kae rested a hand on the icehound’s shoulder. It was a perfect memory, save one thought—would they ever have a child? And would she survive the birth? His first bound had not.
The haunting memory chased him into the cold passage and past the corridor to the great hall, where a din of nervous chatter filtered out.
“Why did ye stop me from telling her?” Aselan asked.
“What?” Byrin said. “That the scarf was for a raqine so they do not detect her scent and mistake that for another raqine, which would make them think you’ve abandoned them? Which would make them attack you to defend their territory.”
“Aye. That.”
“Ye are too thick-skulled to be quick where gentlefolk are concerned, and we don’t be needin’ any more trouble from the Nine.” Byrin huffed as they rounded a corner. “Ye go north then?”
Aselan nodded. “I’ll pass over Nivar as well. Be sure there is no danger there.”
“Ye just want to be sure the Jujak aren’t comin’ to take back their princess.”
“She’s my bound now. They’ll be takin’ her nowhere.” Aselan rushed up the iron steps and down several more passages, making his way to the secret entrance to the raqine nest. Two more turns and he’d be there, so he let out a low whistle. The hearing of a raqine bonded to a rider was not hindered by distance. The great beasts were in tune and intuitive. He ducked behind a large tapestry of Zaelero II and his siblings. Took the switchback maze. And stepped into the musty, earthy nest.
Not two feet from him, bright yellow eyes glared back. Head down, lip curled, Pharen challenged impatiently. Aselan inclined his head, acknowledging the raqine’s position. He held out a palm. “I should have known ye’d be waiting.” Not the other way around. “Sorry to end yer hibernation early.”
Pharen’s chortle had a soft tenor, twitching his blue-black fur. He slunk closer, nudged Aselan’s hand with his snout, and breathed his acceptance. With a shriek, he suddenly tossed his head. Shook it. Harder. Reared back, eyes now glowing red-gold.
Aselan swallowed hard at the rejection.
“He be smellin’ the Mistress on ye,” Byrin said.
“Aye.” Holding out Kae’s scarf, Aselan stood still, confident, as the raqine circled him, sniffing. Showing fear would give Pharen room to refuse him altogether. Confidence told the great winged beast there was nothing to fear.
Pharen muzzle-punched him in the back.
Aselan stumbled forward with a laugh. “Jealous, are ye?”
With a grunt, Pharen shook his head and neck again, then started for the tunnels that led outside. Relief washed through Aselan at not being thrashed. He trotted to keep up with the beast. And the jealousy that had surged through the raqine now rose through Aselan—at those who defiled the Spine to spill blood and steal lands. Upon them, he would deliver vengeance.
4
OUTSIDE ITEVERIA
Vaqar Modia pressed a knee to the coarse surface, rocks biting through his trousers and into the scarred flesh of his leg. Head draped with a wet cloth, he closed his eyes. Closed his senses—at least, he tried. Desperately, he reached for respite. Chose gratefulness for the dampness of the cloth and the land’s isolation, far from villages. Far from the reek of the curse.
Peace. He breathed the moisture. Fire flared in his chest, and he touched once more the mark at his side. “Obeisance and fealty first,” he said through gritted teeth. “Mind and body last. Her will forever.” At least he did not have the torture of scent at the moment. �
�Aaeshwaeith Adoaniel’afirema, I am your servant.”
A heat wave warned him of a presence. Instinctively, he stiffened as the scent washed over him, drenching his senses. Spiced, heady. Recognition sparked. Awareness flared with a hefty dose of fear regarding the one who arrived without sound. Vaqar’s muscles constricted, but he forced himself to be still and kept his eyes fastened on the charred road.
“Vaqar, Her Servant,” the authoritative voice spoke, “I would have your gaze.”
He’d heard some had lost their sight for gazing upon one of the Lady’s Guardians. Yet they obeyed and were called beloved. He would obey, too.
Vaqar lifted his head, peeking over the edge of the cloth. Let his gaze travel up the light-riddled form to the glorious face.
“Ride west, Vaqar, to the Bay of Wind’s westernmost edge.”
The towel flapped against his mouth. He sucked in a breath, the cloth suffocating. He snatched it off, only then realizing three things: He now stood alone, the towel had dried, and the air hung rancid.
As my soul, Aaeshwaeith. You know me, yet call me.
Scents of his people assailed him. Anger. Bitterness. Lust. Greed.
With a growl, he cupped the burn in his side and climbed to his feet. He stood, taking in the scene around him. Where great walls once protected the well, now only scraps of torn tarp hung between remnants. Rock gave way to dirt. Horses grazed on tufts of grass that forced their way through cobblestones. Granite steps and columns that had at one time gathered thousands beneath the porticoes and into its coliseum, now stood alone in the unrelenting elements. The treasury office reminded him of himself—a vicious cut struck down half the side wall, just as a blade had left an indelible scar across Vaqar’s temple and brow.
Deep betrayal. Like the cut, which had required the skill of a pharmakeia—who complained the entire time.
A hint of laughter pressed between the weighted shoulders of his soldiers. Two knelt playing lots. Most, however, had propped themselves against walls and draped their heads with wet cloths, a method they’d discovered to shield themselves from the assailing scents. A few slept on their sides, arms over their faces. Protecting. And there sat Adassi, arms folded over his chest, which rose and fell evenly in a sound sleep.
Quietly, Vaqar made his way to him and nudged his man’s leathered boot.
“What is this?” groused Adassi, coming awake.
“He visited me again.” Vaqar squatted against the wall, the stiff cloth between his hands. A terse, bitter scent smacked of disgust. He growled, flaring his nostrils. “Think you this was my choice?”
“Nay,” Adassi growled back. “But each time he visits, you follow. We follow.”
“Would you stay and have the mark burn you senseless?”
“Better than fighting a plague of scents.” The much older Dwaith snatched the cloth from his face. “I would go back to Tahsca, to my bound, to the quiet life of raiding—”
“And being miserable,” the more agile Jadrile mumbled.
“You’ve always been miserable,” Haandra taunted her brother as she lay curled on her side, arm shielding nose and mouth. She was the only female among the fifty-three who’d fled Tahsca.
“Aye, miserable,” Vaqar repeated lowly, annoyed with their grumbling. “We none of us wanted to spill blood to survive.”
“Mayhap,” Dwaith said, “but you did not seem to mind when the empress dispatched you.”
Grinding his teeth did little to allay the frustration coiling inside Vaqar.
“Aye, he didn’t mind—anything to be out of her sight,” Adassi said. “We all went ready enough. Do not blame him.”
“We must remember who our enemy is,” Vaqar warned. “It is not the Westerners, who are as ignorant and complacent as they are pale.” He sighed, heart heavy. “And it is not one among our company.”
Dwaith threw down his cloth. “This place is too blazing hot. I want the Oasis of Shandalhar.”
“The oasis is dried up,” Adassi reminded him. “Thanks to that desecrator himself, Poired, there is nothing to return to in Tahsca. The empress has bedded the Dark One and our homes have been ransacked.”
“Aye, because he was told of our gift,” Jadrile said.
“More like a curse,” muttered Dwaith.
“I thought the empress liked you, Vaqar,” Haandra said.
Annoyance churned, mixing with his frustration and the fire in his side. “Anithraenia loves two things—herself and power. I served no benefit to her.” Forever he would be reminded of her position and his. He pushed to his feet, bent over the well, and dipped his cloth in the murk. When he lifted it, the putrid odor burned his nostrils. Anger. Jealousy.
He stormed to his horse, tying the black-and-gold threaded cloth over his mouth and nose. “Scarve up.” When he grabbed the reins, a bitter smell hit him. Warning came with that smell. He responded, trusting the scent more than anything, including himself. Vaqar spun, drawing his dagger fluidly from its sheath, and brought the blade to the throat of his attacker. He stared at familiar gold eyes.
Swift as lightning, Dwaith shoved his arm away.
Vaqar anticipated the move. He had not only height and size on the older man, but also training. Agility. He hopped back, ready. “I would prefer to ride with you than bleed you, but the choice is yours.”
Dwaith, stripped of family and position because of this gift, stared back with a mixture of fury and defeat. “I can’t do it any longer. I can’t.”
The smells. The confusion. The memories. He understood. Were it not for the vision of the Guardian, he might have been the one trying to slit the throat of anyone who crossed his path. But they would travel west as the Guardian said. And perhaps, She would grant them release from the pulsing in their veins.
Anger waned at the torment in the man’s expression and words. “I know,” Vaqar muttered as he sheathed his dagger, then spread both hands to the side. “But neither am I your enemy. I am plagued as well. We will sort it.” He turned to the others, his immediate circle of friends and warriors. His fifty-two. “We will learn to control this . . . in time. How to shut down the flood. To focus on the one flower floating in the sewer. How to turn it against our enemies and deal them a deadly blow. We are Tahscans!”
“By the sword! With the sword!”
Shouts rang through the empty city in which they’d taken refuge. Another entity gutted of life and happiness.
But the Guardian had promised . . . promised this was a gift, though it had the reek of a curse.
5
CASTLE KARITHIA, ITEVERIA
An old man sat beside him, too feeble to lift the silver fork to his lips.
“Oh, come now,” the Infantessa crooned to the new guest on her right. “Surely you know Prince Haegan.”
Wide eyes came to Haegan, then a shaky smile riffled through the man’s beard. “O–of course. I . . .” He laughed. “I just thought him younger.”
A trilling laugh that needled Haegan’s nerves coursed from the Infantessa. “Oh, Councilman Breab. Not everyone can be as young and pretty as I.”
“Of course, Infantessa.” The old man’s gaze flickered. “But aren’t you the least worried about the Guardians—”
“Silence!” Her shrill command could have cut stone. It sliced right through Haegan’s head. His heart. He doubled, clutching his chest.
“Oh dear,” she crooned. “See what you’ve done, Councilman? You’ve sickened our prince with your doubt and wickedness.”
Haegan hauled himself up straight. I am a prince. Maybe not a good or useful one. After all, Father abandoned me.
“Perhaps you should retire for the evening, Prince Haegan,” she said.
But wasn’t it still day? “Yes,” he said, already folding his napkin. “I should rest.” I’m so tired. More than ever before.
Escorted through the halls by his manservant, Haegan found he needed a little more support than usual. I’m so weak.
Thomannon guided him into his bedchamber and, as
usual, turned the locks on the door. “I will lay out your nightclothes, sire.”
Haegan stood on the thick rug and stared out the window. Something . . . a memory . . . a thought . . . flickered. Sparked. Haunted. Like a bad dream he’d awakened from, losing the fragment as soon as he tried to recall it.
“Would you like warmed cordi, sire?”
“I . . . I’m not sure,” Haegan said, his thoughts dulled, slow.
“It’s your favorite.”
“Oh yes.” It’s my favorite. “Please.” His gaze shifted to the bathroom. “And a bath, Thomannon. No, a shower.”
“Sire? In the evening?”
An urgency gripped him. “Please.” Haegan stalked to the bathroom, shedding clothes, an urge compelling him into the shower. He cared not that Thomannon had yet to prepare or warm the water. That no towels were set out. Water. He cared not. Just . . . the water. Please, the water.
Stepping into the glass enclosure, he felt a surge of excitement. Reached for the handle. Turned the knobs. The stream rushed over him, flattening his curls against his eyes and face. As the droplets warmed, so did he. So did his thoughts, clearing as if a fog lifted from Deliverer Bay. Again, he planted his hands against the stone wall and closed his eyes, water kneading away the exhaustion.
He had been so tired. So . . . He shook his head, swiping water from his face.
“Sire?”
“Leave the towels,” Haegan commanded, without looking over his shoulder at the servant.
“But sire—”
“There!” Annoyed, he pointed to the bench lining the window. “Leave them—”
Again, a large form loomed in the distance. Riveted Haegan’s gaze to it. What are you? The answer hung out of reach.
“Sire?”
“Go!” Haegan growled. “Leave me to peace and quiet,” he said, staring at the enormous being. Why did he have a sword? He’d seen him before. But this time, the great one wore a terrible scowl.
Voices skittered in and around his mind, haunting. Torturing.
I am weak.
He’d heard the accusation so often in the last few weeks. Or had it been longer? Felt it in his bones. Felt it cut courage from his heart. Breath from his lungs. But this time . . . it wasn’t his voice.