Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  He didn’t understand. That didn’t make sense.

  “Because you are weak!” the hissing accusation came again.

  The thought wasn’t his own.

  Then whose was it? “I am losing my faculties,” he said, sliding against the wall and crouching beneath the pummeling downpour. He cradled his head. It was almost like the water soaked through his muscles, seeped into his soul.

  Yes, please. Wash it away . . . Wash it all away.

  What he wanted to wash away, he wasn’t sure. Just didn’t want to be this person, this Haegan anymore. So weak. And yet . . . His gaze fell to his arm, his biceps. He wasn’t weak. The muscles were strong. Not as Father’s or Negaer’s or even Prince Tili’s, but enough. Then why was he always so tired?

  “Release the Fierian!”

  Haegan started, his gaze snapping to the window beyond the shower enclosure.

  “No!” a shriek came from somewhere.

  Though heat fogged the glass and the enormous man was far off, Haegan saw without difficulty. Saw glowing eyes that locked onto him, drawing him to his feet once more. Fire roiled, pulling him. Calling him. Something in that man clutched at the frayed tendrils of Haegan’s courage. He slapped a hand to the glass that separated them. Help me. Please.

  “Free the Fierian or face Her wrath.”

  Voices assailed him. One after another, thumping against his own weak thoughts. Breaking him down, robbing him of even his ability to stand. Please, no more. Free me. Help me, he begged the warrior standing on the shore. He leaned against the glass wall as cold water hit his back.

  “The fight is yours, Fierian.”

  Cold water? But steam rose. Panes fogged.

  “No! Leave him—he gave himself to me.”

  “Haegan, help me, ssssss . . .”

  “Release the Fierian!”

  He gave himself to her? How? When? Images, once scattered and floating in the dense fog of his mind, coalesced into one memory: leaving the Citadel, walking away with Trale and Astadia Kath, willingly entering the Infantessa’s castle. Not caring if he ever went back.

  Those thoughts had not been his own.

  No. They had been his. They were his. They had been birthed from a single grain of doubt. Like a virulent, self-propagating weed, flourishing beneath the cultivation of sweet words. Her wielding.

  Inflaming.

  Slowly, numbly, Haegan glanced down at his hands. Blue light warbled around his fingers. Wielding.

  He was Haegan. Prince of Seultrie.

  Weak. Cripple—if not of body, then of mind.

  No. He shook his head, still using the shower wall for support. “No.” Those thoughts tasted familiar. They were his own, but . . . not wholly.

  “Haegan! Son!”

  Jerking straight, he looked around. “Father?” Turned a circle, searching.

  “Sire?”

  Haegan ignored Thomannon and probed the corners. “Where is he?”

  “Haegaaaannn!”

  From above. Haegan looked up but saw only the ceiling. “Father!” he shouted, palming the glass. “Where are you?”

  “Sire,” Thomannon rushed forward, his face a blanket of worry. “Sire, please.” Begging. The servant was begging, throwing wild, frantic glances over his shoulder. He reached quickly for a towel. “She’ll hear you. Please—I beg of you, stop. Here.” He extended the towel. “Come out. Dry off. You need rest.”

  Rest.

  His gaze once more rose to the window and out at the trees. Leaves. They had leaves. It’d been winter when he’d journeyed here. Early spring, actually. Scowling, he turned back to the servant. “How long, Thomannon?”

  The man’s weathered chin trembled. “Sire—please. Just come out and dry off.”

  The trees had budded. Leaves rustled on the wind. “Spring. Or summer?” Tears welled in his eyes. “How long, Thomannon?”

  Defeat sagged against the elder servant. “Nigh two months, sire.” He lifted a single shoulder in a shrug. “I know not how long precisely. It was too depressing to count.”

  “My father—”

  The gray-haired servant whimpered, grieved gaze rolling to the ground. “She won’t . . . I can’t.” He lifted his head, shaking it frantically. “Please don’t—”

  Haegan fisted a hand, arm rotating, the wielding a natural extension of what arose within.

  Eyes widening, Thomannon took a step back.

  The warbling grew brighter. Fueled him. “Take me to him.”

  “I can’t—”

  Flames roiling, Haegan said, “Do it or—”

  “Very well.” Thomannon flashed his palms in a placating manner. “I’ll take you.” He held up the towel.

  Haegan moved to the door and opened it. He took the thick cloth, dried off, and paused when Thomannon offered nightclothes. “You’re to take me to my father.”

  “Of course. But if she finds you, I can blame it on you sleepwalking again.”

  “Again.” Haegan met the man’s eyes. “I’ve done it before?”

  Freezing, the servant nodded.

  “Where did I go?”

  “I . . .”

  This had happened before, but he recalled none of it. Was he so weak—

  You are so weak!

  And why did he care about his father?

  He left you in that tower . . .

  “No,” Haegan hissed, realizing doubts were again throttling his courage. “I . . .” The water. He pushed his gaze to the shower.

  “Did you want to go to bed, sire? You were so tired.”

  Yes, tired.

  No! No he was not tired. But his limbs ached. His heart struggled . . . somehow, he’d climbed into a pit of doubt and self-loathing again. He felt it. Felt the difficulty in arguing with . . . His gaze flipped to the servant. “You tricked me,” he said around a pound of lethargy.

  Because you are so weak!

  “You should rest, sire. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “No . . .” The water. He let the sight of the shower drag him closer. Another step. Another. Each weighted as if he moved a cornerstone. “I’m tired.” His heart lurched, recognizing the inflaming of his thoughts. Urgency sped through him. “No,” he growled. “I’m. Not. Tired.” He threw himself toward the enclosure.

  Something wrapped around his legs.

  He pitched forward, and his face rammed hard into the marble floor. Blood gushed from his nose. He cupped a hand over it, turning back, feeling the restraint even still. The servant lay across his legs, clutching him. “Release me!”

  “I beg your mercy,” Thomannon said, tears in his eyes. “I beg your mercy.”

  At the grief roiling out of the older man, Haegan slumped, confused. His thoughts tangled. Maybe . . .

  Too tired to fight.

  Tired of fighting.

  What was he fighting anyway?

  Why was he on the floor?

  6

  THE COLD ONE’S TOOTH

  Aselan pressed his chest to Pharen’s spine as the enormous raqine leapt from the den. A terrifying second of weightlessness sucked his breath before thunderous flaps snapped the cold air and pulsed along Aselan’s abdomen as they rose over Legier. The dusting of winter’s last stand mingled with the yawning breath of dawn and coated them in a fine mist that sparkled in the early light.

  Rumbling, Pharen arched his back. His movement to lift them higher rubbed Aselan, who focused on searching for the Rekken. With snow still covering most of the mountain, it should not be hard to find the invaders or to ascertain their number.

  A shadow glided into his periphery. Ebose flew closer, bearing Byrin. Though his man was supposed to stay behind and protect, it bolstered Aselan to have a second pair of eyes watching. The scouts had reported the Rekken on the Tooth, so they would fly north, staying high to avoid dropping shadows or hints that they were aware of the attack. Better to keep the enemy unsuspecting. Let them think they had the advantage.

  With the sun rising, they angled farther west be
fore aiming north, beginning their search on the still-shadowed western slope of the Tooth. They then made their way over the peak and eastward to avoid inadvertently casting raqine-shaped shadows right on top of the enemy.

  They rode in silence for nearly a half hour, the cold chomping into them. Gliding on the currents made it easier on the raqine, but colder for the rider. Legier’s bite was a threat, even with pelts and hides.

  Byrin pointed to the side.

  With a nod, Aselan used his knees and subtle pressure from his palms to guide Pharen along the southernmost rise of the Tooth. As they maintained altitude and speed, he leaned down, peering over the ridge of the wing as the terrain slid past. Pristine, a mottle of dark green against white, it was a beauty he would never take for granted. But something snagged his eye.

  “Hyup,” he huffed to Pharen, pressing his hands and knees against the raqine’s sides.

  With a chortle and rumble beneath Aselan’s legs and hands, Pharen flapped his wings twice and pulled up, higher . . . higher. They came around and repeated the course, Aselan urging the raqine into a glide. In seconds, they were over the spot—and he saw it. Through light-falling snow and dew of morning—a puff of snow.

  Movement. Someone down there had leapt for cover.

  Aselan cursed. After the care they’d taken not to be spotted . . .

  Using hand signals, he notified Byrin to circle back and watch for movement. Aselan would continue north, searching for more Rekken, while Byrin would attempt to sight and identify the person trekking along the Spine. They separated and Aselan relaxed as he and Pharen scouted.

  They’d gone no more than a few leagues when they left behind the heights of the Tooth and passed over lower elevations, where the beauty of winter gave way to the sludge of spring thaw. The dark color stark and—

  Aselan’s gut clenched, realizing it wasn’t the mountain below him but an entire army. Hundreds.

  He swallowed. Hard. How . . . ? Why?

  Even as he urged Pharen around, the blue-black glint of his fur blurred with the sea of Rekken. They’d made the turn when a whistling pierced the air. Aselan’s heart climbed into his throat as he recognized that sound—arrows!

  “Hyup hyup hyup!” he shouted, but the raqine had already sensed the threat and banked left. Then right.

  Flapping hard, Pharen shot upward.

  Aselan clenched fur to stay mounted, but the vertical climb made it seem as if the Tooth clutched his legs, pulling him down. He growled against gravity’s grip and held. But with each snap of Pharen’s wings, Aselan felt himself slipping. His thoughts flipped to Kaelyria. If he died . . . what then? What would she have? Who would be her ally?

  Ally? He cared not—he did not want to leave her. Their time together had been short but the best he’d experienced in many years. To his amazement, he loved her.

  Pharen wavered and screeched.

  Something was wrong.

  Even as he had the thought, he felt the raqine level out high above the Tooth. The ride had become choppy and faltering. Aselan glanced to his left and saw the problem—an arrow had pierced Pharen’s left wing. He was losing blood and altitude.

  Could they make it back to the nest?

  Pharen’s sudden descent answered the question. Aselan gripped tight, knowing he must guide the raqine to safety. And this far from the nest without the ability to fly, there was only one option.

  No. There had to be another. Anything else.

  But it seemed Pharen knew the truth of the situation, because he folded his wings in and dove. Headlong for Nivar Hold.

  • • •

  LIRWEN

  Barreling toward the huddle of Sirdarians who had pinned down a ragged band of Jujak protecting some villagers on the outskirts of town, Tili reached out with a clawed hand, then coiled it, twisting as he drew it back to his side. He threw the fiery bolt with a growl. It struck the first armored soldier then splintered, scattering Sirdarians as they dove for cover. Tili swung his leg over the cantle of his saddle and effortlessly dropped to the ground, then sprang forward, thrusting with one hand, extracting with the other as he collided with the first Sirdarian.

  Around him, Negaer’s men fought the scarlet-clad enemy. Steel sang. Blood flowed.

  He drew his sword, far preferring the earthy reality of steel to the ethereal giftings that had landed him in the middle of this insane battle for a kingdom not his own.

  A particularly large Sirdarian came at a villager in a flurry of rotating arms and bands of fire.

  Tili startled at the agility. It was almost graceful, in a terrifying, haunting way. A scream punctured his thoughts, reminding him of what he fought for. He speared the man in the leg, making the incipient stumble.

  Surprise streaked the man’s face, then he turned to Tili. Sneered. Flicked out a half-dozen daggers—one from each finger it seemed.

  Deflecting with one hand required a bit of a dance. Tili again wished for more formal training in the wielding arts, but it had been forbidden in the North. He could but pray his father’s decree would not mean Tili’s death.

  Fire seared his cheek. Though he refused it attention, Tili felt another bolt bleed his calf. He shifted his weight and thrust back. But his flames were diverted effortlessly. The incipient advanced.

  Tili tripped as a bolt crackled against his ankle.

  Steel sang and sliced the incipient’s neck, dropping him.

  From the fallen man’s right, Tokar held out a hand, which Tili gladly accepted and struggled onto shaky legs. “Are they all so skilled?”

  Cocking his head toward the body, Tokar grunted. “He was a Silver. Trained by Poired himself. They’re especially cruel and swift.”

  Shifting his gaze to the dead incipient, Tili noted the silver cords.

  “They’re dressed down to disguise themselves as they move among the villages, eliminating any threat to Poired’s advance. Gathering accelerants in the hopes of turning them, and killing everyone else, especially Jujak.”

  Wiping the blood from his face, Tili shook his head. Have we so little hope of success? “Thank ye for—”

  “Steward!”

  Tili pivoted and found Negaer trotting up on his horse, leading Tili’s.

  The general’s sweaty face was flecked with blood, dirt, and grim determination. “We’ve rounded up another ten Jujak. Apparently they’ve been guarding three-dozen or so villagers here since Hetaera fell. This is the third attack they’ve faced this week.”

  A few more soldiers to fight. Many more mouths to feed. But he could not leave them behind. He nodded, swiping a hand over his beard. “Gather supplies and let’s clear out before more Sirdarians or Silvers”—his gaze again hit the blade-garroted man—“arrive.”

  “Agreed,” Negaer said. “But with sick and wounded, the pace will be too slow for—”

  “Take cover! Take cover!” someone shouted. “Raqine!”

  “Poired!” another choked out.

  Tili instinctively shoved his gaze skyward rather than take cover. Raqine might be feared in the Nine, but they were a familiar sight in the Northlands. Yet he was reminded that there weren’t any raqine this far east. Stalking to the shelter of a single-story structure, he looked again to the white-blue expanse above.

  “There,” Tokar said, pointing west.

  Two shapes slid across the hazy sky and approached the razed village.

  “Archers!” Negaer shouted.

  “Wait!” Tili called, watching as the great winged beast circled. “They’re not attacking!” They were landing. His heart thudded at the patch of red on the belly of the smaller one. He breathed a laugh. “Draed!” His gaze skipped to the other. Rippling red fur revealed blue roots. “Umoni!” He cupped his mouth and did a raqine call. Though they could never be called, they often responded to the trilling sound. And the two did—they arced in their descent to hover over him.

  Wings tilted skyward, sharp claws pointed to the ground, the raqine alighted with a solid thud on either side of him.
Relieved to see the two, he wondered—

  “Praegur!” Tokar rushed forward.

  “No!” Tili’s shout was lost to the bellowing yowl from Umoni and Draed, who took the sudden burst of movement as a threat. Draed dropped his front paws and bared his teeth in a ferocious growl, sending the newly minted lieutenant scurrying backward.

  “Never approach a raqine like that,” Tili barked, noticing the four people the raqine divested onto the street of Lirwen. An old woman, a young woman, Haegan’s friend and counselor, and a man. Where was his sister? His pleasure at the raqine’s familiar presence receded. Gwogh had said he’d sent Thiel to the Ematahri with Praegur and the boy, Laertes.

  “Steward,” the old woman said as she slid clumsily from Umoni’s back, “while I am glad to see you are still alive, I am disappointed to find you have made so little progress.”

  Irritated with her condescension and the insinuation that he was failing in his duties, Tili inclined his head only slightly. “Councilwoman.” He glanced at Haegan’s friend. “I beg yer mercy, but how do ye have the raqine? They—”

  “Ask me not, young steward. It was not my doing.” She nodded to Praegur. “The boy said he wished it and they came.”

  Tili redirected his questions to the dark-skinned boy, face wreathed in innocence but eyes burgeoning with wisdom. “Ye brought them?”

  He nodded, as if he’d done nothing more amazing than don a tunic.

  “Praegur is the Fierian’s Counselor,” Kedulcya said. “Abiassa knew he must return to the Fierian, so she sent the raqine to ferry him there.”

  “Then why stop here?”

  “Because we cannot risk the raqine,” Kedulcya said, looking to the beasts. “They are needed for the final battle. The more they fly, the more risk of them being shot from the sky—I heard even your general call for archers.” She looked around the gathered soldiers. “Where is Sir Gwogh?”

  “Gwogh?” Negaer asked, joining them. “Why—”

  The woman nodded sternly. “He said he would come this route. We must gather accelerants and Jujak and make for Vid, so the Fierian has an army to use.”