by Ronie Kendig
This battle belonged to Tili. To stand for what he believed to be just and right. “We doubt not anything about ye, general, nor the Pathfinders,” Tili said.
Tension hung like thick smoke between them, roiling and coiling around the strongest and the weakest. He must show himself confident, but was it stronger to yield and defer to Negaer?
“Have ye considered,” Tili said, surprised at the words about to come out of his mouth, but they rang truer than any other option before now, “the possibility that Abiassa has placed us here to cross paths with the Tahscans?”
“Seeking Abiassa’s will is the job of the Fierian.” Ferocity sparked in Negaer’s eyes. “Mine is to protect the representative of the Fire Throne, be he the prince or be he the steward.”
“Protect,” Tili repeated quietly, firmly, seizing the advantage Negaer had unwittingly established. “But not command.”
The man’s beard twitched as he, too, realized he’d been ensnared by his own words. He conceded with a cockeyed nod. “You know well.”
Tili lowered his gaze. “I respect yer wisdom, General Negaer,” he began carefully. “I may not have yer experience nor yer years in the service, but I have commanded the Ybiennese army and led the king’s guard—both positions given me not because of the blood in my veins but the fire in my heart. It has guided me and never failed me.” The words burned through his lungs. “And it will not this time. We must attempt to speak with the Tahscans, especially now that they are at our very door.”
A shrill whistle shot up outside the tent. Four large strides carried Rhaemos to the flap, where he fixed his gaze intently on something in the distance. He spoke to the side, “Word from the scouts. Trouble.” He stepped back.
The quick, soft noise of a runner preceded a lanky young Pathfinder. He rushed up to Rhaemos, taller by a head, and whispered, his gaze never leaving his captain’s face. Quick words exchanged, then with a clap on the man’s shoulder, Rhaemos pivoted. Hurried shouts and calls assailed the air. The camp flew into a buzz.
Rhaemos’s gaze found Tili. “It seems, Steward, you are about to get your wish.”
8
LEGIER’S HEART, NORTHLANDS
Her bed lay cold for three nights. Byrin had returned two nights past, saying he and Aselan had split to scout the approaching Rekken. But Aselan had yet to return. Which could only mean one thing: He had fallen.
The thought chilled her and played havoc with her mind. Would he die as her father had? Would he leave like Haegan?
Foolish thought, that. Haegan had gone to claim the Fire Throne, as was his right. She’d heard the report that he had been forced into Contending. An ironic twist of fate, considering Haegan’s longstanding penchant for peacemaking. She could only imagine how that ended. Surely there had been a decision. Weeks had passed. Why had word not come?
Kaelyria slipped on the leather duster that nearly reached her toes, and secured it with a braided belt. She smoothed a hand down it and paused at her belly. How long before she knew if she carried a child? Here, she had women to advise her on the ways of the Heart. But personal, intimate conversation . . . She ached for her mother, for someone to speak to about womanly things.
She felt alone. Truly alone.
Duamauri and Sikir came onto their haunches expectantly as she turned toward them. She smiled at their responsiveness and eyes so keen she was sure they could speak. Mayhap in their own way, the icehounds did communicate, much like a raqine.
Duamauri’s ears twitched.
Sikir let out a soft growl.
Thud! Thud!
Kae’s heart skipped a beat at each knock, and realized it was not her the hounds had reacted to, but the approach of whoever beat against the door. She released the bolt and slid the door across the steel rod.
Hoeff stood with a wooden tray and steaming cup.
“You are acknowledged, Hoeff.” She inclined her head and removed herself to the chair and table in the corner, knowing she must give wide berth for the giant. Though as she sat, Kae could not help but wonder why Hoeff and his twin Toeff had not left the mountain when the other Drigo followed Haegan. The reports—still so hard to believe—made her worry over her brother.
“Mistress drink,” Hoeff said, sliding the tray onto the table in front of her. “Mistress heal.”
As the hounds settled back onto their pelts, she gave a lone nod to the Drigo healer and reached for the cup. “Hoeff, can you . . .”
The heavy-lidded giant grunted and motioned with his thick fingers toward the steaming cup.
With a smile, Kae lifted it to her lips and sipped, knowing compliance might make conversation easier. “Hoeff, may I ask a question?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“I heard of the Fierian summoning the Drigo at Baen’s Crossing.”
With a sigh, Hoeff swiped his thumb across his sweaty brow with something that sounded like a soft growl.
“Why did you and Toeff not respond and assist him? Did you hear it—or how is it the Drigo even knew? Or even Coeff?”
Again, he swiped his brow. Was she making him nervous?
“I beg your mercy if my question is impertinent.”
Again, he reached forward and nudged the cup in her hands, and obediently, Kaelyria swallowed the bittersweet concoction. She could not deny its medicinal effects, swirling strength and warmth through her limbs and body.
“She not call us.” His voice was like tumbling rocks.
“She.” Interesting. “You mean Abiassa.” Kae shifted on the edge of her seat. “Then She—the call, it is from Her. But how do you know She didn’t summon you?”
“She gifted Fierian to call those he need. Only Thelikor summoned.”
“Thel . . . ?” It sounded like a name of some sort. “Who is that?”
“He lead his clan. One clan one army.” He nodded, as if she should understand. One giant no doubt was the equivalent of a hundred men.
“But my brother is fighting the Dark One. How can he need only one clan against an army of darkness?”
“Fierian gone.”
Kaelyria stilled. “Gone?” She swallowed hard. “What do you mean, gone?”
“I hear Fierian summon.” He swiped his thumb over his brow again. “But not summon me. Only Thelikor. Then I feel it—cold. Empty.” Another shrug. “Fierian gone.”
“Dead?” She tried to keep the rising panic and the shrillness in her voice under control. “Are you saying my brother’s dead?”
“Hoeff, ye are acknowledged.” A voice gruffed along the walls and Kae’s nerves, drawing their gazes to the door where Byrin stood. “Tend yer duties, please.”
Kae came to her feet as Hoeff bowed, then folded himself through the door. Agitation worked through Byrin’s jaw, evidenced by the twitching of his thick beard. “Ye would do well not to ask the giants for news of yer brother, Princess.”
She lifted her chin. “It seems they are the only ones willing to provide any.” Surely he had something important to say if he was here. She worried the end of the leather belt, waiting.
Byrin’s brows were terse and thick as his gaze skipped around the cave.
“You’re avoiding my eyes.”
“I be avoiding yer emotions.”
“Emo—” Kaelyria pulled herself straight. “Is something wrong? Is Aselan hurt?”
“I’ve no word of the cacique, but with his raqine and abilities, he be fine.” He glanced at her hip where Aselan’s dagger hung, a sign of her position and his protection.
“Then why fear my emotions? I know you were not . . . pleased I claimed his dagger.”
“Ye know nothing of me thoughts, Prin”—his dark eyes hit hers—
“Mistress.”
She stood before him, tall and straight as her mother had taught her. She might not wear a crown or the title of princess any longer, but leading a people was the same whether in a palace, mansion, home, or cave. And if his concern was not over Aselan, then she could only guess one other possibility. “What do
you know of my brother, Byrin?”
The rigidity in his posture softened. “It is as the giant said: He’s gone.”
She jerked forward. “Dead?”
The icehounds were on their paws again, growling at Byrin, who scowled at the oversized hounds, then at her.
Bolstered by the hounds and aggravated with having to pry the information from Byrin, she braved the question. “Then my brother is dead?” A breath staggered from her lungs.
Though hesitation held his answer hostage, there was a tenderness, a rawness in his expression. “’Tis worse.”
“Worse?” she scoffed. “How can anything be worse than death?”
“I not be knowing the details or truth. But there are rumors.”
She held her peace, more to steady her raw nerves than to feign strength—which her wobbling legs betrayed that she did not have.
“Some say he fled the Citadel. One rumor has him in league with the Rekken—”
“The Rekken!” She turned away and moved to the chair again, relieving herself of the inordinate task of standing straight and not trembling. “Don’t be absurd. Haegan would never do that. How could they even suggest such a thing?”
“Because Thurig would na’ give him his only daughter.”
Kiethiel. Haegan had spoken of her. Even Aselan had spoken of Haegan’s attachment to his sister. And the king of Nivar refused him. It would wound her brother, certainly, but that wouldn’t drive Haegan to betrayal, to turning traitor.
And yet . . . he seemed so ready to find any path besides the one Abiassa had set him upon.
“Then there is the other rumor, an insidious one, that he has taken up with the Queen of the Falls.”
“Queen of what?”
“The witch who rules Unelithia and Iteveria.”
“Infantessa Shavaussia?” Her voice pitched at the ridiculousness of the rumor and its ignorance. “She’s no witch.”
“Aye,” he said with a sharp nod, “she be, and one with a black heart, they say.”
“Haegan may be many things, mayhap driven by compassion but not idiocy.” Conviction tightened her chest. “The Nine and Iteveria have long been neutral, and there is no advantage in a match there.”
“And what advantage is the match between ye and the cacique?”
Heat climbed into her cheeks. She lowered her gaze. “The only advantage is that I now have a home.”
Byrin eyed her, something darkening his expression. “Is that it, then? A home. That is what this means to ye? What he means to ye?”
“You twist my words cruelly. I meant that Legier is my home, that—”
“Home. Again ye say home! But what of ’im? What of all he has sacrificed takin’ ye to his bed and givin’ ye his protection?”
“And is that all it means to you—that he took me to his bed?” Her own words humiliated her. “I am his bound! I am your Mistress!”
“Oochak!” Clack! Clack!
They both started, glancing at the door, where an old woman stood, grinning gap-toothed at them with a large, thick stick gripped in her gnarled hand.
Byrin muttered something as he barreled from the room and down the passage.
Grateful to be rid of him, Kaelyria struggled to keep her composure as the old woman fixed her with a glittering stare. Had they met before? Using the table and the back of the chair, she climbed to her feet. “Hello. I don’t believe—”
“Ah, but ye do, daughter of Zaelero!”
“I beg your mercy.” What madness had claimed this woman? “Might I have your name?”
“Why would ye want that when ye have yer own?”
Kaelyria curled her fingers into fists. She’d had enough of annoying visitors today. This—this is why she had kept to their cave since Aselan had taken to the skies.
The woman, who had seemed bent and weak but a blink past, now straightened and shook the stick at Kaelyria. “You believe he left to escape you. You believe you made a grave mistake. You believe Abiassa has left you as She left your father and mother on the steps of Seultrie, dead—”
“Silence!” Kae hissed, tears stinging her eyes.
“But ye are much mistaken. She has ye right where ye are supposed to be. Fear not the darkness nor coming emptiness.”
• • •
NIVAR HOLD, YBIENN
Pain speared Aselan as he shifted his leg, the break bound and secured. Trying to stem the ache did nothing but force him to groan and grab his thigh. When Pharen landed at the hold, it had been a clumsy, labored effort, which pitched Aselan into the south wall, snapping his leg. Beyond the window came the annoyed chortling of his raqine. Three days penned so his wing would mend enough to fly—for the great beasts would continue on otherwise, further injuring themselves.
Aselan shifted on the bed, hating the comfort, hating the cool mattress, which only bespoke Kaelyria’s absence. Several weeks had passed since the Feast, and still he struggled to believe he had not dreamed it all.
“Finally awake, are ye?”
He jerked his gaze to the door, surprised he’d not heard it open and even more surprised to see his brother filling the frame. “Relig.” He shifted, wishing himself out of bed and clothed so he could stand before his brother. “Come to gloat?”
Relig crossed the room with a swagger. “It would be quite easy, but no.”
Aselan hesitated, but family dynamics were not his concern this hour. “I asked for a hawk to be—”
“’Twas sent.” Relig stood over him with an impassive expression.
He looked to his younger but taller brother. “Where is Father? I must speak with him about the Rekken.”
“Ye saw them on the Tooth?”
“Aye, hundreds. Poised to attack.” He nodded toward the raqine den. “Took Pharen to scout the passes and saw a band closing in on the hold. I must return to the Heart.”
“Both ye and yer raqine are broken. Ye won’t be traveling anytime soon.” He remained aloof, a stranger to Aselan, who had known his brother younger, more rash, less courteous. “Father sent Aburas and his ten up to rout the enemy.”
“Aburas? Ten is not enough. There are scores more Rekken.” He scowled. “What of Tili?”
Relig’s eyes widened. “Ye haven’t heard?” He swiped a hand over his mouth. “He’s been named Steward of the Nine. Off somewhere in the south, battling Sirdarians and incipients.”
“The Nine? What has he to do with ruling there? Is Prince Haegan dead?” Aselan did not want to bear such news back to the Heart. Kae would be devastated.
“Missing. It’s said he went to Iteveria.”
Missing was better than dead, but perhaps not by much. “Why Iteveria? He seeks alliance?”
Relig’s nonchalance faded to regret. He shrugged. “There is no definitive answer, so ’tis not my place to speculate.”
“Not yer place? If Tili is gone, then the throne falls to ye if Father is ill or injured. ’Tis absolutely yer place to speculate.”
With a relenting nod, Relig sighed. “’Tis said he went with two assassins.”
Aselan barked a laugh. “They think that slip of a boy is an assassin? He couldn’t sneak up on a deaf hog!”
“Mayhap, but ’tis said all the same.” Another swipe of his nose.
That’s when Aselan saw it. The ring. And recalled the wedding he hadn’t been invited to. An opportunity lay before him to bridge the gap that had grown in the cycles since he left for the Heart. “And how is yer bound?”
Relig’s face brightened. “Brilliant. She carries my heir—the pharmakeia confirmed it yestermorn.”
Aselan’s heart warmed . . . then ached. He extended his hand and clasped his brother’s forearm. “’Tis good news, brother.” He smiled, or tried to. “Father will have his line secured for another generation.” That task had been his at one time. Even though he’d been in the Heart, losing both Doskari and their babe . . .
“Not going to taunt me for taking Tili’s bride?”
Confusion spread through him.
“Tili’s bride?”
“Father intended Peani for Tili, but he is as wild as raqine and refused her. It was fortunate, for she and I had a mutual attraction. If Tili hadn’t stepped aside . . .” Relig’s expression shifted and he drew up his shoulders, considering Aselan for a moment. “What of ye? The great feast has passed, if I remember correctly. Did they convince ye to take a bound this time?”
Relig was far too perceptive, always had been. Aselan steeled himself to lie . . . and failed. He looked at the thick blanket over his legs, unable to deny Kaelyria.
“Freeze the flames!” Relig exclaimed with a laugh, the last of his reserve melting away as he slapped Aselan on the shoulder. “Does Mother know?”
“No,” Aselan growled, “and we will keep it that way.”
Relig hesitated.
“’Tis not their concern, since I am disowned.” Aselan shifted, tossing aside the blankets. “Help me to my feet. I must meet with the king.”
His brother huffed. “Elan—”
Cold anger gripped Aselan, as if the glimpse of camaraderie had only deepened the pain of his family’s rejection. “Delay me not, Relig. I know ye wish me gone—”
“Wrong, brother.” Relig gripped Aselan’s arm and pulled him upright, then held him still. “I was hurt and angry when ye chose a foreigner over the whole of yer family. I wanted ye to stay.”
Surprise rooted Aselan. He stared at the stone floor, refusing to meet his brother’s eyes.
“Stay now.”
“I cannot, Relig, even if I were still welcome here. I have a bound to consider again, the Rekken are at our door, and the Heart must prepare. If Father will not receive me as his son, he must receive me as a representative of people under his rule.” It was the only way to make his voice be heard. No king could refuse a representative.
“Elan, please—”
“I may have come at the will of a crippled raqine, but I must go to Father with what I know out of concern for Nivar, for my brothers and sister.” His chest tightened with unexpected emotion.
“Thiel is not here.”
Aselan chanced a look. “Pray, she is well?”