by Ronie Kendig
“We know not. We received word that Gwogh sent her to the Ematahri six weeks past. There has been no word since.”
Would his sister never break free from those savages? The more reason to speak to the king. Bracing against the pain in his leg, he reached for the staff, no doubt left beside his bed by the pharmakeia who treated him.
“Elan, don’t. This isn’t the way to heal things.”
“There is no way to heal when he refuses me an audience.” Clumsily making his way, Aselan hobbled out of the room and down the hall. Veered left to the library, where his father was known to take afternoon appointments and tea. The doors were closed, but his father’s booming laughter carried to him. Egged him on.
Aselan pushed the doors open wide and found Thurig sitting with a cup in hand and his feet up. Across from him sat another man, some dignitary no doubt.
His father’s ruddy face went crimson.
“Father.” Aselan hadn’t addressed him as such in years. “I’m sorry it was too much trouble these past three days for ye to receive me. Ye should know the Rekken are on the Spine. They are headed toward Ybienn as I speak. But ye go ahead.” He nodded fiercely to the cup in his father’s hand and gestured to the other man. “Continue yer revelry. When yer people are cut down in the streets, at least ye’ll be too drunk to know.”
Thurig came to his feet, as did his guest. “If ye will excuse me, Duke. We can continue this later.”
After the other man ducked out of the room, Aselan felt some of the fire leave him. He leaned heavily on the staff. “What has happened to the father I knew, that ye could so cruelly and thoroughly turn against yer own people?”
“Ye have no notion of me, Elan, though ye sit in accusation and take pride in doing so.”
“I crashed here on Pharen after seeing Rekken on the Spine!”
“Aye!” Thurig bellowed. “And I have dispatched my guard to deal with them.”
“No, ye have killed yer guard.” Aselan clutched the staff tightly in frustration. “There are hundreds. Yer ten Nivari will be slaughtered.” He shook his head, then straightened, though all his weight was on his good leg. “Prepare the Nivari and citizens. The Rekken will be upon ye within days. They are already knocking at the doors of the Heart, and if they take it, there is nowhere for my people—our people—to flee. No safe haven in Nivar.”
Dark eyes studied him. “What would ye suggest?”
Aselan hesitated. Considered his father. Was he in earnest? He would hear him, his thoughts? Or did he mock? “Begin preparations for evacuation.”
“Eva—” His father balked but turned to the great fire pit, where flames danced and crackled. There was a long silence, then, “Is it as bad as that?”
Breath stolen at the weight in his father’s voice, at the fact that he actually listened, Aselan nodded, though his father couldn’t see him. “’Tis. I would ask, Father, that ye allow the Heart to empty into Nivar and evacuate with the Ybiennese.”
His father pivoted, scowling.
“If they are caught in the mountain by so great a number, the Heart will hemorrhage.”
The stern expression held fast for several aching seconds. “Aye. Send them.”
Relief thudded into Aselan’s chest. “Thank ye, Father. And may the Lady have mercy on us all.”
9
CASTLE KARITHIA, ITEVERIA
Palming the glass server that stretched along the wall in the small dining alcove, Haegan stared to his right. Toward the bathroom. Past the glass walls. To the spigot. Above it to the panel that released the water of the falls. Hunger churned in him, despite the spread of food beneath his nose. ’Twas a different sustenance he craved.
But what?
Why was his mind such a mottled bed of muck?
“Haegan.”
But the shower. He wanted to return to the water. He wasn’t even sure why. Just knew that the warm stream brought something he was missing. Mayhap something he was forgetting.
If you forgot, how could you remember?
“Haegan!”
He blinked and cast a look over his shoulder to the small table. A man sat there. Bearded. Limp against the back of his chair. His eyes sagged. Trale was half the man he had been. What had happened? What changed?
“Haegan, come sit,” he said, his voice scratchy and weary.
“I’m hungry.”
“Then sit so Thomannon can fill your plate!”
“Thomannon?” As if speaking caused the man to manifest, Haegan felt a presence at his side. He started. Then gave a smile as the man’s face bled into focus. “Oh, yes. Right.” But again his gaze strayed to the bathroom. “I want a shower.”
“In the middle of our meal?” Trale barked a laugh around a chunk of bread. “Don’t be absurd. Sit down. Eat. Talk to me. I’m lonely.”
“Trale Kath is never lonely,” Haegan said, though he wasn’t sure how he knew that. “Your sister.”
Trale blinked. Stilled as his gaze met Haegan’s, as if some distant memory hung between them. “Sister,” he grunted, as if testing the word. “Astadia.” He shrugged, looking out to the falls. “She left me. Serves her right, whatever happened to her.”
“Of course.” A plate slid in front of Haegan, and Thomannon stepped back casually. Though the food was surely delectable, something in his stomach churned. A . . . weight. A nagging. As if something was . . . wrong. Terribly wrong.
Abia—
“Sir.” Thomannon spoke quickly, quietly. “Would you prefer something else to eat?”
“N-no. I . . .” A shower would help. He’d feel better after. “Perhaps a rest, and a shower.”
“I’m afraid the Infantessa is rationing water now, sire.”
Trale again laughed. “Rationing water! She’s so clever and looks out for her people.”
“But there’s a waterfall and a sea outside,” Haegan said, his gaze drawn to the rushing water.
Rushing water.
Why was that familiar? He reached for his glass of water but misjudged. The crystal toppled over. Water rushed toward him. Water rushed over his hand.
Rushing . . . The spilled water slid into his lap.
A servant girl appeared behind Trale. She was short, young. Ash-colored hair framed a vibrant face.
Wait! That face. “You,” Haegan said, looking over Trale’s shoulder. “What are you doing here?” He’d seen her before, but not here. The servant from the Heart. Aaesh.
Hands clasped, she smiled, and it seemed the entire sun burst through his being.
Trale lifted his arms. “Eating! Same thing as you!”
“Sire, you should go change and dry off. I’ll clean this up.”
“I asked what you’re doing here,” Haegan growled.
“Serving,” she said quietly. “You called me.”
“I did?” He barely recalled the word—the name that had seeped into his thoughts in the form of a prayer, interrupted by Thomannon.
The manservant inclined his head. “Fresh clothes are in the boudoir, sire.”
Haegan considered him. Beady eyes bored into him, though he wasn’t even looking at him. Wait. That didn’t make sense. Then again, there had been little sense made in the last few days.
No, weeks.
It was weeks, wasn’t it? Why did he think that?
As Haegan left the table, Trale used another piece of bread to slop up gravy from the porcelain plate. He slapped a hand in the air. “You and your books! After years in the tower, you’d think you’d have had enough of books.”
In his bedchamber, Haegan found the fresh clothing and quickly changed. When he emerged, the girl was there again.
“Do you feel like reading now?” she asked.
“Reading?”
With a gentle smile, she motioned to his bed.
As if she had somehow dusted a musty, unused corner of his mind, he recalled the ancient text he’d hidden in the mattress upon his arrival on the first day. Haegan became absorbed by the way the girl’s eyes swirled wit
h encouragement.
The Kinidd.
Warmth speared his head and drew him up straight. Images of an ancient leather-and-gilt book swam in his thoughts. The way Gwogh—Gwogh! When he had last thought of the aged tutor . . .
The tutor who betrayed and tried to kill you.
He hadn’t tried to kill him. He’d tried to protect him.
And nearly killed you in the process.
But Gwogh had been so . . . afraid of the text. “I think I’ll read,” Haegan said.
Thomannon frowned. “Would you like a volume from the library?”
“Please.” Haegan waited until the manservant left, then hurried to the mattress and reached between it and the lower supports. There, he felt the rough edges of the volume. Pulling it out, he eased a leg over the mattress. Kinidd in hand, heart pounding, he tucked the ancient book out of sight.
Moments later, as Thomannon was clearing the tables and sending the dirty dishes out with a servant, a guard appeared with a book. The manservant accepted and delivered it to Haegan. Knees bent and feet planted on the mattress, Haegan placed the book on his lap. He waited for several long minutes until Thomannon had his back turned, then slid the Kinidd onto the other book. It was smaller, but only marginally. If the servant came near, he’d spy it. Haegan propped a pillow against his leg to better conceal the contraband.
His gaze drifted down to the ancient scrawl. At first, it made no sense. Lettering looked like the noodles that’d been on his plate all too often. But slowly, the shapes straightened themselves into recognizable letters . . . then words. Sentences. Verses.
Hidden beneath cooling waters, where once he was freed;
drawn by thirst and aches so cruel, exposing the need
to obediently and violently stand between life and death,
living and dead
first and last
then and now.
Though he wanted to read more, his gaze kept flipping back to that first line. Hidden beneath cooling waters, where once he was freed.
Cooling waters.
Hidden.
He looked again to the shower. Thomannon had once dragged Haegan away from the shower. Apologizing.
Rest, Fhurïaetyr . . .
Where had that voice been all this time? Why had it now resurged?
Aaesh was there again. “Because you called.”
He had, hadn’t he? The word his heart had completed when he’d been cut off.
“Are you well, sire?” Thomannon asked as he bent over the table.
“A little tired, I think,” Haegan said, sliding the Kinidd out of sight, and grateful his words had not been a whole lie.
“A nap, then?”
“Aye,” Haegan said.
“Rest well, sire.”
Thomannon picked up the wet clothes Haegan had cast off, then strode out. Haegan remained in the dark, afraid to reach for the ancient text and be discovered. Lying on his side, he held the text close, as if somehow the words could bleed into him. Strangely, he felt strong for its closeness. Or mayhap for its words.
Haegan could stand it no longer. He shouldered the blanket higher and rolled his fingers, bringing a dull blue glow to the text. He fixed his eyes on the Verses. Though he read page after page, he kept returning to two of the poems.
Hidden beneath cooling waters, where once he was freed;
drawn by thirst and aches so cruel, exposing the need
to obediently and violently stand between life and death,
living and dead
first and last
then and now.
Begged and summoned, he once steps into that tearing plane;
existing not only in one but in two, this terrorizing refrain
as he stands obediently and violently between life and death,
living and dead
first and last
then and now.
Making war on enemies of Aaesh and freeing enslaved minds;
releasing from prisons of their own making,
and then he finds himself standing obediently
and violently between life and death,
living and dead
first and last
then and now.
Forever.
And the other, a bit more daunting.
Father and heir, torn apart in cruel haste,
The greater left below to ruin and waste.
The people wandering and lost
Cry for release from the dungeon’s taste
By her reckoner, his strength replaced.
Howling in their ears come the screams of night,
Their own rebellious hearts exposed to light.
The people wandering and lost,
Drowning in their pride and chained in fright,
Though many captured, none in her eyes so slight.
Even Her champion struggles with his own chains,
Resisting and refusing, he has created his own fanes.
The people wandering and lost
Lay at his feet, eyes upcast with hope that he reins
In his insipid doubts by words seared into his veins.
Beneath the water cool and rushing fast there came
Hope, fire, and fury with but a singular, holy aim:
The people wandering and lost
Find freedom at last, chains severed with their shame
Beneath blue-white cleansing of Aaesh’s Chosen Flame.
In the hall of iron and blood he takes his stand
With races past and present to reclaim their land.
The people wandering and lost
Give witness as the one birthed from darkness
Decimates the poisoned and perverted line of Tharqnis.
What he would give to have Gwogh here to help sort the Verses. To glean understanding and wisdom. His mind was a muddled mess, but he flipped back once more and committed to memory this:
Father and heir, torn apart in cruel haste,
The greater left below to ruin and waste.
The people wandering and lost
Cry for release from the dungeon’s taste
By her reckoner, his strength replaced.
Strength replaced. The Reckoner. Fhurïaetyr was another word for Reckoning, right?
So . . . me.
But that last part—strength replaced. How? How was he to regain his strength?
And how long had he been here? Or a better question: Why had he been here so long? He could answer neither. Nor why he, with this book in hand, felt freed from that which had clogged his brain and will. A greater fear worked through him—he hadn’t cared. He wanted to stay. He’d wanted to be here.
Vulgar, vile atrocity!
Hidden beneath cooling waters, where once he was freed. The words whispered through his mind. No, not his mind.
Abiatasso.
The realization made him pull in a sharp breath. This was bigger than Haegan. Bigger than his mind. “Abiassa . . .” he whispered, unsure what to say next. Where to begin. Because he was suddenly and fully aware of where the blame rested for the nightmare that had engulfed his life and devoured his days—on his own shoulders. “I walked away from You. Now, I’m trapped.” By his own pride. His own ego. His own doubts. “I beg Your mercy.”
A warm breeze trickled through the room. Haegan peeked over the covers, afraid Thomannon had returned. But his heart started when he saw the servant girl. “Aaesh . . .” A collision of thoughts and words and names cracked against his head. Knocked the breath from his chest as he held her gaze.
Aaesh.
A servant girl who existed, yet didn’t, according to Aselan. Who now stood before him.
Aaeshwaeith Adoaniel’afirema.
A name Thomannon had uttered once and nearly fled the room afterward. Not just a name. Her Name. A name in the Verses.
“You’re Abiassa.”
She smiled.
“But why?” He crawled over the bed to the edge, closer to her. “Why have You let this happen? Why have You
not freed me?” He looked out the window, the lights of Iteveria glittering in the falling darkness. And yet, bright-white columns dotted the perimeter.
No. Not columns. Beings. Deliverers!
Panic clutched him. “Free me of this madness, please!”
“I cannot do it for you, Haegan.”
“But You could have stopped them, stopped me!” Desperation spiraled through him, both to be free and to never have had this happen.
“Then it would not have been your choice, and from free will comes the greatest good of all.” Aaesh still resembled the young girl, yet she had an eternity of wisdom and maturity. “Your will, your future became buried in each choice you made, Haegan. From fleeing the great room at Nivar, to leaving the Contending to travel with Trale and Astadia to this place.”
Haegan hung his head. She was right. He’d known it. “How? How do I get free of this?”
Sorrow seeped through her glory. “Do you remember in Legier’s Heart when I asked what if your anger were not merely your own?”
“Aye,” he said, lowering his gaze as he remembered all too well his encounters with Her in the Heart. How he’d been irritable, impudent. Chastised Her for not knowing Her place. Grieved at his own arrogance and pride, he wanted to burrow beneath the covers. “I beg Your mercy. I had no idea . . .”
“It is what you do when no one sees that matters, Haegan. Your anger in some instances was justified, for it was not yours alone. Look with new eyes at those around you.” Her words were soft but compelling. “It will not be easy, what you see. You must fight because you have so terribly lost your way. It’s time to find your way back.”
“How? Show me! I—”
“The Kinidd will show you.”
“My thoughts,” he realized. “My thoughts were clear when I was reading.”
She inclined her head. “The Verses are my gift. Just as embracing your place as Fierian imbues you with physical strength, so does the Kinidd work the heart.”
Glancing at the book, he wondered at that. Amazed at the fact that he thought clearly when he read them, because . . . they were Her touch. “But how—” When he lifted his gaze, She was gone. He threw himself from the bed. “No. Wait!” Spun in a circle, bereft. “Please! I need You, Abiassa. Show me. Speak to me! I’ll listen.” Grief clawed at him and Haegan crumpled to the carpet. Tears blurred his vision. Anger spiraled through him.