Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  He hated this place.

  No. He hated that he’d been held captive. His pride brought him here, but she—Nydelia had kept him here.

  Inflaming. She’d inflamed every negative thought.

  But being a scourge is not what I want.

  He didn’t want to be hated. He didn’t want to be . . .

  Haegan blinked. Again! It’d happened again. Thoughts inflamed. Fear of hurting others seized upon. How? How had Nydelia known? He looked up and around the room. At the ceiling. At the door. At the—corner. Thomannon.

  The man’s eyes widened.

  Haegan hopped to his feet, surprised to find his strength there. “You.”

  Thomannon shook his head.

  “You’re inflaming—”

  “I have no ability to wield.” But the eyes. Thomannon’s eyes betrayed him.

  Anger churned like the tidal pull of the moons on the ocean. Building. Curling up and toward him. “How long have I been here, Thomannon?”

  The man gave a hurried shake of his head. “Please—”

  “I asked before and you betrayed me. Think not to do it again. Answer plainly—how long?”

  “Six weeks since your arrival.”

  Crushed at the pronouncement, Haegan fisted his hands and pressed them to his forehead. Fool! Coward! “What has happened in the Nine?”

  “I know not. I stay here. I keep you.”

  “Keep me?”

  The man’s face went as pale as the moons.

  “You keep me?”

  “It was for your own good.”

  Indignation writhed through Haegan. “My own good?”

  “If she—if she felt you were a threat, she would have killed your father and you.”

  Haegan jolted. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. “My father?”

  Your father never cared for you. Why care for him?

  It was true. His father had left him to rot in that tower.

  A strange, bitter taste hit his tongue. A spark of realization came with it—inflaming. It was happening again. How long before he succumbed this time? Became the useless twit he’d been for the last two months?

  Wait, wait, wait.

  What had he gotten angry about a second ago? Shoulders braced, head down, he stared at the twisting pattern of the hand-carved rug. Searched the fibers for the truth that had slipped so easily from his mind like water through his fingers. It was there. He could feel it. Like a jewel hidden just beneath the surface of a murky pond. What was it . . . ? Precious. Important.

  “Father.” Haegan pulled in a breath. Lifted his gaze to the manservant and stared at him through a tight brow. “Where is my father?”

  10

  NORTH OF CAORI

  Tili smoothed his tunic, aware he was not outfitted to meet the warriors as a commander nor as steward.

  “Here.” Negaer lifted a jacket from his case. “At least look the part.” He held out the richly detailed garment, and Tili’s eyebrows rose in surprise. The general shrugged. “Never know when you might have to eat with a duke. I find it pays to be prepared. Saves the bother of fussing tailors.”

  Tili slipped into the fine garment, then went to the tent opening and peered out, anticipation buzzing in his gut.

  Rhaemos offered him a cup.

  Tili hesitated, remembering the clobbering headache he’d awoken with the last time they’d given him a drink. He narrowed a look.

  The Pathfinder snorted. “That was weeks and leagues ago. Have you not forgiven us?”

  “Forgiven,” Tili said with a nod as he accepted the drink and tossed it back. “But not forgotten.” He felt refreshed, but something still nagged at him, like an itch he couldn’t reach. Glancing down, he fingered the brass buttons and intricate stitching along the cuffs and stiff collar that mirrored the crest emblazoned over his heart. The emblem—that of the Fire King—was wrong.

  The message was wrong. After slipping out of the coat, Tili handed it back. “Thank ye, but no. We are fighting to stop the same enemy. That is the ground I meet them upon, not as a superior or nobleman.”

  Hesitation held the general, but then he relented. “As you wish.”

  Negaer, Rhaemos, Draorin, and Tokar grouped up around him. He knew not where Chauld had gotten to. Together they stepped from the shade of the tent and straightened. Tili’s pulse sped a little more than expected at the sight of the Tahscans as they plowed a path through the camp with their horses, shorn heads, and steel swords arcing at their backs. Casually comfortable in their bloodstained tunics and trousers. Dark eyes peered from above cloths that concealed noses and mouths. Of what fashion was that? Corded muscles marked their preparedness, their ability to eliminate any detected threat. But it was their unwavering confidence that arrested Tili.

  “They ride as if this were their camp,” Rhaemos grumbled.

  “Aye, and it will be if we make a mistake,” Negaer warned. “Steady.”

  As the Tahscans approached, their line thinned until a group of six fanned out before the tent.

  “Interesting,” Negaer mumbled as the six remained mounted in front of Tili. He continued in a side-whisper, “The three with shaved heads are Malkijah—the royal guard.”

  The revelation thickened the blood pumping through Tili’s heart. “Why would they send royal guard into the Nine?”

  “Bravery? Idiocy?”

  “That we have in common, too,” Tili muttered as he stepped forward, flanked by Draorin, Rhaemos, and Negaer. “I am the Thurig as’Tili, Steward of the Nine. Name yourself.”

  Nervous chitters raced through the camp, and Tili realized his mistake—the declaration to name themselves was a tradition and custom of Northlanders. Not the Nine.

  Four dismounted, including the three Malkijah. They stood, glancing around at the Pathfinders, who had closed ranks. A stream of foreign words fell off the tongue of a Tahscan with long black braids dangling over his shoulders, his chin lifted proudly toward Tili.

  Rhaemos translated. “He greets you in the name of the Tahscans and Vaqar.”

  Negaer leaned to Tili again. “I know that name—Vaqar is the commander of the royal guard. Fierce, bloody fighter that one.”

  In awe, Tili remembered his father’s tales of the Tahscan’s exploits ruling the eastern seas. “Yet he has braids,” he noted. Which meant the man feigning to be Vaqar could not be the commander Negaer knew or his head would be shaved. So he was lying about something—was it his name, his position? The bigger question—why?

  He cared not. Right now he must convince this Tahscan that he was worthy of conversation and not the tsing of his blade relieving Tili of his head. “Ye are welcome in our camp. Please join me within.”

  Tension rolled like a sandstorm through the desert, filling every crevice and needling their nerves raw as the four Tahscans strode—faces still masked—toward the Command tent.

  Inside, Tili reached the head of the table and placed his hands on the chair. When he saw the eyes of Vaqar spark, Tili acknowledged the annoyance, then removed the chair and placed himself at the second chair on the side, enabling protection on both sides.

  Vaqar said nothing but took the chair directly across the table, his braids knocking against the wood as he leaned forward. He was immediately hedged in by two more Malkijah, and a third stood behind him, translating just as Rhaemos did behind Tili.

  It annoyed Tili more than he cared to admit that they insisted upon the cloths covering their faces. This was a custom he had not heard of before, and found it vaguely insulting. “It is unusual,” he said, “to find a Tahscan so far . . . west and on dry land.”

  The translator’s brown eyes glinted with appreciation that he was not accusing them of crossing a border. He repeated Tili’s words in Tahsci to the Malkijah, then, added Tili’s next question: “Are the coverings necessary?”

  The Tahscans didn’t move.

  Finally, Vaqar spoke, and Rhaemos said in Tili’s ear, “They are for our protection.”

&nbs
p; “Yer protection.” Interesting. Tili had a split-second realization. “Because what ye are doing here is not official business of the crown.” When the words had been translated, all four sets of eyes struck him in question and he shrugged. “Ye greeted us not in the name of yer queen, Anithraenia.”

  The men flinched even before the words had been translated—likely they had recognized their queen’s name—but none more than the translator. He seemed unsettled, and when he spoke to Vaqar, he said far more than seemed justified by Tili’s simple observation.

  “’Tis not my intention to put ye on the defense,” Tili said, noticing Negaer and Rhaemos shift as well, “only to be plain. As ye can see and no doubt have learned from yer able scouts, we are alone.”

  Negaer cleared his throat, clearly displeased Tili revealed that intelligence.

  “As are ye,” Tili continued, letting the implied threat hang in the air for a few seconds, watching.

  Vaqar did nothing. Simply stared back, his eyes inscrutable above the veil. The Malkijah followed his lead.

  Tili glanced at the translator. “It’s a long way from Tahsca to be slaughtering Sirdarians.”

  The man’s left eye twitched, a tiny movement, before he spoke.

  Vaqar’s snarled reply betrayed volumes, even before Rhaemos translated: “It is never too far to slaughter those animals. What business have you in this land, Northlander?”

  Tili gave a quiet snort that he’d been identified. He eased forward, resting his threaded fingers on the table. “Vid is a Nines realm. I am its steward. Ye’re in our land.”

  “This land is razed and infested with Sirdarian wickedness,” the translator said, coming forward without first repeating Tili’s words and waiting for Vaqar’s response. “That makes it no one’s land.”

  Tili tilted his head at the translator. Considered the man for a very long moment. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Tahscans didn’t flinch. They were trained to face death, not only head on, but screaming and swinging steel.

  “According to yer translator,” Tili said, dropping his eyes to the man with long braids, “this land now lies unclaimed. Tell me, which prince claims it?”

  Vaqar frowned, scowling. “Which prince?” he asked, as though confused.

  Shrugging, Tili sat back. “I am a prince. And ye are a prince.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “Now, which of us would claim this land, Vaqar of Tahsca?”

  “Me, of course,” the man answered.

  “No.” Tili shoved to his feet.

  Vaqar glanced to the side, then leapt up, his chair toppling as the others reached for sabers. The air sang with blades freed of scabbards, stonelights catching the glint of steel. Belatedly Rhaemos translated Vaqar’s demanding words, “You think you have more right than me?”

  Two. Not all three Malkijah had reached for swords. Translator or not, he was royal guard, charged in the protection of his honor and realm.

  Tili had been right. “Than ye?” He smiled at Vaqar and shook his head. “No.” He tossed back some cordi juice, ignoring the wavering blades and loyalties. “When those Sirdarians ye killed do not return from their mission, more will come. When that happens, ’twould be good to be allies rather than enemies. Would ye agree?” When no one answered, irritation scratched at the back of his neck and good graces. He considered each Tahscan slowly, carefully. “When ye speak plain the truth, discussions will continue.”

  In the instant he turned toward the tent opening, something happened. Something fatal. A mistake. An error. Tili wasn’t sure what, but the Tahscans came alive. A shout went up. This time all four blades flashed.

  One snapped to Tili’s throat, halting him. He lifted his chin carefully to avoid losing his head. He slid his gaze to the wielder—the Tahscan translator—but did not meet the warrior’s eyes, nor any of the Tahscans’, for they had all turned their attention to something behind Tili.

  “Where did he come from?” the translator breathed, then unleashed a flurry of frantic Tahsci.

  Tili eased from the blade and glanced back. Naught but Draorin stood there. “Remove the blades from my men or ye will not leave here alive,” he said, doubting his threat could be fulfilled.

  To his surprise, the Tahscans complied. Tili strode from the tent without looking back. His nerves thrummed at the possibility that he had read this wrong, read the warriors wrong. A dozen paces from the tent, he spotted Chauld hurrying from the north, sweaty and harried. What was he doing in that direction?

  “What was that?” Negaer hissed at Tili before turning a glare on Chauld. “Where have you been?”

  Chauld balked at the question and focused on Tili. “What’s going on?”

  “Later,” Tili growled.

  “Maybe if you’d been here,” Negaer growled, “you would’ve seen the steward you were supposed to protect nearly get run through.”

  Chauld paled.

  Tili heaved a sigh. “Aye, but something upended their anger.”

  “They looked to be terrified of Draorin,” Tokar said. “Why?”

  Tili frowned as Draorin emerged from the tent with the Tahscans.

  “What in blazes?” Rhaemos whispered as the officer joined them, taking up position behind Tili.

  Unease and something . . . other, stronger, prickled his nape with awareness that there was much more transpiring here than he had been privy to. Was there danger from his own appointed guardians?

  “Steward!”

  Tili let out a shaky breath as he eyed the four, unsure who had spoken.

  “The translator,” Rhaemos told him.

  Tili straightened. “I said we would speak when ye chose truth, Tahscan.”

  The translator nodded to the warrior with braids, who reached up and dug his fingers into his hair. He yanked off a wig, revealing a shorn scalp glistening with sweat.

  “Blazes,” Tokar muttered.

  The translator approached as he removed his face cloth, revealing distinctive double wave arcs beneath his right cheekbone.

  “Blood and fury,” Negaer muttered, half in awe, more in fear.

  “You are a brave prince to challenge four Tahscans,” the man said as he stalked forward, his face dirty and mottled with the blood of their enemies. “So great a number of soldiers in your camp, yet only you surmised our ruse. Impressive.” Dark eyes homed in on Tili with amusement. His bearing promised his ability to dispatch any challenger. The large man considered him for several thundering heartbeats. “I am Vaqar, firstborn son of Vasthuili, second-born heir of Tahsca.”

  “Commander of the Tahscan fleet,” Tili said.

  “No longer,” Vaqar said, his expression weighted. “You are far from home, Thurig as’Tili.”

  “As are ye, Vaqar,” Tili said, his pulse slowing to a near-normal rate.

  “I will leave the scorched land to you, Prince,” Vaqar said with a smirk.

  “You have no interest in our land?” Chauld asked, his voice piqued.

  Vaqar held the colonel’s gaze for several long seconds, his expression betraying nothing, then he returned his focus to Tili. “We have no interest in land—not yet. We only seek to rid this world of the Sirdarian stench. Consider it a bloodlust. There will be no rest for us until they are vanquished.”

  “Then you will return to your homes,” Negaer suggested.

  “We have no homes. No families. The queen slaughtered them when we stood against her.”

  Surprise caught Tili. “Ye stood against yer own queen?”

  Vaqar’s eyelids grew heavy with repressed emotion. Whether anger or disgust couldn’t be discerned. “We were affected by the inflaming, but then . . . we were given a gift by Aaesh. That is when we tried to stop them. Rout the enemy. Anithraenia is no longer my queen.” He fixed his attention on Tili. “Steward, my men and I have one goal—to eradicate the Sirdarian stench.”

  “As ye have stated.”

  “I would ask something of you that I have no right to ask.”

  “I am listening.”

 
; Vaqar’s bright gold gaze flicked over Tili’s shoulder as he said, “I would have your trust, Steward.”

  “His trust?” Negaer scoffed, frowning. “You only just met—”

  Tili held out a hand, mentally back stepping and remembering who stood behind him. A strange sensation buzzed his neck and sped down between his shoulders. “Ye have it, Vaqar.”

  “What?” Negaer hissed.

  Vaqar’s eyes never left Tili’s as he gave a nearly imperceptible nod. In less than a blink, he slid his hands to the hilts of his blades and took a marginal step back. The air sang with the fury of Tahscan steel, the sound ringing in Tili’s ears. His face warm.

  Why was his face warm?

  By the time shouts went up, Chauld’s body thudded to the ground, pouring his lifeblood into the parched soil.

  11

  HEART OF LEGIER

  Weariness perched on his shoulders as Aselan limped to the pelt throne, relieved to be home but disconcerted at the change in his father. Was it genuine change? Might there might be a reprieve in his anger? Or had the mighty King Thurig recognized that alliance with the Eilidan was more beneficial than old grudges when faced with a war?

  “’Bout time ye got back.”

  Leaning on the staff he’d brought from Nivar Hold, Aselan turned and found Byrin stalking toward him.

  “Ye’re injured,” his man groused. “Is that what delayed ye so long?”

  “Aye. Pharen took an arrow and threw me when he landed hard at Nivar. We both needed to heal before we could return.”

  Byrin’s eyes widened. “Nivar. Bet that went well.”

  “Did ye not know? They sent a hawk.”

  Shrugging, Byrin pursed his lips. “None came.”

  “Strange,” Aselan said, then heaved a sigh. “We must plan. The Rekken are closing in on the Heart.”

  “I saw them on the Spine, after ye split off from me and Ebose. I been preparin’ the Legiera.”

  “That is well. The Rekken outnumber our fighters, and they’re coming, determined to take our homes and lives.”

  “What says Thurig about the Rekken?”

  Aselan paused. “He sent the Nivari out, but I warned him it wasn’t enough.” He placed a hand on Byrin’s arm. “Old friend, we need to discuss the real possibility that we will be forced to flee the Heart. Gather the Ladies, then the men later.”