Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  Still, that mark . . .

  “The upside-down eye,” someone whispered in terror.

  “Ye bear the mark of the Devoted, Poired’s assassins,” Tili said, strangely disappointed to have found her in so deep with the Dark One.

  Her eyes blazed. “Can I help it if the only way men find to get their way is to tie me down and leave their mark?”

  Something in Tili went sideways. “Then ye denounce the Devoted?”

  “How can I denounce what I never chose?”

  “Denounce it or we—”

  “Flames and blazes,” she hissed. “Yes, I denounce them! How long are we to dance around this brand before we get to the crux of why I’m here?”

  “You’re here, witch of a girl, because you were caught sneaking into the camp,” Rhaemos snarled.

  “I’m one girl.”

  “You’re an assassin—a Devoted. Better dead than breathing.”

  “Then kill me,” she snarled, straining at her chains. She seemed ambivalent—no, oblivious to the raw marks where her wrists had been rubbed bloody.

  But Tili wasn’t. A girl who could ignore that kind of pain . . . what had she been through? How much had she withstood that she could shirk off bleeding wrists? And the strangest of all—she didn’t look one wit scared.

  “Kill me and end this charade.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Rhaemos said, stalking toward her.

  “Ye’re angry,” Tili muttered.

  Her eyes, green and wide, flashed to him. “Of course, I’m angry. Have you looked around this tent? You’re a bunch of male chauvinist—”

  And in that second, Tili saw her fold the fat part of her thumb inward and slide her wrist free. Amused, he flicked a spark at her in the same moment the shock of the Pathfinders registered. But, in spite of the close quarters, the spark went wide and singed a hole in the canvas tent.

  She dropped to the ground to avoid his shot, and for a moment seemed as surprised as he at his poor aim. Then she pulled to her knees, one arm still tethered to the pole, and growled as he closed in. “Release me, you foul—”

  “Foul? I’m not the one who reeks of sewers and—”

  In a flash, she swept her leg at his feet. Tili hopped over it, smirking. Intrigued and yet annoyed, he stepped out of reach. “What do ye want, assassin? I am told ye asked after me. To what end? My end?”

  A muscle in her cheek twitched as she stared up at him. Defiance. Annoyance. Defeat. They cloyed for cover beneath her fiery disposition.

  Mercies, she was so like Kiethiel ’twasn’t funny.

  “You’re the steward.”

  “Give her marks for intelligence,” someone muttered.

  When anger flared through her expression, Tili quieted the others. “I am.”

  “I saw you—in the Citadel. You were part of the Contending.”

  A heat simmered in his gut, one that said this girl was way more ­trouble than they could afford. Yet he crouched before her on the ground, remembering Draorin’s words. But he put the pieces together, her words, her memories, her fire. “You’re the assassin who took Prince Haegan.”

  Her face went white. Green eyes, like moss on Caorian wood, lit and darted over his shoulder. She wet her lips. “I . . .” She was looking at the others, who came alive at the revelation.

  “Blazes—she took the prince!”

  “Where is he? Did you kill him?”

  “No.” Her panic roiled out of control. “Blazes, what is with men? I’m here to help you. I can take you to your blasted prince.”

  Hope pushed Tili to his feet. Finally, after weeks of setbacks, a step toward Haegan.

  “On one condition,” she amended.

  He watched, irritated and bemused. Did she realize the tenuous ground on which she sat?

  “That you free my brother, too.” She blew dark strands from her face. “He’s being held with the prince.”

  “Who is your brother, and where are they being held?”

  “My brother is Trale Kath. And they’re in Karithia, Infantessa Shavaussia’s palace. She’s using inflaming to keep them as willing hostages.”

  “Willing hostages?” Major Grinda scoffed. “The prince would not be willing—”

  The girl leveled a level look on the young officer. “You don’t know. I do! I was there. Saw it. She twisted their minds—took every doubt and turned it against them.”

  If she was there . . . “Then why are ye here, free?”

  She swallowed, guilt evident in her posture. “I . . . I don’t know. The inflaming doesn’t work on me, for some reason.”

  “She’s a witch!”

  Green eyes narrowed as she glowered at Rhaemos. “Come closer, and I’ll show you how true that is.”

  Tili scratched his beard, thinking. If she was telling the truth, they were faced with penetrating a palace in an enemy land . . . “Can ye get us into Karithia?”

  “Nay,” Negaer said. “Do not believe her.”

  “She’s an assassin. She lies.”

  But Tili stared at the face too small, eyes too large. Too innocent for the profession she carried.

  She ignored the others and spoke to Tili. “Yes.” The spitfire disposition dimmed, became tinged by something that hinted at vulnerability. “Then you trust me?”

  “Trust ye?” Tili snorted. “Not a breath. But we were told ye could tell us where our prince was, and ye have.”

  Wariness crowded her expression. “Who said I could help?”

  “You were with Haegan?” Tokar edged forward, eying her.

  Inappropriate as the intrusion was, Tili found himself grateful for it. She considered Tokar for several long seconds, then gave a faint nod.

  “He’s still alive then?” Tokar pivoted, glancing between the girl and Tili.

  “I . . . I’ve been gone awhile.” Hesitation colored her answer. She batted back her brown hair with a huff. “But when I left, she was still controlling him like a puppet, so yeah—alive. If you can call it that.”

  Tokar frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’ve seen what her inflaming did to my brother, and if Haegan is there much longer . . .”

  When grumbling filtered through the tent, Tili held a hand to the others and eyed the girl. “That the Infantessa toys with him works to our benefit.”

  “How?” someone asked.

  “Because it means there’s a chance he’s still alive”—he nodded to her—“as the girl insinuates.”

  “It’s a long shot,” Tokar muttered.

  “The only one we have,” Tili reminded them.

  “If Draorin said to ask her, then he is alive,” Praegur rumbled. “We must leave now.”

  “He’s right,” she said, her brown eyes enlivened. “My brother and Haegan were both in bad shape. You shouldn’t leave them there.”

  “You did,” Negaer accused.

  Glowering, the girl rolled her gaze to the general. “She was going to kill me because she couldn’t control me. So, yes—I left. But not because I wanted to. I was no good to my brother dead.”

  “We should ride,” Tokar suggested. “If we abandon the supply wagons, it’s but two hours’ hard ride east.”

  “Aye,” Tili said, “but we can’t afford to abandon our supplies. Once we get Haegan, we still have a war to fight.” He paused, mentally going over the map, which was still spread on the table in his command tent. “The raqine.” He looked to Praegur. “Ye and Tokar should go—”

  “Me?” Tokar interrupted. “I’m not getting on the back of one of those things.”

  “You’ll do what the Steward commands, Lieutenant,” Negaer barked, and the two fell into a silent duel before Tokar finally dropped his gaze and argument.

  “Her castle is atop a mountain,” the girl said. “There’s only one way in—Karithia Road.”

  “Unless the raqine sets them over the wall.”

  “She has trebuchets,” the girl said. “I saw them as I was swimming out of the
gorge.”

  “Then I’m not taking a raqine,” Tokar said. “It gets killed—”

  “The Deliverers will not allow them to be harmed,” came Draorin’s gravelly voice.

  “There are Deliverers there?” Tili barely stopped himself from adding “too.” “Why do they not smite her, end this now, and free the Fierian?”

  Draorin held his gaze firmly. “It is not their task.”

  “Of course we will use the raqine to scout ahead and gather intelligence,” Tili said.

  “Agreed,” Negaer said.

  “Rhaemos, Praegur, and Tokar, gather yer gear and meet me by the raqine.” Tili turned to Negaer. “The raqine can only handle a few at a time. Ready the Pathfinders and Jujak to mount up with all haste. We’ll rendezvous there.”

  Negaer’s tight expression held. He nodded in deference. “Aye, sire.”

  Tili breathed a little easier as he focused on the Tahscans. “I’m certain we are outnumbered, whether with yer band or not, but perhaps with ye, we might withstand the onslaught. Will ye continue to ride with us?”

  The great warrior behind Negaer bowed. Extended a scimitar. “The battle for the Fierian is not of the Nine alone, as you know better than anyone. My blade is at your service.” He backed out of the tent.

  “What of you, Steward?” The female voice cut through the murmur of male-dominated din like the whistle of a blackbird through the burr of bullfrogs. “Will you ride or fly?”

  Tili considered her, wondering why she asked. Wondering if Negaer was right about not trusting her. ’Twas ludicrous to trust one who killed for a living. But there was this . . . innocence about her that would not leave him. “What do they call ye, girl?”

  “Assassin. Whore.” Again that defiance flared. “Girl.”

  He would not allow his anger to be aroused so easily, but his pity flared without his consent, especially because he could see past the hissed names to the hurt behind each one. “Fair enough. What is yer name, then? Or do ye prefer I continue calling ye ‘girl’?”

  Her chin lifted. Green eyes flashed. “Astadia.”

  With a nod, he turned the name in his mind. It was pretty, like her. “I will fly, Astadia. I have been sharing the air with raqine since I was but a lad.”

  “Good, it’s faster,” she said, thoughts churning behind those woodsy eyes. “We can get there—”

  “I beg yer mercy, Astadia,” Tili said. “But ye will not be riding with me. Ye will ride with the army.”

  She started, then scowled. “You need me.”

  “That I do not.” Tili nodded to the guards as he left the tent. “Give care. She’s quick and vicious. But every hurt done her will be answered tenfold.”

  16

  CASTLE KARITHIA, ITEVERIA

  Haegan stared at the seared body of the dungeon master. Grieved yet relieved. Also disbelieving. He hardly knew whether to trust what his eyes told him. So much of late had been untruth and dreams.

  Voices skated from the main hall, mingling with shouts and scant torchlight. Swiping away a stream of blood from his lip, Haegan looked up the stairs he’d tumbled down. Saw dancing torchlight drawing closer.

  Adrenaline shot through his veins, hot and demanding. No, whispered through his mind.

  Wham!

  Dank air gusted against his face as his wielding slammed the door and melted the hinges to immobile slag.

  More voices came, but they were weak, frail. Agonized. Darkness concealed the evil perpetrated in this wretched place. He strained to see through the passage. “Father?”

  Several doors clanked on this level. Haegan shifted closer, peering into the cells. A face shot toward him, shrieking. Banging against the iron bars. Hard. Hard. Again and again.

  “Stop, stop,” Haegan pleaded with the person. Woman or man he could not tell for the wildness of their unkempt hair and appearance But no beard, so perhaps a woman? But this . . . this didn’t look like a woman. Or even a human. The creature grabbed her head. Tore at her hair. Shrieked again, piercing his eardrums. Then she fell still on the ground.

  Haegan swallowed. Hard. What happened?

  “Carved One,” a man growled. Snarled. Hissed. “You’ve come too late.”

  Carved One? Did the man refer to the words Haegan had seared into his flesh? For a second, he wondered if he belonged in the cages down here, too. Had he lost his faculties to commit such an atrocity and carve his body?

  I could not risk forgetting again.

  If he’d forgotten—for the thousandth time—he would not be here. Would not be . . .

  What am I doing here?

  Clarity strained at the edges of his mind. Demanded attention. Demanded focus.

  “Haegan.”

  He flinched and jerked around.

  A hazy face appeared in a small square opening of iron bars. Bearded. Disheveled. “Haegan, hurry or she’ll kill you.”

  His mind chugged to understand what he saw. He drew closer, afraid this person might start wailing and shrieking as well. “Who . . . ?” No—he knew this one. He’d come to the castle with him. But not as a friend. As an . . . “Assassin.”

  “Forget me. I am lost. Go! Before it’s too late.”

  “Trale.” But they said he was upstairs! Lies, lies, lies! Haegan sent a bolt of embers through the lock.

  Trale jumped back, eyes wide enough to be seen. He yelped and lunged at the door, ripping it open. “Haegan—why? This . . . this is my fault.”

  “Nay,” Haegan said, truth clanging like bells in his soul. “’Tis my own fault.” Hollowness tugged at him, chastising him, accusing him.

  You’re weak, just like your father.

  The words hammered home.

  But the smell . . . Not just the stench of the dungeon, but something more familiar. It hurt his head. Hurt . . .

  “They’re not my thoughts.” In truth, they were his thoughts, but they were . . . inflamed. Worse—a massive thudding drowned him in confusion. “Why am I here?”

  “Your father,” Trale said. “Hurry! Go before she breaks through.”

  Haegan blinked. Looked at the stairs again, only then realizing the thudding he thought to be in his head truly came from the locked door.

  Anger jolted him.

  Enough! Enough of this! He had been reduced to a sniveling, confused rat far too long. “Where is my father?” he asked, then turned in a direction that he somehow knew was right.

  His dream. In his dreams, he’d walked this passage. Seen it. Smelled it. Heard his father’s howls.

  Only, there weren’t any howls now. Prisoners murmuring. Whining. Squeaking rats. “Father!” Haegan shouted, stalking into the darkness with Trale at his side. Urgency sped through him with every step. But each cell they checked, each passage they entered, grew darker.

  “It’s no good,” Trale complained. “It’s too dark.”

  Darkness would rule no more. Haegan flexed his thoughts toward the black curtain and extended his hand. He pushed, sending a warm-blue glow into the passage, scattering the black void.

  Murmurs grew louder and awed as prisoners came to the cell doors.

  Haegan walked with hands extended to the sides, sparking locks and flipping them open.

  “Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Trale said warily. “They’re all mad.”

  “The king, the king, the king is gone,” sang a young girl of no more than twelve. Clothes hung on her, several sizes too large for her emaciated frame. Eyes hollow and sunken in gray circles, she danced—wobbled—toward him. “The king, the king, he’s ever so empty. Fire and embers, toiling to remember, but the king, the king, is desperately vacant.” Her cackling voice echoed through the corridor.

  The king! Embers! Haegan gripped her. “Where is he? The Fire King?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh.” Then her shoulders caved as she fell into a fit of hysterical laughter. “Come to free the empty king, the son will kill the queen.”

  The queen? “My mother . . .”

  “I think she m
eans the Infantessa,” Trale said.

  Right. Maybe. But what if . . . what if his mother was alive, too? And the Infantessa held her captive. Twisted her mind as she had Haegan’s. “Father!” Haegan shouted. “Father, I am here. Speak, Father. Call to me!”

  But only his voice reverberated through the dungeon.

  “There,” came a mousy voice. “There, two rights and a left. Last door to the Fires.”

  Haegan looked at the man who had a semblance of sanity, but only by a hair.

  Thud! Crack!

  Trale grabbed Haegan’s tunic. “C’mon! She’s coming!”

  Together, they ran the passages, making the two rights and a left. When they turned the final corner, Haegan skidded to a stop at a brick wall. “No no no.” He circled the juncture and shook his head. Desperate. Frantic. “Father?”

  “Maybe the fool mixed it up. Maybe it should’ve been two lefts and a right.”

  “There weren’t two lefts,” Haegan said, his mind gaining clarity.

  Then something reached out to him. He drew in a breath, closed his eyes, and froze. “What was that?” He gaped, turning, turning. Searching the walls. But it was gone. Emptiness clawed at him now.

  “It’s brick,” Trale said. “I think insanity is closer than either of us would admit.”

  “Father!” Again Haegan shouted, ignoring Trale’s taunt. “Father, can you hear me? I’m here! I’m finally here. Call to me.”

  Something whispered through the air.

  Haegan tensed. “Father?”

  Haegan.

  It wasn’t a voice. It was . . .

  “Abiatasso.” The fire of his father reaching through the barrier to him.

  Why save him when he left you to rot in a tower?

  Haegan shouldered against the doubt.

  Even if you save him, he will not love you as he should.

  No. He would no longer listen to the doubts, let them control how this ended. Haegan focused on the brick before him. Noticed the discoloration. “Look.”

  Trale frowned warily at the wall. Stepped away. “I don’t think—”

  “Two different kinds of bricks.” Haegan ran his hands along them, detecting a noticeable variation in the temperatures of the two. “Stand back,” Haegan warned as he grabbed the embers of heat—what little existed—and pulled it from the bricks.