by Ronie Kendig
Astadia gaped at Haegan, her young eyes that had weathered so much—too much—stared, disbelieving. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. Eyes watered to a muddy green. Her chin dimpled with restrained tears. Then that rage exploded. “He gave his life for you, a petulant prince who ran from his duty! If you’d been man enough to step into that, he never would’ve been there.”
“Hey!” Tili snapped. “Enough, Astadia.”
But she shouldered past him. “You took up with the very wretch who turned your mind against you.” Her lip curled and she spat, “You weren’t worth his life.”
“Enough!” Tili barked, forcing her around.
Astadia slapped away his hand. “Beg off.” She pivoted and stalked through the throng that had gathered.
Tili glanced up at the pharmakeia seated between the cots that bore the Celahars. “Give the prince herbs or something stronger. Just . . . make him rest.” He released the wagon cover, concealing father and son. “Blazes.”
“A lot like Thiel,” Tokar lamented.
“Aye,” Laertes muttered. “But iff’n you saw what she did to help free Chima—”
“Free her?” Tokar asked. “What do ye mean?”
“They’d caged us—me, Thiel, and Chima. An’ Praegur,” he added as an afterthought. “But he went off with them what came to rescue us. Thiel wouldn’t go. She thought she could reason with them monsters.”
Tokar pivoted to Tili. “We should go for her.”
“Wouldn’ do no good,” Laertes said. “They was packing up camp and movin’. I don’ know where to. Them whats beds with the enemy could be anywhere by now.”
“An army doesn’t move that fast,” Tokar said, “or without leaving a trail. We could track them.”
Tili roughed a hand over his face, hating the decision before him. “Aye, but we must needs set our path north. My sister is not a helpless child. She has relied on her wits before.” He glanced around. “Any word on General Negaer?”
“Dead.” Grim-faced, the younger Grinda approached. “He and Rhaemos—killed beneath that witch’s inflaming.”
Tili drew up, momentarily stunned. He had known his hope was futile—had seen the two run each other through. But the news still came as a blow. “Who’s next in command?”
“Technically, a dozen of us,” Grinda said. “We’ve been cobbled together from so many different forces that the chain of command is a mess.”
“Fire and fury,” Tili muttered. “We can’t sort that now. We must ride.”
“We’re ready.” Grinda fell into step with Tili.
“Good. We need to put as much distance between us and”—his gaze hit the rubble again, creating a new backdrop and violent end for the waterfall—“this.”
“Many died here, and I’m not talking about the Silvers we killed in the courtyard.”
“Matters not who you reference. Families lost loved ones.” Tili cringed at the memories assailing him—people corporeal then wisps of dust. “We should ride out with all haste before they can stir a mob against us.” But even as he turned, he spied Vaqar emerging from a crowd at the city’s edge, determination lurking in his dark eyes. A determination that drew Tili toward him.
Vaqar cocked his head in the direction of those he’d just left. “The son of the mayor. His father vanished in the wave.”
Vanished. That was a nice way of putting it. Tili again checked the crowd and tensed at the terse expressions and postures. “They’re upset.”
“Yes,” Vaqar said.
“With me.”
“With all—you, the soldiers, the Infantessa, the Fierian.” Vaqar lifted his shoulders in a slow shrug. “I’ve given them distraction. Told the son to take a census, get the people organized.” He sighed. “We should go.”
“What the blazes happened in there?” Tokar asked. “How did he kill them? With a shout even. How?”
Tili jammed on his gloves. “’Twas not him but the Fire She gave him.”
“So, you’re saying Abiassa killed those people—innocent men and women lining the street. Fifteen Pathfinders,” Tokar growled.
“I’m saying that none but Abiassa know the heart,” Tili said, his breath short and his words more so. “Would ye challenge Her judgment?”
“Nay, but I—”
Tili jerked around. “This is what was written. This is what we are called to defend.”
Tokar’s jaw muscle bounced. “She could have stopped Sirdar.”
“What ye should concern yerself with, Captain, is gathering yer men. Choosing yer five.”
“My fi—” Tokar stopped short. “What? No!”
“The general and Rhaemos are dead.”
“There are many more qualified—”
“Ye have a raqine. Ye have trained with Nivari and Jujak and Pathfinders. Ye will lead the air scouts. We will sort this more, but for now, we must ride.” Tili took the reins of his mount from Laertes. “As for the Fierian . . . She sends one man with all of the fires of Her fury to deliver the lands, to separate the wheat from the chaff, and ye object?”
Face red, Tokar swallowed. “It’s . . . violent.”
“Aye,” Tili said. “And our rebellious hearts need it.”
• • •
Soaring through the air, wind rustling her hair from the thin band that held it back, Thiel savored the freedom as Chima climbed higher and higher. With Laertes tucked close, she relished the power of the great beast intent on her mission. They raced along the ravine, then Chima circled back, apparently to catch a wind current, but as she did, Thiel saw the Ematahri warriors galloping on their horses toward the great cliff.
If they beat her there . . .
Palm pressed to Chima’s side, Thiel tried to both urge and warn the mighty raqine. The alarm must have rung through her loud and clear, because Chima tilted, angry and annoyed with the warriors trying to use slingshots and arrows to clip her wing, bring her down.
She barreled at one warrior—Raleng—and slapped him off his mount with a wing. Then she banked upward swiftly.
“Hang on!” Thiel shouted to Laertes, feeling the boy’s small body tense with panic. “She won’t let us fall.” Which wasn’t true. Chima had one mission—to save Haegan. And she would fight her way there, even if it meant she died doing it.
The people on her back? Fleas.
Chima banked right, chortling loudly at another warrior, who raced toward the highest cliff to stop them. But Chima’s angle, Thiel’s sweaty palms, the heights and dips and arrows tsinging past her compromised her grip. She slipped. Her leg dangled. A vise constricted around Thiel’s ankle. Yanked. Her grip broke.
She slid sideways. A scream tore through her lungs. She was falling . . . falling . . .
Thiel jolted upright, her shriek still ringing in her ears. Instantly awake and painfully aware of the fire racing through her leg, she cried out. As the truth of her situation rushed upon her again, she fell against the pallet and fought tears.
“Get up. We ride!”
Thiel had barely lifted her gaze when something flew at her. She cringed and braced—only to be thumped in the head with a pile of material. It fell into her lap. She stared down at tunic and trousers. Then glowered at Ruldan. “I’m not going anywhere!”
He lunged and grabbed her hair, then jerked hard. “You ride when he says ride.” With a shove, he sent her sprawling off the pallet.
Thiel caught herself, steeling against the pain rocking through her broken leg. The fire volleyed. Seized control of her stomach and catapulted its contents up her throat. She vomited onto the floor, crying. Agonizing.
“Leave!”
Ruldan jerked straight. “Archon.”
“Out,” Cadeif barked as he stormed in and yanked something from a basket. Not acknowledging her or Ruldan, he stuffed clothes into a pack.
Thiel spit out bile and wiped her lips, eying Ruldan as he exited. “Where are we going?”
Kneeling at the basket, spine arched as he worked, he said nothing. With no ef
fort, he pushed to his feet and strode to the other side. There, he packed more items.
“My ankle is broken. I can’t ride.” True, but only then did she notice the splint and bindings someone had placed on her leg while she’d been unconscious. And the cup beside the pallet—herbs to stem infection and lessen the pain. “Why are ye doing this to me? Where is the man I knew?”
There was this muscle, right above his temple, that always twitched when he was angry. And it jounced now. Beautiful sun-darkened skin played with the flickering light of the fire pit. Muscles and power. Rage and fury. “You were not here long enough to know me, Etelide.” He spun and left the tent. “Bring her.”
Two Ematahri entered with severe expressions. Faces painted with blue and white streaks. Hunting. What were they hunting? Why were they taking her? They hauled Thiel upright and tugged her forward. She had to make quick work of figuring out how to hobble without pain stabbing her leg as they escorted her into the evening and . . . empty woods.
Surprise sliced through her as she darted a look around. Tents were gone. Structures torn down. They hurried her through a dense copse of firs and pines to a clearing. The scene stole her breath. She’d never journeyed with the Ematahri, but the sight of the warriors lined up with the Sirdarians nearly made her vomit again. These people were not like the bloodthirsty Sirdarians. They were stronger. Better.
A man in a blood-red uniform stalked toward her. “Where did it go?”
There was something about his demand that made Thiel refuse to answer.
A lasso of heat coiled around her neck and constricted. Heart thrumming, Thiel groped for air.
“Don’t think I’m like the Ematahri,” the Sirdarian sneered. “The only pleasure I’ll take from you is inflicting scorch marks.”
A large frame stepped between them, and the fire whip crackled and sizzled out. “Zorek, leave her.”
Thiel wobbled, but the two warriors steadied her. She rubbed her throat, feeling the rising welts from the fire whip.
“You dare countermand me?” Zorek hissed.
Cadeif’s thick arms drew back, ready for a fight. “We agreed to help in exchange for fertile lands, but my people are not yours to abuse.”
“She is not one of you—”
“She is mine!” The veins along Cadeif’s neck strained against his declaration.
Ripples of tension tightened the stances of the Ematahri around them.
“Think well your next move,” Cadeif warned. “We may not have Flames to wield, but we have steel and iron, and knowledge of the forests.” He looked to the trees, to the ridges of the gorge.
Zorek’s eyes flared. “Think you can take us?”
“Have we not a task to carry out?” Cadeif sounded bored as he looked over his shoulder to the two guarding her. “Secure her on the horse.”
Vises tightened on her arms as the warriors pulled her away from the two leaders. It was a deliberate move, she knew, to remind Zorek that she was not his to deal with. It made her feel protected. Which made no sense at all.
Raleng yanked her toward a horse. Without ceremony, he lifted Thiel off her feet.
She tensed and landed painfully on the horse’s back. Indignation squirmed at his manhandling, but with a broken ankle, she probably couldn’t have mounted the horse alone. “They are Sirdarians. Puppets of the Dark One. Why has Cadeif conspired with him—that man has no goal—”
Raleng tossed a sack at her. It thumped Thiel in the chest and unseated her balance. She grabbed the rein and the bag at the same time, struggling to stay astride. Hair dangling in her face, she steadied and only then noticed Raleng was gone.
She squinted across the distance to where Cadeif stood with Zoijan. Heads down as they secured packs did little to conceal the intense conversation happening between them. They weren’t happy about something.
Zoijan thrust a hand to his left.
Cadeif snapped upright. He stepped into his first’s personal space, nose pressed to the man’s cheek as he said something, then turned and stalked straight toward Thiel.
She hesitated, breath caught at the darkness swarming his features. Cadeif had always possessed a raw presence. He lifted his gaze, striking hers for but a second. Long enough for her to detect something ominous. He reached his warhorse and swung effortlessly onto its back.
Even when she’d lived with the Ematahri, she had never wanted his anger turned on her. She’d known enough of him then to understand the mistake of that. Being his friend was one thing. Enjoying his laughter a pleasant surprise. Being on the wrong end of his anger—dreadful. He was, plain and simple, a warrior. True and brutal. And she was wilting beneath his wrath.
After looking around the mounted riders, he lifted a hand and let out a mournful call.
As if her horse had a will of its own, it started moving, nudged along by the advance of the clan. “Where are we going?” she asked, trying to reopen that broken bridge between them.
Hands relaxed, one on his leg, the other holding the reins, Cadeif gave her nothing but his silence.
The slow, arduous ride out of the pass took most of the day, and by the time the sun settled in the western horizon, Thiel’s ankle throbbed in time with her horse’s hoof beats.
When the warriors slowed, she let herself hope for a break. But as she took in the surroundings, that hope fell away. Something was off. The lands were too moist. Too green. This couldn’t be the Outlands, which is where she’d assumed they were going. And it couldn’t be the east—too few Sirdarians or ruined villages.
“Water,” came a soft voice.
Distracted by the offer of friendship that came with that simple word, Thiel looked to the side and found a young Ematahri female. “Then a rest?”
The girl shook her head. “Not until after the moons rise.”
“But surely ye need a rest as much as I do.”
She shrugged. “It will be over soon enough.”
“What will?”
“The wait.”
“For what?”
“Fertile lands of our own. The general promised—”
“Thuli!”
Jerking at the bark of her name, the girl jabbed her horse’s flanks and leapt ahead.
Thiel eyed Zoijan, who urged his mount alongside her, their legs nearly rubbing. “Is that why Cadeif is doing this?”
“You will call him archon.”
“But surely he can’t be fool enough to believe Onerid will grant you land—”
A gloved hand struck her face hard.
Nearly flipping off the horse, Thiel yelped. She caught herself, touching fingers to a throbbing and now-bleeding lip.
“Do not call him a fool! Not in front of others. Not ever!” Zoijan’s ruddy face grew crimson. “You have no place here. Why he claimed you, I don’t know. But you deserved whatever he did to you that night. Have you any idea what he has done to protect our people after you left?”
“Easy, Zoijan,” came Cadeif’s monotone voice. “She is not worth your anger.”
The warrior nodded then drew his mount away, turning to ride with another group.
Thiel’s thoughts tumbled and fell along the jagged cliffs of their rejection and remonstrations. “Cadeif,” she said, keeping a pleading tone, “please—tell me ye do not believe the general. He’s Sirdarian. He does the will of Sirdar. He’s wicked, a spawn of Ederac.”
His gaze remained ahead as they rode. “He has brought supplies my people needed and given us shelter when we were on the verge of starvation.”
“Starvation?”
“After the Lucent Riders, a great fire destroyed the forests and animals along the Throne Road. We had nothing.” He skated a sidelong glance at her. “I must do for my people what it takes to keep them alive.”
As night fell on them, so did a daunting realization that she’d been right—they were not traveling west or east as she’d initially thought. They were traveling north. Toward Ybienn. Dread, insipid and cold, tightened around her courage.
> The Ematahri were helping the Sirdarians attack her family.
21
LEGIER’S HEART
Dressed in leathers and armor, Aselan rose from the den on Pharen’s back and tested his injured leg. Hoeff’s ministrations were helpful, but the calf still ached. Behind him came the Legiera, their raqine as fiercely annoyed as his own at the flushing out of the den.
Aselan watched the last raqine lumber from the dark cavern with its rider. Deep within the mountain, the women and children were making their way down a network of tunnels and passages that had long been closed. With them went his bound, the Mistress of the Heart. Kaelyria.
Pulling his gaze and thoughts from the sight, he turned to the battle at hand. To the north. To the skies where dozens of raqine circled. They flew high and hard, with intent to bring death to the enemy. The Rekken had come to decimate an innocent people. To make war and drive them from the home the Eilidan had claimed for a century. Aselan would not go quietly, nor would his men.
Twenty minutes into the ride, Aselan spotted the Rekken. Rarely one to call on Abiassa, he silently pleaded with Her to protect the women—Kaelyria. To bring them safely back together.
Using hand signals, he gave the order to begin the assault.
Byrin, Teelh, Bardin, and Caprit arched their raqine into a dive. Like arrows, they flew true and fast. Behind, Aselan guided Markoo and the other Legiera into a second barrage. Would that he could wield. That they had an accelerant among their number.
Pharen roared as they sped toward the mountain, trees growing larger. The wind tore at their faces and armor, pushing them back. Threatening to pitch them off their raqine.
Arrows flew, tips glinting in the sun.
With expert precision, Aselan allowed Pharen to swerve to avoid being shot. The beast had barely recovered after the last arrow pierced his wing. They could not risk further injury. And yet, they must.
Aselan urged Pharen into another dive attack, this one so close, the Rekken threw themselves out of the path. Aselan swung his mace and landed a few strategic blows, felling several.
A rancid smell coated the air.