Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  “Enough,” Haegan snapped. “He stays. As my guest.”

  “Is that . . . wise?” Tokar glanced to Tili. “We know not where he’s been nor where his loyalties rest.”

  “My loyalty,” Drracien began, his expression a mask of indifference and apathy, “is with the only person who has ever truly cared about my well-being, and that would be me.”

  Tili gritted his teeth. There was a hesitance, a worry in those beady eyes. But there was something else that made Tili uncertain. Made his fingers itch.

  “Why do you ask Tili’s thoughts?” Haegan barked. “I said he stays.”

  “Aye, but you’re half out of your mind,” Tokar said, his dark hair adding to the levity of his tone. The smile fell away as his brows drew together. “And I am left to wonder: The half that remains—is it the part that wanted naught to do with your role and purpose, or is it the one that accepted the role as prince? Because in earnest, never have I laid eyes on that part.” He nodded to Tili. “He’s Steward of the Nine. Stepped into it, though he neither asked for nor liked it. But he thought of the people, of the realm, and owned up to his duty. So for now, I follow his orders.”

  The petulance of this conversation did no good, although Tili had to admit it was nice to have his position and authority recognized, accepted.

  “I’m the Fierian!” Haegan growled.

  “Easy, Princeling,” Tili said gently. “We all acknowledge yer role as Abiassa’s Hand. None question it.”

  “Not after seeing you demolish the Infantessa,” Astadia added.

  “Nay—it’s questioned,” Tokar barked. “By Haegan himself.”

  Though Tili didn’t like the accelerant staying—or that he clung to Haegan—he relented because somehow, his presence was a comfort to Haegan, who’d been through enough. They could grant the prince this. But he not would let down his guard.

  “We will respect yer request, Fierian,” Tili said, intentionally using Haegan’s role so there could be no doubt of whom he addressed. “There are enough divisions of late. But doubt this not: these Pathfinders, the Tahscans, are ready and willing to do violence on yer behalf should there be any”—he drilled holes with his eyes into Drracien—“need.”

  Haegan shifted. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Aye, ’tis,” Tili said. “Ye may be the highest ruling accelerant, but until the Council says otherwise, I am the highest authority over the armies, and I do not take that obligation lightly. Abiassa trumps even that.”

  “Abiassa?”

  Tili smirked. “Much happened in yer absence. I was assigned the title of steward, the Pathfinders were brought south by a strange wind, joining forces with Tahscans, who have been imbued with a gift to hunt incipients.”

  Haegan hesitated, his gaze skipping around those gathered, then back to Tili.

  “We are here to protect ye. And we will be faithful to our oath, to ye, but supremely to Abiassa.” Tili pivoted and pushed through the thick crowd of bodies. His warning had been to Drracien, and the directive laid plain before the princeling. He must hope it was enough.

  But why? Why was he so keenly rankled by that accelerant?

  “Tili.” Her soft, plaintive voice was tinged with urgency.

  But he also felt urgency—to keep distance between them.

  “Tili, wait. What did you mean back there?” she asked. “What wind?”

  “Aye, Steward—what strange wind?” Laerian fell into step beside him. “There was none.”

  “Aye, but he needn’t know that. Not now. He must believe this is bigger than himself or we are all singed.”

  25

  SIRDARIAN CAMP,

  NORTHERN OUTSKIRTS OF SEULTRIE

  Dread coiled in the pit of her stomach, bringing a cold, balmy sweat to her brow and the back of her shoulders. Kaelyria stared at the disgraced accelerant who, nearly a cycle past, had plied her will with smooth talk and perfectly placed words.

  She wanted to claw out his eyes. Instead, she dug her fingernails into her palms and reminded herself she was above this slimy vermin.

  “It is remarkable that, even when confined to a cage, you can keep that pert nose so high, Princess.” His seedy laugh dripped with condescension. “Are you not happy? I mean, I do believe you owe me thanks.”

  “Retribution is all I owe you,” she bit out, a tremor of fury rippling through her veins.

  “For what?” Cilicien said with a deep chuckle. “For giving you what you desired?”

  “You knew full well your suggestion regarding the transference was wrong.”

  “As did you, Princess.” He stood smug and unrepentant. “You are not the whitewashed lamb you feign.”

  She inched forward. “Tell me, did you also know the truth of my brother?”

  His thin eyebrow arched. “What would that be? A spoiled, arrogant pr—”

  “Don’t,” she growled. It took every measure of willpower to restrain the vitriol she wanted to vomit on him. The hatred. The fury. “Did you know Haegan had the ability to wield as a boy?”

  He widened his eyes and froze, mouth agape.

  Then he hadn’t known either.

  His laugh cut short her meager hope. “Of course I knew. We are accelerants, Princess. We can detect each other by the heat we gather through the abiatasso.”

  It shamed her—she had never even thought to seek it with her brother. Or maybe she’d taken it to be her father’s wake, since he was so much stronger. “You knew, and yet you let me go through with it, fully cognizant of what would happen to Haegan when he followed my instructions”—her voice strained against the anger rising through her breast—“your instructions to go to the Great Falls. It nearly killed him!”

  He lifted a bejeweled cup to his lips and peered over the rim. Cilicien’s fingers were so adorned with rings ’twas a wonder he could lift it. His amusement gleamed through his black eyes. “Nearly, but it didn’t.”

  Kaelyria reached for the Flames to blast him with a bolt . . . but they were not there. Even after all these months, it was still instinct to wield. She swallowed, helpless. Useless. “Why did you bring me here?” Thoughts of the others—the girl, Carilla, the Legiera—rang through her mind. “What of the Eilidan?”

  “What of them?” he asked, smacking his lips and setting down his cup.

  Flames, the man was infuriating! He would force her to ask, to state outright what befouled her tongue. “Are they dead?”

  His shoulders bounced in a shrug. “How am I to know? I am here. They are there.”

  “Nay, be not so cavalier. ’Twas you who attacked them. You singed the life from Carilla, the poor girl’s only crime to protect those with her.”

  “No.” Cilicien stabbed a finger in the air. “No, she lied. She claimed to be you. That is punishable by death.”

  “In what land?”

  “My land!”

  “Your land?” Kae scoffed. “Have you lost your faculties? You are naught but a disgraced and stripped accelerant!”

  “And you are the princess to blame for her parents’ deaths, her brother’s wandering desperation, which”—he cocked his head and arched his eyebrow—“in turn left the entire Nine Kingdoms vulnerable.” He marched around her prison, tracing the heavily carved Caorian wood chairs as he moved. “And that, my dear, opened the door for Poired’s advance and attack.” With a laugh, he shrugged. “It was most kind that you handed over the kingdom.”

  Enraged, Kaelyria threw herself at the bars, clawing for his face. Instead of finding flesh beneath her fingernails, she felt the searing heat of a wielding halo. The bubble was icy hot and taunting. She cried out, her nerves on fire.

  “Gently,” Cilicien chided the guards, who had haloed her.

  Through tears and frustration, she felt the heat amplify, constricting her air. She drew up, breathing in tight against the draining oxygen, hissing.

  “Easy!” Cilicien barked, extending a hand to the sentries. “You harm her and I will expel the life from you!”

 
; Tears slipping free, Kaelyria closed her eyes, willing Abiassa to—just for a heartbeat—return her gift. Let her boil this incipient’s breath from his lungs.

  But this was her own doing. Kaelyria’s. In truth, was not the downfall of Seultrie her fault as well? Just as he’d said. The futility of her hope that Abiassa would use her once more thrummed through her veins. Discouraged. Defeated.

  “Tell me, my dear—who is the one disgraced?”

  Suspended off the ground, halo pinning her, she tried to muster her courage.

  “Be furious with me if it suits,” Cilicien crooned, “but we both know who bears the blame for this fiasco. You were so desperate to defeat the Dark One, to throw your own brother into the vast, uncaring world, that you cared not the price. I told you that price, Kaelyria. If you think back.” His smile was smarmy as he studied her. “I gave what you wanted. I supplied the ability to transfer your gifts.”

  “No, you quenched me,” she said through gritted teeth.

  He pursed his lips and bobbed his head side to side. “A technicality.”

  Whimpering against the heat that sent rivulets of sweat down her temples, Kaelyria knew to keep her anger in check. The halo seized upon the fire of hatred and constricted. The more she fought, the worse it would hurt.

  She glowered through the warbling, crackling halo. Sparks danced and popped. One flicked her cheek, and she winced. His glee and arrogance reminded her of the dead of night. That was just it—dead. They were dead eyes. Creepy and bottomless. “If I ever get my gifts back,” she said, trembling beneath the exertion it took to push out the words, “I will turn you to ash.”

  “I would very much like to see you try, Kaelyria. I always admired your wielding. It was so natural.” He lifted a hand and waved it, the jewels catching torchlight. “Such beauty. Such elegance. Much like you, gliding through the gilded halls of Fieri Keep as if you owned the world.” He sniffed. “In a way, I suppose you did. Perhaps that is why you were such a delicious target for the Dark One. Why he so desperately fought to get into your head.”

  Nausea rolled through her, the memories of the voice that nearly drove her to pitch herself into the Lakes of Fire.

  “When I told him I could turn you faster, he did not believe me.” Cilicien raised his chin. “I promised I could, because I knew how naïve and arrogant the daughter of the Fire King had become. So overconfident in your giftings, so haughty in your stature, wealth, and position, that you never once considered that you might not be dealing with someone who had the same goals.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said, wishing she could claw away the tears sliding down her face. “I knew you were not to be trusted.”

  “Ah, pet.” He clicked his tongue three times. “And yet still you handed me the key to the kingdom.”

  Kaelyria went still, confused. A terrible dread stirring through the heat and her body. “What . . . what key?”

  He sniffed a laugh. “Did you seriously think I gave your gifts to Haegan?”

  She frowned. “He—he was healed. He walked.”

  Pursed lips and another shrug. “Easy enough for an accelerant with healing gifts. Drigo, for example, have near-miraculous abilities.”

  “But the Falls—”

  “Ah, that was unfortunate.” He held up his hands, as a superior talking to a subordinate. “Come, did nobody tell you there were rules to a transference, most of which we broke, therefore it was not a transference.” He inclined his head with a bounce of his shoulders again. “Not in the truest sense.”

  “Haegan went to the Falls. He was healed. He became the Fierian.”

  “All true.” He smirked again. “But not of your doing. Well—” He clasped his hands, considering. “I suppose it was your doing. He was convinced to get to the Falls. Your doing. He was convinced he was healed. Your doing.”

  It made no sense. “But I was paralyzed.”

  “Of course—think! ” He touched his temples. “I quenched you.”

  A deep chasm opened in Kaelyria, yawning greater and greater as she turned his words over. No, she refused to believe it. “I will never trust your words.” She couldn’t accept she had given her gift away to this . . . incipient. Cilicien had stolen it, gifted it to Poired. The very thing she fought. The very reason she’d made the sacrifice . . .

  “Ah.” He held up his bejeweled finger. “Probably your best decision, albeit a year too late.”

  “These are lies! You are wicked and cruel,” she shouted, noticing the air thinning around her, the halo reacting to her distress. A constricting started around her throat, strangling.

  Cilicien wagged his fingers to the halo. “Remember, your anger tightens the halo. Go easy.”

  Kae struggled for air. Tears squeezed past her clenched eyes. Haegan . . . the kingdom . . . No no no. Bereft, she felt her anger leak out as she deflated, tears streaming down her cheeks. What have I done?

  “It was too delicious, really,” he said with a rumble of laughter. “You were so adamant about stopping the Dark One from taking your gifts that”—a burst of laughter leapt from his snarling face—“you handed them right to him.” He pressed his fingers to his chest. “Through me, of course.” He gave a curt bow, casting torchlight over his oiled black hair. “And I thank you. Because of this gift of yours, I have been named one of his Three.”

  “I will kill you!” she cried, her throat hoarse and raw. “I will make sure you feel every—” She gasped. Groped for air.

  “Princess, calm down or you’ll strangle yourself right out of existence.”

  She couldn’t breathe.

  “Calm . . .” His words were growing more agitated.

  Her pulse pounded in her temples. Strained against her throat. Her body went rigid. Even in her wild panic and raw anger, she saw the same mirrored in Cilicien. But that only fueled her determination. The singewood would never again control or manipulate her. Not if she was dead.

  The edges of her vision ghosted. As she lost consciousness, the rage faded. Which opened her breathing. Gave her room within the halo.

  “Better,” Cilicien crooned.

  Anger! She needed anger.

  Focus.

  Father. On the drawbridge of Seultrie. Burned alive by Poired.

  The scene before her—Cilicien’s dark, cruel face gripped in panic that she would die—blurred.

  Anger. Haegan. Mother. The keep. Her friends.

  Cilicien had kidnapped her. Now, she was not with Aselan—a true man, a man worthy of much more than he’d been given. Father would have appreciated him. Mother would have loved him. Mother . . . Mother! They were both dead. Because of Poired. Because of Cilicien. Because of herself!

  “Kaelyria, stop!”

  Darkness closed in. She welcomed it. Welcomed the—

  “Stop or you’ll ki—”

  She glowered and saw him throw a blast at the halo.

  Crack! Whorp!

  Darkness snapped in. Kaelyria was falling . . .

  • • •

  “I must speak with you.”

  In the third day of the march to Ironhall, Tili glanced to the side at the large warrior. “I welcome the reprieve from boredom.”

  Vaqar slid a look around at the others. “Alone.”

  Tili didn’t dare follow his gaze, but instead thought through who was nearby: Astadia, Tokar, the boy Laertes, Praegur, Haegan, Drra—

  Ah. He understood. With a nod, Tili nudged his horse aside.

  As the column moved past, he nodded to the refugees who had attached to the contingent for protection as much as to have a sense of purpose. They seemed worn of body and of spirit.

  Vaqar’s destrier stamped next to him. “The newcomer still reeks of the Dark One,” he said. “He is aligned with the enemy.”

  Adjusting on his horse, Tili hesitated. Then leaned on the pommel with crossed wrists, affording him a moment to stretch his back. “What ye suggest is treason.” He eyed the front of the line, where Drracien rode, chatting with Haegan. It was a good
change to see the prince relaxed, merry. Not in torment or pain. Granted, Drracien was fractious and nervy, but . . .

  “I only suggest the Fierian is not safe with him.” Vaqar seemed to dwarf his own horse, his shoulders broad and his arm muscles taut. “Nor are any of us.”

  “Ye are sure? This stench ye detect—how is it ye know one from another, or a lingering one from one being held?”

  “Scents are as unique as the people. And I may not know you, Steward, but I know your kind. Even you hesitate over this newcomer.” He inclined his head. “You must intervene.”

  “Ye ask much to expect me to act when there is no proof,” Tili said, scratching at his beard again.

  Vaqar huffed. “It is difficult, I assume, to understand what we Tahscans are cursed with, but—”

  “Ye say ye can detect not only hate from love, but my scent from another’s.” Tili surveyed the people as they continued, children scampering about, in and around parents’ legs. “Aye, ’tis much.”

  It seemed Vaqar growled at him, but a quiet settled between them for several long minutes. “If I can smell the attraction of your woman from here, think you not that I can detect the stench of the purest evil?”

  Tili jerked his gaze to him. “My woman?”

  Though Vaqar’s mouth was covered, it could not hide the mirth that glowed in his eyes, struck golden by the glare of the afternoon sun. “You hide it well, but not well enough, Steward.”

  “Hide what?” His voice pitched, and Tili fought the heat creeping through his neck. “In earnest, I—” He clamped his mouth. No, he would not dignify that with a remark. He focused on the only important topic. “Ye believe the youth is serving Poired. What of his claim that he was merely held?”

  After several long moments of silence, Vaqar spoke. “The scent is too strong for one simply being manipulated by the Dark One. I believe not only has the youth been in his presence for an extended period, but that he himself has wielded the dark flames.”

  Tili flinched, but then came a protective swell. “Do ye know the Guidings, Tahscan? The laws that bind the accelerants and their wielding?”