by Ronie Kendig
• • •
Anger wove a thick cord through Thiel as they pressed across the Nine, now heading east, away from Ybienn, at least. But toward what? Haegan?
There had to be a way to escape, to warn whoever lay ahead.
Yet, if she did—where would she go? They were too far south for her to reach Nivar before being stopped. And she had no friends east of the Throne Road, despite travelling it more than once.
They’d been riding for days, her mount tied between the twins’ as they followed their archon across the blackened terrain. Thiel would give no complaint. She would sit—endure the beating sun and the icy silence of the Ematahri. Though she had lived off the land for years, it had been awhile since she’d ridden so hard and long. Her legs and thighs were raw proof of just how long, worse because, with her broken ankle, she had not even the slight reprieve of stirrups. However, she would not complain about that either. Nothing to draw Cadeif’s attention and anger.
Her gaze rose to the skies, searching for Chima. Many times she ached to call for her, to whisper into the wind her anger that Chima had obeyed Haegan’s call and flown away. It was right. Chima bonded to Haegan. It was her job to protect him. And he had a greater purpose, and he was busy, so he wouldn’t come for her either. He had a Desecrator to stop. Besides, he would not want her once he knew what Cadeif had stolen.
Me? What purpose have I? To what end did she now exist? She had no gift. No purpose. Frustration writhed through her. What is the use of me?
“Etelide.”
At her Ematahri name, Thiel looked to where Ruldan glowered from the ground, holding out the wooden crutch she kept tied to her saddle during their ride. Impatiently, he waved her off the horse. Irritation skittered through her. She’d need help to dismount. The thought grated. With care, she caught the horse’s mane and slid over the side, releasing herself at the last moment. Landed hard. She braced for a second, gritting through the jarring pain. Commotion swirled as the others swept into motion, setting up camp for the night.
Ruldan pulled her through the activity and straight toward a tent that snapped into order before them. Cadeif bent through the opening, sun glinting off his broad, bare back.
Sirdarians, Silvers, and the warriors leered as she was tugged onward like chattel. Ruldan shoved her inside. Darkness blinded her for a second, her foot catching on something and pitching her forward. Hands caught her shoulders. She came up, staring into Cadeif’s dark eyes.
Momentary relief pulsed into anger. She wrenched out of his grasp. “Release me!”
“Etelide—”
“No,” she heaved around a breath. “Ye have no right to use that name now.”
He scowled. And mercy, he looked a fright. “I am archon!”
“Aye.” Nerves squirming, she refused to show him weakness. “And a beast as well.”
Rage turned his face deep red. “How can you say this of me?”
“Ye did to me the very thing the beast who sent me running into the desert all those years ago did—rape me!” Her voice broke. The tears broke.
Cadeif started. “Etelide.” His gaze slipped over her shoulder. And in a split-second a hand flew. Struck her face.
Thiel fell, twisting over something. Landed hard. Her head struck a post. Her ankle screamed and pain scored her temple, plucking a cry from her. Vision blurry, she shook her head. It cleared. The skin over the spot tightened beneath a growing knot.
“Put her in the cage,” someone growled.
Hands pulled Thiel to her feet, dragging her away. She glanced back to Cadeif, who was turning to talk with the Sirdarian general. There was something in his expression she could not read.
And she didn’t care. It was time to leave. To escape. Somehow. She’d get back to Haegan, even if she had to swim the Lakes of Fire.
• • •
Agony pulsed through Kaelyria’s veins, surging and roiling. Painful and yet—a release. She stood on the bridge of Fieri Keep, despite its ruination. Chunks were missing. The little that remained canted and rumbled beneath the storm in the skies overhead. She wore a pale blue dress, as she had before the attack on the keep. Before Poired destroyed her family. And a circlet weighted her long blonde hair, which danced beneath the cool breeze swirling around the Keep.
Cool? Never was there such a thing in Seultrie. Not with the Lakes of Fire. She turned to the near distance, to the molten pools. And gasped. Instead of hot embers and lava creeping from Mount Fieri, there streamed a glistening, frothy wake beneath a waterfall.
Where am I?
’Twas not Fieri Keep.
Vibrations tickled the bottoms of her slippered feet. She glanced aside and found a great drawbridge lowering. Slowly, the double-hung doors of the keep came into view. Instead of the Celahar emblem scorched into the wood, there blazed three interlocked triangles.
Definitely not Fieri Keep.
Groaning doors opened. Darkness shrouded all beyond. Slowly, sunlight caught the legs of someone coming into view. Then another pair of legs. And then the hem of a green organza gown.
Kaelyria held her breath as the three emerged from the darkness. “Haegan,” she whispered, her gaze resting on her brother. He was much changed. In earnest, naught remained of the boy who’d spent all those years in the tower. This version stood strong, confident. Handsome and fierce. The woman at his side—auburn hair hanging in thick coils around her neck and down her spine, frame slight but sturdy, face rosy and filled with adoration for Haegan—held a small boy, whose mop of dark curls were a contrast to Haegan’s golden hair. And even to the woman’s.
Beside them appeared a man leaning heavily on a cane. His weathered face spoke of lifetimes of pain. Regret and defeat hung heavily on his shoulders—as if the twisting crown of flames atop his head pushed him down.
The Fire King.
Father!
Kaelyria threw herself down the hill toward them. But her journey persisted. Distance stretched on and on.
A red hue grew behind those gathered in the keep. Kae’s heart staggered, breath trapped in her throat as the crimson glowed angrily, breathing into existence a creature, sliding closer and closer to the three.
A man rushed forward, ignorant of the flaming looming behind all.
Kae sucked in a hard breath. Then surged as his face came into view. “Aselan!” Elation warmed her.
But the distance was too great. They were distracted. Focused on each other. On the boy.
The creature was growing larger. More threatening. Breeding off their inattention.
“Haegan!” she shouted, but her words would not release. Her throat constricted. She tried again, yet it would not be birthed. Kae rushed forward.
Stones fell away beneath her feet. She slipped but caught herself and scrabbled backward. Again, she looked to the keep, where the group stood, oblivious to the threat. “Behind you! Haegan!”
Smiling, Aselan reached out. Took the child from the woman. Hefted the now-laughing boy into the air. Their faces were mirrored with delight. With laughter. Idyllic. Beautiful. A sight that enraptured her. Her attention snagged as realization washed over her: father and son. Aselan was the boy’s father. That meant the boy was—
Mine!
At that instant, the creature lunged. Fire erupted as razor-sharp teeth clamped down over them. Haegan. Thiel. Her bound. Her son. Vanished. Devoured.
“Noooo!” Kaelyria jolted up, blinking rapidly in the dim light of the tent. Sweat plastered her clothes to her chest and arms. Bracing herself, she panted against the terror of the nightmare. Her arms trembled as the images came in crashing waves over her, again and again. Seeing them die. Burned alive.
She collapsed with a sob, grief pouring through her body.
“I tried to warn you,” came the surly voice of Cilicien. “But you always were willful. Perhaps you understand now.”
Kae shuddered through another sob. Recognized the acrid taste. Released the anguish of what she’d seen. And yet . . . couldn’t. ’Twas too pa
lpable. Too horrible. “You . . . you put those thoughts in my mind.”
“I cannot put thoughts there. No accelerant can,” Cilicien said as he circled the cage holding her. “We only inflame what is already there. Tease your doubts, fan your fears.”
“The child.” She shouldn’t have mentioned him. Shouldn’t have allowed herself to think of him.
Irritation scratched at his slick features. “The thought of that child was in your head already.” He squinted at her. “Are you with child?”
Kae hesitated, then shook her head.
“Huh,” Cilicien said, angling his head from one side to the other. “Your cycle then?”
Kaelyria glowered. As if she would speak of such things with the cur.
He smirked. “Indelicate, but necessary. I am surprised you aren’t already sure.” He rippled his fingers, an orange flame dancing over them as he pointed at her. “When I probed your thoughts, I sensed the child.”
Kaelyria’s heart skipped a beat. Her hand found her abdomen, mind reaching for the boy in the dream. A son? Was it true?
“It’s disappointing, though no surprise, of course—what man in his right mind wouldn’t take you to his bed?” His lecherous grin only wearied her. “But we will conceal it for now.”
“Conceal it?” Confusion rattled her. Why did it matter? “What do you care if I carry his child?”
Scoffing, Cilicien pressed a hand to his chest. “Me? I give not two wits about your intimacy with that Eilidan chief.” He tucked his hands behind his back and stood with his feet shoulder width apart. “However, when Poired’s overturn of the kingdom is complete, I will need the daughter of the Fire King at my side to make the seizure of power legitimate.” His eyes narrowed. A thought seemed to take root as he twisted his mouth and chewed the inside of his lip. He spun and stalked to the entrance of his tent. “Bring the pharmakeia!”
At his darkening expression, Kaelyria had no time to consider the wonder of carrying Aselan’s child. Instead, deep dread washed over her shoulders and wrapped her throat. “What?” she asked, not sure she wanted to know. “What is your plan?”
He considered her again, silent and pensive, his gaze constantly bouncing to her belly.
Something about the way he studied her forced Kae to turn away, curl her back against the bars and to him. Protecting herself. Protecting—was it possible?—a babe. Could it be? Again, her palm went to her abdomen. She closed her eyes.
Is it true? Are you in there?
A subtle thwap of the tent flap came with a burst of light.
“My liege,” came a gravelly voice. “How may I—”
“This woman—if she is pregnant, can you remove the child?”
30
The image would not leave his mind—Thiel with Cadeif.
It tormented him as much as the harm done his father. Unable to sleep, Haegan pried himself from the cot and moved into the balmy night. Stood beneath the waxy moons and lifted his face to their light. Willed it to burn away his memory of finding his father, of the moment Trale leapt into the blast meant for Haegan.
He deflated against the images, the stark reality of what happened. Grief and guilt weighted his limbs. He should’ve taken his father from the bridge, back at the Keep. Even when he believed him dead, he should have—
What? He could not have lifted both Kaelyria and Father. Or his mother. Had he the giants’ strength, mayhap. But as one with a fledgling gift, it would have taken multiple trips. Poired would have blistered him into oblivion.
Had She not stopped him, he could have turned his anger, his vengeance against the Dark One. Why had She forbidden him? Why did She allow Thiel—
“Fierian.” Though gentle and quiet, the voice exploded, awakening Haegan to the nearby shadow that was a man.
“Praegur.”
A smile brightened his eyes. “Turn not your anger in the wrong direction, Haegan.”
“You can say this after She has stolen your tongue?”
“What is given cannot be stolen.”
Haegan frowned.
“Long ago, I gave my life for Her use. If She chooses to borrow my tongue to speak only Her truths, who am I to object?”
“But . . . why?” Haegan threw his hands up in emphasis. “Why has She done all this? She can send Her Guardians whenever She wills, yet She allowed this. Allowed my father to be tortured, my mother killed. Then She forbids me from killing Poired when She has made me Her Hand!” He hunched his shoulders, tightened by agony and grief. “Look at my father! Why?”
His friend watched, amusement in his eyes.
“You mock me. You think because I’m this”—he shook his head—“powerful Fierian, I should be grateful.”
“Should you be grateful?”
Uncertain of his meaning—whether to mock or to chastise—Haegan cast him a furtive glance. He wanted neither instruction nor correction. The days had been hard enough without the burden of letting down yet another friend.
His gaze wandered the camp and came to the raqine nesting on the field. Soft moonslight caressed their overlarge bodies.
“Tell me of your father,” Praegur said, dirt crunching quietly beneath his feet as he moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with Haegan. “Do you remember the moment you first saw him wield?”
’Twas a trap. Somehow, there would be a lesson here. Praegur had become as bad as Gwogh. And yet, his mind instantly conjured a memory. A smile pried at Haegan’s unwilling mood. “I was little, no more than four or five, climbing the crags to see the Lakes of Fire.” He swiped at his nose. “We weren’t supposed to be there, but”—he snorted—“I never was much for the rules. My foot got stuck. When it went through, ’twas as if the rocks closed in, clenched tight against my ankle. I was trapped.” Another shake of his head. He recalled all too well when he’d first seen the blond hair bouncing as his father climbed the ridge. Eyes that burned with admonishment and reprimand. “I expected him to discipline me, rail at me for being so foolish and disobedient.”
“But he did not?”
“Nay, he did not,” he said softly, remembering. “He knelt. Rustled my hair. Then smiled and looked down. His hands were glowing as he reached toward my trapped foot. Somehow . . . somehow, he freed it with the barest warmth. I was in awe.” Haegan drew in a long breath. “I’m sure he’d wielded in front of me before then, but to see it, so perfectly controlled—to carve away stone and not cause injury to my leg . . . He was my hero.” Swallowing, Haegan tried to reconcile that Zireli with the one who’d abandoned him. “We sat on the ledge until the sun was abed and the lakes glowed in the night.” An ache tightened his throat. “He loved me . . . once.”
“He has always loved you. As She has loved you.” Praegur nodded. “In your story, when the king was able to free you, did you question Her gifts?”
Haegan frowned.
“When the gifts are to our benefit, we think naught of them and go on about our lives. When they interrupt our plans or take an unexpected route, we object. Because we understand not the purpose.”
“Well put.” Haegan nodded.
“Her gift is no less good now.”
“’Tis less favorable.”
“Perhaps inconvenient and uncomfortable—painful even—but the favor still remains.” With a nod, Praegur wandered away, leaving Haegan to his thoughts, his grief.
Mumbling and groaning from the wagon battered his will. Would his father ever be free of the Infantessa’s cruelty?
He rubbed his head, the stubble still a surprise, wondering what the Infantessa had done to him as well. Was there damage he hadn’t yet detected? He didn’t feel damaged.
Thiel. Lying beside that warrior.
Haegan stiffened. Nay, Thiel would not take to Cadeif’s bed. She loved Haegan. Cadeif had been but a friend. Yet he would not put it past that savage to take what she refused. To conquer her. ’Twas their way, was it not?
Chortling and keening rippled on the warm night and drew him to the knoll where the raqine wer
e resting. He stood, watching. They had not attacked Poired. Neither had the Deliverers.
They left it to me. Yet . . . stopped me.
“Never seen this before?”
Haegan flinched as Tili joined him. “Most of my friends haven’t seen a raqine, let alone an entire herd.” He recalled the nest in the Heart. A large number, yet he saw not Zicri or Pharen among these. Were there truly so many on Primar?
Hands tucked under his armpits, Tili jutted his jaw toward the beasts. “Convocation.”
“What?”
“Like eagles, a group of raqine is called a convocation.”
“Whatever ’tis called—never have I seen so many.”
“Ye summoned them.”
Haegan nodded his acknowledgement. The great beasts were sleeping, chortling their contentment.
Sleeping. Thiel. In Cadeif’s bed. “During the battle, I saw a vision—something. Thiel.” He eyed Chima, curled against a dark blue raqine.
“And it worries ye?”
“Aye.” Haegan shifted. “I fear ’tis real, because all the weeks in Karithia, I heard my father calling me, even when I thought him dead. In my dreams, I saw him. Heard him when I was in the shower. That was real. Yet . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I know not what is real and what is—”
“This vision during the battle, did it break yer concentration?”
“Aye.”
“There’s yer answer.” Tili shrugged. “’Tis widely known yer feelings for my sister. They used her against ye.” His eyebrow arched. “Won’t be the last time, if ye let it work.”
“But she was with Cadeif.”
Tili flinched. “I am not one to play guessing games, Thinblood. Nor should ye at this point. War is upon us, and the enemy is high powerful, as ye’ve seen for yerself. Mayhap we should thank the Lady that Thiel is not here.”
“How can you say that?” Haegan gaped. “She’s your sister! Have you no care for her safety or—”
“Careful,” Tili growled, his hands falling to his sides, as if readying for a sword hilt. “Ye know not my mind nor my concerns.”
“She’s your own blood, and you shrug off a threat against her. Would ye do the same were it Astadia?”