Fierian

by Ronie Kendig

  “It is not wholly for the Council to decide,” Colonel Grinda countered.

  “Nor is it for the warring armies to discount the wisdom of the sages.”

  “Wisdom?” Laerian snickered. “Have you lessons on combat strategies? What of defense tactics?”

  “We are accelerants and we—”

  “You are accelerants,” Grinda said, “but the thousands you protect within Vid are not. If we converge there, then we also lead the darkest wielders into the city. The people will have nowhere to go. Imagine the slaughter.”

  Picking olives from a tray, Haegan leaned to the side. “What say you, Vaqar?”

  Startled at being singled out, Vaqar jerked his gaze to the Fierian. He frowned, glancing at the other dozen gathered, reminding him far too much of Anithraenia’s council. That had not gone well, no matter his say. “I have no say in the matters of the Nine.”

  “As my . . . advocate”—the Fierian’s eyebrows rose as he settled on the term—“you have a say.” Haegan was still leaning back in his seat, eyeing him with discerning a smile. “I would hear your thoughts.”

  Straightening gave Vaqar a moment to gather and brace himself. Tenderly seek out the scents in the room. Annoyance from the councilors. Irritation from the Pathfinders—no doubt they did not appreciate being silenced in favor of him. Intrigue by the representative of Vid—but also, a heady scent. Desperation. Fear.

  Should he call it? The Fierian had named him advocate. Vaqar held a young man’s gaze. “What do you fear, representative?”

  Shoulders stiffened. “I beg your mercy?”

  “’Tis well, Agremar,” the Fierian said with a nod. “Answer him.”

  “I do not see why I must answer to this Tahscan,” he said, bristling, but then scoffed. “I fear nothing.”

  “That alone is a lie,” the steward said. “We all fear something.”

  “Fear is nothing to be ashamed of,” Vaqar said. “Fear saves lives, guides good men to better paths.” No anger laced his scents, so what was it? “It can also lead to downfall, driving good men to treacherous paths.”

  Agremar’s face reddened.

  “You are wise, Vaqar of Tahsca,” came the calm, strong voice of the female representative next to Agremar. “My brother and I fear what happened on Mount Medric and in Hetaera will be repeated in Vid. That our people, ready and willing to put their trust in us, will be disappointed or worse—killed.” An attractive girl with not more than twenty summers, she looked to Grinda. “As the colonel suggested, slaughter.”

  He studied them both, breathing steadily. With a deep inhale, feigning resignation, he took in a deeper draught of her scent. Confidence tinged with fear, but a stronger scent he could not yet identify.

  “Our fear,” she continued, “is that our councilman is too afraid to go against his own order and do what he has trained for all his life—to protect.”

  “That his allegiance,” Vaqar spoke for her, isolating the scent of betrayal, “is to the order, not to the people.”

  She inclined her head with a grateful smile. Her dark eyes glittered. Appreciation. Admiration.

  “So, what say ye, Vaqar?” the steward repeated.

  Prying his thoughts from the girl, Vaqar turned to Tili. “I say the Fierian touches the heart of Abiassa, and his instincts are to be trusted.”

  “That is a diplomatic answer if I’ve ever heard one,” Tili chuckled.

  “It is truth. Of all seated at this table,” he confessed, “it is him alone I trust.”

  “I return that trust, Vaqar.” The Fierian sat forward. “You have saved my life and my father’s. What I owe you—”

  “Is nothing. I serve,” Vaqar said, giving a nod and keeping his gaze down.

  “I ask one thing,” the Fierian continued, “then consider your debt paid, Vaqar Modia.”

  Eyebrow arched, Vaqar glanced at the steward, who had repeated his words to the Fierian. “Name it.”

  “Remain with me until Abiassa finishes.”

  “Finishes what?”

  “Me or this battle.” The Fierian stood, fingertips on the table. “I have decided—we will remain at Ironhall. Poired will meet us here, and it will end here. Steward?”

  Tili jerked to his feet.

  “Your recruits need food and training.”

  Tili’s jaw muscle flexed. “Aye, sir. They train even now in the fields.” He thought of Tokar being dragged by Draed and nearly smiled.

  “Colonel, Major?”

  The two to Vaqar’s right stood.

  “Prepare the armies. Recruit every able-bodied man. While Poired has his dark arts and minions, most Sirdarians rely on the blade. Train our army to confront that. Prepare them.” The Fierian homed in on the councilmembers at the end of the table. “You are, Council of Nine, at the greatest battle of your gifting. ’Tis time to summon the rest of your brethren and as many accelerants as can be found to converge here.”

  Clanging rang through Ironhall, the sound vibrating the stones. Silence dropped on the meeting hall, the members staring.

  Vaqar tucked his chin, closed his eyes, and reached for the scents beyond the doors.

  “What do you detect?”

  The Fierian’s question drew his gaze. “Concern. Alarm.”

  “Terror?”

  He probed, then shook his head.

  Doors swung open and a Pathfinder appeared, rushing to colonel Grinda, who angled his head to receive the news. He came to his feet. “Sir, a great number coming from the western rise.”

  “How great?” Tili asked, his face a mask of concern.

  “West?” Laerian stood. “That cannot be good—Poired was last seen there.”

  “What army?” Tili demanded, standing as well.

  “No army. Well, not a whole one,” the Pathfinder said. “The monocle shows Jujak escorting refugees. Hundreds of—”

  “Refugees. That is no cause for alarm,” Tili chided.

  “Because among them are . . . others.”

  “Others?”

  “Drigo. Raqine.” His gaze hit Tili. “Northlanders.”

  The steward jolted. “Northlanders?” He started forward, then stopped. “Ye are sure?”

  “I know the standard of Nivar when I see it.”

  “Nivar?” Tili jerked. “It canno—ye saw the standard?”

  “Aye. Bold as brass with that gold raqine.”

  The steward sprinted out.

  Vaqar frowned.

  “The gold raqine,” the Fierian explained, sporting the first genuine smile Vaqar had seen in some time, “is only flown when the king is in attendance.”

  37

  Borrowing a horse already tacked up, Tili raced toward the western rise with a half-dozen Pathfinders. As they came upon the column, his heart stumbled at the sight of the people—haggard, drawn, some bloodied, all bone-weary. How long had they journeyed? How many injured, lost? Was his family well?

  He slowed his horse to a trot, disbelieving the number as he worked his way down the column. Men, women, children. Though he searched for his family, he also recognized the need for order. The need to show care for all the remnant, not just his own. “Food and water await at the fortress. Keep moving. The Jujak will guide ye.”

  “Hundreds?” Tokar surveyed the masses with his mouth open. “More like thousands.”

  So many. Tili shifted to search out the banner. Though he found one, it bore the tri-tipped flame and crown—Zaethian, a Nines realm. There, the gold and black of Draedith. Even Kerral’s orange. But where was his father’s banner? Had the sentries seen it wrong?

  “Who is he?” a little girl asked.

  “The Steward of the Nine,” someone responded.

  Tili dropped his gaze to a man with a child on his shoulders.

  “Thank ye, Steward!” He reached up and caught Tili’s hand. “We thank ye!”

  Seizing hope at the speech pattern, Tili searched again for the banners.

  “For what?” Tokar asked the people.

&nbs
p; “He saved the Fierian,” the man said. “Then sent his father-king to our aid.”

  Tili’s heart jumped. “Then ye’ve seen King Thurig?”

  “Aye,” the man said, turning. “At the rear with his fighters. They have fought off more than one unit of Sirdarians since joining us.”

  Tili snapped the rein at the horse’s flank and surged around the people, galloping to the rear. As he hurried, he saw the subtle shift in attire that indicated the people were less Nine, more northern. Baen’s Crossing, perhaps. Then he saw it—the first raqine, skulking across the land.

  Zicri!

  The raqine lifted his head and let out a chortle-growl, as if asking where Tili had been all this time. With a laugh, Tili hurried on.

  “Prince Tili!”

  “It’s the prince!” A great cheer went up, hands reaching, people rushing, offering thanks and pleas. Tili raised a hand in acknowledgement. A black destrier parted the crowd and plowed toward him.

  He laughed when he saw the rider. “Aburas!”

  “My prince!” The barrel-chested commander came alongside and clasped arms with him. “By the Lady, ye are good sight for these tired eyes.”

  “And ye!” He glanced to where Aburas had come from. “My father?”

  “Well. He rides with Elan.”

  “Elan, my brother? Ye jest!”

  “Nay. He stumbled into Nivar, beaten bloody. Near death. He had barely recovered his senses when the Rekken came down from the Tooth. We tried to fight them off, but they were too numerous.” He nodded to the rear. “The king ordered an evacuation, sent the queen and yer new sister to Baen’s Crossing for safekeeping.

  Too numerous? “The Rekken are but a clan.”

  “Aye, they were. Once. They been hiding their number, we fear. We have not seen them since the Crossing. After we regrouped there, we bedded down for but a night, then set out at first light. It’s been a murderously slow pace.”

  “Tili?”

  He shifted, spied familiar black hair. “Osman!” He clapped his brother’s shoulder as he drew up beside him. “Ye are well?”

  His brooding brother gave a curt nod, but in that small gesture, Tili saw he was shaken. Though his constitution was not made of steel like Elan’s or even his own, Osman was quietly strong. The boy—ten cycles younger than Tili—looked ready to crumble. He tugged Osman’s rein, leading him back toward the Nivari colors. “And Mother?”

  “Well. Mostly.”

  Concern blasted Tili. “Mostly? Do tell.”

  “The attack gave her a fright, and what with Peani’s wailing and being with child—”

  “With child? Already?” Tili laughed, an emotion he did not feel but needed to help deflect his brother’s unsettled nerves. He realized how very long he’d been gone. How his brother, Relig, served to further the kingdom, a task once set at Tili’s boots. “Relig must be a terror.”

  “Unbearable,” Osman agreed.

  Tili glanced at his brother, surprised at the fervency in his tone. They both hesitated, then laughed. “Not much has changed while I was gone.”

  “No. Much.” Osman suddenly seemed thirteen again and on the cusp of whiskers and manhood. “Everything.” He shook his head. “I would that ye had not left. ’Tis been . . . frustrating. They will not let me fight. At least ye gave me—”

  “Be not eager to clash steel with the enemy, Osman.” Gripping the back of his brother’s neck, Tili squeezed. “Does me good to hear I am missed, brother. Does me good.”

  They trotted down the line of wagons and weary travelers, only to be met by two guards. “Zendric! Etan!” Forearms clasped, they both welcomed him. “’Tis good to see friendly faces.”

  “Aye. Glad ye are back where ye belong, rather than with the thinbloods,” Zendric said.

  A good laugh that. “I serve where the Lady calls,” Tili said.

  “The queen will be glad to see ye. She has inquired constantly after ye.”

  “I trust she is well.”

  “Aye.”

  He would go to her, eventually. “I must find my father.”

  • • •

  “Who thought we would see the day Thurig as’Elan would ride again in the company of Thurig the Formidable?”

  Moving stiffly from still-healing injuries, Aselan laughed as his younger brother rode toward them. “And who thought Tili, the champion of Nivar, would chase a petulant prince across the Nine to play pretender?”

  Tili laughed as they gripped arms, leaning in for a shoulder-slapping hug. “’Tis good to see ye, brother.”

  “And ye,” Aselan said. He shifted back and winced.

  Tili looked him over more closely. “Are ye well?”

  He let his expression sober. “Not since they took her.”

  “Her?” Tili darted a gaze from Aselan and over the crowds of Northlanders as he worked out the meaning. He considered his brother. “The princess.”

  Aselan bobbed his head, once more feeling the call of rage. “She is my bound now.”

  “Had to walk halfway across the Nine to find my long-lost son!”

  Tili grinned as their father joined them. “I am glad to see ye well, Father. I’m sure the journey has been hard.”

  “It has. I’ll be glad to have yer mother safe and resting.”

  “How is she?” he asked, looking to the large wagon lumbering across the parched land.

  “Well, but the strains of war pull at her.”

  “I can well imagine. Ye can rest yer weary bones and find a warm meal soon.”

  “Speak for yerself, boy.” His father scowled. “So, Ironhall. ’Twas lost a year past, right after Vid.”

  “Aye, but now the Fierian has established it as his stronghold for the great battle.”

  Aselan followed their father, guiding his horse through the scorched trees to the first sight of the fortress as they grew closer. His eyes narrowed as their mounts, detecting the excitement around them, trotted a little faster.

  “Smart that,” Father said.

  The ride jarred Aselan’s injuries, but he found he could endure it with the thought of a bed and warm food. But of more import—speaking to the prince. He knew Kae’s brother would do whatever was necessary to find her, and Aselan must pull every cord to get her back.

  It took them no time to reach the safety of the Jujak and Pathfinders. Curiosity drew the people to the roadsides as King Thurig and his queen rode in, followed by their Nivari. Into the bailey, which Tili commented had been cleared of those who’d encamped within its stone walls.

  His father grunted yet again, peering up the heights of the parapets and keeping walls. “That needs repair.”

  “They are working on the southern walls first,” Tili explained, his words quick and eager.

  Little Brother wanted their father to approve his efforts as the steward. Did their father realize he was not assessing Haegan, but Tili’s leadership?

  Steel glinted in their father’s eyes.

  Aye, he knows.

  “South,” his father said, dismounting.

  “Aye.” Tili was met by a soldier as they entered the bailey. They spoke quietly, then his brother nodded. Looked to Father. “I would bring ye to the Fierian.” He lifted his chin toward the officer. “Colonel Grinda will escort Mother and Osman to quarters.”

  “Good enough,” Father said as they dismounted.

  Aselan indicated their entourage to the doors. He spied four guards in black and white overcloaks. Pathfinders.

  One with gold cords dangling from his epaulets stepped forward. “King Thurig,” he said, his voice booming in the great passage and silencing those in attendance. “By the Fire King and Prince Haegan, heir of Seultrie and the Nine, and Abiassa’s Fierian, you are welcomed to Ironhall.”

  His father swung out a hand, clamping Tili’s shoulder. “Fire King.” Eager eyes caught his. “Zireli be here? Alive?”

  Tili breathed a laugh. “Aye. But . . . not well. Come.” He nodded to the captain, who stepped aside, and with h
im, the line broke into halves, affording access to a grand staircase.

  “I canna’ believe he is alive.”

  Aselan noticed his brother’s grim expression and feared what that might mean. Though a few tapestries hung as banners, Aselan saw the hall for what it was—a hastily arranged welcome for Thurig the Formidable.

  Their father noticed as well. “A little musty,” his father said.

  “Be nice,” Relig warned.

  Father shrugged. “What? ’Tis.”

  Quick, confident approaching steps drew their gaze to the side of another staircase. Two men strode toward them in tunics and breeches, heads shaved. One moved a little swifter, more confidently, and as he came closer, Aselan spotted the gold circlet. “Prince Haegan,” he muttered, marveling at the much-changed appearance.

  His father started. “Nay,” he said. “Aye, ’tis!” He barked a laugh. “Prince!”

  “King Thurig,” Haegan greeted him with a firm handshake, complete with back-slapping affirmation.

  “M’boy, look at ye!” He rubbed his hand on Haegan’s head. “Bad haircut?”

  Haegan’s smile barely passed his lips. “Bad life, it seems.” He stepped aside, nodding to Relig, then hesitated. Faltered as he met Aselan’s gaze. “Cacique.”

  “Thinblood,” Aselan teased—and finally, Haegan smiled, but a flurry of questions met the boy’s face. He gave a small shake of his head, warning they could talk later.

  Haegan hesitated for a second, then turned. “Please—come. I’ve had a meal warmed. We have volunteers preparing rooms, so we shall sup while we wait.”

  “Ah, that’s grand,” Father said. “But I would see yer father first. Where is he?”

  Haegan’s smile fell. “A dozen different places in the same thought.”

  Aselan frowned. “Ye speak in riddles.”

  Haegan laughed, hollowly. “I wish I did.” He angled to the officer who’d welcomed them. “Please take the guests into the dining hall.” He focused on the king. “King Thurig, Cacique—if you would follow me.”

  38

  Having dealt with the discovery of yet another incipient, Tili took the stairs to the grand hall two at a time, anxious to see his family. He nodded to the guards at the door, rapped twice, and stepped in. The apartment was not as lavish as the king’s solar where the Fire King quartered, but ’twas comfortable—save the peeling wallpaper and broken chairs being removed by servants. An arrangement of chairs and couches clustered around an empty fireplace. Tili grinned. Haegan may crave the stifling heat, but Tili was beginning to think he’d never be comfortable again.