Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  The back of her throat grew raw. She drew up her courage and leaned closer. “I have a gift for you.”

  He chuckled. “Could it not wait till morning? I’ve been slaying dragons and saving beautiful damsels all day. I need my rest.”

  She smiled. “A thousand apologies, brother, but some gifts are impatient.”

  His gaze flicked to her right and hardened. “Who are you? Where is Gwogh?”

  Kaelyria touched his lips. “Shh. This is a . . . friend. His name is Cilicien ka’Dur. I . . . I need him here.”

  Uncertainty twitched in Haegan’s eyes. “Why? Why do we need another accelerant?” Clarity shone in those blue orbs so like their father’s. “Kae, something is not right.”

  Smoothing the curls along his face, she spoke what she had practiced a hundred times in anticipation of his discernment. “You trust me, don’t you, brother? Haven’t I taken care of you all these years, visited you, loved you?”

  “Of course.” His gaze bounced again to the accelerant. “Where is Gwogh? Bring him.” Such authority.

  “Listen to me, Haegan.” On his cheek, she felt the prick of stubble. A month shy of eighteen and already manhood crouched at his door. So strange to think of him as such. “Remember the Tale of Ruadh?”

  “Our favorite.”

  Because I have longed for this day . . . “I have been doing research with Cilicien’s help.” Kaelyria considered the accelerant. Though her gifts warned her not to trust ka’Dur, he was the only member of the Ignatieri with the strength and abilities—and willingness—to help.

  Right or wrong, it must be done.

  “We can do it, Haegan.”

  “Do what?” Wariness clung to his words and his gaze.

  “Change places.” You must sound more certain. “Like Ruadh and his best friend.”

  “What . . . what do you mean?”

  “We can trade places, of sorts—”

  His eyes widened. “No!”

  “—but only for a short while,” she said, pressing against his shoulder. “Just like Ruadh.”

  “Kaelyria, this is madness. Stop this talk at once.”

  “No, it’s not madness.” She forced a laugh into her voice. “It’s amazing—you’ll be free, Haegan. Free!” She scooted closer, pulling both legs up onto the bed with him, feeding off the hesitation in his objections, off the longing in his eyes. And in her own heart. “We can do this, just like Ruadh and Manido.”

  Haegan half smiled at the mention of the great friends. But she saw the doubt: they were myths.

  “You will recall that when Ruadh’s wife was found murdered, her brother, Manido—though mortally wounded in the battle that had claimed his sister’s life—transferred his gifts to Ruadh to rout the killer.” They’d loved that tale, the sacrifice of friends for the love of one woman.

  “I recall,” he said with a snort, “the transference cost those friends their lives.” His eyes closed. “I am too tired for tales of fancy. It’s madness. Go to bed, Kaelyria. We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Haegan,” she said, the merriment gone from her voice. “Sir Jedric has asked our father-king for my hand. In three months, I leave Fieri Keep.”

  He locked onto her once more and scowled. “You’re betrothed?”

  She struggled to smile. “Aye, but before I leave, I want to give you a gift. For one month, you will have all your strength, all your vigor.”

  “I care not about a gift. You can’t leave. What of Graem?”

  She shrugged, pretending she didn’t know what he did not speak: What of me? “It is ordered that I marry. No use in arguing. So, please, let me bestow this upon you.”

  “How? How would you—?” Haegan shook his head. “No. No, we can’t.”

  “I am doing this, Haegan. It is my gift to you. Do not refuse me, brother. I beg you.”

  He considered the accelerant for a long while in stony silence. And in that time, Kaelyria saw again what a strong king he would have made. A defender. Protector. “What will happen to you?”

  Her heart thudded at the question, afraid she’d betray herself. “To me?” She scoffed, nearly choking on it. “Nothing. It transfers gifts. Not bodies.” She laughed, but it sounded hollow even to her.

  “There is a cost. There is always a cost.” Haegan frowned. “It doesn’t make sense. I have no gifts! Our father-king is on the fields, fighting for Seultrie. If you are without your gifts, Seultrie is undefended.”

  “Foolspeech, brother. Half the Jujak are quartered here in the keep.”

  “And as a capital city, there are accelerants within Seultrie’s borders,” Cilicien added.

  “Look around you, sister” Haegan said. “I have a mind that works. That is all. You have that and much more, all of which are vital to the protection of Seultrie.”

  “No, I assure you—it does not eradicate my gift.” She licked her lips, braced as she recited words she’d practiced over and over. “It is but a share of what I possess. And only for one month.” Remind him of his long-held dream—to walk! “Go to the Falls, Haegan—the Great Falls. It’s time for the Kindling. You remember the Kindling, yes?”

  He hesitated, his eyes sparking with the realization of what she meant. “Once every hundred years . . .”

  With a smile and nod, she grew impassioned. “Yes! And this is that year. Walk beneath the healing waters. Then, you will have your life back.”

  “Kaelyria, never did I imagine you’d be so short on intelligence. The Kindling is another flight of fancy.” Haegan huffed, but she saw in his words and expression the faint hope to walk again. “Why must you persist? It’s insanity!”

  She lifted his limp hand and held it in hers, then crushed it against her lips. Tears burned. “Can you imagine? Being able to walk and feel again?”

  He studied her. “No.” His voice neared a growl. “It is not right.”

  “My prince, if I may speak?”

  Fierce, discerning eyes sliced through the accelerant. Haegan had always been shrewd. “You may not. I do not trust you, accelerant. I would seek the advice of Sir Gwogh.” He looked to the door. “Where is my guardian?”

  “A bit tied up with duties, my lord-prince,” Cilicien answered.

  “I will wait then,” Haegan said.

  Kaelyria lifted both his hands, though she knew he could not feel or return the fervor of her grip. After pressing a kiss to them, she set her chin on their joined hands. “An adventure, Haegan. We’ve dreamed of this day for so long, and now that I have a way, you refuse me. You’re breaking my heart.”

  His brows knitted. “You twist this on me.”

  “I only want to give you something you’ve long wanted, return what has been stolen from you before I am wrenched from our home and you.” Tears blurred her eyes at the thought of being Jedric’s bride. Heartless creature. “We’ve both talked of this so often. Please?”

  “I want to know the side effects,” he said.

  “You may have a peculiar craving for lace and petticoats,” Cilicien teased.

  Haegan scowled.

  Kaelyria could only laugh. “He jests!” It felt good to laugh amid this tension. “Do it for me, brother. Let my one gift to you be this before I am gone from my home.”

  “What would I do, Kae? I am nobody. To be sure, the kingdom has forgotten me. I have no life. No friends. Almost no visitors, besides you and Gwogh.”

  “Just . . . for me,” Kaelyria pleaded again. “Let me have the pleasure of seeing you whole, at least for a short time, brother. Go to the Falls. What do you have to lose?”

  He laughed. “It’s not what I have to lose that concerns me.”

  Her heart caught. “Then you refuse me?” Would she have to force him? “But—”

  “Be at peace.” He closed his eyes and sighed. “You wear me down with your begging. In all our years, you’ve never persisted so earnestly.” Once more he glared at the accelerant before meeting her gaze. “I will do it. For you.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. S
he might save the kingdom after all. “Thank you.” With a nod, she looked at Cilicien. “Begin.”

  2

  Zireli, ruler of the Nine, king of Zaethien, and Supreme High Lord of the Ignatieri, stood on the field with his eyes closed. He opened his awareness and tuned into the land spread before him. To the sweet smell of grass and the wildflowers dotting the plain. To the warbler joining the chorus of dawn, waking the slumbering valley, the melody a deceptive distraction from the danger lurking beneath the thin veil of mist. The dampness of the predawn hour soaked into his clothes, its temperature subtle yet significant. To some, unnoticeable, but to him—unmistakable.

  He turned his senses across the hillock to the right. The coolness proved prevalent and welcoming. Zireli breathed softly, deeply, pushing from his mind weighty concerns: his wife, daughter, and son back at the keep; the fleeing refugees under his protection. And his fears—was his daughter enough to protect Seultrie and its inhabitants? Would she remain strong? She was the only hope, now that he had been forced into the field to war with the enemy.

  He focused on the sweet grasses. The crisp, fresh field. Beyond the rising knoll on the other side, the temperature dipped as it spread over a small lake. Even farther north the lake-rich land of Caori taunted him with its faint but brisk scent.

  Behind him, a throat cleared.

  Ignoring his warriors, Zireli pushed deeper into his own senses, to what the air told him. His elite, the Jujak, were chosen for a reason, for their prowess, their ferocity. And even for their impatience to act.

  But now, this morning, he must take time. Determine the enemy’s location. If it took till the noon meal, so be it.

  A soft thwat made him smile. No doubt General Grinda had used a glove to slap the warrior who had complained, silencing him.

  Zireli craned his head to the left. Trees and utter calm. He brought his search back to the center of the northwestern quadrant of the plain, hidden behind a cluster of boulders. A balmy breeze drifted down across the grass, pushing his hair away from his face.

  He lifted his head, inhaling deeply of the air that wafted from the cool center-north area. Then to the left again. Inhale. Tepid.

  Pivoting, he opened his eyes. Stalked the half-dozen yards back to the contingent. He swung up onto his horse. “There, in the northwest.”

  Grim-faced Grinda glanced in that direction, using his looking glass. He lowered the brass piece and eyed him.

  “You doubt me,” Zireli said, his mount shifting beneath him.

  “Nay,” Grinda said. “But there’s only one course of action around that area—burn the trees.”

  The trees flanked the enemy on two sides. He could burn the foliage, forcing the troops backward—out of Zaethien. It’d be easy. “Too easy,” Zireli muttered, taking in the treetops. The rocks. “The woods are populated with pine.”

  “Easier to burn.”

  “Mm.” Why could he not shake the ominous feeling? Pine was one of the easier woods to burn. Oak the harder.

  “Perhaps Dyrth has become overconfident,” Captain Mallius suggested, but his tone belied his words.

  “He is always overconfident,” Zireli said. “But not stupid.” Would Zaethien bring about their own demise in this battle that felt more futile with each engagement?

  “Whether a trap or not, we must drive them back.” Grinda’s gravelly voice grew dark. “If not here, then on the higher plains.”

  “Where we risk higher civilian casualties,” Captain Mallius said.

  Zireli pulled his attention from the valley beyond the boulders. Two villages and another that could be a city. Over a thousand people. What few farmers this region held had fled to Seultrie and even Caori.

  Here on the plain fatalities would be limited to his men and the enemy’s.

  “Only my nine and you.” Zireli jabbed his heels into his mount’s sides.

  “Valor Guard, forward! Captain,” Grinda said, “hold here and make ready to return to camp.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Zireli was already in the open when he heard the thunder of hooves racing up. The nine Jujak chosen as his personal guards fell into formation with the ease of long practice. Within ten minutes, they were on the inner perimeter of the tree line. Zireli and the warriors dismounted and gingerly picked their way through the woods.

  The hill spilled down toward a small pond not large enough to be marked on a map. Around the water, the Sirdarians sat talking, sharpening swords. Oiling leather and buffing shields. Skirmishes to the left exhibited the prowess of the enemy army. It was not so much skill but a penchant for brutality and cruelty that marked their kind.

  Zireli gave a lone nod.

  Without a word, Grinda sent the nine flaring out. They’d form the Fire Triangle—a triangle within a triangle three times over. The formation protected the wielder and yet still allowed the Guard to fight effectively.

  On a knee, Zireli lowered his head. Closed his eyes again. Attuned his being to Abiassa, to her will and the blessed lands he was tasked with protecting. Fist on his chest, he bent his will to hers. “Guide me by the Flames. Protect me by the hand of thy Deliverers.”

  Zireli pulled himself to his full height. Opened his eyes, maintaining the calming. He planted his right foot back, crossing his wrists in front of him as he did.

  “Eyes out,” Grinda ordered the Valor Guard. He uttered an oath, grunting as he tried to shake off dried leaves sticking to the bottom of his boots.

  Resin from the trees, no doubt.

  Opening his fists to a palm strike, Zireli swept his hand along the forward-most line of trees. The branches. The leaves. He focused his attention as he turned his palm over and formed a cup, then drew his elbow back to his side, drawing the heat from the elements and into the trunks. Growing the heat.

  Burning trees was a simple thing, conducted even by first-years. But isolating the burn, keeping it contained within the perimeter, to flush the Sirdarians out of the valley and back through the southern part of the Nine . . . that took focus.

  Around him, the Jujak shifted, their boots crunching on forest litter. The dim glow of embers sparked.

  He palmed the area, pushing and pulling, restricting the flames to the trees he’d ignited so the heat intensified. The fire more demanding. While navigating the burning trees with his left, Zireli lured a warm wind to blow against the flames, pushing the fire toward the Sirdarians—as well as the smoke.

  “Sir!” a Jujak’s shout sounded strained.

  “What?” Grinda responded.

  “Taps, sir!”

  Fire could be so beautiful. So ethereal. It singed, burned, but it also cleansed.

  “Taps in the trees!”

  Zireli’s gaze slid to the trunks near him. He saw no ta— Wait! There. Midway up the trunk. Hidden among leaves. Steel poked through, its shiny surface defiant against the dull wood.

  He traced the trunk to its offshoots. The needles. Pine.

  And it finally made sense. He skirted a look around them, around the base of the trees. The ground. Zireli’s breath backed into his throat. “It’s a trap!” He spun and used a gust of hot air to push the Jujak from his location. “Back! Get out!”

  He followed swiftly, and they closed around him, running as a unit with him in the center. They reached the horses and swung into their saddles. Zireli’s steed galloped hard, but he kept a watchful eye, trusting his horse to lead him from the woods. They were barreling through the wood sentries when the resin ignited.

  Zireli shoved his hand out in a flash-strike, pushing back against the concussive boom of the explosion. His horse whinnied in panic as heat rushed over them. A blast of air wrenched him from the mount. Thrust him backward.

  He hit hard, air punched from his lungs. Zireli slumped against a tree. Ash shook from the burning leaves and branches. He coughed but battled to keep the fire back. To restrict oxygen so the greedy tendril could not devour him or his men.

  Hands grabbed him. Zireli let the men drag him backward as he w
restled the flames. Fought their advance. Sweat dripped into his eyes, the fire sizzling along his arms and trousers.

  Struggling between wielding and the searing pain as the fire ate at his clothes, Zireli knew surrender for him meant death for his men. And Zaethien. That could not happen.

  “Feet,” he grunted, palming the fire that fought him more viciously than a sword-wielding Sirdarian.

  His men righted him—Grinda patting down his pant leg to crush the flames—and Zireli once more planted his foot back and regained his central focus. He harnessed the oxygen in the air, though it was warmed and ready for ignition, and used it to fan back the fire. He pushed. His muscles aching from the exertion. Whether minute or hours, he knew not, but he held the ground he stood upon. And fought back the ambush fires of the Sirdarians.

  At last, Grinda’s voice broke through his focus. “We should go, sire.”

  Exhausted, clothing shredded, Zireli stared at the out-of-control fire consuming the once-quiet forest. Grinda pushed into his periphery, offering the reins to his horse. “Please, sire.”

  With a huff, Zireli took the leather straps, flung himself into the saddle, and gave one last look at the devastation. At his defeat.

  • • •

  Fire and torment held Haegan Celahar hostage. Everything hurt. Burned. Ached. Mind ablaze, he tried to claw free. A howl screeched through his mind. Creaking and popping. Echoing darkness. Had he been stretched on a rack and torn limb from limb, he would have felt blessed compared to this torture.

  But then . . . like a warm bath, a red, fiery light blossomed across his field of vision. Bored through his being and swarmed his chest. His abdomen. Down to his toes. A thrumming resonated, vibrating against his ribs. Tingling through his fingers—

  Fingers? You can’t feel your fingers, fool!

  “You should go. Now. Kiesa will take you.”

  “But—”