by Ronie Kendig
44
Four years it had been since she straddled a mighty raqine, the enormous beast, so catlike in its build and movements, yet with the snout of a more canine-looking animal. And of course, wings. But to think the raqine was just an overgrown cat was to underestimate them wildly. With a killer olfactory sense, they could find their mates or riders from leagues away.
Even as Chima crashed violently through the canopy of the trees surrounding the pool, Thiel felt the years fall away. At seven, she’d barely been able to stretch her legs around Chima. At twelve, she’d almost had a solid grip. Now, though still difficult, it was manageable.
That is . . . until Chima drew her legs in, gave two brutal flaps of her wings, and propelled herself far above clouds and wind. They soared, the icy breath of morning burning off far too slowly for Thiel. Her fingers ached from the cold and wet. The cloak the woman had given her worked against her, filling with air and nearly pulling Thiel off Chima. She wanted to remove it, but she dared not let go of Haegan, who lay limp across her legs and Chima’s neck. The blanket Gwogh had tucked in around him rippled beneath the strong winds.
She held a fistful of Chima’s fur and a death-grip on Haegan’s belt, the most middle part of him. Fear held her just as tight. If they fell, they fell to their deaths.
That’s what Haegan thought before he jumped.
And he’d been right. If she hadn’t sprinted down . . . Still, he’d been unconscious for so long. Underwater for too long. Would he wake from this nightmare the same person?
What was the explosion that had snapped through the air when he hit the pool? Evaporated water and downed trees?
Chima tilted her left wing down and they glided in a curve.
Thiel tightened her thighs and held on to both beast and Haegan. But he was slipping. Thiel whimpered, weaving her hand under and around his belt as Chima’s angle sharpened. Fighting the tears and panic as Haegan’s legs dangled almost completely straight down, as if he stood on the wind itself, Thiel bent over him, pressed her weight against him.
“Chima!” she shouted.
The raqine sensed Thiel’s terror and adjusted her flight pattern. She aimed down now, slowly closing the distance between them and the ground.
Swallowing hard, Thiel rested her face against Chima’s neck, which also helped shield her a little against the wind. Even as she protected Haegan and rested, she could not shake the image him falling. Of him lying there . . . dead. Of that explosion that rendered everyone unconscious.
So like the burst of light that killed the Ematahri.
But those in the clearing by the Falls hadn’t died. The Ematahri had. Why? She glanced down at Haegan, at the sunlight glinting off the gold strands of his blond hair as the wind riffled its ardent fingers through it. What . . . what was he?
Many times he’d vowed he wasn’t an accelerant, that the gift hadn’t passed to him. But there could be no denying the events that took place with him at the center. Was he a danger? Was she bringing a danger home to Ybienn?
She lifted her head, watching the treetops. The clearings. What would Father say? He’d likely have her arrested. And . . . Mother. Her stomach churned. Her mother would want her to stay, but it could not be. Cheek against Chima, she again considered Haegan. Would Father have him killed? The son of the one man he hated most in the world. And she was bringing him to their doorstep.
But even her father would not dare harm the Fire King’s son. Right?
Over Chima’s shoulder, she glimpsed Nivar Hold coming into view, fear her newest and closest friend. As a low, chortling noise rippled through Chima—her call to the others in her pack, at least, that’s what Osmon told her—Thiel noticed the trees rustling. Hard. Swaying.
Had there been yet another snap of air like what happened with Haegan at the Falls?
She frowned, squinting.
Then saw them.
Her breath backed into her throat as she realized it wasn’t air rustling the trees, but Unauri. She sat a little straighter to look as Chima glided over their heads. The Unauri, at least a dozen of them, stood at the lip of the forest. Had they not been giants, she would have missed them. They stood two to three heads taller than her father. And they were watching. Watching her. Their firsts raised in solemn salute.
“Blazes,” she whispered, a tremor of awe filling her. The Unauri had not left the safety of the Ice Mountains in . . . centuries.
Chima began her steep descent. Circling. Angling. Down . . . down.
Thiel struggled to keep her seat and secure Haegan. Why hadn’t they tied him to Chima’s neck? The leather of his belt cut into her arm as they circled, swooping down lower and lower with each circuit. The wind seemed as violent as that which had evaporated water and knocked people senseless. It pulled at her, angry.
Thiel struggled. Dug her fingers into Chima’s fur.
Chima shook her neck and a grumble went through her, but she kept her approach.
Though she fought to maintain her grip, Thiel could not help but gauge their landing spot. The den. Inside the walls of the keep itself. Not the city. Good. They did not need talk or threats. She pressed her head down, determined no one would see her outside those walls.
Yet a half-dozen of her father’s elite fighters lined up around the den, which seemed to be undergoing renovations with the wood piled—wait. Those beams were splintered. Broken. What happened here?
Chima lifted her wings then wrapped them almost in front of her. They hovered directly over the spot in the stable yard.
“Clear a hole,” someone shouted.
As the men moved, Chima chortled as if thanking them, then arced her wings up to ease their landing. Thiel glanced up to make sure she could not be seen outside the walls. Assured of that relative safety, she straightened enough to search the faces around her. As she did, swords were drawn. A perimeter formed, then tightened.
Chima touched down softly, folded her wings, then slumped to the ground.
Shoulders hunched, Thiel tucked her chin, afraid the guard would strike.
“Stand down! Stand down!” Tili sprinted between the guard. Her brother grinned, his eyes alight with wonder. “How did ye summon her?”
“I need help,” Thiel said, not ready for questions to which she had no answers. She lifted the blanket from Haegan’s legs. “He’s been seriously injured. I was told . . . Pao’chk. We need Pao’chk.”
Tili moved to the other side of Chima, who sniffed then snorted at him. “Who is he?” He brushed the hair from Haegan’s face. “I don’t—”
“Please,” she said, a shiver racing through her. “Can we go inside?”
Her brother’s assessing, analyzing eyes struck her. Questions lurked there. Curiosity. A little wariness. Then a nod. “Of course.” He lifted a hand. “Bring him inside to the servants’—”
“The Green Room,” Thiel interjected, hating the idea of Haegan relegated to the servants’ quarters. Their father would not appreciate her giving him their best guest room. But he’d also have heads if someone treated the Fire King’s son so ill.
Tili’s frown was bigger this time as he met her gaze in question. “The Green Room,” he said as the men lifted Haegan from Chima. Holding up a hand to assist her, Tili waited.
Thiel tossed her leg over Chima’s side and slid down without his help.
He grinned. “Still as rebellious and ornery as when ye left, sister?”
She arched an eyebrow at him as he put an arm around her shoulder and guided her toward the house. “More.”
He laughed hard—then stopped short, staring at her. “What ails ye?”
“The Unauri.” She hauled in a breath, the chill of seeing them clinging to her still. “They are amassing on the borders of the forest.”
He nodded.
“I am in earnest. They—”
“Aye, they came down when Chima broke loose this morning. But there’s been no attack nor ambassador to come yet. They just . . . wait.”
She shook her head. “They saluted
me as I flew over. There must have been a dozen.”
Tili weighed her words, his brow stern and a maturity wreathing his face she had not noticed in the forest weeks past. He had grown, as she had, in the years since she’d left. “I will mention it to Father. Come, let’s go to him now.”
Thiel was brought up straight at the sight of their father standing just inside the entrance. Silhouetted by the sun that poured through the Sanctuary-height windows behind him, he stood as still as one of the statues of his forebears that lined the gallery.
Thiel swallowed and lowered her head. “I beg your mercy”—why was it so hard to speak his name?—“… Father.”
He shuddered as he drew in a breath. “Then it is ye, child?”
Hearing the hint of his Northlander brogue snapped something in her. A smile wanted out, but she dared not let him believe she thought light of this. “Aye,” she whispered, her throat raw.
“All these years without a word, without explanation—”
“Father,” Tili started forward.
But their father stilled him with a swift upheld hand. His face unreadable, almost unable to be seen for the light behind him. His beard glittered with gray.
Would he throw her out? Forbid her entrance? Her insides quivered as she bit her lip, itching to speak but terrified at the same time to open her mouth. She had dreaded this day. Feared he would do exactly as he was—
“Who is the boy ye have brought to my home?”
Thiel lowered her chin, too frightened to own up to the truth. “A friend, Father. He is in dire need of a healer. I was told to seek Pao’chk.”
“Pao’chk! He’s as insane as a loon bird.”
“Father, I only—”
“The situation is unusual, Kiethiel. But . . . I will have him brought.” He nodded to Tili. “Take her upstairs and let her bathe and dress. Both of ye in the solar immediately after.” With that, he was gone.
A piece of Thiel shattered. She sagged, both relieved and rejected.
“Yer departure devastated him.”
Thiel jerked at her brother’s words. “Deva—I left to protect him.” She jogged up several steps, feeling the strange squish of water between her frozen toes and socks, trailing her brother out of the servants hall. “To protect our family!”
“Aye,” Tili said, glancing at her without stopping. “But it did all the same. I told ye in the woods ye should’ve sent word that ye were safe.” He stepped onto the third level, the family’s residence.
She brushed her hair off her forehead, swinging around to avoid barreling into him when he slowed. “Had I, he would’ve sent the elite after me.”
Tili shrugged. “I would’ve led the charge. In fact, I did. Every time he sent us.”
Slowing, Thiel placed a hand over her stomach. “He—he sent you?”
“Every six months.” Tili strode over the worn carpet toward the chamber that had once been hers.
She stared at the richly carved door, the symbols ascribed to her when she had been born. The dove for peace. The entwined rope, the symbol of her parents’ lines. The crown resting atop the head of a raqine. Peace. Power. Prowess.
Petulant had been more like it.
“May and true, he was probably more happy to have ye out of his hair than he was anxious to search for me.”
Tili rounded on her. He frowned. Deep and true. “Thiel, have ye no inkling of the hurt ye’ve inflicted on our father? Our mother?” He placed a hand over his chest. “Me?”
She laughed. “Ye?” With a snort, she started for the door. “Mother will take a strap to ye for so many lies in the space of an hour.”
He stepped into her path, nearly causing her to collide with his broad chest and leather vest. “Sister.” He rested his hand on top of her head. “When ye fled, all joy went with ye.”
She swallowed, her voice and courage losing potency. “Please . . . I . . . it had to be done. I had to protect our father.” She raised her eyes to the thick beams, richly embroidered tapestries, expensive paintings.
“Ye forget yerself, Kiethiel. That is our charge, as men of Nivar Hold.” His brown eyes reflected the light slinking through the windows above as he looked to the barracks for their soldiers. “For those who have taken an oath to defend Ybienn and the Northlands.”
“No man could undo what was done to me, and that shame—”
“Ye told me yer reasons in the woods outside Luxlirien.” He leaned past her and flicked open the door to her old chambers. “As ye left it.” His lips quirked. “I would imagine the dresses might be a bit . . . short now.” He wrinkled his nose as his gaze swept over her in a brotherly, amused fashion. “But you’re still skinny enough to fit otherwise.”
She would have slapped him had the sight of her old room not struck her dumb. She wandered in, as if seeing for the first time. May and true—she was. After her return here from the raiders, she’d hated this room. The frills. The floral papers on the wall. The . . . happiness of it all.
Now, having slept for years on the hard earth or on a pallet, it was hard to fathom the luxury of the feather bed. The thick fabric curtaining the bed to keep out the cold out. The hearth where a perpetual fire burned to ward off the chill of the mountains. The wall of windows draped in sheer fabric that had been hand embroidered with gold raqines, wings outstretched.
At the dressing table, she lightly touched the hairbrush. Instinctively, her other hand went to her shorn crop. It’d grown out, but it wasn’t much longer than Laertes’ now. A short haircut had served her well while ducking through alleys and fields, but here . . .
“It will grow.” The voice, so warm and familiar, poured over her like a healing balm.
She whirled and found her mother standing in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her, doing nothing to stop the tears that spilled down her cheeks. Lavender. She knew her mother would be wearing lavender. The edges of her flared sleeves were trimmed in a gold brocade that draped almost to the floor. A choker at her neck bore the wrought symbol of the Asykthian crest and beaded down to where the Abiassa twists dangled in gold.
“Mother.” Every ache, every hurt from the last four years leaked out of Thiel. She wanted to rush to her, but she thought of Tili’s words. Of how she’d hurt their father. She could only imagine the wound much worse in her mother. She dropped her gaze. “Mercy . . .” There were no words that would heal what she had done.
“My darling girl.” Her mother rushed toward her.
Thiel met her on the thick rug, throwing her arms around the diminutive waist. She clung for life to her mother, terrified she’d toss her away. Make her leave. “I beg your mercy, Mother. I didn’t want to leave. But I—”
“Shh,” she said through her tears. Cupping her face, she smiled down at Thiel. “Please tell me you are here to stay. That I will not have to bear your absence again.”
“My shame—”
Her mother pressed an adorned finger to her lips. “There is no shame that our Lady cannot wipe away. You are restored to the seat of honor the daughter of Thurig possesses.” She smiled at her. “My beautiful, darling girl.” She kissed her, hugging her tightly, then stepped apart. “You must hurry. Your father was in rage over the boy you brought.” Curiosity danced in her eyes. “Tarien will dress ye.”
Dress me? Thiel only then noticed the servant moving about the room as she and her mother had spoken. She drew a green and gold dress out and hung it from the bedpost. “It’s too . . .” Extravagant. Fancy. Bold. Everything.
“You’re going before your father,” her mother said. “You would do well to make this impression a strong one.” She cupped her face and kissed her, once more staring hard into her eyes. “We will have many talks, you and I. For now, bathe. Dress.” She looked over her shoulder to Tarien. “See if you can hide the bruise and cut.” She hesitated, glanced at Thiel again. “On second thought, leave them.”
Thiel gave her mother a questioning glance.
“He no doubt saw them already,” her moth
er said. “Besides, they might give him pause for concern about your safety.” She winked. “That will bode well in tempering his anger over this boy.”
The boy. Haegan! “Mother, he—my friend needs a healer. I was told to ask for—”
“Pao’chk.” She lifted her chin. “He has been sent for, although, it shocks me. Your father and he fell out years ago.” She arched a fine eyebrow. “Which I’m sure adds to your father’s anger.” After another kiss, her mother stepped out, then turned back with a smile. “Osmon will escort you.”
Osmon. Younger than her by two years, her little brother had never had an interest in her but every interest in shadowing—and annoying—Tili and Relig.
“We should hurry, mistress,” Tarien said as she poured steaming pitchers into a basin behind a curtain.
She went through the motions, numb and distracted over the anger she had already aroused in her father. It would be imperative to tread softly in revealing Haegan’s identity. Her greatest fear was that her father would rebuke them and remove them from the hold altogether. What would she do then?
Whatever it took. Haegan’s life was in her hands. And while Sir Gwogh said those words, his gray eyes had sparked with a warning somehow.
“It’s a bit loose, but I can pinch it in,” Tarien said. “I’m sure once ye have a good meal and rest, ye’ll fatten right up.”
Thiel wanted to laugh. Fat was the last thing she wanted attributed to her. She smoothed her hand over the velvety fabric. Crystals wrapped her waist and dangled down like sparkling tassels. Her sleeves were cuffed at her elbow, then flared out with a sheer fabric. She felt beautiful. New. Restored.
Until she looked in the reflecting glass. “My hair . . .” She might have a new dress and fine adornments, but the hair would betray her.
“Not to worry, miss,” Tarien said as she stretched a cream-colored fabric over her head, placed a simple circlet on it, then secured the fabric at the nape of her neck. As such, her hair—or lack thereof—was not visible. Thiel breathed a smile, turning her head as she stared back at her reflection.
Tarien slipped a choker around her neck. “Almost—”