Embers

by Ronie Kendig

  “Bond? How?”

  “Unknown. Chima accepted no human—”

  “Except me,” Thiel said.

  “Barely,” Tili countered. “She tolerated ye. I remember many rides she pitched ye. Thankfully within a decent range of the ground.” He rubbed a hand along the back of his head. “When she spirited out of here, then returned with Kiethiel and ye . . .”

  “Me?” Haegan looked between the brother and sister, unsure whether to believe this tale or not. Tili had already played him the fool about the existence of raqines. “In earnest?”

  “Quite,” Thiel said. “We thought ye were lost at the Falls. We weren’t sure how we’d get ye out of there because of the Jujak. Then Chima just showed up.”

  “I don’t understand.” Haegan shook his head. “Why—how?”

  Tili slapped his shoulder. “That’s what we’d like to know.” He pointed to the chair and righted it. “Now, we should get back to that room before Pao’chk takes off my head or poisons my grog.”

  “I’d like to walk back, if I can make it.”

  “Would you escort me back to my house, Prince Haegan?” Playing coy didn’t suit Thiel, but right now, Haegan was grateful for her offer. When she slipped her arm into the crook of his elbow, it was not for propriety but a surreptitious effort to help him preserve his dignity. Her way of allowing him to lean on her a little.

  “It would be my honor.”

  “Yer bloody right it’s yer honor,” Tili muttered. “Just keep those hands where I can see them.” He pointed to Haegan as he guided the chair back to the house. “Remember, she has three well-muscled brothers and a burly father who could inflict heinous injury upon yer person.”

  “Beg off, Tili!” Her laughter—he really liked the sound of her laughter. Not a nasally cackle, but a light, almost melodious one. And her accent. She’d fallen back to the patterns of her homeland since she’d been here. He found it endearing.

  Blazes. He must’ve been struck hard in the head in the waterfall. “What do you remember?”

  “Sorry?” Thiel looked at him, holding her skirts with one hand as they made their way over the field. “Remember of what?”

  “The Falls. When I jumped?”

  “Terrific panic watching ye plummet.”

  “And when I hit?”

  “I’ll have to beg your mercy,” she said softly. “Drracien somehow predicted what would happen and threw us behind that enormous stone wall. It protected us.”

  “From what?”

  “The blast.”

  “What blast?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Perhaps that is the wrong word. It was like”—she shook her head, her gaze shifting from the ground to the impressive home—“Words fail me. It was as if someone had snapped a bowstring, but with light. Or heat.” Brown eyes rose to his, delicately lined with concern. “Do ye not remember?”

  “No.”

  “Gwogh said you would remember—that you must.”

  For her, he wanted to remember. “In truth, my main concern is getting home to Kaelyria.” He did not want to weight their conversation, but the urgency had been with him since first waking. “She ordered me to the Falls. Now I must return home to find out how she fares and face my father.”

  Something about that terrified Thiel. He saw it in her eyes. “You’re too weak still, Haegan. Even Gwogh said so this morning.”

  “I cannot remain here. I must—”

  “The ball.” She stepped in front of him and placed a hand on his chest. His pulse spiked. “Wait until after the ball. Then go.”

  It was hard to think past the warmth of her fingers over his heart. In that moment he realized something terrifying—he would do anything for Thiel. But Kae . . .

  A cleared throat made both of them jerk.

  Her brother quirked an eyebrow and looked to Thiel’s hand on his chest. She drew in a quick breath and removed it.

  Brains. Think. Talk. “What ball?”

  “Father is holding a celebration for my return.”

  “Then you will stay.” He’d woken with some crazy hope that she would leave with him. It didn’t make sense. She was Asykthian. He was the Seultrian. Their fathers hated each other. And her brother could not stand him.

  She took his arm and drew him toward the house, her chin tucked. “I think I must, Hae”—her gaze went to her brother, who shared a sidelong glance that severed Haegan’s name from her tongue. “At least for now.”

  But in truth, what would draw her away? This was her home, her family. She’d been gone for four years. Surely they wanted her to remain as much as she needed the stability. “Of course.” His voice pitched. “I understand.”

  They made their way across the pavers to the double doors. She continued, “And I think ye must stay as well. Perhaps we will hear from the messenger Father dispatched to your”—her gaze hit her brother once more—“the Fire King. I’m certain a good word will soon be yours.”

  Tili escorted them into the house. When they reached the stairs, Haegan stared up the expanse and suddenly had no energy. Defeat seemed to be his only friend.

  “Prince Haegan,” Tili said. “I am under orders to deliver ye to your room in one piece. Might I suggest ye take the chair and let me live a little longer?”

  His tongue-in-cheek remark saved Haegan’s pride. “On one condition.”

  Tili’s amusement vanished, probably at being challenged.

  “That you no longer call me prince.”

  “As ye wish,” Tili said, his expression and tone flat.

  Deflating and—once more—defeated—Haegan lowered himself to the chair.

  “I beg yer pardon,” Thiel said and bent to him. “But I must see to the others.”

  “Laertes and Praegur!” An infusion of joy leapt through him as her brother eased his chair quite gently up a couple of steps. “Could you bring them to me?”

  “Of course.” She started away, her gown flowing gracefully. She was every bit the princess.

  The thought sent heat through his chest. Haegan’s heart thudded. “Thiel!”

  She spun around, her hem swirling about her legs.

  “The ball.”

  She waited, a hand going to her stomach.

  “Do you have an escort?”

  Crack! Teeth clacking, Haegan grunted. Pain spirited through his head and neck when it smacked the chair after a particularly hard jolt against the steps.

  “Mercy,” Tili said through gritted teeth.

  Thud.

  “Tili,” Thiel hissed. “Give care.”

  “They are stairs, dear sister.” Thud! “Marble stairs.”

  She glared, but then smiled at Haegan. “I would be honored to have ye as my escort, good sir.”

  He was grinning like a fool and didn’t care.

  Crack! Thud!

  48

  “I would have answers!” His own voice bounced back to him, startling Haegan. He twisted away from Gwogh and Pao’chk, who stood to the side. “You promised me answers, Gwogh.”

  “It is imperative,” Gwogh spoke softly and slowly, “that you give yourself time to heal.”

  “I am healed!” He faced them, frustration fitting tighter than a glove. “It has been nearly three weeks since the Kindling.”

  “Yes. Three weeks since you were completely debilitated,” Gwogh reminded him. “Healing is not only in the body, my prince, but in the mind.”

  Shoving his hand through his hair, Haegan scoffed. “Now you suggest I am addled.”

  “No,” Gwogh said firmly. “But your view of the Nine . . . has it not changed?”

  Pacing did little to help his frustration or chase the prevalent chill from his bones, but it did alleviate the itch within him to be doing something. Anything. “Of course it has changed. There are raqine!”

  Disappointment filled Gwogh’s face.

  “I know what you meant, old friend.” Haegan went out onto the balcony and stared across the great fortress wall to the mountain that breathed its
eternally cold breath on Ybienn. And to his left, the forest. “My view of the world has expanded. I’ve encountered Ematahri, Iteverians, Jujak, Ignatieri . . . and many people much oppressed.”

  “And of yourself, my lord?” As his old tutor joined Haegan, an icy breeze teased the man’s graying beard.

  Haegan glanced at Gwogh, who was nodding to Pao’chk inside the room. “Myself?”

  “Has your view of yourself changed?”

  Haegan frowned. “You confuse me.”

  “As I attended and tutored you, there lay a young lad not simply paralyzed in his body, but in his mind, his confidence.” Gwogh lifted his wide shoulders. “Now stands before me a man who leapt to almost-certain death for the love of another.”

  Haegan traced the Cold One’s Tooth, its tip perpetually dipped in snow. “I know not what I think of myself.” He leaned his elbows on the balustrade and sighed. “These last two months have tormented me. Once paralyzed, I find myself freed but a fugitive of the father by whom I only wanted to be loved. Running through the sewers, I discover friends. Some of the truest people I have known. Then I am chased, captured, and beaten by my father’s own men.” He looked to Gwogh. “I don’t know who I am. Or what purpose in this great jest I have. It feels . . . futile. Foolish.”

  Gwogh’s low, deep chuckle rippled through the air. “I would give care calling the way of Abiassa foolish.”

  “The way of Abiassa?” Haegan yanked around and sat against the rail, folding his arms. “This . . . this journey cannot be of Her hand.”

  “And what convinces you of that?”

  Shoulders hunched, Haegan shook his head. “First of all, it began with something forbidden to Her people.”

  “Mm, the transference.”

  “Yes! Then the struggle, the futility—it has felt hopeless since I left the keep. And now, when our goal may have been accomplished, I cannot return to Kaelyria to ascertain if her plan worked. If she is free of this spectacular insanity.”

  Gwogh’s brow furrowed. “What plan, my—”

  Pao’chk interrupted. “It’s time, Gwogh.” Another shape emerged behind the old healer.

  “Drracien.” Haegan frowned. “What is this?”

  “Time for those answers.” Gwogh stroked his long beard, nodding. “But they may not be the answers you hoped for.”

  “Cryptic as ever.”

  “These truths I share,” Gwogh began gravely, “they will change your view of yourself, so resolutely that I fear you may lose yourself.”

  “Lose myself?” Haegan snorted. “Think you I have any element of myself left after these last months?”

  “Let’s go inside.” Gwogh’s stooped shoulders bent as he returned to Haegan’s chambers.

  Haegan entered behind him and came up sharp, his heart thudding. The room was filled with people wearing the Ignatieri tri-tipped flame on their simple black robes. They were of varying ages and heights, but their severity was unanimous.

  Drracien remained quietly at Haegan’s side.

  “The Council of Nine,” Gwogh said, sweeping a hand around the room. “For what will happen here, they must be present.”

  The Council of Nine. Gwogh had told him many times that nobody ever saw them. They convened in private. Guided the Nine from the heights, overseeing the Fire King and the grand marshal with equal authority. What then was this that they would converge on him? “Why? What is happening?” the question croaked out of Haegan, betraying his churning stomach. “Do they believe I hurt my sister? Is that what this is about—punishment?”

  “My lord prince,” the lone woman said with a smile that barely made it past her thin lips. “You needn’t be afraid of us. We are here as your allies.”

  “Allies.” Then why did he feel like their prey?

  “We’re frightening him,” a taller, darker man with black hair said. “Kedulcya does well to encourage him, but we should just get to the meat of this.”

  “Well said, Kelviel.” Gwogh pointed his pipe to the other graybeard. “Aoald is the eldest, next to me. He is most versed in the Parchments. I would have him lead, if you do not mind, my lord prince.”

  Mind? Haegan had only one mind—to run. Flee this council. Then Gwogh went down the line and introduced them with a mind-blurring list of names and provinces they represented.

  “Please—sit,” Gwogh said.

  Haegan tucked himself onto a chair, facing the crowd as the seven men and one woman assumed seats, Gwogh to his right. Drracien stood to the side, silent, still. Shaken, Haegan pushed back against the embroidered cushion, bracing himself.

  “Aoald, if you will.” Gwogh crossed his legs and lifted his pipe.

  With a slow exhale, the gray-haired accelerant drew a large book from a black velvet pouch. He moved his chair closer to the fire and sat, opening the book.

  Haegan squirmed, feeling as if he were on trial. Was he? “Are those Parchments?”

  “Indeed,” Aoald said. “They’ve been in my safe keeping these hundred years.”

  Haegan blinked, wondering if he’d heard right.

  “We should hurry,” Kelviel said.

  “Indeed.” Aoald flipped to nearly the end. Clearing his throat, he lowered his gaze to the page.

  “In the days of the Flames and fires, they will have ears but not hear.

  In the days of the Flames and fires, they will have eyes but not see.

  In the days of the Flames and fires, they will have mouths but not speak.

  For in the days of the Flames and fires, they will have guidance but lose their way, ignorance clinging to them like the mists of morning. Their hearts, though once loyal and true, have grown calloused and cold in the soft grasses of the Lakes of Fire.”

  Soft grass? There was no grass and nothing soft near the lakes.

  “How broken lies the city of Abiassa. How shattered the ice on the mountains! How barren the fields of Iteveria. How thirsty the Violet Seas. Her children have abandoned the keep. The fiery lakes cry out. Her foes are her masters now. Her enemies are satisfied, their coffers fattened with the blood of the chosen. Devastated, she stands watch, hearts and minds plying against her truth. Her heart rent, she prowls the land for a warrior, one to wield the—

  Aoald paused and looked up, squinting at the others. “We do not have a word for this one—the he-ahwl abiałassø.”

  “Ah, yes,” the youngest of the group said. “In the original tongue it referred to something a thousand times more powerful than the Flames.”

  “The Flames?” Haegan heard the disbelief in his voice and didn’t care. “You mean, something greater than the wielding? That’s impossible!”

  “Far more powerful, and quite possible with Abiassa,” Gwogh said, stuffing his long pipe, which he then pointed at the accelerant. “Continue.”

  Drracien shared a look with Haegan, a look whose meaning remained hidden.

  Aoald nodded. “Right. Uh . . .” His finger traced the lines. “… he-ahwl abiałassø. Arise, Fhurïætyr, arise!”

  Fhurïætyr . . . why was that so familiar to Haegan? He could hear it, like a hollow echo in his brain. A heat in his chest. Agony in his back. He shifted in the seat, trying to wade through the thick confusion.

  “Who can stand against Abiassa’s Fhurïætyr? The armies will be at his back. The enemy before him. All will meet his fiery judgment and succumb.

  Answer his call, Thræïho. Let your mighty hand wield his scythe. Strike down every adversary.

  Defend him, Deh’læfhïer. Let not his blood be spilled or you will surrender your life.

  The chïphlïæng will be his emissaries, delivering death to those who oppose the Fhurïætyr.

  In the day of Rïætyr, none will remain beside him. None will prevail against her champion. Arise, Fhurïætyr!”

  Hands moving over the pages, lifting corners, Aoald sighed heavily. “It goes on in more detail about the destruction—”

  “That is enough for now.” Gwogh took a long drag of his pipe, squinting at Haegan throu
gh the ensuing smoke puffs. “What are your thoughts?”

  Though it was impolite, Haegan laughed. “About what? The destruction of our world?” It was hard to take in, the promise of death to all. The rise of some ferocious “champion” who would raze the world and kill every living thing.

  “Arise, Fhurïætyr!” Gwogh’s deep voice boomed across the room. “Do you know the meaning of that?”

  Haegan shrugged, hating these question-and-answer sessions. Especially with a weighty matter like the world’s destruction. And in front of the Council of Nine—though, there were only eight of them.

  “It is the Fierian.”

  Haegan shook himself. “The Fie—” His mouth went dry. “That . . . he’s a myth!”

  “So you also thought of the raqines until a few days ago.”

  “That’s different!”

  “How?”

  He couldn’t explain it. Anger crept along his shoulders, tightening his throat. “Look, you said I would have the truth. What games are you playing? Give me—”

  “There.” Gwogh stabbed his pipe at the Parchments Aoald held. “There is your truth, Prince Haegan. This is what I promised.”

  Hands held out, Haegan scowled. “How is that the truth you promised? Truth, certainly. I would never speak against Abiassa, but what has this to do with me?”

  “I think it is time you spoke, Drracien.”

  Startled, Haegan turned to his friend. “Why? What has he to say?”

  Running his hands along his pants, Drracien wet his lips. “Do you remember when we were in Hetaera?”

  “I remember when I was in Hetaera—where you were, I know not.”

  Drracien’s gaze narrowed. “What happened to the people pursuing you was not done by someone tracking you. They were all marked—by a Deliverer.”

  Haegan paled.

  As if reading his thoughts, Drracien explained, “Marked for death. Not like you or Praegur.”

  The woman lifted a finger. “The first sign!”

  Pointing to the Parchments, Aoald indicated a word, but Haegan refused to get any closer. “Here. Deh’læfhïer.”

  Haegan swallowed.

  “It means ‘Deliverer’ in the ancient tongue.” Kedulcya nodded to Haegan. “Your friend says you bear the same mark found on the bodies of the Jujak who tried to stop you in Hetaera.”