Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  “Prince of Seultrie, waste not your breath on the dead.”

  “He’s not dead!”

  “He is! I snuffed out his pitiful life,” Poired shouted as he walked through flame and smoke to stand over Haegan. His shoulders were unnaturally large. His hand massive as waves of heat roiled over his frame.

  “No! I will not—”

  Laughter punched through the firestorm. “You?” He took a step forward, his boot pounding against the crumbling floor that alone prevented Haegan from falling to his death. Another step. “You think you have the power?” Another.

  The floor canted. Poired, caring not for the danger he caused, screwed his lips tight, drew his hand to his side, fingers gnarled as if he held an orb, then thrust them forward. “A gift, Prince!”

  Daggers of heat and lightning shot out.

  Haegan shouted and threw up his arm, ready to fight. Duel as King Thurig had taught him.

  Blue tendrils of light—intense, white-hot fire—snaked around his wrists. Coiled. Constricted. Sizzled. Dug into Haegan’s flesh with a searing bite.

  “Augh!” Haegan pitched himself back. Anger sprang through his chest. He hopped to his feet. He flung out a volley of white-hot fire, but this time, it was swallowed, not by fire or smoke. But by Poired’s cruel, insidious laughter.

  “Yes!” Poired shouted with a laugh. “Yes! Feed me your anger. Taste it, Princeling.”

  Gritting his teeth, Haegan crossed hands over his chest. Stomped his feet out, shoulder-width apart.

  “Haegan!” a shout snapped through the void.

  Startled, confused, Haegan glanced around, but he saw only a curtain of fire.

  “You are weak just like your father!”

  “Haegan, no!” came that voice again. “Haegan—please, listen.”

  “You will not distract me with the taunts. I will destroy you, Poired!”

  “Haegan. Son!”

  The word resonated like a brass gong in his head. Haegan stumbled. The stone floor beneath him shifted. Wobbled. He flung out his hands to catch his balance, and he saw his father standing to the side. Reaching to him. “Father!”

  Flames stabbed through the mortar in the floor. Giant stones fell away. Feeling the greedy pull of gravity, Haegan threw himself back. Now a great black chasm separated them. His father teetered on a lone shard that stood precariously. Defiantly.

  “Father,” he breathed. Gauged the distance.

  Just as the words were spoken, the shard holding his father shuddered. His father’s eyes went wide. The tower fell. His father faded long into the dark crevasse of death. “Haaeeggaannn!”

  “No!” Haegan lunged upright. His own shout echoed in his ears as he sought his bearings with a frantic desperation. Cold. Perilously cold. Stone.

  Ice Mountain.

  Breaths came in heaving clumps as he stared around the semi-­darkened room, the only light emanating from the passage. Tangled in his sweaty tunic, he fought the pelts. Shoved them aside as a gargled cry climbed his throat. Father! He threw his legs over the side of the dais and bent forward, gripping his head in his hands. Heart ramming louder than drums, he labored through another few breaths.

  That dream . . .

  “Father,” he whispered. His father was dead. Seultrie taken. And there was nothing he could do. Grief wrapped him tight, suffocating.

  Snatches, glimpses of the nightmare sparked at him. Poired’s laugh—would that torment exist to his last breath? Would he never escape it?

  And mother—she hadn’t even been in the dream.

  Kaelyria. Why wasn’t she in the dream either? He’d failed her the most. By the Flames, he’d tried. Fough with desperation and earnestness. And the Deliverers had stopped him. He fought them, as well. And they punished him.

  The wake of a fiery heat rose in him. He pressed his bandaged hands to his eyes, as if he could push away the images. Was it better that he sat captive in the mountains, unable to do more damage? Now, Grinda and the other generals could lead the way a true army should be led.

  Like an icy bath, Haegan had a sudden, sharp awareness he was not alone. He lifted his head and jerked.

  No more than twelve cycles, a petite girl stood before him. Her hands were clasped in front, and her earthy brown eyes sparkled with pleasure. In traditional Eilidan garb of a long tunic and leather cloak to ward off the cold, she also wore leather trousers, secured with shin guards that bled into boots.

  His gaze hit the iron gate, securely locked. How had he not heard her enter?

  “Replenishment,” she said, her voice soft as she motioned to a cup and bowl on a serving table.

  “Who are you?” It did not matter, in truth. She was a servant. “How did you get in here?”

  “The same way ye got in here,” she said, a hint of laughter in her words.

  Even children mocked him. Haegan looked away.

  The dream . . . He remembered Poired’s attack bolts coiling around his wrist. He turned his hand over and glanced at the bandages that still covered them. He’d been told it was best for them to remain on.

  But why? He felt no pain.

  “Some wounds cannot be seen.”

  At the girl’s words, Haegan glared at her. Didn’t she have work to do? Somewhere better to be than here, annoying him? “Shouldn’t you be . . . cooking or something?”

  “Oh, that’s not for me to do.”

  Her words pinged across his mind, an echo of the Deliverer’s on the bridge. And still she remained, staring. “Am I holding you back?”

  “Of a sort.” Her smile glowed. In fact, all of her seemed to glow. As if she enjoyed the irritation she created.

  “What is your purpose?”

  “Ye.” She gave him a look as if to say her purpose was obvious, that he must have slugs for brains.

  His gaze hit the food tray. “You want me to eat what you’ve served, so you can leave?”

  “I want ye to take what I served so ye can be replenished.”

  With a huff, Haegan stood and went to the table, the torment of the nightmare howling through his mind still. He stared at the tray, disappointed with the offerings. A chunk of bread. A small bowl of some brown broth with specks of gray and orange. Beside them, tin cup of something . . . gray.

  “Sometimes, despite the purpose or benefit, what is laid before us is less appetizing than the feast we’d imagined.”

  “Truer words were never spoken.” Haegan lifted the bread, but suddenly had no appetite. “I think I’ll just rest.”

  “Afraid not.”

  Haegan spun around, surprised to find the cacique there, the giant behind him and the heavy gate open. “I would talk to you.”

  Amusement skittered across the cacique’s face. “Of what?”

  Haegan turned away with a long sigh, his mind stuck in the crumbling tower. The raging inferno. His father’s shouts. It meant but one thing—there was no king on the Fire Throne. His people were leaderless. “I must leave the mountain.”

  The cacique laughed. “Ask again when ye can say it like ye mean it.”

  “Sir, you mistake me. I—”

  “Come,” the cacique said, angling to the side and heading back down the passage, the hounds rushing ahead of him. Always on point. The giant took his position again, and the girl . . . she must have slipped out.

  Haegan hesitated. “Sir—”

  The cacique turned back. “I am Aselan. And ye said ye wanted to talk.” He bobbed his head down the passage.

  Annoyance battled his desperate need to do something. But what? His father was already dead. Poired had taken Seultrie. “Why must my hands be bandaged?”

  “Legier’s bite,” Aselan said as they took to stairs hewn through the mountain and passages so narrow, Haegan’s shoulders scraped several times. “Happens to those who play in the snow too long.”

  “You speak of frostbite?”

  “Aye,” Aselan said with a chuckle.

  “But my fingers—”

  “I have no answer for that
, youngling. Damage to yer palms was moderate, but how ye did not lose fingers . . .” He shrugged and led him down a wider passage. At the end, he motioned him into a room.

  Haegan stepped in, surprised at how it opened, allowing him to breathe a little easier. Several curtained bays waited, a few of them occupied with sleeping patients.

  “Hoeff,” Aselan called as he approached the broad-shouldered man.

  Haegan hesitated, only then recognizing the oversized man, this one the mirror of his guard. “Two?”

  “Twins,” Aselan acknowledged. “Rare among the Drigo.”

  “Prince as’Tili called them Unauri, as did King Thurig.”

  With a snort, Aselan guided him onto a dais, raised higher than his bed in the cave they’d placed him in. “The Asykthians use terms that make them feel better and smarter. Unauri—‘men grown too tall,’ they say. But Drigo all the same.”

  It explained much. Even as he accepted the words, a thought intruded. “Sir, I must beg to leave at once.”

  “Why is that, Haegan of Seultrie?”

  “I must return to Ybienn. The Valor Guard are waiting for my return.”

  “To what end?” The cacique stood with his arms folded again. Was it to make himself look larger, more intimidating the way a cat does, or the way a dog’s hackles raise? “Ye said yer father is dead, that Dyrth took Seultrie. What are ye to do?”

  Haegan’s agitation grew as the giant drew up a stool beside him with a tent-like contraption, which had a tiny slit that he slid Haegan’s hand through.

  “Often, Legier’s bite is upsetting to see. Hoeff uses the scaffolding to hide his work. What ye cannot see does not sicken ye.”

  “But there is no pain,” Haegan restated his earlier thought.

  “Because Hoeff is a masterful healer.” Aselan arched an eyebrow. “That is his gift from Abiassa. Now—why are ye so anxious to leave the Heart?”

  Haegan jerked his hand back. “I must return to lead the battle.”

  The cacique started, but then laughed. “Ye?” He wiped the corner of his eye. “Youngling, ye could not even anticipate my men on the mountain. How are ye to defeat one as powerful as Dyrth?”

  Haegan glanced at his unbound hand. His uninjured hand. “There’s no mark.”

  8

  Legier’s Heart, Northlands

  Would the prince ever come out with it? The truth. That he could wield? It was a story worth hearing, Aselan was certain. For it was said the prince was crippled, yet he was not. That he had no gifts, but he did.

  And now, his parents were dead and his sister—healing, somewhat. But without the sangeen herb that somehow quieted the ability of the accelerant to draw on the embers, Legier’s Heart stood at risk. “The healing is not complete.”

  Haegan held up his hand. “Not a single mark.” He turned it over.

  “Germs do not need to be seen to cause damage.” Aselan nodded, a knot forming in his gut. “Please—allow Hoeff to finish his ministrations.”

  “But I’m fine.”

  “Did ye know that to a Drigo, not fully healing a patient is akin to murdering them?” When the boy looked askance at the giant, Aselan pressed on. “Ye would not put that guilt on such a gentle soul as Hoeff, would ye?”

  Haegan surrendered his hand.

  Once his hands and wielding were secured again, Aselan guided him back to his holding cell. Sikir ambled up for an ear rub and Aselan obliged, his eyes on Haegan’s back. The more he watched this young prince, the more certain he became that there were things far greater than wielding he concealed. “What secrets are ye holding, Prince Haegan?”

  The muscles in Haegan’s neck contracted as he swallowed. “Secrets?”

  Shaking his head, Aselan almost smiled behind the prince’s back. The boy had a lot to learn about lying. “We all hold them, but yers hang as stone lights around yer neck, both weighting ye and revealing ye.” They entered the temporary cave where Toeff waited. “Ye are acknowledged, Toeff.”

  When the Drigo returned to his seat, Haegan remained standing.

  “I would have the truth, since ye are among my people.”

  “But they aren’t your people, are they?”

  Aselan arched an eyebrow.

  Haegan knocked his hands, the bandages clearly awkward and annoying. “When you’re crippled for ten years and nobody wants to acknowledge you exist, and you have the great honor of an aged accelerant as your guardian and tutor . . .”

  “Sigils and Histories.”

  “Until my eyes bled.” Haegan gave a soft snort. “I noticed the Ybiennese sigil on your ring.”

  Stroking Sikir, Aselan wished he’d discarded the piece long ago. He was not interested in playing games. “Ye said they are not my people, but ye are wrong. The Heart has been my home for more than ten cycles. I am their cacique.”

  “Would you trust them before your blood?”

  Aselan lowered his head. “My blood betrayed me,” he said, his words tinged with the pain of that memory, though he tried to hide it. “So, yes, Prince.” He nodded. “Before my blood.”

  “Does your family know you’re alive?”

  Aselan rubbed Sikir’s velvety ear. “Ye ask that as if it would make a difference.” He shook his head. “They know, Prince. They’ve always known.”

  The prince paled.

  “Ye were abandoned to a tower by yer blood, yet ye are surprised at my answers.”

  Haegan lowered his curly-haired head. “It is true. I was left there. My father rarely visited.”

  “Yet there is fondness in yer words.” Aselan squinted, wondering. Were these lies? Had the prince lied his way into the Heart?

  “When I returned to Seultrie—”

  “On a raqine,” Aselan injected, not willing to pass up the chance to taunt the boy.

  Haegan’s lips pressed together. “Aye.” His gaze hopped around. “I had a confrontation with my father.”

  Aselan had had a few of those with his own father.

  “He blamed me.”

  “For?”

  “The Transference. He believed I was angry over his negligence, accused me of stealing her gifts.”

  “Yet ye are fond of him?”

  Haegan swallowed and looked away.

  “Ah,” Aselan shook a finger at him. “There is that secret ye hide.”

  Haegan went still.

  On his feet, Aselan stared down at him. “Shelter and food ye will have, but not much else till ye reveal what ye withhold. Something is missing, something ye are ashamed of, or some criminal act ye committed.” He moved to the door. “Until I am certain my people are safe, ye will remain here.”

  Haegan punched to his feet, eyes ablaze. “I must return to Asykth.” Desperation clung to him like the sweat that rimmed his face when Aselan had found him earlier, staring at the empty serving table.

  “Nobody goes out in the blizzard. I will not risk one of my men escorting ye down—”

  “Then blindfold me,” Haegan pleaded. “Just let me go. Throw me out and let me find my own way.”

  Sikir and Duamauri stood. Hackles rising, they growled at the prince, and he shrank from them.

  Aselan stepped out and secured the iron gate over the cave. “Even I am not as cruel as that.” He turned and nodded to the giant. “Ye are acknowledged, Toeff. Be sure he remains rested and fed—and within this cave.”

  “Of course, Master.”

  Aselan patted his shoulder, then headed down the passage and descended to the lower levels. The mouthwatering aroma of stew and flour cakes rose from the refectory, but he could not shake the conversation with Haegan. More accurately, he couldn’t shed the image of his father, shaking his fist at Aselan. Thundering his order for him to fulfill his duty as heir to Nivar Hold. That his loyalty should be to his blood, not a woman and a savage tribe.

  His mother . . . she’d dared not defy his father, but she had sent him letters. Reported Thiel’s ordeal. Then her absence, upon which he’d had the Legiera scouring the spine for h
er. His mother had a strength not many understood. But he still wished she had stood up to his father. Nobody had.

  In truth, what could be said? They had all turned their backs on him, and the doors to Nivar Hold forever closed as he walked into the Ice Mountains with Doskari.

  “Master?”

  When Duamauri whimpered, Aselan blinked, startled to find himself standing at the door to the princess’s shelter and Hoeff behind him. He ignored the embarrassment and faced the giant. Why had he come here? “How does she fare?”

  Hoeff smiled. “Better.” He motioned into the room. “Marsel stew good for her.”

  Aselan eased aside as the healer trudged past, taking up the entire doorway with his large frame and a steaming bowl. “Stew?” He entered behind the giant. “She’s well enough?”

  Hoeff set the bowl down and shifted aside.

  Aselan’s heart jammed into his throat as ice blue eyes met his. Princess Kaelyria sat propped up, resting against the stone wall beneath a pile of white-gray pelts. Her hair hung in a loose plait across her shoulder. She offered him a slight smile, then looked down.

  “I—I beg yer mercy.” What was he doing here? It is yer duty to be here. To verify her well-being. “I see Hoeff speaks truth—”

  “Hoeff always speak truth,” the giant said, hurt drenching his words.

  “Of course, Hoeff. Ye are acknowledged.” Aselan shook off the near-laugh as he refocused on the princess. “Ye are sitting up.” Concern sped through him. The prince had lied to them then? “I was told ye were paralyzed.”

  “When I left my home, I was. But now . . .” She seemed pleased. With herself or the healer, he couldn’t tell. “It is wonderful and surprising. I have no explanation.”

  “To be sure.” Why was there a chokehold on his throat? “I’m glad to see ye better.”

  The princess tilted her head. “That may be a stretch of the truth, sir, but I do improve.” She looked to the giant. “Thanks to the gentle ministrations of this kind healer.”