by Ronie Kendig
“Ye are not to be among the people, Wegna.”
“Then ye should not bring them to my library.” Wiry white hair stuck out from a black cap that framed a face kindly touched by the years. From beneath an overcloak, she produced another book, partly wrapped in cloth. Smaller, but just as old. She handed it to Haegan, eyes alight.
Haegan shot Aselan a furtive glance.
“She’s old and strange, but—that trust ye spoke of in the passage? She has all mine. Even if the truth is cruel, she will give it to ye.”
“Truth is neither cruel nor kind. Mankind is.”
“See?” Aselan shrugged.
With reluctance, Haegan accepted the bound volume.
Wegna nodded eagerly, pointing to it with apparent glee. “Yes, yes! I knew it.”
Haegan frowned again and met Aselan’s confused expression.
Patting Aselan on the chest, Wegna bounced on her toes. “I told ye, did I not? I told ye that he would come.” She clapped. “Here, of all places—just beyond the Cold One’s Tooth. In Legier’s Heart!” Tears ran down her face as she looked to the ceiling. “Thank ye, Lady, for giving me this great honor to guide yer Fierian.”
13
Castle Karithia, Iteveria
He would drive his dagger through his own neck to end this insipid charade.
“The Infantessa Shavaussia would have you follow her.”
Trale dared to lift his gaze—but just enough to see the Infantessa’s skirt sweeping away. He darted a look to his sister.
Murder glowered in her blue-green eyes.
He sighed and gave her a cockeyed nod that said, what choice did they have? None.
They trailed the Infantessa and her steward out of the receiving room, down a short hall, and through a set of dark wood doors. They stepped into a great glassed-in hall—a solarium.
Heat and humidity immediately pressed their clothes against their skin. Trale felt it more difficult to breathe even as a bead of water slipped down his forehead. He flicked it away, searching the room for the duo.
Astadia gave a grunt, her lip curled as she hefted a suddenly damp skirt. “Madness,” she hissed, turning around, searching for their escorts.
With a thud that rang through the room, but also dropped silent all too quickly, the doors behind them shut.
His sister sucked in a breath. Went as still as a doe. “Trap,” she mouthed.
A flicker of blue caught his eye through a thick tangle of trees and vines that climbed stone pillars carved from the very face of the cliff the palace had been cut into. He touched Astadia’s arm and nodded toward a trellised walkway enmeshed in vines and more flowers. They moved forward slowly, Trale wishing they had not been disarmed before entering the receiving quarters. But they did not need blades to kill.
Trale slowed his heart. Trained his ears to listen. Honed his olfactory senses to take in everything. He’d always had an unusual ability to detect scents. But here, with strange mists and incredible humidity, scents were muddled. And yet . . . stronger.
But it was getting harder to hear.
Astadia flicked him a scowl, apparently noticing the rising din that wasn’t voices or music. “Water,” he whispered as they stepped through a final arch.
The Infantessa stood beneath a glass wall that broke the path of the waterfall, the Nydessan waters crashing and splitting right and left into the pool below. She was alone, hands clasped before her, blue skirts splotched to a darker blue where water had splashed them. Her face glistened.
Trale yanked his gaze away, but no blow came.
“Come.” Her voice sounded distant, but he knew it was the roar of the falls. “Closer!”
Gaze down, Trale moved toward her, wondering where her mouthpiece, Steward Roberts, had gone. Whatever she would ask them, she clearly did not want it to come back to her. He understood. She was powerful. Some might think her weak for not ending her enemies at her own hand, but not Trale. A strong person knew how to delegate.
“Please.” The Infantessa’s voice strained against the din. “I would have your gazes as we talk.”
Did she jest? Or perhaps a test—daring him to look at her and get whacked across the skull. Even as he considered her words, her dress fluttered closer. She stood before Astadia, and her small fingers touched his sister’s arm.
“Please.”
Trale slanted a look at his sister, who did the same to him. Together, they dragged their gazes to the Infantessa.
“Yes, please—we have little time.” She shifted even nearer until he felt the brush of her skirts against his leg. “The falls will conceal our conversation,” she said, her voice soft yet. “As you can imagine, there are ears everywhere here.”
Trale couldn’t hide his surprise or concern. Especially at the fact that there were no guards visible. Did she trust them? It is an honor to be with her.
“Do you know why you were brought here?”
Trale frowned. “As you command, Infantessa.” His gaze dipped to her small waist, but not before he scanned the vegetation around her. Where were the guards?
Her eyes sought his again, rich and deep and kind. “Are we any of us true masters of our hearts or destinies, Mr. Kath? Surely you are not naïve enough to believe we control our futures?”
Mr. Kath? He nearly snorted. Were he master of his destiny, he would forbid anyone such formality. “Control is an illusion.”
“Trale,” Astadia hissed a remonstrative whisper at him, her expression severe.
“Nay,” Infantessa Shavaussia said, her small hands again touching Astadia. “He speaks his mind.”
Aye, he did that. Before this powerful queen of the eastern seas more than he had anywhere else. Being home, among his people—though they had been forbidden from visiting anyone they knew—it infused Trale with uncharacteristic recklessness.
I would risk it all to have her favor.
“It pleases me.” Her words, soft and nearly lost in the roar of the falls overhead, encircled his mind, drew his eyes to hers. She was waiting for his gaze once more, an expectant smile on her full lips. Color pinked her cheeks. “He chose well, Trale Kath.”
His mind rebounded from her eyes to her words and back. “He?”
“Poired.” She dipped her head, the pearls in the fabric hooded crown swaying. “He will summon you here and deliver an order to kill the Celahar heir.”
“The princess?” Astadia asked.
Shavaussia laughed. “Oh mercy, no. She might have been Zireli’s heir, but she’s dead. No, dear. He’s after her brother—”
“Prince Haegan?” Astadia’s face lost its color as she stepped back. “He is our target?”
“You know him, then? You’ve met the prince?” The Infantessa homed in on Astadia’s reaction and response. Like a bird of prey ready to strike a wounded animal along a path. She seemed too interested.
Trale cursed inwardly. They had met the prince at the Falls, but mentioning that would bring them great pain at the hand of the Dark One who held their chains. Which was worse—serving beauty or dying in darkness?
He interposed himself between them. “What would you have us do, Infantessa?” He lowered his own gaze in hopes of distracting her again by his close proximity.
She took a tiny step back, teetered on the heels of her expensive shoes and seemed to fall.
Trale caught her, a hand around her waist.
She gasped.
Had he hurt her? He met her eyes, the color of Iteverian wood, a deep brown yet golden, too. They searched his face, and he felt a cold buzzing at the back of his mind. In his arm, she was smaller than he’d thought. Much smaller than Astadia. A tiny waist. And that bitter scent—of kizzy spice, used in pies and breads—the hint of it hung in the mist that haloed her head. Crown.
Crown!
She could have you seared within an inch of your life! “Mercy,” Trale whispered, stepping away and feeling Astadia’s firm touch against his spine when he’d backed into her.
The Infantess
a smoothed her hands down her blue gown.
Nervous.
Trale searched her gaze again, confused.
She refused his gaze, looking to the side instead. “You must bring the prince here.”
“Alive? Or dead?”
Her eyes widened and snapped back to his. “Alive, of course. What good is he dead?”
Trale bit back the retort, knowing she was still the ruler of the East and the Nydessan Sea. He dared not speak his mind to her. But what good was the prince alive here?
“Do you intend to kill him here? An exhibition of your power?”
The Infantessa seemed to cool at Astadia’s pursuit of an explanation. “What purpose he serves is my concern, assassin. Bring him to Iteveria if you want to live.”
“How—”
“I care not how.” The Infantessa straightened. Her chin jutted.
“Infantessa, is there a problem?”
Trale instinctively stepped back and looked to the right, where the steward appeared out of the mists.
“It would seem these assassins deem themselves fit to question my will.”
Trale shook off the confusing signals and realized what he’d mistaken for attraction was her plying his will. Using his own weakness against him.
“Bringing him here alive—” Astadia took a step toward the Infantessa.
In that split second, he realized her mistake. He reached for his sister as a half-dozen guards coalesced from the vegetation, blades drawn. “Easy.”
The Infantessa Shavaussia paused at the entrance to the solarium. Her cool expression raked over Astadia. “Perhaps Poired chose poorly.”
“Don’t—”
Trale hooked Astadia’s arm. Stepped in front of her and met the cold-hearted Infantessa’s gaze. “Because you command us,” he said, the words painful and, in truth, the only acceptable response. Poired would have Astadia beaten if he heard of her outspokenness.
Something flickered in the Infantessa’s gaze as she swirled out of sight amidst a heavy protection detail.
Alone with Astadia and the mighty roar of the falls, Trale wondered . . . What purpose did the Infantessa have in bringing Prince Haegan here? Had she found out what Trale had discerned, what he’d heard whispered through the encampment around the Great Falls?
He heard the crack at the same time he felt his sister’s smack on the back of his head. He caught her wrist then released it just as quick.
“What is wrong with you, you dull-witted, brainwashed male?”
Trale scowled.
His sister fluttered her hands and touched his chest. Leaned into him. Made her voice sickeningly sweet. “Oh, Trale, you’re so powerful—”
He shoved her away. “Leave off.”
“In truth, are you so idiotic not to see her exploiting your weakness, as every Iteverian assassin is trained to do?”
“I have no weakness.”
“You are a man! That you have sight makes you weak when a woman is present.”
A repetitive noise silenced them both. They both angled their ears toward the sound, listening. Two heartbeats later, a storm of black moved through the halls of the Infantessa’s home.
Poired.
Trale felt as much as saw his sister’s defiance swell once more as the black and red cloak slapped hard against Poired’s legs. He stomped toward them, fire blazing in his eyes. Orange flames glowed around his hands. Heat wakes warbled around him.
Trale’s stomach clenched, and his lunch threatened to reappear. Though he thought to grab Astadia’s arm and drag her to her knees, he had no need to worry, for his sister had already sunk to the ground, her surge of rebellion short-lived in the face of Poired’s wrath.
“You would defy the will of Sirdar?”
At the same time Poired shouted, Astadia flipped backward. The wake of heat proved so hot that chills pimpled Trale’s flesh. He fisted his hands, knowing if he moved, if he attempted to defend his sister, it would go worse for her.
Thud!
She slammed against something.
Instinct pushed Trale up.
But Poired, skilled and preternaturally powerful, shoved him back to his knees with a singeing blow, even as he focused his anger on Astadia. Her screams bounced against the glass that protected them from the waterfall.
Stay, Trale commanded himself. Fisted his hands. It’d be over sooner. She would have a better chance of living if he remained silent and still.
“Think you the dog should be the master?”
“No—OOOOO!”
Breathing grew harder with each shout. Trale ground his teeth. Forced breaths through his nostrils.
I will kill him.
Astadia’s shout grew into a sob.
I will kill him and bury pieces of him in the four corners.
Even as the thought took root, the anger and hatred burning deep, Trale felt a tingling around his throat. It tightened. Constricted. He gasped, searching for a clear breath, only to realize Poired was wielding against him. He clawed at his throat.
His body lifted. Up . . . his knees unfolded. Trale focused on trying to breathe as he was hoisted off his toes by an invisible force. Swung around. Slammed against the wall. The pounding of the falls thudded against his shoulders and head. He groped for air, his lungs aching.
“What did she say?”
Trale flashed desperate eyes at Poired, who stood below him. He’d grown so powerful he didn’t even have to hold his hands toward them as he wielded. He simply . . . willed it.
“Why did she bring you here?”
He suspected. The Infantessa said Poired wanted Haegan dead. She defied him in wanting the prince here in her palace. But surely she wanted to kill Haegan herself. Was there so great a difference where he died?
Trale’s temples pounded.
Something in him refused to betray the Infantessa. But he knew Poired could sear his brain to dust. The edges of his vision began to cloud.
“What did she want?” the Dark One raged.
“To be alone with my brother,” Astadia said, her words heaving, voice cracking. Her breath came unevenly, but she pulled straight. “They were attracted to each other.”
Confusion flickered through Poired’s blazing eyes.
“It was disgusting,” Astadia said, a curl in her voice.
The constriction lessened—but only a fraction. Realizing Poired bought Astadia’s lie, Trale averted his gaze to further the deception. Make this incipient believe it.
“Are you so weak beneath her Inflaming that you cannot see the hag beneath the glamour?” Teeth bared, the Dark One growled. Threw Trale across the room.
He skidded over the slick floor and slammed into a thorny bush. Tiny little daggers pierced his back and side. He cried out.
“Find Haegan Celahar.” He spat on the ground. “Find him and kill him, or I will boil both of you from the inside out.”
14
Legier’s Heart, Northlands
Panic ruptured the thin veil of hope Haegan held that he might escape this subterranean prison and find Thurig. He stepped back, his heart in his throat. He looked from the crooked old woman to the cacique. “Fierian? I—”
“He does not accept what Abiassa has gifted him with,” Wegna said, craning her neck.
“Gifted?” Haegan’s pitched word bounced off the slanted ceiling. “I am to lay siege to the lands, scorch the life from them, decimate crops and—”
“Ye are to free the lands!”
Haegan snorted and shook his head, looking down at the book Wegna had handed him.
“The trust She has placed in ye is enormous, Princeling.” Eyes as violet as the northern seas peered up at him, glittering. Excitement sparked, then faded. And it was as oppressive and startling as if his face had been covered by a thick blanket.
Wegna lowered her gaze. Shifted around, took a few steps, then started to glance back at Haegan—but stopped. “Hide from her and ye invite the Destroyers to yer door.”
Aselan straightened and un
folded his arms, his mouth turned down.
Haegan felt the alarm echo in his own mind. “Destroyers? You mean Deliverers?”
Wegna’s curled fingers wrapped around the ladder. She hung her head again. “Think ye there are only Deliverers? Ye smell of them, of their glory. And the longer ye are without their presence, the easier the Destroyers will find ye.”
“She speaks madness.” But Aselan’s expression was fierce,
Haegan recalled his words that Wegna had never spoken an untruth. Panic drilled through him. He didn’t even know . . . “Wh—what are Destroyers?”
The old woman released the ladder, her shoulders hunched more than before. With her head bowed, it all but disappeared behind her crooked shoulders. “The embodiment of darkness.”
“You jest!” Haegan refused to believe it.
“For there to be good, there must be evil. For there to be light, there must also be darkness.” She turned to him, her eyes more clear than he’d seen them before. “For there to be Abiassa’s bringers of justice, there must be their counterparts, those who chose to follow Ederac.”
“Ed—what?”
After exchanging a look with Wegna, Aselan frowned. “Ye have not heard of Ederac? Gwogh failed ye miserably!”
“Gwogh!” Her eyes widened. “He was yer guardian?”
“He watched over me, paralyzed as I was. Taught me the Histories and Legacies, the Parchments—”
“How long did he serve ye?”
“Serve?” Haegan snickered. “He was my tutor.”
Wegna wagged her hand dismissively, the parchment-thin skin exposing her blue veins. “At what age did he come to ye?”
Haegan struggled to recall. “My—my mother brought him to Seultrie when I was five or six. When I fell to the poison, she asked him to be my tutor.”
“Yes yes.” Wegna grew animated, turning her gaze around as she looked up at the ceiling. It seemed as if she saw beyond stone and wood. “Yes,” she breathed, hissing the last letter. “It all makes sense now.”
Haegan blinked. Sense? Nothing had made sense since he’d walked into this library. “I beg your mercy, but there has been little clarity since my sister consulted with an incipient for a Transference.”