Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  She gasped. “Transf—” Her eyes bulged. “This . . . tell me! What happened?”

  “I . . . ” Haegan frowned. “She and this incipient—”

  “No, after! How? How are ye here, if the transference—”

  “I fled the castle. My father blamed me for what happened to Kaelyria, sent the Jujak after me.”

  “But yer gifts?”

  Haegan frowned. “I had none before the Falls.”

  “Yes yes yes,” she said, laughing. “The outpouring of Her healing love—it ruptured the thin veil of man’s attempt to harness Her power in yer life.” She slapped her palms together. “That is what I felt. That is when something in me awoke.”

  Haegan swallowed. Refused to look at Aselan. Or the book.

  “You are the Fierian,” Wegna said as she moved back to the ladder. “And Gwogh knew . . . Oh, yes, that mad, brilliant man, he knew. It is why he poisoned ye.”

  15

  Legier’s Heart, Northlands

  Aselan saw the blow land, saw something in the boy break loose even as he denied Wegna’s words.

  “No, you misunderstand. Gwogh healed me—as well as he could. My mother said whatever had been slipped into my food at the feast nearly killed me. From that moment on, I had no use of my body. Only my mind, and Gwogh was there to sharpen it. He stayed at my side with his inane ramblings.”

  “Mm,” she said, hesitated at the ladder, though she held it in place. “It is a nice yarn spun to conceal the truth.”

  Aselan felt tremors running through the prince’s life, splitting it apart. He also noticed the change in the boy’s posture and the knot between his brows. He’d need to be ready.

  “What are you saying?” Haegan demanded, tossing the book onto the table.

  Aselan took a step toward Wegna, fearing she may need his protection.

  “Forgive me, Fierian,” she said, her voice all contrition. “I sense yer pain.” She sighed. “Yer loyalty to Gwogh is great. And . . . it is my earnest hope and prayer that ye would once more gain that despite his poisoning ye.”

  “Gwogh did not poison me! That was the work of Poired’s agents.”

  “Aye,” she said. “There may be truth to those words.”

  Haegan shook his head. “In one instant, you accuse Gwogh. In another, you say it was Poired’s—”

  “A man does not have to be wholly—or even partly—divested to the Dark One to do his work for him.”

  “Your words are but a muddle of years and too much time spent alone with books, I fear.”

  “Give care,” Aselan said, “where ye accuse and demean. She is a respected teller, and one whose counsel I weigh carefully.”

  “Aye,” Wegna spoke up. “I have spent time with books, but not Histories or Legacies, as ye have presumed, Fierian,” she said, her voice much softer. Subdued. It annoyed Aselan, for he had not seen the Reader so melancholy. “But with the texts written by Her hand.”

  Haegan hesitated at that.

  Wegna pointed to the table. “Aselan, would ye lift the book?”

  His pulse skipped a beat. “Nay.” He’d seen two accelerants who’d visited Legier touch it and immediately need Hoeff’s healing touch.

  “Please.” She nodded, her face a wall of determination. “He will not understand if ye do not.”

  Aselan glowered at the thin-blood. Stalked to the table. “Watch closely, Princeling. What I do”—he huffed—“I do not for ye.” He fisted his hands, clenching tight. Then reached out. He steadied his breathing. Waiting. Anticipation made his hand twitch. He clenched it again, then shook it out.

  Haegan snorted.

  Anger churned through Aselan. He grabbed the book.

  White-blue flames shot out, blinding. Searing. “Augh!” Aselan snatched back his hand, shaking it and ignoring the pimpling of his flesh in reaction to the scalding.

  Haegan started and leaped back. “Wh—I—Are you well?”

  Aselan tucked his chin and stared through his brow at the princeling, holding his aching hand close to his chest.

  “But—but I held it.”

  “Pick it up,” Aselan said, nodding to the side where the book lay on the table. He waited as the prince rounded the room and reached over the Caorian wood. Even having known the prince already held it once without repercussion did not stop Aselan’s gut from tightening as the boy lifted it.

  Bouncing his shoulders, Haegan looked at them. “I don’t understand.”

  “The Hand has written it. The Fierian must wield it.”

  Haegan frowned. “How can I when I can’t even control the embers? I can only wield when I’m angry.”

  “Ah, that is because of missteps,” Wegna said. “The poison, the Falls.” She sighed and looked at Haegan. “She must have known these things, so we must trust that ye will be able to open the Kinidd.”

  “The what?”

  She pointed to the book in his hands. “Her Words to ye. Only ye, Fierian, will be able to read it.”

  “Let’s just hope you don’t scorch the pages.” The thin-blood had eighteen cycles, yet he knew not how to wield, had never heard of Ederac, and the fate of the world rested in his hands. Hands that could singe the world into oblivion. Aselan had never been one to cling to the faith of the accelerants or the belief in Abiassa as one of the Creator’s Heirs, but it was hard to ignore, hard to reject, when he watched this thin-blood hold the sacred book that had scorched the hands of a half-dozen before him.

  Though Wegna scampered back up to her hidden room, Aselan did not move or speak. Haegan had much to work through. And it almost seemed as if that part of the prince had shut down.

  “It’s glowing,” Haegan muttered.

  Aselan started. Stepped closer to the book with iron interlocked triangles embedded in the hide. “It’s just the stone lights.”

  Haegan nodded. Weight crowded the young man’s features, his eyes tracing the symbol over and over . . . lost in some thought.

  “Are ye well?”

  Haegan snorted. “Nay.” He rubbed his forehead. “Nor have I been these last months.” Grief etched its wretched marks on his face, tugged against his shoulders. “She has taken everything from me—my parents, my sister . . .”

  Aselan considered the prince. “Ye loved them much?”

  Haegan blinked and met his gaze. “My father . . . we came to an understanding in the end. My mother was attentive but distant, treading a fine line between my father’s disapproval and her own heart.” Turning the book over and examining the spine, Haegan sighed.

  “And yer sister?”

  The thin-blood smiled. “A heart of gold and a will of steel. There was never a day she did not visit me, bring me news of the Nine—and not the news Gwogh fed me of alliances and skirmishes. She let me know of people, her friends. She had fallen in love with a Jujak, though we both knew Father would forbid it because she had been promised to Jedric.”

  “Jedric?” Aselan raised his eyebrows, surprised. “I’ve heard his father’s lands have been left untouched in the siege.”

  Haegan considered him, the pale blue eyes discerning. “How? He’s between Caori and Seultrie—both are taken.”

  “That is the question.”

  “You accuse of him of collusion?”

  “I accuse no one. I state the facts,” he said, motioning them out of the library and once more into the dank passage.

  A smile tugged at the corners of Haegan’s mouth. “You would have done well in the Nine.” He breathed a sigh. “Kaelyria was a master at negotiations. Quick witted.”

  “Ye were close?”

  “Quite. She never gave me an inch, but she always gave me her time.”

  Their conversation was edging too close to dangerous. Aselan guided him back through the passage to the cave cell.

  Toeff rose from his station outside the prince’s cave.

  “Ye are acknowledged, Toeff.” Aselan stepped aside for Haegan to enter the cell. As the prince did, his annoyance at being a captive evident, Ase
lan waited for Toeff to secure the gate. “I will speak to my men about lifting yer restrictions.” He nodded to Haegan’s hands. “Keep those cool.”

  He turned to Toeff and showed him his own hand. “I have need of yer brother’s healing. Where is he?”

  Toeff’s large, bulging eyes flicked to Haegan, then back. “Tending, master.”

  With the princess, then. Aselan headed down to the quarters where the prince’s sister was tended. Thoughts, jumbled and tangled, tossed through his mind as he hustled down the steps, deeper into Legier’s Heart.

  “Cacique!”

  Aselan hesitated on the landing, gazing up a couple of levels.

  Teelh bent over the rail. “Legier’s rage recedes.”

  The storm was slowing. His men would be glad to see the light of day and feel fresh air on their faces. It also meant with Teelh’s help, Haegan would leave soon. ’Twould be madness to go out anytime within the next few days, as the deep snow would hide crevasses. But Teelh knew Legier and the Cold One’s Tooth better than anyone.

  “Good news, eh? We can be rid of the thin-blood!”

  “Indeed,” Aselan managed. “I’ll be in the hall shortly.” With a quick wave, he continued his course. When he gained the juncture to the section where Hoeff tended Seultrie’s heir, Aselan slowed. Leaned against the wall, a stone light poking his shoulder. He cared not. The easing of the storm changed things. The prince would leave. The princess would want to leave as well, he was sure. Neither knew the other was still alive. Had he been wrong to withhold that from the two heirs? She was not yet able to travel, surely. Would the prince leave without her?

  “You are well, master?”

  Aselan pushed off the wall and smoothed a hand over his beard as he met Hoeff’s gaze. “Much thought, my friend.” He held out his injured hand. “I could use yer ministrations.”

  Hoeff shuffled backward. “Here, Hoeff have extra.”

  Aselan followed the giant into the side room of the princess’s chamber. She’d been accommodated in a multi-room suit to afford privacy for her needs and so there could be no remonstration or accusation of maltreatment at his hands.

  He kept his eyes to himself as he stood at the table that Hoeff bent over, his large hands moving nimbly from bottle to cup to mortar and pestle. When Hoeff shifted to face him, he fully blocked the room. Aselan relaxed a little as the giant cupped his wrist and lifted the poultice.

  Hoeff grunted. “Kinidd.” His brown eyes came to Aselan’s. “You touch Kinidd?”

  Focusing on the ministrations allowed Aselan to avoid the accusing eyes. He winced at the cool poultice that drew out the fire and infection of the burn.

  “Only Rïaetyr touch,” Hoeff rumbled.

  “’Twas but a mistake,” Aselan said as the giant wrapped a length of bandage around his palm. “Wegna . . . I was helping her.”

  “Hoeff say not listen her again.”

  Aselan smiled, flexing his fingers and noticing that already it felt better. He lowered his voice, counting on Hoeff’s uncanny hearing to pick up his words. “Can she travel?”

  Wide brown eyes came to his. Hoeff gave a very slow, lumbering shake of his head.

  Why was Aselan so relieved at that answer? Yet he could not keep the Fierian here any longer. He wanted the boy out of the Heart, away from the people. He was unpredictable and naïve. Dangerous. But his sister . . . His gaze strayed to the side, toward her dais, which Hoeff gratefully blocked from view. He should know better.

  Hoeff moved to clean his station. And a pair of ice-blue eyes held Aselan’s.

  His heart caught, frozen still beneath her gaze. Would his heart hesitate every time he saw her? She lay stretched out on the bed, pillows propped behind her torso and holding her slightly upright. Enough that she could see around the room with ease. Her white-blond hair, the sides braided, lay wrapped around the crown of her head.

  Crown.

  As the rightful heir to the throne left vacant by the Fire King’s death, she should be wearing a crown. Aselan snapped out of admiring her.

  “Playing with fire?” she asked, a smile toying at her pink lips.

  Fire? Had she detected his skipped heartbeat? But when she looked at his hands, he cleared his throat. “Helping our aged Reader.”

  “Reader? Burning your hand helped a reader?”

  He recalled how her brother warned the princess was quick-witted. “And how do ye fare this morning?”

  “I was well until your healer told me I probably would not heal any further.” Path etched her words, though she tried to hide it.

  Aselan looked to Hoeff, who had planted himself on his chair in the corner, unusually burdened.

  “I am not sure which of us was more distressed at the news,” she said around a fake smile.

  “Drigo are extremely empathetic.”

  She nodded, gaze down. “My wounds,” Kaelyria spoke into the stillness, “are not of this world, he says.”

  Curiosity gripped Aselan, but he reminded himself these were things he should not already know. She seemed so sad, and he searched for something to cheer her. Instead, guilt tugged at him for concealing her brother from her. Haegan had said they were close. She could probably use the comfort of family.

  “I made a deal with an incipient, and . . .” She smoothed the animal pelt around her. “It seems I will live with my decision for the rest of my years.” Her eyes glossed, but she sniffed and pushed a smile into her face. “I will not dwell on the darkness that threatens, but rather on the light.”

  “Light?”

  “Yes,” she said, again running her hand over the fur. “Before I . . . came here, I could move only my head. Nothing below my jaw. The joy of feeding myself”—she hefted a cordi fruit from the bowl beside her—“is exquisite.”

  “Are ye always of an optimistic nature, my lady?”

  Kaelyria bit into the fruit, catching the juice running down her chin. She slurped the juice and laughed.

  Aselan offered her a towel.

  “Optimistic?” Her delicate eyebrow arched. “Hardly. But if this is to be my lot, I will not have it in darkness.” Though she took another bite, she had fallen prey to some thought that left her beleaguered. “I would, however, have a word with you, Cacique Aselan.”

  He inclined his head and tucked his hands behind his back.

  “What word of my brother?” She sighed. “Is he dead? No one will speak of him. I know he brought me here, and it’s been a week.”

  “So ye know where ye are?”

  Hesitation clung to her. Setting aside the fruit, she leaned back against the pillows. “No, not with certainty.” She wiped her hands on the towel. “Am I to remain crippled and ignorant then?”

  Surprise coiled around him at her forwardness. “Nay.” He dragged a chair over. “But I must have answers before there can be any for ye.”

  “Why? Have I injured anyone? Am I a threat—without use of my legs and without guards?”

  “What do ye know of Poired and his armies?”

  “That they have taken the only home I’ve ever known. That they have burned most of Seultrie, and her neighbors, to the ground. That refugees are flooding Hetaera and northward to avoid his scourge.”

  “And the Fire King?”

  She jerked her gaze away, but just as quick, lifted her chin. Defiance creased her eyes. “Poired murdered my father before my very eyes.”

  “And the queen”—hesitation held him for a second—“yer mother?”

  Her nostrils flared. “Dead.” Eyes shone with unshed tears again, but she refused grief its power.

  “And if yer brother is also dead—”

  A tear wrestled her composure and broke free. She swiped it away. “I am heir to Seultrie’s throne.”

  Aselan’s heart chugged to a stop.

  “But regardless of whether Haegan is alive or dead, I cannot take the Fire Throne. It is not mine to take now.”

  “Why?”

  She swallowed. “I have lost my gifts.” Lift
ed her hands. “I cannot sit upon the Fire Throne if the Flames have left me.”

  “Left ye . . .”

  Her lips pressed together, whitening the edges of her mouth. “I sacrificed the Flames in a vain, foolish attempt to save the Nine.” Another tear. Then another. “And it was all for naught. They are dead. My whole family is dead. And Poired has the Fire Throne.”

  16

  Somewhere in Unelithia

  Trees. He wanted to see trees. Not the scorched skeletons of the forest left standing in the wake of Poired’s army. Longing stirred for the thick-­fingered branches and their leaves that offered protection from the sun. Feathery fronds that fragranced valleys.

  Instead, only ash and smoke filled his nostrils. With few supplies but more than enough determination to break free of the scorched lands, Trale jogged a steady clip northwest. It was freeing, rushing through the country, listening to the rhythm of the lands. The wind in his face, its roar against his ears.

  He ran.

  And ran.

  “Trale,” Astadia called from behind.

  Too soon. He wasn’t ready to stop. “Nightfall.”

  “I cannot wait that long to rest. Please.” With that, he heard her break the rhythm. Slow to a stop beside a mostly dried-up river. The lands had sucked hard from that wellspring, leaving it but a streak of muck.

  For a heartbeat, he considered leaving her. Not stopping. But the thought startled him. He would never leave her. What was wrong with him? No matter how strong the urge to get away from Poired’s stench, he had a pact with Astadia.

  Trale circled back to where Astadia squatted, drawing water into the filter can. She then held it over her waterskin, the water morphing from brown to a moderately clear liquid, thanks to the membrane that held back impurities.

  “We need to get moving,” Trale said.

  “We haven’t stopped moving in six hours,” Astadia growled. “What are you running from?”

  Inflaming. But just as quick, the thought vanished from his mind. “We have a mission.” Swiping a hand under his nose, he pivoted and walked to a small overlook. He crouched there to scan the plain.

  “Yes, but if we continue at that pace for the next week, we’ll be dead.” Astadia retreated to a small patch of brown grass. “They’ll have to drag our carcasses into Ybienn.”