by Ronie Kendig
A moment later, Atai appeared. “Yes, my lady?”
“More wood for the fire. Have Gaord bring some of Tili’s clothes.”
“N—no,” Haegan said around a shiver. “I must speak with Thurig first.”
“Ye’ll catch a death-cold if ye remain in those wet clothes.” Thiel lifted her chin and nodded to Atai. “Firewood and clothes.”
Haegan’s gaze drifted back to the fire, his hands idle in his lap. “It is strange to be here . . .” He lifted a shoulder and shivered again. “Things were so different . . . before.”
The distance between them had grown larger than she’d imagined. “How—how are ye?”
“Tired.” A small smile played on his lips. “The trip was long and the mountain cold.” He shuddered as if his body were confirming his words. “So very cold. I am not used to freezing with each breath.”
She smiled. “Ye are far from home.” The words weren’t meant to remind him of anything, but to merely point to the distance from the Lakes of Fire. But Thiel saw her words had the former effect. “Ye were in the mountain this whole time?”
Haegan nodded. “Chima delivered me there. Would go nowhere else.”
Thiel sniffed. “They nest in the mountains during the winter. She knew the storm was coming, most likely.”
“Aye, Aselan said as much.”
Thiel started. “Aselan.”
His gaze came to hers. And he was different. Somehow.
“Blazes,” came the awe-infused voice of Laertes. He darted across the carpet. “We heard you was back, but ’twas too much t’ believe.”
Praegur and Tokar entered quieter, slower. Haegan looked at them, but then dropped back against the chair, his misery evident.
“The soldiers said you come down da Cold One’s Toof’ wif the savage.”
“He’s Eilidan,” Haegan muttered. “They’re . . . good people.”
His words did her good, somehow.
“Prince Haegan,” Tili’s stern voice snapped through the room, drawing their attention to the door where he stood. “The king would speak to ye.”
Haegan lumbered to his feet. When Thiel stepped up to him, to aid him, he nudged her away.
Hurt splashed through her.
Haegan hesitated, his gaze on her. “I—”
“Prince,” Tili barked.
Haegan, shoulders weighted beneath the pelts and blankets and so much more, strode out of the room as if to meet an executioner.
19
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
“Is it true? Yer father is dead?”
Exhaustion and defeat tugged at his limbs from the long journey and weeks of training, but Haegan refused to show himself weak. “He is.”
“And yer mother, sister?”
“My mother is also dead at Poired’s hand. My sister”—he breathed, relieved to offer a more positive report—“remains with the Eilidan. She has recovered some strength but is still partially paralyzed.”
“Ye left yer sister with those savages?” Relig’s lip curled.
“I saw no savages,” Haegan said. “But yes—for her own health, she had to remain.”
“Why did ye come down with Teelh? Why not wait until yer sister was well enough to travel?”
Haegan frowned. “Because my people are without a leader.”
Tili coughed.
Relig scowled.
Thurig merely stared.
Their doubt in him drenched the room. Drawing his spine straighter, Haegan looked from one to another. “I am neither Eilidan nor Nivari. Neither am I a Jujak, but I am a Celahar, and my forebears have been on the Fire Throne for generations,” he growled.
Thurig eyed Haegan’s hand. “Careful.”
Recoiling from the admonishment and his own disbelief that he’d let the embers roil so quickly, Haegan breathed deeply. “I beg your mercy. Exhaustion wears down my restraint.”
Thurig eyed him, and, to Haegan’s surprise, there was no anger in the king’s face. “Tili, see him to his room.”
“Aye, Father.”
“Haegan, on the morrow, we will talk. Be prepared to give a full account of what happened in Seultrie, how ye lost one of my raqine, and your association with the Eilidan.”
“Chima is not lost,” Haegan countered. “She is wintering in the Heart.”
Thurig’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Very well.”
Haegan gave a nod, too weary to object. As he followed Tili down the hall, he felt an ache worm through his arm. He grimaced, remembering all too well the Deliverer who’d afflicted him.
Once in the green room, Haegan was glad to find a fire already chasing away the cold. Tili walked to the wardrobe and opened the doors. “Clothes. Gaord will be here soon to draw the bath. Food will be sent up.” He lit the torch in the wall brace, then gripped the door handle.
“That is it? No inquiries?”
“We of Nivar are not savages. When ye are rested, then we will bring interrogations.” He nodded, suddenly so much and yet nothing like his brother in the mountains. “Rest well tonight, Princeling.”
The hour spent changing, bathing, and eating sapped what little strength Haegan had left. He climbed beneath the thick blankets and felt the claws of greedy sleep drag him beneath its power.
Fire leapt around him. Taunting laughter echoed through the vast space—Legier’s Heart! Despite the stone walls, fire consumed it. Children screamed. Smoke coiled around his face, choking. Haegan coughed, squinting against the ash scraping against his eyes.
“Haegan!”
He turned, the sound of his father’s voice so clear and distinct. How was his father in the mountain? Had Poired tracked them here?
“Haegan, help me!”
Fear and alarm shot through him. Haegan held a hand up to shield his eyes, searching. “Father?” He shouldn’t sound so uncertain, but it made little sense that his father would be here. Regardless, Haegan knew one thing above all else—he must find him. He surged forward.
Flames shot at him. The tips of the flames were like talons, piercing his clothes. Tiny little droplets of blood appeared on his white tunic.
“Haegan, go! Get out of here.”
“No,” Haegan screamed. “I am coming, Father!”
“No, you must stay out of his reach.”
Darkness hid his father’s voice and form, but Haegan braved the flames still. He must do this. Must not let Poired claim his father. The Fire King. The only one who could defeat the evil invading the land. Haegan had tried. He’d tried and failed. Now, his father was trapped in this burning blackness.
A figure of fire coalesced before Haegan. Crowned with a white-hot crown, the figure roared in laughter. “Think you to defeat me, Fierian?” Hollow and coarse, the laughter rippled across Haegan like heat waves, rustling his hair from his face. Searing his flesh.
A scream rent the air. The crowned figure stared at Haegan as he stood over something. Haegan strained to see past the flames and smoke.
His father, beard wisping with smoke and burning off, his hair drenched in sweat and blood, reached out from the flames to him. “Haaeegggaannn!”
Crowned in flames, the fiery figure smiled at Haegan, his sick pleasure at inflicting pain on Haegan’s father apparent.
Anger pulsed through him. “I will stop you!” He lunged forward.
In a blink, the fiery man was there. Right in front of him. He drove that fire-blade through his shoulder.
“Augh!” Haegan dropped to his knees, holding his throbbing, bleeding arm. “Father!”
“Haegan, help me,” his father cried.
But the figure stood over the Fire King again. Lifted that fire-blade with both hands, its tip poised over his father’s heart.
To the right and left Deliverers appeared.
“Stop him!” Haegan shouted. “My father—save my father!”
But the Deliverers stood unmoving. Unseeing.
Desperation clogged Haegan’s thoughts. Anger volleyed up.
The fire-blade rose a
fraction higher.
“No!” Haegan shouted.
With that demented laugh, the monster drove the blade down.
“Noooo!” Haegan threw out his hands, blinding, white-hot light exploding through them. In the space of a heartbeat, he realized the terror he’d inflicted. The horrible truth: he had not only vanquished the fiery-creature. He’d murdered his own father. A lone circlet, the one his father wore during common days, glowed hot as it rattled against the stone.
He lifted the singeing metal, but it slipped down his arm. Morphed into a cuff. A gold cuff, flames dancing around it. But then—his father’s head appeared in his hand.
Haegan gave a shout and tried to fling off the cuff.
But it stuck to him. To his flesh. To the very fiber of his being.
He threw himself backward. “No!”
Thud!
“Haegan!”
Light flooded in, a shape rushing toward him. Haegan cried out and shielded himself, ready to be attacked.
But the hint of roses coiled around his mind.
“Haegan.” Cool air swirled as the figure dropped to the floor beside him. “Calm yerself. The Flames . . .” Soft, silky material brushed his hand. “Haegan, are ye well?”
He blinked, his surroundings coming into slow focus. Room. A bedroom. His room in Fieri Keep.
No. The bed curtains were wrong. The post carvings too . . . Raqines circled them.
Nivar. Nivar Hold.
“Haegan.” Thiel’s cold hands cupped his face. “Look at me, tunnel rat.”
Haegan hooked his hand over her arm, breathing deeply of her scent. Relief was sweet and gentle. “Thiel.”
“Aye, ’tis me.” She squatted closer. “Are ye well? Ye’re burning up!”
“I’m well,” he muttered, tugging her closer, unwilling to let her go. “Bad dream is all.” He had forgotten how soft she was.
The hall lamps bathed her round face in an amber glow, making her olive complexion that much more warm. A newly healed scar ran across her cheek. He reached toward it. “Who harmed you?”
“’Twas a training accident,” she said and drew in a shaky breath. She tucked her chin.
A fire surged within him, deep and true. She’d pulled him out of the tunnels. Led him from Seultrie. Got him to the Falls. Brought him to Ybienn after the tragedy. Time and time again—“You . . . you save me.”
She shifted, curling in closer. “I’ve missed ye.” Her lips twisted. Tears glossed her eyes, bright with the hall light. “I was afraid ye’d died.”
He touched his forehead to hers. “I think She intends for me to live for a long while yet, much to my chagrin.”
“Do not jest,” Thiel whispered. “And do not leave me again or I will end ye myself!” Strong and a fighter, Kiethiel had won the hearts of warriors and chiefs. She’d bested so many. And she wanted him close by. Tough but beautiful. A hard façade but a soft heart. And soft lips.
Haegan captured her mouth with his. Slipped his hand around the back of her neck and drew her nearer, deepening the kiss. She sedated the storm in him. Made him want to fight and be strong, the best of all men.
Her arms coiled around his neck, and he held her close, savoring her sweetness. Her softness.
“I love ye,” she murmured, resting in his arms.
Voices came from the hall.
Thiel extricated herself with a blush. “Company.”
Haegan came to his feet and held a hand to her as light exploded through the room. Tokar, Laertes, and Praegur were there. Along with a man Haegan did not recognize. Thiel stiffened.
A thrum at the back of Haegan’s head buzzed through him.
“We heard a crash and came t’ see if you was burning down the place again,” Laertes said with an easy smile.
“Only in my dreams,” Haegan admitted as he nodded to the others. Praegur came and stood beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Solidarity.
“She told me you would return,” Praegur said.
“Aye. She seems bent on Her way. It is good to hear your voice, friend.” He looked to the stranger again. “Have we met?”
“Ah,” Thiel said, shifting closer to Haegan. “This is Sir Yedriseth, a Langerian Watchman. He came with Peani for the wedding.”
“It’s been what’s mad and crazy, all jumbled with females and frippery,” Laertes said. “I’ll be glad when it’s ov’a.”
“It is an honor to meet ye, Prince Haegan,” the newcomer said as he bowed formally.
Yedriseth. Haegan wasn’t as familiar with the Northlands’ ruling class, but something about the man made Haegan draw Thiel close and the embers even closer.
“We should let ye rest,” she muttered.
“I hear the king plans to interrogate you tomorrow,” Tokar said.
“Aye,” Haegan said. “There is a lot to discuss.”
Tokar extended his hand. “Then I will let you rest.”
Haegan clasped arms and thanked his friend. Laertes grabbed a cordi from the fruit bowl before saying his good-nights.
The newcomer seemed most reticent to leave, but under Praegur’s subtle insistence, they left together.
“I will let ye—”
“Please.” Haegan tightened his hold on Thiel. “Stay. Talk to me.”
“Can’t sleep?”
“I do not want to.” Not after those terrors.
“Ye seem . . . changed.”
Haegan dragged a hand over burning eyes. “I feel I have lived two lifetimes in the last month.” He stoked the fire then dropped heavily onto a small sofa. “Nothing prepares you to watch someone so brutally murder your parents.”
“I cannot imagine.”
Haegan shook his head, roughing his hands over his hair. “I wish I couldn’t.”
“Ye were gone a month nearly—”
“The storm shut us in, and Aselan didn’t know if he could trust me, so he kept me imprisoned.”
“Imprisoned? My brother kept ye imprisoned?”
Haegan nodded. “Honestly? I was glad. I realized I didn’t want to come down. I didn’t want to face what was coming.”
“But ye did,” she said, hurt in her eyes once more. “What made ye finally come back?”
“Your brother,” he said with a smile. “Honor. My people without a leader.”
“A more romantic answer would have been, to see the one ye love.”
He smiled and scooted closer, tucking an arm around her. “You are the air that fills my lungs, makes it possible for me to endure.”
“Then ye’ve accepted being the Fierian.”
Anger churned. “No.”
“How can ye fight what She—”
“Shh,” Haegan said, pulling her against himself, resting her head on his chest. “Just sit with me. Let us . . . be.”
The comfort of her, the warmth, cocooned Haegan. Drew him into a deep, peaceful sleep.
There came a subtle change in the air around him. A familiar one. That drew him from the dregs of unconsciousness. Warned him of danger.
Hands wrapped around his throat. More training. Aselan again, teaching him yet another lesson.
But Haegan’s eyes snapped open. He lay staring up at a dark, unfamiliar face. His heart vaulted into his throat. Breathing became impossible.
Haegan thrashed, but the man was strong. His hands like steel.
Pull!
Haegan jerked the hand.
The man shifted.
Enough for Haegan to throw a punch through the opening. Ram his forearm against the man’s neck. Force him away. With a shout, Haegan got his legs up and shoved with his feet.
The man stumbled. Haegan fell off the sofa, his mind pinging. Where was Thiel? Who was this madman? Am I dreaming?
With a snarl, the man charged him with a blade.
Haegan dove backward. Bumped a table. A lamp crashed to the floor, and one answer came to him: it was the newcomer. The one Thiel had introduced. Yedriseth.
“What do you want?”
Yedriset
h sneered. “Ye, dead, Fierian!” He lunged, and Haegan drew on everything Aselan had taught him. He spun away, tried to counter with a punch to Yedriseth’s ribs. But it wasn’t enough. Three weeks weren’t enough. Steel seared along his jaw. “Augh!”
Anger, hot and bubbling, rose through his veins.
Yedriseth’s eyes widened.
Haegan clawed his hand and drew on the embers.
Grabbing Haegan’s wrist, Yedriseth wrapped his arm around Haegan’s, pulled him in. Thrust the blade toward Haegan’s stomach.
“Bi’mwaei!” The words were on his tongue and searing the air in an instant.
Howling, the newcomer stumbled backward, cradling his knife-wielding hand to his chest. The blade and flesh had melded together. Fury and agony boiled in the man’s eyes. With flared nostrils and tightened lips, he dove at Haegan.
Shouts came at the door.
Lifting his right leg, Haegan pitched forward. Stomped his foot and thrust his hands toward his attacker.
A blast shot forward. Focused. Direct. Plowed into the man.
Yedriseth collapsed to the ground, a hole the size of a cup sizzling through his chest.
“Haegan!”
“Seize him!”
The room flooded with Nivari. Tili and Relig. Praegur and Tokar. Thiel rushed around him, sucking in a hard breath. “Ye’re bleeding!”
Haegan blinked, watching as Tili and Relig assessed the man on the floor.
“What happened here?” came the king’s booming voice.
“Haegan, ye’re going white,” someone said.
With his hearing growing hollow, Haegan stumbled. Looked at the face but felt no recognition. He stumbled again.
“On the bed,” Tili said, coming to his feet, pushing Haegan back.
He plopped onto the feathered mattress, staring down at the legs of the Langerian. “I . . . I killed him.”
“What happened?” Tili asked.
“He attacked—I woke up to him choking me.” A shuddering breath. “I managed to fight him off, then he had the blade. Tr—tried to kill me.”
“And the hole in his chest?”
“He was about to drive it into my gut. I—I wielded.”