by Ronie Kendig
“Drracien suggested it makes me look the rogue. Does it?”
She was staring. “Entirely.”
Though he smiled, it didn’t make it to his eyes. Would he always carry the fear of someone trying to take his life? “How did you know about the server?”
Thiel lifted her glass of water, but then thought better. “I spied him arguing with Yedriseth a week past. I knew not who he was—but when I saw him serving just then, saw the flower on yer plate . . .”
Haegan sighed, staring at the soup that had been placed there by a Nivari. “I find I have no appetite.”
“Nor I,” she admitted. “But there are at least five more courses.”
Haegan sniffed a smile.
They ate little through the meal and talked even less, though she tried to draw him out. “Are ye worried much, for yer safety?”
His eyes widened. “For my safety?” He straightened in his chair. “Nay, I worry for Zaethien and Seultrie. For the Nine.” Weight pressed against his brow, darkening his eyes. “We sit here—feasting, celebrating—when my people are fighting for their lives.”
Thiel swallowed and withdrew, realizing the folly. Experiencing his guilt. Why could they not have met before the wars? Or after—once it was all settled and lives returned to normal.
“I beg your mercy, Kiethiel,” he whispered. “I promised myself I would not spoil this evening.”
A bell rang, silencing the hall. Her father and mother rose, as did Relig and Peani, along with the duke and duchess. A herald invited the guests to the ballroom for dancing. And due to formality, Thiel was once more drawn from Haegan.
• • •
Haegan stood on the cobbled patio beyond the ballroom, where music and laughter carried into the cool night. Two attempts on his life in the span of twenty-four hours. And there would be more. Relentlessly so. He ran his fingers into his hair—and caught the circlet. He removed it, staring down at the simple gold band. A gift from Queen Eriathiel. Gone were the glitter and gems of his life. Gone the fine things. Now, he had pain and war.
“My prince.” Captain Graem Grinda strode toward him with Lieutenant Mallius and two other Jujak. Strange, considering their history, how comforting their presence was, a brotherhood borne of citizenship. “It is not wise for you to be alone, not after two attacks.”
“Aye.” And yet, Haegan was alone. “I beg your mercy, Captain. I just needed air.” He held the circlet awkwardly, thought to toss it aside, but that would be disrespectful. Instead he turned his attention to the two Jujak whose names he did not know. “I would have your names, friends.”
A lanky one with a freshly shorn head bowed. “Major Astante, sire.”
“Lieutenant Lanct,” the other, shorter but thick as an ox, said.
“Thank you. I appreciate your loyalty to Abiassa at this dark hour.” Haegan looked to Graem. “What news is there?”
“Reports have come in at last. Two weeks ago, Poired laid siege to Luxlirien.”
Haegan’s mind staggered at the thought of the Nine losing Luxlirien as well. “Has he taken it?”
“If he has not, he will soon,” the captain said with a grim shrug. “According to the reports, after Zaethien, my father gathered what he could and retreated to defend Luxlirien. But, truth be told, too many of our army fled, unnerved by what they saw at the keep. One report did mention that General Negaer and his Pathfinders were reining in as many as they could outside Hetaera.
Eyeing the bench, Haegan lowered himself to it and set aside the circlet, its metal clattering against the stone. It was so much more bleak than he’d imagined. And he had imagined plenty, having faced the desecrator himself in Seultrie.
“Many are quartered at Hetaera,” Mallius put in, “and it is likely that many more arrive each day. But word is scarce coming from the Nine. We are up here . . .”
“Aye,” Haegan muttered, understanding all too well the helplessness they felt. Yet at the same time, the quiet and peace of Ybienn gave them relief. Respite. Guilty, though it was. He studied each of the men around him. Came to his feet. “We will discuss this again on the morrow. Make plans to return.”
Graem gave him a relieved nod. “It will be as you command.” But then he hesitated. “Are you ready, my prince?”
He wasn’t. Not in the slightest. But it was his task. “I must return.”
Mallius, Astante, and Lanct bowed, then moved across the lawn, but Grinda’s gaze skidded to the side.
Thiel slid from the shadows. Hurt wrenched her features into a knot. “Ye’re leaving?”
Grinda bowed, then removed himself—but only to a respectable distance.
Haegan sighed. “I must. There is no leader for the Nine.”
“There is an entire army—”
“Scattered. Retreating. In disarray. Even from my bed, I knew my father to be what united the Nine.” Haegan stretched his jaw, feeling the tug of the stitches, and shook his head. “I am not half the man my father was, but I must do what I can. I must listen to the blood boiling in my veins.”
Thiel glided closer. “Haegan, ye’re the Fierian. If ye go—”
“I am a Celahar first.” And if it were up to him, nothing else. “That is an answer I must bring to what rages in the south. I cannot stay here, playing to sympathies and—”
“What of me?”
Deflating, Haegan gently cupped her bare shoulders. Thumbed her silky soft skin. “Would that I could stay here forever with you, Thiel, but you would not ask this of your father, or even your brother. You would not ask them to ignore their people. Do not ask it of me. I beg you.”
Because his will was weak. His desire even more so. He wanted no war. He’d expected no title or crown.
“Do ye not love me?”
Agony tore at him. “I—”
“No.” Thiel covered his mouth for a moment. “Forget I asked.” She tucked her chin with a regretful sigh.
Haegan kissed the top of her head.
Her fingers curled tight into his coat. “When do ye leave?”
“Soon.” As soon as he had a plan. As soon as supplies were ready.
21
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
Tili stood on the platform overlooking the training yard. With the wedding two days past, he had his men doing double drills, especially the new batch of recruits just in from the villages. Below, they worked in the muddy yard to hone their hand-to-hand skills. He would have them versed in all forms of combat, not just the sword.
“They grumble,” Aburas said, his voice a near growl as he leaned on the wooden rail, watching. He indicated with a nod the seventeen-year-old Kerralian who’d come in with Gwogh and the others. “He’s the worst of the lot.”
Tokar, who said he was abandoned young and knew not which clan he belonged to, had been mouthy and petulant from the start. He’d also treated Kiethiel with disrespect on multiple occasions and disobeyed Tili’s direct order to get her safely into the house the night Haegan arrived.
“Put him with Etan.”
Aburas grinned greedily. “Aye, sir.”
In contrast to Tokar, Praegur, the dark-skinned boy, had said nothing in the weeks he’d been within Nivar Hold, but he seemed stout and steadfast. “What of the Kergulian?”
“Strong fighter. Loyal.” Aburas nodded his approval. “More years and training on him, I’d wager he could take the Claw.”
Interesting. Both that Aburas saw the potential in the Kergulian, and the mere thought of a Kergulian ranking among Nivar’s best fighters. And Tili had well noted Praegur’s protective loyalty to a certain prince. He’d been distressed and angry when Prince Haegan hopped on Chima and left without talking to them. Or taking them.
“If the prince is back,” Aburas said, “then the reports are true.”
“Aye.”
“The Fire King dead,” Aburas muttered and rubbed the back of his thick neck. “Never thought I’d see that. Seultrie is without a leader.”
“Nay,” Tili said. “Their leader is
here.”
“The prince?” Aburas laughed. “The boy can’t find his own—”
“He is the only heir able to take the throne, and it will be his unless he is challenged. Seek the Lady that Haegan rises to the task. Ybienn and her allies need a strong leader in the Nine. The Lady forbid Poired should turn his gaze northward.”
Sobered, Aburas nodded. “Aye. We’ll need an ally at our back if the Rekken come down across the Violet Sea and try to break southward.”
“And we must not let that happen. If they break the forest . . .” He could not imagine what would happen. Chaos. Bloodshed. The world looked dark and bleak from his vantage.
At Aburas’s beckoning, Major Etan climbed the platform and saluted.
Aburas returned the salute. “The commander would have ye take the Kerralian, teach him some humility.”
Etan nodded to the yard. “Looks like he could use some discipline now.”
With a wave of his hand, Tokar turned away from Naudus. He muttered something Tili could not hear, but his posture, his defiance of Lieutenant Naudus’s command to get moving, pulled Tili to the stairs. He hopped over the rail and dropped the six feet to the field. After landing with a soft thump, he headed for the petulant thin-blood.
“Ye’re not done sparring until I say ye’re done,” Naudus growled. “Back with yer detachment.”
“We’re tired,” Tokar said. “We’ve been here since morning and haven’t had even a crust of bread.”
“Bread is earned. Sleep is earned.”
“Look, I’m not even supposed to be here.”
Tili came up on the Kerralian, noting the stares. The way the yard fell silent. The way Praegur lowered his gaze and took a step away from his friend. He threw a punch into the man’s gut.
Tokar bent forward with a rush of breath.
Tili punched him again. Swiped his feet out from under him.
Tokar dropped to the dirt hard with a hefty oof. He cupped a hand over his bleeding nose as he peeled himself off the ground.
Breathing hard through his anger, Tili circled him. “Ye said ye’ve been here all morning, aye?”
Back on his feet, the kid looked stunned. Angry. “Yes.”
“Then how was I able to level ye so fast?”
“You snuck up on me.”
“No!” Tili growled. “Had ye an awareness of yer surroundings, ye would have noticed.” He pointed to the circle closing in on them. “Everyone in this yard saw me coming but ye.”
Tokar’s face reddened.
“Ye want to eat?” Tili gave a cockeyed nod. “Ye can eat when ye land a punch.”
“A punch . . .” Tokar frowned. “On you?”
“Ye’ve trained all morning.” Tili rolled his neck. “Surely ye know how to punch someone by now. Naudus is the finest fighter.”
Gaze skimming the crowd, Tokar no doubt noticed the gleam in Naudus’s eyes. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“He’s afraid,” someone shouted.
Tili let the accusation hang in the crisp air.
“I’m not a soldier—”
“Color him yellow,” another recruit taunted.
Tokar reddened more. He lunged.
Predictable. Tili caught the boy’s fist. Twisted it behind and up, pitching him to the muddy ground.
Laughter sailed on the cool wind, carrying taunts and mocking. Weaklings. Thin-bloods are weak-bloods.
Tokar came to his feet, anger dug hard and fast into his brow. He put one leg back and hands up. Sparring stance.
At least he’d learned that much. Tili stood sideways, watching him, ready. A lot was going on behind those brown eyes. Working out scenarios. Thinking through attacks and defensive positioning.
He threw a jab.
Tili slapped it away, eliciting a chorus of “Ohhhs” from the men. But Tokar hadn’t followed through with another move. Testing. The boy was testing Tili, evaluating how he’d respond. Good.
Another jab. This time, followed closely with a right cross.
Tili ducked and blocked. Shifted to the side, and with his hand modeling a knife, he stabbed at Tokar’s side.
Another oof, but the boy stayed in the game. He bounced away but quickly retaliated. A punch. A jab. A cross. A hook. Another punch. “Good.” One right after another, with Tili blocking every one. “Good—but how am I blocking ye?”
“You’re a blazing commander.”
Tili slapped a knife-hand strike to Tili’s throat. Hit it just enough to make the boy drop and gasp, but not enough to crush his windpipe. With a sigh, Tili backed up. “Get him some water.” He planted his hands on his hips, staring down at the boy. “Get some food. Find me at the first bell.”
Tili looked around at the circle of recruits, allowing his voice to carry. “The enemy outside those walls will not care if ye are not a soldier. Poired is murdering innocents and conscripting all males from boys to grandfathers. Think he will care what training ye’ve had?”
Tili’s eyes found Tokar, and he lowered his voice. “If ye are to tend the Fierian, ye will need to know how to fight.”
22
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
“Yes, yes, yes!”
Haegan tried not to let Drracien’s enthusiasm bloat his head. It was little, what he’d done. Harnessing a flame and nudging it along the rope Drracien had secured between two posts. The flame danced over the line—without consuming the rope.
With a huff, Haegan turned away, suddenly impatient with the lessons. His mind was filled with concerns and questions. “What news of Sir Gwogh? When did he leave?”
“No news,” Drracien said, coiling the rope and returning it to a hook in the wall. “He left shortly after you flew out on that raqine.” At Haegan’s side, he considered him. “What do you want with him? Last I knew you weren’t exactly pleased with him.”
“Nor am I now.” He wanted answers. A confrontation. Justice. But it would do no good to reveal what he’d learned from Wegna about Gwogh. Was it true? Possible, even, that Gwogh had poisoned him? If he could just recall that fateful dinner when he’d fallen to the poison. A celebration, wasn’t it?
Or perhaps . . .
He rubbed his forehead. “Why do I recall what I wish to forget and forget what I wish to recall?”
Drracien laughed. “Because you are singewood.”
“Aye, my sister often said the same. But,” Haegan hesitated, “I need to remember something from my childhood.”
The merry mood fell away from Drracien. “I hear you.” He nodded. “I would remember my father.”
“You don’t know your father?”
Drracien shook his head. “Neither his name nor his face, save that my mother always complained I had his eyes and look.”
“Then pale and ugly?”
Apparently without thought, Drracien shoved out a heat wave. It rushed Haegan, but just as quick, it was doused.
Surprise fastened Drracien to the floor. “That’s a fourth-level tactic,” he said, with a mixture of surprise and awe. “How do you know how to do that?”
Haegan lifted a shoulder. He could not explain how he even had the ability to wield when all his life he’d been told he couldn’t. Although, Gwogh had told him in front of the Council of Nine that “simply wasn’t so.”
They went out to the courtyard between the training yard and kitchens to wash their hands at the trough.
“What’s it like?”
Scrubbing his hands, Haegan looked to the accelerant. “What?”
“Being a prince.”
Haegan snorted and scrubbed harder. “’Tis no secret that my life has been less than ideal, especially for a prince.”
“But they respect you.”
Haegan met his friend’s eyes and saw that Drracien indicated a group huddled just inside the eating area of the kitchen. The staff watched him over their steaming bowls and mugs. “Respect?” He slapped his hands in the air, then gathered heat to dry them. “Nay, they do not respect me. They fear me.”
&
nbsp; Drracien grinned. “What is the difference?”
“Even you know the answer.”
After getting some food from the cook, they slipped onto now-empty benches, the staff having quickly vanished to the halls and their work. Haegan dug in, glad for the sustenance.
“I am sorry about your father,” Drracien spoke into the relative quiet.
Haegan paused with his spoon lifted, hating the images that crackled through his mind. “Me, too.” But he still had the reconciliation that had happened before his father’s death. It was a gift. A bittersweet one. They’d stood in the high tower, and he’d realized they were not so different after all.
“You’re forgiving of a man who, in your own words, paid you no mind.” Drracien tore a chunk of bread and dipped into the broth of the stew.
“Before he died, he told me he used to come to my room every night as I slept.” Haegan had so yearned for his father’s attention, his approval. “He said he could not face me because he had failed me.”
“He blamed himself?”
“Aye.” And in those last hours, he’d had the approbation he craved. “He was so surprised—and proud—when he saw me wield. I could live in that memory for years.” The pride . . . yes, the pride. “He was my father. And in the end . . . things changed.”
“He saw you wield against Poired?”
“No, against him—my father.” Haegan stared at the chunks of meat and vegetables in the bowl. “And then . . . I failed. Poired knew anger would be my undoing. Right from the beginning.” He scooped up a spoonful of stew and shoved it into his mouth before he could be expected to say more.
Having pushed his bowl away, Drracien leaned forward and set both elbows on the table. “We teach first-years to manage that. Anger is the easiest fuel to manipulate for those with advanced training.”
Haegan slid his gaze to his friend. “Advanced training.”
With a lift of his shoulder, Drracien thumbed his jaw. “It makes sense, right, that Poired has had training.”
Haegan had never put much thought into how the Dark One had gotten to where he was. It had not seemed important, considering the swath of destruction he was wreaking across the Nine. Now he realized the advantage that might lie in understanding his foe more fully.