by Ronie Kendig
Drracien spoke his thoughts for him. “I’d like to know who trained him. Grand Marshal Dromadric and High Marshal Aloing trained some of the fiercest accelerants.”
“Including my father.”
“Aye. And Thurig. And maybe your sister?”
“Mayhap.” Everyone but me. Again, I fail the kingdom.
Movement down the passage lifted Haegan’s gaze to the flickering shadows. A shape took form—his heart thudded. Thiel. She met his stare, then entered a room. An invitation to follow. Their time was short, so he would not miss a single chance.
“Give care”—Drracien’s words followed him down the passage—“her brothers have enjoyed beating Tokar to a pulp in the training yard. Think not that they would give you better treatment, if you are caught with her alone.”
Haegan shrugged off the warning. There would be no harm, no indiscretion. He slowed as he approached the doorway, listening for voices. When met with only silence, he peered around the jamb.
Thiel stood in front of the fire pit, staring down at the flames. When he moved to stand beside her, she took his hand, still saying nothing.
“Thiel, I’m sorry about the other night. I—”
She shook her head and squeezed his hand, stopping him. “Nay, I am the one who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did—tried to keep ye here. ’Twas wrong.” She took a breath and turned to face him fully. “I want to go with ye to the Nine.”
Haegan frowned, reaching to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear, noting how long it had grown since they’d first met “I do not think it wise.”
“Aye, ye and most in this house, but the choice is mine.”
“Is it?” Haegan asked, thinking of the reaction from her father if she left the safety of Ybienn for bloodshed and war. “And I do not want it for you.”
Thiel drew back. Scowled. “How can ye say such a cruel thing?”
“Because I want you to live—to do well. To have a long life.”
“But I am yer champion. Abiassa crossed our paths, ye cannot deny it.”
“I deny nothing. But, Thiel . . .”
“I can see that yer words are as heavy and weighted as yer heart.” She squinted at him. “Ye’re . . . frightened.”
Shame pushed his gaze down. Reality brought it back to her face. None who faced Poired lived. And the Deliverers would not allow him to kill the hand of darkness. Could he let her stand beside him? Fall beside him?
“Haegan, ye’re the Fierian.”
“I don’t want that. I don’t want to be that.” He gritted his teeth. “All my life I just wanted people to accept me. To let me into their lives and thoughts. Now . . .”
Thiel brushed his hair from his face and touched his cheek. “Ye are the Chosen. Abiassa chose ye to wield the Flames and restore Primar—”
“Restore?” He turned away and stalked to the corner. “Raze is what the prophecies say. That the lands will be destroyed. People will die because of me—no, not simply because of me, but by me. By my hand!”
“But after death comes new life.”
“I cannot see the good.” Rubbing his temple did nothing to rub the truth from his mind. “I will return to the Nine as heir to the throne.”
“And ignore what She has called ye to?”
Haegan said nothing. It sounded absurd put like that.
“To what?” An edge snapped into her voice.
Haegan saw the disapproval he’d expected, and it hurt. Cut deep. “Nothing.”
“Haegan,” she said, her words tinged in remonstration, “ye are many things, but a coward is not one of them.”
He loved how her brogue had deepened since she’d returned to her family. But why did she feel as a stranger to him now? “And you know so much about me?”
“Now ye cower behind a sharp tongue? Is that to be yer best defense, tunnel rat?”
He frowned at her. He should not be surprised—she was a strong woman. A leader. A fighter. ’Twas why he’d grown attached to her, to her strength. Even without him, she would do well. Mayhap even better.
Death lay ahead if she came with him. He must say good-bye now. “You are right,” he said with a curt bow. “I have no defense. Good day, Kiethiel.”
23
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
The morning after Haegan’s falling out with Thiel, a month almost to the day after witnessing his king’s death, General Kiliv Grinda arrived at Nivar Hold.
Flanked by Graem and Mallius, Haegan made his way to the second-level library where the general waited. Haegan’s limbs ached—as did his heart. His limbs from the pervasive chill in the air. His heart for the iciness of Thiel’s response to the earlier encounter. For the knowledge of his own imminent departure. For the plight of his people and the news he knew Grinda must bring.
Haegan tugged the heavy cloak tight around his shoulders as they entered, sunlight streaming through the bay of windows and silhouetting a very familiar frame. In spite of the situation, something in Haegan lifted at the sight of the man who had treated him with more fatherly affection than his own father, the king. “General Grinda.”
“My prince,” General Grinda said, unmistakable relief in his greeting. His eyes flicked to Graem and he nodded before they returned to Haegan, taking in the gash on Haegan’s jaw. “Looks like you couldn’t wait to get into the fight.”
Haegan fingered the wound gently. “Yes, it would seem someone felt I lingered too long in the peace of the Northlands.”
“It will not happen again, sir,” the younger Grinda said. “I’ve assigned myself and Mallius to the prince’s personal guard, among others I trust.”
“Aye. He’s in good hands.” The general nodded, but a heaviness weighted his face.
“Are you well, general?” Haegan asked.
With a grimace, Grinda indicated the chairs nearby. “We should talk.” He motioned to the door as another man entered. “I’ve asked Commander Thurig to join us.”
Haegan shifted, surprised. Uncertain. Especially when he saw Tili’s dark expression.
“My father would have been here, but there was a meeting of the parliament he could not miss,” Tili said with a curt nod.
“Of course,” Haegan said as he motioned to the seats. “Please.”
Grinda moved to a settee and lowered himself to it. Barrel-chested and thick bearded, he looked awkward perched there. “Seultrie and the Nine need a leader.”
Haegan felt the swirl of dread in his gut. Unlike every other man in this room, he was not qualified to lead an army. “Aye.”
Grinda wasn’t one to back down. “I ordered the remaining Jujak to regroup outside Hetaera. Once I receive word they are encamped, I and the Valor Guard will join them—as your escort.” His gray eyes fixed on Haegan. “I’ve called for the Council of Nine and the Elders to meet you at Hetaera. You will stand before them in the Contending, my prince.”
Swallowing, realizing he would be tested—as all fire kings were—Haegan nodded.
Tili frowned at him. “Ye don’t seem surprised.”
Haegan’s blue eyes turned to Tili. “I had hope that my sister would be returned and restored, but her giftings are gone.” His shoulders seemed to sag as he shook his head. “The Fire throne must be secured by one with the ability to wield. She cannot wield. Therefore, by blood, it falls to me.”
“There is logic to that, but no passion,” Tili said.
He sounded so much like his older brother, but Haegan said nothing, grateful when the general spoke up.
“You must ride south with me when the Jujak are assembled,” Grinda said.
Haegan sighed. “Aye.”
Footsteps—heavy and many—pounded in the hall, bringing all the men to their feet. Tili held up a hand then moved to the door. “I’m sure ’tis nothing. Wait here.”
Two Nivari trotted up to the commander and they talked quietly. Tili nodded to them, then returned to the library.
Tili’s expression pulled Haegan forward. “What is it?”
“Word out of Baen’s Crossing—Sirdarians.”
Grinda stilled. Scowled. “Sirdarians?”
“Naught but a handful of scouts, but, aye,” Tili said. “’Tis not good.”
Haegan jerked visibly. “This far north—why?”
Tili considered him. “Ye said when ye flew away with yer sister, he chased ye.”
“Aye, shot fire volleys for leagues—much farther than I thought possible.” Haegan shoved his hair from his face. “You think they hunt me?”
“Without a doubt,” Grinda said. “If that Watchman knew you were the Fierian, it is safe to assume word has spread. And you faced the Dark One, so he tasted your power. He will not stop till he has taken your gifts and you are dead.”
Haegan felt sick.
“Aye,” Grinda said. He looked at Haegan. “We must go at once to Baen’s Crossing.” When Haegan nodded, he started for the stairs, his intensity drawing the rest of them along behind him. “I will rally the Jujak here at Ybienn.”
“The Nivari will saddle up and meet ye on the southern plain.” Tili started for the door. Then glanced at Haegan. “Ye lost our raqine—”
“She flew off.”
“—can I trust ye with a destrier?” Tili smiled, his taunt evident.
“I could no more restrain Chima than you,” Haegan said. “What a destrier might do, I cannot say.”
“Ye just have to stay on long enough to defeat Poired.”
“Oh, is that all?”
Defeat Poired . . .
Why did the battle already feel lost?
24
Nivar Hold, Ybienn
Haegan stood at the wardrobe, stricken. I am but a boy still learning to find his legs. How was he to fight an impossible warlord? An impossible war? His own father with decades of training and experience had fallen dead in minutes against Poired.
Of course, that could be the fault of his feckless son, who had somehow lessened him, as Drracien explained, in the Kindling.
Was that it? Was he to die and be a sacrifice? Why did You choose me? I have no idea what I’m doing.
Which meant he would fail. And die. Just like his father. With another expulsion of breath, Haegan turned back to the wardrobe. He could not even pack his clothes, let alone confront a raiding party.
“Your shoulders are weighted with worry.”
Haegan stilled at the deep voice resonating through the room. He slowly pivoted, his brow knitting together as he met his friend’s dark eyes. “You speak.”
Praegur held fast to his place just inside the door. “She grants it only when there is something to say, and to none but you.” He indicated to the wardrobe. “May I serve you?”
Haegan blinked. “Serve me?”
Three long strides carried the Kergulian across the wood floor to the wardrobe. He drew out two pairs of pants and a clean shirt. As he folded the items and placed them in a satchel, Haegan could only stare.
“How long have you been able to speak?”
“Since your return. And it is a relief to hear it after these many weeks,” he said, intent on his mission.
“Does it not drive you mad?”
Praegur smirked. “It was difficult to adjust to.” He shrugged. “But She has a purpose in all this, and I trust Her.”
Trust. Was that it then—he didn’t trust?
“Sire.”
Haegan cringed. “Do not call me that.”
“I must. You are my king.”
“Nay—I am not. Not yet.”
“You are blood-born of Zireli and the only heir able to assume the throne. And it is clear, that as Fierian, you—”
“No!”
An eruption of light and fire streaked across the room, narrowly missing Praegur’s shoulder and stopping him cold.
Haegan froze. “Praegur,” he choked. “I beg your mercy.” The words all tumbled out on top of each other. Ashamed and frustrated, he turned away. “I cannot even wield without error. How am I to lead a realm?”
“Sire.”
Haegan slowly brought his gaze to his friend.
Concern knotted Praegur’s prominent brow. “You must not entertain those thoughts. As a Celahar, you are committed to Her ways, yes?”
Haegan swallowed. “Of course.” All his ancestors had dedicated their lives and children to Her, to serve.
“Then you cannot question what She does with your life. It is but for you to obey.”
“You sound like Gwogh,” Haegan said as he donned a winter cloak.
“He is a wise man, so I thank you.” Praegur secured the buckles of the satchel and gave a slight bow. “Ready, sire.”
“I would prefer you use my name in private.”
Praegur hesitated. “Perhaps someday, my lord. When you are accustomed to being called ‘sire.’”
They made their way down the stairs and found Tili, Relig, and Osmon attired in coats and boots. King Thurig stood with them, the entourage watching as Haegan approached.
Thurig’s keen eyes assessed him. “My sons have told me of the attack on Baen’s Crossing. Ye have my sympathy, as well as the full support of the Nivari, should ye need them.” He nodded to the prince. “They will accompany ye to the border and wait there for word from ye.”
Haegan’s insides quaked. “I thank you . . .” He did not even use the name or title, for his addled mind could not sort the appropriate one to use.
“Fierian,” Tili said as he took a step back, clearing a path to the door. “We have mounts ready for ye.”
“I will need one for my advisor,” Haegan said, nodding to the his dark-skinned friend.
Tili stayed in stride. “Of course.”
“Where is Grinda?” Haegan asked as they headed into the chilly day.
“Waiting in the stable yard with the Jujak.” Tili donned a steel helmet that framed his face, crowning his eyes and nose and mouth. “My men are on the south plain, ready when ye are.”
Tili and Osmon, dressed in battle armor but also in the raiment that marked them as Thurig’s sons—the ornamental mantles over their mail, as well as the green paint that traced the T-shaped cutout of their helms. Long green cloaks fluttered on the cold wind as they launched up onto their mounts with an effortlessness Haegan envied.
“My king,” Grinda’s voice boomed.
“General,” Haegan said, turning toward the commander of the Seultrian armies—and stopping short. “I would ask that you not use that title with me yet.”
“You are my king, whether you wear the crown or not.” Grinda held up the Fire King’s dark red mantle and cloak that changed color—from orange to gold to white—with the intensity of Flames being wielded. Clasped in his right hand was the gold circlet carved with flames. Not the simple one he’d borrowed from the Thurigs and worn at the wedding. The Fire King’s.
“Nay.” Haegan started for the reins of the destrier Praegur held.
“Sire, you are—”
“I am not crowned nor have I won the Contending. I have no right to wear those.”
“As Zireli’s son, it is not only your birthright but your duty!”
“I can’t.”
“You will,” Grinda growled, stomping forward, the mantle and circle held with respect. “Think not for one spark that this is about you, boy. This is about Seultrie. It is about Abiassa. It is about an evil so dark and so great people forget to breathe. You are blood-born of Zaelero and Zireli.” Trembling with barely controlled passion, he shoved the piece against Haegan’s chest. “Put it on and embrace what you must—for your people. My people. Think the Jujak will follow a boy, whimpering in his leathers, when they face the Desecrator reborn?”
The scalding lecture seared away Haegan’s petulance. Heart thundering, Haegan felt more the boy who’d lain in a bed listening to Grinda’s spectacular tales of conquest. “I am . . . ill prepared, Grinda.”
The general cocked his head. “A man who takes this without considering the costs is not worthy of it.”
“Really,
” Tokar said as he stepped forward. “You need to get your head out of your own problems.”
“Give care how you address your king,” Grinda’s voice growled through the yard. “I will not grant another warning.”
Haegan faced him. Nodded and removed the winter cloak. Grinda helped him into the ornamental mantle, then lifted the circlet. “Nay,” Haegan muttered. “Not the Fire King’s. I’ll wear the plain circlet of a Zaethien prince. Until the Contending.”
Grinda grinned. Lifted something from a satchel. “I thought you might.” He handed the plain gold band over.
With a snort, Haegan allowed the general to set it on his head.
“Sire,” Praegur said, then nodded over Haegan’s shoulder.
He turned and found Thiel lingering on the fringes, and he went to her.
Thiel looked at the fire king’s crown as Grinda returned it to a box. “Ye can no more fight or delay who ye were born to be than a raqine can change its wings.” She smiled, taking in the circlet on his head. “Prince today, but king soon enough.”
The weight of it crushed him, suffocating him with images of his father wearing it. Of the way it caught the sunlight. The way it made people sit up and take notice. His father had been strong. Powerful.
Thiel’s eyes glowed as her gaze slid from the gold to his eyes. She smiled. He felt it all the way to his toes, reveling in the way she looked at him. “I would say come back to me, but this is not yer home.”
“I must stay alive before I can consider life after or invite the one I love to share it with me.”
Thiel’s chin quavered with emotion.
“An’ t’ fink,” came Laertes’s awe-filled voice, “him what can’t remember how he ended up in da tunnels will be him what commands da armies.”
“We ride,” Grinda’s voice boomed.
Haegan took the reins from Praegur and climbed onto his horse. Outside the stable, he slowed the animal, glancing at the dozen Jujak in full attire, their uniforms as sharp and intimidating in their own right as Tili’s had been.
A shout went up, the salute of the Jujak as he rode past, their helms dipping in honor.