by Ronie Kendig
Tokar hopped away, grimacing. “What? I meant—help defend Haegan.” He peered at Laertes, rubbing the top of his foot on the back of his opposite calf. “Pick on someone your own size. It was an earnest statement.”
Laertes grinned, his blond hair tucked behind his ears to stay out of his eyes. “Den what’s dat make us, iffin dem swords are Jujak? And da king’s men be Valor Guard?” The boy scratched his head. “Dat makes us what, da Fire Guard?”
“Yeah, because he’s going to set us on fire.”
32
Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
Had he wool for a tongue it could not have been drier. The green Celahar surcoat embroidered with the tri-tipped flame itched at the neck, but Haegan suppressed the urge to scratch. Instead, he sat perfectly still and stared over the green and gold plume adorning his warhorse’s chamfron at the delegation of ten sent to welcome him. Grinda had explained he would have to formally stake his claim to the throne, but surely that could wait until they reached the city itself.
From his right came the Jujak.
“Negaer,” Grinda muttered.
Haegan mentally nodded. He’d heard of Negaer. Hard man, even harder general. Commander of the Pathfinders. Though Grinda had called him ruthless, there had also been a hint of admiration. Despite misgivings about methods, Grinda respects him.
“Prince Haegan,” Negaer boomed into the morning. “I am General Negaer, Commander of the northern contingent and Pathfinders. You are welcomed back to Hetaera. It is good to see you . . . alive.”
Spine straight, shoulders squared, Negaer defined military command. His eyes were hard and focused. Unlike Grinda with his slight paunch, every muscle on Negaer seemed carved from steel. Years in the elements had leathered his face.
It had not escaped Haegan’s notice that the fierce general had yet to submit himself to Haegan’s leadership.
“You forget yourself,” Grinda growled. “He is your king—”
“My king is dead,” Negaer said evenly. “Murdered on the bridge of Fieri Keep.”
Flames and screams raked Haegan’s mind. He shrank back—but no. He must not appear weak. Could not flinch. “Then you saw that terrible battle.” He sounded bigger than he felt. “You saw Poired cut down the king and queen with relentless cruelty.”
“Aye.” There was something . . . cold, hate-filled in the way Negaer answered. But this field was not the place to rout the truth.
Negaer let out a whistle. Immediately, the column of Jujak behind him split in two, facing the path they formed down the middle that was wide enough for two to pass unencumbered. Straight to the sea of red and black. Like burnt blood. The Ignatieri. It was an invitation to draw closer to Hetaera. Now, only the Ignatieri stood between him and the capital city.
Haegan started forward, Grinda at his side as his champion, and Negaer and Tiadith behind. As the Valor Guard brought up the rear, the sea of warriors became a single unit.
Two hundred paces separated them from the three hundred accelerants on the field. Did these accelerants know who he was? That he was the Fierian?
Two rows of five accelerants in plain black uniforms moved out in front of the high lords and grand marshal. Hands behind their backs, they went to a knee. Then to both. With an elaborate sway, they raised their arms over their heads, then splayed their palms on the grass, faces pressed downward.
The ten rolled onto their backs and shoved their hands, fingers held claw-like, to the sky. Fireballs shot up.
Grinda swung out a hand, stopping their column.
“It’s not an attack. It’s a welcome form,” Tiadith said, his voice more pleased than Haegan had heard before. “For you.”
The fireballs dropped and the accelerants spun the balls with their feet, as if riding them lying down. Then as one—they kicked and flipped themselves upright. They swung in an amazing, swirling pattern, arms like windmills. With each rotation, a new spark flew from their fingers. Blue. Red.
“How . . . ?” Haegan found himself envying the skill as much as the technique.
“They are the demonstration team,” Tiadith said quietly. “They train relentlessly.”
“Demonstration? To what end?”
“Recruitment.”
Haegan nearly laughed. “Surely you cannot—accelerants are chosen by Abiassa.”
“Aye, but we use the demonstration team to visit villages and ensure they know there is a safe place to train.”
Haegan marveled as the accelerants swept into a straight line. The first one spewed a long stream of fire into the sky. Tipped backward. A second set of hands went up, adding to the flame. Then a third . . .
Haegan would’ve taken a step back, watching as the stream grew, both in enormity and length. The stream slowly coiled in on itself, roiling, crackling in the air, but he could not take his eyes from the display. Was it his imagination or had the fire stream morphed?
A chill rushed over Haegan, and he twitched beneath the cooling fingers.
And fourth . . . fifth . . . until they had all combined their wielding and created a massive creature. Wings spread out. Snapped. Like a canopy on the wind.
Sparks formed white eyes. Wings. A tail.
The accelerants were still moving—dancing—bringing the mighty animal to “life.” Drawing back, the fire creature seemed to rear. Then lunged forward.
A wave of shouts and cries went up among the Jujak as the fiery creature glided overhead. “A raqine,” someone said.
Haegan was not completely sure the Pathfinders were even breathing, for they had made no response to the display. They stood motionless, severe, like marble columns.
Haegan lifted a hand as the fire raqine roared over them, letting the heat trail across the tips of his fingers. The wake blanketed his senses. He craned his neck to peer into the sky as the raqine rose toward the sun, then exploded into fireworks.
But as he watched, something nagged at Haegan’s mind. At his heart. Was it right for these gifts, meant for the protection of Abiassa’s children, to be treated as a sideshow? Were gifts being misused? He didn’t know. It seemed harmless.
“Prince Haegan,” Dromadric shouted from the other end of the field. “In the name of Our Lady, we welcome you to the Citadel of Zaelero.”
With that, the accelerants pivoted and marched back toward the city, leading Haegan and the Jujak with great fanfare and fiery displays. As they crossed the main bridge, hooves clomping heavily against the wood, the citizens sent up a shout.
Haegan furrowed his brow.
Grinda grinned broadly beneath his trim beard. “Zireli’s heir is come!”
33
Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
Laughter lived here. That’s what his mother used to say. Before he’d been poisoned. Before he’d been isolated from the world, Haegan had run the halls of Celahar Mansion, the great home used when his father-king was summoned to Hetaera to meet with the Council of Nine or the rulers of the other eight kingdoms.
“It is suggested, my lord,” Grinda said, “that you make Celahar Mansion your home now that Seultrie is taken.”
“Then we are to simply roll over like an obedient dog at the feet of its new master?” Acerbic words—not his intent but the result all the same. In his new role, it was imperative—whether he liked it or not—that he exercise lessons of diplomacy. “I beg your mercy. The travels have taken a toll on my manners.”
He turned away from the others. The two Grindas stood by the fire with Negaer and one of his captains, while Dromadric and Adomath had planted themselves in two high-backed chairs, flanking Haegan like armies in attack formation. Tiadith moved between the two groups like a restless dog.
Haegan ignored them all, focusing instead on the bay of windows overlooking the city. Another tower of isolation. It wasn’t really, but it had the feel of where he’d spent the last ten years—distant. Cold. Separate.
“Marshal Tiadith mentioned you were attacked at Baen’s Crossing,” Dromadric
said, his voice deep yet oily.
Haegan clasped his hands behind his back, recalling the great shock when he’d realized incipients had come out against him. “Aye,” he spoke to the window.
“An even greater tale has come from that story.” A chuckle, hollow and disdainful, injected itself into Dromadric’s statement. “That the giants have returned.”
“They have.” Haegan kept his tone civil, clean, still refusing to look at those gathered in his private quarters.
“But that’s . . . absurd,” Dromadric sniffed.
Haegan sighed.
“They were absurdly tall,” Tiadith exclaimed with a nervous chuckle. “And powerful. Their voices like thunder in the heavens. I have never seen anything like it! And the way they knelt before Prince Haegan and waited for his command, then returned after they’d delivered Her justice to those wicked incipients . . .”
“This must make you very proud,” Dromadric purred.
“Proud?” Grinding his teeth did nothing to alleviate the annoyance thrumming through his veins. He spun. “Proud?” How could anyone—“Think you I should be proud, watching even the wicked snapped in two like twigs? And grown men smashed to dust in a sickening burst of red?” He touched his ears. “Never will I forget those sounds—the sounds of death.”
“No.” Dromadric, in lesser regalia now but still ornate, surged out of his chair. “No, it was the sound of Her judgment on those who acted against the future king.”
“King?” Haegan’s voice pitched. But he caught himself. “Think you anyone in the Nine will want a king who is”—he pivoted to the accelerant at Dromadric’s side, Adomath—“what was it you called me at the Great Falls? A scourge? An abomination?”
The high lord shifted. “I spoke out of ignorance,” Adomath hissed.
“Yet the sentiment remains,” Haegan said, his gaze returning to the crowds bustling through the city. “It lingers in your words like a fermented drink, stinking.”
Stepping into the thick silence after Haegan’s reproach, Grinda said, “Soon you will present yourself to the Council of Nine for the Contending. After that, a date will be set for your coronation.”
Haegan closed his eyes. This should not be happening.
“That is,” Dromadric said, “assuming the Council accepts you and your claim.”
Haegan wanted to say he made no claim, but he did not want to sound petulant, or worse—repulsed, even though he was. As the only able-bodied heir, Haegan had a duty to step into the role of Fire King, especially now that he displayed Her gifts.
“They will, of course, want to see a demonstration of your gifts.” Dromadric’s long, narrow face seemed elongated by his uniform’s pointy shoulders and arcing collar sweeping up behind his head. “Assuming you have a gifting.”
He baits me. Haegan refused to turn, to acknowledge in any regard the grand marshal’s words and insinuation. “You know well, after numerous visits to Fieri Keep,” he said, watching a red-haired boy dart in and out of the crowd like a fish swimming upstream, “’twas my sister who was gifted.”
“And of that—how is the Princess Kaelyria? We hope and pray for her safe return.”
“As do I,” Haegan said, not surprised the grand marshal knew of his sister’s health.
He recalled sneaking through the city, all those weeks ago, trying to follow Drracien. Where was the accelerant now? He’d quietly slipped from their ranks and vanished. In truth, Haegan had been relieved to discover him missing. He’d insisted Tiadith and his Ignatieri let Drracien go but seriously doubted he’d hold the same sway over Dromadric.
“In the meeting with the Nine,” Grinda said, “objections to your taking the throne will be raised.”
“Good.”
“How can you be so cavalier about taking the throne?” Reproach pinched the grand marshal’s voice.
“My life has been engulfed in one battle after another, Dromadric,” Haegan said, his voice bouncing off the window. “Cavalier is the last thing I feel.”
“But the objections—”
“If an objection or complaint is presented that I cannot answer or give a reasoned response for, then I am no more fit to be king than the crippled prince who laid in a tower for most of his life.” Only, he was that prince. And he wasn’t. His reflection stared back at him. Who am I?
After a long pause, Haegan saw Dromadric’s image in the window rise. “You are tired, Highness. We will leave you.”
Finally. Haegan almost sighed in relief at the words, but he remained in place. Hands behind his back. Eyes on the city. Movement again reflected in the glass as Captain Grinda escorted Dromadric and Adomath out, then returned.
“They find you unresponsive,” Negaer said tersely.
“You mean, unmanipulated.” Haegan walked to the small round table where fruits, cheese, and cordi juice were set out. He took a chunk of the cheese and bit into it. “You forget—I spent my life listening to an accelerant. Where is my old tutor anyway? I thought he would be breathing down my neck the moment we arrived.” Haegan would have words with the old man. Did he truly poison me?
“There are reports he is in the city, but we have no confirmation,” Captain Grinda said. “I’ve asked the Ignatieri to keep us informed on the arrival of the Council.”
The older Grinda sat down, reminding Haegan of a cross between his own father and King Thurig. It was an interesting idea, and a possibly lethal concoction. “What’s on your heart, my prince?”
Haegan steepled his fingers, thinking. “Everything. Nothing.” Then he shook his head. “Dromadric said the return of the giants is absurd—” He snorted. “But me? Me being king? I laid in the tower for ten years, thinking I would be nothing but a possible advisor to my sister. To stand here now, poised for the throne . . . that seems absurd.”
“So, you have already changed your mind about the throne? So easily?”
“No.” Shaking his head again, Haegan wrestled his own thoughts. “Yes.” He growled. “I don’t know. But admit it—this is insane.”
The general’s thick brows tangled together. “Why?”
“Because!” Haegan lifted his hands in frustration. “I have not the instruction nor preparation. My sister was trained. You should bring her from Legier’s Heart.”
“Aye, my prince,” Grinda said sadly. “I know you love the princess. There has always been a strong bond between you two, but”—he shook his head—“she cannot take the throne. We all know it. And I mean not for my words to be cruel, but she is paralyzed. And as you have said, ill.”
Haegan shoved to his feet and paced. “And who is to say she won’t fully recover? The Drigo have gifts of healing. There was one there, tending her. She regained use of her arms.”
“Arms.” The general stared into his cup, his somber, ruddy face betraying his own sadness. “Are we to hope none will challenge her for the throne—and the Council will demand it with a perceived weakness. We all know that as well.”
Negaer grunted. “Or how long are we expected to wait to see if she does recover?”
“As long as it takes.”
Negaer’s eyes went fierce. “Would you have us tell Poired to halt his attacks while we wait?”
Haegan growled and returned to the window.
“If you take the throne and your sister recovers,” came Grinda’s more gentle yet firm words, “you can step down or abdicate, should you then feel it still necessary.”
Haegan wrestled with the logic, only to release the source behind his fear. “Can you not see I am ill qualified?” That odor, the one he’d tasted on the hill outside the city, hit his mouth again. Filled his nostrils. Stung.
Boards creaked as Grinda came to his side. “Do you see”—shoulder touching Haegan’s, he nodded to the Citadel—“the spire?”
Gleaming, oblivious to Haegan’s turmoil, the multi-orbed spire stuck defiantly into the sky. Red, blue, and green gems covered the three spheres sparkling beneath the sun’s caress.
“You know the st
ory, my prince, of Baen and his warriors, fighting their way into the city. His melding a glass dagger from the sand in his hands”—he held out a thick, callused palm—“and using it to end the life of Dirag the Desecrator.”
Haegan didn’t answer. Didn’t dare move a muscle. Aye, he knew the story.
“Who was Baen?”
Confused by the question, Haegan flicked his gaze to the general.
“He was no one,” Grinda said, his lips thinned in . . . disgust? “A commoner-general. Like me.”
“Is this your way of saying you want the throne?” A thick slap to the back of his head startled Haegan. His eyes went wide. “You struck me!” He laughed.
“Aye, and you need much more than that, but I have respect for you.”
Stunned at the words, Haegan stilled with his hand on his head, eyes locked on the general, commander of the Valor Guard. Grinda respected him?
“I know you haven’t heard kind words most of your life. I know you lack belief in yourself, but remember that Baen was naught but a farmer who took up a sword to protect what he believed in.” His chest heaved. “And he leveled the Desecrator and became king. It is not your birth that sets you apart but your heart.”
The backs of his eyes burned.
“You leaped on the back of an animal you knew not how to control, to rush back to save your family.”
Haegan swallowed.
“You fought—and hard. We saw it. We watched”—were there tears in his eyes?—“as that demon cut your father’s breath from him. You.” He tapped Haegan’s chest with two fingers. “You stepped into Ederac’s fiery maw to save the king.”
“Why didn’t you kill him?”
Haegan flinched at Negaer’s intruding words. Looked to the side where the general stood.
No—no, he wanted to spend more time absorbing Grinda’s words. His belief. The austerity in his voice.
“You were there.” Intensity radiated through Negaer’s expression. “You faced him on that bridge. Why did you not kill Poired, if you are so powerful?” There wasn’t an accusation in his words. Only legitimate question.
But it dawned on Haegan as he met Grinda’s eyes once more. “You said you were there.”