Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  “Aye.”

  “Did you see it—him?” Haegan looked between the generals. “Did either of you see the Deliverer who stood between me and the Dark One?”

  The two exchanged a glance before shaking their heads.

  “There were three, in fact,” Haegan said with a shudder. “I very much wanted to kill Poired—and was going to. You are right that I had the power—at least, I think I did.” He scratched his jaw. “I was livid, and I wanted him dead. Having watched him murder my mother, then attack my sister and kill my father—nothing was violent enough for him.”

  “Why didn’t you?” Negaer again.

  “A Deliverer stopped me. Told me it was not for me to kill Poired.” Haegan remembered. Oh, he remembered. The fires. The screams. The smell of burning flesh. “But I was going to kill him anyway. Melt his flesh right off his bones. Sear the life from his lungs.” Anger radiated through him, his words coming through teeth clenched in the agony of remembrance.

  “Aye, we saw you advance,” Negaer said softly. “But then you stopped. Next thing, you’re climbing on the back of that beast and flying off.”

  Haegan drew up his sleeve and showed the marred mess on his forearm. “For my rebellion and my thirst for Poired’s blood, the Deliverer gave me a reminder.”

  Captain Grinda grimaced. “Does it hurt?”

  A wry smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. “Only when I think of it.”

  Grinda looked over his shoulder at the steely Negaer. “Are you satisfied?”

  Negaer moved one step forward. Inclined his head. “I beg mercy for my reticence, Prince Haegan. I yield my sword and the Pathfinders to you.”

  Awe rushed through Haegan, thinking of the white-cloaked Pathfinders, the elite of the elite Jujak. And yet—

  Negaer had doubted him.

  And with good reason. Haegan was not worthy of this burden. He did not want swords. He did not want fealty. He wanted . . . out.

  The taste. Again. What was that?

  It didn’t matter. He pivoted and stalked away from the soldiers. Away from the great responsibility bearing down on him. He reached the entrance to his private chambers, but the doors swung open before he could touch the knob. Haegan stopped short.

  The valet tucked his chin, hiding his gaze.

  Haegan’s hands curled into fists. “Stop bowing.” His heart pounded. “Stop yielding. Stop . . . just stop!”

  34

  Abandoned Village, Vid, the Kingdom of the Nine

  “Well, well,” came a sneering voice from a dark alley. “What pretties we have here.”

  Trale slowed to a stop, mentally tracking the four brigands who peeled from the shadows of the millinery. Astadia slid behind him, and he trained himself on her breathing. Normal. Calm. He had expected as much, but never failed to verify. It wasn’t the first ambush they’d walked into. Wouldn’t be the last.

  Four men with foul breath had little chance of stopping them. But when he felt Astadia’s shoulder blades bump his back, he stilled. Apparently, more had come from behind as well.

  “Five,” she muttered over her shoulder.

  “Nine to two,” Trale said to the mealymouthed man who’d spoken. “Not exactly a fair fight.”

  “Who says it have t’ be fair?” a wiry man said around his sneer. “What you got in that sack?”

  “Food, clothes, blankets—we’re wanderers.” Play dumb. Make them overconfident.

  “Well, it seems you wandered right into our little city. Dues—you gots to pay dues.” The wiry man had legs like wet reeds, wobbly as he exaggerated his taunting advance. “And we’s the collectors. Right, boys?”

  The others didn’t talk. They stared. Menace in their eyes and weapons in hands. A club, a mace, a broken javrod, a dagger, a saber. Trale’s gaze lingered on the last—curved and engraved with the double crescent moons. “Tahsca.” Interesting. The man wielding the blade looked like any beggar on the street.

  Wiry man grunted. “Wha’?”

  “Your friend’s blade—it’s a Tahscan saber, from House Tahsca off the coast of Iteveria. They’re the fiercest sea-faring warriors.”

  “We’s don’ care about no seadogs,” wiry guy growled.

  “So you haven’t endured the Tahscan drums?”

  “Why would we care about drums?”

  If they had heard the Tahscan drums, they would care. A lot. Trale had once faced a Tahscan and spent months recovering. Which told him these men weren’t Tahscans, though how they came by that blade, he could not fathom. A shame—if Trale could best a Tahscan, his blade would be at his service for life. That could come in handy. Of course, the blade itself could come in handy.

  “We’ll be taking ’dem arrows, missy,” a man said behind him.

  “Will you?” his sister asked, her voice annoyed.

  Oh no.

  Thwat! Thwat! The sound of two arrows hitting their mark, seconds apart, slapped the darkness.

  “Bi’mwaei!” he hissed at her inability toward restraint, then took a step forward. Drove the heel of his hand into the face of the burliest thug. With a sickening crack, the man yelped and collapsed.

  Steel glinted beneath the corner gas lamp and the waxing moons.

  Anticipating their attacks kept him alive. Kept his enemies dead. He liked it that way. In a split second he assessed the threats: three attackers facing him. At least three engaging Astadia, but she could handle herself.

  So, three.

  Wiry Guy. Side of Beef. And Half Brain. The man’s head had been dented. His brain most likely as well. Instinct told him Half Brain was the easier target, but he would not underestimate Half Brain as these imbeciles had underestimated lowly brother-sister wanderers passing through an abandoned city.

  So. Side of Beef. Trale flicked his dagger at the big guy’s chest. It bounced off with the clink of metal on metal and clattered to the cobbled path.

  Frustrating.

  Side of Beef leered. “Now, I use knife to kill you.”

  Wiry Guy was moving. So was Trale. Lightning fast, he slid closer. With his fingers tightly together for added strength, he stabbed a knife-hand strike into Wiry Guy’s throat, then swept around and buried his spare dagger in Side of Beef. The big man fell with a meaty thud.

  Cupping his throat, Wiry Guy wobbled . . . all the way to the ground.

  The blur to Trale’s left wasn’t unexpected. He ducked as Half Brain’s saber swept through the space where his head had been, and the man’s searing stench made him cough. “In earnest, you must take your hygiene seriously.”

  Confusion clouded the man’s face, quickly replaced by greedy bloodlust. He lunged. Caught Trale by the waist. Hauled him off his feet and slammed him against the millinery.

  Air punched from his lungs, Trale strained to focus. Focus! He had endured worse. And if he did not, he would endure more. Only as he braced himself against the oaf did he detect the ultra-thin armor beneath the man’s tunic. What in the celestials . . . ? More armor? Tahscan saber . . .

  Worry muddled Trale’s thoughts. He lingered too long on the questions. On the doubts. Almost didn’t see the glint of steel slicing toward him again.

  He bent sideways.

  Tschink!

  Heat sizzled along his ear. But the strike missed. With his hand as a knife again, he stabbed the man’s neck.

  Half Brain stumbled backward, gasping as he slumped to the ground. His eyes bulged and his sword came up again.

  “In earnest,” Trale said, “it’s okay to die.” He removed the dagger from his boot.

  The oaf struggled to gain his feet.

  Trale gritted his teeth. Dove forward. The Tahscan saber skimmed the back of his shoulder, but he felt nothing. He should. He knew he’d been cut but felt no pain, only the warmth of his own blood sliding down his back. Trale drove his blade into the man’s jugular.

  Spun to Astadia.

  That’s when it hit him. Fire roared through his shoulder. Nearly pushed him to the dirt as his gaze swept the alley
. Six bodies were laid out. But no Astadia. He searched the shadows, expecting to see her leaning against a building as she had many a time before, bored when his battle took longer.

  Wait.

  Six? Trale spun. Pitched forward. “Astadia!” Grabbed the shoulder of the first body—not her. The second and third. Panic vomited his thoughts in a million directions. “Asta—”

  She moaned. There, against the barrel.

  He rushed to her and knelt, eyeing the dagger in her side. “Hold on.” He shoved his arms beneath her head and legs. “We’ll find a pharmakeia.”

  “Nay!” a beggar of an old man appeared in the alley, his spine crooked. “Nay, not like that.” He wagged gnarled fingers. “Lift her like that and you’ll push the dagger in farther.”

  Trale’s heart stuttered—at both the man’s appearance and intrusion, and the thought of causing his sister additional pain. “Who are you?”

  “No one of consequence.”

  “And these men—are they also of no consequence?”

  “Nay, they are Poired’s mercenaries. Sent to route laggers. Subdue or kill, but for this lot”—he nodded to the bodies—“kill was easier and more profitable. Then they could steal what they would with no fear of reprisal or having Poired take their bounty.”

  Strange. Being the victim of the very man who held their leash.

  “Here.” The old man shuffled aside and pointed to something. “Use this to keep her straight.”

  Trale rushed there and found the remains of a wood crate. He could make a stretcher, but how to move her once she was on it. “I can’t carry it alone.”

  “Who says you’re alone?” The man snickered. “Here, help.” He beckoned to someone out of sight in the alley.

  A gangly youth stepped from the shadows and bent toward the pallet. They hurried to Astadia and slid it beneath her unconscious form. Trale helped the youth lift her from the ground.

  “This way,” the old man instructed, hurrying down a gas-lit passage toward a darkened stoop. He pushed the heavy singewood door inward then vanished into the darkness.

  “What is this?” Trale asked, staring into the void.

  “Shelter,” the old man said around a laugh as light bloomed in a corner. A lamp flickered on a small table. He threw off his raggedy cloak and indicated to where a bed made of singewood—but no mattress—waited. “Place her there. Rauf, find water and clean cloths.”

  “Are you a pharmakeia?” Trale asked, as they eased Astadia to the bedframe.

  “Near enough.” He motioned to Trale. “Get the fire going. We’ll need to boil the water.”

  But the appearance of the man, the empty house, the orders . . . “What do you mean ‘near enough’?”

  “I have the means and knowledge to tend your sister. Would you have me do that or stand here in debate with you?”

  “This house—who owns it?”

  “Whoever owned it, they are gone. Fled north from Poired’s army.”

  It made sense. Too much sense. But it still rattled Trale. “Why are you helping us?”

  “Would you have me leave you both for dead?”

  “Dead? I bested them”—he nodded to Astadia—“as did she.”

  “Aye, but it seems that knife in her side and that wound in your shoulder would take your stubborn lives.”

  Shoulder wound?

  “You look pale, champion. Would you sit?”

  As if the man’s words inflicted their own potion, Trale’s knees ­buckled. He grabbed for the nearby chair and dropped into it, the legs groaning against the floor as he did. He reached to the fire in his shoulder. His fingers came away sticky, stained dark.

  Rauf returned with a basket filled with items.

  “Ah, just in time.” The old man took clean lengths of cloth and a few other items in hand. “Now go on and start the fire. He’ll be out soon, too.”

  No. Trale couldn’t pass out. These men were strangers. They could prey upon them. Do horrible things to Astadia. He’d long ago promised that no man would ever abuse her again. Trale would never surrender their fate to strangers. And they had a mission . . .

  His hand slid into his pocket, and he felt the touchstone.

  “Keep it with you, Trale, and I will be with you. My thoughts your thoughts,” she had said. He should throw it away if he wanted to be free of the Infantessa. He’d been controlled all his life, bought from one master to serve another. He’d allowed himself to dream of freedom with Astadia. A fool’s hope.

  He hefted the stone in his hand. Gripped it tight. Throw it away.

  Shuffling around, the old man set out tools and moved toward Astadia with a sharp instrument.

  Alarmed, Trale tugged his hand free and surged to his feet. “Nay! What are you doing?”

  “I believe I’m trying to save your sister’s life.”

  Trale wavered, his ears hollowing. The edges of his vision blurred.

  “Sit.” Fire swam in the old man’s eyes. “That blade was doused in poison. If you keep thrashing around, you’ll speed it through your veins.”

  The old man must be right. There wasn’t enough injury to warrant being so weak. So dizzy. Trale shook his head. Blinked. Swallowed.

  “Stretch out on the floor. I’ll tend you as soon as I remove this dagger and stitch her wound. Mayhap by the blessing of Abiassa you can be on your way by morning.”

  Trale grunted, easing himself to the floor before he dropped like a hot pot. He breathed awkwardly, a hot-damp fever rushing over him.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “North,” he muttered, though he knew not why he’d answered.

  “Ah, good. You might then catch the prince.”

  A sharp wave of clearheadedness snapped through Trale. “The prince.”

  “Aye. Zireli’s boy—rumors are he’s on his way to Hetaera. I’ve even heard tell he’s the long-foretold Fierian.”

  The prince. The prince would be in Hetaera. Relief swam through Trale. They would find him. Capture him. The Infantessa would be pleased.

  “I heard the Jujak are basing out of Hetaera,” the youth put in. “The prince is making that the temporary capital. It’s the main military center now.”

  Which meant that many more to evade.

  Trale’s limbs felt heavy.

  “I believe they’ll set him in as king there,” the old man added.

  King. Prince. Title did not matter.

  Oh, blazes—his head hurt! He closed his eyes. Just for a minute. But he would somehow . . . get Haegan. The thought alone made his temples pound.

  But in the morning.

  I will not fail you, Infantessa. He laid his hand over the stone in his pocket. “So . . . beau . . . ful . . .”

  35

  Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine

  “And are we accompanied by a judge again?”

  Gwogh lifted his hood and slid it away as he met the kind smile of the only woman on the Council of Nine. “We never know, do we?”

  “True enough,” she said, hands clasped before her round figure. “It has been more than a month since we saw your protégé. How does he fare?”

  “You are correct in saying it has been more than a month since we saw him.” Gwogh too had stayed away, knowing the prince must find his way. Must find answers that he could own.

  “Then you have not spoken to him of late?”

  “Nay,” Gwogh admitted as he nodded to Kelviel, Aoald, and Adek, who sat at the table. “My brothers.”

  “But you were to be his mentor, to guide him,” Kedulcya said.

  “The giants—is it true?” Adek asked, arms resting on the table. “The city is abuzz with reports of Drigo coming out of the Dark Forest to save the prince.”

  “I believe more than mere salvation happened there,” Gwogh said with a smile as he eased into the chair near the head of the table. But not at the head. That was left empty. For Abiassa. Or Her representative. It was hard not to look at the empty space and wonder if a Deliverer occupi
ed it. He shuddered at the thought, remembering how Medric had so swiftly and resolutely ended Baede and his rebellion, right in front of their eyes. By the Lady, he hoped they would not have another visitor. It could mean more judgment. More betrayal by one of their own.

  “Have you informed the prince of the Contending?”

  Gwogh gave a solemn nod. “He is a prince and knows it’s part of the process.”

  The door creaked open, admitting Voath, Traytith, and Griese to the room and conversation. They wore weighted countenances, their countries crumbling beneath Poired’s scourge. They were trailed by a person unfamiliar to Gwogh.

  The room fell silent as the newcomer stopped by the door, his gaze flicking around the room uncertainly. “I am Falip Wrel. I have been chosen to represent Dradith since . . .”

  “You mean, since Abiassa delivered your predecessor of his head,” Kelviel said, his anger rife.

  “Peace, Kelviel,” Gwogh said, motioning Baede’s replacement to take a seat. “Falip, your work in Yoiand is well-known to us. We welcome you to the Council of Nine.”

  “We are gathered,” Kedulcya announced, taking the lead, “to address the unique situation we find ourselves in—with the Fire Throne vacant and war breathing down our necks.”

  “It is not simply war and an empty throne,” Gwogh countered. “It is the ultimate—final—conflict, foretold for centuries. And in Ybienn, this Council named the Fierian, who will lead the charge against the Dark One.”

  Grunts and nods filtered around the room.

  “Prince Haegan is the son of Zireli, one of the fiercest, most skilled accelerants to hold the throne, likely as far back as his ancestor, Baen.”

  “I realize your intent,” Kedulcya spoke, “but the prince’s blood tie to Zireli merely guarantees him the right to the Zaethien throne, but delivers no guarantee of his holding the Fire Throne.”

  “The Fire Throne has been ruled from Seultrie for nearly two centuries.”

  “Because the Celahars have been victors in the Contending.” Kedulcya nodded, her expression smooth. “As the previous Fire King’s heir, Haegan is automatically entered in the Contending as Zaethien’s candidate.”