by Ronie Kendig
Thiel resisted the urge to sigh, knowing another discussion was coming about how to be a lady. But she went to her mother, who took her arm and threaded it through her own.
“I know the ordeal with Yedriseth is weeks past, but we have not had the chance to discuss it. Tell me—how did ye know?”
Thiel shrugged as they glided slowly down the residence hall. “Different things I saw and heard. It just hit me, and I knew . . . Then when I heard the shouts, it was confirmed.”
“What things?”
Lifting her skirts as they strolled, she frowned. “Why does it matter, Mama? Haegan was saved—and now he’s gone.”
Serenely, her mother led her down the stairs to the first level. Her mother had always been the master of cruel silence. The one that whispered fears and torturous punishments, ones often more sinister in Thiel’s mind than what was later meted out.
“When I was sixteen and being groomed for the court, my younger sister was but twelve.” Mama went quiet again, a distant memory seeming to flicker through her eyes. Aunt Cicaelia had married an Outlander and vanished into the wilds. At least, that’s what Atelaria and the more embellished stories said. “She was adventurous and a tomboy and disregarded most every rule I was forced to obey without question. I was so angry with her.”
“Because she was not a lady,” Thiel supplied.
Her mother glanced at her, a lingering sadness in her expression. “No, for being free, for living.”
What . . . ? She didn’t understand.
Mama toyed with the ribbons and pearls that dangled from her waist. “I was so afraid of letting propriety go, of having someone look down on me for running with my skirts in hand, or laughing too loud and drawing attention.” Her mother paused beside a large window overlooking the gardens. She released Thiel’s arm and turned so they were facing each other. “It is true—a queen must be elegant and graceful. A strong emblem of her king, of the people she represents.”
Of course. As she thought. Thiel forced herself to nod, swallowing her groans.
“But Thiel, a queen does not need a sword or spear to wield power.”
She’d heard this one before. “Her word.”
“No.” Ferocity tightened her mother’s lips. “Her silence.”
Thiel squinted, trying to comprehend the meaning. “I don’t—”
“Tell me about our trip to Councilman Raechter’s home.”
Thiel blinked. “But I already wrote this down and showed ye.”
Her mother employed that cruel silence.
Thiel refrained from rolling her eyes and looked out the window instead, thinking back to the event. “The food was delicious. There were a lot of people—”
Her mother stopped her with a finger. “What did ye see that was not acknowledged or spoken?”
Mind pinging, she saw the councilman and the girl. She flushed.
Her mother nodded. “Yes.”
Had she earnestly known about that?
“And at the monastery—what happened there? Ye were changed when we were reunited on the lawn. What transpired?”
“I’m not sure. Just that it . . . wasn’t right. There was an argument between Yedriseth and the man, but there was more. He wasn’t just angry with a stranger. There was a relationship, a connection between them.”
“See?” She tucked her chin, peering at Thiel. “We women are wired for relationships. To love. Yes?”
Thiel’s thoughts wandered to the shaggy-haired prince with icy blue eyes.
“We are the subtle swords of our husband’s kingdom. I can enter a home and learn things there that yer father will never know, because men talk politics, strategy, and war. If it is not spoken, he will not learn it. Ye saw things others missed when the focus was on the one with greater power. More importantly, ye paid attention to those things, and in the end, it saved Haegan’s life.” She smiled and drew her away from the window, walking again, through the hall, through a room. “Knowledge is power, my sweet daughter.”
Why was her mother telling her this?
“You must be ready to be strong—not in physical might, but as a shrewd, cunning queen. Haegan will need you to be so.”
Heat flushed her face. “If I ever see him again . . .”
“There is only one way to find out,” her mother said.
Surprised when her mother stopped, Thiel realized they stood in the library opposite her father’s receiving room. Why were they in here?
Voices broke through the narrow sliver in the door, which she only then realized stood ajar. Thiel pretended not to notice—it wasn’t polite to eavesdrop—but Mama nodded to it.
Thiel inched closer, peeking through. Her father and Tili stood with their backs to the door, facing someone, but also blocking that person from her view.
“We leave at once,” came the person’s voice.
Gwogh.
“Sometimes,” Mama whispered in her ear, “silence is not better.” With that, she gave Thiel a nudge, urging her into the room. “We must fight for what we know is right.”
Thiel slipped into the room, and her brother and father parted like curtains.
“Ah,” Gwogh said with amusement. “I hoped ye would show, Thiel.”
She entered, clasping her hands before her to hide their trembling. Feeling as if she’d stepped into a well-plotted trap, her mother in collusion. “Why would that be?”
39
The Citadel, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
The Inner Court of the Citadel boasted a serene landscape that included gardens, water fountains, cobbled paths, and well-designed seating arrangements that blended with the natural elements. The Eternal Flame, a cascading wall of fire that represented Abiassa, illuminated the center. Shaped like an octagon, The Citadel boasted mirroring courtyards on all eight sides—plus one: the main entrance jutting from the grand façade. The tri-tipped flame encircled with a crown had been carved over the ninth arch—Celahar/Seultrie. His family had stood as guardians over the Nine for generations. Victors in the Contending. It was now his turn to continue that legacy.
Or shame them.
Haegan tugged on the stiff embroidered hem of his green doublet. It snapped tight against his shoulders, the gold threads catching the rising sunlight. The gold citrine, a symbol of his position as the heir to the throne, poked into his left breast. Over his heart.
He stood alone, as he would battle in the Contending to persuade the Council and the kingdoms that he was ready to assume the role of Fire King.
Taking the Seultrian throne was one thing—he was heir by blood. Taking the Fire King throne . . . that was a challenge he wasn’t sure he was up to. But he must contend. He could not shame his father’s memory by not even trying.
“Haegan!”
At the excited voice, he shifted, his highly polished shoes glaring in the morning sunlight. The world tilted, the axis returning to its right position as, swathed in tiers of pale coral, Thiel rushed from the double doors he’d only moments before exited.
“Thiel!” He caught her into his arms, crushing her against his chest. Savoring the warmth of her, the softness of her in a world of hard realities and cold betrayals. Heartache vanished. Trouble faded. Life roared. Her presence had always quieted the storm in him. It was good . . . so good to have her in his arms again.
He pressed a kiss into the crook of her neck, then cupped her face. “What are you doing here? When did you arrive? How are you here?”
She laughed. “One question at a time, tunnel rat.” She smiled, her hair in a complicated braid that crowned her and coiled around her head. But then her gaze shifted. “Are ye well?”
Haegan shrugged. He didn’t want to talk of that. He wanted her to talk. Simply to hear her voice. “It matters not.”
“Aye, it matters all,” she said, her eyes dark against her olive complexion. “Ye’re . . .” She shook her head, frowning.
He didn’t like that. Needed her to smile. “Why are you here?” Distraction was better than the
dark truth at this hour.
“Gwogh visited my father. They asked me to return, said ye might need me.”
He smiled. “They were right.”
“Prince Haegan?” the Ignatieri sentinel called from the side. “It’s time, sire.”
Frustrated with the distraction, the reminder of what lay before him, Haegan held up a hand. “A moment. Please.”
Destroyer. Scourge. He would kill countless people as Fierian. What right does a murderer have to be Fire King?
Yet to reject the throne was to reject all his father and forebears had fought for. He looked at the Zaethien sigil, synonymous with House Celahar. The Tri-tipped flame in the crown. The Lady. The King. The Flames.
Could Haegan have two out of three?
“Haegan?” Worry creased Thiel’s brow. “What—”
“Will you be here . . . after?” He cast a sidelong glance to the doors, then back to her. “Please say you will be here.”
“Of course.” But she clung to him, frowning.
He pressed another kiss, this time to her lips, lingering.
“I beg your mercy, Prince Haegan,” the sentinel spoke. “We are ordered to send you in.”
The doors swung open.
Haegan lifted his chin, squeezed Thiel’s hand, and stared into the Sanctuary. A massive hall with eleven columns standing in a circle around the tri-tipped flame inlaid in the marble. He strode forward, eyes on the dais that held the Council of Nine. The dense, dank air was thick with the heat of the packed room. Ignatieri. Jujak. Nobles. They stood in cordoned off sections, forming pie-shaped assemblages that left yawning gaps from each of the nine doors to the dais.
Alone, Haegan strode into the Sanctuary and straight to the inlaid Flame. He knelt and stretched his right hand forth, touching the middle tip, showing his allegiance not to the Council but to Abiassa.
He stood and straightened his doublet. “I am Prince Haegan,” he said, repeating the expected words. “Heir of Zireli and Zaelero, kings of Zaethien and the Nine. Hand of Abiassa.”
“Thank you, Prince Haegan,” Kedulcya of Kerral said from her lavish seat. “If you would remain where you stand as the other Contenders are presented, please.”
“Vid!” High Marshal Adomath shouted from the right side of the Council table.
From his left, Haegan heard the firm thud of approaching steps. A man at least ten years his senior marched forward and bowed over the Flame in ceremony as Haegan had. Broad shouldered, stern faced, the man stood. “Agremar Ro’Stu, son of Kenbrin Ro’Stu, Electreri of the Viddan Council and master sentinel.”
A sentinel. Haegan shifted nervously, his gaze bouncing to the dais.
“Thank you, Sentinel Ro’Stu. You are welcomed.”
“Dradith!” Adomath announced.
Though Haegan heard no steps, he saw an olive-skinned girl gliding forward. Were her feet even touching the ground? She made it to the center without effort or acknowledging him or the sentinel. On his left, the girl bowed before the Flame and the Council.
“Ociliama Herra, princessa and daughter of Oci and Liama Herra, co-rulers of Dradith.” Her words were heavily drenched in the accent of her people which thickened her Ss and lightened her Rs.
She was no sooner welcomed than Adomath called, “Caori!”
Clipped steps clacked through the Sanctuary. A girl in a swirl of dark blue came forward, her face swathed in satin and her brown eyes fringed with dark bangs. She swept up to the Flame, bowed elegantly, then straightened. Chin high, she smiled. “Henem Comed, daughter of Brid and Hecno Comed. Electreri.”
Electreri? And a master sentinel? Was he truly so horribly outmatched? Haegan searched out Gwogh at the Council table, but his old tutor looked to the newcomer with a placid smile.
“Kerral!”
In sauntered Degra Breab, daughter of Ang and Ahn Breab, also an Electreri. With her large, dark eyes and thick, black hair, braided and pearled, Degra Breab was stunning. She’d make a great queen.
Not for him. But for . . . in general.
“Praenia!”
The pronouncement brought Cypal Webst, daughter of Marq and Rovi Webst. Electreri as well.
Wicalir produced an intimidating contender in Dewyn of Adrili, who wore a doublet and the emblem of the Light Throne on his cloak. A prince, too. And an Electreri.
He is more suited than I. They all are.
Lera sent Kenro Chfra, son of Keach Chfra, Commander General of the Leran army. Electreri.
Of course.
And with each name announced, Haegan’s confidence fell away. Relief rushed in at the selfish thought that he would not win and take on the responsibility of the Fire Throne, though he knew he should not embrace the thoughts. A Celahar had been on the throne since Zaelero II. Nearly two centuries.
“Hetaera,” Adomath announced.
In sauntered a spritely girl barely in her twenties. Dark hair, bright eyes. She presented herself with a snap and an easy smile. “I am Arak Kcep, daughter of Duke and Duchess Wrenkyle.”
“Thank you, Miss Kcep. With the others, please.” Kedulcya glanced to the side before pulling her shoulders back. “As is required by the Guidings that govern the Nine,” she said, her voice loud and formal, “a voice is given to the Citadel, a state in its own right among the Nine.”
A figure moved from behind the curtain—Dromadric. Something in Haegan curled into a ball, like a frightened child in the dark of his bedroom, anticipating whomever the Grand Marshal would add to the Contending.
Walking without a military bearing but with hefty confidence came the final contender, wearing the overcloak of . . .
“A marshal,” the girl on his left—Henem?—whispered.
Yes, a marshal. Highest rank of the accelerants entered into the Contending.
There is no hope for me.
That earthy scent hit Haegan again, but he ignored it as the marshal announced himself.
“I am Tortook Puthago, blood of Ahnri Puthago, chamberlain of Hetaera.”
“Welcome, Marshal Puthago. Take your place with the others.”
Whirling in an arrogant gesture, he slid Haegan a bored look, then stood beside Prince Dewyn. He looked five or six years older than Haegan, his blond hair shorn close. His jaw tense as he bowed with a flourish.
Insane. He could summon giants and speak a language he’d never learned, but he must contend in areas where he’d had little training. At a time when war was upon them.
Kedulcya took in a slow breath and let it out. “Now, Contenders—”
“I beg your mercy.” Gwogh raised his hands to the crowds as he lumbered to his feet.
The hundreds gathered fell quiet, including Haegan. Did Gwogh have a way to stop this, to deliver him from having to contend? He would gladly and quickly take the Zaethien throne, but this . . . this game?
“I beg your mercy, Mistress,” Gwogh called loudly, “Not all contenders are present.”
As the mistress glanced down the line in which Haegan stood and counted, Haegan and the others did the same, wondering what Gwogh meant.
“There are nine contenders, plus the Citadel’s,” Kedulcya reassured them all in a partially pitched voice, motioning toward the line of accelerants. “Ten contenders.”
“Aye, perhaps.” Gwogh offered a strange smile. “But I have not presented my contender.”
Frowning, Kedulcya motioned to Haegan. “There he stands.”
With a sardonic smile, Gwogh breathed, “No.” His hands went behind his back. “Prince Haegan is not the contender I refer to.”
What? He wasn’t Gwogh’s chosen champion? How could that be? Then who represented him? Haegan frowned. As did most of the Council. Haegan fought the instinct to step back. He held his ground, refusing to reveal his own uncertainty in front of this crowd. Even his own mentor did not believe in him? The one who had poisoned him? Anger flashed over him.
“I don’t understand.”
“None of us do,” Dromadric said, an edge in his voice.
Gwogh moved to the podium, his arthritic hands gnarled as he gripped the edges. “As the heir of Zaethien, last ruler of the Nine, Haegan of Seultrie has the inherent right to compete in the Contending. In essence, Haegan is the one the others will contend against.”
“But he needs a representative,” Kedulcya said. “If you are representing Haegan—”
“Mistress, who would you say represents the Fierian?”
Haegan pulled in a sharp breath and looked down. He did not want that name. Did not want anyone else knowing . . . He felt the tremors, the looks, the disapproval radiating through the room.
“Abiassa.”
“Aye.” Gwogh gave Haegan a sardonic smile. “As all can see, Haegan is not my contender. He is far better represented by Abiassa, no?”
A nervous laugh sifted the tension in the room.
“It took some research,” Gwogh went on, “but I was able to locate a writ penned under the authority of Zaethien, heir of Baen, who was—as we all know—later known as—”
“We do not need a history lesson,” Dromadric snapped.
Gwogh smiled, his eyes nearly disappearing beneath the wrinkles and bushy eyebrows. A grunting laugh echoed from him. “I’m afraid you do—I did. We all do.” He held out a hand and Laertes rushed to the dais with a large, bound book, delivered it to Gwogh, then whirled around and returned to his spot.
With what seemed to be a deliberately slow turn of pages, Gwogh leafed through the book. “Ah, yes . . . in the unlikely—no, no.” His finger trailed down the page, then to the next. “Yes, here.” Gwogh held up a finger. “I quote—‘regardless of upbringing or residence, regardless of training or loyalty, if there is found to be any of Baen’s blood to exist outside the realm or within, that person will have the explicit right to contend for the Fire Throne.”
Dromadric chuckled. “I think you’ve lost your wit along with your hair, Gwogh.” He nodded to the ten. “That is why we are here, the Contending.”
“Mm,” Gwogh said with a smile, clearly not affected by the grand marshal’s insult. “It is also why we have an eleventh contender—Baen’s Blood Oath.” He lifted his gnarled hand to the door. “General, please.”