Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  General Negaer stood stiffly at the door Haegan had come through, then pulled it open. Against the bright morning sun, a lone figure stood silhouetted. Head up. Shoulders back. The man strode into the Sanctuary with authority and confidence. Once the doors closed, the uniform—dark blue and bearing a sash of royalty—could be seen. He seemed unfazed by the stares of the hundreds as he came to a stop at the Flames.

  Haegan gaped. “Tili.”

  40

  The Citadel, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine

  The Nivaran gave no indication he’d heard his name. Haegan couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Tili? A contender? Since when?

  “You should bow,” Degra whispered to Tili and indicated the inlay. “On the Flames.”

  Instead, Tili locked his gaze on the Council, unmoving.

  “Announce yourself,” Agremar muttered.

  Tili hefted a sigh. “I am Thurig As’Tili, rightful heir of Nivar and Ybienn.” He inclined his head slightly. “Northlands. Son of Thurig the Formidable and commander of the Nivari Guard.”

  Stricken into a stunned silence, the Sanctuary was captive to the moment.

  “But he’s not even a citizen of the Nine!” Cypal Webst objected.

  “His loyalty isn’t to the Nine. It’s to Ybienn,” Prince Dewyn said.

  “Everyone knows Northlanders can’t wield,” Ociliama Herra countered. “His claim is void.”

  “He’s gorgeous,” Degra Breab purred to the other girls, making Henem and Cypal giggle.

  Even as the objections poured from the contenders, Haegan felt a trembling in his own being. One that shifted from shock to disbelief.

  Tili.

  Tili had come to take the throne. Had Haegan’s time in Ybienn shown him to be so weak that Tili felt he stood a chance to steal the Fire Throne?

  Breathing became a chore. Embers warbled around his fingers and mind, fanning into outrage.

  Gwogh stood at the edge of the dais. “Thank you, Prince Tili, for coming.” He turned his wizened eyes to the crowd. “I present my representative for the Contending. True, he may have been born in Nivar Hold and raised in the Northlands, but he bears the same blood as our own Prince Haegan.”

  Gasps and murmurs shot around the room.

  “They share a great-great”—he rolled his hand in a circular motion—“grandfather. Baen Celahar had three children—”

  “Blasphemy,” Tortook shouted.

  Haegan flinched.

  But his tutor slid a hand toward Tortook, snapping his mouth closed beneath a wake of heat that even Haegan felt. “Baen, who became Zaelero when he took the throne, had three children with Queen Nydessa, one of whom was Ybienn, the second-eldest son and great-however-many-grandfathers to Thurig, who fathered our fine young prince here.”

  “But Northlanders can’t wield,” came Ociliama’s objection again.

  Yes. Wielding. That—that’s how they’d disqualify him. Yet . . . Gwogh would not have gone through the trouble of bringing the Ybiennese crown prince here if he could be disqualified.

  Gwogh smiled. “Prince as’Tili?”

  Nostrils flaring, Tili glowered up at the aged accelerant.

  Tili hated the Nine. So why would he be here among “thin-bloods” but to rule them?

  He is a dangerous enemy. The thought came unbidden. Haegan ­wrestled it away, remembering the prince who’d teased him. Mocked him. Had it all been a ruse? What of Thiel? Had she known what Gwogh and Tili plotted? Is that why Gwogh had her come—to soften him?

  Haegan couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Heat rushed over him. Anger choked. Calm. Calm down. The sight of Tili drawing his hand from his cloak, still glaring at the Council, and rolling his hand over and producing a pure blue-red flame stunned Haegan.

  “But he’s Ybiennese,” someone on the Council gaped.

  Gwogh returned to the table and hefted the large book. “Here is the Tenants of Wielding and the Guiding of Wielding. In it there is no record stating the Fire King must have been born within the Nine to take the throne. It merely states he must have noble blood and be able to wield. The Fire King must represent the Ignatieri, as well as the citizens of the Nine.” He nodded to Tili. “As Thurig’s heir and able to wield, Prince as’Tili is qualified.”

  “This is wrong,” Haegan heard himself say. Though his heart rammed in rapid succession, he tried to calm himself. “So the Northlanders wish to steal the throne, to add to the wars already besieging us.”

  Tili scowled at him but gave no reply.

  A chorus of ayes went up, some shouting for Tili to go back to the frozen wasteland. Others saying he should have a chance to prove his incompetence—everyone knew Northlanders wouldn’t survive the south.

  “Contenders,” Kedulcya spoke loudly, drawing down the tension. “Sir Gwogh is correct and Prince as’Tili’s contention for the throne is accepted.” When more objections started, she lifted her hand and spoke louder, this time to the eleven. “Contenders, in a moment, please exit to the rear. You will immediately gather your belongings, report to your assigned quarters, and remain there for the duration of the Contending. You can request use of the training yard at any time. Meals are served at first light, high rise, and dusk. You may interact with each other, but no one else.”

  Haegan cared not about interacting with anyone. Except Thiel. He wanted to know. Wanted to ask her about Tili.

  Since he was first in, Haegan brought up the rear, roiling in annoyance as Tili fell into step beside him. “Think not that I will give mercy for this.”

  “Think not that I intend to ask, thin-blood,” Tili bit back.

  “’Tis my father’s throne.” Haegan kept his gaze straight ahead as they stepped into the sunlight of the courtyard.

  Tili turned to him, cuffed his arm. “I no more wish to rule the Nine than ye would the Northlands. But I will not disgrace my father as ye have yers.”

  Haegan gaped. “You dare—”

  “Earn it, thin-blood. Earn it well.” He spun and collided with a flutter of fabric. “I beg yer mercy, mistress.”

  Degra Breab curtseyed low. “And I beg yours, Prince as’Tili.”

  Tili gave Haegan one more warning look, then stalked across the courtyard. When he did, Haegan saw Thiel. The two talked quietly, gave a brief hug, then Tili vanished down the passage.

  You were never good enough for her. Even she knows you won’t win.

  Haegan stormed toward her. “You knew? You knew why he was here, yet you said nothing to me. He is as deceptive as Dirag the Desecrator, coming here to steal my father’s throne.”

  Her hand flew fast and true. Stung his cheek. “How dare ye!”

  Anger unabated, Haegan stepped in. “Is it the power? Is it that you think I will not win, so at least your brother can take the throne and secure you a life of luxury?”

  Hurt and anger flashed through her eyes. “Ye know me better than that, Haegan—or at least, I thought ye did.” A crease formed between her eyes. “What has happened to ye?” She shook her head, stepping away. “Ye are not the man I knew.” Another few steps backward. She started to turn, hesitated, but then left.

  Haegan sniffed. Let her go. You’re from different worlds.

  That smell . . . it was here again. He wiped the tip of his nose, trying to rid himself of the spicy scent. What was it? It was giving him a headache.

  A flicker of black and red Ignatieri robes whisked onto the garden path leading from the Sanctuary to the Citadel.

  Watching Thiel walk away had been akin to having the earth rip open between them and gape like a deep, black chasm. Emptiness. Darkness. Coldness. He stood alone in the courtyard, emptied of accelerants and contenders. Alone.

  41

  Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine

  Thiel threw open the door to the residence chambers Gwogh provided for her and Tili—before her brother’s plan to betray Haegan was announced before Abiassa and everyone. She swung around and slammed the door. It rattled, the locks catching. She kicked it wi
th a growl.

  “I guess you heard the news, too?”

  Thiel spun, startled to find her friends in the seating area. “What are ye doing here?”

  “We come t’ talk wif yous about da trial—it’s not fair, whats being done t’ Haegan,” Laertes said. “I fought your bro’va what’s da prince was his friend.”

  “What is going on?” Tokar asked, arms folded. “You show up with them and suddenly, your brother is making a move for the throne.”

  Praegur stood near the window, arms folded loosely but his expression tight. His silent disappointment was nearly as scalding as Haegan’s words.

  And enough to push Thiel past the point of reason. “And naturally—like Haegan—ye think I knew and am party to this . . . this . . .”

  “Betrayal?” Tokar arched an eyebrow.

  Thiel wished she could wield. Wished she could spark that smug look right off Tokar’s face. But he was right. It was a betrayal. An enormous one. “I did not know about this.”

  “But yous came wif dem t’ da city,” Laertes said.

  “Aye, because Gwogh said . . . Oh, blazes of flames and fury.” She shoved her hand through her hair and dug her fingers into her scalp. “I am a fool! Gwogh told me Haegan needed me, that what he would face . . .” And she’d played right into it. Thiel growled.

  “Tili,” Tokar said. “He knew, though?”

  Though that’s what he asked, Thiel knew that wasn’t Tokar’s question. “I . . .”

  Laertes looked up at her from beneath the golden fringe of hair. “Was dat aye or I?”

  Thiel moved to the overstuffed chair in the corner and sat, pulling her knees to her chest. She straightened the skirts. “Would that I could say he knew not the plan, that he—like me—came to Hetaera as support for Haegan, but . . .”

  Thiel couldn’t help but look at Praegur, wishing for sage words. Warm comfort of his wisdom. Part of her hated that his words were now only for Haegan. But she saw—felt—his sadness. His grief. She shared in that.

  “He knew.” Finality coated Tokar’s words as he lowered himself to the sofa. Perched on the edge, elbows on his knees, he stared at the fire. “I didn’t think your brother capable of that. I trained under him, respected him . . .”

  Grief churned through Thiel. “I want to believe there is some explanation. He liked Haegan.”

  “Don’t have to dislike the former king’s heir to seize a chance at power.”

  Thiel closed her eyes. This could not be right. Tili didn’t want the Nine. What was happening? “Haegan blames me, too. He thinks I conspired against him, withheld what Tili intended to do.”

  “Bet that ticked him off.”

  “He all but called him Dirag the Desecrator.”

  Tokar’s eyebrows rose. “Amazed he didn’t singe you.”

  “I think he might have, if I hadn’t slapped him.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, then punched to her feet. “How could they do this to him? It’s bad enough that there are ten other contenders . . .”

  “And who are dey t’ steal Haegan’s frone from ’im?” The lad shook his head. “It ain’t right.”

  “Isn’t right,” Thiel corrected, then groaned. “Blazes, now I’m doing it.” She cast a look across the room to Tokar, who seemed especially put out. “Is there anything we can do?”

  Tokar folded his arms as he sat back. “It’s in the Guidings—the Law.” He shrugged.

  “I know,” Laertes said, eyes wide. “He’s your bro’ver and will listen t’ yous. So, go and tell him he should back out. Not t’ do dis evil ’fing.”

  It was a simplistic approach. A naïve one. “I fear my brother would no sooner listen to me than any of you. His mind is set—and to remove himself now would be to shame our father.” She sighed, but then drew up the dregs of her determination. “But I will tell you this—my brother will hear from me.”

  “But they’re sequestered,” Tokar said.

  Thiel grinned. “Since when has a rule like that kept us from entering a place?”

  “Never—but this is the Citadel. Guarded by sentinels, and security is high with so many of their best in one place.” Tokar shook his head. “And to be honest, now that I’m training with the Jujak, I don’t want a mark on my record that stops me from becoming a full recruit.”

  “Well, I’m going.” Thiel punched to her feet. “My brother owes me an explanation—as does Gwogh.”

  Praegur grunted. Tapped the window, nodding to something.

  Thiel hurried to his side. Saw her brother, sack slung over his back, crossing the large cobbled area. She sucked in a breath and whirled for the door. She sprinted out of the residence and down the staircase, using the balustrade to spin her in the direction of the side exit. Thiel burst into the afternoon with a mission and scanned for her brother.

  There. Nearly at the Citadel barracks. “Tili!” She plunged across the lawn. The distance wasn’t great but it seemed to take forever to reach him. “Tili, wait!”

  On the steps, he turned, looking in her direction.

  She raced the last thirty paces and slid up next to him. “What are ye doing?” she said around a jagged breath.

  The planes of his face were smooth, hard. “Entering the barracks.”

  Narrowing her eyes she leaned into him, panting. “Thurig as’Tili, ye know full well what I mean. Why are ye doing this?”

  “Thiel, go back to the residence. Wait for him. He—”

  “He’ll what? Need me? That’s what ye and yer conspirator said, is it not? But he won’t.” Her heart thumped hard. “He believes me to be a part of yer plan to steal his father’s throne.”

  “The throne is Abiassa’s,” he said.

  With both hands, Thiel shoved him back. “Ye dare.”

  He dropped his sack, probably instinct, and held up his palms. But she’d been in the training yard with him enough to know it was a tactical move, a stance he could readily respond from. “Thiel . . .” Warning hung in his tone.

  “Does Papa know?” Her nostrils flared. “And Gwogh—how? Why? Haegan struggles enough as it is—”

  “Aye.” Terse, intentional meaning streaked through his answer and eyes.

  Her breath caught. “Ye mean to do it. To take the throne—” She gulped fear and adrenaline. “Tili, ye promised to have his back. Did ye mean so ye could drive a dagger in it?”

  Hurt knotted his brow. Tili retrieved his sack. “Go back to the residence, Thiel.”

  She punched him. She hadn’t intended to, but the anger erupted. Forced her to act.

  His muscles contracted. His jaw muscle popped. Fists clenched. But instead of sending her to the ground, Tili turned and entered the barracks.

  “He was right—ye are as Dirag reborn!”

  • • •

  Haegan stood in the training yard, bouncing flames back and forth in a ridiculously absurd test of skill. His partner on this, the fifth round, was Henem Comed. She bounced a volley back to him, and he returned it, though it went wide since—in earnest—who cared about this exercise?

  She laughed and lunged to catch it, her dark hair spilling out and the headdress slipping around her shoulders. Henem ignored the covering, grinning as she reignited a volley and tossed it to him.

  Dromadric’s words rang in his head: that he wasn’t meant to patrol, that he would not win the Contending. What then was the point of participating?

  “We came to Fieri Keep once.” Henem’s words drifted through his bad mood.

  What did he care, too, if she had been to his home? He had spent his days up in the tower, so he had not seen her.

  “You and I went out to the dunes by the Lakes of Fire.”

  Haegan snapped out the volley. Scowled. “You are mistaken. I was crippled—”

  Her smile wavered. “You were only five when I came.”

  “Oh.”

  She sniffed. “Of course, the queen was furious with you for soiling your clothes. And me for turning my hair black with soot—it was blonde then, like your
s.”

  He wished he remembered. Or cared. Which was atrocious of him, but it had not escaped his notice that the contending females had been paired with males. As if to test alignments. Did Henem hope for a husband, if she failed the trials?

  “I’m sure you’ve forgotten,” she said, her words hushed in embarrassment.

  “I beg your mercy. My”—he wouldn’t admit he couldn’t remember—“thoughts are elsewhere.”

  “I imagine, with all of us vying for the Fire Throne.” Henem lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I want you to know, I’m here because I was told to come. But I won’t win.”

  Neither will I. They both glanced over the training yard. Puthago and Degra were engaged in a battle of wits, it seemed, with dagger-like volleys of words pitched back and forth along with the flame.

  “Puthago is vicious,” Henem said, “but he’s also lazy. It gives an advantage. He takes the shortest route in the hope it’ll work. But he doesn’t do well with strategy, which is one of Degra’s skills.”

  Haegan watched Puthago throwing short, quick bursts. And Degra countered, using more intricate wielding, her returns swinging wide. Puthago narrowly avoided a graze to his temple. His eyes widened and his lips thinned as he shoved a burst at his partner.

  Which Degra slid back—in a high arc.

  “Ha,” Puthago gloated.

  The arc stabbed straight down. Seared a line down Puthago’s cheek. He cried out, holding his hand to the burn. Eyes flamed. Anger flared and he overreacted.

  Haegan saw it before it happened. The blast that could kill. Without thinking, he thrust a hand out. A glowing white trail seared the air and knocked Puthago off balance. His blast went wide.

  Only as Puthago came to his feet did Haegan realize what he’d done.

  “Flames!” Henem said with a smile. “How—it was so fast. How did you do that? I had just seen his searing when you were already countering.”

  Haegan had no answer. But remembered Dromadric saying his wielding obeyed his thoughts without his trying.

  A bell gonged, ordering them to switch partners. Adomath stood on the observation deck and handed out the new assignments, pairing Haegan this time with Degra. They moved to the outer edge and went through the mind-numbing rituals that accelerants called forms.