by Ronie Kendig
It surprised Thiel that with her skills of stealth he’d heard her though he’d worked intently, his gnarled hand clutching a pen as he wrote in a large tome. She should not be surprised at his keen awareness. Accelerants could detect the slightest hint of warmth in the air, indicating someone’s presence. “Laertes said you would speak with me.”
Head still down, he extended his free hand over his desk. “Have a seat.”
The space between his desk and the shelves gaped in the absence of anywhere to sit. “Where?”
Sir Gwogh looked up, and his bushy eyebrows bounced. “Oh. There was a chair there . . . once.” He grunted and glanced around. “Ah, there. Move the books and bring it closer.”
Beneath the window sat a chair piled with books. Thiel complied, removing the books before dragging it to his desk and sitting. A puff of dust plumed around her. She sneezed and rubbed her nose.
Sir Gwogh kept writing, the silver glasses perched on his nose catching the firelight.
After a few moments, she cleared her throat. But drew no response. It felt worse than being a little girl trying to interrupt her father at Nivar. But after nearly a quarter hour sitting silently, she cleared her throat again.
Nothing.
“Sir Gwogh—”
“Be patient, child. The others are not here yet.”
“Others?”
But of course, he gave no reply, his pen scratching over the paper. Soon, however, a voice came skittering down the lonely halls, delivering Praegur and Laertes into the musty library.
“I done wha’ you said, Master Gwogh, sir.” Laertes strode to the desk with a bounce.
Sir Gwogh nudged aside a paper, lifted a candy, and handed it to the boy.
Laertes took it, unwrapped it, and popped it into his mouth. Then around the lump, he said, “Now, dat’s awful nice of you, sir, but dat’s not wha’ you went and promised me.”
Gwogh’s lips twitched. He smirked at the boy. “Bold and efficient,” he said, tugging at a lap drawer. Something clanked softly in his hand—coins? He passed it over to Laertes.
“See, sir? I knew you was good for it.”
Thiel sniffed a laugh, then stood. “Why are we here?”
Threading his fingers, Sir Gwogh focused on her. “Are you bored, Kiethiel?”
“I beg your mercy?”
“Are you bored?” He sat forward, arms resting on the book he’d been writing in. “You are an adventurer—you’ve survived years out there with only two teens and a boy. But you sit here, idle, doing nothing in a land that is not your own.”
She might as well be standing naked before him. “I’m here for Haegan. Remember, you asked me to come be his support.”
“Mm, yes.” Again, he sat back and nodded. “But I’m afraid that’s turned out poorly.”
“Aye.” This wasn’t about his concern for her state of boredom. But what he wanted, she couldn’t discern. “But I will be here—”
“I want you to be here for him in another way,” Gwogh said as he pushed to his feet.
“Sir?” Surprise made her look at her friends. Praegur only frowned. Laertes was intent on finishing the chewy candy he’d been given and prying into a book from a nearby stack.
“I am sending you out of the city—”
“I’m not leaving.” She jerked straight at his audacity.
“You are,” Gwogh said. “And once you hear what I have in mind, you will go willingly.”
It sounded like a challenge, something she had never walked away from. And she could not deny how much it tugged at her heart to help Haegan. With one more cautious glance at her friends, Thiel lifted her chin. “Very well. Tell me.”
“What is coming—we, none of us, are prepared. But we can work toward being such, so that when the great war is through our door, we will not only survive, but perhaps even win.”
“We will win, ’cause Haegan’s da Fierian what will scorch Poired an’ his dark dogs.”
A kindly smile flickered through Gwogh’s thick beard before he let out a long sigh. “Yes, Haegan is the Fierian. His task is singular: to face the Dark One in defense of—”
“Da city,” Laertes said, prying a sticky piece of candy from his teeth.
“No, my friend. Abiassa cares not for the city, but for the people. She has set this time—Haegan’s life—so that his purpose and Her will intersect to be the salvation of Her people at the appointed time.”
Hiding her frustration with the storytelling grew more difficult.
“But Abiassa does not intend the fight to be Haegan alone—he is an integral part—but I believe . . .” His gaze fell on an envelope with a green wax seal. “I believe we must send emissaries to the Nine’s neighbors to garner support.”
“Garner support?” Thiel repeated, her voice pitching. “I am no politician.”
“No, nor would I have you be one,” he said.
“I’m confused.”
Beside her, Praegur shifted. His scowl was deep as he angled closer to the accelerant.
Laertes’s eyes widened. He held up a finger in solution. “Dem Ematahri.”
Thiel sucked in a breath. Coughed. “What? No.” She held out her hands. “No, that is not happening. I’ve left him—them. Twice. There will be no mercy and plenty of judgment. Have you seen their judgment?” She had. And she would never forget Cadeif’s dark eyes when she had shown up with Haegan.
“You must go to the Ematahri, Thiel, and convince them to come when they are needed.”
“I can’t—they won’t listen to me.”
“You must.”
“I can’t! They—”
“Do you love Haegan?”
She snapped her mouth shut, nostrils flaring.
“He will need support, and you can bring it to him.”
• • •
Haegan leaned across the bed and drew open the drawer. Lifted out the Kinidd. He traced its edges, awed by the steel interlocking triangles secured onto the leather. My symbol. It felt prideful to think that, but it was truth. What did the three interlocked triangles represent?
It smelled old. Musty. The pages were crisp and scritchy, not like the notable stationery missives from his father and Fieri Keep. Within its binding were tellings of Baen, Zaethien, Ybienn, along with sketches of the great battles. Haegan turned the page and stilled. A sketch stared back of not just someone from the Histories, but—“Father.” He dove into the story, which recounted the Contending that put his father on the throne. There hadn’t really been a champion from any of the Nine. Even Thurig, who topped the list, was no match for Zireli Celahar.
Haegan flipped back to the History of his grandfather, Zaelero V. He was good and powerful. The kingdom was mostly at peace in his rule, so there were no great feats save being dubbed the Gentle King. An ironic moniker, considering his role as Fire King relegated to his hand swift justice, which meant death at times.
Kaiade. Great-grandfather. Defeated a rogue band that came from the Violet Sea, the Rekken. He dealt them a brutal blow, banishing them to the frozen tundra north of the Ice Mountains. He’d been dubbed Mad Kaiade, not because he lost his faculties the way Queen Ybaenia had, but because he’d pursued the Rekken with so much relentlessness that he nearly lost his hands to frostbite.
Haegan flipped back several more generations. Wondering why this book had nothing but Histories. He could cull information from the droll texts Gwogh had used for a decade of thumping Haegan over the head. Regardless—there was Zaethien, first son of Baen, who’d named Zaethien after one of the six warriors who warred and defeated Dirag the Desecrator. Abiassa had made the six Deliverers, and subsequent victors who held the Fire Throne often used the names for their sons.
Haegan slapped the book closed. His forebears were mighty men. Powerful. Strong. Leaders. Beloved.
Who am I? A once-crippled prince who can’t seem to find his way.
He threw himself back against the pillows and closed his eyes. Pinched the bridge of his nose.
; “Is it working?”
Haegan jerked up, startled by the intruding voice. No, more by the owner of that voice. “Drracien.”
The rogue sat against the ledge of a now-open window, legs crossed and arms folded over his chest. “So, is it working?”
“What?”
“Your pity party.”
Haegan huffed. “Leave off. I have no patience for—”
“Nay,” Drracien said, pushing from the ledge. “You have no patience, period. Not for yourself, nor for the trials you tread.”
“Aye,” Haegan growled, prying himself off the bed. “In that we agree.” He went to the dressing area. He stuffed his legs into his pants and tugged them up. A cold weight pressed against his thigh. He drew a stone from the pocket. A sweet, earthy scent drenched him. Haegan stilled, his senses and confusion warring. Where had the stone come from?
“Where is your beauty?”
Snapped out of the fog, Haegan glanced at Drracien as he finished dressing. The rogue lifted a cordi from the tray that also held a pitcher of water, crackers, and cheese.
“My beauty?”
After chomping into the fruit, he motioned toward the door. “Thiel.”
“Oh.” Guilt hung like an anvil around his neck as he joined his friend, sliding the stone back into his pocket. “I was never good enough for her anyway.”
Drracien frowned, frozen. Then grinned. “She finally saw I was the better man?”
Glad the rogue made light and didn’t demand to know what was wrong, Haegan poured a glass of water and went to the seating area by the dwindling fire. What hour was it? He glanced at the clock on the mantle. Nearly ten.
“I won’t ask,” Drracien finally said, “but I think you’re a fool to let it happen.”
“Let what happen?”
“Thiel get away.” Drracien took up the chair with another cordi in the same hand that held a cup by its handle. Seated, he set the warmed juice and fruit down, then dug in his pocket. Crackers. Cheese.
Haegan chuckled. “Have you not eaten today?”
Lifting a shoulder, Drracien stuffed a couple of crackers into his mouth. He pointed to the tray. “Just had a cordi.”
There was no fight left in Haegan. He shook his head and dropped lazily onto the settee, staring into the fire.
“Very well,” Drracien said. “I’ll bite. What ails you?”
Haegan frowned. “Of what do you speak?”
“I just climbed through a window after vanishing on the high plains, and all you ask is if I’ve eaten?” He stuffed another cracker into his mouth. “And why didn’t you report those two who attacked you?”
Haegan started. “How—”
“Nay,” Drracien said, holding the cordi up. “You will not distract me. Why—they attacked you. Gave you a knot.”
“How would it look in the midst of the Contending trials if I were to admit that I went willingly to a place I shouldn’t have been, and in doing so, I got attacked?”
Drracien nodded, chewing a chunk of cordi. “Good point.” He slurped another bite. “But that’s not why you didn’t report it.”
“I beg your mercy,” he said, incredulous.
“No need to beg.” Drracien finished the fruit, then tossed the core right out the open window he’d climbed through. “But will you be honest with yourself? And with me?”
“What is honesty but a tool your enemy can use against you?”
Drracien pulled straight. “Is that what I am to you?”
Haegan blinked. “Nay.” He worked to dislodge the thought. “I am not sure why I said that.” After clearing his throat and mind, he nodded. “Why are you hiding? Why are you scaling walls in the dark?”
“Because it’s challenging?”
“I’ve never seen you cower—even when the assassins hit us near the Great Falls.”
“Speaking of—”
“Not yet.” Haegan pointed at him. “Drracien . . . what’s going on?” It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. They’d first encountered him south of Hetaera. And they’d gotten the impression he was running from something, but as he’d said at the time—weren’t they all? Questions had been tucked aside as Drracien became an asset and friend. “I’ve kept no secrets from you. I’ve trusted you implicitly.” He snorted. “I still do, though they named you a murderer.”
Drracien slowed in his chewing and slid a wary glance at Haegan.
“Come. We are friends, are we not? We’ve protected one another. Though I daresay you’ve protected me more than I have returned that favor.” Haegan nodded. “Tell me why they pursue you.”
Swallowing, Drracien looked at the remaining crackers and cheese in his hand. “It’s a long story.”
“The best ones usually are.”
“I think . . .” Drracien’s lip bulged as he swiped his tongue around his teeth. “I killed High Marshal Aloing.”
Shock ripped through Haegan. “You think?” He fought to not lunge up. But this rogue may very well be the last friend he had left. “Of the people I’ve met, you possess the most candid and honest character—albeit a bit petulant—so, I struggle to accept you could take another’s life. He was your mentor, was he not? What happened?”
“He was.” Drracien nearly smiled. “I know not what happened. I was summoned from the training yard, where the sparkers had at least another hour of instruction. When I got to his office, he chastised me for sparking Tortook.”
“Puthago?” Haegan asked, his voice rising. “He’s a Contender.”
Drracien grunted. “Be wary of him.”
“I am. Go on.”
“Aloing antagonized me. More than ever before. He’d always been hard on me, but not . . .” Distance grew in his gaze, drawing him into the past. “ . . . not cruel. But that day he was. As if he wanted to anger me. Next thing I know, we’re throwing bolts. Me deflecting, begging him to stop. But I’m getting angrier. And he’s not letting up, pushing . . . pushing . . . It finally overtakes me. I throw a blast at him.” Drracien hauled in a shaky breath. “Struck him in the temple.”
Haegan watched his friend, saw the pain on his face. “Seems anger has impeded the both of us.” His laugh was hollow, and they both knew it.
“Next thing I know, they’re at the door—the grand marshal and other high lords—demanding the door be opened.”
“What did you do?”
“I sailed out of the window onto the roof of the governor’s mansion—across one rooftop after another. Dromadric’s deadly bolts pursuing me.”
“Did he want to kill you?”
“Dromadric? I’m sur—”
“Aloing. Why else would a powerful accelerant challenge his mentee?”
Drracien sniffed. “Even if he wanted to kill me, I do not think he could.”
Arrogance? He’d known Drracien to be sure of himself, but downright arrogant? “A high lord—”
“Has decades on me in training.” Drracien nodded. “But I had outwielded him more than once. It’s why he set me as a marshal. Why he put me to instruction.”
“Then why antagonize you?”
“I have asked the question a thousand times. As he died, he begged my mercy. Said . . . it was for my own good.”
“What was?”
He snorted. “If I knew, would I be wandering the frozen plains of nothingness with you?”
Haegan smirked. “Aye, you would. I don’t think you could survive without controversy in your path.”
Drracien laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “You know me well.” His dark eyes bounced to Haegan. “How could forcing my hand to kill him be for my own good?”
“How can destroying the land bring healing, and yet—that is the task before me.”
Drracien hung his head. His gaze drifted to the city lights in the distance, and his smile faded. “I must beg your mercy, Haegan. I cannot walk this path with you as long as you are quartered within Hetaera.”
“Is there not a way to . . . defend yourself? Tell them what happened.”
“And what? Expect them to believe one of the most revered accelerants of our time committed suicide by mentee?” Drracien moved to the window and palmed the ledge. “All evidence points to my guilt.” His words were void of emotion, but his expression roiled with turmoil. “I just don’t understand it.”
“What?”
“Any of it.” He flopped around, crossing his arms. “He sought me out. Brought me to the Citadel. Trained me. Mentored me.” Drracien shook his head. “Why force me to kill him? Why tell me to run?” His brow knotted and his expression waxed in grief. “He took everything away from me. Why?”
Haegan sagged. He had no answers. None. Not even for himself. They were both in a quandary. “We are both saddled with burdens we did not ask to bear.”
“Aye, but you got the girl.”
Though Haegan snorted, he could not voice the thought that robbed him of any pleasure he found in having Thiel as his. He did not want to talk about their confrontation, about her betrayal.
“Listen, I came to warn you about Dromadric.”
Haegan frowned.
“Do not trust him.”
“Is this your anger over him chasing you from the Citadel speaking?”
“No, this is me, who saw him work your fears against you in an attempt to trip you up in the trials, warning you.”
“You saw? Where were you?”
“I’ve learned to be invisible when necessary. But I will never be far. I know you don’t believe in what’s happening to you, but I do.” The petulant accelerant seemed to find a conviction. “She chose you. Don’t let them take that from you. You fight.” He tapped Haegan’s chest. “Fight with every spark in and around you.”
Haegan looked away. He didn’t want to fight.
Voices scampered through the hall, bouncing against the door. A thud on the wood made Haegan jump. “Go,” he hissed, spinning around.
But Drracien was already a black blur in the window frame, vanishing into the night.
Quickly, Haegan dove beneath the thick comforter and tugged the Kinidd back onto his lap. “Enter.”
Two Jujak entered. “We beg your mercy, Prince Haegan, but the Council requests your presence at nine bells.”
Haegan sighed. “Thank you.”