by Ronie Kendig
The soldiers exited, and Haegan waited until the door was secured before throwing off the covers and hurrying to the window. “Drracien?” He leaned out the ledge but saw nothing.
A swirl of cold night rushed in. Coiled around his head. He drew back, then paused to take in the city. Lights had dimmed and only a spark here and there gave a dull outline to the perimeter. The Citadel’s wall of Flames glowed brightly, casting its light over the inner city.
The moons ducked behind fast-moving clouds, and Haegan let his gaze travel to the hills. To the moment when he’d believed himself welcomed and cheered as the next king. Then he set foot in the city and everything changed.
Eleven Contenders.
And who was he among them but an unskilled accelerant? Though he completed his academic studies, he had little experience. He had never led anyone anywhere, except maybe Gwogh to madness.
Gwogh.
Was it guilt that then compelled him to leave the Order and act as tutor? He poisoned me. And now? Now he would have me be the Fierian. But not the Fire King.
I am not good enough for anyone.
Disgust wove through Haegan. He glanced to the Mier Woods as a ray of moonslight struck it.
A flash caught his eye. A shape. Moving in the woods. It blended into the darkness. Haegan hurried to his armoire and drew out his telescope. At the window again, he lifted the long glass to his eye. Scanned the tree line. Trees. Brush. But no fire. No person.
He lowered the telescope. What had he seen?
It happened again, as he watched the movement with the naked eye. Haegan snapped up the glass. Spotted Trale Kath at the edge of the woods. And he didn’t look happy. His sister was there, arms wagging in apparent frustration.
An argument.
The silent scene played out, the sister pointing at Haegan—no, at the city—and shouting at her brother. Who shook his head. Stabbed a finger to the ground.
We stay.
Haegan lowered the glass more slowly this time. How he knew that’s what Trale said, he wasn’t sure. But he did. Why were they staying?
To assassinate me.
They could’ve done that the other day.
Haegan used the telescope again. The amplified image of Astadia Kath’s face filled his glass. But—no, there was something. “Blazes,” Haegan hissed, nearly dropping the telescope. She was aiming a crossbow directly at him. He stumbled backward, the glass wobbling in his hand. He steadied it, reminding himself they were at least a half league away.
Still, she fired.
His mind wrestled—they were too far from him, were they not? Then why shoot? Even as he asked the question, the arrow arced high. Then came down.
And bounced backward.
Bounced? Off what?
He remembered the protective heat shield he’d thrown up in the inflaming test. Had someone raised a protecting shield? Against what? Did someone in the city know the assassins were there?
Drracien?
Haegan pulled the window closed and paused. Why would they stay? Could they reach him?
Trale had said in the courtyard that they weren’t here to kill him. But to take him back to Iteveria.
Why would they think he’d do that?
Because it would solve a lot of problems.
The thought pounded against his conscience. Against his agony to be free of this great responsibility of being the Fierian. A scourge.
Something he could no sooner fulfill as a weak and incompetent prince than he could as the Fierian. He’d been tested and measured . . . and found very lacking.
He returned to the bed and drew the covers to his chest, though it would do no good. He could not hide here. Not from the assassins. Not from Abiassa. His elbow thudded against the Kinidd.
Haegan turned on his side and opened the book again. He rather enjoyed the sketches of his forebears and skirmishes. And there were some of great keeps. When he turned the page, he hesitated.
Smoothed a hand over the spine so it would lay flatter on the bed, his fingers seeming to ignite the words his mind saw. It was the prophecy. Written, of course, in the ancient tongue. And yet, somehow, just as he could speak the words, he read the words. Words he did not know. Yet, he found comprehension.
“Who can stand against Abiassa’s Fhurïaetyr? The armies will be at his back. The enemy before him. All will meet his fiery judgment and succumb.
Answer his call, Thraeïho. Let your mighty hand wield his scythe. Slice down every adversary.
Defend him, Deh’laefhïer. Let not his blood be spilled or you will surrender your life.
The chïphlïaeng will be his emissaries, delivering death to those who oppose the Fhurïaetyr.
In the day of Rïaetyr, none will remain beside him. None will prevail against her champion. Arise, Fhurïaetyr!”
Delivering death. Fiery judgment. Slice down every adversary. None will prevail.
How? How was that to be true when Haegan could not pass simple tests? When his wielding could not rival even that of a sparker or conductor?
Chïphlïaeng.
Haegan stilled, recalling Gwogh explaining the word meant siblings. He slowly pushed his gaze to the window. Let his mind travel past it to the woods. To the sibling assassins.
46
Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
“Just bed down!” Trale snapped, his patience thin. “You’re tired.”
“I’m angry,” Astadia spat back. “There’s a difference. We should not be here. We should be in that city, finding a way into the palace to drag the prince back to the Infantessa.”
“Yes,” he growled, rolling out his pallet, wishing he hadn’t slipped the touch stone into the prince’s pocket. He felt empty, lost, without it. “And you proved there’s a protective barrier.”
She’d been furious at that. Neither had known the barrier existed until she’d tried to show him they were too far from the city for her to target the prince. Which wasn’t their mission anyway. But Astadia seemed bent on death.
“But he has the rock?”
Trale nodded, thinking of the nondescript stone. Gray and smoothed by a river, it seemed innocuous. But it’d hummed, filled an emptiness he hadn’t noticed before. “Though I wish I hadn’t.”
Astadia huffed. “I swear if she gave you a dirty handkerchief, you’d carry it around like a treasure. Why a rock anyway?”
“She asked me to take it to him.”
“We need to leave. None of this makes sense.” She shifted to him. “Please, Trale. Trust me on this. ’Tis not right.”
He rolled his eyes. “She didn’t ask us to kill him, which is what Poired wanted.” He shot her a fierce look. “Is that your will, too? I seem to remember at the Great Falls you developed a weakness for the prince.” The words were meant to cut.
And they did. Astadia ducked. Fisted her hands. “I must do something. We aren’t diplomats. We’re assassins.”
Trale felt something on the wind. It smelled . . . strange. “Shh,” he hissed, rising. “Someone’s coming.”
Astadia hopped to her feet soundlessly, dagger in hand.
Trale drew the Tahscan saber and waited, listening. She pointed to his right, and he angled there as a shadowy figure strode straight for them.
Jujak? Sentinel?
Not dressed right. And they’d be louder. Arrogant in their defense of the city or the prince. Accelerant? Even more arrogant.
A small light-halo blossomed at the man’s waist level, shielded by his form. It cast an eerie glow over his features.
Shock tore at Trale. “Prince Haegan.”
Resolution gouged hard lines in his face, tightening his lips. Eyes hooded in determination, he hunched as if he moved against his own will.
“Far enough,” Trale said, lifting the Tahscan blade to his throat.
The prince’s hands flexed, heat warbling . . . then dissipating. “I will go with you.” His words sounded forced. “But we must leave now. We have only until dawn before they discover
I am missing.”
47
Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
Sir Gwogh stared at the Sentinel. “You are sure?”
“Aye, sir. We found this on his bed.”
The hastily scrawled note to Thiel simply read, “I beg your mercy. ’Tis not what I want to become.”
“Thank you.” As the messenger of bad news left, Gwogh called to him, “Sentinel.”
The man turned. “Sir?”
“Speak of this to no one. The Nine is in enough chaos.”
A curt nod. “Understood, sir.”
“Summon the Council members to my chambers at once.”
“Aye, sir.” And with that the Sentinel left.
Heart heavy, Gwogh moved to his writing desk and sat. Haegan had nearly a full day’s head start. The final trial was still three days away, but he doubted they’d be able to track the prince down before then.
He stared at the simple words that carried so much hurt and fear. “I have failed you in so many ways, my prince.” He pushed his gaze to the window. “Where have you gone?”
• • •
Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
“Behind you is Mount Medric, which has stood watch over the Citadel and Hetaera City for all time,” Adomath announced from a watchtower that had not been on this plain yester-morn. Standing at the center, he was flanked by the Council of Nine. “Please, Contenders, position yourselves in the circle marked with your sigil.”
Tili made his way to the attacking raqine and stood with his arms folded, quickly noting Haegan’s sigil remained empty. It had been several days since their confrontation in the chow hall. He had not seen the prince since. The other Contenders were whispering about the prince’s glaring absence, some suggesting he’d been disqualified. Others rumored he had taken deathly ill after the inflaming.
Which could not be true. Surely someone—Thiel or Gwogh—would’ve come to him with the news.
“The mountain,” rang Adomath’s nasally voice, “has been divided into eleven sections, one per contender. Each mirrors the others as closely as possible in trial, if not precisely in terrain.”
Tili glanced toward the stretch of land they called a mountain and wanted to laugh. A mountain was the Cold One’s Tooth. Or even greater—Legier. This was a nub of a hill overlooking a pompous city.
Fences raced up Mount Medric to the crest. As he turned, Tili caught sight of more than forty people from the Citadel spilling onto the plain with the early morning light. Dew glittered like diamonds across the tawny field. A soft breeze petted the blades of grass, stroking them gently with a fragranced hand as the forty drew closer. A lone figure stood out. Nearly a hand taller than the rest, Tokar wandered onto the field.
“Each Contender will be assigned a contingent of four,” Adomath explained, motioning to the crowd of newcomers. “You will have no choice in your unit. The mission is exactly the same for each Contender: Find and safely deliver the jewel to the peak, where the Nine will be waiting.”
Tili stood with his arms folded and feet shoulder-width apart, watching as Tokar stalked to him. So this is how they would test him.
“I did not want to come,” Tokar said evenly.
“In that, we are alike, tenderfoot.”
Tokar scowled at the moniker forced upon those vying for the Jujak. “You may have found me lacking for the Nivari, but I will prove you wrong.”
Tokar’s annoyance pleased Tili, especially considering that dark look the youth shot him. He focused on the next person coming his way, a Kergulian, and extended a hand. “Tili.”
“D’wyn,” the man said, nodding.
After him arrived a twig of a boy, who reminded him of Haegan when they’d first met. “Tili,” he said, again offering his hand.
“Twig.”
Tili flinched. “Mercies?” Was this a jest?
“Chwik,” he said, this time clearly pronouncing his name.
Mayhap he was less than even the missing prince. It would take an effort not to call him Twig. Tili heard another approach to his right and turned. A honey-haired girl stepped to the sigil, and the twig withdrew. Chwik gawked at the girl who had beauty to rival the warm, dew-covered fields.
Tili inclined his head in a slight bow, refraining from taking her hand. Nivaran etiquette frowned upon that between an eligible man—especially a prince—and a woman. “I’m—”
“Prince Tili.” She curtseyed. “I know.” Her smile was doused in flattery and flirtation. “Everyone knows you. All the ladies talk of the handsome Ybiennese prince contending for the Fire Throne.”
Her flirtation cloyed at him. “And yer name?”
She giggled, and he tried not to cringe as she introduced herself. “I beg your mercy. Darielle Jurden at your service.”
With a slight acknowledgement, Tili turned to face the tower again.
“Blazes,” Tokar muttered. “Do they all fawn at your feet?”
Though he wanted to ask if Tokar was jealous, Tili saw the deep blush coloring Darielle’s cheeks and the shame that came with it. “Give care with yer words, tenderfoot. No matter yer feelings on a subject, one never has right to cause injury to another.”
Tokar shifted, casting a quick look at the girl.
With a huff, Tili wished for Aburas, Zendric, Etan, and Pesh. Or any one of the Nivari. Instead, he was saddled with a rogue, a twig, and a flirt. And D’wyn. The Council seemed set against him.
Brilliant.
“You have till full tilt to reach the peak,” Adomath said as first-years rushed along the field, delivering supplies to the Contenders. “Each unit will have the same equipment: a torch, a rope, a stone light, a pouch, dried meat, paper, and a book.”
The items lay before them. While the others bent to study the objects, Tili focused on Adomath.
“Should you or all your team die, a whistler will be fired to alert the other teams. First to reach the peak and present the jewel to the Council will win this round. Tomorrow at the Grand Feast, they will also have the seat of honor.”
Tili frowned. “How many games are we to best? What score is expected before a decision is made?” When will this futility end?
Sir Gwogh came to his feet and approached the high lord, whispering to him, then he spoke to the teams. “Within this course are four trials, but overall”—Gwogh’s gaze rose to the mountain—“this is the final test, Prince Tili. The Council will weigh each test and what came out of it to determine who will take the Fire Throne. Points alone do not guarantee victory.”
Relief rushed through Tili. Thoughts of home tugged at him. Then he thought of Haegan and a lump of foreboding settled in his stomach. If Haegan remained absent . . . He looked to Gwogh, but the aged accelerant turned his gaze to the Contenders.
“It has been a long week of training and examinations,” Gwogh said, “and I know you are all tired. Draw on your strength and do your best. Wield when it matters. Use every resource at your disposal. And seek Abiassa’s wisdom. Beyond all else, recover the jewel!”
Adomath raised his arm. “Contenders, to your section.”
Tili motioned his unit to the area marked with the standard of Nivar. The sight of it was a lone comfort in this humid setting, so far from his father and mother. The raqine. The chill of Legier.
“It’s warmer here than in Ybienn, yes?” Darielle asked as she strode beside him.
Tili nodded, refusing to be annoyed so early in the day.
“What’s it like there? I’ve never ventured that far north.”
He doubted she’d ever ventured anywhere. The smell of Hetaera clung to her clothes and loose-bound hair. “Cold,” he answered. “The breath of Legier always blows along the neck.”
“The neck?”
“The villages at the base of the mountain.”
“Oh.”
At the standard, Tili found they would be armed as well. Bows and training arrows. He threaded his arm through a bow and shifted it to his back, lifting a handful o
f arrows and stuffing them into the back of his shirt, since they were not afforded a way to carry them. “Arm up.” He nodded to the gear lying in a heap.
As his unit bumbled their way through the armor and weapons, he stuffed on gauntlets. “I would know yer strengths, each of ye.”
“Tracking.” D’wyn lifted a pair of greaves and handed them to Tili. “I grew up on a mountain like this. Learned to track animals.” He, too, took a bow and arrows.
“In Nivar, we track as well in mountains and snow.” He clapped the man on the shoulder. “It will be good to have another set of eyes. And Chwik?”
The twig started, eyes widening as he slid his hands into gloves that looked two sizes too big. “S—sir?”
“What strengths have ye?”
Geared and ready, Tokar snorted.
“Arrogance is the quickest way to the Fires and defeat.” Tili focused on the twig again. “Strengths?”
“I—I . . .” Blue-green eyes darted at the others. He shrugged. “I have none.”
Sparring dagger in his boot, Tili patted the twig’s arm. “All are gifted with strength in one way or another, my father says.” He gave an affirming smile. “When ye are on yer own, what do ye do to pass the time? What do ye enjoy?”
At this, Chwik lowered his head even farther.
“As in, have fun?” Tokar taunted. “You do know how to do that, right?”
Tili scowled his remonstration at Tokar. Then he jutted his chin toward the twig, encouraging him to answer.
“Sketch, read.” Chwik shrugged again, stringing the pouch, the parchment, and book over his shoulder. He looked at the bow and arrows, but didn’t take any. “My father is the Keeper of the Parchments in the capital.”
Tsss. Tokar shook his head and turned away.
Darielle struggled to strap on forearm plating.
Tili stepped over, holding her hand between his elbow and side. “What of yer strengths, my lady? Besides yer beauty?”
She took in a breath, then let it out in a giggle. “I’ve been trained in the Citadel—”
“Ye’re an accelerant?” Tili stilled, peering into her eyes.
“Oh no,” she said, nearly laughing again. “No, I came to the Citadel because I have a way with languages. The best scholars instruct the accelerants, and if you’re keen enough, they allow you to learn alongside Abiassa’s Chosen.”