by Ronie Kendig
D’wyn whirled around and helped pull him to safety. Chwik dropped to his knees and vomited.
Darielle drew in a breath. “How many traps did you say?”
“I’m sure there are dozens,” D’wyn said, his voice ominous.
“This is ridiculous!” Anger colored Darielle’s cheeks, and she fisted her hands. “Choosing a king is one thing. Sending him on a course like this—”
“Is preparation for what’s to come.” Tokar’s words were even but laden with foreboding.
“Poired,” Chwik said.
Or perhaps even the Void Walker, Sirdar.
“Concern yerselves not with what we cannot address now,” Tili said. “We have an obstacle course before us. We need ideas.” He looked at each of them, willing them to drag their minds from the drowning dread. “Tokar.”
His gaze went to the field, then the knoll, but he slowly shook his head. “I’m fresh out.”
“D’wyn?”
“The traps—we have to avoid them.”
Lightning-sharp unit. Stowing his frustration, Tili turned. “Chwik?”
The twig also shook his head. “I . . .”
“Have mercy on me, my Lady,” Tili muttered.
“The rope and stone,” Darielle said. “Tie the rope to the stone, cast it ahead as we walk to test the ground.”
Tili considered her. Then the field. “That might work.” He nodded, moving. “Good thinking. Twig, give me the stone and rope.”
The boy blinked. “You mean Chwik,” he said, digging out the stone and rope from the pouch.
Tili tied the stone and tested the length of rope. “Behind me,” he barked. He tossed the rock, holding the rope, and let it thump against the ground, then dragged it back toward himself, allowing it to bump across every inch of ground in the line he intended to walk. Toss, thump, drag, advance. Toss, thump—Crack!
The ground fell away.
Tili stilled, his heart amped.
A whistler screamed through the afternoon.
Tili glanced over his shoulder. Three. That left just three Contenders. Maybe he should fail. He was not interested, no matter how pleasant he found the weather or fair the ladies, in spending the rest of his years here. Binding himself to a Southlands woman. Raising a family. Leagues—an entire country—from his own family. He might indeed have a bit of the rogue blood his father always accused him of, but he was a Thurig through and through.
But Haegan had not shown.
He veered right. Toss, thump, drag, advance. Toss, thump, drag, advance. Annoyance gripped him at the number of traps—half the field—but also at the layout. It forced them to come straight at the knoll. No protective cover. No strategic flanking.
They knelt at the lip of the knoll and stared up. Rubbing his jaw did little to help him think. No great inspiration came. His father had said he stroked his beard because it made his brain work better. An old habit become fodder for mocking by his second-eldest son. Now that son found himself doing the same.
He lowered his hand to the side, and aimed his fingers toward the rise. He reached out, sensing the heat. Yes, there were several on the other side.
“Up and over,” D’wyn said. “I see no traps on the knoll.”
“That’s because the danger is on the other side.”
“I will lead,” Tokar said.
“No, it’s—”
“I know you would have all the glory,” Tokar said with a sardonic smile, “but if you die, it’s over. If I die—you still have a unit. The trial continues, and maybe my death will mean something when you get to the top with the jewel.”
“Can you sense them on the other side?” D’wyn asked.
“Aye,” Tili said, gaze still on the grass.
“Accelerants? How many?” Darielle leaned forward.
“Nay, just people. Too many.” A true enough answer that would allow him to conceal the fact that his wielding abilities were not advanced. That his father had forbidden wielding, so he’d hidden it for most of his life.
“Let’s flank.”
Tili frowned. “’Tis not—”
“Not so far, yes—but far enough. Two columns versus one. I still crest it first, draw their attention, and then you attack.”
“Aye, I like it.” Even as he went to his knees, Tili slid the bow to the small of his back, securing it beneath his belt. Arrows tucked in his shirt.
Tili motioned them against the ground, then led Chwik and Darielle up from the right side. Even before he could start low-crawling, elbow over elbow up the small hill, Tokar and D’wyn were halfway up.
Hurrying, he came within inches of the crest. Laid his head flat, looking at Tokar. Tili drew his bow. Nocked an arrow. Met Tokar’s gaze once more and nodded.
Tokar went up with a cry to draw attention.
Tili came up a breath later.
“No!” Tokar shouted.
A strangled cry from behind.
Something cuffed his ankles.
He went down, his chest thumping against the earth. Tili heard the whir of an arrow. Right past his ear. Stunned that he was on the ground, stunned that he’d nearly taken an arrow, he looked back at his feet, at the weight pressed on them.
And found Darielle hugging his legs. She scrabbled backward, cheeks aflame. “The Lady and the Flame. I saw the—it just came loose.”
“What came loose?”
“The fence.” She looked to the barrier. “It was a false wall.”
With a sigh of disgust at himself for missing it, Tili stayed low. “Good job.” He glanced to Tokar again. Then the knoll. It sat empty, save three small pyres. Heat signatures. He lowered his head. He’d sensed the heat from the pyres but hadn’t guessed that they were a ruse, and by entering the trap, he’d unleashed flaming arrows.
“Stay low,” Tili said as they all continued low-crawling to the next barrier. He dropped back against it. “I could’ve died.”
“But you didn’t,” Darielle said with a smile. “Because we’re a unit.”
“No whistler,” noted Chwik with a shake of his head. “Three of you remain.”
“One field to go, but we still have no jewel.” Tokar dropped against the wall.
Tili closed his eyes, resting. Whatever was coming would not be easy. Without moving, he eyed the others. They were all tired. “Ready to hit this?”
“More than,” Tokar said.
“No matter what happens on this rise,” Tili said, “ye are all the finest in my book.”
“Book,” Chwik mumbled, then scrambled for the pouch and lifted the book. “What do you think it means? It’s blank.” He fanned the pages.
“Let me see.” Tili hefted the tome.
Darielle gasped.
So did Chwik.
Tili glanced down at the stained parchment that once had been blank, but now, black lettering scripted itself by an invisible hand, filling the page.
“How in blazes?” Tokar muttered.
“Your hand!” Darielle’s eyes were bright. “You’re an accelerant—your hands are naturally warm.”
“There is an ink made of the same materials as the stone lights,” Chwik said. “It reacts to heat. Just like a stone light illuminates, so does the ink.”
Darielle took the book. Her fingers, dirtied and scratched from the Contending, trailed across the lettering. “It’s about the jewel!”
Tili clenched his jaw. “Read it.”
“I . . . I can’t—it’s fading.” She held it out to him. “You must use it, if you intend to succeed.”
Surrender was not in his nature. “Use the stone light,” he instructed. “It has heat.”
“What are you afraid of?” Tokar asked with an incredulous laugh.
Tili ignored the taunt. Nodded to Chwik. “Ye thought of the book. Use the stone light with it.”
With a slow nod, Chwik retrieved the book and stone light. Touched it to the page. Chwik shot him a look, then back to the book. “It’s not working.”
Darielle lifted her c
hin. “As I said, you must use your gift if you intend to win.”
Tokar frowned at him. “That’s just it—you don’t intend to win. Do you?”
Feeling exposed, Tili snatched back the book, his breaths coming in heavy gulps. Jaw tight, he set his fingertips to the edge. The words spilled across the page as heat from his hands radiated over it. “. . . and in the dawn of the fourth day in the heart of the dark maw amid dirt and grime, the jewel glows bright. Years beyond its age and shrewdly cunning, the jewel summons the one sent. Sharp and fiery, the jewel draws in the weakhearted and humiliates them in their arrogance. Sought after but hidden, the jewel will be as lightning to the Deliverer. The one who climbs the higher path and stands before nine stones with the jewel in hand shall be revealed as the great champion and made wealthy and ruler over all.”
“So,” Tokar said, tucking his chin as he apparently thought through the words. “If you climb to the peak with the jewel in your hand, then you win.”
“It sounds like that,” Darielle said.
“Yer words hesitate.”
“My whole body hesitates—out of exhaustion.” She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Nothing has been what we’ve expected, so I wonder at the words and worry at the course.”
“Aye,” Tili said. “Ye and I both.” He climbed to his feet. “Let’s get this done.”
They hiked for an hour. Faced no challenges. But sweated and ached horrendously. Had they missed something? He peered over his shoulder at the steep climb they’d already made. Then back to the crest. Halfway. He grunted.
“Did we pass it?”
“What?”
Tokar shrugged. “Whatever we’re looking for.”
“If we knew what we were looking for, he might be able to answer that,” Darielle said.
“Tili!” D’wyn’s voice echoed out.
He shifted, stabilizing himself as he turned to the Kergulian, who stood on a small outcropping. “Ye find something?”
“Aye.” D’wyn waved them over then bent forward and seemed to be absorbed into the rocks themselves.
“A cave,” Chwik announced.
51
Legier’s Heart, Northlands
“Drink.” Hoeff’s overly large hands and fingers were deliberately gentle as he nudged the cup at her. “You drink. Heal.”
Steam spiraled up from the bitter brew in the clay cup. She had spent months drinking this concoction, and though at first she’d recovered nicely thanks to his ministrations, it had been more than a month since there’d been additional improvement. She had given up on regaining the use of her legs. In truth, she was merely grateful for the use of her arms and torso. How her brother had endured such a cruel fate for so long, she could not fathom.
“Drink,” Hoeff growled.
With a sigh, Kaelyria lifted the cup to her mouth, held her breath, and guzzled as quickly as she could. Handing off the cup, she squeezed her eyes shut as the last bitter liquid slipped down her throat. She dreaded that first breath afterward, when the lingering taste invariably hit her.
An explosion of tart and sour choked her. There. She shuddered and shook her head. “Could you not add some warmed cordi or honey to it?”
Hoeff frowned. “Medicine not to taste good.”
“Then you are doing your job well, dear sir.” Kaelyria reached for the cup of water beside her chair and drank it greedily. The awful aftertaste remained.
In the doorway appeared an older woman, sprigs of gray hair escaping a dark red cap. Bosomy, she hugged something to her chest.
Surprised at her presence, Kaelyria pulled her shoulders a little straighter. “Matron Ingwait.”
“May we enter, Princess?”
We? “Please.” Kaelyria motioned to the bed, the only remaining place for them to be seated. “And please call me Kaelyria.”
Matron Ingwait smiled as she entered with two other Ladies. One was tall—very tall—and the other reminded Kae of her own mother but with brown hair. And far more wrinkles. “It is generous of ye to allow us such informality.”
Kae wheeled her chair to face them. “Nonsense. Titles were necessary in the Nine. Here, they are an encumbrance.”
“Ye are kind. This is Matron Tnimre”—the tall woman—“and Matron Entwila.” Ingwait gave another wide smile. “The Ladies of the Heart have met and considered yer request for asylum.”
For some reason, Kae’s insides twisted and made her nauseous. She wanted to cover her stomach to calm those nerves, but she would not betray herself. Instead, she folded her hands in her lap. “I am grateful you have considered my request, and I am happy to answer whatever concerns or questions you have. I know there was one about my . . . position.”
“There was,” Matron Entwila said, her voice light and airy. “But no longer.”
A bubble of excitement rose through her system. “No?”
“We’ve spoken with the cacique, who has considerable knowledge of ye and yer family, and who has spent a notable amount of time with ye since yer arrival,” Matron Tnimre said. “He has given a glowing endorsement and advocates that ye be allowed to do as ye wish.”
Why did that set a cage of butterflies free in her stomach? And heat—on the mercies of Abiassa—in her face. “He has been instrumental in my ability to integrate among the Eilidan. The Cacique is very patient with my many questions.”
“Mm, quite,” Ingwait said. “Which is why we are assigning ye to help him in his duties.”
Kaelyria started. “I beg your mercy?” He didn’t need her help, and she knew strong men like him—her father included—did not take kindly to having a woman “help” them in their duties.
“Aselan is a very capable cacique, and we in the Heart are blessed to have him as our leader, but,” Matron Entwila said with a light but condescending tone, “well, he just is not good with the paperwork.”
“Good?” Matron Tnimre scoffed. “He’s terrible. Months behind!”
Kaelyria smiled, nodding. “My father was the same. He could rule nine kingdoms but could not manage to even get letters written. I often helped him—he said it taught me how to rule.” She dropped her gaze, startled by the memory. Worried by it as well. “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply that I want to rule. Only that—”
“Ye understand what it takes for a kingdom to function.”
“Aye,” Kae said with a whoosh of relief. “Exactly.”
“Which is why ye are especially well suited to assist our cacique. Ye have language and writing skills. And while we do teach the children to write and read, none in the Heart have had the formal instruction ye’ve had, nor the experience.”
“I see.” Why were her hands sweating? “And he agrees?”
“Oh, he has no choice, my dear.” Matron Ingwait had a mischievous look. “Ye see, the Ladies of the Heart oversee all matters pertaining to the Heart, but the men and our protection are managed by the cacique. If civil matters are not resolved by the Ladies, then the conflict is presented before him.”
“It’s a fascinating system,” Kaelyria said. Of a sort, it was as if women of other kingdoms, who carried out their roles without complaint and with skill in their advancing years, had a formal title here. Ladies of the Heart. “So . . . do I need to sign something?”
“No, my dear. Ye are Eilidan now. No need to buy or swear allegiance.”
That seemed rather simple.
“With all rights that all Eilidan woman have, including Etaesian’s Feast and Choosing rights.”
“Oh.” Kae’s heart stuttered at the thought of the ceremony where women and older girls chose the man they wanted to be bound to. “Oh, I won’t—”
Matron Ingwait held up a hand. “Hold yer peace. We have a month. Things may change.”
“In a month?” Kaelyria laughed, then thought better of it. “I do not mean to mock you, but”—she motioned to the chair—“what man would choose someone in my condition?”
“But ye forget, Kaelyria,” Ingwait said, “the woman chooses.�
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“Does not the man have a say?”
“Aye, they do—but no man has ever rejected a Choosing.”
“No man?”
Ingwait smiled as she stood. “Ye should report to the cacique’s office at yer earliest convenience.”
“You mean tomorrow?”
“Are ye busy now?”
“Now?” Kaelyria squeaked, reaching for her hair.
Ingwait’s smile spoke of understanding. Of knowing. “Duties must be done, my dear,” she said as she strutted out of the cavelike apartment.
Kaelyria wished for cleaner clothes. For some of her dresses from Fieri Keep. For her lady’s maid, who’d worked gorgeous knots and braids into her hair. She fingered the braid that hung over her shoulder. I am so plain . . .
She sniffed a laugh. Choosing rights.
Even if she were ready for that, he wasn’t. He’d made it clear he would not take another bound. Not after losing his first one. And what did she have to offer? No dowry. No title.
But at least she was here. She was an Eilidan. She felt safe. Tucked away from Poired and his menacing voice that tore at her mind. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she tried to shut out the terror of that time.
An ache made her stretch out her leg.
Kaelyria sighed, rubbing her thigh. Then froze. Looked at her leg. Stretched out. Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t move. But she did. And though it took several long, painful seconds, she was able to return it to the rest on the chair. Stunned, she giggle-cried. Cupped a hand over her mouth. Did it again.
52
Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine
Tili ducked into the cave. “D’wyn?” When no answer came, he paused and turned to Chwik behind him. “The stone light.” Elan would be amused at the thought of Tili crawling through caves in a mountain, considering he’d ridiculed Elan for being willing to do so. He could wield and provide illumination, but until he knew what, if any, gases lurked in the cave, he would not risk it.
Chwik went to a knee, digging into the pouch.
Inching forward, Tili crouched in the darkness and eyed the passage, which vanished into the darkened void. “D’wyn.” His voice carried but then bounced back.