Accelerant

by Ronie Kendig

  “Room?”

  He inclined his head as he walked. “It is one of the smaller rooms, but since our generous Infantessa will host a gala in a week’s time, she must reserve those suites for dignitaries.”

  “Of course.” Haegan blinked, surprised at the jealousy spiraling through his chest. Why would she not give him, a foreign prince, a nice room?

  Paung led the way up the grand staircase, then turned left. He strode down a shorter hall before climbing another flight. A catwalk spanned the open staircase below and gave birth to a hall of rooms. At the far end, Paung pushed through a pair of doors, strode to a bank of windows, and nudged apart two sets of glass panels.

  A salty breeze swept in from the balcony that stretched the entire length of the room. Haegan’s breath backed into his throat as he stepped outside and gazed at the glittering body of water reaching to the horizon. “The Nydessan Sea,” he muttered, any further words lost in awe.

  Water crashed against rocks far below. The palace sat atop a mountain and was built into the cliff overlooking the Nydessan Sea. Blue-green waters stirred a foamy wake then drifted back out to sea. He had never seen anything so beautiful. Though he’d heard of it in the Histories, he’d forgotten. And never expected to see its splendor.

  “I hope this is acceptable.”

  “It is more than acceptable.” See? I was right to leave. Here . . . He could stay here. Live by the sea. In peace. A place fit for a prince.

  Paung smiled and bowed. “Of course, the Infantessa has seen to your other needs as well.” He went to shuttered doors and drew them apart. A room—no, a closet the size of a full room—had been stocked with tunics, coats, trousers, shoes.

  Surprised yet again, Haegan crossed the bedroom and stared at the array of clothing. “How did she know my size?”

  “There is little our Infantessa does not know,” Paung said. “The bed will be turned down each night by the staff and made again in the morning. They will come and go without bother to you. Should you need anything, your attendant can take care of it.”

  “Attendant?”

  Paung motioned to the corner, where a man stood as still as a statue in a dark green suit. “Thomannon will attend you during your stay.”

  The servant clapped his hands against his thighs, then bowed curtly. “Sir.”

  After acknowledging the man, Haegan took in the room. The bed—exquisite and large. The posts two-hands in breadth. Rich, brocade tapestries draped its sides. A sitting area with a fireplace looked out onto the balcony. In an adjoining room stood a table set for one and a buffet server supporting a bowl of flawless-looking fruit as well as a tray bearing crystal glasses and a decanter of cordi wine.

  “Your meals will be served there, except for the eve meal, when you are expected in the main dining hall.”

  “Where is that?”

  “An escort will deliver you when it is time,” Paung said.

  Haegan followed the butler to another room with a marble tub and a glass enclosure.

  “Ah, your shower.”

  “Shower?”

  Paung pointed to the lever. “Pull, and it will open, feeding water from the falls into the enclosure. The drain carries the rest back to the sea.”

  “Incredible!”

  “King Adin was quite the innovator,” Paung said as he returned to the entry, gripping a knob in each hand. “Enjoy the view. If you have need of anything, ask Thomannon.”

  Haegan again glanced at the statue-like man, then back to the butler. But the doors were closed. Click. Locks? Had he locked Haegan in? For what purpose? He went to the doors and tested them. “They’re locked.”

  “All doors are secured at all times,” came the rumbling voice of Thomannon. “To keep the Infantessa and her guests safe.”

  Was her safety so jeopardized that they must lock guests in? But the safety of a sovereign is important. Disquieted, Haegan returned to the balcony. He palmed the warm stone and stared out. Breathed in deeply, enjoying the moisture on his face. This was something he’d not experienced before. Lakes of Fire? Searing heat? Aye. But cool air bathed in the salty breath of the sea?

  Yet something niggled at Haegan. Pulled at him. What, he couldn’t be sure.

  “What is the hour, Thomannon?”

  “A quarter past first chime.”

  Haegan nodded. “And the next meal?” His stomach rumbled at the thought.

  “Six chimes.” Thomannon inclined his head. “I could send for food if you are hungry.”

  “That would be appreciated,” Haegan said, pointing to the bath chamber. “May I shower now?”

  “As you will.” Thomannon moved across the room and vanished into the bathroom, where a squeak preceded a whoosh of water. He started the shower. “I will lay out fresh clothes, my lord.”

  Strange. This was the life he’d had in Fieri Keep, with an aged tutor and a manservant to serve him. But having legs, being able bodied, it felt odd to have a stranger waiting on him with such expediency.

  But he did not deserve this.

  Why? You are a prince!

  Perhaps. But he should guard against growing lax and at ease in an enemy capital. What would Father do?

  Why? The Infantessa said I’m her guest. Courtesies. They were courtesies expected of any noble house, extending kindness to a visiting dignitary. And that’s what Haegan was, essentially, wasn’t he?

  The thought that nagged at him as he undressed plucked once more—louder. What if the Infantessa found out he was the Fierian? Could she use him? Why would she?

  56

  Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine

  Palms pressed to the cool stone, Tili stared down at Nagbe, peacefully sleeping in Her embrace. I failed you. With a heavy sigh, he pressed his hand on the dirty brown hair. The boy would not be washed or ceremonially cleansed in preparation for burial. Nor would he be afforded a spot in the earth, but a box in a cave because of the war roiling aboveground.

  “We must hurry,” a woman whispered to Gwogh, who stood to the side.

  This boy . . . he represented everything in Tili’s life. Alive, he’d represented a new beginning, a youthfulness. Dead, he represented failure, an end to all things hoped for.

  “Prince Tili,” the woman insisted.

  Annoyed and agitated, he ground his teeth. “This boy’s death is on yer head,” he growled, pushing a glower to the woman. “Ye used a child as a pawn in this trial. Now he lies dead, and ye wish me to—”

  “No one could have known Onerid was coming.”

  “Clearly, someone knew,” Tili countered. “D’wyn said the grand marshal paid him to sabotage my unit. Dromadric is in league with the Sirdarians.”

  “Your anger is justified, Tili.” Gwogh’s face was contrite, remorseful. “But there are things we must discuss, and we must soon leave the catacombs.”

  Again, Tili glanced at Nagbe, memorizing his little face, then he nodded, took a step back, and tucked his hands beneath his armpits. Grief folded into the length of fabric two sentinels placed over the boy’s frame.

  “Come.” Gwogh’s voice was a homing beacon, luring Tili back to the present, as he guided him to where the Council—what remained of it—had gathered.

  But one step jolted Tili. He pivoted. “Thiel.” His heart crashed. “She was in the city.”

  “I sent her away this morning.”

  Tili breathed a little easier as they joined the others around a table littered with cracked stones and bronze plates. Agremar stood with his hands behind his back and gave Tili a weighted nod.

  Towering at the head of the table, Gwogh remained respectful as he proceeded. “The day is dreadful and has robbed this world of greatness and beauty,” he said. “But six of the Council remain, and—”

  “We should be up there fighting,” Agremar growled. “I lost three of my unit—many others were killed. They are defenseless—”

  “The city guards and Ignatieri are well trained, Agremar. Generals Grinda and Negaer will recover quic
kly. If Onerid is to be stopped, your presence or absence is unlikely to be the deciding factor.” Kedulcya gave the Viddan sentinel a long look—stern, but not unkind. When he nodded, tight jawed, she continued, speaking firmly into the thick tension. “The purpose of this Council is, first and foremost, to ensure the Guidings and laws remain in place to guide the Nine. As such, we have before us a great quandary.”

  Tili shifted on his feet, thumbing his lower lip. Thinking of the people aboveground. Of his father in Ybienn.

  Gwogh took over. “Because the Contending was not completed, and because only two of the Contenders even reached the final stage—”

  “Three,” Tili said. Beside him, Tokar shifted in his boots.

  Gwogh nodded. “Three, but only two made it to safety.” His smile faltered. “And only one of you brought the jewel to the peak.”

  Gaze drifting, Tili found himself looking at the draped body of Nagbe.

  “The jewel,” Gwogh said softly, “was not the gem, but the boy.”

  “So it is,” Kedulcya said, her voice raspy, “this Council has voted to put into effect the Pelaeris Protocol.”

  Tili frowned.

  “By a two-thirds vote, which is all that remains, sadly,” Gwogh said, “we have elected a temporary leader, a steward, to hold the throne and be the representative of the Nine until . . .” He sighed. “Until we are whole once more and can make better sense.”

  Kelviel came to Tili, handing him a sealed parchment. “This decree is your official title as Steward of the Nine.”

  Heaviness tugged at Tili’s shoulders as he slowly, reluctantly accepted the decree.

  “Tili,” Gwogh said. “It is urgent that you go with your guard”—a half-dozen Jujak emerged from the hall—“and ride with all haste to Vid. They have readied your mount.”

  “Vid?”

  Kedulcya nodded. “The Viddans have regained control of their kingdom, and we will convene there in one month.”

  Hefting the parchment in his hand, Tili nodded. He started toward the guard, then paused and turned back. “I would have Tokar ride with me.”

  Gwogh inclined his head. “As the steward wills.”

  How had this day come? Jaw clenched, Tili followed the guard deeper, lower into the catacombs. They rounded a twist in the passage. A damp, pungent odor smacked him. Sewers. He snorted. Fitting, considering their situation.

  “I’m surprised you asked for me to come.”

  “Ye proved me wrong,” Tili said, willing to accept the truth.

  A man waited in the tunnel ahead. At their approach, he pivoted and inclined his head. “Draorin, Steward as’Tili.”

  Tili grasped the man’s forearm, startled by his strength. “Well met, Draorin.” Did every person in the Nine name their children after Baen’s Deliverers?

  “We ride east,” Draorin said.

  “Aye, and fast.”

  “Tili.” Gwogh came up the tunnel after them with a heavily bedecked guard, whose gold cord stretched from shoulder to waist and was secured to his belt. Valor Guard. Haegan’s man.

  Gwogh motioned to him. “This is Colonel Marz Chauld. He has volunteered for your guard.”

  Colonel Chauld stepped forward. Clapping a fist to his chest, he gave a curt bow.

  Tili appreciated the ready respect but it didn’t answer his question: “Yer offer is well made, Colonel, but don’t ye have someone else to protect?”

  “Share your report, Colonel Chauld,” Gwogh said.

  Chauld again gave a curt nod. “Sir, our spies report Prince Haegan was seen crossing the plains of western Vid two days past in the company of two Iteverian assassins.”

  Assassins? Tili scowled. “He is captive then? Are we—”

  “No, sir.” Chauld’s voice was severe. “Not captive. The prince travels with them, sir.”

  “With assassins?” Tili scowled at Gwogh. “He is smarter than that. Everyone is smarter than that.”

  “Aye,” Gwogh said, and his face—Tili’s gut clenched. His expression betrayed the same pain Tili had seen on his father’s face when Thiel had been taken, all those years ago.

  “I do not understand.”

  “Most don’t.”

  “If he travels with them,” Tili said slowly, “he either trusts them or is using them for some means.” But even Haegan wasn’t foolish enough to try to manipulate two Iteverians assassins. “Or . . .” He squinted at Gwogh. “Ye have an idea.”

  “I must warn you, Tili, the Unelithian lands are rife with mercenaries, and a very powerful incipient.”

  “Unelithia? I thought I was going to Vid.”

  “That is the official word, but I now fear our prince has gotten himself into a situation far more deadly than he could imagine,” Gwogh said gravely.

  “Sirdar himself?”

  Gwogh shook his head. “An inflamer, the most powerful I have ever encountered, one who can inflame thoughts and turn them against the person so subtly, so skillfully, the person loses themself in their own desires. This inflamer is a master. I, myself, narrowly escaped her clutches decades past.”

  “Her?”

  “The Infantessa.”

  57

  Outside Hetaera City, Hetaera, Kingdom of the Nine

  “Look. I might not ’ave da smarts t’ talk right, but I knows fings,” Laertes said as he stared across the clearing. They’d borrowed mounts to leave the city, then made their way here.

  “What things?” Thiel swung the pack free from her horse and proceeded to untack the animal. The horses would have to find their own way back. She glanced to the Citadel in the distance, swallowing hard at the blackened haze covering it. Then she searched the blue sky above.

  Laertes followed her gaze, squinting. “You shore it’s coming?”

  “I’m sure.”

  He seemed to accept this, and jumped back to their previous conversation. “I knows dat what fills the sky ain’t from celebration fires.”

  Thiel felt a knot in her stomach. “No, ye are right. It’s not celebration fires.” At least not Hetaeran celebration fires.

  “Dems da dark ones, ain’t it?”

  “I think so,” Thiel said with a sigh. Had Haegan escaped? Tili? She looked to Praegur, afraid for the ones she’d left behind. Afraid for herself and her companions.

  Praegur shifted, watching the city. He too, apparently, was conflicted about leaving Haegan. But then his face smoothed of the concern that had rippled through it a second past. He met her gaze, confident and calm, and shook his head.

  “He’s not there?”

  Praegur shook his head again.

  Relief rushed through her. “We should go.” But they couldn’t. Where was their ride?

  A shadow grew larger and larger, swooping down on them.

  With two massive thwaps of her furry wings, Chima alighted in the field. The horses bolted, and she chortled, as if amused by their fear. Her fiery eyes blinked at Thiel. Being with the raqine did something to her courage, to her belief that hope still existed when the capital was burning and Haegan was . . . somewhere.

  Laertes whooped. “I knows dat dem dark ones will fink twice—or tens—’bout messing wif’ a beau’ful girl what comes from da sky on a raqine!”

  “Aye, but let us hope that the Ematahri won’t panic. And that Chima will help them listen to us.” Really, what worried her more was being accepted. Because that would involve expectation. Though her feelings for Cadeif were deep, they had never been the same as what she felt for Haegan. But, after their argument . . . she’d never felt so mixed up.

  A warm, wet nose nudged her hand.

  Thiel glanced at Chima, her dark red coat nearly black in the stretching shadows. Chima gave a low, mournful chortle. Could she sense was happening in the capital?

  Even now, Chima stalked into the open, slinking down. She lifted her snout into the air and sniffed—through her mouth, taking in deeper scents. She rolled her shoulders, shaking back and forth. A high-pitched shriek—almost undetectable to the human ea
r—streaked through the night.

  “What’s she doin’ dat for?”

  “She’s calling to him,” Thiel whispered. Just as I am. But he would not be coming. He had told her to leave. He’d been so angry. Which was unlike him. And strange.

  She turned to Chima and touched her ear. “Laertes.”

  “Wha’?

  “Time to leave. Ye first—we must ride with the smallest at the front.”

  “I ain’t neva’ rode one of ’em.” Eyes wide, Laertes swallowed as he came closer. “Me mo’vah wouldn’t even let me drive da wagon what we had ’cuz she said I would crash it.” He motioned to Chima. “What if I crash her?”

  “She will never surrender that much control.” Thiel smiled. “And I will be guiding her. Ye do not have to worry.” She nodded to Praegur, who aided the boy onto Chima’s back.

  The raqine’s spine rippled.

  “Whoa-hoa,” Laertes said, then laughed as he planted his hands on the side of Chima’s neck.

  “Be careful there. She’s sensitive around her neck,” Thiel warned as she hoisted herself up. No sooner had she felt the pressure of Praegur’s chest against her shoulders than Chima stood. Gave another high-pitched signal to Haegan, who was probably impervious to her calls, then trotted into the clearing.

  Her wings thwapped out.

  Laertes stiffened, glancing to either side at the strong span.

  “Relax,” Thiel said. “When we tense, we also tense our legs—it can impede her.”

  “Oh.” He swallowed. “Right.”

  Carrying three people required more effort, but Chima handled it with ease, tearing across the plain with near-frightening swiftness. Laertes struggled against the wind, but Thiel nudged his head down as she leaned into him. The wind force would only worsen once they were airborne.

  And Chima leapt higher.

  Laertes yelped.

  Thiel smiled, closing her eyes as gravity surrendered to the creature of myth. Who was more real than most things people believed in.