by Ronie Kendig
“No,” Nydelia said, then sighed. “And don’t you dare touch him, or I will dig in that half-bald head of yours.”
Poired slammed a volley at her. Pinned her against the wall. But even as he did, he felt her claw his mind. Refusing to allow her entrance, he released her. “Do not toy with me, Nydelia. Haegan is the Fierian.”
A trickle of laughter rumbled through her. “Aye, and it is so much fun, watching his mind twit here and there, trying to sort everything.” She giggled. “Trying and failing. He really is a weak-minded twit.” She cackled.
“He may be young and inexperienced, but he is strong. Even I can see it’s taking longer than normal for Haegan to succumb to your plyings.”
“But he will succumb,” she bit out, eyes dark. Desperate. When Paung returned with a tray of wine and glasses, she poured a very full one. “It is easy to convince him, to take every little insecurity and doubt and inflame it. Brilliant, really.” She gulped her drink, then pointed at him. “And you’re wrong, he’s not strong.”
Poired took a step forward. “He is. I sense that one day, your inflaming will no longer work.”
“Of course it will! Everyone has doubts. All the time,” she said around a swallow. “But there are some more difficult to inflame—the sister, for example. I had very little success with that thickheaded brat.” She shrugged and dumped back her drink. “But that’s one problem solved.”
Poired drew up straight. Clenched his fists. Turned his thoughts back to the prince. “If word gets out that you have him here—”
“Have him here?” She snorted. “He came willingly. As a guest.”
“You used my assassins, thwarted me—”
“Your assassins? They are tethered to Sirdar. As for Haegan . . .” Then she gave a giddy laugh. “I daresay, if anyone attempts to make him leave, he will protest. Loudly. Maybe even kill himself.”
“He is the Fierian. It is foolish to think you can—”
“Don’t call me a fool,” she said with a glower. Then lifted her shoulders casually. “According to prophecy, the Fierian has a will for justice, to see Her way done.” She gave him a rueful look. “There is no one beneath my roof who wills to be that instrument.”
“When Haegan is angered, his Fierian abilities are . . . unmanageable,” Poired said, remembering the encounter at Fieri Keep. “Something stopped him, but I daresay, had he stayed and fought, it would have been a bloody and long battle.” All the more reason the prince had to die.
“You are so alluring when you talk strategy, but I have no reason to fear his anger because our dear prince is here of his own will.”
“But how long will that last?”
“However long I want.” She lifted her legs off the settee and turned to him, eyes narrowed. “You seem to think he has a will. Haegan has given himself to his doubts, which makes him mine. With each doubt that deepens, he surrenders any other opportunity. It will not take long to fully immerse him.”
“He is the only one who can interrupt Sirdar’s will. It’s too dangerous to keep him alive. What if he overcomes your inflaming?”
“Overcomes,” she guffawed. “That has never happened.”
At that moment, his hatred of her greater than ever before, Poired wanted to kill the prince just to anger her. To pay her back for the girl.
But maybe it was his fear of failing and losing the one precious thing he had left on this planet.
Poired stilled. Fear of failing? He snapped Nydelia a glowering look, detecting that she’d gotten in his head. With a stomp, he sent a super-wake into her. Slammed her back against the couch, nearly toppling her over it. “Stay out of my head!”
She readjusted on the sofa, wiping a trail of blood from her nose. Glowered. But then her smooth confidence slid back into place. “Really, that wasn’t necessary. Go back to your war, Poired. The prince will not bother you, nor our lord, any longer.”
“Kill him before it’s too late!”
“I will . . . eventually.” Another bounce of her shoulders. “But first, I will have a little fun destroying the hero of the Nine.”
• • •
Heart of Legier, Northlands
Aselan sat at the head of the elder table, sipping warmed cordi and watching the dancing and games. It had been hours of laughter and merriment. He recalled a decade ago, being brought to Etaesian’s Feast. The celebration had seemed wild and unencumbered to him then, a young man of twenty and four, plagued with rebellion and anger toward a father who wanted nothing but to raise him in the legacy of Nivar. To one day sit on the throne and rule.
But a pair of brown eyes had swayed his heart. And within ten months, she abandoned him in the Heart. He dragged a finger over his lip, remembering all too well the raw agony of watching life slip out of her. Ingwait had hurried their dead child away. But he followed. Took his son before she placed him in the bier. And held him. Named him, as Doskari had wished.
“Will ye set yer dagger?” Petru asked in a rather loud shout, the fermented cordi loosening his tongue.
Aselan ignored him. Watched the pretty server girl smile at him. Recalled what Kaelyria had said of her, how she found him handsome. It could be his fear, that by setting his dagger on the table, he might end up with a girl like her, one not well-suited to him. Yet all women who participated had approval from the Ladies before going to the man’s cave that night.
Still, it was why he would not set his dagger. Another choosing for him? He would not. Entirely too much risk.
A glimmer of light caught the pale blue of a satin gown, ushering a woman into the hall. Heat surged through his chest as he watched Kaelyria walk, unaided, into the festivities. Confidence had not returned to her, but strength had never left. He’d seen that since she first woke beneath those pelts after Chima had delivered her and her brother to the mountain.
Aselan stroked his beard and set aside his stein. Several men went to her, asking for a dance. Was it unkind that he found pleasure in her refusals?
Would she refuse me?
Somehow, he found himself crossing the room, the clot of men around her frustrating. But the crowd parted. He held out a hand to her. “We have a seat for ye, Princess.”
A smile trembled across her lips as she placed her soft, warm hand in his.
“No fair,” someone whined.
Aselan found pleasure in that, too. In her touch. In the way she glided to him. “Ye grow stronger.”
“Not really,” she whispered as he escorted her to a seat beside Ingwait, as propriety dictated. She smiled as he drew out the chair and helped her onto it. “Thank you for the rescue, Cacique.”
He gave a curt bow and returned to his place, lifting the stein again and gulping from it. As the dancing ended, the men returned to the table and the food was served. Loud chatter and laughter filled the hall.
“Ye know,” Byrin said as he plucked a thick leg of turkey from the plate. “’Twas a low blow.”
“What was?” Aselan stared at the meat and potatoes, but he had no stomach for food.
“Walking her to the table—ye took her right out of their arms.”
Good. “She was in no man’s arms.”
“Aye, but what ye did ensured she would never be in anyone’s—except yers.”
“Ye exaggerate.” Aselan took a bite, so he didn’t have to talk. But Byrin was right. And Aselan could not feign ignorance, though he’d like to. He didn’t want anyone else trying to claim her or win her favor.
Which made no sense because he would not set his dagger. ’Twas not fair to her. Or the men.
He threaded his fingers and rested his elbows on the table as the men fell into idle chatter, nerves buzzing as they anticipated the Hour of the Daggers. Aselan pressed his mouth against his hands, thinking. Weighted with a tug to do it. To abandon fear and what-ifs.
But she is a princess.
And there were a thousand what-ifs tied up in that title.
But ye were born a prince.
She’d been s
o warm, so willing in his arms a couple of weeks past when she’d cried. When he held her, felt the silk of her hair against his hands. The heat of her breath as she cried into his tunic. And the clear longing when he’d considered kissing her.
Laughter erupted from the Ladies’ table. Kaelyria had her head thrown back, holding her stomach as she laughed. She really was so beautiful. Her laughter infectious. They liked her. Accepted her.
A small girl—was that Vork’s little one?—rushed up behind Kaelyria and set a wreath of flowers on her head.
A shout went through the hall, then a ringing applause. The wreath had named Kaelyria the fairest of the ladies. It would garner her a new dress by the seamstresses. Kaelyria thanked the little one and hugged her. And those icy blues came to Aselan. Did she know how very beautiful she was? What she did to his mind and will?
Matron Ingwait stood, clanking a fork against a cup. The hall quieted, the men slapping each other on the back. “Behind the pelt throne, the table waits for the men to place their daggers. As ye all know, we will continue dancing throughout the night. The men will leave their daggers and return to their caves. The feast will end when the last eligible woman who has applied for the Choosing selects a dagger.”
Whoops and hollers went up. Aselan glanced toward the thrones, imagined beyond them, the table waiting to change the lives of the Legiera.
“In two days’ time, we will gather here again to recognize the newly bound couples.”
More shouts went up and bled into another hour of dancing and singing. Shouting and revelry. Annoyance gripped him when Byrin defied Aselan’s unintentional claim and pulled Kaelyria to the dance floor, with her offering objections the entire way.
Aselan gritted his teeth. Fist balled, he watched the whole dance. Swore he would punish Byrin. Give him extra duties on the peak with the ice and snow. Perhaps cleaning the raqine nest. Without armor.
A gong clanged.
The men roared, pumping their fists. And without any further instruction, they all but shoved each other aside to round the fabric divider that separated the pelt throne and the table. ’Twas time for the men, whether or not they had decided to enter the Choosing, to pass by in ceremony, then leave the hall.
As cacique, he was to remain until all men left the hall. Once he saw Byrin nudging the last male through the door, Aselan came to his feet. Avoiding blue eyes, he gave a stiff bow to Matron Ingwait, surrendering his place as leader. He made the long walk behind the pelt throne. Slowing at the table, he smiled at the offering—there must be close to fifty daggers. When had he ever seen so many?
’Twas not desperation but hope. He touched the daggers with his left hand and drew out his own with his right. He held it over the others in both hands.
Would she refuse me?
He could only know one way.
Heart in his throat, Aselan set down the dagger. Was he being foolish? She was young, beautiful. What would she want with a burly mountain man like him? He buried it beneath the others, somehow feeling less . . . foolish. And strode out the side door as the others had. The halls were empty, the thrum of anticipation great.
Ye are a fool.
Regret spun him back to the door, but the thick wood swung shut. A solid click told him it was locked. Hiel-touck! He huffed a breath. ’Tis done. He forced himself to his cave, set his chair against the far wall and sat. Bent forward, he rested his elbows on his knees and again pressed his mouth to his knuckles.
Ye are a blazing fool. Thinking she would choose him.
He glanced at Duamauri, who watched him patiently beside his mate, Sikir. “Ye would have been smarter, aye?”
Sikir squinted.
“Aye.” Aselan sighed. He must resolve himself to accept what may come. Humiliation. An ill-suited match.
Duamauri’s ears twitched toward the entrance, and Aselan’s heart vaulted into his throat. He watched the tapestry over his cave entrance, willing it to stir. But he remained there, each quarter hour sinking his hopes. Ones he had known better than to have. Why would one who’d seen the Nine, who’d lived with riches and luxury, choose this life? Choose him? Concealed in a mountain. With naught but a stone home and wooden chairs. A pelt. And icehounds.
Fool. He pressed the heels of his palms to his forehead. Pushed his hands through his hair. Might as well bed down. Face the humiliation of retrieving his dagger from Ingwait tomorrow. She would love this. His insipid pride on display when his dagger was the only one left unclaimed.
Aselan drew off his tunic and reached for his bed shirt.
Heads swiveling up, his hounds let out a soft growl. Air stirred behind him. He pivoted. And his heart stopped. The tapestry shifted. Kaelyria entered, hesitating at the threshold, hands cradling his dagger.
61
The Citadel, Hetaera
Pain wrenched his shoulders as two Sirdarians hauled him down the passage. His legs were weights. His vision blurry. But he had enough sense to know they were dragging him through the Citadel.
Drracien jerked. Shoved his feet under him. Pitched himself backward. Jerked again. Thrust a hand—He stilled, staring at the Tahscan steel rimming his wrists. “No.” Shielders. They’d shielded him, stifled his ability to wield.
One of the guards laughed, yanking him forward again.
The halls shifted. They must have drugged him, too. This . . . this did not feel right. Did not feel normal.
Seconds—hours?—later, he was tossed to the ground. Four more guards knelt around him, bolting large iron shackles around his arms and legs, securing him against the obsidian marble. He slumped, his cheek against the cold surface. “What are you doing?”
The guards retreated to the wall even as the air changed. The squeak of boots heralded someone’s approach. Their person marched around his outstretched arms, and the slick-booted toes stopped inches from his face. “Hello, Drracien.”
Straining, he stared up into darkness defined—Poired. His stomach heaved. “No no,” he growled, thrashing against the restraints. Whatever his intent, it would not be good. And Drracien wanted no part in it.
“Diavel, now.” Even as Poired’s voice coiled around his mind, there came the lurking shadow of a creature. It stalked forward, head down, purr-growling. It circled Drracien, its breath rancid. A raqine. Wisping in and out of sight.
Drracien shook his head, yet couldn’t look away. What was going on? The creature was there, then not there. Half raqine. Half Void Walker.
Histories, Legacies, Parchments, lessons swirled into one massive vat of panic, spilling over Drracien. By the Flames—a black raqine.
The creature lunged at him. Rows of razor-sharp teeth sank into his shoulder.
Excruciating pain—like being burned alive from the inside—exploded through his shoulder. Then his chest. His entire body. Until Drracien felt sure he would explode. He howled in agony.
• • •
Poired watched in morbid fascination as Diavel stalked back from the boy, circling, snarling, snapping. Drracien’s screams rattled the windows. The guards shifted, but Poired steadied them with a single hand. He waited. Watched.
He winced as the boy thrashed, head bouncing off the black floor like a ball. Poired had gone through the shift as well. Traversing the Void before his time. Blood appeared at Drracien’s nose and the corners of his mouth. Then he lay still. Embraced in death.
A guard started toward the boy.
Without looking, Poired flicked a fiery dagger through his heart. The guard fell dead. Poired crouched, forearms on his knees as he studied the boy. How long would it take him to return?
Ragged and reeking, a breath trickled from Drracien. Dark eyes blinked. Took in his surroundings, confused. No doubt catching up on the last ten years of his life.
Poired stood. Moved to the dais. With a snap of his fingers, he freed the restraints.
Dragging himself to his feet, Drracien looked at the guards. He stumbled and staggered as if drunk. His gaze slowly drifted to Poired. Awareness, underst
anding, filtered into the eyes so like his own.
“Do you remember who you are?” Poired asked.
Drracien held his gaze. Defiance wavered in his eyes.
Poired extended a hand and pulled on the dark embers coiled in Drracien’s abiatasso, eliciting a grunt from him. Only a grunt? “Do you remember?”
Those eyes stared back. “Aye.”
“Aye, what?”
“Aye, Father.”
• • •
Castle Karithia, Iteveria, Unelithia
Shouts went out through Karithia.
Nydelia shot from her bed and her servant was there, robing her as they rushed toward the door. “What is the matter?” But she felt it. Felt the sickeningly sweet aroma. “No,” she rasped.
Her guards stood in the hall, hands on their hilts.
Maybe she had been wrong. They weren’t rushing about, but staring . . . “What is it?” she asked, tying the belt.
“The prince,” one said. “He’s gone down to the lower levels.”
Anger rushed through Nydelia. She seized it and threw a bolt at the guard. It struck his throat, and he collapsed as she stalked past him, fury building. Down the grand staircase, she saw torchlight scampering across the marble floor. Into the open doorway to the lower levels. Four guards stood, staring into the darkness.
Imbeciles. Clawing the air with her right hand, she pinched her lips. Drew heat from the palace and aimed it at the four. They fell in a heap on top of each other. They had failed her, allowing the prince to venture even to the main level. Her foot hit the floor quietly, and she became aware of the cold air. The very, very cold air.
She turned a slow circle. Such a drop in the temperature could only mean one thing—a very powerful accelerant was wielding. “Where are you?” she whispered. Poired had been right. Haegan had proven more difficult to inflame, but she’d never cowered from a challenge.
“It will be your destruction.”
“We’ll see about that,” she muttered angrily.
The air tingled. Strange. Burning. Yet icy. It made no sense.
Voices came up the stairwell. Livid that the prince had gotten so far from his quarters, she turned to singe the first person who came out of that well.