Firestorm

by Lucy Hounsom

  Fortunately, Mercia took charge. ‘You,’ she barked at the remnants of Rikr’s unit, ‘have two choices. Surrender or swear allegiance.’ She glanced at Hagdon. ‘I don’t recommend surrender.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’ one woman asked in a low, bitter voice.

  ‘The difference?’ Mercia smiled at her. ‘The difference is: you get to live.’

  20

  Kyndra

  Shit, was all Kyndra’s panicked mind could come up with. She crouched behind the sergeant and noticed others hiding too, all cowering back from the man who stood so calmly among them, proffering his invitation. She’d known Kierik had had dealings with Davaratch – they lay at the root of the Starborn’s distrust of him – but no matter how much she wracked her brain, searching through the memories she’d inherited from Kierik, Kyndra couldn’t find one of this moment.

  The sergeant left her to join the other guards in barricading the way ahead. More carriages drew up and sounded their horns until the drivers realized what was going on. After that, a deadly hush took hold.

  Another guard emerged from the gate, his decorated pauldrons proclaiming him some sort of officer. He took one look at Kierik and his face paled. ‘You are not welcome here, Starborn.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ Kierik said in a tone that was almost jovial. Beneath his star-cast skin, he seemed young, but it was impossible to guess his age. Dark hair fell to his collar, curling slightly at the ends. Kyndra felt an echo of the pull she had followed to the Deep all those months ago. With a sudden shiver, she remembered the black ravines that would one day score Kierik’s face, those chill, dead eyes. And as she thought it, Kierik looked up, as if at a sudden sound. Kyndra edged backwards into the shadows and the moment passed.

  ‘Davaratch himself invited me,’ the Starborn said, giving the invitation a little shake.

  ‘I highly doubt that. You have made your distaste of House Sartya perfectly clear.’

  Kierik sighed. ‘I have no desire to argue, Captain. Neither do I have a desire to ruin your party.’ He swept out his other hand. ‘You’re holding up the guests. And I am one of them. See what it says –’ he flicked the invitation – ‘Kierik of Maeran.’

  She could see the officer wavering and knew she wouldn’t get another chance. Kyndra spotted her target: an open-topped carriage with a short canvas covering the rear. She continued her careful edging around the fringes of the scene; fortunately, all eyes were on Kierik and the officer. In the hubbub that followed the captain stepping aside and Kierik’s polite thanks, Kyndra slipped under the canvas, flattening herself against the back of the seats.

  There was a short cough, a crackle and the vehicle was in motion, trundling through the arch into the courtyard beyond. Kyndra could see a slice of night sky where the canvas didn’t quite meet the seat tops. Vestri shone directly above her; though she knew they couldn’t express human emotion, she imagined the star looking down with disdain on her cramped lodgings.

  The vehicle halted. Doors opening and a low conversation told her it was changing hands. Kyndra hoped the servant wouldn’t take them too far away from the manor – she needed to get inside quickly. Kierik’s in there, she reminded herself, her heart knocking against her ribs. Why don’t I have his memory of this party? Did he not recall it? Or perhaps the stars had suppressed it for their own reasons. They were the ones who presided over the inheritance of memories, after all.

  The hum of the carriage sputtered and died. A door opened. Footsteps on stone. Kyndra tensed, waiting for the canvas to be drawn back, but the footsteps moved away. Throwing caution to the winds, she thrust the covering aside and leapt out. The red-liveried servant was heading for a small door set in the side of the building. He had his back to her, idly tossing a short, glowing baton from hand to hand.

  Kyndra sprinted at him. The servant barely had time to turn before she tackled him to the ground and wrestled the glowing blue stick from his shocked hand. He was surely stronger, but she had surprise on her side and he couldn’t stop her from slamming the end of the baton into his temple. It was a move Char had taught her, aimed to – hopefully – incapacitate rather than kill. The man went limp, eyes rolling up in his head, and Kyndra hoped she hadn’t used too much force. She took a few deep breaths and then, with an apology the servant couldn’t possibly hear, she pulled him behind the row of still dark carriages and stripped off his livery.

  He was small for a man and the uniform fitted her fairly well. Tucking her hair under the red hat, Kyndra pulled it low over her eyes, hoping no one would look too closely. She tugged on his white gloves, having some difficulty forcing her weakened hand into the tight material. Then, leaving the semi-naked servant concealed in a bush, she took the blue baton, straightened her shoulders and marched up the steps to the side door. Servants had their own brand of magic – they were invisible. With luck she could work her way through the manor undisturbed.

  Unfortunately, servants were not invisible to other servants. She’d gone no further than the corridor beyond the door when an older man seized her, plucking the baton from her hand. ‘Most of the guests are here now and we need more waiters,’ he snapped, steering her down another plain passageway. Kyndra tried to say something, but the man overrode her. ‘I don’t care if you haven’t done it before. Stick to the outskirts of the hall and avoid any guests wearing red – they’ll be relatives and more likely to find fault.’ He thrust her through a pair of double doors.

  A hundred suns blazed on the other side.

  After half a dozen alarmed blinks, Kyndra realized they were just chandeliers, lit not with the soft light of candles, but with ambertrix. They chased all shadows from the great chamber, illuminating every niche which might shelter a lurking assassin. That was one thing at least. As long as Davaratch was somewhere in this vast lit space, he’d see the eldest coming. Or so she hoped.

  ‘Get going,’ the servant snapped, pushing a tray of drinks at her. Kyndra was forced to balance it on her good hand – the other couldn’t take the weight of the tray, even with so delicate a cargo. In that moment, she’d never been more thankful for her innkeeper training, and almost laughed at the use she now put it to. Small bubbles blossomed in the golden wine, flowing perpeptually upwards. Calmaracian, Kyndra thought, remembering her first taste of the vintage in Rogan’s house.

  The man glared at her until she started walking before letting the doors swing shut. There’d be no going back that way. Perhaps there was a servants’ corridor on the other side. Kyndra began a slow circuit of the chamber, trying to see everything at once. She kept to the outskirts as the man suggested, pausing every so often by a group of nobles. All were gorgeously attired, the women dripping gems and peacock feathers. The men wore complementary outfits and were hardly less adorned; burnished medallions gleamed on their chests and their earlobes were studded with precious stones. Other than the guards standing at neat intervals around the hall, Kyndra spotted a few military men, dressed in armour quite similar to the set Hagdon had once worn. She avoided the red-clad nobles, many of whom shared the distinctive black eyes of House Sartya.

  As the minutes passed, her palms began to sweat inside the gloves. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Chatter echoed about the hall, filled with the clink of glasses and the tinkling laughs of women schooled to gentility. It was all so empty, so wrong, Kyndra thought, her mind full of burning cities and streets that reeked of death. Cocooned by the thick walls of wealth, where the smoke couldn’t reach them, the nobles chittered endlessly like caged birds.

  She supposed that was how Davaratch wanted it.

  Her skin prickled. Just yards away, Kierik busily extricated himself from two women, both of whom wore flirtatious smiles. Too stupid to fear him, Kyndra thought, watching how Kierik’s own smile did nothing to warm his eyes. She could almost see the thoughts racing behind them and she turned before he spotted her, offering her tray to a passing couple.

  When she looked back, the Starborn was being escorted towards the re
ar of the hall. Guards pulled aside a red drape; Kyndra caught a glimpse of a man rising to greet him. Even at this distance, she made out the burning eyes of Davaratch. The curtain fell back.

  ‘How rude,’ she heard dimly as she breezed past a woman who’d stretched out her hand to seize a glass only to have it whipped away. Kyndra didn’t spare her a glance. Instead she worked her way around the room towards the curtained alcove, stationing herself next to it, as if she’d been told to. The guards’ eyes slid over her livery and on.

  Working in an inn, she was used to isolating single conversations amidst a general hubbub. ‘… confess myself surprised,’ she heard. Kyndra strained her ears, but didn’t catch Kierik’s reply. Whatever he’d said made Davaratch laugh, however. ‘If you intend to kill me, Starborn, I suppose you’d better get it over and done with.’

  Kyndra’s insides clenched. She inched closer to the curtain.

  ‘I don’t intend to kill you,’ she heard Kierik say quite clearly. ‘At least not this night. I seek only to caution you.’

  ‘I hear enough caution from my diplomats,’ Davaratch replied, a bite in his tone. ‘I do not require any more from you.’

  ‘Perhaps you should …’ Kyndra didn’t catch the rest of the sentence, as Kierik lowered his voice. ‘… I cannot permit it.’

  ‘Who are you to permit me anything?’ Davaratch snapped. She heard the creak of a chair, as if he shifted restlessly within it. ‘I mean to make House Sartya the foremost power in the Heartland.’

  ‘And what then?’ Kierik demanded. ‘You and I both know you will not stop at the Heartland.’

  Silence. After a moment, Davaratch said, ‘Only men of little stature dream small.’

  ‘I warn you, Davaratch. Sartya is a powerful House, but if it outgrows its status as such and seeks to dominate more lands than it already holds, I will not stand idly by.’

  ‘With all the power you hold,’ Davaratch said quietly, and Kyndra strained to hear him, ‘do you not also desire dominion? It would be so simple for you to stretch out your hand and crush us lesser mortals.’ He paused. ‘What stops you, Kierik of Maeran?’

  There was movement behind the curtain. Kyndra thought one of the men had risen to his feet. Then Kierik said, ‘I’ve heard enough. This meeting is over.’

  A woman screamed.

  There was a disturbance in the middle of the hall, ripples spreading outward in the form of people scrambling to get away. Over the heads of panicked guests, Kyndra saw Medavle shrug off the last vestiges of his Lunar cloak, revealing the eldest at his side. The Khronostian was just as she remembered: stooped, wizened, leaning heavily on a staff.

  Her blood turned cold. The tray slipped from her hand, the sound of its crash lost in the confusion. Davaratch burst through the drape in plain view of the eldest. It was all happening too fast. The ancient man smiled. He held a dagger, its blade glowing – Medavle must have imbued it with power drawn from his own veins like all Yadin. His face bore lines where none had been before. What had the eldest done to him?

  She was too far away and powerless to act in any case. So Kyndra did the only thing she could think of: she threw back her head and screamed, ‘Kierik!’

  Her voice cut through the cries of the nobles, the patter of heels on marble, bringing with it a dreadful silence. Kierik stepped out from behind the drape, his skin silvered by Tyr. Their eyes locked.

  ‘You,’ Medavle said.

  Kyndra tore her gaze away. The Yadin had gone rigid, fists balled and trembling at his sides. He took a step forward, his face twisted in a grimace of hatred.

  ‘No further, Yadin,’ the eldest croaked, stretching out a gnarled hand to stop him. Medavle ignored it, his dark eyes never leaving Kierik.

  ‘Murderer,’ he spat. ‘Your hands are stained with the blood of my people.’

  Kierik’s brow creased. ‘You are Yadin,’ he said after a moment and there was no mistaking the distaste in his voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘You will never harm her again,’ Medavle cried and he broke into a run, straight towards Kierik.

  ‘No!’ The eldest hobbled after him. ‘Yadin, I forbid it. Do not break the mandala!’

  If Medavle heard him, he didn’t pause, but flew at Kierik, energy encasing his fists. The eldest gave a strangled scream and hurled the dagger at Davaratch.

  Time seemed to slow, as the blade flew end over end towards the future emperor. Guards ran for him, but it was plain they wouldn’t make it. It was a good throw. Kyndra could see where it would strike the Sartyan, hitting squarely between his collar bones. Desperation seized her feet, hurtling her towards the doomed man.

  Medavle brought back his arm as he ran, the glow brightening around his clenched fist. Kierik stayed perfectly still.

  A thunderclap split the hall. Kyndra had a muddled glimpse of white bars before they snapped like brittle bones, filling the space with the mad pealing of a hundred bells. She covered her ears. Mid-leap, Medavle vanished. So did the blade, just inches from Davaratch’s throat. But the Lunar that encased it threw him backwards with a roar. He tumbled across the slick marble, the skin on his neck blistering.

  When Kyndra glanced round, the eldest too had gone.

  Her heart hammered; her breath came in gasps. She could hardly believe it was over. Muttering retook the hall and guards surrounded Davaratch. With their help, he was lifted into a sitting position – it looked as if he would live.

  A hand closed on her wrist.

  Kyndra stifled a yelp. She’d temporarily forgotten Kierik, so quiet a witness had he been. Now the Starborn stared down at her, his dark blue eyes – her eyes, she suddenly thought – stark on her face. Looking into his, she could see he wore the stars differently. While Sigel shone on her cheek, Kierik had Tyr there instead. Thurn, Wynn and Lagus glowed on his other cheek; dark hair half concealed the tails of Noruri and Vestri across his forehead. She shivered, struck by a thought. These were the stars he favoured most; the stars he would use to separate Rairam and Acre.

  His brow furrowed. ‘Who are you?’

  She could hear Veritan in his voice, the star that sniffed out truth. As its claws dug into her mind, she gritted her teeth and resisted. ‘No one,’ she said.

  He increased the pressure and Kyndra began to sweat with the effort of holding him back. Veritan clawed and scrabbled at her mind, as if it were an icy slope which offered little purchase. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold it off. He couldn’t discover the truth; if he knew what lay in his future …

  The world blurred. Kyndra had a rushed impression of colour and light before she found herself on a windy bluff, high above the city. He’d used Raad to transport them both. I didn’t even know that was possible. That she could use Raad to move another as well as herself. For a fleeting moment, Kyndra felt the ache of yearned-after knowledge. How much Kierik could teach her …

  But his hand was still around her wrist. She jerked free with a gasp, stumbling back a step. ‘What did you do?’ she heard herself ask. ‘Why did you take me?’

  Kierik put his head on one side; she imagined a bird regarding a particularly fat worm. His dark, cold eyes – eyes that stared out at her every time she looked in a mirror – narrowed on her face. ‘You seem familiar,’ he said. ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘Everyone knows your name,’ she said cautiously. ‘You’re the Starborn.’

  ‘Actually, very few know it,’ Kierik replied, his eyes never leaving her face.

  Kyndra forced herself to stay calm, to give nothing away, but it was difficult when the same thought ran constant circles around her mind: We look so alike. Surely Kierik must notice. Another thought chased the first. This man is my father. My real father.

  She’d always found the truth terrifying, but that was when Kierik had been a madman, his cheeks star-scarred and blackened as if a fire had dragged a knife across his face. Now he stood before her, young and strong, the wind in his hair, his gaze alert and curious. The madman was a distant
memory. She felt an unexpected pang for what he would lose, for what he would become.

  ‘Not many can resist Veritan,’ Kierik said abruptly. ‘Are you from Solinaris?’

  Kyndra almost laughed. ‘A Wielder?’ she said, unable to swallow her pride. ‘You think a Wielder could resist the power of a Starborn?’

  Kierik did not blink. ‘I do not underestimate those in Solinaris. You look young, but that means little. Some dedicate their lives to perfecting illusions.’

  ‘And a Starborn would be fooled by an illusion?’

  Kierik sidestepped the question. ‘Was that your Yadin?’ he asked instead. ‘What did you do to him?’

  Like a wind suddenly changing direction, Kyndra’s confidence deserted her. For a moment, she’d felt like the Starborn, powerful, unchallengeable. Now she was nothing but a young woman trying desperately to keep her secrets.

  When she didn’t answer, his expression darkened. ‘You will tell me your name. Then you will explain to me what I just witnessed.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said, anger stirring at his tone. Because I would doom myself and the world with me. ‘More than my life depends on it.’

  She sensed his frustration. ‘If you won’t tell me, Veritan will.’

  There was no regret in his voice, no threat even. Only resolve. She was a locked box without a key that he would break open if he had to. Kyndra braced herself, but it was still a shock when the star sank its talons into her mind. Weakened from the last assault, she staggered, one hand gripping a boulder that guarded the cliff edge.

  Kierik stood watching her, impassive. She wanted to shout, to scream at him to stop lest the world be changed, but she poured all her concentration into resisting and had no voice to spare. He would win, unless she did something. But the stars weren’t hers to command. Sweating, teeth clenched, Kyndra glanced over her shoulder. The edge was only a few strides away. If she threw herself off, Kierik might halt his assault to catch her.