Embrace the Fire (18 page)

On the fourth evening, Cedric stood atop a rocky ledge that looked down into a sweeping valley surrounded on all sides by high mountain ranges. The stream Cedric had been following fed into a wide river that flowed through the center of the valley, and its banks were lined with ships, big and little. Huddled into the foot of the mountains, almost as if it were a part of the mountain itself, was a massive walled city that put Sebastian's palace in The Crossings to shame.

Awe filled Cedric, and beyond that, a dark, unsettled feeling. This was where his parents had ruled. This had been the seat of King Liam and Queen Olivia, and this was supposed to be his and Kinna's inheritance. It was the first time he could remember seeing it, and all at once, he understood Sebastian's fascination with this throne, the reason why he'd spent more than eighteen years trying to retake it.

The castle absorbed the final rays of the evening sun, nearly glowing in its splendor, and Cedric was torn. He wanted to flee from what he knew waited inside, but Ashleen needed help. He flirted briefly with the idea of leaving her on the road leading to the castle and watching to see if someone would help her inside, but he quickly discarded that notion.

As he gripped the yoke more tightly to pull the pallet down the slope, he stopped short.

Five or six Dragons had appeared above the battlements, weaving a pattern through the air despite the tether-chains that kept them from flying too high, but one Dragon in particular stood out.

Flaming scales lit the creature in brilliant swirls as he dipped and rolled. A particularly long, crooked fin atop the Dragon's head told Cedric what he wanted to know.

Ember.

A grim smile tilted Cedric's lips. Lifting the yoke once more with his aching muscles, he dragged the pallet down the hill toward the busy main road and the drawbridge. The castle spelled captivity, but it also lured him with the promise of help for Ashleen and the hope of finding his Dragon.

S
ebastian woke
with his cheek mashed onto a pillow of solid ice and a hand shaking his shoulder.

He sat up, his breath coming in gasps. Lanier squatted next to him, his eyes unreadable in the predawn light.

“What?” Sebastian snapped.

“You seemed distressed, Your Grace.” Lanier's monotone voice did not wake the other soldiers that surrounded the cold fire. “You were writhing on your bedroll and speaking.”

Despite the chill of the morning air and the continual freezing burn of his skin, Sebastian felt heat rise beneath his beard. “What did I say?”

Lanier shook his head, but then seemed to reconsider. “You made mention of your former mistress, Your Grace, and of the ... the Amulet.” His words weighted the air.

Sebastian rubbed a shaking hand across a shaggy jawline, hating the feel of the unkempt bristles creeping down his neck, despising the vulnerability he'd displayed in his sleep. He hadn't shaved his neck since the battle with Greyham and the subsequent Channel crossing. In the pandemonium of Lismaria's retreat, West Ashwynd's navy had closed in, driving Nicholas Erlane's ships back to their own land.

“The cursed Amulet,” he whispered. “Why does it still torment me?”

Lanier shifted, and Sebastian glanced at him. His Commander looked distinctly uncomfortable. Sebastian's jaw hardened. He waited for Lanier to meet his eyes, but the Commander kept his gaze on the dirt by his pallet.

Sebastian struggled to his feet. “Lanier,” he demanded, fury underlying his quiet words, “what aren't you telling me?”

“You gave me the Amulet to destroy, Your Grace.”

“I did.” Sebastian couldn't hear his own words, the blood thundered so violently behind his eardrums. “And? You led me to believe that you had cast it into the sea.”

“Your Grace, I never said that.”

Sebastian reached for his sword beside his bedroll and unsheathed it, pointing it at Lanier's heart. The weight in his hand felt good; it distracted him from the icy pain that threatened to strangle his veins. Dimly, he realized that the soldiers camping near him had risen from their own beds, and tense expectation stilled the air as they watched the scene.

Sebastian wrestled with indecision. He wanted to kill Lanier; he could picture the sword piercing the man's stomach, bending him double, crimson lifeblood spilling onto the forest floor. He hadn't felt such anger since the boy had cornered him in his own palace, given him the Amulet that had brought ice to his veins, and cursed him with pain from which he couldn't free himself. In his vision, Lanier's tortured face flickered into nothingness, and in it's place, silver eyes and ash-blond hair feathered the ground, blood ebbing in a scarlet pool beneath his neck.

Patience
, Sebastian told himself, his hatred growing for the boy who'd been the cause of all his misfortunes. Lanier's face swam into his consciousness again, betrayal tinting his dark eyes.

Lanier's men were loyal; Sebastian had nearly been the victim of a palace coup months earlier when he'd replaced Lanier with that cursed Dragon-Master—his nephew, Cedric. He forced the tremble from his hand and kept his sword tip on Lanier's chest.

“Speak clearly, Commander. I wish to understand what you did.” Sebastian's voice could have carved granite.

Lanier stood immobile, his face wiped clean of expression. “I took the Amulet to the Channel as you ordered, Your Grace.”

“And?”

“The bag was empty.”

“What do you mean, it was empty? Did I not place it in the bag myself? Did you not carry the bag to the boat? Did you entrust the bag to anyone else?”

“Nay, Your Grace. The bag stayed with me the entire time. But when I reached the water and boarded the boat, it was gone.”

Absolute silence hovered over the camp. At last, Sebastian asked, “Why wasn't I informed?”

For the first time, Lanier's expression cracked. His jaw tightened. “It seemed unnecessary, Your Grace.”

“Unnecessary? Was I not clear in my instructions that it
must be cast into the sea
?”

A long silent moment ensued before Lanier finally replied. “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace. I should have told you.”

“Indeed. You should have.” Sebastian's hand shook now from the weight of the sword. He dropped the sword point to the ground, and the tension in the camp eased.

“Leader Chane.”

A dark-skinned man stepped forward, his gaze swinging between the Commander and Sebastian. “Your Grace?”

“Dispatch a message to my steward at The Crossings. I wish to have Elise Lanier swinging from the gallows the morning the message is received.”

“No!” Lanier's expression melted into a mask of horror and anger. “Sebastian, my sister—”

“Is payment for a lost Amulet. Surely you will learn to be more responsible next time, Lanier.” He turned away, leaving Lanier gasping and stuttering.

“Please, Your Grace, I offer myself in her place. Please!”

Sebastian folded his arms across his chest.

Lanier dropped to his knees. “Please, Sebastian, have I not served you well? This one error, can it not be overlooked?”

“Touching, Lanier. I didn't know you had so much passion in you.” Sebastian smiled. “But unfortunately, your mistake has far-reaching consequences.” Ice swept through his hands. He clenched his fists. “My answer is unchanged.” He swung his gaze to Leader Chane. “Well? What are you waiting for? The gallows await, and the day hurries onward.”

Chane sketched a bow, glancing at Lanier still on his knees, before striding away.

Lanier's eyes filled with tears. “Your—”

“Your mother will swing next to your sister with another word, Lanier.” Sebastian's voice was quiet and deadly. Absolute silence smothered the clearing.

Lanier's eyes, so intent and grave, shuttered. He stood and executed a stiff bow, at last turning and striding into the woods.

Sebastian watched him leave. Part of him wished to push Lanier over the edge, to gleefully watch his character self-destruct before his eyes, and part of him hoped that his loyal servant would withstand this test like refined steel. He'd thought Lanier would bear up beneath the pressure, but a portion of him wondered at the man; the terrible pain that grayed Lanier's face planted a seed of doubt.

Sebastian sighed, turning to Commander Jerrus. “Where are we?” he asked.

Jerrus glanced at the sun's rays peeping through the foliage. “Some three hundred and fifty fieldspans southwest of Erlane's castle, Your Grace. Several days march at least.”

“I'm not worried about timeliness,” Sebastian said. “However, I want steady movement toward Nicholas Erlane's capital. My time to sit again on the Lismarian throne is long past due.”

Jerrus bowed his head. “Aye, Your Grace.” He wheeled away at the same time as a scout burst into the clearing.

“Your Grace, some news.”

Sebastian stepped closer, and the scout bowed.

“Well?”

“I bring word, Your Grace,” the scout puffed. “There has been a sighting of the Lady Lianna.”

“What say you?” Sebastian's hands curled into fists. “Where?”

“In these very mountains. The runners you sent north brought word of it to me. She was hiking the ridges of the southern Marron Mountains, and we believe she is seeking the dwellings of the Ancients. The Seer Fey.”

Black looks crossed the faces of those near enough to hear the scout's words. Superstition ran rampant in Sebastian's ranks, and the ancient Seer Fey were dreaded. They were regarded as witches, full of black
taibe
who targeted helpless creatures with their dark fancies.

Sebastian dismissed the scout, but was surprised to see Lanier standing at the edge of the wood, his arms crossed over his chest. Sebastian arched an eyebrow. The man surprised him sometimes. Sebastian raised his voice so Lanier could hear. “Now what would my former betrothed be doing in the misty dwellings of the makers of that cursed Amulet?”

Lanier's jaw twitched beneath his beard. “It's only legend that they live there, King Sebastian, a fisher-wives' tale. If you wish to make all speed to ClarenVale and Nicholas Erlane's seat, we do not have time for a detour to the fabled Seer Fey dwellings.”

“Nay,
you
have no time,” Sebastian replied. “You will continue northeast until you reach the gates of ClarenVale. I will seek out the Seer Fey and Lianna, and then meet you there.”

“Your Grace, the Seer Fey—”

“Are the stuff of legend, I know. Are the mystic might in the mountains, yes. Are the ones who commune directly with the deified Stars, of course. Certainly, I have every reason to fear them.” Sarcasm wrung his words. “Simply for the fact that they hate me, though, I believe I shall have an interesting journey. But they have answers to questions I have about the Amulet.” As he spoke, frost plumed the outsides of his gloves. Sebastian cursed under his breath.

S
ebastian's horse shifted
, and the steady tromp, tromp of soldier's feet shuffled across the leaf-strewn forest floor. Lanier had ridden to the back of the line, but Sebastian could see him now, his bay gelding sure-footed even on the sloped ground. The Commander drew his horse near Sebastian.

“Are you certain you do not wish me to accompany you, Your Grace?”

“Aye.” Sebastian inclined his head. “I will meet you at the gates of ClarenVale, and I will have the Lady Lianna with me.”

Surprise lifted Lanier's dark eyebrows. “Your Grace, is that wise? The King's niece held hostage at his gates, in front of his own men? They will be driven into a frenzy.”

Sebastian half smiled. “What could be better? We will show them what it means to hold absolute power.”

Lanier didn't smile in return, though he inclined his head.

Sebastian turned his horse, motioning the six soldiers accompanying him to do the same. “Oh, Lanier,” he turned in his saddle, “send word to me immediately if you hear even a whisper of the whereabouts of the Dragon-Master.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Lanier spurred his horse to continue up the line, and Sebastian and his men urged their mounts up the hill through the trees. They crossed uneven ground, leaving the noises of a moving mass of men and beast behind.

S
ebastian knew
the general layout of these woods and ranges; as a boy, he and his brother Liam had visited nearly every part of them. From the eastern reaches of the Marshlands of Cayne and the southeastern Dreadwood Forest to the western Marron Mountains, they had acquainted themselves with their homeland.

Liam had looked on it all with the pride of the throne's heir; Sebastian had seen it through a haze of envy. This was
his
homeland; these were
his
people,
his
creatures, and Liam's inept handling of pockets of his nobility had nearly destroyed a kingdom.

They reached a clearing near the top of a ridgeline, and Sebastian checked the sun's position as the group dismounted to rest and stretch.

One of Sebastian's men asked. “How much farther, Your Grace, until we reach Seer's Crest?”

“We'll be there by nightfall if we don't tarry long here.” Sebastian glanced at the horses, and pressed his gloves together. The burning iciness shot streaks of pain up his arms, into his neck and chest. He clamped his jaw to keep from crying out.

“How far does Seer's Crest extend, Your Grace?” asked the soldier, his arm pointing into the distance. “Would you be so good as to show me the points?”

Irritation ruffled Sebastian. He had no patience to answer the questions of a curious upstart. His pain had intensified since that morning, and he didn't understand why. Perhaps the gloves exacerbated it, trapping the ice even more firmly inside his veins than his skin already did?

He yanked off the gloves, staring at his hands. The hair on their backs curled white, coated with frost, and his skin had turned blue, like the deep clarity of an ice cave. His breath came in spurts as his nostrils pinched.

“Your Grace?” The soldier's pestering words sounded far away as Sebastian stared at his hands. He glanced at the man, who seemed ... flushed, distracted.

And then, a step sounded behind him. He whirled.

A sword caught him in the side, but his unexpected turn had saved him. He'd barely missed a killing blow.

Sebastian threw himself to the ground, rolling. The pain in his side blinded him with rage.

All of them came at him, weapons drawn, the traitorous dogs.

Sebastian's breath came in gasps. He dodged a swinging blade and sprang to his feet, his bare hand catching the man's wrist.

“You
dare
to attack me, your King?”

The soldier's eyes widened in terror and pain as his arms froze and his face hardened into a mask of surprise and horror. White frost tipped the soldier's hair, and he became an ice statue.

Sebastian dove at the next soldier, who turned into a kneeling ice man, sword outstretched before the first statue. A third hit the ground in a frozen ball. The other soldiers turned to their mounts, but Sebastian closed his hands around one's neck, freezing him instantly, ramming the next with an outstretched arm, and he tackled the last remaining soldier as the man reached his horse.

Sebastian stood, panting, and leaned his hands on his knees. Blood soaked his tunic, spreading outward in a crimson circle.

He looked over his handiwork. Six frozen statues littered the open meadow, their icy whiteness a stark contrast to the reds, golds, and browns of the autumn woods. The vermin had tried to kill him. In the strength of his anger, a seed of fear slowly spread roots.

He was losing his grasp on the kingdom. The loyalty that had been his reward as he'd played off of his brother's deficiencies, the rewards he'd given his armed men, was no longer enough. He'd nearly died on a hillside, alone and forgotten.

Sebastian sank to the ground and held his hands before his eyes. He inspected the palms, squeezed his fingers into a fist, and spread them again.

The icy blue was gone, though a prickle of cold still traced through his veins. The intense pain from earlier had also disappeared. His hands felt nearly normal, at least in comparison to what he had been suffering.