Embrace the Fire (2 page)

“What's to say that Cedric won't call the Dragons to turn on Sebastian's forces?”

“Cedric wouldn't do that; he's a good man, and he wouldn't destroy thousands of lives to get at one person. Sebastian is counting on that.”

Julian stood, pacing the trampled grass. “Kinna, how do you know all this?”

“After Linc and I escaped Sebastian's men in the Pixie Glades, Chennuh took us back to The Crossings, and Lincoln turned into a magnificent spy while he sat in on war Councils with Commander Lanier and the others. He weaves powerful Pixie charms that slide him past even the most watchful of guards.”

Julian glanced at the tent flap as if to be sure Lincoln hadn't slipped in unnoticed. Tension still riddled his face.

Kinna stood. “So will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Will you release Cedric and help him escape to safety?”

Julian slowly shook his head. “You know I can't, Kinna. If I were discovered, it wouldn't endanger only my life, but Sage's and my family's as well.”

Kinna nodded slowly. “I see. And I understand, of course.”

“I'm sorry, Kinna.” Julian reached for her hands, pulling them into his. “You know I'd do anything for you, anything, don't you? But I can't put my family in danger this way. And I can’t flagrantly disobey the King. I’m a Leader of a Division in Sebastian’s Army.”

Kinna snatched her hands away, stung. “Yes, you certainly must maintain loyalty to such a wise and benevolent monarch,” she snapped sarcastically.

Hurt flared in Julian's eyes, and Kinna's shoulders slumped. “I'm sorry, Julian. Of course you can't put your family in danger. I shouldn't have even asked it of you.”

Julian gently squeezed Kinna's shoulders. “This doesn't change anything for us, does it?” The plea in his voice was unmistakable. He stepped closer, massaging the back of her neck. “I love you; I just ... can't.”

His dark eyes gazed hungrily at her mouth, and Kinna back-stepped once again. Julian's arms dropped to his side.

“I know, Julian, and I shouldn't have put this burden on your shoulders.”

Julian arched an eyebrow. “So we're still okay? You and I? King Sebastian hasn't gone back on his word; we're betrothed, Kinna—”

“Yes, my mother showed me your letter where you passed on Sebastian's threats against my father.” Bitterness bit Kinna's words, but she was past caring.

Julian shook his head. “I couldn't stop him, Kinna; once Sebastian gets an idea, he'll enforce it no matter the consequences.”

“I know,” Kinna said, “and I'm not blaming you. I just wish—”

“Wish what?”

“I just wish that my father were safe, that's all. And my brother. I couldn't stand it if anything happened to them.”

Julian pulled her into his arms. “I know, Kinna.” His hand gently stroked her back. “I just don't want Sebastian and his agenda to come between us. You know how much our marriage means to me.” He pulled back. “So, are we fine?”

Fear wound through Kinna's innards, as it had since the betrothal had been made official, crushing her stomach in its firm grip. Julian didn’t understand. Her father's face swam before her, his dark hair streaked with gray, worry coating his expression. The words from Sebastian’s letter blazed through her head again:
You'll keep your betrothal, darling niece, or I'll see you father's head on a pike.
Kinna swallowed. She held her voice steady, determined to show no sign of her inner turmoil. “Of course, we're fine. It doesn't matter if you can't free Cedric. It just means that I'll have to do it myself.”

“What? Kinna—” Julian stared at her. “What do you mean? You're not thinking of trying to free him on the eve of battle, not when Sebastian's plans for warfare so closely involve him?”

“And why not?” Kinna rejoined. “Julian, he's my
twin
, the only blood-family I have left besides a power-hungry uncle who hates me. You say you can't help him because you're thinking of Sage and your own family, and that's fine. I understand that, but don't tell me I can't help my brother, Julian; don't you dare!”

Silence thundered between them. Anger tinged Julian's gaze. Kinna stepped toward the door flap. “Anyway, Julian, I appreciate your help, and I wish you the best in battle.”

“Kinna, wait.” He grasped her shoulder, whirled her around, and pulled her against him. The rapid thud of his heart pulsed against her own. “Don't leave like this,” he whispered. He lowered his head, and his mouth found hers. It wasn't the tentative brush of lips he'd given her once before. Passion flowed through his fingers digging into her hair. He pressed himself too close against her.

Outside the tent, Sage released a sob of agony. Kinna used the chance to pull away.

The candles lit the raw emotions scrawled across Julian's face, and Kinna managed a small smile. “I'm not ready for this, Julian, and I think you know that. Betrothal or no, you're still just the friend I grew up with in the Pixie Glades. Let's not ruin that.”

“Kinna, after we wed, our friendship will be—different.” Julian's whisper hitched. “Won't you try—”

“The future is a void. I don't know what tomorrow will bring. I am no Seer Fey.” Tears stung Kinna's eyes. She knew her words brought him pain, and she hated hurting her friend. But she couldn't give him the love he so desired; her heart had already been given to another, even though he had rejected it. And her. Silver eyes, shuttering some deep emotion, swept across her consciousness.
Ayden.
Kinna blinked hard to dispel the image.

Julian sighed, running a hand through his short, thick hair. “Do you have some means of protecting yourself?”

“Lincoln has a knife, and Chennuh keeps me safe.”

“Chennuh is not with you at present.” Julian strode to a wooden chest pushed against the canvas and snapped open the lid. Several daggers of different lengths were piled inside, and he pulled a short, wicked-looking blade from the box. “I have no sheath for it, Kinna. Take care and put it in your boot.”

Kinna hefted the blade. It was heavier than it appeared. She slid it into her knee-high moccasin. “Thank you, Julian,” she said, sincerity touching her voice.

The tent flap flew open and Lincoln burst in. “Kinna, come. Now.”

Panic erupted in Kinna's abdomen. Her ears picked up the sound of several pairs of feet tromping through the grass, drawing closer to Julian's tent. She whirled to run, but Julian's sharp, quiet voice stopped her.

“No, this way. You too, Lincoln.” Julian motioned to the opposite side of the tent. “Out the back. I'll take care of this.”

Julian disappeared through the opening, and Lincoln hauled Kinna to the back corner of the tent where the ground dipped. “Go,” he whispered. Kinna hit the grass and weaseled under the canvas.

On the other side, Julian's hard voice stopped the advancing footsteps. “Do you have new orders for me?”

“Nay.” A man's voice carried easily around the canvas tent. “It's another matter. Search his tent.”

“What is the meaning of this?” Outrage filled Julian's voice.

Lincoln had escaped the tent; he tugged urgently on Kinna's arm. She hesitated, wishing to hear the rest.

“I apologize, Commander, but my orders are to search your tent. A Dragon's footprints have been found on the beach, and orders are to search your tent if any signs of a foreign Dragon appear.”

Terror seized Kinna; immediately, her mind searched for Chennuh. She wound her arm through Lincoln's. “This way.” Chennuh was safe, but she could feel his disturbance as he maneuvered through the air above them.

“Where are we going?” Lincoln asked as he hurried beside Kinna down the row of tents. “Back to the beach?”

Kinna shook her head. “No, there are soldiers all over the beach. Chennuh's heading to the crest over there.” She motioned toward the black line of sand hills that darkened the starry horizon ahead of them.

“Want me to sing?”

“No, there are too many of them.” Kinna glanced through a gap between tents and shied backward, nearly stumbling over Lincoln. She yanked him around the corner of a tent as six soldiers hurried by, their swords unsheathed.

As soon as they passed, Kinna rushed into the next section of tents, but not quickly enough.

“There they are!” The voice was closer than Kinna had anticipated.

“Run!” Lincoln urged, his voice no longer quiet. He pulled her along. He was faster than she, but he slowed his pace to be sure she stayed ahead of him.

Kinna flew down the pathway of tents. On her right, thudding footsteps approached, and she took a sharp left, then a right, losing herself in the maze.

Behind them, the soldiers' shouts grew louder.

“We're not going to make it.”
Chennuh, help!

A burst of fire lit the night sky, trailing from a point high in the air into an inverted mushroom above the tents. Several caught on fire. Terrified shrieks filled the encampment.

Kinna could see the soldiers now. They bore down on her and Lincoln. Kinna burst into the wide pathway that led through the center of the camp and sprinted toward the fire. All around her, men emerged, running toward them, surrounding them. Kinna halted, panting, panicked. Lincoln pulled her behind him. He opened his mouth and a powerful song burst forth, spilling over the soldiers.

The song crashed like thunder, potent; like a tidal wave, it pulled at the audience’s movement. The men closest to them stilled, their motions sluggish. The ones behind plowed through, but as they drew close, they, too, struggled to move. The men’s gazes grew dreamy and still.

Lincoln sang louder, and even though the Pixie's voice held no power over the blood of Aarkan that ran through Kinna's veins, the raw emotion and the
taibe
that moved in his music pulled at the core of her being.

More men piled through the ranks, and powerful as Lincoln's song was, it wasn't enough. She and Lincoln were trapped.

The men closed in until Kinna could see the whites of their eyes. She knew she should be running, fighting, doing something, but Lincoln's voice was overwhelming. In a dream, she watched the men slow, their cries dull, their weapons drop.

A bone-shattering roar exploded the ranks. Hard, bony scales bit into Kinna's ribcage, wrapping around her torso as she jerked into the air with Lincoln beside her. Higher and higher, they soared into the night sky, and the circle of men below them grew small.

The dazed soldiers released a roar of outrage as Lincoln's voice abruptly cut off, but they were too late. Chennuh clutched Lincoln and Kinna in his invisible talons, carrying them on the wind toward safety and freedom.

A
yden stretched
his hands in front of him, interlocking his fingers and twisting backward before shaking them hard. Scorching heat seared his hands, racing up his arms to his shoulders. He couldn't control the fire in his veins. At least it wasn't constant, but the same burn had filled his limbs several times since he'd bestowed the Amulet on King Sebastian four months before, and thus broken his curse.

He could touch living things without watching them dissolve to ash now. But the pain of this new, strange heat was difficult to handle when it appeared. Even so, pain was easier to bear than destruction.

He clenched his fists until the blood fled from his knuckles, but the burn remained.

Ayden took a deep breath and looked at the dusty scrolls that lined the shelves, the guttering candles that decorated the tables. The place smelled of ancient papyrus and decaying parchment.

Each of the Clans of West Ashwynd had a library containing scrolls that documented the history of their own people and creatures, but the best, most complete library was located in The Crossings where Ayden could not go. The next time he saw Sebastian, it would be on his own terms. He'd searched the scrolls in the Troll Havens and the Ogre Swamps. None of them had the information he sought. He had his doubts about the Dryad Dells' library, one of the more provincial Clans, but he had to try.

He held his hands to his face, blowing cool air across the burning skin, finding little relief. He stepped toward the shelves, and began paging through the scrolls.

“Amulet. Amulet,” he murmured as he searched for the familiar markings. A scroll toward the back caught his attention, and he pulled it out, blowing the dust from it as he carried it to a nearby table.

He pulled the parchment back, listening to the satisfying crinkle of age and decay, and scanned the markings. It wasn't written in the common tongue, but rather in pure Lismarian. Ayden had fled Lismaria as a boy of eight, and his understanding of the language was basic at best, but he could make out most of the words.

A phrase leaped off the page:

Ayden pulled his hands back to his lips, blowing cool air over them as he continued to read.

Death by decay! Ayden's gaze centered on the words as his life flashed through his head in a single instant—the living beings who had died by a mere brush of Ayden's skin against theirs, their features crumbling into ash and black rot. Ayden slammed his fists on the table on either side of the parchment, feverishly reading.

Below this were markings that documented the sources, and then a scribble along the side in fading ink, different from the square heavy print in the middle of the parchment. Ayden turned the document to read it.

Ayden's ears buzzed. He had been an unwilling victim of the Ash-Touch for years. He'd thought Sebastian had brought the curse on him by
taibe
, but he hadn't realized that the true source of the Touch was the Amulet.

Visceral hatred for Sebastian and his
taibe
burned Ayden's hands even hotter. Never had he hated anything more.

Helga—a Seer Fey—had given him the Amulet to help him break Sebastian's curse. The heat in his hands deepened, and Ayden clenched his fingers against his palm. He snatched the scroll and shoved it back onto the shelf, rifling below it for scrolls detailing the histories of West Ashwynd.

These were newer; West Ashwynd was, in comparison to Lismaria, a young country with few decades to document.

Ayden found the one he wanted and pulled it out, smoothing it on the table and pulling the candle closer to it so he could see. The list of the Clans caught his attention first, followed by the leaders of each one. He scanned down to the Dryads. There.

Leighton of the Dryad Dells – Elder and Chief
, followed by the dates.
Death Notice served upon discovery of his remains. Fire outside of the village of Delling.

Ayden straightened and snapped the scroll shut. Delling was a mere half day's hike from the Dells' library.

Ignoring the pain in his hands, he strode toward the door and yanked it open. The answers he sought lingered just beyond the searing torture in his fingertips.

D
elling was a small town
, hardly a dot on the maps of West Ashwynd, and when Ayden entered the main street, he took note of the single inn, the pub, and the twelve huts that made up the row. The smell of stewed rabbit assailed Ayden's nostrils before he'd gone many steps, and a pang of hunger tore his stomach. He felt his money pouch—only a few sceptremarks left. Enough to last another few weeks, but then he'd have to find work again.

Despite the scarcity of structures, several people walked the boardwalks. A crowd of rowdy soldiers staggered toward the pub. Sebastian's crest marked their robes, and their Clan insignia was a green bough on white, Elvendimn, likely traveling through the Dryad Dells either on their way west to the Three Maids or to the Forgotten Plains in the east.

Ayden pulled his mantle over his head, shading his face. He entered the pub behind the men and found a seat near the bar. His stomach growled again, and his hunger edged out the constant awareness of the pain in his hands.

He wondered if the barmaid would know anything about the Elder and Chief he'd read about, Leighton. If so, perhaps she could give him more information about where the Chief's property had existed before his death.

The soldiers leaned against the bar, their loud flirtation disrupting the relative quiet. The barmaid ignored the comments, pouring drinks for each of them. She wiped the bar and picked up a jug of mead, exiting the bar and approaching Ayden.

One of the men caught her as she passed, laughing when she splashed mead across the floor. “Give us a kiss, lass,” he said, belching as he pulled her closer.

“Let me go.” Her voice was hard, but the man's fingers were white around her arm. The girl's breath hitched as the man's other arm slid around her back and pulled her against him.

“Let me go!” she shouted, struggling in earnest, but the men only laughed.

Ayden glanced around. No one moved to help, though every other occupant of the room watched behind averted faces and raised mantles.

Ayden cursed and stood. “Leave the maid alone.”

They quieted, while the one who had hold of the maid leered over his shoulder at Ayden. “Who're you?” The man's tongue was thick. “And why should I?”

“Because she obviously doesn't care for contact with swine.”

The man blinked, two slow blinks, as Ayden's insult eked through his stumbling thought processes. With a growl, he shoved the girl aside and rushed headlong at Ayden.

Ayden stepped aside, and the man, top-heavy, crashed into the table. Snorting like a mad bull, he lumbered, his hands fisted in front of him. He swung and missed as Ayden easily dodged the blow.

“Come on, coward,” the man yelled. “Fight!”

“You're the coward,” Ayden ground out as he backed away. “Only a coward tries to importune an unwilling woman.”

“You puny little—you called me a coward!” This fact seemed unforgivable to the man.

“Indeed,” Ayden dodged two more swings. The man's friends at the bar were cheering on their fellow soldier now. Ayden raised his voice. “You're also rude, fleshy, offensive, unkempt, smelly, a possible rapist—”

The man leaped at Ayden, but Ayden hit the floor and rolled as the man slammed into another table, cracking it clear across the center.

Ayden stood. “If you have to fight, let's take it outside.” He glanced at the barmaid, who had taken shelter behind the bar, looking terrified.

The man had recovered from his fall. The drunken leer had disappeared, and his movements were steadier. Ayden tensed as the man hurled himself forward. Ayden took a glancing hit on the ribs. Quicker than the man expected, Ayden plowed a thundering right jab into the man's stomach. As he bent double, Ayden shoved him toward the door. “Outside, I said.”

As soon as he reached the door, he shoved the man into the muddy street. The man stumbled, but then pushed to his feet.

He swung around, snarling with rage. Behind Ayden, awed onlookers streamed out the door to watch the action. Ayden circled into the street, not wanting to get caught by the man's friends.

“You better watch yourself, lad.” The man's rusty voice shivered with anger. “You surprised me in there, but I'm ready now.”

Ayden didn't answer. He stood, silent and tense, as the man approached. He kept his weight on the balls of his feet, and his heated fingers twitched as they waited on the edge of action. A dagger hilt peeped from the man's boot.

The man came in low and fast, his fists flying. At the last second, Ayden sprang lightly to the side and let the man plow through.

He turned, cursing. “Who was it you were calling a coward, boy? A brave man doesn't dodge a blow.” He barreled forward again.

This time, Ayden threw three lightning-fast punches, catching the man in the abdomen, the jaw, and the rib cage before he moved aside again. The man hunched over, heaving.

“No, you've got that wrong,” Ayden told him. “A
stupid
man doesn't dodge a blow.”

The man straightened, surveying Ayden. Cold calculation slated his eyes. His fists came in a flurry, and Ayden parried them with his wrists. He landed two against the man's shoulder, but his opponent swung around with a cross to Ayden's stomach and knocked him to his knees.

He danced to his feet immediately, but the man followed up with a blow to the stomach. Ayden caught his arm in its extended position, tangled his own arm around it, and flipped him to the ground. He stepped over the man and drove his free fist into the man's face. Blood sprouted from a split lip.

Ayden backed away, waiting for the man to get to his feet. He didn't have to wait long.

The two threw themselves into the fight. Sweat beaded Ayden's brow as he parried, ducked, threw a punch, landed some, missed some. His opponent was having a difficult time of it as well. Blood slicked the side of his face where Ayden had hit his ear and torn it. Ayden could taste blood in his own mouth where he'd taken a blow to his cheek.

He prepared for the next onslaught as they drew back for a moment. As he did, he saw the man flick the knife from his boot. Before the man could even spin it into his grip, Ayden threw him into the mud face first, the hand that held the knife twisted behind the man's back.

“Peace!” the man cried, his words choked in mud. “Leave off!”

Ayden peeled the knife from the man's hand before backing away. The man slowly crawled to his feet, bending double. He spit muck and blood into the street.

Ayden flipped the knife, watching. The crowd stayed hushed and still as they waited for the next move.

At last the man straightened, and to Ayden's surprise, he nodded with a bloody-lipped grin. “You fight well, boy. What's your name?”

Ayden shrugged. “My name is of no consequence.”

“So you intend to remain a mystery. It doesn't matter to me. I'm interested in your fighting skills.”

Ayden raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

The man issued a bow. “My name is Quinn. I'm an Officer in King Sebastian's Elven Division. I want you among my fighters. Unless, of course,” he nodded over Ayden's shoulder, “you're already registered.”

Ayden glanced behind him. A large wooden board covered the side of the pub, littered with scraps of parchment. On one side, a long piece had been nailed, bearing the royal crest. A list of names appeared under it.

Ayden shook his head. “I'm not interested.”
Not interested in fighting for Sebastian while the vile King searches for Kinna.

Quinn approached and clapped Ayden's shoulder. Ayden flinched.

“'Course you're interested. Think of all the extra sceptremarks, lad. Surely you've a use for those.”

Ayden clenched his hands into fists; the burning hadn't left his fingers. “I care nothing for money. Not to mention that I am not Elvendimn.”