Embrace the Fire (22 page)

He sank back onto his heels, considering this. Perhaps his control of the Touch had everything to do with overcoming fear.

He snuffed the fire that lit his hands, but a moment later, another jolt of fear burst through him, and his skin blazed again. He shot a glance at Luasa. She, too, crouched in the meadow, fear coursing through her thoughts.

Ayden's Touch reacted to danger before he even knew what it was. His thoughts flew to Kinna at the same time as Luasa's went to Chennuh. He searched the still-dark depths of the forest, finding nothing, but the sense of danger refused to leave him.

Luasa paced to the head of the clearing, her tail twitching in the water and sending steaming pillars of mist skyward. Her thoughts circled in Ayden's head. She was as confused as he, and panic built in her blood.

Before Ayden could blink, she stood at the western edge of the meadow, her smoky-colored eyes watching him, waiting for him to come with her.

Ayden stood. “Let's go,” he breathed. His out-of-control hands blazed even brighter as he ran along the creek bank toward the edge of the clearing. “And let's hurry.”

He clambered onto Luasa's back, fitting himself between her fins, and wrapped his fiery hands around her neck as she streaked through the trees to the west, to Kinna, to the unknown source of Ayden's fear.
Kinna, Kinna, Kinna. What's wrong?

“
S
top
,” Ayden said when he could hear the distant thunder of the surf from the Channel. Luasa slowed, creeping through the foliage, nearly invisible as her mirrored scales reflected the forest around her. “Let me down.”

She stopped and waited, searching the dense undergrowth.

Death-like quiet reigned, and then, a thud, a grunt, and the sound of battle not far below them. Ayden crouched as he ran down the hill, hurling a thought behind him to Luasa to stay put.

She ignored him, following the path he'd carved.

He crested a short hill, peering down the steep slope at the mess below. The roar of an Ember shattered the air to his right, and a trail of flame flattened a flank of Ogres as they lurched through a mass of creatures, swinging small trees, root-side out, at their enemies.

Ayden watched in horror as a Pixie took a broadsword to the stomach, his song cut off before he could even finish the long, high note he'd carried. His Dimn shrieked and threw herself on his body, taking the slice of the sword as it swiped through the air. Blood spattered the ground around them.

Three Cerberuses—nine heads—snarled at a pack of Direwolves, both sides slavering across the mulchy ground. Four Direwolves bit as they lunged, and a sharp yelp from one of the Cerberus heads split the air.

Ayden looked frantically for Kinna. He knew she would be there; the jolt of fear in the clearing had told him. And where under the Stars was her Guardian? Orange hair shouldn't be too hard to spot, but the noise and confusion were great. The numbers increased by the minute.

He saw her, then, small and fragile beneath the towering darkness of a Valkyrie. Her hair glowed in the filtered sunlight like the fire of her spirit, and she wielded her dagger with all the skill and finesse for which she'd trained during the previous winter.

In spite of the battle, in spite of everything, she was losing; the Valkyrie was too large, its strength so terrifying, that when Kinna slammed her blade into the Valkyrie, Ayden's mouth dropped open in shock. She'd done it!

He started toward her and then lurched to a horrified stop as the Valkyriedimn behind the fallen creature plunged his own dagger to the hilt into Kinna's stomach.

The world shuddered to a silent stop, and the only thing Ayden could feel was the thick beat of his pulse in his neck. How could his heart continue to pump when surely Kinna's did not?

His dead feet started forward again, and somewhere in his shocked haze, he noticed his hands engulfed in flames as they shoved aside Dimn and creatures from both armies—noticed, and didn't care. From somewhere, he heard the high, clear song of a Pixie. Only one voice could have carried such power.

A flash of orange hair lit his peripheral vision, and he watched as Lincoln slammed into the Dimn who had stabbed Kinna, the power of his song picking up the Dimn and slinging him against a tree. The Dimn writhed on the ground for only a moment before the Pixie's song levitated him and hurled him onto the spear of another Valkyrie.
The irony
, thought Ayden, woodenly continuing his path to Kinna.

She lay like a shell on the ground, her pale skin nearly translucent in the shifting light of the woods. Blood, too much of it, flowed into her tunic, and Ayden collapsed beside her, cursing the fact that he hadn't the knowledge of herbs that she had; all his experience in doctoring wounds ran to Dragons and Dragons alone.

For so long, he'd only been able to touch Dragons, because any contact with another creature would have turned them to ash. And so he'd hidden his curse beneath thick leather gloves until he'd broken it with the Amulet.

And replaced it with the Fire-Touch.

He muttered another oath as he held his flaming hands helplessly in front of him.

“Touch her!” Lincoln croaked. Desperate tears streaked his white face as he crouched over Kinna.

“What?”

“Touch her, you fool!”

“It won't do any good.”

“By the Stars, I will slay you where you stand if you don't touch her now!”

Kinna lay too still. It terrified Ayden. He felt helpless. He couldn't control the flames in his hands; they licked his skin, enfolding him in their searing heat.

He took a deep breath and placed one hand on the dagger that still protruded from Kinna's stomach. His other hand touched her tunic where the entry wound leaked blood. Holding his breath, he yanked out the blade. Blood welled up, a river of red around his hand. With a guttural cry, he leaned his weight on both hands to staunch the flow.

“Her skin, Ayden. Not the tunic,” Lincoln rasped.

Ayden peeled up the tunic and pressed again, his hands flaming across her blood-slicked flesh.

The bleeding stopped as suddenly as it had started.

Flames spread from his skin, tasting the blood where it pooled in her navel, drying it. Smoke sizzled from the wound until it closed and sealed. A tiny red line was all that remained, though it had been much deeper than Ayden's shallow scrape. He brushed away the brown silt left behind, frantically searching for any signs of blood still puddling on the ground.

Ayden's gaze moved to Kinna's white face. She still showed no sign of life, no flicker of her eyelids or movement of her lips. The only thing he could see was the slow, steady pulse in her neck, and that was all that mattered.

“Did it work?” He looked at Lincoln. “What did I do? How did you know?”

Lincoln looked haggard; gravity lined the creases of his face. “I didn't know; I guessed. I need to talk to Helga to see what happened for sure, but my guess is that curse you originally had from Sebastian got turned around by the Amulet, leaving you with the Fire-Touch, but the Fire-Touch wasn't all there was to it. You could only touch Dragons before, right?”

Ayden nodded. His neck felt stiff with the movement.

“I wondered if perhaps something of your original curse carried through in the transition. You could touch Dragons before and heal them. Everything else would melt beneath your touch. Well, Ayden, Kinna was birthed in a Dragon's egg.”

Ayden stared at him, shock blunting the import of the words. “You mean—I could have touched Kinna before when I—when—”

“It's just a guess,” Lincoln shrugged. “Next time I see Helga, I'll ask her about it.”

“But—how did you think to have me use that ... now?”

Lincoln rocked back on his heels, wrapping his arms around his legs, and sighed. “I'm her Guardian, Ayden. This is what I do; her well-being is in my hands, and I was scrambling for even the faintest hope when I saw you come stalking down the hill. And all at once, it scripted itself before me like a play.”

Ayden looked around, realizing the fury of the battle had dissipated. To the west, up the slopes and over some of the ridges, he could still hear the clash of armor and cries of war. He glanced around for Luasa. He couldn't see her, but he felt her presence on the beach, and the familiar presence of another Mirage beside her.

She'd found Chennuh. Of course.

Ayden's worried gaze returned to Kinna. At last, the flames that shivered on his fingers died, and the intense heat faded as his fear dissipated. He slid his arms beneath her, lifting her carefully so her head didn't flop backward, but laid against his shoulder.

“I'll take her to the medic tent,” he said. “She'll need more help than my Touch can give, and the battle has moved on.”

Lincoln leaped to his feet. “Ayden, that's what she's been trying to avoid. Hair like that? Sebastian will be at her bedside in less than a day.”

“What else do you propose, Pixie?” Ayden's voice was hard. “I'm open to suggestions.”

Lincoln pointed up the slope behind Ayden. “The Ancients. We take her to them.”

A new voice interrupted their conversation, and Ayden's heart dropped in his chest. “Word has it that Sebastian is headed into those very mountains himself, and that's the last place you need to be taking her.”

Julian stood in the shadow of an oak, his gaze not leaving Kinna's limp form. He moved forward. “Kinna.” His voice was husky with emotion. He rubbed a hand over the stubble that darkened his chin. “Bring her to the medic tent. I'll take charge of her, and they won't question my orders,” he said. “It's a long journey into the mountains, and she will need attention long before the Ancients can give it to her. As the King is away, her danger is lessened.”

He turned and strode away. Ayden glanced at Lincoln, who, for once, looked truly regretful. “I'm sorry, Ayden. She's his—”

“Betrothed. I know. Don't say it.” He bit the words out, hefted Kinna higher in his arms, and followed the PixieDimn through the trees toward the clearing and the tents ahead.

“
H
alt
! State your business, stranger.”

Cedric let the yoke fall from his shoulders, spreading his feet and crossing his arms. The guards lowered their spears, and on the battlements above the massive gates, six archers appeared, their shafts notched and drawn.

“I come to see Nicholas Erlane.”

“What business have you with the King of Lismaria?” The bearded guard closest to Cedric didn't relax his stance. “And what of the body you bring?”

“She is alive, although only just, and I come because Erlane has expended a great deal of time and energy to bring me to his kingdom.”

The guard's steely gaze flicked to the side and then returned to Cedric. “Your name, stranger?”

“Cedric, Dragon-Master of West Ashwynd.”

Resounding silence followed Cedric's words, and then the guard raised a hand. The soldiers in front of the gate edged around Cedric and Ashleen where she lay on her pallet, surrounding them completely.

“Well, Dragon-Master,” the head guard spoke, “I will accompany you into the presence of the King.”

The gates groaned open, a deep shuddering croak that echoed Cedric's inner fears. He controlled his expression, blandly picking up the yoke and hefting it over his shoulders again.

The guard turned for the inner courtyard, and Cedric followed, scraping Ashleen's pallet carefully over the cobblestones.

The turrets of the palace dwarfed him as he stepped inside, and he glanced around in awe. Sebastian's palace at the Crossings, grand though it was, looked like a child's playhouse compared to Erlane's seat of power. Tiers stacked on tiers, which stacked on other tiers, and the interior stretched in massive marble halls that yawned into darkness. The keystone of the archway into the palace reached at least fifty spans over Cedric's head. Once again, he dropped the yoke, slid his arms beneath Ashleen's still, feverish form and hefted her against his chest.

Worry spiked at the burning heat from her body. Her hair was plastered against her head with leaves and dirt embedded in it.

“Where is an apothecary?” he asked the guard in the echoing entrance hall.

“You will see His Grace first.”

“She will not last much longer without attention.”

“What is that to us?”

“She is Lady Lianna's own handmaiden.” Cedric's voice was hard. “Surely you will not let her die.”

“Lady Lianna is noticeably absent.” But uncertainty hovered in the guard's eyes.

Cedric pressed his advantage. “Lady Lianna instructed her handmaiden to bring messages to His Grace, Nicholas Erlane.”

Indecision flickered across the guard's face. After a moment, he relented. “Aye.” He gestured to someone behind Cedric, and a palace servant appeared. “Take the maid to Master Beetel.” He turned to Cedric. “Dragon-Master, come with me.”

Cedric eased Ashleen into the servant's arms. “Be careful of her side,” he said. “It is infected.”

“Aye.” The servant carried Ashleen into the darkness, and Cedric felt the absence of her warmth.

The guard handed him a white tunic. “You cannot appear before His Grace without proper garments.”

Cedric donned the tunic and tightened it with the belt the guard provided. Then, with a deep breath, he followed the guard beyond a set of yawning double doors.

N
icholas Erlane looked
different from the way Cedric had imagined him. The King waited while Cedric approached, perched on the edge of his throne like a bird, his slender frame shrinking in the gloomy half-light of the throne room. His hair glowed with pearly luminescence, braided in two plaits hanging over his chest to his waist. His eyebrows and lashes were almost invisible against his pale skin.

“I understand you call yourself Cedric, Dragon-Master of West Ashwynd.” His voice was high and reedy.

“You may understand that I am Cedric, called Dragon-Master of West Ashwynd,” Cedric corrected. He had never given himself that moniker.

Nicholas Erlane raised a white eyebrow, blinking as if he hadn't planned for Cedric to speak, and he wasn't sure how to handle the interruption. He cleared his throat. “Quite so. You—you look very like your father, Dragon-Master.”

Cedric stiffened. He hadn't been prepared for mention of his father, and he'd nearly forgotten the history he'd heard of his father's friendship with Nicholas Erlane from Rennis, Erlane's spy who had died in Sebastian's dungeons.

“So I've been told,” he forced himself to say. Though he held no memory of his father, he had been proud to hear his father well-spoken of. Nicholas Erlane's friendship with Liam flummoxed him. Before Lianna had shackled Cedric and dragged him from the Forgotten Plains, he'd regarded the Lismarian King as a distant benevolent leader. But once he understood that Lianna's avaricious power-grasping curled the man into a cornered dog in his own throne room, he wondered how his father could have regarded such a man with anything resembling friendship.

Erlane spoke again. “I wish to make you welcome in my castle, Dragon-Master.”

Cedric couldn't help but notice the slight emphasis Nicholas Erlane placed on the word “
my
.” Obviously, thoughts of past friendships between Erlane and the Andrachen line were long gone. Of course, the dethroned King's son had returned and he would feel the necessity of drawing the lines of property. Let him. Cedric didn't want the throne anyway. He'd seen too much of what power did to those who wished for it.

“It was most thoughtful of you to provide a party to accompany me to your palace to guard me against attack from any outside forces, as well, Your Grace.”

The heavy irony of Cedric's statement was lost on the King. He fidgeted with his braids before glancing at his steward, who stood on the right side of his throne. “Have you heard when my niece will return?” he whispered to the man.

Cedric's gaze narrowed on the nervous twitches that jerked the King's chin.

“I have had no word, Your Grace.”

Nicholas Erlane turned back to Cedric. “I am, of course, happy to provide protection for you while you are here, Dragon-Master.”

“Oh.” Cedric's clipped word bit on the heels of the King's. “So I am free to leave when I wish, then?”

“Well—er—N—no.” Erlane looked flustered.

His steward quickly stepped forward. “You are to remain here until the Lady Lianna returns to the palace, Dragon-Master. We have need of you”

“A prisoner, then.” Cedric's jaw cramped.

The steward's gaze was hard. “We prefer that you think of yourself as ... a guest of honor and importance who must be ... protected. You will have a certain freedom within the walls of the Dragon keep, but you will not leave until His Grace sees fit.”

“You mean until Lady Lianna sees fit.”

The sentence echoed in the hall, and Erlane's indigo eyes widened. He glanced nervously at the steward, who didn't move. After a long moment, the steward gave a tight smile. “Of course, our gracious Lady Lianna will wish to see what you can do here in this castle as well, Dragon-Master.”

Cedric bit back a sigh, swallowing the inevitability of the situation. He addressed the King again. “Your Grace, I have left your niece's handmaiden, Ashleen, in the care of a palace apothecary. Lady Lianna insisted that the maid has messages for you. May I be shown into the apothecary's chambers?”

“Nay,” Erlane said. “We—I—should like you to visit our Dragons first, Dragon-Master. We have heard much of your talents, and I have taken great pains so I can watch your skills at play.” Erlane hopped off his throne; there was some little distance to the ground for the small man. The King walked down the steps to Cedric to stand before him. Cedric towered over the King.

“Accompany me to the Dragon dens, Dragon-Master.”

Nicholas Erlane turned for an archway in the darkened recesses of the hall to Cedric's right, and the guard motioned for Cedric to precede him.

Cedric followed the King into the stony dampness of a corridor.

Four guards surrounded them as they walked, and Erlane led Cedric into a twisting, turning maze of darkened, smoky tunnels lit by torchlight. The familiar smell of Dragon dung wafted across Cedric's nose, and a tingle ran up his spine. Somewhere, deep in the Dragon dens of ClarenVale, Ember had a den.

Cedric wondered if the Dragon would feel his presence. They had been so close to
psuche
at The Crossings before the Tournament.

Commander Jerrus had been the one to arrange the transfer of Ember to Nicholas Erlane's ranks; Cedric wondered how the Commander had found and captured the Dragon, and then he wondered what Jerrus had received in exchange for such a gift—and how he had convinced Sebastian to part with the valuable Dragon.

Or perhaps Jerrus wasn't as loyal to Sebastian as he seemed.

Deep rumbles shook the stone walls of the tunnels as the heat increased. Massive doors lined the hallway, and occasional flashes of flame lit the cracks beneath them. As Cedric passed, the Dragons seemed restless. Roars shuddered across the space, shivering the stone beneath his feet.

Nicholas Erlane glanced at Cedric with awe and expectation written on his face. “It's the first time I've seen them do that. They're never this restless.” He surveyed Cedric from head to toe. “Even your father didn't have such command over the creatures.”

Cedric said nothing. This all seemed too familiar, like he'd walked this same route with Sebastian when he'd arrived at The Crossings. Two kingdoms, seeking talents he hadn't known he had, each wanting to use him for his gifts. Rebellion bubbled inside of him. His jaw hardened.

Nicholas Erlane at last led him into a circular arena lined with high tiers of benches. In the center of the pit below them, a wide sandy floor was edged with heavy, long tether-chains, their manacles large enough to bind even a Poison-Quill, the largest of the Dragonkinds, to the earth.

They had entered the top tier, and Erlane motioned to a guard, who removed a keyring from his belt and unlocked a gate, beyond which a long flight of stone steps led down to the sandy floor.

“Enter, Dragon-Master,” Nicholas Erlane said.

Cedric stared, fury welling inside of him. In his memory, he stood inside the keep at Sebastian's castle, the prey of two high-spirited and wild Dragons whom he did not wish to harm.

“What is this?” he asked. He'd known he would likely be used for his way with Dragons if he came to ClarenVale, if he should meet Nicholas Erlane. He hadn't counted on it being right away. He'd hoped to be able to find Ember and possibly escape before Erlane forced his hand.

“Nothing, nothing,” Nicholas Erlane glanced at the floor of the keep and then back at Cedric. “We—I wish you to see our training arena as it seems to be your area of expertise, to perhaps gain your opinion of it.”

Cedric's jaw locked. The man's game was less than obscure. He pushed against Erlane's stuttering boundary. “Will you show me the arena yourself, Your Grace?”

Nicholas Erlane sucked in a sharp breath and backed up a step.

“No, no, I will allow you to explore the arena on your own and will wait for your return to hear your thoughts on the facility.”

Cedric bit back a sigh. Clearly, Nicholas Erlane meant to have Cedric confront one Dragon or many once he reached the floor of the arena. He may as well get it over with.

He passed through the gate, his mind racing as he took in the arena tiers, noting the arched tunnel doorways. If Dragons lived in each of those corridors, the King held even more Dragons in his palace here than Sebastian did in The Crossings. He wondered which den held Ember, and then he tried again to figure a way out from the palace with Ember ... and Ashleen.

The soft moccasins Ashleen had made for him printed the sandy floor as he paced to the middle. As he expected, the heavy corridor doors immediately creaked open on opposite sides of the arena, and a flash of flame bit the tunnels' darkness as two great Dragons appeared.

The huge brutes advanced into the open light of the arena. Dimn scurried from the darkness as well, fastening the heavy manacles to the Dragons' forelegs, their spiked maces striking the Dragons if they tried to swing their heads too close. Scale bits shattered across the sandy floor as the Dragons roared their displeasure.

The Dimn disappeared after the Dragons—one Poison-Quill and one Nine-Tail—were shackled. A Poison-Quill's deep roar shook the arena, and a Nine-Tail stepped sideways into the sand on the other side. Cedric shook his head. Mirages were rare; he doubted the King had one of those in his dens, and Embers weren't much less rare than Mirages. Still, he'd seen Ember flying above the castle; he
knew
it had to be him. He wished Ember had been the Dragon to appear in the arena now.

Cedric slowly folded his arms. He knew what the King wanted. Nicholas Erlane—or Lianna, likely—wished to test him to see if he was fit to hold the position of Dragon-Master in this castle. She had seen his work in The Crossings, but she may have attributed the Dragons' obedience to nationality. The beasts were notoriously territorial, and West Ashwynd Dragons often balked even at leaving their dens within their Clans.

Cedric refused to play along.

It might be a hot lesson, however.

The Poison-Quill's ponderous head swung as he scented Cedric. The Nine-Tail hugged the wall, seemingly unsure of himself.
This must be new ground for them both
, Cedric thought.
If they were familiar with the arena, they would immediately attack the intruder.
He wondered again how many Dragons Erlane held captive—and where Ember’s assigned den was located.

Testing the waters, the Nine-Tail raised his tails high, scraping their sharp points along the stone side of the arena, and the Poison-Quill immediately bristled, his quills adding bulk to his already-massive frame.

Cedric kept his lips sealed. If he said anything, anything at all, the Dragons would react—worse, they would seek his approval or obey an accidental instruction, and that was what Nicholas Erlane was looking for—solid evidence of Cedric's Dragon gift, to use him for more power.

Despite his silence, the Dragons seemed at least partially aware of him. They eyed each other over his head, their great snouts weaving, but neither made a move toward him. Cedric had just begun to plan his retreat back up the steps when a shuddering roar shook the floor of the arena.