Embrace the Fire (5 page)

S
ebastian's fingers
itched to throttle his steward, Pomley. The man ducked and clucked and darted around him like a nervous squirrel, straightening his robe, drawing the train behind him. He'd met with Sebastian's valet that morning and insisted on high dress, stressing the importance of creating an impression.

Sebastian's arch-enemy, the usurper of his plans and dreams for his kingdom of Lismaria, Nicholas Erlane, would arrive today to parley, to discuss the possibilities, however slim, of peace between their countries.

Not that Sebastian would ever concede an orlach of West Ashwynd's soil to that treasonous snake. The man had gall to bring as large a delegation as he had into Sebastian’s domain, and his entire navy prowled the Channel of Lise as though Lismaria owned the waters already.” Fury nearly choked Sebastian along with the blasted clasp of his robe.

Nicholas currently awaited Sebastian in the throne room. Pomley again fiddled with the clasp at Sebastian's throat.

Sebastian shoved the steward aside and strode past him as the older man stumbled into an awkward bow. “Announce me, Pomley.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Pomley ducked ahead of him, diving through the double doors as the guards opened them.

“His Grace, the King of West Ashwynd, Sebastian Andrachen.” His voice echoed in the throne room, and Sebastian took small pleasure in hearing the emphasis on
Andrachen
, the claiming of his kinship with Aarkan the Firebringer, Sebastian's ancient forefather.

He stepped to the entryway. The red and gold banners of his kingdom decorated the throne room, and at the table of state that stretched the length of the room sat his Council, Commander-in-Chief Lanier, and Nicholas Erlane himself with his head commander and a contingent of Lismarian diplomats and guards he had brought with him.

All of them stood as Sebastian stopped at the head of the table. Nicholas Erlane met his gaze, steel darkening the indigo of his irises. Sebastian flattened the fury that writhed inside and greeted him curtly, “Nicholas Erlane.” He refused to call him by his honorific.

Sebastian's commanders tensed. It was a bad beginning for a parley.

“Your Grace.” Nicholas Erlane inclined his head, and his ease with the situation increased Sebastian's rage. The Lismarian usurper was shorter than Sebastian by nearly a head, his silvery hair pulled into a braid down his back to his waist. A neat goatee of the same color covered his chin. His slim fingers clasped together in front of him. If it weren't for the goatee, he would have looked feminine.

Erlane sank into his chair, an eyebrow lifted as he waited for Sebastian to sit. Sebastian waited a moment longer than was necessary before settling into his own seat and picking up a goblet of mead.

“So,” Sebastian drew out the word, “you've left your comfortable Lismarian throne, trekked across your Marron Mountains, clogged the Channel with an impressive show of your naval strength, all to sit in my chair and drink my mead and tell me how you never meant to take my rightful throne and drive me from my homeland.” He took a long drink and slammed the goblet onto the table.

Stilted quiet settled across the room.

Lanier cleared his throat: “Your Grace, we have here the treaty Nicholas Erlane has drawn up for your perusal.”

Sebastian hurled the goblet at the stone wall ten lengths to his right. It shattered with a crash.

Xander, his new head of Council after Sebastian had promoted Jerrus to Commander flinched backward at the noise. “Your Grace,” he whispered, shocked.

Erlane's commander rose, anger blazing across his black-bearded face. “International parley demands courtesy, Sebastian.”

“Greyham.” Erlane gripped the commander's arm. “Peace.”

Greyham didn't take his gaze from Sebastian, his cheeks above his beard flushing red and then white. “Our countries sit on the brink of war and the only chance we have of resolving it is at this table.” He glanced at Erlane. “My sincerest apologies, Your Grace, but I could not stand by and see lack of honor stir a war that we may yet avoid.”

Audible gasps spread across the room. Fury gripped Sebastian; he leaned his weight on the table, his gaze locking again with Greyham. “Lack of honor, did you say? A lack,” he slammed his fist onto the hard wood, “of
honor
?”

Greyham didn't flinch. “You are not known for your honor, Sebastian.”

Xander tried again to interrupt. “Please, everyone, let's be seated and begin. We are accomplishing nothing here.”

Sebastian ignored him. “
Honor
, Greyham, does not slink into a country, hiding behind smiles and promises, and slide onto a throne that was not empty.
Honor
does not play games by setting a betrothal as a peace endeavor and then snatching it away before the marriage can take place.
Honor
does not sit in the chair across the table and speak of peace when there can be none.”

He swung his hard gaze back to Nicholas Erlane. “My Council tells me I should parley, but I do not accept parley. There is no parley that could ever bring an accord between our nations. No restitution will recompense for the betrayals of this sniveling, conniving creature who purported to be a friend to our family and then brought destruction on us all.”

“Destruction?” Nicholas Erlane asked calmly. “Surely, you misremember, Your Grace. Or were the reports of the palace coup you incited simply a children's story?”

Sebastian leaned forward, taking the table in an iron grip. “The Lismarian crown has been in my family for generations, dating back to the treaty between Dragonkind, Seer Fey, and my ancestor, Aarkan the Firebringer. Every drop of blood that has run through the veins of the kings since then has carried that same lineage, and every upset, conspiracy, or coup, whether great or small, has been within the familial bloodlines of Aarkan the Great. Never had Lismaria been without an Andrachen king until Nicholas Erlane of Sanlia imposed himself upon the Lismarian people.” Sebastian dropped his voice to a whisper, but each word, he enunciated, clear, separate, distinct. “You stole my throne, you whoreson.”

Xander leaped to his feet at the same time as Nicholas Erlane's men, outrage twisting their expressions. Greyham shoved his chair aside and started around the table. Sebastian's guards caught his arms and wrestled him to the wall, where hatred darkened his glare. Nicholas Erlane's face did not change from his imperturbable calm, which made Sebastian even angrier.

“One moment, if you please, gentlemen,” Xander called. “Please, let us have order.” He spread his hands as Erlane's men slowly sank into their seats again. Greyham nodded to the guards, and they allowed him to return to his seat. His jaw was still hard, but he said nothing else. “Now, it is true that Lismaria and West Ashwynd have been embroiled in tension for nearly two decades, but peace will never be reached without some compromise on both sides. Your Grace,” Xander turned to Sebastian.

Sebastian tilted his chin, waiting for the words to come. He knew what was on the parchment; he'd read the treaty several times over, knew it would only take the set of his seal on wax to finalize everything, knew that the Council pleaded silently with him to do just that. They feared war; he did not.

“Your Grace, the treaty states that if Nicholas Erlane is permitted to rule in perpetuity the eastern portion of Lismaria, from the Northern reaches of the Sand Flats all the way to the Southern delta of the River Trifecta where it winds through the Midland Ridges, he will return to you ClarenVale, your former home and the Capital of Lismaria, while he shall then rule between the Marshlands of Cayne and the Dreadwood Forest.”

“Essentially splitting the kingdom of Lismaria between you two,” Greyham said. Erlane smiled at his commander's peaceful tone, and Sebastian gritted his teeth.

“Aye.”

Sebastian said nothing. His jaw throbbed where he'd screwed it so tightly shut; he was uncertain he would ever speak again.

“So, then Your Grace, in exchange for this rather large portion of land, along with the benefits it brings to our country, crops, soldiers, and creatures, they ask only one thing.”

Sebastian merely nodded for Xander to continue.

“The Amulet of the Ancients, Your Grace. Nicholas Erlane has been told that it is in your keeping.”

Sebastian sucked his breath in an angry hiss. The Amulet had been his downfall four months ago when the silver-eyed young man had laid it into his own palms, palms that had been crusted with ice and pain ever since. The boy's image burned into his mind; if he ever saw the lad again, he would kill him without thought, without mercy, and without guilt.

The white-haired Lismarian King's gaze fastened to Sebastian's, the indigo alight with interest and ... greed, perhaps?

Pain shot to Sebastian's temples, his jaw was so tight. “And what would you want with the Amulet?”

Erlane leaned forward, spreading his thin fingers across the wood grain. “My interest is my own.”

“So you would take the Amulet that came to my family as a result of a centuries-old treaty?”

“Rumor has it, Sebastian, that you wish to destroy the Amulet.”

“And why,” Sebastian asked, “would I destroy the very thing that gave such power to my family in the first place?”

“Because,” Nicholas answered, “that power never came to you; it ran only through your brother's blood.”

Xander turned frost-white as the words blistered Sebastian's ears. The treaty dropped from his lifeless fingers, and his mouth hung slack.

Nicholas Erlane remained unaffected by the pall of silence. “So, Sebastian,” he dragged out the name, “shall you sign the treaty?”

Sebastian's answering smile was not a friendly one. He finally parted stilted lips. “I'm afraid we can have no accord,” he murmured, and any movement around the table died. “The Amulet of the Ancients is no longer in my possession.”

Sebastian shot a glance at Commander Lanier, and the dark-haired man turned his attention to his fidgeting hands.

Nicholas Erlane's false smile froze on his face. A tumult of whispers circled the Lismarian Council members, and Greyham pulled away from the rest, reaching for the furled parchment in the middle of the table. He unrolled it as if to assure himself of its contents. “If it is no longer in your possession, Sebastian, what may have become of it?”

Sebastian smirked. He couldn't help it. They all looked so lost.

“I have sent it to its destruction.”

Nicholas Erlane jerked to his feet. “The Amulet of the Ancients cannot be destroyed save by blood ritual between Dragons, Seer Fey, and Man!”

“Indeed,” Sebastian replied calmly. “But it can rest comfortably on the floor of the Northern Sea, out of reach of mortal man, fodder for fish and sea monsters alike.” He shrugged. “I had to be rid of the thing that was dragging my house into ruin. It was a matter of
honor
.”

Greyham flinched beneath Sebastian's last dart, and Nicholas Erlane's indigo gaze blazed a fiery path across the table. Without a word, the Lismarian king strode toward the exit, his diplomats doddering behind him.

I
n his dreams
, Sebastian could never flee fast enough. Tonight, he raced across uneven, damp ground, the mud oozing around his boots with every impact of his foot. Behind him, he could hear the steady jog of a pursuer’s even pace. Sebastian lengthened his stride, charging through the mist that rose into the darkness, but the pursuer's tread grew closer and closer.

Sweating, gasping, terrified, Sebastian ran headlong into a wall, a cliff that rose high above him, so high that he couldn't see the top. Even if it had been daylight, even if the sun had blazed onto that cliff, he knew the top would be forever beyond reach.

A stick snapped behind Sebastian, and he whirled, watching the dark shapes moving toward him. There were two, no, three, no, no, there were more. They wore dark robes, cowls hanging low over their faces. Sebastian glanced to the right and the left. More figures moved through the mist, their hands folded in front of them, their lips straight, hard gashes across their shadowed faces.

“Stop!” Sebastian tried to say, but his tongue felt thick. No sound escaped his throat. He tried again. “Come no closer!”

The black-robed figure in the front stopped first, and then the others ceased their forward movement. Stillness smothered the scene, a thick shroud that didn't even allow the sound of insects swarming over the water. Slowly, the leader lifted his cowl, dropping the material around his neck.

Sebastian dug into the rock wall behind him as he recognized the boy, the one who had broken his curse, given him the Seer Fey's Amulet, riveted him with constant pain. “You,” Sebastian croaked. Behind him, the other figures removed their cowls, one by one.

Cedric, Kinna—Liam's whelps. To his right, a slender figure threw back his hood, and Sebastian immediately recognized the silver-tipped chin and deep-set eyes of Nicholas Erlane. The man's indigo gaze blazed through the mist.

Sebastian whipped to the left, and the last figure removed his hood. “Lanier,” Sebastian whispered. “What are you doing?”

As one, the robed figures drew daggers from the folds of their mantles, and holding them out before them, they advanced, slowly, still in the measured tread they had employed before.

“Wait!” Sebastian held up his hands, palms outward as he pleaded with them. “Please, I am unarmed. Please!”

They did not stop. The lead boy was nearly on him now. Hatred burned his silver stare; the hand holding the dagger began to glow orange.

Sebastian stared at it, fascinated, terrified, as the boy spun the dagger in his hand, and faster than speed, sliced downward into Sebastian's wrist.

Sebastian screamed, jerked, and thrashed, the pillows behind his head hitting the stone floor of his bedchamber with a dull thump. Sharp pain shot through his arm, numbing his fingertips until he could no longer feel the furs beneath them, but only the aching, throbbing, frigid coldness that coated his skin and burrowed deep into his bones.

He sat up, gritting his teeth, sweat standing on his forehead as he battled the scream in his lungs. He could feel it in his other arm, too, pain shooting to his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around his bare chest, tucking them under his armpits, but his entire body was cold. He stumbled out of bed, crossing to the embers that still glowed on the hearth.