The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (2 page)

His imagination took flight, showing him his fingers spinning in the air, like thick pink worms, and scattering across the grass at their feet.

“You can have as many Stars as you want.” Bennick’s blue eyes smiled the way Da’s had used to. “Do you want that, lad?”

“Yes.”

Bennick held out his hand for the Star.

Jaumé gave it back reluctantly. “Will you teach me to spin it, the way you did?”

Bennick laughed as he slipped the Star into the pouch again, showing a flash of white teeth. “You need to learn how to throw a knife first, lad. Once you’ve done that you can think about Stars.”

“Will you teach me how to throw a knife?”

“I have the one I made when I was your age. If I let you use it, you’ll have to look after it. Sharpen it. Oil the blade. You can only throw a knife when you know it well enough. But now, let’s shift this wood.”

That night, after they’d eaten, Bennick went to his pack and took out a small bundle wrapped in soft leather. He sat down by Jaumé and folded the leather back. Inside was a plain cowhide sheath, with a white bone handle poking out the top.

Jaumé’s fingers went out, almost as if the bone handle pulled them towards it. “Can I...?”

Bennick nodded.

Jaumé wrapped his hand round the handle. It was cold, but the shape seemed welcoming. He felt his fingers fit in the shallow grooves Bennick had cut for his own fingers long ago. He didn’t ask if he could pull the blade out; already, the knife was shifting from Bennick to him. He felt it. The bone seemed to take warmth from his skin and return it. He drew out the blade. It shone in the firelight.

“You made this?” he said with awe.

“Made the handle, chose the blade, put the two together,” Bennick said. “That’ll be one of your first lessons when you reach Fith.”

“How old were you?”

“Same as you. Eight.”

Jaumé felt a thrill of excitement. He wanted to make a knife like this.

“How does it feel?” Bennick asked.

“Good. Is it...?”
Mine?
He glanced at Bennick, asked the question silently.

“You can use it. If it lets you.”

“How?”

“Practice. Touch the blade. Careful, now.”

Jaumé put his finger on the sharp edge. At once he felt a sting of pain. He drew his finger back and saw a drop of blood form.

“It cut me.”

“No, you cut yourself. You went too fast. There’s no easy way. There’s only hard work. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” Jaumé turned the knife over in his hand. “Can I give it a name?”

“No,” Bennick said. “It’s a knife.” He patted the pouch at his waist. “And these are Stars. They’re not for games. They’re tools. You learn what they can do, then you make them do it.”

Jaumé nodded.
A knife is a tool.

Carefully, he wiped the faint mark of his blood from the blade and fitted it back in the sheath.
I’ll work hard. I want to be a Brother.

T
HEY CROSSED INTO
Sault on the ninth day out of Cornas, moving through throngs of refugees. The soldiers manning the border post made no attempt to control the press of dusty, ragged people and carts piled high with household goods. Here was the same smell Jaumé had smelled in Cornas—sweat, with a sour undertone of fear. The curse seemed suddenly real again. He heard howling laughter, heard the crackle of flames. Rosa’s scream echoed in his head. The smell of Mam’s blood was in his nose.

Terror wrapped its fingers around his heart, squeezing.

And then he looked at Bennick, sitting easily on his horse, and the terror vanished. While he was with Bennick and the Brothers, he was safe.

CHAPTER TWO

M
ID-AFTERNOON THEY RODE
over the pass into Ankeny. Harkeld halted and looked back. Dry, rocky hills hid the Masse desert. The red sand and the ruined city, the catacombs, were ten days behind them. “Do you see something?” his armsman, Justen, asked. “Someone following?”

Harkeld shook his head. The only people behind them were dead. Lundegaard’s soldiers in their fresh graves. The Fithian assassins lying where they’d fallen. The ancient desert dwellers crumbling in their tombs.

The long string of packhorses passed them. Ebril rode last, whistling, his red hair glinting in the sun. “All right?” he called.

Harkeld nodded. He unstoppered his waterskin and swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm water.

Justen wiped dust from his face. “Prince Tomas should be at the escarpment by now.”

Harkeld grunted. In another week, Tomas would be at King Magnas’s castle.
Telling the king I’m a witch
.

Memory swept over him: fire igniting in his chest, flames bursting from his skin, an inferno roaring in his ears. With memory came a surge of panic. He’d not been able to control the fire, had been on the point of bursting into flames—

Harkeld shoved the memory aside. He rammed the stopper into the waterskin.

“We’d best not get too far behind,” Justen said. “Those cursed assassins...”

The back of Harkeld’s neck tightened at the words. He nudged his horse forward. It picked its way between the rocks. Far to the north the sea glittered. Somewhere in that glitter was a port town called Stanic, and more witches sent to strengthen their numbers. The most powerful of the shapeshifters, Innis, had gone in search of them two days ago.

To the southeast were mountains, the long range called the Palisades that cut Ankeny off from the sea. The mountains marched into the distance, snowcapped. Ahead were forested highlands, a tufted green carpet that stretched east as far as he could see. Tomorrow they’d be down there, in among the trees. How long since he’d last stood beneath a tree? Three weeks? Four?

He yearned for green leaves and damp earth and cool shade, but that dense forest also made him uneasy. How many assassins did it hide?

T
HEY CAMPED BESIDE
a riverbed. No water flowed, but in a deep hollow was a stagnant pool. They unloaded the packhorses, let them drink, fed them the grain carried from Lundegaard. Harkeld helped Justen pitch the tents, then fashioned a rough firepit and piled the last of their wood into it.

Cora, the most senior of the witches, crouched alongside him and snapped her fingers. Harkeld flinched as the branches flared alight. The memory of flames stung his skin.

He shook his head sharply, angry with himself, and glanced around. Had anyone noticed him flinch?

No. Justen was laying out bedrolls and blankets in the tents and Ebril was rubbing down the horses. Of the other shapeshifters, there was no sign. They’d be somewhere in the gathering dusk, keeping watch for danger.

Harkeld looked back at Cora, with her plain, weary face and thick plait of graying sandy hair. “Cora?”

“Yes?” She didn’t look up from unpacking the cooking pots.

“Dareus said that Sentinels can strip witches of their magic.”

Cora stopped what she was doing. She looked at him. “If a mage misuses his magic, then yes, Sentinels will strip him of it.”

“Can you strip me of my mine?”
Please
.

Cora surveyed him for several seconds. Had she heard the desperation in his voice? “Myself? No. Only healers can do it. Innis could do it.”

Innis? He felt his face stiffen. Memory swooped back: the catacombs, a smoking torch, skeletal corpses jostling each other as they guarded the anchor stone. He heard Innis’s voice clearly in his head:
I thought you were braver than this
.

“Not someone else?” Harkeld said. “Not Petrus?”

Cora shook her head and went back to unpacking the pots. “He’s not a strong enough healer. Some of the Sentinels who’re joining us should be. We asked for more healers.”

Harkeld watched her sort through the bundles of dried food. Her hands were brisk, competent, short-fingered.
If no new healers come...

He clenched his teeth together. If it had to be Innis, he’d do it. He’d get down on his knees and beg her. Anything to be rid of the fire inside him. “How is it done? Will I still be able to travel?”

Cora laid down the bundles and met his gaze squarely. “Prince Harkeld, you’re an extremely strong fire mage. Stronger than I am, at a guess—”

“I don’t want to be a witch.”

“Whether you want to or not is irrelevant. You are one.”

He shook his head.

She looked at him for a long moment, as if weighing options. He saw a decision firm her mouth. “Once the third anchor stone is destroyed, we’ll strip you of your magic. But until then, you must use it.”

“What?” He shook his head, pushed to his feet. “No!”

“Your magic saved your life in the canyon. And from what Innis tells me, it saved you both in the catacombs.”

He didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge her words. He stared at the sun sinking behind the horizon.

“We need every advantage we can get, sire. Surely you see that? If you die...”

If I die, so could everyone on this continent
.

“Fire magic is frightening,” Cora said matter-of-factly. “And the more magic one has, the more frightening it is. Until one learns to control it.”

He turned his head to look down at her.

“Only a fool wouldn’t be afraid.” Cora held out a large iron pot. “Can you fill this with water, please?”

Harkeld walked down to the stagnant pool, filled the pot, brought it back to the fire. Cora looked at the scum floating in it and wrinkled her nose. “We’ll strain it.” She took another pot and laid a strip of cloth over it. “You pour.”

Harkeld hefted the heavy pot.

“I’ll teach you to use your fire magic,” Cora said, as the dirty water splashed onto the cloth. “So you can use it to protect yourself. And once the curse is broken, one of the healers will strip you of it. If that’s what you wish.”

Use it again?

He remembered the canyon, red cliffs towering over him, the assassin screaming as he burned. He remembered the catacombs, the ocean of fire, the deafening roar of flame.

“Innis told me what happened in the catacombs,” Cora said as he lowered the empty pot. “She was right; fire was the only way through, but the risk... You’re lucky the two of you are still alive.”

“What do you mean?”

“If my guess is correct, you’re strong enough to set stone on fire. You could have burned everything. Not just the corpses, but the entire catacombs. There would have been nothing left. You and Innis...” She made a sharp gesture with one hand. “Incinerated. And then what would have happened? We wouldn’t even have had your body.”

And the curse would never be broken. And everyone in the Seven Kingdoms would die
.

Cora hung the pot on an iron tripod over the fire. Harkeld’s eyes followed the movement of her hands, but his mind was back in Masse. He saw a gray dawn, a smoky battlefield, Dareus lying broken-necked.
If you’d used your magic, you sniveling coward, he’d still be alive!
The voice was Gerit’s, hoarse with rage and exhaustion.
He’s dead because of you!

He’d felt the truth of the words then, and he felt them still. Dareus would be alive if he’d dared to use his magic.

“If... if I agree to learn...” The words were astonishingly difficult to utter; they clogged in his throat and stuck on his tongue. Harkeld swallowed. “If I agree—”

“If you agree, you have my word that one of our healers will strip your magic from you once the curse is destroyed.”

The word of a witch. What was that worth?

He stared at Cora. She wasn’t Dareus, whom he’d grudgingly trusted, but Dareus was dead, buried beneath the desert sand, and Cora led them now. She was... perhaps not completely human, but not the monster he’d once thought witches were.

Harkeld took a deep breath, ignored the panic churning in his stomach, and nodded. “I agree.”

“Good. Can you fill that pot again, please? We need to boil some water to drink.”