Fire Walker Page 6

  She snatched her hand back before she could accidentally burn him. “It—it doesn’t hurt me, but I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” She cringed at her own words—she hadn’t meant it to sound like a threat.

  He cocked his head. “Wouldn’t you? Your people march on our land and burn our homes.”

  “Fire Walker aren’t monsters. We use our fire to cook or light lanterns, not to hurt others.”

  “But your people do hurt others.”

  “There may be the odd criminal who does, but they don’t represent the rest of us. They’re no different from a man who chooses to turn his sword against an innocent. Are there no criminals in Hartnor?”

  That drew a smile.

  The bushes parted. She shook out her flame but swallowed her relief—another Hartnord. No, Gareth, the King’s sorran. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

  The young Hartnord placed a hand on his chest and inclined his head. “Your friends are stifling. I needed air.”

  “The ceremony is beginning shortly. You don’t want to miss it.” Then Gareth spoke sharp Hartnord words, the first time she’d ever heard him speak that way, and their Hartnord guest responded in kind.

  The young Hartnord buckled his collar. “But of course, I am a guest at your mercy.” He held out his hand to her. “Will you join me? I am still new to your kingdom. It appears there is much we could learn from one another.”

  She stared at his hand. Did he mean for her to kiss it? She didn’t even know who he was! But he belonged to the delegation, and if she could convince him that Fire Walkers truly meant them no harm, perhaps the Hartnords would return to their home in the north and drop all notions of pressuring the King and his Council.

  She took his hand. “I’m Mina of House Arlbond.”

  “A noble lady? Ah, I did not realize. Forgive my lack of courtesy.” He bowed and brushed soft lips against the back of her hand before she could react. Her heart fluttered. “Call me Wulf. Shall we?”

  Wulf? An odd name. He looped his arm around hers and guided her back to the path. Her heart thumped with each step. It wasn’t like walking with Raj. He was her friend, the boy she’d trusted with her biggest secrets, and this was a stranger, a foreigner, a man whose body heat burned uncomfortably close despite the tales claiming Hartnords were cold and hard. Gareth trailed them, though he was out of earshot.

  She glanced over her shoulder to make sure before whispering, “Do you know him? Gareth?” Something in the way they’d exchanged words in the Hartnord tongue suggested familiarity.

  “He once served my father.”

  “Your father? In Hartnor?”

  “Yes, many moons ago.”

  Talin had told her that Gareth had come into King Khaled’s service during the last Hartnord war seventeen years ago, but he’d never revealed the details of Gareth’s defection. Did his own people consider him a traitor? It was a question she’d ask Talin later. “What are moons?”

  “I forget what you call it.” He pointed to the silver crescents tattooed on her arm. “Moon.”

  “Lune?” She stifled a giggle.

  He smiled. “Lune.”

  The two of them walked arm-in-arm into the throne room. She feared the stares and whispers as they entered, but none of the Housemen were looking in her direction. Their attention remained fixed on the center of the room.

  “We’re arrived in time.” Wulf released her arm.

  Six Hartnord men stood in the cordoned-off section of the throne room, wearing nothing but leather pants, their pale chests bare and oiled.

  “What are they, Hartnord Fire Walkers?” someone beside her said, and laughed.

  The Hartnord men paired off. Whispers and giggles rippled through the crowd as the Hartnords raised their fists into a fighting stance.

  They leaped at each other. She stared open-mouthed as the Hartnord men fought with a flurry of fists and feet instead of steel. They grappled, flesh connecting with flesh. It looked less of a battle and more of a dance.

  “Incredible,” she whispered. “Do all Hartnords fight this way?”

  A shadow stepped beside her. She hadn’t noticed Prince Ravel leave the King’s side. “They fight with steel, Lady Arlbond, and they know how to use it. Isn’t that so, Prince Wulfhart?”

  She bit her lip to hide her shock. Gods, she’d been talking—and walking arm-in-arm—with a prince of Hartnor? She silently ran through their conversation in the garden, trying to remember if she’d said anything grossly inappropriate.

  He greeted Prince Ravel with a brief tilt of his head. “Indeed. It’s a shame we missed your tournament. We would have liked to have tested our steel against yours. Your warriors move fast, so everyone says, but they cannot match Hartnord metal. Our weapons are designed for strength, and our armor can deflect any blade.”

  Prince Ravel returned the modest bow. “We move faster because we don’t hide behind thick armor. It’s a burden that holds you back. Whilst you’re still lifting your blade, ours will be at your throat.”

  “The Sandarian need to spill blood is barbaric to us.”

  Prince Ravel smiled as pleasantly as always, but his charm hid a viper’s fangs. “Such is the way of the warrior. What man can name himself a man without spilling blood?”

  “Nothing bleeds faster than a Sandarian. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “No corpse is colder than a Hartnord’s.”

  Prince Wulfhart’s cool silver eyes met Prince Ravel’s fiery amber. “We find it interesting that a woman won your tournament. Are there so few men who pose a challenge?”

  She clasped hands behind her back and itched to leave. Dealing with one pompous prince was bad enough.

  Prince Ravel regarded her then, as though remembering she stood among them. “Lady Arlbond is a rather unique woman, wouldn’t you say? Less of a woman and more of the man she masqueraded as. As you can see—” he waved a hand at her dress. “It’s rather hard to tell.”

  She scowled and her hand twitched for Hawk’s hilt. The crowd erupted with cheers. The Hartnord dancers finished their routine with a series of flips and jumps and rolled into a bow.

  Prince Ravel clapped once. “If you’ll excuse me, Prince Wulfhart, Lady Arlbond. Our entertainment is about to begin. It promises to be… fiery.” The Prince winked at her as he strode back to the dais. She pulled a face.

  “You won your tournament?” Wulf gave her an assessing stare.

  A flicker of warmth stirred in her gut. What could he see with those eyes, so alike her own and Gareth’s? Did he have the Hartnord Sight, too? The ability to see more than most men, as Iman once put it. “It’s why I carry a sword, my Prince.”

  “Please, just Wulf. I did wonder if it was Sandarian fashion. It seems most of your people carry weapons.”

  “They don’t in Hartnor?”

  “No, only knights and guardsmen.”

  “Then how do you duel?”

  “With sharp tongues, not sharp blades.” He pointed to the center of the room. “Is that one of your kin?”

  Saeed entered the space and stood alone. Surely, he wasn’t the King’s suggested entertainment? She scanned the room. High Priestess Leila stood at the back with Samira. Jonan lingered close by, watching them as promised. She caught a flicker of Alistar’s lime green sahn and Raj’s lilac in the crowd. Prince Ravel had returned to his seat on the dais beside the King and Prince Rais. On the other side sat King Reinhart. His silver giants towered behind him. Talin, Gareth, and Salasar were all lined up at the front—no trouble would get past them.

  “Shouldn’t you be with your king?” she asked.

  Wulf half-shrugged. “I learn more with my ear on the ground. Is that how you say it?”

  “Close enough.” For a prince, he didn’t seem so pompous. Perhaps he and Prince Rais would get on and forge a true alliance between their nations. Free trade and no more wars. So long as Prince Ravel kept his slimy face out of it.

  Saeed raised his
fists and they both flickered into flame. The crowd muttered, speculating what the Fire Walker would do next.

  “For too long, my kind has been forced to hide the gifts that Rahn bestowed upon us,” he proclaimed. “For too long, we buried our Rahnlight underground and allowed Rahn’s gift to die. We are grateful for our King’s mercy, and his wisdom that allows Rahn’s light to flourish once more. We are honored to serve you, my King.”

  Mina’s eyes narrowed. Those words might have come from her own mouth.

  He bowed to King Khaled with an exaggerated flourish. His flame swished through the air as he did so, earning polite clapping and whoops from the crowd.

  Next, Saeed approached the Hartnord king and repeated the same bow, to more cheers. “And we are honored to have such guests in our company, but also confused. You come here with unfounded prejudices against my kind. You come here and make demands of us which aren’t wanted or warranted.”

  The cheers fizzled out into nervous murmurs. What was that fool doing? Insulting them wasn’t going to win their favor.

  “Is this part of your entertainment?” Wulf whispered.

  “I—I don’t know.”

  She tried to catch Talin’s eye and his unease rumbled through the bond, echoed by Jonan, who slowly edged through the crowd. This wasn’t part of the entertainment. Not at all.

  “Blood fire has existed since the dawn of time,” Saeed continued. “So long as Rahn burns, so will every Sandarian child born. His fire is in our blood. It cannot be suppressed. It cannot be denied. Only one great House in history has acknowledged this, and it is they I honor this night. It is they I burn for.”

  The silver giants stepped from behind their king, subtly removing their triangular shields from their backs, though not subtly enough. Whatever jest Saeed planned, the Hartnords weren’t impressed.

  Saeed dared a step toward King Reinhart and the silver giants slammed their shields onto the dais with a deafening clang.

  Flame swirled around Saeed’s fists. He lifted them as though examining the wondrous power bestowed to him. “May you burn bright, my King. For House Rhaesbond!”

  Fire burst from Saeed’s fists at King Reinhart.

  7

  THE CURSE OF HOUSE RHAESBOND

  Screams erupted in the throne room. Mina grabbed her sword hilt and pushed passed the Housemen, fighting her way through the panicked mob to the center.

  Saeed summoned a blazing wall of fire, blocking Talin and Salasar from getting through. Another burst of flame attacked it; Jonan came running, his own power colliding with Saeed’s. The wall split for a heartbeat and allowed Talin to leap inside.

  “Father!” She ran after him.

  The wall of flame vanished.

  Talin’s blade had cut clean through Saeed’s neck. He sank to his knees, blood already pouring down his bare back onto the pristine tiles. His fire had left its mark—a black line scorched its way up the dais steps to its intended target.

  She covered her mouth and gagged.

  Two of the Hartnord giants sagged to the ground, their metal armor blackened and twisted; Saeed’s flames had melted through them, boiling the men inside their shells. Their triangular shields were molten, crumpled lumps. Hunched between them lay the Hartnord king, or what remained of him. He hadn’t worn armor, not that it would have helped. His pale skin had been reduced to a pulpy red and black mess. Her hand dropped from Hawk’s hilt.

  Gods. Saeed had killed the Hartnord king.

  A woman screamed behind her. Mina turned to find Samira had collapsed to her knees, her body rocking back and forth, her wide, tearful eyes pinned on Saeed’s twitching form. Housemen fled past her, knocking her over, not caring for her plight, or that the threat had now been put down. Leila came to Samira’s side, but her eyes lacked warmth or sympathy.

  Salasar waved his sword in the air. “Calm yourselves!” he yelled, his voice ringing around the room. “Rahn’s blood, you’re Housemen, not startled geldings! Get a hold of yourselves!” He barked orders at the guards.

  They obeyed, rounding up Housemen like cattle. Alistar, Raj, and Iman were swept along with them. Some hurried and tripped over their own feet in their rush to leave, whilst others lingered, their jaws slack as they stared, their lips muttering silent prayers.

  On the dais, Gareth tried to move the Bright Solara to safety. Guards escorted the Queen and Princess Aniya through the rear door to the royal offices, but the King and Prince Ravel remained locked in a heated argument Mina couldn’t hear over the stomping Housemen and fearful murmurs.

  The remaining Hartnords surrounded their dead king with their swords drawn, their pale faces a mixture of anguish and rage. What in Lune’s name had possessed Saeed to do this? He was supposed to protect the Fire Walkers! He was their ally! This wouldn’t just give the Council a justified reason to agree to the Hartnords’ demands—it gave them cause to lock the Fire Walkers away forever, if not worse.

  How could he have done this?

  How could he?

  A whoosh of fire made everyone jump. Leila stood over Saeed’s body, burning it with her own hands.

  Mina ran to the High Priestess and grabbed her arm, yanking her back. “Stop! What are you doing?”

  Leila’s fire snapped out and her silver eyes glared. “I’m burning a traitor’s body—”

  “If you burn him, we can’t question his Shadow!”

  “And if we don’t burn him, his Shadow will form a wraith and attack. I can’t risk that.”

  “I need to know why! Why did he do this? I need to ask—”

  But it was too late. Saeed’s body had crumpled into ash and no Shadow rose. The irony of it made her sick. Oh, it was acceptable to burn his body? Now she’d never know why he did it. Why he’d condemn his own people with a single burst of flame.

  It was the curse of House Rhaesbond all over again.

  Salasar stomped past her and reeled to a halt. The filthy curse he muttered wasn’t aimed at Leila or Saeed’s smoldering body, but the Hartnords by the dais.

  Wulf had Prince Rais in his grip—a knife at his throat. “Stay still,” the prince warned in rough Sandarian.

  Salasar brandished his sword. “You spill a drop of his blood and none of you will leave this room alive.”

  The remaining silver giants guarded their prince, swords and shields raised, but no one dared move. Prince Rais’s eye met hers. He bit his lip, and his chest rose in shallow breaths. His scabbard was empty, his sword discarded somewhere out of reach. At least he had the sense to remain still.

  King Khaled came to Salasar’s side, but no farther. His sorrans and Prince Ravel followed. The King held up his hand, halting them. “Stand down, Salasar.”

  “My King—”

  “That is my command.”

  Salasar bowed and moved behind the King, though his sword remained drawn.

  “My father is dead!” Wulf yelled, his voice breaking. “Your fire kin killed him! Cooked him like a pig!”

  “You have my deepest condolences, Prince Wulfhart. I and my people never imagined this could happ—”

  “Liar! You invite us to your home, you offer your wine, and you burn us with your blood! I see it within you, King Sandarian.”

  “Then look at my words and see their truth. No one is more saddened by this tragedy than I.”

  “Words will not bring my father back. Sandarian law is clear, is it not? An eye for an eye? Blood for blood?” His hand flinched.

  Prince Rais gasped. A single line of blood ran down his neck.

  “Enough, Wulf,” Gareth said. “Your father wouldn’t want—”

  “Don’t speak of my father,” Wulf spat. “Was this your plan? Play the long game? Trap us here to enact the revenge you wanted all along?”

  Revenge?

  Her eyes darted between them. In the light, they had more than a passing resemblance. The same bright hair, silver eyes, and strong jawline. She’d assumed all Hartnords looked
like that, the way all Sandarians had the same dark hair and hooked nose…

  “Rush them, my King,” Gareth murmured. “They won’t back down.”

  “And risk war?” Talin whispered.

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “Let them go, my King,” Talin urged. “Forgive this matter, or more blood will spill.”

  The King held up his hand and his sorrans fell into line. “The man responsible lies dead. Release my son. Take your father’s body and return to your home. My men will escort you to your ships unharmed, I give you my word.”

  “Your words belie the true cause. Your fire kin cannot be trusted. Our prophet warned death would follow should we pursue our treaty with you. My father ignored his warnings. He thought enough years had passed between us. He thought our priests to be fearful old men.” He laughed joylessly. “He thought wrong.”

  Prince Ravel cleared his throat. “There are those in Sandair who share your concerns, Prince Wulfhart.”

  What was that fool doing?

  The King glared at his son. “Stand down,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “I will not.”

  Prince Ravel stepped away from his father and approached the Hartnords with his hands open, palms up, seemingly unbothered by his brother’s position as hostage. The silver giants shifted their swords into a thrusting stance.

  Wulf barked a few words in Hartnord. His guards lowered their swords. “A Sandarian with a spine.”

  Prince Ravel bowed low, the most respect she’d ever seen him grant anyone. “I regret your suffering, Prince Wulfhart, and I am deeply ashamed. You are not the first to suffer at the hands of a Fire Walker, and you won’t be the last. You’ve seen my brother’s scars. I, too, have been scarred by a Fire Walker.” He lifted his chin, twisting his cheek to show the burned crescent she’d inflicted. “The Fire Walker responsible stands in this very room.”

  Wulf’s eyes snapped to hers, as though he’d heard the beat of her heart and read the truth on her face.

  Prince Ravel would twist this tragedy to suit his needs, but not whilst she still stood here. She released her sword hilt and took a step forward.