Ignite the Fire: Incendiary by Karen Chance

 

Chapter Thirty

 

 

The voice stopped my feet, or it would have if I’d currently had any. Since I was just a metaphysical backpack, we kept moving forward, despite the fact that that was the last thing I wanted to do. Because I’d know that bellow anywhere.

Aeslinn.

The world suddenly went swimmy, but I didn’t think it was from shock. I’d already figured out where we were headed, and had been bracing myself for it. But my surroundings blurred anyway, until I was once again seeing two scenes at once.

But this time, they weren’t two different scenes, like in Gertie’s stairwell. But more like two almost identical ones that had been superimposed over each other, making everything blur around the edges. I blinked and things snapped back to normal, so quickly that I’d hardly had a chance to realize that anything was wrong.

Except that I suddenly felt really unwell.

But passing out in someone else’s body didn’t seem to be a thing, because I recovered in a few seconds, and looked up to see the king pacing in front of a massive stone chair in an obsidian clad throne room. The chair looked like it almost could have fit his giant form and was up a steep set of stairs, also obsidian, which were broad and deep but only carved in front. The rest blended into an eruption of black rock from the floor, with huge jagged boulders spearing the throne upward toward the soaring ceiling.

At least, I assumed it was soaring. But the ceiling was obsidian, too, making it so dark that I couldn’t see the top, just a collection of shadows. It matched the rest of the room, including the floor, which was so highly polished that it could have served as a mirror.

There was no second throne, such as a queen might have used, or much other furniture, except for a few tables scattered around. And some standing candelabras that weren’t in use because they weren’t needed. All the light anyone could have wanted was flooding in through a stretch of large, arched openings along the wall behind the throne, so many and so close that they almost amounted to a missing wall, looking out over the massive mountain range.

I supposed they also explained why the room was so stark.

With that view, it didn’t need anything else.

The king was looking fairly impressive today, too, in silver-gray robes as unadorned as his hunting attire, but made of what looked like silk, with a subtle pattern on the outer one that caught the light whenever he moved. There was a matching circlet on his brow, keeping the long, fair hair contained, and a ring with a huge emerald on his hand. Yet he somehow managed to give the impression that he had just rolled out of bed.

Mircea would have been appalled.

But I didn’t get the impression that Aeslinn needed to impress anyone. The only other person in the room seemed cowed enough already. He was dressed in simple, dark blue robes that puddled around his huddled form, although I thought he might have been taller and even more slender than most fey when standing.

He looked up after a moment, showing me that I’d been right. His face was almost gaunt, which was a shame as it could have really used some more weight. It would have made the overlarge Adam’s apple slightly less prominent and filled out the sunken cheeks. It might have even distracted from the wickedly sharp nose; seriously, he could have cut somebody with that thing.

And then Aeslinn began speaking again, making me jump.

“Answer me, toady! And get off the floor!”

The functionary rose back up, and tried a small smile, although it trembled at the edges. “Yes, sire. Lord Arsen has been summoned—”

“And has arrived,” my fey said, striding forward and making a low bow that veered just on the right side of parody.

It allowed me to glimpse myself—or rather, Arsen—for the first time in the shiny black floor. He was handsome, broad shouldered, and silver-haired—in other words, just like all the others. Except that the feather on his helmet was red, a color that seemed entirely too cheerful for the Svarestri.

“Lord Arsen,” Aeslinn said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “How kind of you to join us. Get tired of slumming with the village girls, at last?”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” Arsen stood back up, smiling. “I find it quite refreshing. And you’d be surprised what gossip the tavern wenches give up, once in their cups. For example, did you know that a group of trolls has taken up residence in one of our abandoned mines? They’re over in Deepdale, by the Kalbaek. I could take a party of knights and clear them out—”

“I don’t care about trolls!” Aeslinn bellowed, striding over and grabbing our shoulder. “You’ll take him on Earth, you understand? I tire of this idiot’s excuses—”

And then it happened again. The room went swimmy, and I was suddenly seeing another, similar scene. The throne was the same; Arsen was the same; but Aeslinn . . . was wildly different.

This time, his robes were purple, a dark shade that was almost black, with a subtle iridescence to it. The color reminded me of black pearls, although he wore none of them. Instead, tiny jet beads made intricate patterns all over the heavy, lined satin of his robes, almost quilting it. They caught the light whenever he moved, making him appear as if he was covered in black diamonds.

The outfit was beautiful, but it didn’t flow like the lightweight silks he’d had on a minute ago. But the heavier weight was probably needed, I thought, my attention caught by what was happening outside. Where the mother of all blizzards was raging.

That was probably why the candelabras were now lit, casting puddles of golden light on the floor, which mirrored them back in dark reflections. The walls echoed them, too, which was fortunate, or I doubt anybody would have been able to see much of anything. Because there was nothing left of the beautiful view outside except for lashings of white.

Snow and ice pounded what I assumed was a ward or transparent shield, since the blizzard outside stayed that way. But frost had formed on the walls and floor beside the openings, nonetheless. It covered the king’s great chair as well, fuzzing the arms and back and spilling down the short flight of steps leading up to it.

Weirdly, he’d been sitting in it anyway. I could see the imprint of his body, looking ridiculously small against the large surface. But instead of him melting the snow, as I’d have expected, he seemed to have done the opposite. Where he’d sat and along the nearest arm rest the frost was thicker, almost enough to count as snow.

It sent a chill through me, although I wasn’t sure why.

“—have they?” Aeslinn was saying, his hand clenching on our bicep.

His grip was strong enough that I could feel it through the armor. Maybe because his fingers were indenting the heavy metal, and sending frost scurrying over the surface, threatening to freeze the joints. Arsen had a brief impression that a larger hand gripped him, a giant’s hand, but he shook it off and answered calmly.

“Yes, Your Grace. The forces of King Cae—that is, Lord Alacono—have been stopped at the Morroway. The river is frozen, but they cannot hope to pass. The storm you have sent is too much for them.”

“But for how long?” Aeslinn demanded, his hand tightening. “Am I to keep this up forever?”

“Not forever, Your Grace. They will freeze if they tarry too long. There is little cover there.” Arsen had carefully changed neither his tone nor his volume, but if he thought that would influence the king to do likewise, he was disappointed.

“Do not presume to lecture me about my own country, boy!” Aeslinn snarled. “Or about my perfidious brother-in-law!”

“No, Your Grace.”

“He is cunning; he will have expected this. He’ll find a way to reach us, and in the meantime, he’ll ravage the countryside to supply his army, and ensure we have nothing left for our own!”

He let go suddenly and stalked away, and Arsen somehow didn’t flinch despite the prickly feeling of blood rushing back into our arm, which had gone numb. Although whether from the cold or the lack of circulation, I wasn’t sure. He glanced down, and the imprint of Aelsinn’s fingers, perfectly preserved in frost, stained the metal, which had half caved in under the pressure he’d been exerting.

“And why should I feed them?” the king demanded, oblivious. “What have they brought me? What have you?”

Arsen looked up. “Victory, Your Grace, along several fronts—”

“You speak of victory when that dog drives deep into the heart of my lands? You speak of victory when our great city lies shattered and burned? You speak of victory—”

He cut off, and the next second, he was in our face. And, okay, I thought, really wanting to back away. That . . . was not the face of a sane man. Or fey. Or anything else.

His eyes held the light of a fanatic, there was spittle on his cheeks that he hadn’t bothered to wipe away, and his hair was a disaster, but not like the wind had gotten to it. More like it hadn’t been combed in a week. And then I noticed something that I hadn’t before, something that made everything else seem irrelevant.

Because the king . . . was missing a hand.

That hadn’t been true a moment ago, back when he was wearing silk and sunlight was flooding through the windows—in a different time, I realized. Arsen had been here more than once, and the two visions were getting jumbled up, every time my head went swimmy. I just didn’t know why, or how to stop it.

Arsen noticed the missing hand, too. It was hard not to when the stump wasn’t covered by anything, and was currently pressed up against our chest. As if Aeslinn had forgotten that he couldn’t grab us with that hand, as well.

Arsen didn’t react, but I could feel his shock, and some of his thoughts.

Fey didn’t lose appendages in battle very often, at least not high born fey. Those half human mongrels the Water Fey had taken to creating often did, due to their human blood slowing their reflexes and their queen putting them directly in the line of fire. But a light fey king without a hand?

He had heard rumors that Aeslinn had been injured, but had put it down to scuttlebutt. Just as he had those stories about the king fleeing back in time with that filthy necromancer, to avoid the war. Such things were impossible, as everyone knew. And even if not, Aeslinn was many things, but he was not a coward.

And yet . . . he had lost a hand.

What appeared to be years ago, by the look of it.

Arsen’s head started spinning.

Mine wasn’t doing much better, but I didn’t have time to think about it, because Aeslinn had noticed our interest and moved to within an inch of our face; maybe closer. Close enough to kiss, although he wasn’t looking all that friendly. Close enough to bite through our jugular, which would have fit his expression better, if we hadn’t been wearing a steel neck protector.

And maybe even with one, I thought, as he smiled, showing pointed incisors that would almost have done a vamp proud. “You see what they did to me? That devil and his whore?”

“I—yes, Your Grace.”

And, for once, Arsen did react. He swallowed, and Aeslinn saw it. The smile grew wider. “And you remember old Dalhman, what happened to him after he failed me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Aeslinn let him go, abruptly enough to stagger us slightly. “You know what I want.”

Maybe Arsen did, but I didn’t. And I didn’t find out, because the room went swimmy a second later, harder than before. And this time, it didn’t snap back; I didn’t know why.

“Give her another!” a woman’s voice demanded. I felt a slap across my face, hard enough to rock my head back. And to shake the connection between me and Arsen.

Oh, that was why.

“Wake her up!”

“I can’t!” That was another woman, younger, and slightly hysterical. “I’m trying, but—”

“You’re not trying; you’re too soft! Get out of the way.”

The first slapper was shoved aside, and someone else took over. And this one meant business. I opened my eyes after another slap, to see Guinn staring down at me.

There were leaves in her hair, a cut on her cheek, and she was glaring. “Wake up, damn you!” she said, and then she slapped the crap out of me. And before I could react or even yelp, she had her hand pulled back for an encore.

Until I clumsily caught it. “Cut it out!”

“Then wake up! You can’t be in there—”

“In where?”

“The Common!”

“Is that where I am?” I slurred, still trying to sort out my tongue.

“Yes, and it isn’t meant for you!” she said angrily. “I don’t even know how you’re accessing it—” I do, I thought, thinking of Mircea’s mental gifts and Pritkin’s fey blood. “—but it’s going to kill you!”

“Kill me?” My voice might have squeaked slightly.

But if Guinn gave an explanation, I didn’t hear it.

Because the scene suddenly changed, as abruptly as if something had snatched me up and flung me back into the vision, to the point that I felt like I should have been sprawled on the floor.

But, instead, I was back in Arsen’s body, standing in front of Aeslinn—the one in silver silk, and with two hands. The older version, I realized, from an earlier time. No, I thought. No take me back to the one where he was talking about the war. I want to see that!

But the Common clearly didn’t give a damn what I wanted to see.

And if there was a directory on this thing, nobody had told me where to find it.

“If it please Your Grace,” the functionary said, bowing again. Only to take a boot to the shoulder as Aelsinn kicked him out of the way.

“It does not please! Be silent!”

The functionary shut up.

“Take . . . who . . . on Earth?” Arsen asked carefully.

“Who do you think?” Aeslinn’s gray eyes, usually dark as storm clouds, were lit with a strange light. “We’ve found him again. Going by the name of Pritkin these days—”

Wait, what? I thought.

“Who?” Arsen said again.

“The damned demon!”

“Your Grace.” That was the functionary, who was proving remarkably resilient. Or maybe he was just used to his king.

But Aeslinn didn’t hear.

“Yet this cretin can’t bring him in! Can’t even seem to keep track of him!”

“It’s not about keeping track,” the functionary said, getting in a word while he could. “We have found him, several times—”

“Then where is he?” Aeslinn’s bellow echoed around the room, bouncing off the black walls, and coming back to the poor functionary’s ears, as if a hundred kings were yelling at him.

“My apologies, sire, but he is proving . . . difficult—”

“Bring me everyone who was on this ‘mission’ of yours. Bring them now!”

A set of double doors slammed open at the back of the room, almost before he’d finished speaking, as if the functionary had been expecting the order. Several burly fey came in, dragging large, stained bags. The bags left smears behind them that told me, even before they were opened, what they contained. But I guessed Arsen hadn’t been brought up at a vampire’s court, or spent entirely too long hanging around the Senate, because his eyes didn’t widen until one of the packages was dumped onto the floor.

And spilled a dozen heads across the gleaming surface, their glassy eyes staring, their tongues lolling, and a few with what looked like potion residue or scorching obscuring the features.

They weren’t all fey. In fact, I only saw a couple of pointy ears among them, and those were on a dark-haired head that didn’t look Svarestri. But Aeslinn did not seem pleased. He didn’t say anything, but his lips tightened, and the pale skin on his cheeks flushed.

“You said these were the best operatives available,” he hissed. “You said they knew Earth intimately—”

“Yes, sire—”

“You said they couldn’t miss!” And, suddenly, the quiet voice was a bellow again, making the functionary cringe and bow and look like he wished the hard stone of the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

For a long moment, all that could be heard were the fading echoes of Aeslinn’s roar, bouncing off the walls. Then his voice came again, perfectly pleasant and all the creepier for it, because normal people didn’t recover that fast. Normal people didn’t go from crazed, spittle spewing loon to pleasant in a nano second.

“I want him here. Now. Is there no one who can bring him to me?”

The storm-tossed eyes found Arsen’s, and I had to give my guy a point, because he didn’t so much as swallow. Nor did he hesitate. “No.”

“No?” Aeslinn inquired, still polite.

“No, Your Grace. Not unless you wish war with the humans. My fey are clumsy on Earth. They do not know it; they do not understand it. That is why you wisely sent . . . such creatures,” he added, looking with disgust at the pile of remains on the floor.

“Not so wisely, since they failed,” Aeslinn pointed out. “You have a reputation for never failing, my lord. It is why I allow your peccadillos . . . and your insolence. Are you telling me my forbearance has been wasted?”

Arsen was silent for a moment, but not because he was intimidated, as the flunky had been. But because of the opposite. I felt his heart rate speed up, and his muscles clench to stay still.

Especially when the king turned away, walking off to stare out of the windows at his mountainous realm. “Perhaps that little redhead you’ve taken up with is distracting you. Even clouding your judgment. Perhaps I should have her removed from my lands, along with whatever half breed whelp she’s carrying.” He looked back over his shoulder. “We wouldn’t want to damage such an illustrious bloodline even further, now would we?”

“Even further?”

Arsen’s voice was casual, almost friendly. And like the king’s reaction earlier, it completely creeped me out. Because he wasn’t upset; he was furious. And that was before the king spoke again.

“Well, your mother didn’t get those eyes from us,” Aeslinn said, and almost died for it.

He would have; I heard Arsen’s thoughts as clearly as my own, although they were more like a flood of pictures: a fey woman with long, silver hair but bright, golden eyes. Sun and moon, his father had called her, all in one, and kissed the top of her head. But marrying her, a woman of mixed blood, had cost the family dear, turning away many supporters, and giving the king a chance to strike at one of the oldest noble houses, and one of the few who could have unseated him.

But not now; not after his father stained the stones of Traitor’s Gate with blood every bit as royal as Aeslinn’s. Not after his mother died of a broken heart, leaving a doubly grieving little boy behind. Not after he’d grown up in the shadow of their dishonor.

No, not now.

Unless he took a flying leap at the king, grabbing him and sending them both out the window. It was a long drop, as he knew better than anyone. It was not survivable, even for the demigod that Aeslinn claimed to be.

Lord Derrik would plan until they laid him in his grave and never act. Arsen preferred a more direct path. One with at least a chance of change!

A hand caught his ankle, just as his leg muscles bunched in preparation—and it was a strong hand that gripped and held on.

Arsen looked down to find the functionary—old Dahlman, a minor palace servant from an insignificant house—clutching his ankle with a grip like steel.

It wasn’t for Aeslinn’s sake; Arsen knew that. No words were exchanged, but there didn’t have to be. The man’s eyes, so mild and subservient a moment ago, were now sharp and bright and pleading.

You die, they said, and you leave us at his mercy. You die, and you leave us as your parents left you—bereft and alone. You die . . . and we may as well die with you, for who else is there?

A boy as power mad as his father? A wife, vengeful and sullen and half crazed from abuse? A court too cowed to do anything, and riddled with his servants?

You die, and what happens to us?

Arsen said nothing, although a thousand words bunched in his throat. Dahlman took that as acquiescence, or maybe just as an opportunity. Because he scrambled back to his feet, faster than I’d have thought possible for someone of his age.

“Or—or we could go with my first plan, Your Grace,” Dahlman said, getting to his feet and swiftly turning, to keep Arsen behind him.

“Your first plan?” The king turned as well, his forehead wrinkling. “Oh, you mean the woman?”

“Yes, Your Grace. It will take some time, and it will be expensive. But success is almost guaranteed.”

Aeslinn frowned. But he seemed to want his outcome more than he wanted to provoke his noble, because after a moment, he sighed. “Very well. But on your life—do not fail me again.”