ARC: Sunstone (14 page)

III

Sarra stood naked before Comminor and rested her hands on her swollen belly as if she could protect her unborn child, an instinctive gesture as she knew that ultimately, when he chose to unleash his wrath on her, there would be nothing she could do to stop him. She shivered, although whether it was from the cold or from fear, she wasn’t sure.

He saw the shiver, and to her surprise he removed one of the thick blankets from the bed and wrapped it around her. She clutched it, shocked at his reaction, having expected anything but sympathy.

“Come and sit down,” he said, gesturing to the bed.

Instinct told her to flee, but he would just send for his guard to find her, and she could not hide forever – the Embers was not that big a place, not when the Chief Select was after you. Instead, she climbed onto the mattress, which was thick and soft, the grasses fresh rather than the ones in her own bed which were a month old and squashed flat. The herbs in them lent the air a flowery perfume.

She continued to clutch the blanket around her, wondering what he was going to say, unable to believe he was reacting so calmly. There were numerous stories of him breaking into rage at discovering women with unplanned pregnancies, and ordering his Select to drag these women to the palace apothecary, who strapped them down and removed their babies dispassionately. She hadn’t questioned the validity of these stories, but now she wondered whether they were rumours spread by the Select to ensure the people of the Embers remained afraid of him. Usually there was no light without a lantern, though. Which meant the stories probably had a foundation in truth, and that meant his mood could change on a whim. The thought of him having the ability to be kind one moment and cruel the next sent a ripple of unease through her.

Comminor sat down, his arm brushing her drawn-up knees. His face was expressionless so she could not guess what he was thinking, but the cloak around her shoulders told her that maybe he wasn’t angry, or not angry enough at that moment to do her harm anyway.

“Can I get you anything?” he said.

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

He glanced down at her abdomen. “It is Rauf’s, I presume?”

“Yes.”

He nodded thoughtfully. Then, for a while, he said nothing. He sat with head bowed, his silver hair painted orange from the lantern’s glow.

“Are you very angry with me?” she whispered, wishing that if he were going to turn on her, he would do it and get it over with.

He looked up then. A smile touched his lips. “Angry? No.” His brow furrowed, and he reached out and stroked her cheek. “No wonder you looked so shocked last time. And now I understand why you were so wary about beginning a new relationship.”

Relief overwhelmed her, the rush of emotion catching her by surprise. She pressed her hand to her mouth as a tear tipped over her lashes. Spirited by nature, she would never normally have let her vulnerability show, but she supposed the baby had changed things about her other than her appearance.

Comminor moved her hand away. He leaned forward and touched his lips to the tear on her cheek. Then he moved his mouth to hers.

Stunned at his reaction, she sat unmoving and let him kiss her. Her heart beat a rapid tattoo beneath her ribs and the baby fluttered, no doubt responding to the emotions coursing through her.

When he eventually lifted his head, she said, “I do not understand. Why are you not angry with me?”

“I have tried to ignore my feelings for you, but they will not go away. I wish you were not carrying another man’s child. But he was a Select, one of my own, and because of that I am prepared to look after the babe as if it were my own. It changes nothing. I want you, Sarra. Say you will be mine.”

She caught her breath. His golden eyes warmed her, and his deep voice rang through her like the hourly bell. Was he speaking the truth? Did he truly want her so much that he was prepared to take on another man’s child? Or was this all a ruse – was he hiding his anger because he wanted to find out about the Veris?

Ultimately, she realised, it didn’t matter. If she refused him because she was afraid of being found out, he would become suspicious and that would make things difficult for her and ultimately the Veris too. What woman – especially one in her situation: poor and single and with a child on the way – would turn down a chance to be the Chief Select’s mate? He would provide for her and her baby, and she would never know hunger or poverty again. She would have new clothes, a comfortable home and the respect of the other citizens. She did not love him, but love and pride were not luxuries people in her situation could afford.

That was what he and others who knew nothing about the Veris would think, anyway.

She looked up at him, a shiver passing down her spine at his intense look of desire. Rauf had loved her and had been affectionate, but he had never looked at her like this, as a thirsty man looks at a cup of clear water. Comminor was a handsome man, his arrogance and power making him strangely magnetic. It scared her and aroused her at the same time.

“Let me love you,” he said hoarsely, his hand dropping to her breast.

Sarra nodded and let the blanket slip from her shoulders, her blood heating as his eyes flamed.

Later, she lay there and listened to him breathing in the semi-darkness. His arm was heavy across her ribcage, just above the bump where the baby lay, and his head rested near her shoulder.

His lovemaking had been as she had expected – skilled, passionate, with the strange touch of tenderness she was beginning to realise lay beneath his outer harshness like the flesh of a berry lay beneath its tough skin. He had kissed her belly and spoken to the child within her, which had touched and disturbed her at the same time.

She looked up at the ceiling, only then realising it had been inlaid with tiny silver stars that glittered in the low light from the dimmed lantern. How strange. That and the tapestry on the wall led her to believe the person who had decorated the room was a bard. Did Comminor have any inkling of what the art represented? Was that why he was interested in the Veris?

Too many questions, and not enough answers. She lifted a hand and traced from star to star, imagining she was drawing the constellations that Kytte had described from one of her dreams. Would she ever get to see them in person? Would she ever lie on the grass out in the fresh air and look up at the real sky?

Aware of a growing warmth on her skin, she lifted her head and looked down at where Comminor’s hand rested, palm flat on her ribs. She had forgotten he wore a sunstone pendant and was thus able to conjure fire. The tell-tale red aura surrounded his hand, sparking in response to some dream he was having. It had happened to Rauf from time to time, and it touched some inner part of her to think he was connected to Rauf in this way.

She lowered her raised hand onto his hair. Lightly, she stroked the silvery strands.

She had thought she would hate him, but now she could not conjure up that emotion. Could a man really love with such tenderness one moment and then be so harsh the next? Surely his reputation must be a façade, created to keep order?

She closed her eyes, biting her lip. This was so hard. The baby had shown her a way out of the Embers, a way to the Surface, but she could not be sure how much of it was truth and how much a figment of her imagination. The journey would be long and hard, fraught with who knew what dangers. It would be so much easier to stay here, in this bed, with Comminor lying beside her, breathing softly. To be cared for. To be loved.

And what of Nele and the others, she thought. What of Geve? Thinking of her old friend brought a pain to her chest. She did not love Comminor, but she did love Geve. It may not have been the sort of love he wanted, but she had a deep and abiding affection for him. He had been there to look after her when her parents died, and she could not throw away his love for her because she wanted an easy life.

Beside her, Comminor shifted and mumbled something in his sleep. She stroked his hair again and wondered if Turstan had told Geve that she had been called to the palace. If he had indeed relayed the event to the Veris, they would be panicking, afraid of what the outcome would be. They would be afraid that she would turn them in for the lifestyle they had all envied for so long.

She may long for a comfortable life, but she would never sacrifice the Veris for it. And hopefully Geve knew that.

Then she thought about the beautiful words Comminor had murmured in her ear as he made love to her, the promises he had made.
You’re tempted
, she thought fiercely.
Only because of the baby
, the little voice in her head said defensively. But her heart knew the truth.

Comminor mumbled. Sarra was thinking about Geve, and at first she didn’t register his words. But then he spoke again, and her hand stopped stroking his hair, her body going rigid at his words.

“Birds,” he murmured. “Fly like the birds.”

Her heart thumping hard, she held her breath. Where had he heard that phrase? It was nothing anyone in the Embers would have said naturally as there were no birds in the caves and even the memory of them had faded from the minds of everyone, save for those bards for whom the ability to remember and carry the history in their minds and hearts remained strong. Had he found out about the birds from the same person who had decorated his chamber?

“Through the clouds,” he murmured.

“Ssh,” she soothed, her hand shaking slightly.

“They do not know,” he whispered.

She stroked his hair. “What do they not know?” she whispered back.

“The moon in the sky,” he muttered. “The White Eye. The Light Moon in the sky.” He twitched. “The Arbor!” His hand warmed against her skin. And suddenly, she understood.

Comminor was a bard.

The Chief Select himself knew a whole land existed above the Embers. He must have designed the artwork in his chamber himself, Sarra realised. He had commissioned the patterns without relating what they meant, describing them in abstract terms so the embroiderers and the gem makers had no idea of what they represented. He had surrounded himself with his dreams made real. And, like all bards, at night he dreamed about the Surface.

Was that why Rauf said Comminor had known about the Veris? Did the Chief Select want to talk to people like him who knew about the world above? Did he long to see the Surface too?

Or was he afraid that if people knew of the world beyond their world, they would try to escape? Was he merely afraid of losing the power and station he had acquired?

Sarra’s head spun. Suddenly his seduction of her took on much more meaning. Had someone told him that she carried a bard? Turstan maybe? Maybe all along he had thought to take her, then destroy the baby?

What would happen when he awoke?

CHAPTER NINE

I

Orsin opened his eyes slowly.

The first thing he became aware of was the dull pounding on the right side of his head, and the fact that he couldn’t seem to move his arms. He felt groggy, and it took a few minutes for him to remember what had happened, as if he were standing there watching a scribe writing down the events on a piece of parchment.

The memory formed gradually. The Wulfians had sprung an attack once Hunfrith had taken his mother outside. He had not expected it, had not been prepared for it. Although he had been aware that they had separated each member of the party, the lords present had been amiable enough, plying him with food and wine, and Orsin had actually begun to enjoy himself. The Wulfian wench who had poured his wine had pressed her breasts against his arm – a promise for later – and after the dull ride and the unpleasant confrontation with his mother, he had looked forward to an enjoyable evening.

But one of the lords had suddenly stood and let out a bellow, and before Orsin had even had a chance to draw his sword, the warrior sitting next to him had delivered a blow to the side of his head that knocked him out cold.

His hands were tied behind his back, he realised, and he lay on the ground on his side among the rushes. They appeared to have dumped him in front of the fire, and the log that lay burning in the hearth spat tiny sparks at him every now and then.

Voices were lowered in conversation at the tables behind him. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he remained still but moved his head slightly to look around him.

No sign of the knights who had travelled with them from Vichton. Were they dead? Somehow he didn’t think they were sitting up there with the Wulfians, drinking wine.

And what of his mother? Had Hunfrith taken her outside to kill her? At the thought of Procella dead, Orsin’s throat tightened and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. She had embarrassed him, she was harsh and strict and sometimes he even hated her, but he did not wish her dead. Maybe she was just lying somewhere like he was, bound and captured. He prayed to the Arbor that was the case.

Someone banged a tankard on the table and the voices rose. He stilled and strained his ears, hoping to gain an insight into his predicament. They spoke in Wulfian, but his mother had taught him that language at an early age, and he could understand them well enough.

“Enough!” said a voice Orsin recognised as Hunfrith. “The time for talk is over. Too long we have waited for our chance to take back the Wall. But Chonrad is dead. The Heartwood Council is distracted by the nonsense talk of elementals once again. For the first time in twenty years, the lands on the north side of the Wall are being held by lords sympathetic to our cause. The time is ripe!”

“And what of Procella?” said another lord. “If she puts out a call, the whole of Laxony will rise up against us.”

Hope reared in Orsin’s chest. She wasn’t dead!

“Procella is gone,” Hunfrith snarled. “She can do nothing to stop us.”

“You should have killed her,” a man snapped.

“She is weak and alone,” Hunfrith said, “and long gone by now. Do not piss your pants over her. She is but a woman. Let her do her worst.”

So his mother had escaped. Orsin felt stunned. She had fought off the mighty Wulfian lord, and left him there! Her eldest son. How could she have done such a thing? Anger flared within him. Clearly she thought so little of him she did not even think him worth saving. She had spoken as if she had the power of twenty warriors, as if she could have charged into the hall and defeated them all with her own hand. But instead she had slunk away into the night to lick her wounds.

“What of the boy?” another said.

Orsin froze, sensing them glance over at him.

Several men laughed. “He sleeps like a baby,” said one. “I only tapped him on the temple.”

“Chonrad’s heir,” said another. “I wager he turns in his grave with disappointment.” They laughed again and went on to talk about plans to attack the lands south of the Wall.

Resentment knotted Orsin’s stomach and tears of humiliation stung his eyes. Would his father be disappointed in him? How in Arbor’s name was he supposed to live up to Chonrad? His father had saved the world. Everything Orsin did would be sure to fall short of that goal. True, Chonrad had never made him feel inferior personally and he had always felt his father loved him, but every time a visitor came to Vichton and the topic of the Darkwater invasion was raised, the visitors’ eyes would shine with admiration as they looked on the saviour of the Arbor, and Orsin would sit mutely, jealous of his father’s fame.

He knew his parents had been impressed by the way the Peacemaker had enlisted Julen. His brother had always outshone him – he was smarter, wittier, and he often looked at Orsin like he was a simpleton. At the time of Julen’s announcement, he had wished he had a special role, something to make them proud of him. But what could he have done? They were a country at peace – if you didn’t listen to the Wulfians – and there were little to no chances for a man to prove himself. He knew his mother was impatient with the way he enjoyed his ales and his women, but the truth was – what else was there to do? Should he start a rebellion just to prove he could lead an army?

He pulled angrily at the rope cutting into his wrists. The Wulfians thought to truss him like a chicken, and then what? Ransom him back? Kill him when it amused them? Well, he was done being everyone’s plaything. He was not a boy – he was a grown man of twenty-three, and maybe he didn’t have extensive battle experience, but he was not a child, and he was not a fool.

Before him, the fire flared. His eyes widened as he looked into its depths. As always, the beauty of the flame mesmerised him. Red and orange. A halo of gold. He could not shake the feeling that fire was a living thing. It had too much life and energy – it ate and it grew and it danced.

He blinked. There was a shape in the flames.

He was imagining it. He must be. Like making pictures in the clouds.

But the more he stared, the clearer the shape became. A creature – a bird. Huge, with wide wings and golden eyes
.

He thought about what Julen had told them in Vichton – that the Incendi were fire elementals bent on destroying everyone who could help defend the Arbor. Is that what this was? A fire elemental come to take his life?

He waited for panic and fear to rise in his chest – but it didn’t happen. Instead, all he felt was excitement.

“Do it,” he whispered. The thought of the fire licking over him, consuming him, made his muscles clench in pleasure.

But the firebird didn’t move.

I am not here to kill you.

Orsin frowned. The words had sounded in his head, but they had been as clear as a sharply tapped bell.

The flames around the firebird moved, leapt, but the eyes remained fixed on him.

“What do you want?” Orsin whispered.

You.

He licked his lips. “I do not understand.”

You are my link, Orsin of Barle. You have always been my link. You think yourself inconsequential, but to me you are the most important person in the whole of Anguis.

He stared. “What do you mean?”

You love fire. Always have. I have watched you since you were a child. You have never shown fear of it. And you have the ability to control it.

“I…” Now he was speechless. Control it? What did they mean?

Fire does not burn you,
the voice said.
It lives in your blood.

His heart pounded. He thought of the way the flames had poured over his hand in Vichton, how his brother had been alarmed that he had been burned, but he had remained untouched. And of course, the incident in his childhood, when he had nearly burned down the stables but emerged unscathed.

It lives in your blood?
What did that mean?

Join me,
whispered the firebird.
I am the King of the Incendi. You know the sensual power of fire. Come, welcome me inside you.

He couldn’t look away from the gold-and-blue eyes. The King?

You have always been mine,
the voice said.
And you always will be. I know your true worth. I salute you. You will be my first – my link with the world. Come, join with me.

Heat flooded his veins. Maybe this was why he had always felt like an outsider, as if he didn’t belong. This was what he had been waiting for his whole life. Meaning. A purpose.

He thought briefly of his mother, of Julen and Horada, but deep down he knew they would not miss him. He didn’t belong with them. He belonged in a different world entirely.

The firebird danced. He watched, fascinated, as a finger of flame crept out of the grate and along the floor towards him. His chest rose and fell quickly with each heave of his breath. The flame reached his foot and, to his shock, slid into his boot and licked his toes. White-hot, it seared, and yet the pain was exquisite, like no pleasure he had ever experienced before.

The flame caressed his toes, then slid between them to enter his feet. His muscles went rigid with agony and he arched his back and opened his mouth in a soundless cry as the heat entered his veins and burned around his body. The firebird swept over him, around him, inside him. Pain and pleasure made him convulse and twist.

Flames brushed up his legs and spread across his torso. Turned the rope around his wrists to ash. Danced on his chest and licked his face. Covered him in fire.

In some part of his consciousness, he heard the yell from the men sitting at the table, felt the thunder of their feet as they rushed over to him. Water sluiced over his body, but the firebird ignored it and laughed as it danced.

Orsin pushed himself to his feet, stood and looked at his hands. Flames flared from his fingers, ran down his body.

You are mine,
said the King of the Incendi in triumph.

Orsin tipped back his head. Fire raced through him, bursting forth from his mouth in a roar of flame that swept across the hall, lighting the rushes and burning the curtains. Men yelled and ran, but Orsin reached out his fiery hands, grasped them and watched with fascination as their skin blackened and peeled, and the smell of cooked flesh filled the air.

He had never felt so alive, so sure of himself, so powerful and so free. He swept his arm across the room and watched sparks fly through the air to set light to cloth, wood, hair. Tables groaned and broke, metal melted and ran like ale. Men screamed, shrivelled, died.

Yessssss
, breathed the voice in his head, encouraging him, spurring him on.

He reached fiery arms up to the rafters, brought them crashing down. Broke the beams like biscuits, scattered stones and crushed tiles like snail shells beneath his boot. And still the fire did not stop.

It burned higher, hotter, faster. It rushed down his throat and into his lungs, filtered into his blood and raced around his limbs. He
was
fire, born to it, part of it.

For the first time in his life, he belonged.

The Wulfian castle crumbled around him, and Orsin walked free and into the night, lighting up the trees as he passed.

Hiding in the darkness, Procella watched. And for maybe the first time in her life, she was scared.

II

“Fire!” said Tahir, and sat bolt upright.

The woman beside him immediately roused and stroked his arm, murmured, “Ssh, ssh, everything is all right, young prince.” Beside him, Atavus rose and nuzzled against him, sensing his distress.

His heart hammering, he looked around, trying to get his bearings. The dream had been vivid, and it took a moment for him to realise he wasn’t in a burning room; that his clothes weren’t on fire.

“Another one?” Catena asked.

He nodded, comforted by her touch and her presence. When they had lived in Harlton, he had always thought she didn’t like him much. She had seemed permanently impatient and annoyed with him, and because of that he supposed he had played up, acted the pompous royal prince to prove that he didn’t need her approval or friendship. Now, though, she was concerned and gentle, more like a mother to him than his own mother had ever been.

“Have a drink,” Catena said, passing him a water bottle.

He sipped it, looking around him. They lay on blankets, surrounded by green plants and flowers big as his hand. She had taken him deep into the bush, conscious of Demitto’s wariness of the lush jungle and using her skills to travel through it, hoping to dissuade the emissary from following them. Around them, the long, narrow leaves of ferns unfurled in the early morning light, while palms arched, tiny birds flitting from broad leaf to leaf as they announced the dawn.

He was soaked with sweat, he realised, and peeled his tunic away from his body with distaste. “Do I have a fever?”

She pressed the back of her fingers against his forehead, but shook her head. “It is the weather. It grows warmer by the day. It is difficult to believe it is only The Stirring. What is it going to be like when it is The Shining?”

“Do you think that is due to the Incendi?”

She hesitated. Tahir had voiced his concern that he was abandoning the Arbor, that he was somehow contributing to helping the Incendi win, but Catena had brushed his fears aside impatiently, saying his father had purchased his status as Selected and he could damn well go and purchase himself another. She had ended the diatribe with a string of colourful curses, including one or two that Tahir had not even heard of.

He knew fear for him lay beneath her anger, and he was touched by that. But still, he could not shake the memory of Demitto’s words from his head.
The Arbor spoke to you
, Demitto had explained when he had fallen into a trance outside Realberg. He had also said,
You are my first priority… I will not let them take you.
Just the memory of the words made him shiver.

Catena thought Demitto a charlatan, that he would say anything to get Tahir to Heartwood because that was what he was being paid for. Tahir, knowing himself innocent where relationships were concerned but intelligent enough to know it was possible he could be played, had said nothing to this, agreeing that the emissary certainly had a way about him that somehow made a person believe everything he said when he was standing in front of them.

And it was true, his father
had
purchased the Selected status for him. It was hardly a holy calling, and although he had always known it would be his ultimate purpose when he reached the age of fourteen and had acted as if he were special because of it, deep down he had always harboured a fear that he would not be good enough, that the Arbor might reject him because he wasn’t anything special.

But now…
He connected with the Arbor
, Demitto had said.
He fell into a trance and accessed the energy channels that run through its roots.
Catena had not spoken of this, but the words played in Tahir’s head. How had he done that? Was the Arbor connecting with him because it knew he was the Selected? Or was it something deeper than that? Had he always been meant to be the sacrifice and the Arbor had somehow engineered it so his father had been the one to pay the most?

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. His head ached from thinking about it. All he knew was that the dreams continued to plague him since leaving Demitto behind, and even though he didn’t want to die and certainly not in front of an audience, the thought that he had abandoned the Arbor – and therefore Anguis – to its fate made him ashamed.

“Come on.” Catena pulled him to his feet. “We should get going.”

He rose obediently, rolled up his blanket and put it in his bag, and hefted it over his shoulder. He carried his own bags now, made his own bed. She had explained to him that they could not return to Harlton – not that he had any desire to – and that her plan was for them to disappear. No longer was he a prince and she a captain of the guard. They were just two travellers with a dog, and he was now her nephew, she had said. Her plan was to head south, deep into the bush, to skirt the base of the Spina Mountains and then head west into Komis. He clearly had Komis blood in him, and she hoped they would find a quiet hamlet or town where they could find work and settle down. If they didn’t like it there, she had said, they would go north to Hanaire.

These were all just names to Tahir and he knew they would have to travel long distances to reach them. He tried not to think about it, or about Demitto and how the emissary had said
I will not let them take you
. He could defend himself, he thought stubbornly, lifting his chin. Catena had given him her dagger, and she had been showing him simple moves with it should the need arise. Not that it would, she had insisted. They were nameless now, of interest to nobody but themselves. The other dangers they had to worry about were bandits and thieves.

Still, as they walked he noticed she looked over her shoulder repeatedly, scanning the forest, and her face remained grim, free of the smiles he knew hid beneath the surface.

“Is something concerning you?” he asked eventually when she looked over her shoulder for the fifth time.

She glanced at him, her green eyes dark as the river they had just crossed. “I think we are being followed.”

His eyebrows rose. “Demitto?” A flash of pleasure lit him up, along with relief. He hadn’t realised until then how safe he had felt with the emissary.

But Catena shook her head, her brow furrowing. “I do not think it is he. And I think there is more than one. Come, we must pick up our speed.”

Atavus padding at their side, they crashed through the undergrowth, almost running now, as much as the dense bush would allow them anyway. Fear lodged in Tahir’s stomach, and his heart pounded from it as much as from the exertion of moving so fast. He was not used to hard physical exercise, and the long horse rides and walks had left him stiff. His muscles ached and he had a stitch in his side. But he didn’t protest, aware from Catena’s pale face that they were in danger.

It seemed like they walked forever. They must have lost the people following them, he thought, his feet moving forward one after the other in a rhythm he felt he could not have broken even if his life depended on it. Left, right, left, right, left, right. The bag across his shoulders dug into his skin, but Catena continued to walk, and he didn’t want to complain.

Left, right, left, right, left, right. The motion lulled him, made his eyelids begin to droop. He could not be tired, he thought, he had only awoken an hour or so before! But his head felt heavy, his muscles loose and relaxed. The ferns and broken palm leaves beneath his feet would make a soft bed, he thought. He imagined lying there, sinking into the ground, becoming one with the earth. The ferns could creep over him, the tree roots drag him down. He would become a part of Anguis forever, melt into the mulch, stretch out his arms and legs from coast to coast. Nobody would ever find him.

His hands grew warm. Catena was right, he thought, the climate was changing. Sweat ran down his back, soaked his tunic again. His body burned.

Catena stopped, so abruptly that Tahir bumped into her, shaking him out of his trance. She put out her arm and pushed him behind her. He peered around and whispered, “What is it?”

Ahead of them the bush was moving. At first he wondered if it were an animal – there were plenty in the jungle, although they tended to keep to themselves and were not people-friendly. But then the ferns parted, and he saw it was a man.

Atavus bared his teeth, crouched and snarled.

A rustle sounded from behind them, and he turned quickly to see two further figures emerging, one man, one woman. All three wore nondescript clothes – plain woollen breeches, brown tunics, much patched; their hair was unkempt and their faces dirty. Brigands then, he thought, who live at the edge of the forest and prey on unwary travellers like themselves.

And then, as the brigands neared, he noticed the eyes of the man in front. They were orange and red, dancing with tiny flames.

“Incendi,” Tahir breathed into Catena’s ear. Elemental spirits that had somehow taken over these penniless brigands. Panic filled him, and he remembered the way his body had grown hot. He had fallen into a trance again, he thought. Demitto had said before,
They knew immediately where he was.
They had used the energy channels to find him, and he had let them.

Catena drew her sword, and he drew his blade, trying not to notice how his hand shook.

“You will not take him,” she announced firmly, and he saw with pride how fierce she looked, how determined.

The man in front of him just smiled, however, and drew his own blade. Keeping Tahir behind her, she turned and backed away until she had all three of them in her sight.

“When I start fighting, you run!” she whispered furiously to the Prince.

He said nothing, frightened, confused. He didn’t want to leave her. Where would he go if he was completely alone? He knew nothing about the world – he had no money, no idea of anything he could do to earn it. He could not defend himself, could not even find his way out of the jungle. What was the point in running?

The first man lunged, and Catena parried his blade easily. The second did the same, and she parried that too. The two of them alternated thrusts, testing her, toying with her, occasionally swinging at Atavus, who remained just out of blade range, waiting for an opportunity to leap. They were not skilled with the blade – even Tahir could see that – but they had Incendi inside them, and their eyes blazed with power, making him shiver in his shoes.

The woman had stood to one side, watching them, but as he glanced over, Tahir saw suddenly why she had removed herself – she carried a bow and was about to release the arrow. It whistled through the air and, shocked, he had no time to warn Catena; all he could do was knock her arm, and the arrow whizzed by her ear and embedded itself in a nearby tree.

The woman bellowed and reached behind her for another arrow, and Catena doubled her efforts against the men. She landed a blow on one of them, numbing his elbow and forcing him to drop his sword, and she took advantage of his weakness and thrust the blade down into his neck. Tahir watched, horrified, as blood bubbled in the man’s mouth and he dropped to his knees. Catena pulled out the sword and readied herself immediately for the next man’s attack, but Tahir could not tear his eyes from those of the dying man. A hideous burbling screech sounded from the man’s lips, and then – shocking Tahir – a spurt of flame. It hit Tahir full in the chest, running down his body like water, and immediately his clothes caught light.

He squealed and dropped to the ground, rolling, only half-conscious of Catena still battling it out with the other man while Atavus sank his teeth into the man’s arm. Tahir only half heard the whistle of another arrow, and this time, the dull smack like a side of beef hitting a table as the arrow met flesh. He rolled, aware that his sweat-soaked tunic was probably the only thing that had saved his life from being burned to a crisp, smothering the flames beneath him, and then raised his head as someone fell beside him.

“Catena!” Fear fired through him fast as the arrow that had rooted itself in her chest. He crawled toward her, but before he could reach her, the man had covered the distance between them and threw a bag over his head, shutting out the light.

He screamed, kicked, but burly arms clamped his arms to his sides and lifted him over a shoulder. Atavus barked and the man holding Tahir jerked as the dog launched at him, but a high pitched squeal filled the air, and Tahir knew the man must have hurt the dog. He cried out in anguish. And then the world went black.