Fervor (The Fervor Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

“Where do you think you’re going?” The familiar baritone came from further down the small path that had led him to the peak of the mountain.

Glancing back, he saw not one but three familiar shapes lumbering forward. All three had bare chests like Arun, with leather bands tied around their chests and forearms. Arun crossed his arms and waited.

When the four stood toe to toe, his hothead brother, Fisk, second in line and overall pain in his ass, stuck out his chest, trying to gain the last inch that would bring them eye to eye.

His brother’s straight blond hair fell forward over his brow, “I said—”

“I heard you,” Arun said as he turned toward brother number three, Brant, and quirked a brow. Tall, with a lean strength, Brant was a scholar, not a fighter. The only question was, would the resident genius chime in on the discussion?

“Were you really going to leave without telling us?” Brant asked as the three approached.

Looked like Brant wanted in on the conversation too.

Not answering just yet, Arun glanced at the youngest of the brood, Ives, but didn’t expect him to say a word.

Ives rarely spoke, letting his actions speak for him. At the moment, he stood with shoulders bunched, cracking his knuckles menacingly. A few inches shorter but twice as wide, his youngest brother was built like a small armada. He was the only one of the three who held the coloring of a true Fiera, with midnight black hair and darker eyes. Arun knew that stance and didn’t like it.

“Since when do I have to explain myself to anyone?” Arun didn’t have time for this. He only had minutes to act. The sun was about to set, and while it was a risk
he
was willing to take, there was no way the three
sun-sores
behind him were taking the trip with him.

Calculating the exact moment the sun dipped behind the horizon was critical to his plans.

“Well, big brother, we realize we are naught but your lowly subjects, but we figured we deserved a little notice when our king was about to
jump off a cliff.”
Fisk placed his hands on his hips, the usual smirk missing from his face.

“I left you a copy of Father’s journal.” Arun eyed his youngest brother taking a small step forward, realizing Fisk was just a distraction.
These three idiots are going to fight me.
He would have laughed if he weren’t so pressed for time.

Brant launched into a lengthy analysis, and Arun listened with one ear as his brother droned on about the copy of their father’s journal that Arun had left for them. Papers they were supposed to read
after
he’d already jumped. “…can’t believe it’s the portal,
the damned Bicullis.
The fucking gateway into other kingdoms! Dad found it, and he never told us. Gods, I hate to say it, but it’s Dad’s handwriting! It has the official seal. It has
everything:
detailed accounts of the exploration and maps—every kind of map you could imagine. It’s—”

“Real?” Arun was pulled back into the discussion now that his brother had gotten to the important part.

“You’re about to jump off a cliff and you aren’t even sure if the documents are
real?”
Fisk took a menacing step forward.

Ignoring everyone except Brant, Arun waited, realizing the next words out of his brother’s mouth would fundamentally change his destiny. “Is it?”

“It’s real,” Brant said on a sigh, looking both frustrated and excited.

“Damn, what in the
hells
did you tell him that for?” Fisk asked.

“What do you want me to do, lie?”

“
Yes
, you should have lied. He could die out there. And if he does, so help me, it’s on your head,” Fisk yelled.

Right before Brant could retaliate, a boom shook the earth, stopping them in their tracks. Mother Cay was awake, and by the sound of it, she was impatient. The four crouched low, wondering if this was the blast that would take off half the mountaintop.

As the rumbling settled, Arun turned on the three of them, waiting until he had their attention, “I don’t have time for this. I need the three of you here. According to the priests we have two weeks. Your jobs are to organize the people. Tell them to prepare for evacuation. We have no choice. If I’m not back within a week, you gather every drop of water we have and start the trek through the Hamada. You hear me? There’s no more time for bickering.”

“Arun, you are king.” Ives spoke for the first time, his dark figure silhouetted against the gray dust spewing in the air.

Arun understood his point; Ives didn’t have to explain. As king, Arun was expected to delegate this kind of responsibility. The king should remain, to lead his people during crisis. But how could he ask any one of them to take this kind of risk. “I won’t ask it of you. I couldn’t. I trust you three, trust you with my life and the lives of our people. I need you here.”

“Arun, just give me some time to look over the journal. It’s too dangerous. I’ve had all but two minutes to look at the copies.” Brant leafed through the papers, even as he tried to make a case.

“I have no choice.”

“There’s always a choice. For the gods’ sake, you have no idea where the Bicullis leads! You might end up inside the volcano. Not to mention the fact you have to take a flying leap off a cliff to reach it.” Brant gripped the papers in his hand.

“Father did it, several times.”

“Yes, and about fifty years ago, father
disappeared.
You don’t think that had something to do with that damn portal?” Fisk spewed.

A swirling buzz caught Arun’s attention. The setting sun was highlighted against the jagged mountainside. A light-blue thread the exact color of the sky appeared several lengths below him, undulating like a current in the clouds. It started to spiral, creating an eddy of flickering light that grew until it was the size of a small sun-hut.

The blow took Arun by surprise, punching the air from his stomach, giving him a face full of sand as he went down. Flipping himself over, he looked into the eyes of his brother, the flash of concern the only thing that kept him from killing him.

Arun slammed his foot into Fisk’s jaw and sent him flying. Fisk stayed on the ground and rubbed the side of his face, his chin length blond hair falling forward, obscuring his signature dimples. “Not the face, brother. You’ll make the ladies weep.”

Shooting to his feet, Arun saw Brant bracing for a fight while Ives continued to stand with his arms crossed, a menacing scowl on his face. “Brant, think before you act. To have any chance at all, you’d
all
have to jump me at the same time. I will kick the
holy nine hells
out of you if you take one step closer.”

“But Arun—”

“Enough. I
don’t have time.
This portal might be the answer to our prayers. We live a thousand miles from the nearest kingdom. How are our people going to make it across the Hamada? How many will die under the heat of the sun?”

“You can’t—”

“No, I’m going,” his tone a little less gruff when he saw the genuine concern on all three brothers’ faces, “and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll come back through. I want you to work together while I’m gone. Can I count on you?” Going in order, Arun’s eyes rested on Fisk first. “Well?”

“Damn, damn,
damn!
I hate this. I hate the whole thing. I’ll do what I have to, but I won’t like it.” As Fisk stood, he walked by Brant and slapped him upside the head.

Frustrated he hadn’t gotten any action, Brant jumped forward to pummel Fisk.

“Brant, don’t fall for it. Are you in?” Arun said, trying to resist the urge to smile. He couldn’t remember a time when Brant and Fisk
weren’t
at each other’s throats.

Brant stopped himself and turned toward Arun. “You know I’m in, because I have integrity and stick to my word. For example, if my brother asks for my help and my professional opinion—I’ll always tell him the truth!”

Finally, Arun went to Ives, the youngest in age but the oldest soul. The whole time the others were fighting, he’d remained aloof, removed. He was the one Arun had to worry about, because if Ives rebelled, he’d bring the other two right down with him. But Arun didn’t rush him; Ives would come to his decision on his own terms.

Ives strode over, coming face to face with Arun. “If you die, I will roam the nine circles of hell, find you, and then kill you again.”

“So?’

“So, I’m in. You have one week.”

Turning toward the cliff’s edge, Arun strode forward, never looking back, never slowing. With one last step, he was freefalling. As he soared over the side, he wished it didn’t feel like his stomach was smashing into his brain.

‡

P
rincess Caprice Nue’mon
of the Glissante gazed on nothing but swirls and gusts of endless snow. Leaning one hand against the protective glass, the sole barrier between her and the unforgiving elements of her volatile kingdom, she absorbed the deep freeze. Even protected behind the glass, the palace was kept at near freezing temperatures.

I am chilled down to the marrow of my bones.

“Prin, you must hurry. They’ll be here soon.” Only Addy would dare have a nickname for the princess.

Sighing, Caprice pressed her forehead against the glass, shutting her eyes to the swirling eddies of ice. Her people subsisted on the northwestern side of the
ledge,
closest to the cold, having adapted to the freezing clime. The acclimation had kept them alive, but it had changed them. Deep cold had penetrated their hearts, their souls, creeping in and freezing vital emotions.

The Glissante had adapted so well, that now
touch equaled death.
Her people called it the
freeze
. The warning had been repeated to her from a young age.
Never touch, never touch,
never touch.

Caprice heard the sound of hushed voices and slippered feet pressing against the gray stone walkway. Did her servants dread the ritual as much as she? Would they feel sorrow when they tortured her, one tiny sliver of glass at a time? Wincing, she realized how misguided her secret thoughts were. A true princess would ponder topics like discipline and respect, not love, and certainly never kindness.

As they entered, she straightened and prepared for The Binding, a ritual created so long ago, no one could remember when it began. She was to be tested. She must survive the pain, block out the agony, and demonstrate she was a true Princess Glissante. And although she knew she’d be a miserable failure, she would not shame her people, no matter how scared she felt. She would show no emotion.

Standing, she faced the drudges, the female servants that had attended her most of her adult life. Facial muscles locked in place, Caprice gazed ahead, never taking her eyes from the tapestry hanging across the room.

They approached, hands covered in thick leather gloves, each carrying a small bowl. In unison they bowed, beginning the formal ceremony that would launch the start of her new life. Tonight marked a change for two reasons, and both made her want to run from the room screaming.

Not a word was spoken but Addy, her most faithful servant and only friend in the world, bid the drudges to rise. Each took a bowl and poured a fine glittery substance onto their gloves.

Caprice stepped forward, dropping her gown, never changing expression as the women gazed upon her naked frame. She heard a gasp and understood the response. She bit back a sigh. Most likely they had never seen a royal in the flesh and must have wondered at what they saw.

The princess stood taller than most, meeting the men of her kingdom eye to eye. She was broad of shoulder and long of leg, a direct contrast to most of the servants, who were shorter and curvier. Her white-blond hair, shot through with the finest of gold, was unusual. She tried to hide the color by pulling it back in tiny braids that ran well past her waist.

Glissante royalty were to have hair as pure white as the snow.

Her skin glistened, stripped of every hair that existed below her face, in preparation for the ceremony. As the women approached, she steeled herself for the pain; her heart racing so fast she was convinced they could see it beating against her chest. Gloved hands rubbed against her skin. When one scraped against her breast, she bit the inside of her mouth until the metallic taste of blood ran over her tongue.

Do not reveal your pain, do not…

When one of the drudges hesitated, Addy snapped, “Don’t stop now. Once we begin, we must finish quickly, now hurry.”

In the bowls were glass crystals, ground down to a fine, glittery powder. Shutting her eyes, Caprice fought for calm. Hands, tiny hands, pushed and pulled, massaging her skin from the bottom of her chin to the tips of her toes, coating her in glassy shards. The binding ritual was meant to ground her, to bring her in focus with the ice, the cold.

It didn’t work. Instead, it set fire to her blood. She hated it! Instantly ashamed, she wondered, for the thousandth time, why she couldn’t be a proper Princess of the Glissante. Why hadn’t the cold crept into her heart, freezing her emotions as all the other princesses before her?

Perhaps she should open the window and walk into the snow, never to return, just like her mother. For years, there had been whispers she’d killed herself when Caprice was only three. All of it rumor, of course, because no one spoke of it. They wouldn’t dare. Perhaps her mother knew, deep in her heart, that she could never embrace the cold, not the way her people expected.