The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (47 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

T
HEY CAME TO
a river. It was as wide as the one they’d sailed down and turned over on itself in the same way, but was a dark green-black, not brown.

Nolt had pushed them hard, and seemed exhausted. Ash showed no signs of tiredness, he moved with the strength and freedom he’d always had, and Gant had recovered his quickness, although now and then he panted as though climbing a hill. Jaumé saw how much older Nolt was than his men, and remembered the rows of daggers tattooed on his shoulder blade—a lifetime of battles. His face was grizzled, gaunt.

“Ash and Gant and I cross here,” Nolt said. “Bennick, you and Jaumé stay on this side.”

Bennick, slumped on the pony, didn’t argue.

“Follow the river,” Nolt told him. “We’ll follow on our side. It joins with another one, and there’s an island. We’ll find the prince there.”

And join his army,
Jaumé thought.
But how do Bennick and I get across?

“Wait for us. Out of sight. Loomath said there’s rocks you can climb and hide in.”

Bennick nodded.

“If we fail, make the kill. That much we’ll salvage of our honor.”

Kill witches?
Jaumé hid a shudder.

“What does this prince look like?” Bennick asked.

“Your age. Dark-haired.”

Nolt and Gant and Ash prepared themselves. They tied their bowstrings in pouches to keep them dry, strapped their Stars tightly at their waists.

Bennick dismounted, moving like an old man. “All-Mother bless your blades.” He clasped hands with Gant and Ash.

Nolt gave Bennick the spyglass and compass. “Keep them dry.”

Gant winked at Jaumé, and Ash patted him on the head.

The men walked into the dark water, floating their packs in front of them. Silver Ash, black-skinned Gant, Nolt. The current took them. They swam one-armed, holding the packs, kicking their legs. Ash and Gant were almost at the far side when a bend in the river carried them from sight. Nolt trailed behind, not even halfway across.

Jaumé watched the river sweep Nolt out of sight. Was he going to drown in the black water?

“Will Nolt be all right?” He looked at Bennick, but saw no anxiety in his face.

“If it’s his time, it’s his time.”

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

T
HE OUTLAWS LAUNCHED
their ambush once the last packhorse was under the trees. Harkeld instinctively drew his sword—and rammed it back into its scabbard. Arrows leapt through the air.
Burn. Burn
. He searched for the archers, peering through the dark-green gloom and tangled vines. There was one.
Burn
. The bow burst into flames.

The archer threw his bow aside with a scream. He wasn’t the only person screaming. The jungle canopy echoed with shrieks, with shouts, with cries. Harkeld risked a glance sideways—there was Petrus rearing on his haunches, cuffing an outlaw to the ground, and there was Ebril chasing down a man with great leaping bounds—

An arrow speared out of the green-tinted gloom. A horse screamed in pain.

Burn
. He caught the next arrow.
Burn.
Where was the archer? Behind that tree, out of sight.

Harkeld seized his magic, told it what he wanted it to do, sent it after the bow. A high-pitched shriek of terror came from behind the tree. A shadowy figure ran scrambling, heading deeper into the jungle.

Harkeld turned his attention back to the battle.
Rout
was a better word. Two of the outlaws tore off burning clothes, the others fled from the lions.

Ebril was having fun. The snarl on his face was definitely a grin. He pounced on an outlaw. The angle of his ears, the angle of his tail... he was like a cat playing with a mouse.

A lion bellowed, jerking Harkeld’s attention to where a man with a murderer’s brand across his forehead cowered from a silver-maned lion.

“Flin!” Rand was with the injured horse. “Give me a hand.”

Harkeld dismounted and went to help him. Rand spoke soothingly to the animal, examining its pierced haunch. His hand closed around the arrow. “Hold its head, this’ll hurt.”

The horse squealed and reared as Rand ripped the arrow free. Harkeld hung on grimly, forcing the animal back to all four hooves. Rand staunched the blood with his hands.

The screaming had stopped. The outlaws were gone. Cora and Katlen sat astride their horses, knee to knee, heads inclined towards one another, conferring.

The lions padded back. Harkeld identified them by the color of their manes. Ebril, russet; Petrus, silver; Justen, dun.

“Where’s Innis?” he asked Rand.

“Huh? Oh, further back.” Rand gestured vaguely south with a bloody hand.

Cora and Katlen dismounted and came towards them. “Flin,” Katlen said, frowning. “Could you actually
see
that second archer?”

Harkeld glanced at Cora. She wasn’t frowning. “Uh... no. But I knew which tree he was behind.” Although he’d tried not to, a defensive note had entered his voice.

Katlen’s frown deepened. “So how did you burn his bow like that?”

“I, um...” He glanced at Cora again. She still wasn’t frowning. If anything, she looked interested. “I told my magic what I wanted it to do.”

Katlen crossed her arms. “You threw fire without seeing either the archer
or
the bow.”

Harkeld stiffened. “It worked, didn’t it? I didn’t hurt the archer.” There’d been no pain in the man’s shriek, just terror.

“I sometimes wonder,” Rand said mildly, his hands still pressed to the horse’s wound, “if we stifle our magic with all the rules and restrictions we place on it.”

Katlen’s attention snapped to the healer. Her frown grew so deep it looked carved on her forehead.

“Wild, untrained mages, like our Flin, don’t obey the rules because they don’t know they’re there,” Rand said. “And sometimes they do things that shouldn’t be possible. Perhaps if you hadn’t been told a thousand times that you can’t throw fire at something you can’t see, you could do it too?”

Katlen scowled at the healer, but Cora looked thoughtful.

“At the Academy, we train mages to be safe and lawful,” Rand said. “But we also take away their spontaneity and their risk-taking and their experimenting.”

“Spontaneity and risk-taking and experimenting should have
nothing
to do with magic,” Katlen snapped. “They’re far too dangerous!”

Rand shrugged.

Katlen turned and stalked to her horse. Cora stayed where she was. “It’s true,” she said. “You’re doing things that shouldn’t be possible. But how much of that is because you’re an exceptionally powerful mage, and how much because you don’t know the rules? Maybe no one but you could do those things?”

Rand tilted his head, smiling. “Good questions.”

By the time the shapeshifters had dressed, the horse was no longer bleeding. A raw-looking scar marked the arrow wound. “It’ll need some more work,” Rand said, stroking the horse’s haunch. “But we can move on, if you wish?”

Cora nodded. “I’d like to put a few leagues between us and them.”

“Somehow, I don’t think they’ll try to follow,” Ebril said, swinging up into his saddle.

Rand snorted a laugh, but neither Justen nor Petrus did; they mounted silently, not looking at each other. Harkeld frowned, watching them. Had they fallen out?

T
HAT EVENING, THEY
camped beside the Szal again, and Harkeld had another lesson on the stony riverbank. These clothes were cleaner and smaller than the others he’d burned: Susa’s.

He tried to relax, to not concentrate so fiercely, to let instinct take over. The first shirt burned briskly, and the wood underneath was only faintly singed. “Well done,” Cora said. “Did you watch us today?”

Harkeld shook his head. “I didn’t have time.”

Cora set up another shirt. Harkeld repeated what he’d done; let himself relax, trusted to instinct. Again, the shirt burned, but the wood didn’t.

“Good,” Cora said. “Try the trews.”

He burned three pairs, one after the other, leaving the branches barely singed.

“Excellent,” Cora said. “I don’t think you’re going to accidentally kill someone. Do you?”

“No.”

They walked back towards the campsite, stones crunching beneath their boots. “Cora, do you use only one hand for your magic, or both?”

“Both, of course.” She halted. “Ah... you’ve only been using your right hand.”

Harkeld nodded. “Yes. And this afternoon...” He frowned, remembering reaching for his sword and having to jam it back into the scabbard. “I’d like to be able to hold my sword
and
throw magic.”

“You should be able to.” Cora picked up a piece of driftwood. “Burn this with your left hand.” She threw it in the air.

Harkeld’s right hand lifted automatically. He hurriedly raised his left, grabbing for his magic.
Burn
. He caught the stick just before it hit the ground, an uncontrolled burst of fire, too strong, too hot.

“Hmm,” Cora said. “Let’s try that again.” She gathered more driftwood. “Ready?”

She threw the sticks one by one.

Burn. Burn
. Rough blasts of fire.
Burn
. It shouldn’t be so hard, curse it. He was struggling to keep up with Cora.
Burn
. The sticks were falling too fast.
Burn. Burn
. He was going to miss that last one—

His right hand reached out, sent a flick of magic, burned the stick with an economical spurt of flame before it hit the ground.

Harkeld grimaced.
Rut it
.

Cora looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you strongly right-handed?”

Harkeld nodded.

“What hand you use
shouldn’t
matter.” Cora’s smile was rueful. “My mistake. At the Academy we’re taught to use both hands from the start. I should have done the same with you.”

Harkeld waved aside the apology.

“Practice. That’s what you need. Lots of practice.”

He helped Cora gather more driftwood, and then the practice began. After the first few minutes, Harkeld drew his sword and held it in his right hand. With that hand disengaged, it became easier to use his left for magic.

He focused fiercely on the sticks Cora threw. By the time Katlen called them to dinner, he was exhausted, but he was burning the driftwood almost as efficiently as if he’d been using his right hand.

Harkeld slid the sword into its scabbard and shook out his fingers. They ached from gripping the hilt so tightly. A headache sat behind his temples.

Cora cocked her head. “Well?”

“It’s hard,” he admitted.

“I can see that. You’re slower with that hand, less precise. But you’re already much better than you were half an hour ago.”

Harkeld rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the headache.

“You’re about where you were with your right hand at Gdelsk. Give it a fortnight and you’ll be just as good with both.”

I
NNIS BARELY MANAGED
a mouthful of stew. Her throat was too tight, her stomach too tight. Even her lungs were tight. She left the fire, shifted into her own shape, dressed in her own clothes.

Petrus glanced up when she came back to the campfire, his face half-shadowed, then looked away. “I’ll relieve Hew.” He pushed to his feet and left the firelight.

Innis crouched alongside Cora. She had to swallow twice to find her voice. “Cora... may I speak privately with you?”

“Of course.”

Cora led her down to the river, lighting the way with her hand. She sat on a log, patted a place alongside her, and smiled at Innis. “What is it?”

Innis sat, gripping her hands tightly together. She wished Cora would put out her flames. It would be easier to confess in the dark. She inhaled a shaky breath and looked away from Cora. “I’ve been breaking a Primary Law. I’ve been shifting into a mouse and sleeping in Flin’s tent.”