The Spirit Heir (7 page)

The fire.

Before he was stabbed, before he met the shadow, Rhen had faced the traitorous lords of his homeland. And the only way he was able to protect his family was to start a fire, make it rage, and then remove it—pulling the flames under his skin, absorbing them in a way that was so natural to him, but so unnatural to everyone else. That sorcery had labeled him as something more than human to the guards who had seen it, and Rhen could only imagine how fast that rumor spread, how magnified it became with each retelling. The castle walls that used to seem a cage were now a safe haven, because beyond those white stones, a populace waited. He used to be the golden boy of Whylkin, but Rhen understood how quickly a reputation could change, and deep down he knew his was tainted forever.

Still, glancing at Cal as they walked beside each other inside the castle, Rhen hoped that not all things had changed. Too much already had. His station. His life. His friendship with Jin. His relationship with his family. His rapport with the people. But maybe not this. Perhaps Cal could be the one steady rock in a sea of altered realities.

They found an empty sitting room.

"Rhen," Cal began, but then paused, searching for the words. He ran a hand through his sandy-brown hair. Rhen noticed that the normally perfectly tied back locks were messy, out of order and uncontrolled. "Rhen, I don't even know where to begin. I am so sorry for my father. I hope you know I was not a part of his plans, I did not realize how deep his hatred ran. I heard him, of course, cursing the crown as I grew up and discussing the glory days of our city. But I never thought, never even dreamed, he would do something like this. You must believe me."

"I do," Rhen insisted, and he meant those words. If there were any doubt that Cal had been part of his family's treachery, Whyllem would have kept him locked in the dungeons. Either that or his head might now grace a spike at the front gates along with the other traitors who had been killed.

"I was with the other lords when it happened, making our way from the Naming Ceremony to the banquet hall. No one knew what was going on, it was madness, and then all of a sudden, some of the lords grabbed swords and charged the guards. The women ran screaming. I was dumbstruck, confused, and then I saw my uncle stab a king's guard in the chest and I understood. And I…" Cal's voice grew hushed, while his head shook back and forth with denial.

Rhen remained silent, waiting for the difficult words to be said. He had never seen Cal so ill-composed, so stressed. His friend was the rule-follower, the nervous good guy who tried, and often failed, to keep Rhen in line.

"I killed him, Rhen, my own uncle."

Rhen winced. Now he knew why Whyllem believed Cal's innocence, perhaps not just from the confession, but a haunt filled his eyes. And no traitor could possibly look so lost, so unsure, so hurt.

"It's okay, Cal," Rhen said, "I'm glad to have my friend back. I do not blame you for your father's actions. I don't blame you for their deaths."

He did not have to clarify. At his words, Cal visibly relaxed—muscles uncoiling as his shoulders hunched with release.

"Thank you, Rhen," he whispered, "I will never forget this."

Silence stretched for a minute, neither sure of where the conversation should go next. To Cal's father? To the war? To childhood memories?

"Can I ask you something?" Rhen finally spoke.

"Anything." Cal's gaze rose from the floor.

"What are they saying about me?"

Cal closed his eyes for a long moment, knowing what Rhen meant—years of friendship had made mind reading an inevitability for the two of them.

"There are mixed messages spreading throughout the city," Cal began diplomatically, "some believe you to be the hero of Whylkin…"

"But?" Rhen prodded.

"But others claim that the war began because of your sorcery."

"What?" Rhen jumped, head flipping quickly toward Cal's in shock. "They believe I started it?"

"A few. No one knows what happened behind those closed doors aside from you, Whyllem, and the rebellious lords that escaped." Cal shrugged.

The truth was harsh, but he would do Rhen no favors by hiding it, and Rhen knew that. Still, the words were hard to hear, to absorb, when all he had been trying to do was save them. All he ever tried to do was keep everyone protected, yet somehow, he seemed perpetually labeled in the wrong light. First by his family, and now by his people.

"But mostly," Cal continued, "they are unsure about you. Before, they loved you, but unfortunately, public opinion is a fickle thing. Now, they are wary, afraid you'll bring the flames down on them if they disobey."

"And you?" Rhen asked, voice low, vulnerable.

"I know you love your kingdom and its people, and you will do everything in your power to keep them safe—whatever that power might be. But…" Cal paused. Rolling his thumbs in a few short circles, he stalled. "Why did you never tell me?"

Rhen sucked in a slow breath, filling his lungs as fully as he could, before calmly releasing the air. Jin was the only person he ever openly talked to about his powers. No one before had ever forced the words out of him—but then Jin started a fire in the middle of the ocean, leaving Rhen no choice but to reveal himself. Without that small act, that moment of truth, Rhen might never have told another soul, might never have used the flames to save his family, thereby unveiling his magic. But in telling Jin he had gained confidence, gained the hope that maybe other people would not react so terribly to the truth.

How wrong he'd been.

And now, with everything so raw and uncertain, Rhen had no choice but to speak openly about his most ardently kept secret.

"I was worried," Rhen said with a shrug, bare and honest. "I was worried how you, how anyone would react, if you would even believe me—or worse, learn to be afraid of me. But in truth, what you've heard has likely been far exaggerated. I cannot create fire or wield it. I could not burn this city to the ground or create a wildfire that would destroy our enemy's armies. All I can do is smother a fire that has already been started—it's quite useless in almost every situation."

"Then how did the fire begin?"

Rhen grinned. "The old-fashioned way. I threw oil lamps to the ground and used those flames to light the tables on fire."

"Well, that's far less exciting," Cal joked, leaning back in his chair, eyes dancing with humor but laced with something else—satisfaction, acceptance.

Just like that, the knots tightening Rhen's back eased open. He had told Cal the truth and the world remained unscathed by the confession. Maybe baring his soul would be easier than he thought.

Doubtful.
Rhen sighed. There was still a long road ahead.

"Do you think we can beat your father, Cal?"

"Two months ago, I would have said no man could swallow fire. But now, I tend to believe that anything might be possible."

"Me too," Rhen replied, closing his eyes. The lords of his kingdom had turned on them. His father and brother had died gruesome deaths. King Razzaq marched a foreign army on Whylkin soil. An invisible shadow haunted his populace by possessing their souls. And before his eyes, the face of a little boy transformed into that of a mature woman. Anything was possible. Even winning a war despite heavily unfavorable odds.

And something told Rhen that more surprises were yet to come. Ones that would turn his world completely on end.

"Will you do something for me, Cal?" His friend nodded, completely loyal. "If your father tries to send a message, let me know. And keep your ears open to any rumors making their way around the city, I need to remain aware of the views of the common folk. If we lose them, the city will certainly fall."

"I will, Rhen, I'll maintain daily reports and will have them sent to your rooms." Cal nervously clasped his hands in his lap, looking down before meeting Rhen's gaze with a hint of determined resolve. A look Rhen had received from his friend many times before, usually answered by an eye roll.

"Yes," he responded before Cal could even ask, "I will try my best to stay alive."

Cal released a sigh, frowning at the flippancy in Rhen's tone. "I know it will be against your nature, but please refrain from making any grand gestures. The last time you acted rashly, you sailed to foreign shores and almost found yourself murdered by an enemy king. And with your father gone, with Tarin gone, the kingdom cannot afford to lose you. And your friends cannot either."

"I promise to be better, Cal, for everyone."

And Rhen meant it, because his friend was right. He was no longer the third son of the king. He was second-in-command to the king regent, a Son of Whyl who could no longer be ignored, a leader his people needed.

Even after Cal left, Rhen sat, lost in his thoughts and the turn he never thought his life would take. Looking back, he realized how naïve he had been, how foolish. Sure, the information he gathered had been correct but no one really bothered to listen, no one acted on it, his words did not help in any substantive way. The traitorous lords still killed his father. King Razzaq still marched on his home. And the kingdom was hastily preparing for a war it had not been ready for.

And what if things had been different? What if Jinji had not escaped the ship, and instead landed dead in the sea along with Captain Pygott and his crew? Would Rhen now be dead? And without him beside them, would the lords have succeeded in killing his entire bloodline?

No, Rhen knew his gallivanting spy days were over. The weight of responsibility was finally so heavy that he could ignore it no longer. The responsibility to embrace his heritage, to become the prince his kingdom needed, to win the war.

But what of the responsibility to his friend, to Jin? What of the quest he promised to help her pursue? The quest that would lead him away from his city, away from his people.

The shadow
, Rhen thought, shivering at the memory of his mother's vacant eyes and the somehow sinister emptiness that filled them. Now that Rhen had seen it, he understood its power—he understood that it needed to be stopped.

A tingle tickled the back of his neck.

Rhen blinked, eyes focusing on the floor, pulled from his thoughts by the sudden certainty that he was not alone.

Slowly, Rhen lifted his head, twisting his neck inch by inch to the left, eyes moving carefully over his shoulder toward the source of the sensation. Fear stilled his heart, brought a warm heat to his palms, filled his chest.

A cloud of gray mist swirled in the corner of the room.

Jolting violently, Rhen leapt from his chair, landing in a fighting stance and drawing the knife he always kept in his belt.

The mist did not disappear. The smoky tendrils remained contained in the corner, flowing as though caught in an undulating current, until they spread slowly, branching out at four opposite sides. Gradually, the shape of a man formed.

"What are you?" Rhen asked, stepping closer, knife still at the ready.

There was no response.

Round empty eyes appeared in the center of its head. A mouth moved but created no sound. The thing shook what looked like a face, and then raised its arm, pointing with a translucent finger toward the door.

Are you the shadow?
Rhen itched to ask, but a knot in his gut told him this was something else. The shadow possessed souls, but held no form of its own. The shadow was a thing of chaos, of danger. It would not wait to attack. It would not show itself, introduce itself—it certainly hadn't the last time.

But this gray phantom wanted something else, to send a message. The finger continued to point, arm animatedly swaying toward the hall.

Rhen stepped closer, fingers itching to touch the transparent smoke, to see what would happen. But before he got within reach, the phantom jumped back, particles displacing until it was an ovular cloud once more.

And then it was gone.

The mist raced from the room, floating swiftly out the door and into the hall, nearly disappearing from sight.

Questions burning his throat, Rhen had no choice but to chase after it, curiosity more than piqued. As he rounded the doorway, he caught the barest glimpse of a swirling tendril disappearing down the far bend in the hall. Rhen ran, boots pounding against tile, echoing against the silence.

He turned the corner just in time to see the gray mist make a right down another hall. And again. And again. Until Rhen was panting with the exertion, lost in his own home. They had traveled down below the sunlit rooms, underground to the damp bottoms of the castle, a place only servants ever occupied. Rhen grabbed a torch from the wall, holding it aloft as he searched for another sign of the smoke, another clue from the phantom as to where he needed to travel next.

There.

Down the hall, formed into the shape of a man once more, the smoky figure waited, pointing at the wall. Rhen neared, careful to keep his distance lest the figure run away again. But they had reached a dead end. And the creature pointed at nothing but solid white stone, green from so much time in the heavy moist air.

"There is nowhere else to go," Rhen said, unsure if it was a statement or a question.

The phantom jerked its translucent arm toward the wall once more. Adamant. Frustrated. Rhen slammed his fist against the stone, wincing when the wall did not budge. Not that he thought it would…

"Show me," Rhen urged.

The figure dissolved into mist and pushed against the stone, seeping through pores in the rock, disappearing before Rhen's eyes.

"Well, that's helpful," Rhen mused, staring at the wall while he crossed his arms. "I'll just do that."

Tapping his foot, Rhen waited impatiently for the smoke to reappear.

Nothing.

After a few minutes, he gave up.
I'm going crazy.
He sighed, turning away, determined to forget this little adventure ever happened. No need to be the fire bringer, as well as the lunatic—sometimes the label of prince was difficult enough.

But as the light from his torch passed over the wall, a sliver of a line caught his eye. Bringing the fire closer, Rhen stared, eyes narrowing with focus.