Embrace the Fire (7 page)

In answer, the old crone slid the sleeve of her misshapen gown over her collarbone. Despite the wrinkles that creased her aged skin, Sebastian could read the mark of the Siren on her shoulder.

“You're a Siren?”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

Sebastian couldn't quite twist her words into truth. “You do not affect me.”

“Your Grace, I have yet to speak my native tongue.”

Sebastian stared at her. He couldn't reconcile the image of this crone who smelled of sour milk and woodsmoke with an irresistible Siren.

A trace of a smile creased her weathered cheeks. When she spoke again, her voice had changed. It lilted, smooth and clear as a flawless diamond, soft as silk, sweet as honey. “Come in, Your Grace.”

Sebastian felt he should say something about his men, that he needed to help ... help ... something, but he couldn't remember what. His sense of urgency had vanished into a desire, stronger than anything, to enter this woman's house, and to ... what? She hadn't told him.

The door widened, and the Siren's mouth gapped into a toothless smile as she beckoned him. “Come, Your Grace. You must be tired and hungry. A long journey will wear on a simple man, but a man that carries the entire country on his strong shoulders, well ... you need a rest.”

“Just ... left this morning,” Sebastian mumbled, confused, as he stepped into the relative darkness of the house.

“Did you indeed?” The crone grasped Sebastian's hand in her talons, but Sebastian couldn't flinch. He could look at the hand, and he dimly determined that it was bent, twisted, and decrepit, but he couldn't bring himself to care. All he knew was that he had to get closer to that voice. Its compelling clarity had to submerge him in its crystalline depths, or he would dissolve, a shell of a man with no purpose and no meaning in life.

The voice spoke again. “A drink, Your Grace? To revive you?” Those misshapen hands were busy over a glass decanter that sat on a small table by the fireplace. Amber liquid spilled into the vessel. The woman's back was to him, her dirty hemline dragging the ground.

She turned to him, holding the glass. “Never fear, we will go to your men, Your Grace. This is but a momentary distraction.” Her smile was brittle. “Drink this, Your Grace.”

Sebastian couldn't figure out what to do. He needed to get back to his men, but the voice held him anchored to the floor.

Her hand held an intricately carved goblet. He wondered idly if she had purchased it from The Crossings; it was reminiscent of some of the fine merchandise set out by the people in the markets there.

“Drink, Your Grace.” Her voice held an extra measure of compulsion. Her milky blue eyes intently watched the progress of the goblet travel to his mouth. The amber liquid winked at him in the light from the window, dark flakes settling in its depths.

Dark flakes? Sebastian shook his head to clear it. “What drink is this?” His voice slurred.

“Just drink it, Your Grace. You will feel better.”

For some reason, Selena's dark eyes swam before him. His former mistress's final accusations before she'd exited this life four months ago echoed in his ears.
Dark magic will take your soul, Sebastian
, she'd said.

He hadn't agreed with her, but now he wondered if in his drive to retake his throne, he'd made too many enemies, slapped too many hands ready to slide the dagger into his heart.

With a monumental effort and a crash, he sent the goblet into the flames. The fire boiled into the chimney, blazing in a brilliant flash of alcohol-fueled inferno. Anger shook Sebastian to his very core.

“Did you try to poison me?” he shouted.

Terror lit the crone's gaze. Her Siren spell slipped away as she quailed before him. “Of—of course not, Your Grace. I merely thought you would feel—”

“What do you know of what I feel?” Sebastian kicked over a chair that stood beside them, and his fury blazed even hotter. He strode across the room and picked up the rest of the alcohol in the decanter and hurled it against the wall. “Who do you think you are, treacherous witch?”

“Please, Your Grace,” she faltered. Her voice squeaked as she tried to wield her Siren language again.

Sebastian crossed the room in two steps and gripped the sides of her face with his hands. “Do you work for Nicholas Erlane?
Do you
?”

She gasped for air, and in frigid shock, Sebastian watched ice feather her skin where his hands touched. It raced across her body and down her neck. Her skin turned gray, her eyes stilled, sightless, blind, dead.

Sebastian jerked back as if he'd been burned, his breath coming in sharp spurts. The woman stood, frozen, a statue of ice, devoid of life and breath.

He shook his head, struggling to erase the image of the ice encroaching on her flesh. He turned for the door and burst out of it, swinging onto the back of the horse and thundering along the road as if all the ghosts of the past chased him.

K
inna was frustrated
, and when she was frustrated, she did ridiculous things, such as asking Lincoln to stay behind with Chennuh while she sneaked into the rear of Sebastian's army flank alone.

Lincoln shook his orange-haired head stubbornly. “It's not happening, m'lady. I'm your Seer Fey Guardian by rights of the treaty set forth by your great-great-great by hundreds of years grandfather, and I can't break the pact. You remember the pact? The one that produced the Amulet that everyone seems to think is so important? There is no way I'm letting you sneak into Sebastian's camp when you are who you are and he is who he is, and nothing stands between you and death if you're caught.”

Kinna yanked on her fiery-red braid in frustration. “I can't afford to mess this up, Linc,” she pleaded as dusk layered the Plains. “Chennuh is so big, and if he accidentally hits
anything
, invisible or not, Cedric will remain trapped, and likely
we'll
hang from Sebastian's gallows at dawn.”

“Did he look well, then?” Lincoln asked, his typical teasing attitude temporarily gone.

Kinna shook her head. “He was very thin.”

“So it's not likely he'll be up for a sprint across boggy plains, then.”

“I'll help him.”

“By the Stars, you will.” Lincoln snorted. “Thin or not, he's still taller than you by at least two orlachs. You'll need Chennuh if only for an escape plan.”

Kinna glared at him. “Please, Linc?”

Lincoln didn't give in, which stretched the already heightened tension from lack of sleep and too much stress, and Chennuh took advantage of the situation to give the Pixie a playful nip when Linc stepped too close. The bite resulted in a ragged tear down the side of Lincoln's breeches, and before Kinna knew it, she was standing toe-to-toe with Lincoln in a hushed word war in which he told her
exactly
what he thought of Mirage Dragons, particularly ones with a penchant for irritating Pixies. And he was still going with her into camp.

Pixies always won word wars.

Kinna glared out across the camp from a rock's vantage point, her arms crossed, her foot ticking time to the rapid succession of her thoughts while Lincoln sat, comfortable as you please, with his back against a tree and his hands locked behind his head. “So what's the plan?” he asked as if he were wondering what they should have for breakfast the next morning.

Kinna frowned. “I don't suppose you'd care to sing the entire camp to sleep, would you?”

Lincoln grinned. “That could be fun. Want to try it?”

“No.” Kinna shook her head, pointing at the flags that snapped atop the guard tents in the glow of the full moon. “As soon as the bell rings for guard changes and they post the new shift flags, we'll go in.”

“How?”

“On Chennuh, invisibly.” Her tone was grumpy, which made Lincoln grin even wider.

The Pixie stood and ambled to her side. “You can do this, Kinna,” he said. “The three of us, we make a good team.”

Kinna crouched lower, narrowing her eyes as she watched the camp. “Never would have thought I'd hear you claiming Chennuh on your 'team.'”

“Me, neither.” Lincoln glanced back at the Plains. “I wonder how long it will be before Erlane attacks? Sage said the Lismarian king was meeting with Sebastian in The Crossings—they were supposed to negotiate water passage rights, because Erlane's navy is clogging the Channel, and trade from Sanlia and Ongalia has to be maintained for both Lismaria and West Ashwynd’s economic necessities. They're still hoping to stave off war, but—” he shook his head as he stared at Sebastian's amassed forces littering the Plains, “—I think it's a vain hope.”

Kinna straightened. “What else did she say?”

Lincoln shook his head. “That was most of it; Sage wouldn't say much.”

Kinna sighed. “And Cedric's going to be in the middle of it unless we get him out of there.”

“Sage was strung tight as a wire,” Lincoln commented. “I'd guess most of it had to do with the stress she's under with Julian as head of his Pixie Division.” He left the rest of his sentence unsaid, but Kinna heard it anyway.
The rest had to do with you, Kinna.
She frowned.

Movement near the camp perimeter grabbed Kinna's attention. She stood. “There's the shift change. The new flags are going up. Chennuh, let's go.”

The Mirage, who had curled into a contented, reflective ball behind her, snorted as he raised himself to his feet. Kinna slid her hand along his neck, quickly running up his haunch until she stood on his back before leaning over and handing Lincoln up as well.

The Pixie's face immediately sported a sheen of sweat. He sat between two fins, holding on securely. “Let's just get this over with,” he whispered, his eyes on the Dragon's neck as Chennuh bobbed his head.

Kinna crawled up Chennuh's neck, stretching her fingertips for the topmost fin, the one that would twist all of them into invisibility.

A snarl buffeted Kinna's ears, and she turned with a cry. Six ogres advanced on them, clubs swinging above their distended heads. Their Dimn stood behind them, crossbows in their hands, their eyes lowered to the crosshairs, and their arrows notched.

The Ogres themselves were fleshy creatures, their spiky hair sparse on their huge heads, their jowls hanging nearly to their chests, their sharp teeth visible where thick lower lips drooped away from the upper ones. Rings circled the center cartilage of their nostrils, and loose chains swung from the circlets—the main method of control the Ogredimn used for their creatures.

And they say training Dragons is hard,
Kinna thought as she stared at the nearest Ogre.

Chennuh swung his head with a roar, and fire lit the clearing behind them.

They'll see; they'll hear!
Kinna cautioned the Dragon in her head, glancing toward the army on the Plains, but Chennuh's instincts had taken over.

“They're too far away!” Linc shouted as he leaped off Chennuh's back directly into the path of an Ogre, somersaulting to the side when the beast took a swing at him. “Don't hold Chennuh back, Kinna!”

Three of the Ogredimn released their shafts, but the arrows bounced harmlessly from Chennuh's scales. One grazed Kinna's boot. She jerked her foot higher on Chennuh, clinging to his mirrored fins. “Chennuh, there!” she cried, pointing at an Ogre who had moved in front of the Dragon and raised his club to smash it on Chennuh's snout.

Chennuh released another river of flame. The Ogre hit the ground, smoldering beneath the blast. Like Trolls, Ogres had thick skin that resisted heat, but beneath a blast like that, he stood little chance. The Ogre lay inert while the others advanced.

Chennuh bit and slashed and roared and belched flame as Kinna tried to be another set of eyes for him. She'd drawn her knife from her boot, but it was little use against such large creatures. One Ogredimn came too close, but she caught him by surprise when he turned his head to command his Ogre. The knife slit his ear, lopping off half of it. Blood flowed down his neck, and he crumpled to the ground.

Lincoln's voice sang out clearly from a tree where he'd climbed above the fray. The remaining Dimn slowly lowered their weapons, though the Ogres took longer to respond to the Pixie's charm.

Pain crashed into Kinna's leg where one of the clubs found her boot. She whirled, her blade streaking across the Ogre's cheek.

Chennuh roared with fury at Kinna's pain. He writhed to the side, and his teeth closed around the Ogre, snapping the creature in half.

Lincoln's voice increased in volume and scale, and slowly, the remaining Ogres dropped their clubs, staring dazedly at their Dimn.

Kinna slid off Chennuh's back, approaching one of the Dimn who had sat on the ground, leaning against the rock, his empty stare fixed on the blood and charred grass of the surrounding area.

Kinna glanced up at Lincoln, signaling him to keep singing. The Pixie nodded, shifting into a more comfortable position on the tree limb, his powerful voice still swirling around them. Chennuh subsided into comparative harmlessness, snapping now and again if one of the Ogres moved too much.

Kinna crouched in front of the Dimn she'd chosen, the flat of her blade lifting his chin so she could meet his dull gaze. “Why, may I ask, are you wandering so far from Sebastian's forces and the rest of his creatures on the Plains? Has the King turned his Ogres into scouts?”

Emptiness still coated the Dimn's expression. His mouth spilled meaningless words. Kinna sighed, unwrapping the Dimn's fingers from his crossbow. She tossed it toward the bag she'd slung by the rock and prepared to strip the rest of the weapons from their owners, when the Dimn strung together a coherent sentence.

“Cursed Pixie charms; the clash hurts.”

Kinna stopped her movements. “Clash?”

The Dimn squeezed his eyes closed, pain streaking his face. He couldn't answer.

Kinna glanced at Lincoln, and the Pixie understood her look. He lessened his volume, maintaining a subdued melody. The Dimn's tense rigidity softened, though he still looked dazed.

“Speak, Dimn,” Kinna commanded. “What clash?”

“The Pixie lady with white-blonde plaits, beautiful, liquid voice, a Lismarian royal. The orange-haired Pixie in the tree, voice like the ocean. But they command opposites. It hurts. It's agony.” He gripped the spiky hair around his temples in two fists. “Please,” he whimpered, “make it stop.”

“The Pixie with white-blonde—You came here under Pixie charm?”

The Dimn only moaned.

Kinna stood, staring at the Dimn. “This Pixie, did she say who she was?”

“Noooo,” the Dimn moaned. “Make it stop.” His hands crept over his ears.

Kinna's jaw hardened. She knew of only one Lismarian royal with hair such as the Ogredimn described—Sebastian's betrothed who had sat on the dais at the Tournament, her cold blue gaze pinning Kinna as she'd entered before stands full of fascinated spectators.

Kinna leaned closer. “Was it the Lady Lianna, Nicholas Erlane's niece?”

The Dimn didn't answer, still rocking in pain.

“What did the Pixie want? What did she command you to do?” Kinna pressed.

“Attack—attack the fire-haired girl.” The Ogredimn curled his legs against his chest and rolled onto the ground.

Kinna stared at him. “Why would—” She glanced up at Lincoln, whose lips still issued his charmed melody, but concern crept across his face.

The Ogre groaned, and Kinna could see she would get nothing further from him. “Go,” she said, pointing to the Plains. “Get you back to your post where you belong. You are defeated here.”

The Dimn slowly pulled to his feet, languidly motioning to the others, and the survivors of the fray tramped down the slopes toward the boggy Plains. They didn't even take their weapons. Kinna slowly gathered the remaining crossbows, glancing after them thoughtfully.

As the Ogres and their Dimn darkened among the marshes, Lincoln's voice quieted to stillness.

When Lincoln dropped from the tree limb, landing lightly in a crouch, Kinna dumped the crossbows in the bag and turned to face the Pixie. “What just happened?”

Lincoln's easy smile was gone. “It appears that perhaps we may have made an enemy of the Lady Lianna.”

“But—why?” Kinna exploded.

Lincoln shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

Kinna surveyed the distant camp. The tents were still bathed in moonlight and the glow of campfires, but movement around the perimeter had stilled. Queasiness gripped Kinna's innards. “Linc,” she whispered. “Cedric was waiting for me, and we've missed our chance. The guards are settled in their places.”

“It's never too late,” Lincoln encouraged, squeezing Kinna's shoulder. “Come on, let's go see what we can do.”

Kinna walked to the Dragon, scratching the bare patch of his heated snout. She pulled in a deep breath, coaching courage into her lungs, her mind turning over the Ogredimn's words.

Chennuh's smoky irises glazed over. Kinna said nothing as she scratched, her thoughts paging through Chennuh's mind, seeking the creature's thoughts on stealing into camp. There was something off with the Dragon; she couldn't tell what it was, but he seemed edgy, uncomfortable, and restless. His thoughts were harder to read than normal.

She wished Ayden were with her. He always had some solution, some way to calm the Dragon, to work around his tempers and moods. He'd had years of experience with the creatures in Dragon Hollow's keep, whereas she had only her instinct to guide her. She had achieved
psuche
with Chennuh, and even she couldn't decipher what was wrong.

“You still miss him, don't you?”

“Who?” Kinna knew who.

“The silver-eyed bloke who put all the rest of us to shame—appearance-wise anyway.”

“Intelligence-wise, too.” Kinna shot a too-innocent glance at Lincoln.

“I beg your pardon.” Linc's fake outrage bled through his injured tone. “I am both intelligent
and
wise.”

“You do have your moments of brilliance, Linc, I'll give you that.”

“You're changing the subject.”

Kinna's mouth tightened. “I have nothing to say about Ayden.”

Lincoln's rhyme jolted Kinna from her reflections. The quiet magic in his words irritated her. She jerked her hand away from Chennuh's snout, and the Dragon sat up with a grumble of discontent.

“I did not let him win anything, Linc! He's the one who ... left.” She swallowed the lump that swelled in her throat.

“How
could
he stay? With Julian and everything?”

Kinna shoved her braid over her shoulder. “We could have worked something out. We could at least have stayed friends.” Hurt coursed through her words, ballooning like poison inside her.

“That would be asking a lot, don't you think?” Lincoln's words were gentle. “Would
you
stay with him if he had agreed to a betrothal with another?”

Kinna didn't answer. She turned her attention back to the camp, but her burning eyes blurred the outlines of the tents and cages along the perimeter. She pulled in a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Let's go get my brother.”