The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (4 page)

She glanced at Prince Harkeld. He didn’t appear to be listening. His face was half turned away, shadowed. He looked like a peasant, unshaven, dark hair chopped roughly short, clothes travel-stained, but he didn’t hold himself like a peasant, didn’t move or ride like one, and his face—the square brow and jaw, the strong nose and cheekbones—was memorable. Someone might recognize him as Osgaard’s missing prince.

“Rand said the Council think the curse will already be in Sault when we get there. They reckon we’ll need a lot of Sentinels for that.”

“We will.” But Cora didn’t sound worried.

“They’re trying to find us a strong water mage.”

“Good. We’ll need one of those. Now get off to bed. You must be exhausted.”

“Shall I take a shift tonight?” Innis flicked a glance in Justen’s direction, trying to convey the silent question:
Or be Justen?

“No.” Cora stood. “I’ll take the second watch. You can share my tent.”

Innis rose to her feet. Her muscles had stiffened while she sat. She followed Cora across the stony ground.

“You told Rand and the others about you shapeshifters being Justen?” Cora asked in a low whisper.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“They were shocked. Breaking a Primary Law...”

“But they understood why? The shapeshifter—Hew?—he’ll do it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” She heard relief in Cora’s voice.

Innis glanced back at Justen and Prince Harkeld beside the fire. “Has Petrus been Justen all day? Do you need me to swap with him?”

“He’s all right for now. Less tired than you, at any rate.”

“And tomorrow?”

“You can go back to being Justen most of the time.” Cora held open a tent flap. “The bedroll on the left is yours.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s good to have you back, Innis. We’ve been stretched without you.” Cora turned to go, then halted. “Oh... the prince and I have made a deal. If he learns to use his magic, we’ll strip him of it once the curse is destroyed.”

“What?” Her mouth fell open. “Learn to use his magic? He agreed?”

“He did.”

Innis shook her head.
Impossible
. “But he’s so afraid of it!”

“With good reason. I’ve never seen a fire mage with more raw power. Until he learns to control it, he’s dangerous.”

CHAPTER THREE

A
T DAWN,
I
NNIS
slipped away from the camp and swapped with Petrus, taking Justen’s shape and clothes. “He’s started learning to use his magic.” Petrus handed her Justen’s amulet of walrus ivory. “Did Cora tell you?”

Innis nodded.

“She had him light a candle. You should have seen it, Innis. Flame right up into the sky. Just about set the horses stampeding.” He snorted a laugh.

The round Grooten amulet lay against her breastbone, warm from Petrus’s body. “Did he light the candle?”

“Eventually.”

Innis settled Justen’s baldric across her back. The muscles in her arms and shoulders ached from yesterday’s flying.

Petrus pulled on his trews. “Susa’s joining us? That’s good news. Always up for a laugh, she is. Frane’s a bit glum for my taste, though, and as for Hew...” He pulled a face. “No fun in him at all.”

“No.” Innis looked down at her body. Justen’s body—brawny and male, clad in Justen’s clothes. “He was shocked about Justen, said he wouldn’t break a Primary Law.”

“What? He’s refused to do it?”

“Rand talked him round, but he was shocked too. They all were. Especially... about me being Justen.”

“Don’t pay them any attention.” Petrus pulled on his shirt, then combed his tousled white-blond hair with his fingers. “Dareus was right: it’s got to be done if we’re going to keep the prince alive.”

Innis scuffed her boot in the dust, remembering Hew’s exclamation.
You? A girl be a man? That’s doubly wrong!
Even laughing, carefree Susa had looked appalled.

Petrus punched her lightly on the shoulder. “You’re a good Justen. Better than me or Gerit.”

Because I like being Justen and you don’t.

“I’m glad you’re back. I missed you. Now get over there to the prince.”

“My clothes—”

“I’ll pack them for you. Go.” He made a shooing gesture, hamming it up, acting the clown.

Innis grinned at him, closest friend and almost-brother, and headed for the horses.

She helped Prince Harkeld lift bundled tents onto a packhorse and strap the load into place. She wanted to whistle, the way Ebril always did. It felt so right, being Justen. The amulet at her throat, the weight of the armsman’s sword, her place at Prince Harkeld’s side.

T
HEY REACHED THE
forest in the mid-afternoon, tall trees Harkeld didn’t recognize, bark hanging off in long gray strips. The air was damp and mild. That evening they camped beside a river. The fire burned fiercely, the wood crackling and spitting, giving off a strong resinous odor. He lit a candle several times, under Cora’s watchful gaze. “Good,” she said. “Tomorrow night you can light the fire.”

They struck camp at dawn, heading east on animal trails, following the brown hawk that was Gerit. After several hours they came to farmland. It had been hard-won from the forest; sheep grazed around burned tree stumps.

The hawk landed and became Gerit. Harkeld lifted his lip in a sneer—
filthy witch
—but the sneer was half-hearted. He was one of them now.

Gerit scratched his beard. “You want me to lead you round the settlements, not through ’em?”

“Please,” Cora said.

They followed the hawk, skirting straggling fields, then down a rutted lane. Justen rode at his side, Cora just ahead, Ebril and Petrus behind with the packhorses, and yet Harkeld felt exposed. In Lundegaard they’d had an escort of soldiers. Here, there was only a handful of witches between himself and anyone who cared to claim the bounty on his head.

“Prince Harkeld?”

He looked at Cora.

“Now that we’re in populated areas, we should call you by another name. One no one will recognize.”

He nodded.

Cora looked relieved, as if she’d expected him to protest.

I haven’t been a prince for weeks. Haven’t you noticed?
Not since the moment in the canyon when his fire magic had burst out of him. He’d lost the home in Lundegaard that King Magnas had offered him, lost any right to call himself a prince. He was a commoner now. No, lower than a commoner; a witch.

“Do you have a preference what name we use?”

What did it matter? The witches had lost him his birthright, his family, his home. What was a name, compared with those things? A name was nothing.

A name was something he had to live with, until he could be rid of these people. Another two months, at least.

Harkeld scowled at his horse’s ears. On either side of the lane, warped split-rail fences enclosed ragged fields. He needed a name that was ordinary, but also one he’d recognize when people said it. His memory skipped back to the game he’d played with his half-sister when she was a child.

“Flin.”

Saying the name brought back a rush of memory. He heard Britta’s voice,
Can we play Flin, please?
Heard her breathless giggles as he chased her across the palace lawns while the nursemaids and the armsmen tried to keep straight faces. Heard her squeal when he caught her and her whoop of glee when he swung her in the air.

They’d only played Flin for a few months, before he’d been fostered to King Magnas’s court. When he’d returned two years later, he’d thought himself too old for such games. And Britta, sweet Britta, had asked only once and never mentioned it again.

I should have played with her more often.

His throat tightened. Tears stung his eyes. For a dreadful moment he thought he might cry.

But wasn’t it something worth crying for? The sister he’d never meet again. The little brothers he’d never see grow up.

Harkeld lifted his face to the sky.
All-Mother, please keep them safe,
he prayed.

T
HEY SKIRTED THE
town of Hradik. Gerit now rode, and it was Petrus who glided overhead, creamy wings widespread. A second hawk joined Petrus for several minutes. It had a speckled breast and tail feathers. Not long afterwards they came to a crossroad. Four riders and a string of packhorses waited there. Above, the strange hawk circled.

“Rand!” Cora spurred forward.

Harkeld watched the witches greet each other, assessing them. These people would be his companions, his protectors.

There were two men—one young, one middle-aged—and two women. Harkeld ignored the older woman and let his gaze rest on the younger one for a moment. Curling blonde hair, good breasts, and a pretty, lightly-freckled face. It seemed she knew Ebril. The two of them were laughing.

“The men are both healers,” Justen said from alongside him. “From what Innis said. Rand and Frane. And the women—”

“Both fire witches.”

Justen glanced at him. “You listened the other night.”

Harkeld shrugged.

“Flin. Justen.” Cora beckoned.

He nudged his horse forward.

“This is Prince Harkeld,” Cora said. “But we’re calling him Flin now. And Justen, his armsman.”

The older fire witch returned the introductions. She was a tall, lean, brisk woman, with salt-and-pepper hair cut as short as a man’s. “I’m Katlen. Hew’s up there.” A jerk of her thumb indicated the speckled hawk. “And these are Rand, Frane, and Susa.” Rand was the more senior healer, with weathered skin and hair the color of sun-bleached grass. His younger colleague, Frane, had a dark, lugubrious face. The young fire witch was Susa. She smiled cheerfully, her blonde curls bouncing around her face.

“We brought the supplies Innis said you needed,” Katlen told Cora. “I understand you wish to avoid settlements?”

“If possible. The bounty on Flin’s head...”

“Yes. Annoying.”

Harkeld snorted under his breath. Annoying?

“Hew says there’s a good campsite a few miles along this road,” Katlen said. “A meadow beside a river.”

A
T THE MEADOW
, Katlen dismounted and proceeded to take charge. “Pitch the tents there. Is that all right, Cora?” and “The packhorses over there, I think, don’t you, Cora?” and “Frane will gather the firewood, if that’s all right with you, Cora?”

Cora didn’t seem to mind. She took the firewood from Frane and laid it inside the ring of stones she’d made. “Would you prefer to have Katlen instruct you?” she asked Harkeld. “She’s been teaching fire magic at the Academy for twenty years.”

He shook his head.
I don’t like bossy women
.

“Very well.” Cora dusted her hands together. “There are a couple of ways of lighting fires. Normally I do this...” She snapped her fingers, and a branch flared alight. “But you haven’t learned to throw fire yet.” The flame snuffed out. “You’ll need to touch the wood to make it burn. You can do it with a single flame, but it’s quicker if you do this.” Another snap of her fingers, and Cora opened her palm, showing him a handful of flames dancing there. The sight made him shiver.

Cora took hold of a branch, and a moment later it was alight. “See?”

Harkeld nodded.

Cora released the branch and closed her fist, extinguishing the flames on her hand and the branch. “You try. Visualize the tinderbox, but this time, when you snap your fingers, imagine holding a handful of flames. Small flames.”

Harkeld stared down at his right hand, trying to feel the fire magic in his blood. It came more easily this time, a rush of sensation, warm and tingling. He visualized the tinderbox.
A handful of small flames
, he told himself and snapped his fingers.

Heat prickled across his palm. He was suddenly holding a cluster of flames.