The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (5 page)

Harkeld’s heart began to gallop. He held his hand away from himself. What if he set his clothes alight?

“Close your fist,” Cora said.

He did. The flames snuffed out.

“You’re afraid you’ll burn yourself.”

Harkeld flushed. Had his fear been that obvious? “My clothes. I could set them on fire.”

Cora nodded. “Very well, let’s deal with that. Suppose your clothes did catch alight, what would you do?”

He had a vision of himself frantically beating the flames, while the witches laughed. “Beat it out.”

“You could,” Cora said. “But it’s much more efficient to use your magic—”

A pale hawk swooped down and landed, became Petrus. “Three men on horseback approaching from the west.”

Katlen came across to the fireplace. “Three men?”

The speckled hawk landed and changed shape. “They’ve been behind us from Stanic.” The new shapeshifter was a stocky young man with mouse-brown hair and pale skin covered with freckles. “They’re just travelers.”

Katlen nodded. “I’ve seen them.”

“Even so, we’ll take no chances.” Cora stood and raised her voice. “Justen! Over here.”

Harkeld pushed to his feet. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. Justen came to stand beside him.

“Ebril, Gerit, Susa,” Cora called.

Harkeld was conscious of the witches ranging themselves around him. He heard the sound of swords sliding from scabbards; he wasn’t the only person checking his weapon. He looked around. The healers were with the packhorses, removing the last of the loads, and Petrus and the new shapeshifter were overhead again. The only witch he couldn’t see was Innis. He cast a quick glance at the darkening sky, but couldn’t spot her.

He heard the sound of hooves. Justen stepped forward, placing himself squarely in front of Harkeld. It was what Justen had been hired to do—protect him with his life—but, even so, Harkeld felt a flicker of irritation.
Curse it, I want to see
.

The clop of hooves became louder. Harkeld stepped sideways to see past Justen. Three riders and half a dozen packhorses emerged from the dusk.

The riders halted. “Evening.”

“Good evening,” Cora said.

The men were about his own age, wearing dusty jerkins and trews much like his own. They sat relaxed in their saddles.

Harkeld eyed them. A single Fithian assassin could take down two or more soldiers. If these men were Fithians, what did they see? Three women, a handful of men.

Easy pickings
.

“Mind if we share your campsite? Safety in numbers, y’know.”

Harkeld glanced at their packhorses, saw bows strapped to one of them.

“I’m sorry,” Cora said, “but we wish to be alone.”

“There’s only three of us. We won’t take up much room.” The man grinned, a friendly expression. “You’ll scarcely notice us.” He held the reins in one hand, the other resting casually on his hip.

“I’m sorry,” Cora said again. “I don’t wish to be discourteous, but we prefer not to share our campsite.”

Harkeld watched the man’s gaze slide over their faces and return to rest on him. He glanced at the other two riders. They were both looking at him too.

The hair rose on his scalp.

The men erupted into movement, spurring their horses forward. Gleaming metal sliced through the air towards him: a throwing star. Harkeld ducked, a shout stuck in his throat. He drew his sword. Another throwing star whizzed past his head. Someone shoved him to his knees. Justen. “Stay down!”

A lion roared. He heard shouts, the
whoosh
of flames, a scream, the shrill whinny of a horse.

Harkeld pushed to his feet, sword drawn. Justen’s blade swept a throwing star out of the air with a loud
clang
. “Down, sire!”

The melee was chaotic. One assassin was burning, still astride his horse. The horse squealed as it tried to dislodge him. A second horse galloped free, scattering the packhorses, its saddle empty. Harkeld looked for its rider; there, on the ground, with a silver-maned lion standing over the body. Two more lions dragged the third Fithian from his saddle while his horse screamed in terror. The assassin didn’t scream; he fought, a snarl on his face and a blade gleaming in his hand. He hit the ground and tried to scramble to his feet. The lions pounced, tearing at him.

Justen glanced back. “You all right?”

Harkeld nodded.

The body of the burned assassin tumbled to the ground and lay smoking. His horse fled, still squealing.

Justen lowered his sword. The last Fithian was dead, his throat ripped out. One lion shook its head, spraying blood, and changed shape. Gerit. “What were you doing?” Gerit yelled at Katlen. “Why didn’t you use your magic? Just stood there and let us do all the fighting!”

“There wasn’t time—”

“There was plenty of time!” he bellowed. “Cora burned one. Why didn’t you? And you!” He turned to the speckled hawk as it landed. “You should have been down here, fighting, not flapping around up there!”

The hawk changed shape. Hew’s face was pale beneath the freckles, as if he’d never seen death so close before. “It’s forbidden to kill with magic.”

“Not if you’re a Sentinel,” Gerit snarled. “Not if you’re fighting Fithians.”

Harkeld sheathed his sword. He inhaled, smelling burned flesh, smelling blood. How long had the battle taken? A minute? Less?

The silver-maned lion changed into Petrus. His face was as blood-stained as Gerit’s. He spat, wiped his mouth with his hand, spat again.

Gerit swung to face Katlen. “You should go back to Rosny, the lot of you, if that’s the best you can do! Useless, cowardly—”

“Gerit.” Cora’s voice was sharp. “That’s enough.”

He turned to her, teeth bared in his bloodied face.

“If you’re unharmed, get after those horses. Bring them back. You too, Hew.” Cora flicked Harkeld a glance. “You all right?”

“Yes.”

Justen took a step forward. “Ebril’s hurt—”

“Rand and Frane can heal him.” Cora beckoned to the healers and hurried over to Ebril. The witch was clasping his upper arm. Blood leaked between his fingers.

Justen looked down at his sword. He made a sound of dismay.

“Nicked?” Harkeld said. “I’m not surprised. You caught one of those things out of the air.”

“Ach, that was luck, not skill.” Justen looked back, pulled a face. His gaze fastened on something behind Harkeld. “Susa!”

The blonde fire witch lay on the ground, arms outspread, a throwing star buried in her throat.

“Cora!” Harkeld yelled. “We need the healers! Now!”

Justen dropped to his knees, touched the witch’s face.

“She’ll be all right.” Harkeld crouched alongside the armsman, hearing footsteps running towards them. “The healers—”

Justen shook his head. Tears shone in his eyes. “She’s dead.”

CHAPTER FOUR

T
HEY DUG A
grave for Susa and a pit for the assassins. “Why bother?” Gerit said, throwing down his shovel. “Let ’em rot where they lie.”

Petrus opened his mouth, but Cora spoke first: “Because we must leave no trace of this.”

“But—”

“Use your sense, Gerit!” Cora brushed strands of hair impatiently away from her face. “One of these men was obviously killed by magic. Do you want to let all of Ankeny know where we are?”

Gerit flushed.

“Even if there was no bounty on Flin’s head, we’d need to hide this. You know what people here think of mages.”

Petrus drove his shovel into the stony soil with a sharp crunching sound. “‘The only good mage is a dead one.’”

Gerit picked up his shovel again, scowling.

Night fell while they dug. Petrus worked alongside Justen and Prince Harkeld, hacking at the ground, his chest tight with grief. He levered a rock from the soil, hefted it aside, and leaned on his shovel, sweating, panting.

On the other side of the meadow, Gerit and Frane were digging Susa’s grave.

I didn’t even get to say hello to her
.

Petrus looked away. Ebril, his arm healed, held one of the assassins’ mounts while Rand dealt with the slashes on its haunches. Petrus recognized the beast. His own claws had made those wounds.

The taste of the assassin’s blood abruptly filled his mouth. Petrus clenched his jaw against the urge to vomit. He concentrated on his breathing and let his gaze drift around the campsite. Katlen was picketing the packhorses, Cora pitching tents, Hew flying overhead, his owl’s body shimmering faintly. A pot of stew cooked on the fire.

It looked so ordinary. He could almost imagine Susa wasn’t dead.

But if Susa was alive, they’d be talking as they worked, laughing. Definitely laughing. Susa always made people laugh.

Rage and grief boiled up in him. Petrus attacked the stony soil again.

When the bodies were buried, they stood at Susa’s grave. Rand spoke the words, “All-Mother, we give this woman to your care, that she may rest peacefully.”

Ebril crouched and placed his hand on the mounded dirt. What silent farewell was he saying?

Petrus crouched too and laid his hand on the grave.
Goodbye, Susa
. The unfairness of it boiled up in him again. He pushed to his feet and walked down to the river, stumbling on half-seen stones.

“Does anyone have the green touch?” he heard Cora ask.

“I do,” someone said. Frane or Rand.

“See what you can do to hide these.”

“Green touch?” The voice was Prince Harkeld’s.

Petrus cupped water in his hands, rinsed his mouth, and spat. The taste of the assassin’s blood lingered on his tongue.

Ebril came to stand beside him. “You all right?”

“Why Susa?” Petrus said in a low, savage voice. “Why couldn’t it have been Gerit? All he does is spew bad temper! Why couldn’t it have been him and not her?” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Rut it. I’m sorry, Ebril. I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t mean I want Gerit dead. It’s just... Susa...”

“I know,” Ebril said, crouching alongside him. “Everyone liked Susa. She made people happy.”

Petrus rubbed his face and sighed. “Rut it.”

“Cora wants you to swap with Innis for a while. Let her be herself.”

Petrus stood and headed back to the camp. Frane knelt at Susa’s grave, his hands resting on the soil, a look of concentration on his face.

Petrus blew out a breath, trying to find calmness within himself.
It could have been worse. It could have been Innis who died
.

D
INNER WAS A
silent meal. Fresh meat, for the first time in weeks. Petrus forced himself to eat; he could still taste the assassin’s blood. Each time he swallowed, nausea churned in his stomach. Ebril ate quickly, shucked his clothes, changed into an owl, and flew up into the sky. A few minutes later, Hew came and took Ebril’s place at the fire.

“These curse shadows are off-putting,” Rand said. “I’ve never seen ones so strong.”

Petrus glanced at the healer, seeing the dark stain of Ivek’s curse lying over him, promise of the death awaiting Rand now that he’d set foot in the Seven Kingdoms.

“You get used to it,” Cora said. “I hardly notice them now.”

Rand looked doubtful.

Petrus could tell him it was true—he only saw the curse shadows if someone pointed them out—but he didn’t feel like speaking. He stirred his stew without enthusiasm.

Katlen put down her bowl. “I don’t understand how they knew to follow us. We did nothing to draw attention to ourselves!”

“You must have done,” Gerit said.

“You look different,” Prince Harkeld said. “If I’d been them, I’d have followed you too.”

Katlen frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Look at you.” He gestured with his spoon. “You’re a woman, yet you’re wearing trews and carrying a sword. It’s not natural.”