Kingdoms on Fire

2. Firian

2

Firian

Firian heaved out a shaky breath and readjusted the body he carried across his shoulders. Bard’s limp form was surprisingly heavy and unstable, even though Firian grabbed his wrists tightly. His arm wrapped around the crook of Bard’s knees, even though that meant limited mobility for that hand. If a guard came to kill them both, he would have to drop his friend and fight.

No, the guard wouldn’t come to kill Bard. Only Belik wanted him dead, and he thought he had finished the job. Only the faint warm breath against Firian’s left cheek suggested Belik was wrong. Bard was alive, but barely.

Something warm and wet slid down Firian’s temple and dripped off his jaw. Blood. Bard’s blood.

Firian bit back a groan as he picked up his pace. He needed a doctor. Now. The only one he could remember was the doctor who had come for Salaar, the Amir Firian had killed in his sleep several months ago. He barely recalled what the man looked like, much less his name.

With palace guards after him, and Belik no longer an ally, Firian was on his own. He fought back panic. Getting out of this enormous tomb seemed like it had to be the first step.

Which doors would Belik and the other Tanyu have used? Judging from the silence, they would still be unguarded for a few moments. Firian conjured a map in his mind, ticking off the options. Belik wanted to kill, to conquer. One choice stood out. It was what Firian would have done.

If Firian had had a bad leg, that is.

There were high windows no one bothered to guard that could be easy entrance points, but Belik couldn’t reach them. Firian had shown Kiria last year. Her two friends had been there, too—the Third Keeper and his brother.

His brother, Jori.

Firian blinked hard, willing himself to come out of the Unreal. He hated to admit it, but shock sometimes thrust him into the Unreal without his knowledge. If he didn’t realize his mistake about reality, he could be Lost forever in that imaginary space.

He’d realized quickly this time, at least. Jori Calthwaite sprinted toward him in a radically unlikely way. His billowy white shirt and open embroidered vest flowed around him in his speed. His gray boots rose to uneven heights on his legs. When he saw Firian, he skidded to a halt and drew himself up like a fighter in a children’s story. Like he’d never really fought anyone before. His face was chalk white.

“Where’s Kiria?” he demanded, too loudly. “Is she alive?”

Firian couldn’t break out of the illusion, so he spat back, “Yes! Where’s a doctor?”

Jori’s chin trembled with his next words. “You didn’t kill her?”

Firian adjusted his hold on Bard’s wrists, jogging him further up on his shoulders. “No. A doctor!” At this point it didn’t matter if what he saw was real. Bard was dying.

Jori squinted at Bard, as though seeing him for the first time. “Is that Bard?”

Firian cursed. “Yes. I need a doctor now!”

Jori waved him forward, breaking into a run. “Here, here,” he said.

Firian followed Jori’s kicking heels, eyes darting to all the details he and Kiria had changed. The purple of the carpets, leaves of the sachion trees, frames of the portraits, panes in the windows—everything was right. He wasn’t in the Unreal. This was really happening.

Jori ducked into a small storage room. He jumped high-kneed over bags of dried food and piles of silk blankets like someone who had done this hundreds of times. Bundling sheets in his arms, he threw them out of the way, revealing a small square door underneath, set low into the wall. It came up to Jori’s thigh.

Firian calculated whether he could crawl through with Bard in his arms. It was challenging, but he could make it work if this was the only way. “This leads to the doctor?” he demanded.

“We have to get out,” Jori said, his voice desperate as he started to force open the door.

Bending forward so Bard would stay in place from his own weight, Firian grabbed Jori’s throat and forced him to his feet. “Is this the quickest way?”

Terrified tears streamed down Jori’s face. “Please…”

“Is it?” Firian gave him a shake. Bard’s legs began to slump off his shoulders. He let go of Jori to catch Bard behind the knees again.

Jori fell to the floor, gesturing helplessly to the tiny opening. “There’s a doctor through here.”

“Then go.” Firian kicked him, galvanizing him into action again. He had no time for panic, no time to think. Bard’s body was still warm against the back of his head, but he couldn’t be sure he felt breathing anymore when his own was so erratic.

As Jori lunged headfirst into the opening, Firian eased Bard to the ground, considering all the ways to haul him through this space that must be only for emergencies. He took Bard by the armpits and dragged him to the opening, getting himself inside first, and then Bard after him. It was an awkward arrangement. Bard was lying partly on top of him with his back against Firian’s chest, but Firian found he could push his way along with his legs while still holding onto Bard.

There were no lights in the tunnel and very little air. The claustrophobic smell of mold and dampness permeated his nostrils. “How far does this go?” he hissed.

Jori’s voice sounded far ahead of him. “Just this way.”

That didn’t answer his question, so Firian just focused on going as fast as he could, pushing off with his feet as he dragged Bard’s limp body. Again and again and again. A faint heartbeat pulsed beneath Bard’s arms. He was still holding on. The earthen floor of the tunnel scraped Firian’s back as he forced himself backward, heedless of anything in his path. Part of his shirt ripped loudly, shredded by the pebbles.

Finally, light fell over them. Firian’s head cast a black shadow over Bard, so he couldn’t see his friend’s face, couldn’t see if more blood leaked from his eyes like tears. With renewed energy, Firian kicked against the walls and tumbled out onto wet grass. The light had come from the moon. They were outside the palace walls, though where exactly, Firian couldn’t tell. Surf crashed in the distance and the shadowy shapes of buildings rose over the grassy basin where they’d emerged.

Jori was already sprinting away. Firian cursed repeatedly under his breath as he bent down to pick up Bard. Jori had to be running for the doctor. If he was running to get away from the Tanyuin invasion, he was a gory coward who deserved worse than what Bard was enduring.

Firian’s breath seized. Bard’s light brown face had gone gray. He still had a pulse, but he was fading fast. Even a doctor might not be able to save him. “Come on,” he muttered as he pulled him up again. The flowing breeze cooled his back and confirmed his suspicion that much of the shirt had been torn away. He was probably bleeding, but it didn’t matter.

He eased Bard’s unconscious body to the ground. No warm air feathered against the back of his hand when he held it against Bard’s mouth. Too much time passed between thick heartbeats before a sign of life appeared.

From the top of the knoll, Jori and a man ran toward them. “Here’s a doctor. It’s a doctor,” Jori said when he reached them.

The doctor was tall and thin, middle-aged, with a hanging lip and a wary eye, like some homeless travelers Firian had seen. Despite looking as though Jori had woken him from a deep sleep, the man looked at Bard with precision and concern, and Firian had no other choice. This doctor had to help, or there was no hope to save his friend. Maybe hope had already left.

The doctor knelt next to him, checking his vitals.

Firian stood above them, unable to walk away. But a second task assaulted his mind, now that this one was done. He couldn’t do anything more to help Bard. His life or death was out of his hands now. He’d done what he could. Even with those reasonable words, he lingered. Was there nothing—nothing—more he could do?

Bard’s eyes were glued shut with blood. The backs of his hands were filthy from rubbing against the walls of the tunnel. Firian watched his chest to see it rise and fall, just once. Then he could leave. It felt like a long time before he saw it.

He swallowed. “Give him the best treatment,” he told the doctor. “He lives.” He said it like an ultimatum. When he glanced up from Bard, Jori had already gone.

Spinning around, he saw the palace rising behind him. They’d gone just past the wall enclosing the palace grounds. In there was Belik.

Without looking back, he dove into the dark passageway, running like an animal on all fours. Belik had defied him, tried to kill Bard, taken control of his men, gone after Kiria… The crimes went on in an endless list. All the lies and manipulation he had endured came back like bitterness on his tongue. How had he not seen this coming? “Gore,” he muttered and pushed himself to speed up.

He burst through the other side of the tunnel, colliding with a basket of candles in his speed. They rolled across the floor as he leapt over them to get to the hallway.

As he emerged from the storeroom, he grabbed a long strip of cloth, tying it around his palm as he ran. Where was Belik? He tightened the end of the knot with his teeth.

Belik wanted the Tanyu to have control of Brithnem. He hadn’t given the Keepers a peaceable option, so he would take what he wanted. That meant that he would follow the method he taught Firian: disable the leaders and have the public swear you in on whatever they deemed holy. In this case, the Sacred Scroll. Firian hadn’t brought his copy from the Academy since Brithnem was known to have duplicates. If those tactics didn’t work, he’d threaten their lives and the lives of those they cared about.

Belik had already gone after the Keepers. Firian cast his thoughts toward Kiria again. He still felt the distinct buzz of her presence on the edge of his thoughts. She was in distress, but not dead. For now, anyway, she was safe. Hopefully she’d found someplace to hide until he could put this right.

He looked down at the carpet rushing beneath him and took a slow breath. This is the best way to help her. She might not take my help now anyway. The thought did little to dissuade him from going to find her, but it did enough. He would find out more about Kiria later.

What about Cúron and Atael? There was no time. Checking on them would mean wasting time looking for Belik. Belik was the one who needed to be stopped. He had betrayed Firian in the worst way possible. Even the thought brought the taste of blood to Firian’s mouth.

He had to be at the Amiran Academy. It was the only place guaranteed to have copies of the Sacred Scroll. Few of the Amir would consent to crown Belik the leader, or Keeper, or whatever he demanded. But he had to be there.

The closest exit brought him past Kiria’s bedroom again. Hopefully no guards would slow him down.

Even as he thought it, he heard footsteps behind him. It didn’t matter whose they were, Kingdom or Tanyu. Firian stopped dead and whipped out his knife. Eight Kingdom guards in silver and blue ran toward him, swords in hand. Behind them was a strange orange glow. The fire on the outer edge couldn’t be raging so fiercely that its light reached that far.

The truth dawned. The palace itself was on fire.

But that wasn’t why the guards were running. The fight in their eyes showed they were coming for him.

He spread his legs in a fighting stance. Eight against one. Normally, those weren’t great odds, but the fire in his veins made him feel superhuman. He had to find Belik. These people were just roadblocks. There wasn’t time to explain that he wasn’t the enemy. They wouldn’t believe him anyway.

He sliced a warning in the air with his knife as he scanned the space. If he used his killing ability to wipe them out at once, he’d weaken himself too much to go after Belik. He wouldn’t risk it.

Statue, window, plant, chandelier.

Creativity and simplicity. The words of Master Asoka, the woman who’d taught strategy at the Academy, came back to him. Those make the best plans.

The first two guards reached him.

With his wrapped hand, he grabbed the first soldier’s sword by the blade and swirled it around into the man’s knee, where the armor was vulnerable. One down. His other hand dug the dagger under the second soldier’s arm.

Crouching by the injured bodies, Firian made the next soldier hesitate, unwilling to swing a weapon so near his writhing comrades. Mistake.

Firian slid the sword and dagger forward, parallel on the carpet. The hesitant soldier looked down. It was the entry Firian needed to vault over the men on the ground and plant a hard kick in the man’s chest, sending him tumbling into the man next to him.

Both blades were in Firian’s hands again. With another precise kick, he left the two men nursing broken bones. Four down.

A thrown knife incapacitated a fifth.

He parried a thrust from the next soldier. Most Kingdom guards heavily favored their right sides. Firian’s observation over the last year had detected five primary moves that all seemed to master. Such a limited repertoire.

Keeping his eye on the two others, Firian fought the largest guard, probably the most experienced as well. Each parried thrust flung his opponent’s sword in the direction of one of his comrades. Such action hamstrung both enemies at once.

Use everything at hand. You are part of the environment.

But he couldn’t let the fluidity and rush of battle distract him from his mission. He didn’t have time to waste here.

He switched the sword to his left hand and disarmed the man with his right, protected by the cloth. A slice across the front of the helmet left his opponent crumpled on the ground.

Releasing his energy in a yell, he yanked down one of the large potted trees between them, leaving Firian with the exit. They stumbled out of its way, momentarily distracted. Firian raced in the other direction, watching the view from the windows.

He’d seen the Amiran Academy on the palace grounds before. It wasn’t hard to find. He didn’t wait for a door that might be guarded. The tied cloth guarded his hand against glass shards as he leapt through the nearest window frame.

Belik would have other people with him. If the Master had gone alone, palace guards would kill him for treason. If he went with a group of armed Tanyu, they could fight off the guards or hold Amir hostage, or however he thought best to get their attention and their pledge of loyalty.

The dome of the Amiran building rose beside the manicured gardens behind the castle. Columns surrounded its covered portico and round lanterns hung around the entire circumference. He knew those lights. His father, a glassmaker, had sent Firian to learn the family trade. All those white lanterns came from Raewhith, his hometown, but they were patterned on the colored lanterns of Shifra that Kiria loved so much.

His heart thundered as he charged toward the building. It was foolhardy to run in a straight line and in plain sight, but he didn’t care. He could take down any Tanyu one on one if he had to, and it was a matter of extreme urgency. He couldn’t slow his blood enough to hide in the shadows. Kiria, Bard, now Belik—it was too much. His body was alight with urgency. He barely felt his feet fall on the flagstones.

As he vaulted a green bush, he spotted the first Tanyu. It was just the sliver of an arm behind a column—there, and then out of sight. Almost a trick of the eye in the darkness. Without those globed lights, he might not have noticed it. Nothing else stirred.

He flew toward the column, catching the ankle of the traitor and then gripping them by the neck. He spun around to see Xan, a Tanyuin girl a couple years older than he was, stone-faced, hair braided back. She had fought with him under Tiev when the Tanyu had launched a fear campaign against the Kingdom. Before Firian became the Tanyuin Head and called off that war, which Belik had started up again. He tasted coppery blood in his mouth.

“Where is he?” he snarled in Xan’s face. She looked confused rather than afraid, though her pulse raced in the web of his hand.

She could have brought her arms up to snatch his hand away, but didn’t. Unable to speak, her eyes flicked from his face to a spot to his left. Adrenaline shot through his body. His hand flexed under her jaw as he turned around enough to see over his left shoulder. No Belik.

Until today, he had never had bad blood with Xan. For a heartbeat, he wondered what to do. Then he boxed her on the side of the head, knocking her out. He caught her as she fell so she wouldn’t hit her skull on the stone floor. Belik was the only one who should die for his crimes.

He swiveled to the door directly behind him and yanked it open. A narrow, winding staircase led out of sight. There was no way to see if anyone lay in wait above.

Belik had taken control of the Tanyuin forces against Firian’s will, so he had to know Firian would retaliate. Belik had pitted them against one another. Only one of them would make it out of the capital today. The thought made him catch his breath in a rush of emotions he couldn’t name.

“Firian.”

He whirled at the sound of his name. He knew that voice. It sounded as measured as ever.

“I’m glad you joined us.” Down the walkway stood Belik, flanked by Tanyu. Shiro and Nedi were at the forefront. Blood speckled both their faces and their hands were stained dull red. Light from the burning palace lit Belik’s face, highlighting the bruise purpling his jaw. Firian’s heart pounded against his chest, the sound rushing in his ears. Before he knew what he was doing, he hurled himself at the Master.

Something hit his shins and he vaulted face-first to the ground. His arms were immediately pinned behind him and bound. White spots burst in his vision, but he tucked his knees under himself, getting ready to spring. He tried to explode upward, but the weight of many bodies held him down.

He reached toward the Second Level. These people were blocking his way to Belik… that traitor… that murderer…

“Firian.” That hateful voice again. “They’re just doing what I ask. If you kill us all, you’ll kill good Tanyu and maybe yourself if you’re not goddamn careful.”

A shard of deliberation sliced through Firian’s rage, and it said that Belik was right. Choking on fury, Firian opened his eyes. He was on his knees, his wrists attached to his ankles. Air felt trapped inside his ribcage. Stars still followed his vision as he narrowed a glare at Belik.

“There,” said Belik. “I figured you’d be angry, but I finished our mission. I removed the Keepers and the city belongs to us. So don’t be an i***t, and join us.”

Rage clouded Firian’s sight. He spat in response. Behind his back, he writhed his hands. Shredded bits of his shirt blew against them, but he wouldn’t be able to slip the bonds unless he broke his thumbs. It wasn’t time for that yet. He might still need his thumbs.

“This is what we’ve been working for all this time.” Belik inhaled through clenched teeth. “We know what you did, but there’s still time to… atone.” He fixed Firian with a look, impressing on him his crime of letting Kiria persuade him not to attack Brithnem. What Belik didn’t understand—among many other things—was that the decision had been Firian’s alone. It pained him, even now, but any other choice would have broken her heart, made him the monster he didn’t want to be.

Firian would never apologize.

A muscle in Belik’s jaw twitched and his nostrils flared. “Firian, I’m giving you a chance. Take it.”

If the choice was between death and joining this man, the choice was easy. But Firian was fairly sure there was a third option. He didn’t like it, but it lay in wait down in the Second Level, where everyone’s brains and hearts and lungs pulsed with life. Firian suspended himself above that abyss, ready to plunge in if Belik made a move.

When Firian didn’t answer, Belik’s eyes narrowed. He nodded once to the Tanyu next to him, Master Nedi.

Nedi, huge and imposing, walked forward with purpose. Firian realized what he was going to do a second before it happened. Pain exploded in his temple and everything went black.