Kingdoms on Fire

5. Firian

5

Firian

Firian woke with a jerk. His head throbbed. The air felt acrid against his nose and throat but he wasn’t bound anymore—a small mercy, but it was mercy. Why hadn’t Belik just killed him?

He jumped to his feet. His vision narrowed with the quick movement, tilting the ground beneath him. He caught himself and focused.

The events of the night rushed back, almost collapsing him under their weight. The offer to trade the Kingdom for Kiria, letting her go, the attempted murder of Bard, Belik’s betrayal, realizing she didn’t love him… How had it come to this?

He was in a cell, the air smoky and dark. Judging from the haze, he must be in or near the palace. Floor to ceiling bars blocked him from the rest of the small space. On the other side of the bars was nothing but a blank antechamber, a space for standing. His was the only cell. The quality of shadows at the end of the rectangular room suggested a bend leading to steps or a longer hallway. Yes, there was the jut of the lowest stair. He was alone.

Firian thrust his arm through the bars, feeling for the lock. On one side of the crisscrossed bars was a box with a large keyhole. The burns he’d received on his arms as he ran through the fields of the outer edge a few hours before protested against the rough treatment. They weren’t deep, but still stung with any pressure. Firian hadn’t noticed the pain until now.

He shoved his finger into the keyhole and felt around. No latch gave; no hint of its internal mechanism brushed against him. He scanned the walls for hooks, shelves, ropes—anything that could help him, but there was nothing.

If his environment couldn’t help, his next recourse was to communicate through the Unreal. He could feel for someone he might be able to trust. Bard was incapacitated, but Firian had still been popular among many of the other Tanyu, even those he didn’t often talk to. He lunged below.

The force of the shock flung him stumbling against the wall. In his desperation, he hadn’t immediately felt the Sentry placed over his mind. This was worse than anything they’d done to him so far. He yelled and punched the stone wall. The blow broke the skin on his knuckles but kept his bones intact. A dark smudge smeared the wall and the bite of pain felt good.

He sucked in a breath. Did he believe Bard and Kiria were alive because he hadn’t felt their panic, hadn’t felt the pain of their leaving? Was a Sentry strong enough to hide a truth that devastating?

He forced himself to stay calm, but the effort left him trembling. He hadn’t felt so helpless since he was a child hearing his father’s drunken footsteps coming toward his room.

No one had placed a Sentry on Firian since… Belik. It was his fault last time too. Firian’s bloody hands curled into fists. Belik had ordered a Sentry after discovering that Firian kept spying on Kiria even after she gave no new information.

That had been months ago. He was stronger now. He could go to the Second Level. He could kill from there. He had practiced skills no other Tanyu could achieve. Even Belik hadn’t managed to kill Bard. Not yet.

He had to get through. Standing tall with legs spread, he brought air deep, deep into his lungs. Setting his jaw, he closed his eyes, calling on his considerable focus. With all the violence he could summon, he dove down again.

For a few seconds he knew nothing but pain, bursting from his head to his extremities. Sheer willpower kept him there a second longer. He burned from the inside out, pain ripping from a thousand exit wounds. Another second. Maybe he would die. All it takes is belief.

With a gasp, he released his hold. Opening his eyes, he landed heavily on his hipbone as he collapsed. Another gasp brought up vomit. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, reeling from the smell. His headache had spread to the base of his neck, throbbing along his skull. He refused to die. Not when he had to kill Belik.

Pale light, then quiet footsteps cut through his pain. He froze and then forced himself to stand. Through the metal grating he saw a figure wearing the high-necked robe of an Amir, holding a torch and something else in its hands. As his vision cleared, he recognized the man.

It was Kiria’s—what? Friend? Advisor? Daelon was his name. Firian felt a handhold, a crack in Belik’s plan. He knew something about this Amir. “Daelon?”

The man’s expression remained bereft and wary but he approached Firian without slowing or angling away. He laid a cup of water and hunk of bread on the ground just outside the bars. Belik didn’t intend to kill Firian now if he had someone bring him food. Perhaps this was a peace offering.

“What’s going on out there?” Firian tried to keep his voice kind, but the question came out as a demand.

Daelon ground his teeth. “Your people are taking over everything,” he said. “They’ve profaned the holy place.”

“What did they do?”

“You don’t deserve to know.”

Firian glared but kept his composure. “I won’t be in here long,” he managed. “If you tell me, I can stop them.” Seeing the indecision in Daelon’s eyes, he added, “I’m obviously not on their side.”

“They’ve killed the Keepers,” Daelon said thickly, going greenish pale.

Firian’s gut dipped. The blackness of the shadows reached out for him, constricted his throat. No. “Is there proof?”

“I haven’t seen it.” The desolation didn’t leave his eyes.

“Kiria’s still alive.” The words came out before Firian could bite them back. Maybe he needed to hear them himself, like a fresh breeze through this forsaken, fetid place. The Amir needed to hear them too. If Belik had shown no proof, then Kiria wasn’t dead. She couldn’t be. Firian refused to believe it.

Daelon’s mouth fell open. He blinked with raised eyebrows. A tear slid down his cheek. When he closed his mouth again, he muttered something under his breath. A prayer, maybe. Then suspicion entered his gaze again. “Are you sure?” he asked, each word clear.

“Yes.” Kiria was alive. Bard was alive too. A Sentry couldn’t hide something so monumental from him. That belief kept the last bit of ground from crumbling beneath his feet.

Daelon wrung his hands before dragging one over his face.

A moment of panic took Firian. If Belik actually thought that Kiria had been killed, then he had just told someone a fact that could send new assassins after her. One more look at Daelon dispelled his fear. This man, at least, wouldn’t tell Belik. He was loyal to Kiria. Besides, Firian doubted Belik would allow an Amir into his presence when it wasn’t necessary to his plan. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said, just in case. His tone bore a threat he didn’t verbalize.

In his place, Kiria wouldn’t threaten Daelon, but anything that could give her additional minutes to escape had to be tried. What would Kiria do, if she were locked here? She wouldn’t accept the fate of Brithnem. Just hours before, she showed what she was willing to do to save it. The memory tasted like shame.

Daelon’s pupils contracted, flame flickering across them from the torchlight, but then he gave a sad smile, as though death wouldn’t be so bad after all he’d witnessed. Then he nodded. “I don’t have a key,” he admitted.

It wasn’t an offer of help, exactly, but it was close.

Quietly, the man turned to go, leaving the torch burning in a bracket and providing helpful light. Soft footfalls faded to nothing in the distance.

Iron rust from the bars had left bloody-looking red marks on Firian’s arms, which he hadn’t been able to see before. He grabbed the two items and pulled them inside his cell. They could be poisoned. The drink Belik had sent him after Firian had called off the raid had some kind of agent in it that knocked him out. This could be the same. He’d get water after he was out of this prison. He crushed the bread. Just hard crust and doughy insides. Nothing else.

All he’d needed to do was alert some of the Tanyu that this wasn’t his plan the moment he realized Belik acted in his name. They would have pulled back, even disposed of Belik for him. Now he couldn’t contact anyone. Panic had made him stupid.

Black despair threatened to close around him with the finality of death. He was trapped. Belik was taking control of Kiria’s city. The only people he cared about were as good as dead, and they hated him. He had failed. He had failed. Just as his father had predicted. The words he’d heard as a child played in a hectic, overlapping loop.

Why’d we even keep this scut? Worthless, gory, stupid kid…

He felt hollowed out. The echoes bounced inside him until he couldn’t take the noise. He screamed. He even startled himself with the shredding sound. The worst things he could think of, all the curses and all the pain he kept inside his head, burst out in barely coherent shouts. Wrapping his fists around the bars of his cage, he rattled hard until the veins stood up on his arms and blood from his knuckles dripped down to the floor.

Deflating, he grimaced. His heel hit the bread crust on the floor as he backed up.

He would not give into despair. He would not. Belik would not win.