Embrace the Fire Read online

  Ayden's ears buzzed. He had been an unwilling victim of the Ash-Touch for years. He'd thought Sebastian had brought the curse on him by taibe, but he hadn't realized that the true source of the Touch was the Amulet.

  Visceral hatred for Sebastian and his taibe burned Ayden's hands even hotter. Never had he hated anything more.

  Helga—a Seer Fey—had given him the Amulet to help him break Sebastian's curse. The heat in his hands deepened, and Ayden clenched his fingers against his palm. He snatched the scroll and shoved it back onto the shelf, rifling below it for scrolls detailing the histories of West Ashwynd.

  These were newer; West Ashwynd was, in comparison to Lismaria, a young country with few decades to document.

  Ayden found the one he wanted and pulled it out, smoothing it on the table and pulling the candle closer to it so he could see. The list of the Clans caught his attention first, followed by the leaders of each one. He scanned down to the Dryads. There.

  Leighton of the Dryad Dells – Elder and Chief, followed by the dates. Death Notice served upon discovery of his remains. Fire outside of the village of Delling.

  Ayden straightened and snapped the scroll shut. Delling was a mere half day's hike from the Dells' library.

  Ignoring the pain in his hands, he strode toward the door and yanked it open. The answers he sought lingered just beyond the searing torture in his fingertips.

  * * *

  Delling was a small town, hardly a dot on the maps of West Ashwynd, and when Ayden entered the main street, he took note of the single inn, the pub, and the twelve huts that made up the row. The smell of stewed rabbit assailed Ayden's nostrils before he'd gone many steps, and a pang of hunger tore his stomach. He felt his money pouch—only a few sceptremarks left. Enough to last another few weeks, but then he'd have to find work again.

  Despite the scarcity of structures, several people walked the boardwalks. A crowd of rowdy soldiers staggered toward the pub. Sebastian's crest marked their robes, and their Clan insignia was a green bough on white, Elvendimn, likely traveling through the Dryad Dells either on their way west to the Three Maids or to the Forgotten Plains in the east.

  Ayden pulled his mantle over his head, shading his face. He entered the pub behind the men and found a seat near the bar. His stomach growled again, and his hunger edged out the constant awareness of the pain in his hands.

  He wondered if the barmaid would know anything about the Elder and Chief he'd read about, Leighton. If so, perhaps she could give him more information about where the Chief's property had existed before his death.

  The soldiers leaned against the bar, their loud flirtation disrupting the relative quiet. The barmaid ignored the comments, pouring drinks for each of them. She wiped the bar and picked up a jug of mead, exiting the bar and approaching Ayden.

  One of the men caught her as she passed, laughing when she splashed mead across the floor. “Give us a kiss, lass,” he said, belching as he pulled her closer.

  “Let me go.” Her voice was hard, but the man's fingers were white around her arm. The girl's breath hitched as the man's other arm slid around her back and pulled her against him.

  “Let me go!” she shouted, struggling in earnest, but the men only laughed.

  Ayden glanced around. No one moved to help, though every other occupant of the room watched behind averted faces and raised mantles.

  Ayden cursed and stood. “Leave the maid alone.”

  They quieted, while the one who had hold of the maid leered over his shoulder at Ayden. “Who're you?” The man's tongue was thick. “And why should I?”

  “Because she obviously doesn't care for contact with swine.”

  The man blinked, two slow blinks, as Ayden's insult eked through his stumbling thought processes. With a growl, he shoved the girl aside and rushed headlong at Ayden.

  Ayden stepped aside, and the man, top-heavy, crashed into the table. Snorting like a mad bull, he lumbered, his hands fisted in front of him. He swung and missed as Ayden easily dodged the blow.

  “Come on, coward,” the man yelled. “Fight!”

  “You're the coward,” Ayden ground out as he backed away. “Only a coward tries to importune an unwilling woman.”

  “You puny little—you called me a coward!” This fact seemed unforgivable to the man.

  “Indeed,” Ayden dodged two more swings. The man's friends at the bar were cheering on their fellow soldier now. Ayden raised his voice. “You're also rude, fleshy, offensive, unkempt, smelly, a possible rapist—”

  The man leaped at Ayden, but Ayden hit the floor and rolled as the man slammed into another table, cracking it clear across the center.

  Ayden stood. “If you have to fight, let's take it outside.” He glanced at the barmaid, who had taken shelter behind the bar, looking terrified.

  The man had recovered from his fall. The drunken leer had disappeared, and his movements were steadier. Ayden tensed as the man hurled himself forward. Ayden took a glancing hit on the ribs. Quicker than the man expected, Ayden plowed a thundering right jab into the man's stomach. As he bent double, Ayden shoved him toward the door. “Outside, I said.”

  As soon as he reached the door, he shoved the man into the muddy street. The man stumbled, but then pushed to his feet.

  He swung around, snarling with rage. Behind Ayden, awed onlookers streamed out the door to watch the action. Ayden circled into the street, not wanting to get caught by the man's friends.

  “You better watch yourself, lad.” The man's rusty voice shivered with anger. “You surprised me in there, but I'm ready now.”

  Ayden didn't answer. He stood, silent and tense, as the man approached. He kept his weight on the balls of his feet, and his heated fingers twitched as they waited on the edge of action. A dagger hilt peeped from the man's boot.

  The man came in low and fast, his fists flying. At the last second, Ayden sprang lightly to the side and let the man plow through.

  He turned, cursing. “Who was it you were calling a coward, boy? A brave man doesn't dodge a blow.” He barreled forward again.

  This time, Ayden threw three lightning-fast punches, catching the man in the abdomen, the jaw, and the rib cage before he moved aside again. The man hunched over, heaving.

  “No, you've got that wrong,” Ayden told him. “A stupid man doesn't dodge a blow.”

  The man straightened, surveying Ayden. Cold calculation slated his eyes. His fists came in a flurry, and Ayden parried them with his wrists. He landed two against the man's shoulder, but his opponent swung around with a cross to Ayden's stomach and knocked him to his knees.

  He danced to his feet immediately, but the man followed up with a blow to the stomach. Ayden caught his arm in its extended position, tangled his own arm around it, and flipped him to the ground. He stepped over the man and drove his free fist into the man's face. Blood sprouted from a split lip.

  Ayden backed away, waiting for the man to get to his feet. He didn't have to wait long.

  The two threw themselves into the fight. Sweat beaded Ayden's brow as he parried, ducked, threw a punch, landed some, missed some. His opponent was having a difficult time of it as well. Blood slicked the side of his face where Ayden had hit his ear and torn it. Ayden could taste blood in his own mouth where he'd taken a blow to his cheek.

  He prepared for the next onslaught as they drew back for a moment. As he did, he saw the man flick the knife from his boot. Before the man could even spin it into his grip, Ayden threw him into the mud face first, the hand that held the knife twisted behind the man's back.

  “Peace!” the man cried, his words choked in mud. “Leave off!”

  Ayden peeled the knife from the man's hand before backing away. The man slowly crawled to his feet, bending double. He spit muck and blood into the street.

  Ayden flipped the knife, watching. The crowd stayed hushed and still as they waited for the next move.

  At last the man straightened, and to Ayden's surprise, he nodded with a bloody-lipped grin. “
You fight well, boy. What's your name?”

  Ayden shrugged. “My name is of no consequence.”

  “So you intend to remain a mystery. It doesn't matter to me. I'm interested in your fighting skills.”

  Ayden raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  The man issued a bow. “My name is Quinn. I'm an Officer in King Sebastian's Elven Division. I want you among my fighters. Unless, of course,” he nodded over Ayden's shoulder, “you're already registered.”

  Ayden glanced behind him. A large wooden board covered the side of the pub, littered with scraps of parchment. On one side, a long piece had been nailed, bearing the royal crest. A list of names appeared under it.

  Ayden shook his head. “I'm not interested.” Not interested in fighting for Sebastian while the vile King searches for Kinna.

  Quinn approached and clapped Ayden's shoulder. Ayden flinched.

  “'Course you're interested. Think of all the extra sceptremarks, lad. Surely you've a use for those.”

  Ayden clenched his hands into fists; the burning hadn't left his fingers. “I care nothing for money. Not to mention that I am not Elvendimn.”

  Quinn shrugged. “It doesn't matter. I don't care who you are; you fight well, lad, better than most soldiers with years of experience. I want someone with your expertise in my detail. I could even find room for you in the leadership ranks, if you've a mind.”

  Ayden turned toward the bar. Quinn followed him inside, stopping near the doorway as Ayden approached the bar. The maid wiped the wood surface until it shone. Ayden dug in his pocket and pulled out the last few sceptremarks he had, tossing them onto the counter.

  The maid eyed him. “That's a pow'rful lot o' drink, mister. Sure you want that much?”

  “It's for the broken table and a bit of information.”

  The maid stared at the money. “What information d'ye need?”

  Ayden lowered his voice. “I'm looking for information on Leighton, Chief of the Dryad Dells some years ago.”

  The girl's eyebrows rose. “Why, the very same dwelt in the woods west o' Delling. 'T'were the six-trunked oak he lived in, about three fieldspans outside the village. His daughter still lives there, in the Charred Oak.”

  Ayden nearly smiled. It had seemed unlikely he'd find any answers, but this was promising. He nodded and turned to go.

  “Sure you don't want that drink, mister?” she asked. She blushed when he looked back at her. “On the house if you'll let me drink one with you.” She tilted her chin up, meeting his eyes, a move that reminded Ayden so strongly of Kinna that pain lanced his stomach, and Kinna's vivid green eyes and fiery hair swam before him.

  He loved her, by the Stars, but by a cruel twist of fate, he'd never have her. She would wed her brown-haired Pixiedimn as soon as the upheaval between Lismaria and West Ashwynd was over, and he'd die before he'd see her bear children that bore the resemblance of the union. When he'd kissed her the last time he'd seen her, he'd wrapped the memory of her soft lips and tear-moistened lashes and shoved it behind jealous thoughts where he wouldn't be tempted to retrieve it.

  He shook his head. “Thank you, miss. Take care.” He turned for the door.

  By the Great Star, he missed her.

  “I'm staying at the Sign of the Eagle, lad, if you change your mind.” Quinn's voice caught Ayden on his way out. Ayden gave no sign that he had heard.

  * * *

  Searing pain heated Ayden's hands, spreading up his arms into his shoulders as he strode along the sidewalk toward the edge of the village, and he stopped, raising his hands to his mouth to blow cool air on his skin. It did next to nothing, and he felt a scream rising. He held it back with an effort. He couldn't flee the pain.

  He was Dragondimn; heat wasn't supposed to affect him like this. It had to be the Amulet. His thoughts returned to the scrolls he'd read in the Dryad Dells' library only days ago, but they didn't stay there. As always, at least in the last four months, they returned to Kinna. When he'd said goodbye to her four months ago, excusing himself from the torture of watching her wed Julian, he hadn't realized that the Amulet would curse him with another type of pain that would follow him without relief. He'd traveled from place to place, always wary of drawing too close to The Crossings, always careful not to give his true name. If what the scroll said was true, and Sebastian owned the other side of the Amulet's earthly elements, he would be searching for Ayden without mercy.

  He rubbed his fingers together, gritting his teeth against the burn. This was by far the longest episode of pain he'd had. He wondered if an apothecary would have herbs that could dent the pain, but his money was gone. Helga, the taibas who had given him the Amulet to help him break his Ash-Touch curse, might have been able to advise him, but she lived too close to The Crossings, and he needed to stay far from there if he valued his life.

  Ayden stared at the thick blanket of forest that spread before him, a deeper black than the night sky. Three fieldspans, the barmaid had said. It would have been easier in the daylight, but he wanted answers now.

  His jaw tightened and his dry eyes burned nearly as badly as his hands.

  He lashed out, his fist pounding angrily into the wood siding of a building.

  “Keep your dirty paws to yourself, mister,” a voice at the window shouted.

  Ayden jerked his gaze toward the voice and then paused when he saw the board he'd hit. The swinging light from the hanging torches arced weirdly over the siding. In the gleam, a dark fist-print decorated the board. Ayden glanced at his hand, but he could see no evidence of ink or anything else that would have rubbed off.

  He clenched his hand into a fist again and placed it carefully against the mark. It matched point for point exactly the outline of his fingers.

  Smoke curled in wisps from the board, and Ayden yanked his hand away. The mark was blacker than before.

  Awe mixed with dread seized his stomach. It's getting worse!

  He'd broken his curse. He was supposed to be able to touch again without killing another person. Even a Dragondimn wouldn't come away from the Ash-Touch unscarred. And now his hands were setting things aflame.

  “Noooo!” he shouted, his voice breaking.

  “Here you, if you're going to be hitting my house and moaning on my porch step, I've a mind to take a broom to you. Now be off with you!” The figure in the house appeared in the doorway, a broom in her hand.

  Ayden stumbled off the step into the road, mumbling an apology without thinking about it.

  That couldn't be right. He'd fought Quinn barehanded, and the man hadn't complained. True, his hand was hotter now than it had been when he'd fought, but surely...

  The trees enveloped him as he entered the forest, and as his pain increased, so did his strides, until he was sprinting, fleeing the torture that wouldn't leave him. Up hills and down, he ran, over ridges, through hemlock groves, spruce, ash, maple. The gurgle of a stream crossed his ears, and he angled toward it, its clear, liquid music slicing through his internal screams. He struggled through the underbrush, past several trees, and collapsed on the muddy banks.

  He stared in horror at his hands. They glowed ember-orange in the deep blackness.

  He plunged his hands into the stream-bed. The water hissed and steam wafted around Ayden's face. He sighed in relief; he could still feel the heat, but it wasn't so oppressive.

  After a while, he sank onto the riverbank, keeping his hands in the water. He glanced at the stars to check his position. He'd run at least three fieldspans.

  A voice yanked him to his feet. “It will get better, you know.” It came from the tree on the opposite side of the bank. A Dryad studied him from where she stood, wound around her oak tree, twirling her hair with her finger.

  Ayden shook himself from his shock. “Am I near the grove of the Charred Oak?”

  The Dryad nodded. “Aye.” She motioned to the tree behind her. “There is the grove, and this is the tree.”

  The oak's bark shone black in the moonlight, and though Ay
den couldn't tell the actual color, a faintly burnt scent wafted his way. He sank back onto the ground and placed his burning hands in the water again. “What gets better?” he asked warily.

  The Dryad nodded at his hands. “The heat will dissipate if you discover how to use it.”

  Ayden lifted an eyebrow. “You've seen this before?”

  A chorus of giggles echoed through the tree branches at his words. The Dryad tilted her head. “Not often, no, but I have seen it. It is the work of taibe, is it not?”

  Ayden returned to his feet. His hands shot heat up to his shoulders. “Aye. The Amulet—”

  “Aye, it is the work of the Amulet.”

  Yes, yes, the Amulet. The leaves whispered the words through the dark woods.

  Ayden cast his glance at the unnatural breeze that curled around him. “But—how? Can you explain, Dryad?”

  The Dryad settled herself comfortably at the base of her tree. “Years ago, my father fought a great taibos.” She looped her brown curls over her shoulder and combed her fingers gently through them. “They waged war for a se'ennight, day and night until the moon disappeared behind a blanket of blackness. My father had nowhere to go for help. So he rooted himself into his tree, becoming one with it, and sent his roots deep, drinking life from the underground streams, and no matter what curses the taibos hurled at him, he wouldn't fall; his roots went too deep. So at last, the taibos left.”

  “Your father won?” Ayden had expected a different ending.

  “Nay, he didn't.” Leaves drooped from the oak branches to the ground, settling sadly on the creek bed. “The taibos returned a week later and hung the Amulet from my father's unsuspecting hand.”

  “The Great Amulet? The one wrought by the Seer Fey with Dragonkind and Aarkan the Firebringer?”

  “Aye, the very same. It did the trick. My father felt the heat, the same searing heat that you are surely feeling. His skin was no longer brown, but orange, and glowing, and one day...”