Light Wielder (Fire & Metal, #2) — Chapter 1

Chapter 1

ACKER

“Where the fuck is he going?”

Hallis pivots from his watch point at the top of the stairs outside the palace’s front doors, eyes roving over my half-dressed state, brow raised.

“Rumor has it he has female company awaiting him at the southern cottage.”

I finish buttoning my shirt as I descend the rest of the steps toward the carriage. “Father,” I announce.

He turns, fixing the gloves at his wrists, grin firmly in place despite my obvious displeasure. “Son, where are your shoes?”

“Tyreek called an urgent meeting. The entire council is waiting as we speak.”

“I have something important to attend to. I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t

handle without me,” my father says.

“They won’t see it that way,” I argue.

My father’s calm expression doesn’t wane. “Then you make them.”

He taps me on the cheek. The gesture is meant to be placating, something he’s done ever since I was a child, and it’s condescending as fuck. Harold, the driver, holds the door open as my father slides into the carriage. He, at least, has the wherewithal to appear repentant.

I, along with the trainees in the courtyard, watch as the dark stallions parade the carriage toward the palace gates.

Unbelievable.

Hallis’s footsteps draw near and his gaze turns toward the sky. “Still odd to see the wall free of buzzards.”

My eyes shift to the parapets where the birds used to rest.

When Jovie and her pet shifter, Messer, fled from the palace after killing every last member of my father’s council, they stopped just long enough to disarm the soldiers at the gate, and as the birds above scattered into the night sky, Jovie stood under that iron fence and unleashed her magic. A bolt of burning light so bright I had to shield my eyes from my place on the balcony. She broke through the iron chains holding the cages aloft, sending the enclosures holding the bodies of the king’s prisoners to the ground in a clash of defiance.

It was the least of her transgressions, considering the blood-soaked floors of the dining hall, but somehow the most damning to my father’s crown. It sent a message to the people: the princess of Maile does not condone the oppression of anyone born of magic.

Since that day nearly four years ago, Jovinnia’s name has been whispered in dark alleys and back rooms of taverns. The once-feared light wielder became a beacon of hope in the city for those with magic.

Apparently, a hidden seed of rebellion has been festering in my father’s city, and Jovie’s actions gave it the water it needed to grow. It didn’t take long for people to grow brazen. Protests erupted; mangi stones from the collars that magic wielders had been forced to wear littered the streets or were ground to dust under the hordes of marching feet. They began calling for change; for release from oppression. The image of my father’s hanging body painted on the outside of the palace walls is vivid in my mind. The rope around his neck the same mottled orange as mangi stones.

The cages never went back up.

Hallis’s voice calls out to the trainee soldiers still lingering in the courtyard. “Quit your gawking! Back to work.”

The young faces of the boys make my stomach roil.

“Have Imen take over training and report to the war room,” I tell Hallis, brushing past him. “Have a maidservant send in the best wine they can find in the cellars. And something to eat. Maybe it’ll help smooth over my father’s absence.”

“Doubtful,” Hallis mutters under his breath as he turns to comply.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I reenter the palace and head upstairs to the spare bedchamber and quickly straighten the unkempt bedding to hide any evidence of my presence in the space. The last thing I need is the

maidservants gossiping about me not staying in my own bedchamber. I retrieve the string of mangi stones from the bedside table. In my haste to try and stop my father from leaving the city, I’d forgotten the necklace. A careless mistake.

As much as I despise the speckled stones, they serve a vital purpose in bringing comfort to the appointed council lords, buffering my magic in their presence. A few of them have gifts, but none that can rival the lethality of mine, and that makes them nervous. More importantly, however, the stones prevent my Match from eavesdropping.

Wrapping them around my neck, I let the ends hang across my lapels.

They’re heavy and the way they smother my magic is exhausting. A constant reminder of her betrayal.

Not that I expect Jovie to bridge the gap of the Bond to spy on me. She’s only done it once since her departure that I’m aware of … and I’m positive she learned her lesson the first time. I made sure of it.

I put on shoes and make my way down to the war room, taking a deep breath before I enter. I’d rather face down an army of men twice my size before dealing with the council, but, alas, here I am. My father’s substitute.

Conversation comes to a halt as I enter, all heads swiveling in my direction. The chandelier overhead shines down over the war map in the center of the room, kept lit at all hours during times of war in case of urgent business. Although bright on the map’s topography, the light never quite reaches the walls of the chamber, keeping shadows lurking in the corners.

Lord Draken speaks first. “Where’s the king?”

“He won’t be attending,” I say, addressing the other fourteen men. I nod to Hallis. “Let’s go ahead and begin.”

Tyreek, the last to agree to take a seat on my father’s newly appointed council, leans forward, hands gripping the side of the table. “I stressed the importance of your father being here when I requested this meeting,” he says.

The formidable man is not one to be easily rattled. After he served in my grandfather’s military as a boy, he returned to his life manning his family’s farm on the outskirts of Kenta. He’s weathered droughts and dealt with the occasional troll trespassing his lands before I convinced him to sit on my father’s council, so the pinched frustration lining his features has my hair standing on end.

“What is it?” I inquire.

“We’ve been forced to retreat from the front line.”

I stalk around the table to his position. “Where?”

He points to the northern outskirts of his land where the planes of farmland turn into a rocky hillside. “Roison has pushed my men into the valley.”

It’s not ideal, but it could be worse. The land bottlenecks, making it difficult for any sized battalion to maneuver through it. My real concern is the crop of wheat beyond the small fjord. With the help of Alaha’s forces, they could demolish our food supply, starving the battalion out.

I look at Hallis. “How many men can we spare from nearby posts?”

He’s already shaking his head. “We’re spread thin across the front lines covering the increase in Roison troop movement. It’d be a waste to take men from more vulnerable areas just to save one battalion.”

I turn my gaze back to Tyreek. “Numbers?”

“We have five thousand to Roison’s thirty.” He drags his hand across the board. “If they take the valley, they can be at the palace walls within a few weeks’ time.”

Hallis shifts on his feet. “It would take weeks just for Roison’s thirty thousand men to move through the narrow passage. Months if the end of summer storms come early.” His tone is apologetic, clearly hating to vote against Tyreek.

“They’re more likely to die trying than actually succeed in breaking through,” I concur.

By the looks on the men’s faces, they’re not happy about our conclusion. They’re worried. If Roison is successful in pushing their forces through the fjord, it would set a terrible precedent. Being the first to lose ground is never a good sign.

“This is bullshit!” Lord Paul slams a closed fist on the table, rattling the pieces on the map. He’s one of the few in the room with noble blood, and he sure as hell acts as though it gives his opinion more weight than the lower-born lords sitting on the council. “I didn’t accept this council position only to take orders from two boys a fraction of my age. It’s insulting.”

“It’d be less disrespectful if the king spat directly in our faces,” another agrees.

This is what I’m not good at. Pacifying old men, playing babysitter in my father’s absence. I’m better suited for the battlefield where I can actually see the differences I make in this war.

Then you make them.

“Have you all forgotten?” My eyes land on each of their insolent faces in turn as I march around the table. “I’ve fought for my land. Bled for it.

My people. As has Hallis.” I point to my friend, less his left hand from the battle we fought as children, and hence giftless. “No one has sacrificed more than he has; the youngest in this room. How dare you question our authority? Our understanding of what it’s like to be outnumbered?”

The silence that follows allows the last of my words to hang over the room. They know the story of our survival, the tales of my lethality on the battlefield. They may be able to question my authority in my father’s absence, but they cannot question my experience. But the bitter truth is … they question my judgment because I’m the one who brought death and betrayal to Kenta. It may have been my Match’s actions to cripple my father’s court, along with my sister’s, but in their eyes it may as well have been mine.

As anticipated, Paul is the first to dare a response. “And where are you now?” he slurs, rattling more pieces. “Standing in this room, far, far away from any battle of this war.”

“As are you,” Hallis drawls. “Go ahead and have another bottle, Paul.

What an honor to your people.”

The drunkard opens his mouth, face belligerently red, but Tyreek effectively shuts him up with a hand on his shoulder. “I am not questioning your leadership, Ace,” he says, using the nickname my comrades gave me.

“I’m only asking for a few bodies to even the playing field. Zion is down there.”

His son. A brother to myself and Hallis. One of the five who shares the same scar.

Like half the men in this room, Tyreek was unprepared to replace the previous lord. Unlike them, he didn’t want this position, but I knew his military knowledge and genuineness would be valuable to the council. It took a lot of convincing and many trips to his region to finally sway him.

The very last thing I want is for him to feel as if I’m abandoning the promises I made to him and his family. I swore to Tyreek that I would

provide for his family as well as his entire region if he agreed to take on the title of lord. Made up of mostly farmers, his community already felt disregarded by my father after a bout of harsh winters, and leaving Zion’s battalion defenseless will only look as though I’m doing exactly that.

“Tell Zion to disperse his men to higher ground,” I say, running my fingers along the hillside. “The passage won’t allow more than a few hundred men to funnel through at a time. They should be able to pick them off from above. We will divert the next batch of troops as soon as they’re ready.”

Tyreek accepts the plan of action with a tilt of his chin.

We continue to collect numbers by region. In total, we’re down ten thousand men, four hundred horses, and in desperate need of healers. Our crops and resources are dwindling.

It took two years for the war to commence after Jovie’s betrayal. Just as she had insisted it would happen, the Alaha joined Roison’s forces in the east. And because of her warning, we were able to muster our own army at the border in enough time to defend our land from their invasion.

It took another year before we were forced to concede ground to Roison.

People are becoming less and less tolerant. There’s not a family who hasn’t sent at least one of their men off to fight. Many of those men haven’t been home in years. Many won’t return at all. But for all the tales of Wren’s armies, I’ve yet to see anything unprecedented in their advance. Nothing extraordinary or commendable.

But in the last year we have become increasingly outnumbered, and we’re in desperate need for more men after two years of constant battle.

My eyes flick to the miniature wooden ships on the map’s surface, over the expanse of water separating Strou’s land—our only ally—from us. The land bends into the shape of a crescent moon, with Maile’s territory acting as an impenetrable barrier between Strou and Kenta. Evelyn’s navy has intercepted any help the Strou has tried to send our way. While the queen of Maile has remained impartial to our plight against Roison, the reports of the battles over the northern sea between her navy and Strou have been abysmal and not in our favor.

“Bru,” I say, glancing at the singular Strou warrior in attendance. He’s fucking atrocious to look at and nearly twice the size of Hallis at his side.

Why Irina’s father, the king of Strou, would send him as regent is beyond my comprehension. “Any word of progress from the gulf?”

The mammoth warrior looks at the markers, then gives a single shake of his head. “One ship arrived at port about a week ago. It was the only one out of the last seven sent in the last few weeks.”

I release a breath from my nose, making eye contact with Hallis. We’ve had endless discussions about what an ambush on Maile’s northernmost border could mean for the war, but with supplies and troops dwindling, the reward of such drastic action is beginning to outweigh the risk. His expression holds, an unspoken question lingering between us. Are you sure?

And I nod.

He points to the hillside where the Strou and Maile borders meet in the north. “Let’s divide their attention,” he begins, and the very next breath in my chest feels tighter.

I swear to protect her with my dying breath.

The blood oath I made to protect Jovie consistently reminds me to stay within the parameters of my promise and I take the warning for what it is.

While not directly against my Match or at my command, the order is a little too close to being so for my magic’s liking. I signal to Hallis that I’m leaving.

In a foul mood, I return to my bedchamber to find it empty, much to my relief. A platter of half-eaten fruit and bread sits on the table beside the bed, two half-finished glasses of red wine accompanying it. Helping myself, I pour the leftover wine into one glass and carry it to my workstation. Books are splayed open across the surface, overflowing onto the floor where stacks of texts clutter half the room. Taking a swallow of wine, I skim a few of the spines in hopes that one catches my eye.

I’ve gone through bouts of obsessive searching for a way to break the oath, spending weeks, sometimes months, scouring pages of old texts in a bid to discover a remedy. Whenever I think I’ve stumbled across something even remotely promising, I’ve sent sentries to retrieve it. Herbs in the deepest of Roison’s forests, rare stones found in the western springs, and leeches from the southern marshes. I’ve tried it all and all I’ve gotten in return is a weird rash and a stomachache.

Philosophers and scientists differ on their theories on blood oaths, but the one commonality they share is the belief that the same key that made

the oath has to be what breaks it—blood. But aside from draining myself dry, there doesn’t seem to be a viable option.

It’s a worthless endeavor anyway.

I’ll never be able overcome the blood oath unless I figure out how to eradicate the love I still have for Jovie. It’s a strange conundrum, loving her while also wanting to hurt her the same way she did me. Sometimes I make myself sick, hating her as much as I miss the feel of her skin against mine.

Blood oath or not, Jovie will always be my greatest weakness.