Fire Heart (The Titans: Book One) (34 page)

Clare knelt down next to him and tentatively reached out to the flower. She touched its petals, surprised when it nuzzled her as it had Feothon. “Um...thank you,” she said softly. “For...for saving me.” The petals close briefly around her fingertip, tickling her, and she giggled. A moment later she withdrew her finger. For reasons that would forever remain unknown to her, her eyes suddenly burned and hot tears traced tiny paths down her cheeks. “It's...beautiful,” she whispered. She dried her eyes as she stood, laughing softly at herself. “Sorry,” she mumbled, and laughed again.

“This place has that effect on people,” Feothon said with a smile.

They held each other's gaze for a moment, and Clare lost herself in his eyes. She saw so many things there; love, for one. Pure, radiant love for everything he saw. And there was that ever-present kindness. But there was sadness, too—it was veiled, half-hidden behind an opaque shield that let only a little of his feelings through, but it was there.
Seventeen hundred years old,
she thought.
He must have buried more loved ones than I could ever even fathom having.

“Feothon,” said a soft voice, startling Clare from her reverie, and she turned to see a pretty, red-haired woman in a knee-length dress made entirely of maple leaves. Like Clare's, her eyes were a dazzling emerald green. She was also pregnant, judging by the slight but unmistakable bulge in her belly.

“Ah,” said Feothon softly, and Clare saw the love in his eyes blossom and bloom to something a hundred times greater than the look he gave the rest of the world. The Titan reached out a hand to the new arrival and she stepped forward and took it, a shy smile on her face. “Will and Clare, I would like you to meet my heart's keeper,” he said with a smile. “This is Asper. Asper, Will and Clare.” He indicated the former and the latter with his free hand.

“I am honored,” Asper replied in the same strange accent as the Titan. “The Dragon King is one of Feothon's favorite subjects. To finally meet the man behind the legend is...incredible.” She did a small curtsy.

“Ah—please, that isn't necessary,” Will stammered uncomfortably. “I'm hardly a legend.” Clare stifled a laugh and he shot her a glare.

“And you,” said Asper, looking at Clare, “I have also heard much about.” She let go of Feothon's hand and cupped Clare's cheek, bringing her face close. She planted three soft kisses on Clare's cheeks and forehead before pulling away, leaving a slightly stunned Clare to gape in confusion. “For a mere human to have performed the deeds that you have...” Asper murmured softly, and then she inclined her head and bent to one knee. “You are an inspiration to us mortals. May we all live as you do.”

Clare grasped the woman's arm and pulled her up, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Please, don't,” she said, embarrassed, and now it was Will's turn to chuckle. “I don't deserve that. There's no reason for you to kneel in front of me.”

Asper smiled warmly and stepped back toward Feothon, who put his arm around her waist and drew her close to him. She leaned her head on his shoulder with a smile.

“Wait, you're mortal?” Will blurted before shutting his mouth quickly, and Asper looked down at her feet, sadness passing fleetingly across her face.

“Yes,” said Feothon, and Clare was reminded of the loss in his gaze. “While I will live forever, Asper will wither and die. Such is the way of all things. I have had many wives, and they have borne me many children. Someday when I die, my spirit will pass on to one of those children and Forod shall live again.” He ran a tender hand down Asper's hair. “I look forward to my time in the Void, though, where I will see my loved ones again.”

“But...how do you...you're almost two thousand years old,” said Will quietly. “How can you stand losing so many of the people you love?”

Feothon smiled. “I love each one more than the last. And I love my children with all my heart. 'Tis love that fuels me, Will.” He looked up into the blackness above and breathed a sigh that was not entirely a contented one. “'Tis the most powerful force in all the realms. 'Tis what allows us Titans to continue living when all we care about dies around us.”

Will shook his head, unable to respond, and Clare felt her heart go out to both the Lord of the Forest and his wife.

And then a thought suddenly occurred to her, and she looked out of the corner of her eye at Will—Will, who she had grown to love in such a short time. Will, who she had nearly died for, and for whom she would do so again without hesitation.

Will, the Dragon King, who would live forever...while she grew old and faded away.

She looked away, suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe.

“They are here,” Serah said then, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.

“Who?” Will asked.

Serah gave him a small smile. “The rest of your family.”

Clare had been unconscious when Will had pulled her through the portal before, and when two rings of yellow light traced themselves seemingly out of thin air her eyes widened and her breath caught in her chest. She scrambled frantically backward as the rings filled themselves with soft golden-yellow, casting an ethereal glow across the ground that shifted and whirled like the sun seen from below the surface of the sea. And then she watched in awe as two dark shapes took form from within the churning depths of the portals, their shadowy bodies slowly taking on definition as they neared their destination. They gradually became more solid until, with a deep
whumpf
of energy and a flash of light, two new people stood before her.

One was undoubtedly a Northman; tall and muscular, he towered over those before him. His sun-colored hair framed a fearsome face inset with stormy-blue eyes, and his long braided beard reached almost to his waist. He was clothed in oiled mail and leather, his feet covered in tall furred boots that still carried traces of snow from wherever he had come. Upon his back he wore the brown-furred skin of some massive beast like a cape, and he carried in one hand a poleaxe as tall as he was. He glared at those around him as though daring them to make a false move.

Standing in stark contrast to his left was a dark-haired, dark-skinned woman; Clare recognized the unmistakable coloring of an inhabitant of the Western Isles. The woman wore a perpetual mischievous smile, and more often than not that smile was all that was visible from beneath the brim of her battered tricorn hat. Her hair was braided with beads and feathers, and she was garbed in plain, weathered clothes befitting a sailor, her raiment completed by a shortsword swinging from a leather belt around her waist. Her feet were clad in tall black leather boots that seemed uncharacteristically clean and well-cared for when compared to the rest of her garb.

“Lady of the Sky,” said the Northman in a thickly-accented voice that rumbled like thunder, and he inclined his head to Serah. He repeated the motion to Feothon. “Lord of the Forest.”

“Vulf, in the name of the Void, how many times must I tell you that you may address us by name?” Serah said exasperatedly. “You are as bad as Jhai and Zizo.”

“Where they be?” said the dark woman, looking around with a grin. Her Islander accent was so strong that Clare had a difficult time understanding her. “Is been a long time since I seen them. I can't remember what they look like.”

“They are busy, Caleeta,” Serah said quickly. “They are helping the refugees settle. Please do not disturb them.”

The Islander grinned wickedly. “Of course, Serah. Wouldn't dream of such a thing.”

Will cleared his throat then, and in a small voice asked, “So, are these—?” He stopped talking abruptly when both the Islander woman and the Northman knelt before him and inclined their heads. “Er...oh...”

“My king,” the Northman growled, “I am humbled in your presence. My name is Vulfgar Brekksnim. I am both servant and consort to the Lady of the Mountain, but I am yours to command.”

“Oh, for the love of...” Clare heard Will mutter softly.

“I be Caleeta of the City in the Waves,” said the Islander. “My master be Borbos, the Lord of the Sea. I, too, be yours to command should you wish it.”

Will covered his face with his hand and huffed a sigh. Then he looked at Feothon and Serah. “I'm going to have to get used to this kind of thing, aren't I?” They both nodded, amusement etched across their faces. “Alright. Is there some kind of special saying I'm supposed to know?” he asked, indicating the kneeling people.

“You could start by thanking them, yes?” Serah said, and winked.

“I—thank you, then,” Will said, directing his words at Vulf and Caleeta. He motioned with his hands for them to stand, and they did so, throwing slightly confused looks at each other.

“Your ways are strange for a king,” said Vulf. “And for a god, as well.”

“Yes, well, I think you're just going to have to get used to it,” Will grumbled. “I really am not king material.”

“He is very stubborn,” said Serah fondly. “Feothon and I have been trying to groom him into his position for three days with limited success. But it is amusing, no?”

“A humble king,” Caleeta said, looking at Will thoughtfully. “I like it.”

“The Dragon King always is,” Feothon said softly.

Both portals flashed then, their depths churning rapidly as more people made their arrival. The one the Northman had appeared from began to pulse, and as Clare watched seven more similarly-dressed men appeared one by one, each of them with their hands on their weapons and their hard blue eyes checking the area warily. Like Vulf, their hair was the signature blonde of the Northland kingdoms, and though their beards were not as long as his they were all braided just as intricately.

A moment later an even larger group of men and women stepped from the other portal, all dressed similarly to Caleeta. Unlike the Northmen, these people seemed to be from nearly everywhere; Clare saw olive-skinned, dark-haired Lower Kingdomers like herself and Will, dark-skinned Islanders like Caleeta, desert folk from the Eastlands, and even a few Northmen, though their beards were cut short and decorated with beads and baubels. They all wore the garb of sailors, and were heavily armed with a motley assortment of weaponry that would not have been out of place in Castor's Ravens. They laughed and jeered at each other and the Northmen, pushing and shoving good naturedly like old friends in a tavern.

And then the portals began to flash again, more insistently this time. The one on Clare's left changed color from yellow to bright, glaring white, and its edges seemed to crystallize and spread like winter frost. The one on her right took on the hue of the sea, and its blue-green depths adopted the appearance of storm-tossed waves. As before, two dark shapes appeared within their depths, slowly growing more
corporeal with each passing
tick
. The doorways began to hum, a sound that to Clare was more of a sensation she felt deep in her bones. There was the now-familiar flash of light and the telltale sound of someone exiting the portal, and Clare shielded her eyes against the intense glare.

“Will,” she heard Feothon say as the light subsided, “I would like you to meet the rest of your family.”

~

The man's eyelids slowly slid open, revealing the milky, sightless orbs beneath. He lifted his head from his chest and craned his neck out, turning from side to side as though searching for something, each movement indicative of a man aged far past his prime.

He blinked sluggishly in an attempt to clear the haze from his sleep-addled mind. He brought one thin hand up to his face and rubbed at his eyes, the papery skin of his fingers whispering softly where it touched the lids. He licked his trembling lips, and then his nostrils flared as though catching a scent.

“They are here,” he said to no one, his voice ancient and soft. “They have all gathered together again.” How long had it been since the Titans had congregated in this place? Two, three hundred years? He could not remember—his mind was not what it used to be.

“Milord,” said a low voice to his left, and he turned toward the sound with searching eyes.

“What? Who is that?” The man's head quested back and forth, his pale eyes wide and his liver-spotted hands groping for a sword that was no longer there—that had not been there for many years.

“Kell, m
ilord,” said the voice. “Do you remember me?”

He thought for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “Yes—yes, I do, I think. You are Brodan's son?”

There was a short and uncomfortable silence, and then the man beside him said, “Ah...no,
m
ilord. That was Fioch. He died a hundred years ago.”

“Oh,” the man said quietly, sadness creeping across his withered face. “Yes, yes, I remember now.” He breathed a long, shaky sigh. “I apologize—my memory is an old, tired thing.”

“There is no need to apologize.” The old man felt a reassuring hand lightly grasp his bony shoulder, and then his keeper said, “Milord, the Titans are here.”

The man nodded slowly, not saying anything.

“They have brought the new Dragon King.”

At those words the man's face stretched into a smile. “He is here?” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Davin? Davin is here at last? Has his campaign in Ainos ended? And Talyn—will she be with him? Quick—fetch my sword. I must look my best.”

The other man, Kell, knew not what to say. His mouth opened and closed as though such a motion would inspire speech, but words eluded him. The man before him looked so hopeful, so radiant, and yet his happiness would be far too short-lived. “No,” Kell whispered finally. “Borost, they are not here. Davin...Davin and Talyn died. Five hundred years ago. Do...do you remember?”