The Ruin of Kings (A Chorus of Dragons)

by Jenn Lyons

  The nobles might not play by those rules though. Kihrin was damn sure Pretty Boy and Dead Man wouldn’t.

  He pulled out his daggers as he crept through the cluttered room. A few steps inside, he caught the metallic scent of blood. The kill was too fresh to have decayed yet in the warm night air. The young thief ground his teeth. He continued forward, although Kihrin dreaded what he would find.

  Too late.

  Butterbelly’s killer had left his body sprawled across the wooden table he used for business transactions. Flies hovered over the bloody corpse. A dozen wounds from daggers covered the body; slow, painful slashes across his throat, down his stomach. A few lacerations covered his arms from trying to fight off his attacker, but it must have been over quickly. The killer had left the murder weapons behind: twin daggers buried to their hilts in Butterbelly’s chest.

  Butterbelly’s crossbow still rested in its cradle under the table.

  It was never used.

  Kihrin had seen dead bodies before, but it took all his strength not to throw up. This was someone he knew.

  Kihrin tossed the room as best he could. He even looked in the secret wall safe Butterbelly hadn’t thought he knew about. The stolen emerald tsali stone was missing.

  Butterbelly had known where Kihrin lived. He had known where to find Kihrin, where to find Ola and Surdyeh. Kihrin could hope that Pretty Boy and Dead Man now had the emerald necklace they wanted, but if they also desired no living witnesses—and didn’t care who they hurt when hunting for one …

  “Pappa…”

  The young thief ran.

  23: MORNING SERVICE

  (Kihrin’s story)

  I stared at the vista rearing up before me as I came around the bend.

  The winding trail left behind fog and jungle, switchbacking up the sides of the mountain at the center of the island. The path became cobblestone, although the stone was warped and twisted in sections. No one could approach within five hundred feet of that thin, snaking trail without being seen. There was no cover, no shelter—just barren, black rock. The path ended at a temple.

  At least, I assumed it was a temple.

  It’s not like there was a sign, but generally, if I come around a bend and see a gigantic monolithic cobra carved from black basalt—tail spilling down ancient steps and double doors leading into darkness—I assume it must be a temple.

  To what, or rather, to whom though? I had no idea. Even if only eight true gods exist, Quur is the land of a thousand gods.* There had to be a snake god, but I didn’t know who that might be, just as I didn’t know what gods the Manol vané worshipped. Was Thaena associated with snakes? Not in Quur, but who knows how her worship was practiced outside its borders?

  As I stood there, I heard drums, coming from the temple.

  I shrugged. What the hell? If the cultists were distracted with religious services, it might be the opportunity I needed. I didn’t see any guards, but why would they have guards when there was no way for anyone to invade? Everyone was probably in the temple.

  Yeah, all right. Fine. If you insist: I was curious.

  Walking up to the same temple was a peculiar exercise in vulnerability. I saw no shelter to hide behind, no way to stick to shadows for a stealthy approach. The sound of my borrowed sandals slapped against the hard stone despite my efforts to muffle the noise. I resorted to slipping off the sandals and carrying them by the straps.

  As I drew closer, the immense age of the temple became evident. The stonework crumbled at the edges. The blocks were cracked as if heated and cooled swiftly. The building was far larger than I’d initially imagined. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the building hovered on the edge of collapse, that at any moment those immense tons of stone would crumble forward …

  I shuddered. Vané wouldn’t build something like this, would they? All this stone and heavy oppressive earth was nothing like Lady Miya’s ephemeral loveliness, or even Teraeth’s razor-quick shadows. This seemed … older.

  Was that even possible?*

  I slipped inside the broad doors without seeing another soul. The air inside was musky and dank, and despite the distance from the beach, it smelled of the ocean. There was an undercurrent of something sweet and rotting. The drums sounded louder now. I felt the vibration in the soles of my feet. After a few moments, my eyes adjusted enough to let me see in the darkness.

  The snake theme continued inside the building. Stone serpents twined up pillars and formed the arches over doorways, carved in bas-relief. Even the cobbles underfoot were shaped like scales. The rock shone slick and oily with the watery dampness of the temple. There were statues too: stone women with asps for hair; hugely muscled, scaled men with hooded cobra heads; coiling pythons with human faces. They reminded me of stories Surdyeh used to tell when I was a child, and I suppressed a shiver. Monsters, every one of them.

  At least these were just stone.

  I followed the sound of the drums, more careful now, more certain I would soon run into the rest of the Black Brotherhood and not sure what would happen when I did. What do you say to the group of cultist assassins who rescued you from certain death? Hey, thanks, any of you mind telling me how to get back to the mainland?

  The damp tunnel leading deeper into the temple opened, and I found myself standing in the back of a great hall. People filled the enormous room, their features hidden behind the same voluminous black robes Teraeth and Khaemezra had worn in Kishna-Farriga. I slid in quietly, letting years of training and my own inclinations muffle the sound of my steps.

  The warm air seemed unnatural when compared to the coolness of the island outside. Vents in the floor released a steady flow of steam into the room, to mingle with the incense and the blood on the altar. That altar … I had to press my lips together to keep from gasping out loud.

  Behind the altar stood a statue different in style from the surrounding architecture. The statue was almost as tall as the height of the room itself, so even from the back, she looked like she might stretch out a hand and touch me. Like everything else, she was carved in black stone, but here and only here could I see the delicate touches of vané craftsmanship. In each hand she held a snake, which reared back to adore or strike at her. I honestly couldn’t tell if she was caressing the snakes or strangling them. Gold leaf covered every inch of her stone gown. The goddess wore a pectoral and belt fashioned from skulls around her neck and hips. Roses crafted from iron decorated her hair and dress. The salt air had rusted them to the color of blood.

  I swallowed nervously. I knew her. Who does not? She is Thaena.* She is the Pale Lady. She is the Queen of the Underworld. She is the Goddess of Death. Teraeth had said the Black Brotherhood served the Death Goddess, and here was the confirmation.

  I scowled as I looked at her. I didn’t know what her part in all this was, but I suspected it was every bit as active as Taja’s. Then I shivered. Maybe I had called to her, and not the other way around. Maybe when I was on board The Misery, the first time—before Tyentso’s gaesh. Or maybe back in the Capital City when I’d invoked Thaena …

  I ground my teeth together and refused to think about it.

  The altar dais was not empty. Two men crouched over massive drums, pounding out the beat vibrating through every stone. Two familiar figures stood before the altar. Khaemezra wore a small mountain of embroidered black velvet, as if the heat were someone else’s problem. Teraeth stood beside his mother, the only person in the entire hall who wore a different hue. His breeches were dark green, shimmering with silvery highlights. Long strips of silk, greens and golds, shifted and flowed over his torso and trailed down his arms. I was too far away to see the details of the outfit, but even from that distance there was something wild and feral about it.

  Khaemezra opened her arms wide, a mirror of Thaena’s gesture. The drumming stopped.

  She paused for a dramatic moment, opened her mouth, and said …

  Actually, I have no idea what she said.

  I’d never even heard anything lik
e it, let alone understood it. It wasn’t vané. The words flowed and hissed, with sibilants and throaty growls. Combined with a voice that sounded less like it came from a mortal creature than some elemental thing—say, a dragon—and it was guaranteed to impress.

  I also realized something else: the acoustics in this place were fantastic. The old woman sounded like she was right next to me, the grinding whispers carrying perfectly to the farthest corners of the temple. It was better than any music hall I’d ever visited back at the Capital. The ceremony, ritual, lecture, or whatever, lasted for a few minutes. I found her speech unsettling and disquieting, even if I couldn’t understand a word of what she said.

  When she finished, she lowered her arms. Teraeth reached under the altar and brought up a chalice with a shallow, wide bowl. He filled the cup from a basin of cloudy water near the altar and added a long splash of something from a red decanter. Teraeth then produced a black dagger with a wavy blade. He sliced the blade against his own arm, and let the blood trickle into the cup.

  His mother said something else, and one by one, people approached the altar. Each said a few words, often in whispers. Most spoke that strange hissing language, but sometimes I caught a hint of a familiar tongue.

  Then they drank from Teraeth’s chalice, which was a bit disgusting considering one of the contents was his own blood. Each time, they paused. When nothing happened, Teraeth motioned them away. The tension amongst those waiting to drink was palpable, as was the relief of those same people when they walked back into the audience.

  When everyone returned to their places, Khaemezra spread her arms wide and said an impressive piece of gibberish. Silence followed. No one moved for a moment.

  Teraeth stepped forward and put his hand on the knife. Someone in the audience gasped.

  “Not you,” Khaemezra said, sounding surprised.

  Teraeth shook his head. “Me.”

  “It’s not your turn—”

  “He almost died because of me. I have to do this.”

  They stared at each other until Khaemezra took the knife from her son’s hand. She flipped the blade over and gave it back to him, hilt first.

  “So be it.” She walked to the side, as if excusing herself from what would follow.

  Teraeth thrust the blade into the air above his head and screamed something in that strange foreign tongue. The drummers started up a furious beat and the people in the audience stomped their feet in time. Teraeth, standing underneath the statue, began to move his arms and his legs. The movements were so rhythmic and strange it took me a moment to realize he was dancing. His dance was not provocative, did not arouse: it was powerful, wild, and angry. The tempo of the drums increased and my heart rate sped up in time and he was whirling and flashing the dagger so fast around his body I was amazed he didn’t land in pieces.

  Then he stopped.

  He faced the audience, head tilted back to gaze up at his goddess. The drumming ceased.

  He lifted his arm and with one smooth, graceful motion he brought the blade down into his own heart.

  “Shit!” I gasped.

  Even though the acoustics dampened the sound of my voice, everyone heard me.

  Several things happened at once. First, Teraeth collapsed, his chest soaked in red. Second, several hundred people in hooded black robes looked back in my direction. Third, the two drummers raised their heads, which, because of the nature of their anatomy, meant the hoods fell away to reveal their faces.

  Their serpent faces, I should clarify.

  They looked just like the statues I’d seen out in the hall, except these were not inanimate. They stood.

  I panicked and ran.

  It seemed to be the sensible thing to do, under the circumstances.

  24: THE HAWK’S TALON

  (Talon’s story)

  As Kihrin ran into the courtyard of the Shattered Veil Club, Ola opened the door to her apartment. She carried a crossbow in her hands and a worried look on her face.

  “Ola, where’s Morea?”

  “Oh! You just about gave me a heart attack. I was gonna ask you that, sweet cheeks. I heard a scream, and not the right kind. Where’s your girl? And what are you doing up and about?” She glued a hand to her hip and looked at him indignantly.

  “We don’t have time to talk about that. She wasn’t inside?”

  “Not that I saw. Now what’s going on?”

  “Give me your crossbow.” He looked up the stairs to his room and wondered with sick dread if Morea had even made it that far.

  “You give me an explanation, Bright-Eyes.”

  “Does the name Darzin D’Mon mean anything to you?”

  Ola turned gray. She clutched the crossbow to her bosom as if it were a doll.

  “Damn it, Ola. You should have told me.”

  “It’s not what you think!”

  “He’s killed Butterbelly,” Kihrin whispered. “He’s coming here. Do you understand? His people may already be here.”

  “Oh goddess,” she cursed under her breath.

  “Take Roarin and Lesver, then run. Don’t stop to take anything. Just leave. You know the safe house.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Kihrin inhaled, steeling himself. “I’m going to grab your spare crossbow and make sure the others are okay.”

  He ducked past her into her apartment before she could stop him.

  The front parlor was just as he remembered, exotic and sparkling. The masks looked menacing in the dim light. The harp sat by the door, exactly where he’d left it, still covered by its cloth case. There was no sign of Morea.

  He crossed over to a cabinet and pulled down the spare crossbow and a quiver of bolts.

  He was good with a crossbow, a handy skill for a burglar. Crossbows were useful for grappling hooks and rappelling gear, and sometimes, for guard dogs. He’d never fired one at a person before, but he was pretty sure the technique was the same.

  He cranked back the winch on the crossbow. As he loaded a bolt, he heard a noise. It wasn’t much. A scuff of leather against tile. Maybe it was Morea in the bedroom, still pretending to be asleep. Maybe.

  But Kihrin didn’t think so.

  He made his way over to the jade bead curtain, parted the strings, and slipped inside.

  This room, too, looked normal. Tya’s Veil shone in through the windows, limning shafts of teal, pink, and lilac light over the bed linens. He frowned. There were two human-shaped lumps under the sheets.

  His stomach twisted. Ola couldn’t have missed this. No way she wouldn’t have checked.

  Kihrin’s throat felt thick and gummy as he inched his way to the bed and threw back the covers.

  Morea and Surdyeh both lay there.

  They had been meticulously posed, hands crossed over their hearts, eyes closed as if sleeping. It only made their slit throats more obvious: deep slashes on each neck, exactly like the wounds that had killed Butterbelly. Blood stained the bedding under their bodies black.

  They were dead.

  He stared. No. No, it can’t be. He couldn’t be seeing what he was seeing. She’d been alive. They’d both been alive. His father was alive. It had only been a trip to Butterbelly’s and back. They’d been alive!

  Kihrin put his hand to his throat. The stone around his neck was ice.

  Unlike Butterbelly, neither Surdyeh nor Morea had been tortured. There was no need. Their killers had only to wait to find their prey—and they were still waiting.

  Kihrin didn’t have to see beyond the First Veil to reveal the men lurking in ambush; he could feel them.

  A man stepped out of the shadows and swung forward with a thick mace. Kihrin ducked back and narrowly avoided the skull-crushing blow. He found himself strangely calm as he calculated his chances: four enemies. They wore armor, weapons at ready. One stepped behind him to close off his exit.

  Kihrin aimed his crossbow at the thug by the beaded curtain. He had one shot.

  The man by the curtain took the bolt in the chest, a l
ethal hit. That would have been enough if he’d been alone, but the assassin had brought three friends. Those friends didn’t look stupid enough to let Kihrin reload. The remaining killers moved in, confident in an inevitable result.

  If Kihrin had been in a worse situation in his entire life … well, it had been just that afternoon, in the hands of the demon prince Xaltorath.

  But no High General was coming to save him this time.

  He flipped one of his daggers and threw it at the rope holding up the canopy of beaded fabric Ola hung over her bed. The dagger hit true, sheared rope and binding.

  Several dozen yards of sateen came crashing down like a net.

  The men were armed with maces and clubs. They held nothing they could use to slice themselves free. Maybe they had tucked daggers into their boots but were too startled to unsheathe them in time. The men yelled as they tried to extricate themselves.

  Kihrin jumped out of the way and reloaded. He shot two of the men while they were entangled. Then Kihrin pulled himself up on top of a rafter. He reloaded again. His heart was numb. There was no expression in the young man’s eyes as he looked the last assailant in the face, saw the now free man’s eyes widen in fear. The guard ran for the doorway. Kihrin fired a crossbow bolt through the assassin’s back.

  Quiet settled over the room.

  Kihrin sat there, perched up on the rafter with his back hunched over. It had been easy to kill those men, easier than he thought killing should be. That seemed wrong. A detached, emotionless part of his mind suggested he was too numb to feel anything. If his encounter with Xaltorath hadn’t been enough to freeze his soul, finding his father’s murdered corpse had finished the job.

  Had it been so few hours since that meeting in the street? Years had gone by since then. He had aged decades.

  Kihrin reloaded the crossbow. He looked at one of the men, at the weapons scattered on the floor, then looked over at the covered bed. The soldiers hadn’t carried edged weapons. They didn’t do this, he thought. He had to leave, fast. Ola—he didn’t want to think about the implications. He climbed down, pausing only to kick a still-struggling form and pick up a mace as he walked through the curtain to the front parlor.