The Ruin of Kings (A Chorus of Dragons)

by Jenn Lyons

  “You could intervene? But you—?” He sat down again. “But I’m not a D’Mon. At best, I’m Ogenra.”

  She looked oddly at him. “Who said you are Ogenra?”

  “Well I—” He blinked. “I have to be. He said my mother was a slave. What else could I be?”

  “Darzin claims he married Lyrilyn. He has even produced documents to that effect—and witnesses. You are not Ogenra. You are legally Darzin D’Mon’s firstborn son, second in line to the D’Mon seat.”

  He stared at her while all the blood drained from his face. “He—what?” The information refused to sink in. He didn’t understand. He’d always dreamed of being Ogenra, as had every orphan in the Lower Circle, but that was as far as the dream had ever gone. He never dared imagine he might be an actual member of royalty. And here he was, being told he was a prince? In line to one day become High Lord himself?

  The whole world tilted on its axis.

  Miya didn’t notice his shock. “Truthfully, it would not have mattered. I know it is common perception that Ogenra are illegitimate House bastards, but the reality is more complicated. Any child, even a bastard, can be part of a House if they are formally recognized—as you have been.”

  “He really is my father?” He spoke in a whisper.

  She looked away. “I can’t say.* Regardless, it is his claim. And High Lord Therin was quick to publicly substantiate those claims—he’s been less than pleased that Darzin’s son Galen might one day inherit.”

  “Gods, why?”

  “Ruling a Royal House requires a certain ruthlessness of character. Galen is a sweet boy. I do not think High Lord Therin believes the house fortunes will prosper under the care of a ‘sweet boy.’”

  “But I’m street trash. A throw away from Velvet Town!”

  She set down the mortar and pestle and turned to Kihrin, staring at him with angry blue eyes. “You are never to refer to yourself that way again. I will not stand for it. You are Kihrin D’Mon, Royal Prince and second-ranked heir to House D’Mon. You are descended from a hundred generations of magi, including three Emperors. You are royalty, and you are born to rule.* You are not, and you will NEVER be, street trash.”

  “But I just—can’t be. This is some kind of game. He’s evil.”

  “Truth and evil are not opposed concepts. Let me demonstrate: this will sting.” He felt wetness on his back that flared into vivid red pain he recognized as alcohol on an open wound.

  Kihrin gasped. “OW! Thaena’s teats.”

  “Watch your tongue.”

  “The whipping didn’t hurt this bad.”

  “Oh? Darzin must be losing his touch. But better a little pain now than an infection later.” She smoothed the mash of herbs over the whip marks. The herbs were soothing and cold and, after the astringent, rather nice.

  He felt her fingertips on his back, and heard her say something he couldn’t understand in a light, rolling tongue. A pleasant warmth spread out over his skin.

  “Couldn’t you have just used magic to heal all of it?”

  “I could,” she admitted, “but it runs the risk of complications.” She walked in front of Kihrin, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “What do you know of magic? Can you see past the First Veil yet?”

  He nodded. “As long as I can remember. How did you know I could?”

  “I didn’t. That’s why I asked. But you are a D’Mon: it seemed a safe assumption. What of talismans? Have you learned what they are? How to construct them?”

  He swallowed and shook his head. “Mages use them. I know how to check if someone’s wearing them—mostly to stay away from that person.”

  “I’m sure that was wise when you lived in Velvet Town, but now you’re going to have to learn to make them yourself.” She began putting away the herbs. “So consider this your first lesson. Do you understand the material requirements for magic?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “No object can be affected by magic, unless the wizard casting the spell understands the true nature of the materials that make up the object.”

  “Very good. You’ve had formal training?” She seemed surprised.

  “I was learning from someone but, uh … she died.”

  “I feel sorrow for your loss.”

  “Thanks.” He didn’t really know what else to say.

  After a moment’s pause, she asked: “And what else?”

  Kihrin blinked at her. “What else?”

  “Yes, what else can you tell me about material requirements and magic?”

  “I—” He frowned. “Uh, if you do understand the true nature of an object, you can affect it?”

  “Rewording your original response does not make it a different answer.”

  “Uh…” He fought the urge to throw up his arms in frustration. “I don’t know. Different objects have different auras. So do different people. If you put two people right next to each other, their auras won’t look the same. Iron has a different aura than copper, which is different than a wooden coin that’s just painted copper.”

  “So taking that observation into consideration, what is a talisman?”

  Kihrin floundered as he tried to come up with a suitable response. How would he have any idea what that made a talisman? All he really knew about talismans was that they echoed the aura of the person who wore them, so it was like seeing a stamp slapped down multiple times, each time a shade off from its correct position. Then he blinked.

  “Wait, a talisman has to have an aura that’s different than its intrinsic nature, doesn’t it? If it’s a coin or a piece of jewelry or whatever it is, the aura isn’t metal or whatever it should normally be—the aura is the same as the person wearing it. How is that even possible?”

  “One may change the aura of an object into something it should not be,” Miya explained. Her tone was gentle and proud. Her smile suggested she was pleased at his response. “And if one does it just a little, the object might still look like a coin or a piece of jewelry, the way a mirror can show your image but not be you.”

  He stared at her and then narrowed his eyes. “Why? Why would someone want that?”

  “Because if I presented myself and attempted to change your aura in order to harm you, and you wore four talismans, then in effect I have to change your aura five times rather than once. So it is a protection, you see, from other wizards.” Miya held up a finger then. “But there’s always a price. For every talisman you wear, your own magic and ability to affect the auras of others is weakened. A witchhunter is nothing more than a wizard who wears as many talismans as they can maintain. In doing so, they make themselves almost completely immune to magic—but they may never cast a single spell.”

  “So, it’s a balancing act?”

  She nodded. “Exactly so. And the talisman rule applies to healing as much as harm—if you cannot change someone’s aura, that also means you cannot cure them.”

  “I wouldn’t mind,” he said, with a somewhat wistful expression. “Learning how to heal people, I mean. That seems like it would be a fine thing to know.”

  She studied his face for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” She crossed to the far side of the table, returning a moment later with a large book. She handed it to the young man.

  He opened the book. It contained page after page of neat, perfectly drawn pictures of the human body, in separate pieces and the whole together.* “You want me to read this?”

  “I want you to memorize it.”

  “Memorize?” His voice went a little squeaky.

  “I’m willing to train you at your own pace, but you must have a foundation of knowledge to build upon. One cannot fix a thing if you do not understand how it is broken, and you will not be able to recognize how it is broken if you do not know how it should normally function. So yes, memorize. When you are done, we’ll move on to body chemistry and cellular composition.”

  “Move on to what?”

  She smiled. “You’ll see.” Miya picked up the mortar of crushed herbs and scooped the rest of t
he mixture into a small glass jar. “Put this on any other bruised areas, such as your jaw. When you run out, return to me or any of the House physickers and we’ll replenish your supply.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate—” He paused. “Why am I going to need a steady supply?”

  Her expression turned grim. “Darzin’s son Galen does. And he is a sweet boy.”

  Kihrin gave her a startled look. “Great,” he murmured. “That’s just great. Does he beat his wife too? I assume Galen’s mother wasn’t a slave girl.”

  “I do not believe you need me to provide you that answer.”

  He sighed. For just a moment, talking to Miya about learning magic, he’d forgotten where he was. “No. No, I guess I don’t. Of course he beats his wife, and then he sends her here to be patched up good as new when he’s done. Isn’t it great when all the healers work for you? You can get away with almost anything.”

  She started to say something, then stopped and shook her head. “Come along, Your Highness. It is time I showed you to your rooms.”

  33: THE DRAGON’S DUE

  (Kihrin’s story)

  Every time I’ve seen the Old Man I am reminded how enormous dragons are. Artists never get it right. I think it’s because they have this overwhelming need to paint in an opposing knight or wizard or the like—and making the human large enough to be noticed messes with the scale. Take the largest creature you can imagine … the Old Man was larger.

  It’s hard not to freeze in place, trapped by one’s own awe.

  He landed on a red-hot volcanic island of molten stone offshore from Ynisthana itself. Yet he was so large I was positive he could reach out with a claw and rip both of us in two without effort. He was less a living creature than a monument to the uncontrollable. As he landed on the island, an upwelling of lava fountained into the air, as if the very ground reacted to his presence with fire.

  “I have come for what I am due,” the Old Man said.

  Tyentso uttered a curse to make Madam Ola blush, and shoved me behind her.

  “Hey—” I started to protest.

  “Do not hide the golden voice. He is mine,” the Old Man growled.

  “Nobody said you could have him. Just the opposite.”

  “I don’t care,” said the Old Man.

  “Kihrin, run.”

  I remembered Teraeth’s caution: running just gave the Old Man something to chase. “I don’t think—”

  The dragon lunged.

  I ran.

  Tyentso moved her arm, and a wall of fire-hardened glass thrust skyward from the beach, twenty feet thick and tall enough to block my view of the horizon. The glass turned red immediately, then white-hot as it slagged. The temperature soared to oven-like heat as scouring winds picked up. The wall shuddered as the dragon slammed into it from the other side. Then it exploded toward us.

  I ducked to the side as an enormous glob of molten glass hit the ground near me.

  Everything fell silent.

  I turned back.

  The dragon floated in midair, frozen. It blotted out the sky. Lava dripped from the dragon’s claws and fell, sizzling, into the ocean waves.

  Tyentso picked herself up. Part of her chemise had burned, scorch marks marred one of her arms, but she was miraculously still alive.

  Khaemezra walked out onto the cliff.

  I don’t know if Khaemezra had been spying on us or the dragon, but she must have been nearby. The old woman was a bit less hunched and frail than she had been on the trip over, as if this island had rejuvenated her. She was taller, straighter, and younger.

  “I made myself clear, Sharanakal. You may not have him.” Her craggy voice carried with perfect clarity over the waves and sand.

  “Release me! Release me this instant, Mother.”

  She pointed an old, thin arm toward the sea. “Go then, and do not return.”

  The dragon shuddered. He shook off his paralysis like a dog shaking water from its fur, then flapped his wings, raising himself high in the air.

  He looked at me. At least, I think he was looking at me.

  The Old Man flew off into the sky.

  We watched him go. No one said anything for several long, tense moments. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore. “How do you kill something like that?”

  “You don’t,” Khaemezra said. “You might as well kill a mountain.”

  Tyentso moved one hand over her arm, wincing as she probed the edges of the burn. “You called him Sharanakal. Is that his true name?”

  “Yes,” Khaemezra said. She gathered her robes and turned back toward me. “Are you hurt?”

  “No, I’m fine.” I looked at Tyentso. “Sharanakal? Why do I feel like I should know that name?”

  “Because you’re a minstrel’s son, I imagine. Sharanakal may not be as famous as Baelosh or Morios, but there’s only eight dragons in the damn world,” Tyentso said. “You’ve managed to gain the obsessive attention of one of them. Aren’t you the lucky bastard?”

  My heart beat drumroll fast. I felt faint from more than just too many cups of wine. I felt powerless, helpless, and trapped.

  What I didn’t feel was lucky.

  Once I’d woken up on the island and the Old Man wasn’t using me as his favorite toothpick, I’d decided the danger was past. The Old Man had let me go. I was safe. From Relos Var? Maybe not. But at least safe from the dragon. A whole cult of people lived on this island without being bothered by giant dragons, so I was safe, right?

  Wrong.

  Khaemezra didn’t seem sympathetic. “Child, whatever possessed you to think waking Sharanakal was a smart thing to do?”

  I clenched my jaw. “It was Teraeth’s idea.”

  Khaemezra’s nostrils flared. “Yes, that does sound like something my son would suggest.”

  “Let’s stop throwing around blame. That little ditty saved all our lives on the ship,” Tyentso snapped. She waved at Khaemezra. “Except you, of course, who was never in any real danger. So you don’t get to complain, Mother I-can’t-get-involved.”

  “Is he going to leave?” I asked. In the still night, with the crashing of the waves behind us and even the jungle insects not daring to make a noise, my voice sounded small.

  Khaemezra stared at me. “Eventually. When he grows bored.”

  “How long will that take?”

  Khaemezra didn’t answer.

  Finally, Tyentso waved a hand. “A decade or two. Maybe longer. And you can’t out-sneak a dragon, Scamp. He’ll find you.”*

  I don’t remember choosing to sit. I just found myself sitting, as though my legs had decided they were tired of waiting for me to do the right thing and had acted of their own accord.

  I only looked up when I heard Tyentso speak. “I’ve made up my mind. I’d like to join the Brotherhood.”

  Khaemezra regarded her. “You were unsure just a short while ago.”

  “Ah, but someone really needs to teach Scamp here some magic. If nothing else, some fireproofing spells wouldn’t go amiss. Something tells me he’s going to need them.”

  I leaned forward. “Wait, magic? You’re going to teach me magic?”

  “Someone damn well better,” Tyentso said. “If Mother will let me.” Tyentso raised an eyebrow. “Will you?”

  Khaemezra scoffed, although the sound managed to be more affectionate than dismissive. “Yes, I believe I will.”

  “I’m trapped here,” I whispered.

  “For now,” Khaemezra agreed. “If I have learned one lesson in all my years, it is that no situation lasts forever. In the meantime, what do you want to do?”

  “I want to leave,” I said, my voice rising.

  “I know you do, but problems are opportunities with thorns attached,” she explained again. “Let’s use your stay here to better prepare you to tackle those problems successfully. What do you want?”

  I had a hard time thinking past the “I’m trapped here” part of our conversation. All I could think about were the invisible bars to my island cage, my ja
iler a giant fire-breathing dragon. Taja had said I could leave, but she hadn’t mentioned the cost. I was trapped.

  Tyentso put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Perhaps you’d like to send a message to your family?”

  I blinked and focused on the two women. “Can you? Can you tell Lady Miya I’m alive?”

  “Yes. Anything else?”

  I breathed deep, still trying to calm down. “Do you have anyone on the island who’s good with swords? I was learning swordplay, and I’d like to continue.”

  “A sword isn’t much use against a dragon,” Khaemezra pointed out, although I was alert enough by that point to notice she hadn’t refused.

  “I know that. The sword is for killing Darzin.”

  Khaemezra smiled. “Then I believe I know just the man.”

  34: PROMISES

  (Talon’s story)

  The door handle jiggled.

  “Go away!” Kihrin shouted at the door.

  The door opened an inch before it caught on the chair Kihrin had wedged under the handle.

  Lady Miya said, “Please, Kihrin. This is unseemly and does not serve your cause. Why are you hiding in your room?”

  “I don’t want to see any of you!” he shouted back. Kihrin lay on his rumpled bed, which was in the same state as his clothes. He hadn’t changed, or done much in the way of hygiene, since Miya had shown him these rooms.

  He’d been impressed at first. Rather than the room where he’d originally woken, Lady Miya had taken him to the family’s private wing—the Hall of Princes where the High Lord, his sons, and direct heirs kept their quarters. Kihrin’s new suite of rooms was a palace in and of itself, an amazing confection of jeweled walls and plants that made the place resemble a garden as much as a living area. The centerpiece was a lavish bed crafted from the interlaced boughs of four living trees.

  Then Kihrin saw the trap.

  The ornate lattices covering the balcony openings were gilt-covered iron. The flowering vines hid nasty thorns. The main door locked from the outside as did the side door connecting his suite to whoever lived next door.

  Whoever had used these rooms before him had also been a prisoner.