The Ruin of Kings (A Chorus of Dragons)

by Jenn Lyons

  “You’re late,” he told me.

  44: FENCING LESSONS

  (Talon’s story)

  Galen met Kihrin for the first time later that same day. When he arrived in the training room, his father, Darzin, was there with his new brother. Both wore the padded jackets used in practice, although the new boy’s jacket fit too tightly across the shoulders. As Galen watched, Darzin kicked at Kihrin’s legs and moved his arms, explaining again the proper start position. The young man looked like he had never held a sword before.

  Probably, he hadn’t.

  “Galen. Good.” His father nodded at him. “I started early. Kihrin, this is your younger brother, Galen.”

  The young man raised his hand to Galen, his eyes clouded and his expression unhappy. Darzin’s initial introduction gave Galen a chance to examine his new brother. He was riding on the cusp of majority, with fine features and golden-brown skin. His hair was pale—when he stepped under the light of a window it flared bright gold—and tied back away from his face. Galen thought his new brother had the sort of features women and men both would obsess over. The sort of face that could only be worn by a man who was too pretty, knew he was too pretty, and so could only be an ass about it. This was Darzin’s troublemaker, his wild son, the one to whom Galen would now be compared in all things.

  Any relief that Galen had felt, that he now had a brother to divert attention from him, was drowned by the malicious certainty that Kihrin would never be treated as he had been. That he was, literally and figuratively, golden. Galen felt hate seep into him.

  He smiled and waved back.

  “We will start again with the basic footwork and handwork forms. Once you’ve learned these to my satisfaction, we may move on to bouts.” Galen watched his father tug Kihrin’s shoulders into alignment, until the young man looked over his right shoulder. “Not today, of course. It will be months before I’m satisfied with your advancement. Understand you’re starting quite late, Kihrin. It takes years to make a good swordsman, a lifetime to make a master. You may never make it, but you are my child and you will try, even if it kills you.”

  “At least I have your love.” The young man’s voice was bitter and sarcastic. There was no tenderness in the expression he turned on their father.

  Galen was surprised when Darzin punched Kihrin. Galen would have expected to be hit if he dared respond to their father that way, but he had assumed Kihrin would be given more leniency. He was even more surprised by the violence and anger behind Darzin’s strike, much worse than anything his father ever directed at him personally. Darzin hit Kihrin with the pommel of his sword, straight to the jaw, throwing the boy’s head back and splitting his lip.

  Galen expected the boy to fall, run, cry, but again, he was surprised. Kihrin staggered to the side, put his hand to his face, and wiped away the blood. The look Kihrin threw at their father might have withered plants and curdled milk. Then he stood up straight and returned to start as if nothing had happened.

  “Your first lesson, son,” Darzin hissed, “is that you do not ever talk back to me. Understand?”

  The young man stared at Darzin.

  “Well?”

  “Am I supposed to answer or would that be talking back?”

  Galen flinched when his father hit Kihrin again, this time knocking the teenager to the floor. The boy flipped over on his back and lay resting on his elbows, while blood dripped from his nose and stained the white jacket. Galen pretended to study the tiled ceiling. It seemed safest.

  “Ah, a trick question,” Kihrin said. “Thanks for the clarification.”

  “You’re too stupid to know when to quit, boy,” Darzin growled.

  “Yeah, I’ve been told that before…” Kihrin answered and then added, “… Father.” He sounded cheerful.

  Even though this was normally the answer Darzin expected from Galen, something in the way Kihrin said it set Darzin on edge. He raised his hand, still holding the practice sword, as if to strike at the boy. Kihrin returned the lethal, hard stare and didn’t move.

  Galen honestly wondered if he was about to watch his new brother’s death—just hours after he discovered he existed. Darzin didn’t kill Kihrin though, or even beat him.

  Darzin tossed the practice sword to the ground. “I’ll be lenient because you aren’t used to this house, but do not try my patience. I have little of it to spare.” Darzin turned and glared at Galen. “Do something useful for once in your life. Talk some sense into your brother.” He turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

  For a moment, neither of them said anything. Kihrin picked himself up off the floor and wiped his bleeding nose on his sleeve. “I call that a win for me.”

  “You should know—I mean, about Father—” Galen was uncertain where to start.

  “Forget it,” the older boy replied. “I expect it goes with the territory.”

  “Father’s not so bad once you get to—”

  His brother’s reaction was an immediate sneer. “Really? So how often do you end up at the apothecaries for bruises and cuts? Just curious.”

  Galen tried to meet Kihrin’s stare. He felt himself cringing. “It’s … fencing. Accidents happen sometimes.”

  “I’d believe you, except I’ve seen your father’s demonstrations of warmth.”

  Galen bit his lip. “He’s your father too.”

  “That’s what he says.” Kihrin crossed his arms over each other. “He’s already shown he likes to hit me. How long has he been hitting you?”

  The silence was thick and wooden.

  “It is a father’s right to discipline his child,” Galen finally answered.

  “Or kill them or sell them as slaves. But a bully is still a bully, even if the law gives them the right.” Kihrin stalked around the room, scuffing his boots against the inlaid wooden flooring. “It’s the same garbage up here as down below, except in the Upper Circle no one would dare say a word to someone like your father. Too rich. Too powerful.” He turned his head and spat blood. Galen stepped back. It was shocking from pure contrast: such an uncouth gesture from someone born of royal blood.

  “He is your father,” Galen repeated. “I can prove it.”

  Kihrin’s eyes were irate as he looked back at Galen. “Can you?”

  “Follow me. I’ll show you.”

  45: RISCORIA TEA

  (Kihrin’s story)

  I stepped forward, clutching the harp with bleeding fingers. “It wasn’t—I didn’t—”

  “Not your fault,” Doc said. “I saw. We should consider ourselves lucky the Old Man wasn’t in the mood to breathe fire.” He turned his head to Teraeth. “How badly are you injured?”

  Teraeth inspected his arm and winced. The skin was bubbled and crisped. “Badly, if we didn’t have healers on the island who could cure worse.”

  “Then you should go see them.”

  Teraeth started to protest. He looked at me, back to Doc, and then did something I never imagined Teraeth doing in a thousand years: he behaved. “As you say.”

  He withdrew.

  That left me on the beach with my new “teacher.”

  Doc beckoned. “Come on. Let’s not stay here. At some point the Old Man will figure out he was tricked, and it would be best for all of us if we’re not out in the open when he returns.”

  “Tricked…” I hefted the harp. “You’re the reason he acted so weird?”

  “Yes. Now follow me. It’s time for your first lesson.”

  “I’m injured. I haven’t slept.”

  Doc gave me a hard look. “And it will be a while before you do. Your enemies won’t wait for you to be well rested before they strike. Why should I do differently before we train?”

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  He didn’t smile. He wasn’t joking.

  Doc walked back toward the caves. I watched him go before turning back to the ocean, and the draconic volcano the Old Man was still building. Doc was right: the Old Man would come back. He wouldn’t be happy
when he did. Then there was the matter of what Doc had done to make the dragon attack thin air. How had he pulled that off? How had he disintegrated that wall? Was he a wizard?

  There was only one way I was going to find out.

  I followed him.

  Doc led me past the caves, to the far side of the mountain, where he stopped before some recently cleared vines and an old stone door. I hadn’t seen this place before. Hell, this might have been the first door I’d seen yet on the island. I didn’t think they used doors there.

  For someone who claimed he wasn’t a member of the Black Brotherhood, Doc seemed to know all their secrets.

  Doc pushed against the door. It swung openly easily, even though it was carved from a ton of solid basalt. I expected darkness beyond, but I guess Doc really had been waiting for me, because lamps were lit. The room looked more like something associated with the temple than the natural caves the Brotherhood using for sleeping quarters. The floor was satin smooth and the walls looked like scales carved straight from the rock itself. The accoutrements of weapons training—a rack of blunted swords, wooden mannequins, a training ring with positions—lined the walls and marked the floor.

  A loaf of crusty bread and a pot of tea sat on a table. Smelling them, I was reminded I hadn’t eaten since the day before.

  I set the harp down by the door and pointed to the food. “May I?”

  Doc nodded. “Help yourself.”

  I did. The tea was plain and the bread was a rough, dark grain, but both were at that moment the most delicious things I had ever eaten.

  I looked up from the food. “You’re not human, are you?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Well, I have been accused of being hard on my students.”

  “No, I meant…” I paused, exhaled, tried again. Everything was a bit fuzzy, kind of like feeling drunk. “You’re too tall, you’re wearing that tsali stone, there’s that thing between you and Khaemezra, and the way you act like you’ve hated Teraeth’s father for a thousand years. Which I’m thinking might be literally true. I figure that makes you some kind of vané, just disguising yourself as human. You get bored in the Manol or something?”

  “Color me surprised. You’re not as stupid as you look. Although your guess is based on a few fallacies. For example: Khaemezra isn’t vané.”

  I blinked at him. “What?”

  He shrugged. “She’s not vané. There are other races in the world besides vané and human. Originally there were four, all immortal, but gradually the races fell, lost their immortality. The vané are the only immortal race left. The others? The voras became human. The vordredd and the voramer retreated and hid. Khaemezra is voramer.”

  I exhaled. “Not immortal. So that’s why she looks old.”

  “Khaemezra looks old because she wants to look old.”

  “Wait. What does that make Teraeth?”

  “Complicated.” He laughed. “Never let it be said the goddess Thaena doesn’t have a sense of humor. Or should I be thanking Galava for that practical joke?”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.” Eating wasn’t helping my dizziness. I still felt weak.

  “I’d be surprised if you did.”

  I tried to focus my eyes, my thoughts, but they kept slipping away. “Why … why are the vané the only race that’s still immortal?”

  “Ah.” He sighed and looked down at his hands. “That’s my fault.”

  “What? You’re personally responsible?”

  “Yes. Me personally. The vané were supposed to have been the ones to sacrifice their immortality, not the voramer. It was, as they say, our turn.” Doc slapped the table and stood. “Ancient history. What’s important now is that you have a great deal to learn,” Doc said, “and as you’ve seen, your enemies will not go easy on you because you’re young and inexperienced. For that reason, neither can I.”

  The edges of my vision blurred. I looked at the cup of tea. Neatly camouflaged among the rest of the tea leaves floated small slivers of riscoria weed.

  Wine was the best way to hide the taste, but strong tea was almost as good.

  “I take back what I said about you being smarter than you look. A smart man would have been much more paranoid about eating or drinking something handed to you by a stranger,” Doc said.

  “You—” But my intention to call him bad names and hurt his feelings was short lived. Dizziness overwhelmed me.

  My blurring sight became a soft blackness that wrapped around me and gently pulled me down to the stone floor.

  46: THE CRYPT

  (Talon’s story)

  “We’re not supposed to be here,” Galen cautioned as they crouched together in a five-foot-high servant’s access at the far side of the palace. He held up a blackened iron key with sober dignity. Galen regretted showing the hidden room to his new brother so soon, but he relished the opportunity to share such a juicy secret. He didn’t see any way his new brother could fail to be impressed.

  Kihrin grinned at Galen. “Aw, but that’s when it’s the most fun.”

  Galen couldn’t help himself. “Yes! It is, isn’t it? Uncle Bavrin showed me this room, and I think he learned about it from one of his older brothers, Sedric or Doniran, before they died. I come here when I don’t want anyone to be able to find me.”

  He unlocked the door and pushed against it. It didn’t open smoothly, even though Galen always oiled the hinges. The edges of the rough flagstone floor caught at the base of the door. Galen kicked at the bottom until the edge cleared the worst of the obstruction and the gap widened enough to allow them both to enter. Slipping inside had been easier when he was ten.

  Inside, the room opened again, and they could both stand. Even before Galen lit the lantern he kept by the doorway, Kihrin let out an appreciative whistle. Galen felt immensely consoled. He would have been upset if his new brother had shown no admiration for the safe haven of Galen’s childhood.

  Under the lantern’s flame, the contents of the storeroom became clear. In the center of the room loomed a golden statue of a woman, her head crowned by delicate metal roses, her neck and hips encircled by a belt of skulls. In her hands she held blades: dozens of knives, daggers, shivs, keris, and thin stilettos. They looked like fatal blooms. The flickering torchlight gave her life so she loomed over them in deadly benediction.

  “Wow.”

  Galen nodded. “Thaena herself! I don’t know what that statue’s doing here, of course, but—” He shrugged. “A lot of stuff was just thrown in this room to be forgotten.”

  “That’s real gold.” Kihrin walked over to examine the statue.

  “Yes, yes, it is. The Black Gate itself doesn’t have a statue that’s solid gold.”

  Kihrin raised an eyebrow. “Neither do we. That’s gold leaf. It would collapse under its own weight otherwise.”

  Galen deflated. “Well.” He pointed. “That’s dried blood on the skulls!”

  “Okay, so that part’s creepy.” Kihrin looked sideways at him, then added, “You should charge admission.”

  “Nobody knows it’s here. Okay, nobody but you, me, and Uncle Bavrin.” Galen smiled at Kihrin and set off searching through the amassed clutter.

  “Nobody but you, me, Uncle Bavrin, and whoever put this here in the first place, you mean.”

  “They’ve probably been dead for years,” Galen said, waving his brother over to the side. “What I want to show you is over here.”

  “How did they even move it into this room?” Galen’s brother mused. “There’s no way it would have fit through that narrow little passage.”

  “Kihrin, over here,” Galen insisted.

  “Aren’t you even curious?” Kihrin didn’t look at him. His stare traced out the contours of the statue, judging the size against the tiny doorway they had crouched to enter. He held up his hands to help measure and compare. “No way. Not unless that statue can be broken up into pieces.”

  “I told you, they threw a lot of junk into this room.”

  Kihrin
bit his lip. “But why—all right, all right. What is it you need to show me?”

  Galen held up the painting and pulled off the velvet cloth covering.

  Kihrin’s face grew pale. “Taja…”

  “Well?” Galen balanced the painting up against the stack of others behind it, and took a few steps back. “You see the resemblance, right? He looks just like you.”

  Galen didn’t know when the portrait had been painted, but it showed a High Lord in the height of his power. He was handsome, impossibly pretty, with golden hair and sapphire eyes—the distinctive blue of the D’Mon god-marked royals. Galen had always seen the resemblance to Darzin in the picture, but that was nothing compared to how closely the portrait resembled his new brother. It was as if someone had reached forward in time to draw Kihrin as an older man; there could be no question he was related.

  Kihrin didn’t speak, but Galen thought his expression was answer enough. Galen found himself feeling guilty. He’d only meant to show Kihrin he was part of the family, to show Kihrin he shouldn’t insult the D’Mon name. Kihrin’s expression wasn’t shocked or embarrassed. He looked heartbroken. For the first time, Galen realized Kihrin hadn’t been waiting on proof nor seeking it. The revelation Kihrin truly was a D’Mon was not a rescue, but a sentence.

  Kihrin walked over to the painting and knelt in front of it. He traced the writing on the gold nameplate at the bottom with his finger. “Pedron D’Mon,” the young man whispered.

  “He was our great-great-uncle. His mother was this vané slave with golden hair who was murdered by one of the family after she gave birth to Pedron’s sister, Tishar. A lot of people think that’s why he turned out so bad. Because he hated House D’Mon for killing his mother and wanted to destroy us.”

  “He looks like me. That’s … that’s creepy.” Kihrin frowned. “So this vané slave had three children, right? Pedron, Tishar, and Therin’s father?”

  “Uh, no. Therin’s father was Pedron’s half-brother. Therin’s mother was noble born.”