The Ruin of Kings (A Chorus of Dragons)

by Jenn Lyons

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It gets better though. My mother says that Pedron owned your mother. That is, Lyrilyn. You know, before she married our father.”

  “Lady Miya mentioned that, but she forgot to mention how much I look like Pedron.”

  “It was ages ago. And your mother, you know, betrayed Pedron, sided with his nephew Therin to help him kill her master.” Galen rested his hip against one of the crates as he spoke. “Nobody ever talks about what happened, you know. They all just whisper about it with these big capital-letter voices like everyone’s supposed to know what happened, and of course I don’t. It’s all so frustrating.”

  “Pedron…” Kihrin whispered and touched the side of the painting again. It wasn’t reverence exactly. More like dread. “What’s this written underneath?”

  “What?” Galen blinked. “It’s his name.”

  “No, there’s writing underneath. Bring that light over here.”

  Galen did, and saw that someone had carved words into the frame underneath the name plaque.

  “Wizard, thief, knight, and king. The children will not know the names of their fathers, who quiet the voices of their sting.” Kihrin read the words and then raised an eyebrow at Galen. “Not what I’d choose to have engraved on my portrait, but who am I to question a dead evil High Lord?”

  “I never noticed that before. What does it mean?”

  “Uh, he has terrible taste in poetry?” At Galen’s glare, Kihrin raised his hands. “How would I know what it means? I still can’t figure out how they got the statue in here.”

  “It sounds like a prophecy,” Galen said as he bent over to look at the frame again.

  “A prophecy meaning what? Really bad family life? A rash of Ogenra? Wait.” Kihrin stared at the portrait a moment longer and then he laughed. “Wow. Oh, I get it. Pedron really got around, didn’t he?”

  “What do you mean?” Galen blinked at him.

  Kihrin started to answer and then stopped. “I mean the children won’t know the names of their fathers. It’s not prophecy: he’s bragging. Think about it. You brought me here to convince me Darzin’s my father, because I look like this High Lord Pedron. What you’ve really done is proven that High Lord Pedron wasn’t our great-whatever-uncle.”

  “Wait, I don’t understand—”

  Kihrin brandished a strand of his hair. “Don’t you get it? I wouldn’t have this hair unless I was related to Pedron’s vané mother, the one with the distinctive golden hair. What was her name again?”

  “Uh … I don’t remember. Val-something?”

  “Okay, well, she’s the key. Therin is our grandfather, right? And I have D’Mon blue eyes and her hair. I wouldn’t have both if Therin wasn’t related to Pedron’s mother, so no matter what you’ve been told, Pedron’s not some great-uncle. We’ve got to be descended from him.”

  “But that would mean—” Galen’s eyes widened. “That would mean Pedron was actually Therin’s father … Kihrin, Therin killed Pedron.”

  “And Therin was actually telling me the truth when he said he despised his father. Apparently hating your dad really is a family tradition around here. I get it. I’m one of the club.” Kihrin began picking up trinkets, thumbing through neglected, forgotten books. There were boxes and chests, wardrobes and bookcases, jars of esoteric ingredients and statuary of a decidedly lewder nature than the goddess in the center of the room. “There’s a part of me that wants to feel all sorry for myself, but honestly I’m just glad I didn’t grow up here. I don’t think I would have liked it much.”

  Kihrin picked up a small leather book from a desk and Galen’s tongue froze in his mouth. He couldn’t say anything without showing Kihrin it was important. Galen knew better than to make that mistake.

  Kihrin flipped through the pages with increasing eagerness, reading while Galen struggled to breathe.

  “Huh,” Kihrin said.

  “What is it?” Galen said, trying not to sound nervous.

  Kihrin held up the book. “More poems. Guess Pedron really was a fan of the art.” He tucked the book under his arm.

  “You can’t take that!”

  “Why? Grampa Pedron’s not going to miss it,” Kihrin replied. “I could use a good set of poems like this. A few of these will make great song lyrics.”

  Galen stared. “Song lyrics? You really think so?”

  “Absolutely. Whoever penned these knew what they were doing, and this is a handwritten journal, so I bet it’s unpublished material. This is a great find and—” Kihrin stopped.

  “What?” Galen asked. He was at once pleased and uneasy.

  Galen watched his brother open the book again. Kihrin pursed his lips. “The paper is new. The ink isn’t faded.”

  “Maybe Uncle Bavrin left the book here?” The lie sounded weak even to Galen’s ears.

  Kihrin stared at him. “You wrote these, didn’t you?”

  “No! Uh—” Galen stammered.

  “Sure,” Kihrin said. “Daddy doesn’t approve of poetry?”

  “Not writing it, no. D’Jorax are the entertainers, and he thinks they’re gauche. You won’t tell him, will you?” Galen cursed himself for a fool. Now Kihrin had something to use against Galen, and he wasn’t so naïve as to think his brother wouldn’t seize that advantage.

  “Tell Darzin D’Mon? I wouldn’t tell him to wipe shit off his face. He can rot and die for all I care.” Kihrin handed the book to him. “Have you shown these to anybody?”

  Galen shook his head.

  “You should have them published. Under an assumed name, of course. Wouldn’t want to embarrass the old man with how talented his kid is.”

  “Oh, I’m not that good.”

  Kihrin raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you are. Hell of a lot better than I could ever do, that’s for sure. Surdyeh always said—” He stopped and looked away, grimacing.

  Galen stepped forward. “Surdyeh?”

  Kihrin shook his head, as if trying to throw off whatever gloom had seized him. “My father. The man who raised me. He was a musician. You know: gauche. Always told me there was no sense in trying my hand at poetry because I hadn’t seen anything worth writing about.”

  “What happened to him?” Galen asked.

  “‘Daddy’ didn’t tell you?”

  Galen shook his head.

  “Darzin had him murdered. One of your father’s assassins slit his throat.” Kihrin’s voice was harsh, angry, dagger-sharp in its accusation.

  “Do you know that?” Galen asked. “Or are you just—”

  “Darzin doesn’t even deny it. He killed Surdyeh and Morea and Butterbelly—and if someone were to make me a wager, I’d lay more than even odds he killed Lyrilyn too, no matter what he says really happened.”

  Galen looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Kihrin said.

  “I’m still sorry.” Galen paused. “You know, if you want to use some of my poems for songs, I think I’d like that. You’re a musician, right? Like your father?”

  His brother nodded. Kihrin’s face looked wet in the lantern-light. Galen realized his brother was crying, silent tears running down his cheeks. Like earlier when Galen watched Kihrin spit, he found it shocking.

  “Don’t let Father see you cry,” Galen said in a rush. “He hates it. He says it makes you weak.”

  Kihrin scoffed and rubbed his eyes, and wiped at his mouth where the wound from fencing class was bleeding again. “Darzin’s a real asshole, you know that? Somebody should tell him beating up his children and sending assassins to kill old men and girls—that makes him weak.” He walked over to the statue of Thaena and traced the edge of a stiletto with a bloody fingertip. “If I ever have the chance, I swear by all that’s holy I’ll put a sword through him—ow!” Kihrin quickly drew his finger back. A thin line of fresh blood marked the cut. “Shit, those are still sharp!”

  Galen said: “Oh gods, are you okay?”

  “Yeah, unless embarrassment
counts. It’s only a nick.”

  Galen chewed on his lip. He’d never grown up with much in the way of religion, not of any kind, but it seemed a dire omen. The room was darker and more frightening than before.

  Kihrin leaned in to examine the blades. “I don’t see anything that looks like a poison. I think I’ll stop by Lady Miya’s anyway, just to be on the safe side.” He laughed. “And here I thought the biggest danger was going to be you sticking a knife in me.”

  “Me? But I’d never do that!”

  “Yeah, I know that now. I just didn’t know then. You invite me to go to some secret location alone, just the two of us? Maybe you’re looking for the chance to be number-one son again, you know?” Kihrin shrugged. “I couldn’t be sure.”

  “Oh bother,” Galen said, feeling ill. It hadn’t occurred to him his actions might have been interpreted that way. And if Kihrin had decided to preemptively defend himself, who was there to say otherwise, or even witness what had happened? He felt monumentally stupid. He hoped his father never found out about this.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Kihrin said. “I think you’re okay, even for a D’Mon. Anybody who can write poems like that can’t be all bad.”

  “I didn’t … I mean … thank you.”

  Kihrin grinned. “Let’s go find Lady Miya before I drop dead of ancient poison, okay?”

  Galen found himself returning the smile. “Okay.”

  47: THE MOTHER OF TREES

  (Kihrin’s story)

  “Your Majesty?”

  I blinked awake from where I’d dozed off. Then I blinked again and looked around with growing dismay.

  I wasn’t in the practice room where Doc had drugged my tea.

  Doc wasn’t around for me to kick either. Instead, the man who addressed me was a Kirpis vané, with milk-white skin that managed to look elegant rather than sickly. His soft pink cloud-curled hair was almost hidden by a glimmering battle helm. His eyes were pink too. He would have reminded me of a rabbit if not for the fact most rabbits aren’t so heavily armed—or have a look in their eyes that suggests they’d be happiest drenched in the blood of their enemies.

  Okay, he still reminded me of a rabbit, but I was too upset by my circumstances to find it hilarious at that moment.

  “Your Majesty,” he repeated, and stepped forward to unroll a sheet of vellum across the table. The vellum was an intricate map, although I didn’t recognize the location and couldn’t read any of the writing. “This day will be glorious. Our soldiers have confirmed Queen Khaevatz is inside the fortress, and the last barrier rose is catching fire. The day we end her reign over the Manol vané has arrived.”

  He looked at me expectantly. And waited.

  I had no idea what to say.

  I had no idea where I was. Some sort of tent, although not the simple tent of a commoner or even the practical tent of a soldier. No, this was an elaborate confection crafted from silk and rare woods, with jeweled lamps hanging from threads of purest platinum. Fine carpets covered the floors and a brazier of sweet-smelling herbs burned in a corner. A wooden mannequin stood to the side of the room, the sort one might expect to use as an armor stand. Next to it was a weapons rack filled with swords, spears, and bows so elaborately carved that most Quuros soldiers would never use the damn things; they’d just put them up on a wall to be admired.

  And Sir Rabbit still waited on my answer.

  “Good,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like my own. “That’s … good.”

  He noticed my hesitation but misunderstood its cause. “I’ve dispatched a messenger, as you ordered. Should this day go wrong, Valathea and Valrashar will both be escorted to safety.”

  I blinked. “Wait. Valathea?” He couldn’t mean my harp, could he?

  “Your wife, the Queen?” He looked confused.

  I cleared my throat, waved a hand, and pretended I wasn’t even more confused myself. “Of course. Thank you. It’s not that.” I thought about saying something more. “I have every confidence in you” perhaps, but the more I said, the more likely I’d reveal myself as an impostor.

  Was this another god-inspired vision? Or just a regular vision brought on by being drugged by Doc? It seemed too coherent to be a hallucination, and too literal to be another of Taja’s allegories. Was this going to happen every time I fell unconscious?

  My reverie was interrupted by Sir Rabbit, who leaned over the desk and gave me a good, hard stare. “I know it’s not my place, Your Majesty, but you can’t be having second thoughts. Queen Khaevatz is tainted with voramer blood and no right to claim a vané throne. She has no respect for her vané ancestry. No matter what your feelings for Khaevatz, she’s conspired with the Quuros, conspired with their bastard Emperor Kandor. You are doing the right thing for the Kirpis people.”

  Wait. I knew this story. Kandor. Atrin Kandor was the Emperor of Quur who’d conquered the Kirpis and pushed out its vané natives, before turning his attention to the Manol in the south.

  Invading the Manol hadn’t gone so well. He’d been slaughtered, leaving behind the sword Urthaenriel as the world’s most expensive apology for crashing a party uninvited.

  The Manol vané queen, Khaevatz, was usually given credit for Kandor’s death.

  But King Kelindel of the refugee Kirpis vané had fled Quur’s invasion to join forces with Queen Khaevatz. He’d helped her, uniting the previously warring Kirpis and Manol groups. He hadn’t tried to kill her. Hell, he’d married her, uniting the Royal Families into a single bloodline. I’d never heard any rumor that she wasn’t full-blooded vané.

  It seemed wisest to play along until I could understand what was happening. I nodded. “I’m fine. Let’s do this.”

  He stared at me a moment longer, probably because I’d used five words where most vané would have used ten. He nodded and walked outside. I was expected to follow.

  I stopped and looked around the room for a mirror and came up empty. King Kelindel evidently didn’t waste time on such frivolities. However, a shiny shield hung from one of the racks, which worked as well as the real thing. I stared at “myself.”

  I wasn’t surprised to see I was Kirpis vané. I’d expected that with the clothes and the silk and the fluffy pink Kirpis vané general. However, my overall appearance hadn’t really changed.

  I looked older, sharper around the edges, paler in skin tone, and I wore armor I’d never seen before in my life. But I still had the same gold hair. I still had the same blue eyes.

  And I still had the Stone of Shackles around my neck.

  Why change my appearance, if whatever or whoever was doing this left so many of the details exactly the same?

  “Your Majesty?” Sir Rabbit peeked his head inside when I didn’t follow him right away.

  “Lead on,” I said.

  We exited the tent into darkness. It took a few seconds to adjust to the dim light. I started to walk forward and stopped as my senses reoriented. We weren’t on the ground. The darkness wasn’t caused by the time of day, but by a canopy of tree cover so thick it blocked out the light. Woven into this thick jungle foliage were wonders: birds with plumage brilliant enough to shine even in darkness, luminescent butterflies, and flowers like jewels. Perfumes floated on the air so thick and heady it was like breathing wine.

  The Manol Jungle. Home to Teraeth’s people—and the refuge claimed by the Kirpis vané.

  Apparently, they had claimed that refuge by force.

  Contrasting with the natural beauty was an unnatural state of conflict. Many of the bridges linking tree to tree were on fire. Whole buildings, palaces, were burning or crumbling, the stress of the battle too much for their delicate construction. Lights twisted in the distance like a thousand fireflies locked in battle. I heard the ongoing conflict, a dull roar of orders shouted, screaming men wounded, and arrow volleys launched into the dark.

  “Shields up!”

  I startled at the screamed order as a group of men and women I hadn’t noticed raised shields up over our heads. Some o
f those shields were metal, some wood, but a great many of them had a ghostly patina of energy. The energy fields locked fingers with neighboring fields to form a glowing phantasmal wall. The incoming arrow fire bounced harmlessly against this barrier and fell into the vast unending dark between the trees.

  A black Manol vané arrow hit the wooden bridge and made a hissing sound as the liquid on the head came into contact with the wood.

  “Ready your bows!” A tall woman with daffodil-yellow, cloud-curled hair and skin the color of celery shouted the order.

  No one expected me to do anything. No one waited on me to give orders, which was a vast relief, since I had not a clue what such orders should be. Another Kirpis vané woman rushed forward, pottery-blue dress fluttering like butterfly wings over gleaming sharantha armor. She gestured into the gap between this giant tree and the one across the way. As she did, shining silver plates of metal appeared out of nowhere, interlocking into a tile mosaic stretching forward in a straight line. The bridge she formed might have seemed ancient, a glorious work of art, but there were no supports, no joists, no mortar. The only explanation for why it didn’t all tumble into the darkness was the correct one: magic.

  “Nock!” The next order sounded.

  Everyone had light-colored skin and hair—a pastel rainbow of flower shades, in combinations wholly unnatural on a human. In this murky jungle, they nearly glowed in the dark, and often literally glowed as spells triggered for protection or attack. Nowhere did I see the enemy we faced; Manol vané arrows fell from nowhere. Spells materialized with no clue as to their origin.

  One group of Kirpis vané with shields stayed behind to protect the archers and the sorceress maintaining the bridge. The second group marched forward with Sir Rabbit and myself. I was meant to follow: we marched forward.

  “Mark!”

  Sir Rabbit put a hand against my chest, a silent plea for me to bide for a moment.

  “Draw!”

  The whole world held its breath.

  “Loose!” A wall of light sailed up into the air. The Manol vané’s arrows had been poisoned.