The Ruin of Kings (A Chorus of Dragons)

by Jenn Lyons

  “It won’t happen. They’ve already tried it,” Teraeth said.

  “What?” I felt the whole world tilt. “They’ve already what now?”

  Teraeth made a circle with his finger. “Gadrith and Darzin summoned up Xaltorath to track down the Stone of Shackles about a year ago. Mother told me. You have, or rather had, an Ogenra second cousin who vanished without a trace so they could have their sacrifice. Didn’t work. Xaltorath can’t get near this island. They don’t know where the stone is and therefore don’t know where you are either.”

  “And in the meantime, I’m just … trapped.” I nodded to them. “Trapped on this island, trapped with all of you. No offense.”

  “None taken,” said Teraeth.

  “I can’t do anything,” I muttered. I tapped my foot against the ground and felt an anger burn in my gut. I hated feeling trapped. I hated Gadrith for being able to do whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted and get away with it, even to the point of tricking the Goddess of Death herself. I hated him because of the damage his stupid obsession with this stupid rock had done to my life. I hated Darzin for being Darzin, for murdering so many people, including my father Surdyeh, often for no other reason than just because he could. I hated what he’d done to everyone around him, what he’d done to Galen, what he’d done to me. I hated that people were going to die to feed Gadrith’s hunger, and I hated Teraeth’s insistence that none of this was my problem.

  … wait.

  I looked up and realized Teraeth was staring at me, had been staring at me for some time now, his face an unfathomable mask. Or not so unfathomable. I was starting to know his quirky little moods. When he was pressing a point just to see if I would press back. How often he supported a position not because it was what he believed, but just to see if I could defend mine.

  “What does Gadrith want?” I asked out loud.

  “I thought we established this,” Doc said. “The Stone of Shackles—”

  Teraeth smiled to himself and looked away.

  “No,” I said. “I mean yes. He wants the Stone of Shackles. Sure. Of course. Who wants to exist as an animated corpse? But he was plotting bullshit long before he faked his own death. The Affair of the Voices. He killed Emperor Gendal, but he didn’t try to replace him. He let Sandus take the crown—”

  “‘Let’ might be the wrong word,” Doc interrupted.

  “What does he want?” I pressed. “Chasing the Stone of Shackles is nothing but a detour before he returns to his real goals. What are those?”

  “The prophecies,” Tyentso said. “He wants to fulfill the prophecies. He wants to pull down the gods and put himself in charge. Make a universe that works the way he thinks it should. Remake the world. Make it better, whatever ‘better’ is to him.”

  “Okay, so what do the prophecies say will happen next?”

  Silence.

  I looked at the three of them. “Come on…”

  Tyentso sighed. “And ash will fall from the sky as the Great City burns, and the howls of sinners will echo with the screams of the righteous, for the Thief of Souls has come. When the demons are freed, no man shall wear the crown but has first known death.” She cleared her throat. “From the Sayings of Sephis. I could quote you some of the Devoran Prophecies, but it’s pretty much more of the same.”

  “Cheerful,” Doc said, “but that could mean anything.”

  Teraeth scoffed. “Sure, as long as ‘anything’ is violent and horrible and burns the Capital to the ground.”

  I stood up, ignored the way my head gave a warning protest, kicked the chair I’d been sitting in, and walked way.

  “Kihrin—” Tyentso started to say.

  “Before I was kidnapped,” I said, whirling back to them, “I never lived anywhere but the Capital. And I hated it. I hated everything about it. I wanted to leave more than I had ever wanted anything else in my life. I wanted to be free from my father Surdyeh, free from Ola, free from that life. I wanted to run away to somewhere else. Anywhere else. Except now that I am anywhere else—” My throat closed up. I thought of Miya and Galen, Tishar and Lorgrin, Star and Scandal. Maybe, on a good day, Therin. People I loved still lived in the City. People I loved who could still be put in harm’s way. “Does that prophecy mean what I think? Gadrith’s going to destroy the City?”

  “He’ll probably start a Hellmarch,” Tyentso said. “The Capital has never seen one inside its walls. That ‘frees the demons’—and since he’s labeled himself the Thief of Souls, it all goes downhill from there. But—” She wagged a finger. “If you’re right, he’s not going to do any of that until he’s put his hands on the Stone of Shackles.”

  “Nothing in what you just quoted says that he has to wait,” Teraeth pointed out.

  “Except he does,” I said. “He’s been waiting. This all started, what, over eighteen years ago? For what has he been waiting if not the stone? He could have done whatever he was planning years ago. We know what he wants. Let’s use that.”

  Teraeth leaned forward. “Are you suggesting making yourself bait?”

  “Why not? I’m the one person Gadrith will be absolutely focused on and the one person Gadrith can’t just kill outright. The Stone of Shackles won’t let its wearer die if they’re killed by someone without a viable body, and Gadrith is a corpse. He can’t steal my soul, he can’t strip the flesh from my bones. He literally cannot kill me.”

  “Oh Scamp, there’s a lot he can do to you that wouldn’t be fatal.” Tyentso made a face. “Believe me, nobody wants Gadrith to see justice more than I do, but you’re still in training—”

  “Actually, his training’s nearly complete,” Doc said. “I wouldn’t say no to a few more centuries with him, but he’s made great progress.”

  “And I’m just the distraction, anyway,” I said. “The point isn’t that I kill Gadrith, the point is that we lure Gadrith out in the open so Emperor Sandus can kill Gadrith. I’m sure he’d love to help us out just as soon as we explain the situation to him.”

  “You’re all forgetting Kihrin’s still trapped on this island,” Teraeth said, “and none of the rest of it matters until we figure that part out.”

  Doc snickered. “If you have any ideas, we’d love to hear them.”

  I stretched, put my hands behind my head, and looked around. Ynisthana was beautiful. I couldn’t argue that the island wasn’t just eye-bleedingly beautiful. Thanks to Thriss farms, abundant fishing, and shipments from Zherias, food was never an issue. The women were gorgeous, and the sexual taboos absent. A lot of people would never want to leave a place like this, and I couldn’t blame them for that.

  But I couldn’t stay.

  I turned back to the others. “When does a prison guard stop looking for an escaped inmate?”

  Doc gave the matter some consideration. “When the inmate’s been found?”

  “Or when he’s dead,” Tyentso said. “That’s what Gadrith did.”

  “Right. Guards don’t chase after a prisoner they’ve already killed.”

  “What are you suggesting, Scamp?”

  I grinned. “The Old Man won’t keep looking for me if he thinks he already knows why I’m not around. Especially if he thinks it was his fault.” I turned to Teraeth. “So how do you think your mother would feel about destroying the island?”

  66: THE GAME

  (Talon’s story)

  “The full dark path,” Morvos D’Erinwa said as he laid down the Pale Lady, Black Gate, the Hunter, and the Blood Chalice. “Read them and weep for your children, now left destitute to beg on the streets.”

  “Not so fast,” Kihrin said. He turned over his cards, revealing the Crown of Quur, the Scepter of Quur, the Arena, and the Emperor. “I do believe I’ve beaten that hand.” There were groans from around the table as the young man grinned.

  Jarith Milligreest rubbed his forehead as he regarded Kihrin. It wasn’t so long ago that Jarith had known him as a minstrel’s son, and to see him here like this as a member of House D’Mon—as his own seco
nd cousin—was jarring. He was happy to see Kihrin, just shocked at how much the boy’s status had changed, and how quickly. He nearly hadn’t recognized him, and he was still bemused at the idea that Kihrin was Darzin’s son. “Is that the second imperial flush you’ve drawn tonight?”

  Kihrin nodded as he pulled the money from the center of the table. “Something like that, yes.”

  Thurvishar pushed his cards away in disgust. “No one is this lucky.” The Lord Heir of House D’Lorus nursed a glass of wine while Talea rubbed his shoulders.

  He’d lost a lot of money.

  “Now, nobody likes a sore loser,” Kihrin said. “You’ll win yours back later, I’m sure.”

  Jarith shook his head. “It is a little uncanny, Kihrin. Maybe you should quit while you’re ahead.” He didn’t like the look on Thurvishar’s face, and he didn’t like the hungry glint in Kihrin’s eyes.

  Jarith was not a fool. He’d recognized Talea when she entered the room, knew she could only be the very slave girl he had traced to Darzin D’Mon’s custody, now owned by Thurvishar. She didn’t want to have much to do with the younger D’Mon though. She avoided him the whole evening, as if she had developed a natural but unavoidable aversion to the color blue. She only had eyes for Thurvishar, and Kihrin only had eyes for her. And every risky winner-takes-all bet Kihrin made seemed aimed at one goal: putting Thurvishar in a position where he would be forced to bet her.

  This, Jarith was certain, could only end in disaster.

  The Captain sighed inwardly as Kihrin ignored his good advice. “And deny these kind lords the chance to win their money back? What kind of friend would I be?”*

  “I have an idea,” Thurvishar said. His voice was a dangerous, unfriendly purr. He picked up the cards from the nobleman who was dealing and shuffled them. He offered the deck to Jarith. “Pick a card.”

  Jarith shrugged and pulled Bertok, God of War. “Shall I show it?”

  “Please.”

  Jarith turned the card over.

  Thurvishar then offered a card to Kihrin. “Now you.”

  “What’s this supposed to prove?” Kihrin frowned.

  “Humor me,” Thurvishar said.

  Kihrin picked a card and turned it over. It was Khored, God of Destruction, a higher card than Bertok.

  “Again,” Thurvishar said.

  Jarith pulled a Two of Coins and Kihrin drew Godslayer. Everyone was frowning now.

  Thurvishar began flicking cards from the deck in front of the players at the table. “One for you, and one for you, and you, and you and you, and Kihrin—” He paused. “Kihrin’s card wins.” He began again. “You, and you, and you, and you, and you and Kihrin—has high card. One more time…” He dealt the cards again. “And Kihrin’s hand wins.” Thurvishar turned his stare to the adolescent. “You’re cheating.”

  Jarith stood up. “Let’s not get carried away here. I’ll admit he’s lucky, but that doesn’t mean he’s cheating.”

  Kihrin was sputtering. “You shuffled and turned over the cards! How could I possibly have cheated?”

  The cards whirled up in a spiral from the table, sailing into Thurvishar’s outstretched hand. He pushed them toward Jarith. “There are ways to cheat luck. There are ways to warp the odds. Maybe House D’Mon’s little blond whippet has found his witch gift and can unwittingly turn the odds to his favor? But I know this: even a lucky streak has its losses.”

  “So, what do you propose?” Jarith asked, trying to be a peacemaker.

  “I propose he gives the money back he’s taken and leaves,” Thurvishar said.

  Kihrin shook his head. “I will do no such thing. Thurvishar, you have my word. I didn’t cheat.”

  Thurvishar shrugged, scowling, rubbing a thumb along his temple as if fighting off a headache. “And what is the word of a whore’s son worth, anyway?”*

  Silence.

  Jarith looked around the room at a sea of shocked and blinking faces, although a few were already beginning to smirk. They were happy to see the new and too lucky scion of House D’Mon picked to pieces by D’Lorus’s prodigal son.

  Jarith shook his head. “The usual terms, I assume?”

  Thurvishar stared at Jarith. “Excuse me?”

  “My apologies. Please allow me to explain my position more clearly.” Jarith slapped Thurvishar’s face. “You just called my cousin a whore’s son, and he’s too young to duel you.”

  Thurvishar seemed taken completely by surprise. He could only stare, lifting a hand to his cheek.

  Kihrin reached for Jarith’s arm. “What are you doing? You don’t need to do this. I’ve been called a lot worse.”

  Jarith frowned. “Honor is at stake. I’m sorry. One day you’ll understand.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Darzin’s voice called out from the entrance. Jarith wasn’t too surprised to see him, but he was a bit taken aback by how quickly he’d arrived. It was possible that someone had gone for Kihrin’s father as soon as Thurvishar began making allegations about the boy’s luck.

  “Well,” Thurvishar said, sounding bemused. “It seems I’ve just been challenged to a duel by the High General’s son.”†

  * * *

  The next day, Galen stood next to Kihrin on the cobblestone path surrounding the Arena, with their father, Darzin, their mother (or stepmother) Alshena, and a shocking number of immediate family. This included Uncle Bavrin, Great-Aunt Tishar, and their grandfather, the High Lord Therin. Even Lady Miya, who normally never left the Blue Palace, stood at the High Lord’s side.

  “I didn’t think we’d be back here so soon,” Galen confided.

  Of course, the reason they were back at the Culling Fields was made painfully clear by who else was present: High General Qoran Milligreest, his son Jarith, Thurvishar D’Lorus, High Lord Cedric D’Lorus, and a host of spectators. Everyone wanted to be here to see this duel.

  Kihrin didn’t look so pleased. “This should never have happened.”

  “For once,” Darzin D’Mon said, “we’re in agreement.” He gave Kihrin an unfriendly look, then said to Galen, “Remember this: the honor of the House should be defended by the House, not by some outsider, even if he is a distant relation. No matter how this ends, we won’t come out of it looking as we ought.” He looked like he might box Kihrin around the ears, but the motion was brought under heel as he remembered the watching crowds.

  “Who’s that?” Kihrin asked. He pointed to a small man dressed in plain tan misha and kef, unusual by his lack of decoration. His head was shaved save for a lock above his right temple, braided in a long rope that hung down past his shoulders.

  “That’s Caerowan,” Darzin explained. “He’s a Voice of the Council, here to officiate and witness the duel.”

  “Isn’t there any way to stop this?” Kihrin complained.

  “No,” Darzin said.

  Galen watched his brother inhale in frustration before he let the matter drop, at least for the moment. Galen tugged on Kihrin’s sleeve. “I’m sure Jarith will be fine. He must be a very good swordsman, right? Whereas, I’d be surprised if the D’Lorus Lord Heir has ever spent much time practicing with a blade.”

  Their father snorted and the two young men looked back at him. “As much as I find myself torn on whom I’d like to survive this little duel, I’m afraid the advantage is in favor of Thurvishar D’Lorus. Don’t forget that sword craft is less than nothing against a skilled wizard.”

  Kihrin frowned. “But they’re fighting a duel. They won’t be using magic.”

  Darzin chewed on a thumb as he watched the two men take up position in front of the Voice and begin the traditional description of disputes, slights, and remedies. He snorted again. “There is no law inside the Arena. No rules. No consequences. They can promise anything they want outside the Arena. It means less than nothing once they pass through its gates.”

  Galen saw Kihrin startle and stand straighter, watching the impending duel with ill-concealed concern. He wondered how Kihrin had become so close
to the Milligreest scion when in theory he had only met the older man the other night. Jarith seemed nice enough though, and he was a cousin. Galen was well aware that if Darzin had his way, Galen would find himself married to Jarith’s younger sister.

  Most of the customers at the Culling Fields turned out of doors to watch the spectacle, with bar wenches shuttling from tavern to field to serve drinks and take orders, while the rich sat at small outside tables and chatted. The inside of the Arena looked like a park, albeit a park with grass that looked odd with small copses of twisted and warped trees. There were buildings too, ruins of ancient structures with black yawning mouths for doors and windows. These were said to be enchanted to kill whoever entered them. The grass was an illusion of sorts, an idyllic deception that concealed skulls and bones: the bodies of generations of dead wizards, warriors, and sorcerers, their weapons, and their secrets. One could still pick out faded remains, a skull here, a thigh bone there, a rusted ancient sword sticking up from the grass like a warning to all who would try their hand inside the Arena’s boundaries.

  Kihrin turned to Darzin. “What do you mean? There’s no law inside the Arena? How does that work?”

  Darzin shrugged. “Dueling is illegal. So are certain kinds of magic and murdering your fellows so you can be the man to grab the Crown and Scepter and name yourself Emperor. This land was once the Imperial Palace—they say it’s where the god-king Ghauras met his demise—and ever since it has been held to be a place outside the rule of law. No crime can be committed within its boundaries because no action committed within its boundaries is considered criminal. All things—no matter how repugnant—are allowed.” He smiled. “So, technically speaking, a man might promise any restriction on dueling outside the Arena—say, oh, it’s only to first blood—and change his mind as soon as he is inside.”

  Kihrin was horrified. “And no one can do anything?”

  “There are consequences,” Therin said, who had been listening to the entire conversation. “Give yourself a reputation as a man who breaks his word in duels and no one will believe your word regarding anything. And you will find people working against you.”