by Jenn Lyons
Therin slammed his quill into the ink bottle, splattering blue ink across the paper in front of him. “You must never lie to me, nor think your upbringing as a minstrel’s son gives you some license for creative invention.”
“I am not lying!” the young man protested.
Therin stood and walked to the single window, gazing out over the roofs of the Blue Palace. “Part of what you say is true,” Therin said as he looked back at Kihrin. “There was a young lady found in a chamber used by my uncle Pedron. A friend of mine married her afterwards—”
“Sandus. The friend was Emperor Sandus, right?”
“—before she was murdered, as was their son. I don’t think Sandus would appreciate the suggestion that the Lord Heir of House D’Lorus is his long-dead child.”
“But Thurvishar said—”
“How old is Thurvishar D’Lorus? Twenty? Cimillion would be younger than you, if he had lived. Thurvishar is far too old, never mind that he looks nothing like Sandus.” Therin shrugged. “To be fair, he doesn’t resemble Gadrith either. We’ve all long suspected Cedric D’Lorus plucked some anonymous Ogenra from obscurity and claimed the child as his grandson. Thurvishar is a D’Lorus. One only has to look at his eyes to see that.”
“That can be faked. If the four Houses that were added to the Royal Families can use magic to change their eye color, why not use magic to make someone look like a D’Lorus?”
“They found the bodies, Kihrin.”
Kihrin was taken aback for a minute, but only for a minute. “Did you test to make sure they were the right ones? Did you ask Thaena?”
Therin drew back. “No.” He deflected. “Yet what possible reason would Gadrith have had for keeping Sandus’s child alive? And if he had, why would High Lord Cedric lie about it after his son Gadrith died?”*
Kihrin’s face twisted into defiant anger. “I don’t know. Fine. Thurvishar still met with Darzin. They are still planning something together. You wanted me to find out what Darzin was plotting, remember?”
“So find out,” Therin commanded. “Something other than speculation and innuendo.”
“Make up your mind. I can’t do that from my room.”
Therin frowned and mulled the matter over before waving a hand. “Fine. Consider your confinement rescinded. For now.”
“Just tell Emperor Sandus so he can do something about it … before they call up that demon.” Kihrin couldn’t believe that this was all going to fall apart because Therin didn’t want to dredge up some old, bad memory of Pedron’s dungeons.
“Perhaps I will, if you come to me with something more persuasive,” Therin said. “Do you think that’s too much for you?”
“No,” Kihrin said. Then he added, “But I’m going to need more metal…”
69: THE WAYWARD SON
(Kihrin’s story)
A heavy rain of ash fell over the harbor, piling up along the crates and coating the pier like a blanket of dirty snow. The sky to the east was red from the ongoing eruption of Ynisthana’s volcano. The air cracked with lightning through towering black clouds that strangled the night sky.
The other side of the gate on Ynisthana led to a harbor town in Zherias, an odd shanty sort of place that existed as a stop for fishermen, traders, and pirates looking to unload their merchandise. Only a few people permanently lived there, with everyone else a migrant population who sailed in for a few weeks at a time before continuing on to other ports of call.
This made it wonderfully easy for the Black Brotherhood to slip in without anyone noticing. Most of the Brotherhood members had holed up in safe houses in town before dispersing for wherever Khaemezra set up the new training camp.
I sat on a crate, watching people load up a familiar, black-sailed ship, the same one that I’d seen come to the island a half dozen or more times. However, this was different and more beautiful in all the ways that mattered.
This time, the ship would be taking me back to Quur.
“You do realize that you’re being an idiot, don’t you?”
I looked over my shoulder and glared at Teraeth. “You do realize no one asked your opinion, don’t you?”
He ignored me and sat down on a crate opposite mine. “Why have you appointed yourself the only person who can stop Gadrith and Darzin? Do you think men like that are rare? Believe me, they’re not. The only thing exceptional about those two is the fact you know their names. The Court of Gems is filled with men and women just as vile, every bit as evil. The whole system is set up, rigged, to support them. Are you going to stop all of them? Overthrow the Royal Courts, the High Council?”
“Of course not—”
“Why not? It would be the right thing to do.”
I found myself taken aback. He’d ambushed me; my mouth worked for a moment without making a sound.
He leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees. “Your problem isn’t that you’re stupid. You’re not stupid. But you think that evil is like the Old Man, like Relos Var, like that thing sleeping in the middle of Kharas Gulgoth. You think evil is something you can just slay.”
I scoffed. “Should I point out that none of those are ‘something I can just slay’?”
“Oh, but you would try, wouldn’t you? Except real evil isn’t a demon or a rogue wizard. Real evil is an empire like Quur, a society that feeds on its poor and its oppressed like a mother eating her own children. Demons and monsters are obvious; we’ll always band together to fight them off. But real evil, insidious evil, is what lets us just walk away from another person’s pain and say, well, that’s none of my business.”
I flashed back to years earlier, breaking into the Kazivar House, telling myself the torture I witnessed there wasn’t my problem. I shook it off. “What the hell is wrong with you, Teraeth? Do you want me to go to Quur or not? One minute you’re suggesting I’m an idiot for returning to the Capital and the next you’re telling me I should start a revolution to overthrow the government. Make up your mind.”
“It’s your mind that I’m worried about. I want to make sure you’re not just doing this because you feel guilty about being away from your family for four years. Between slavery and the Old Man, you had an excuse, but now you get to choose. Gadrith really isn’t your problem—”
“Yes, he is—”
“No,” Teraeth corrected. “He’s not. Yes, he is evil and yes, people will suffer and die if he continues to roam about free, but he has no reason to go after the D’Mons. Is it about Darzin? Because if Darzin’s the issue, I’ll arrange for him to be taken out of the picture. Easily. They’ll never find the body and we can concentrate on the real enemy: Relos Var.”
“We can’t kill Darzin,” I muttered. “I’d love to, but we need him to lead us to where Gadrith’s hiding.”
“Thurvishar—”
“Isn’t stupid enough to be that sloppy.” I glared. “And I’ve paid attention to the spy reports. After that last assassination attempt, do you even know where Thurvishar is spending his nights these days?”
Teraeth put his hand to his chest. “That wasn’t us. The D’Lorus family have their own enemies. It can’t be too surprising that someone else thought it was worth the risk of removing the D’Lorus Lord Heir. And you’re trying to change the subject.”
“Why do I have to be the one who takes down Gadrith?” I stood up. “Haven’t you been paying attention? I won’t be. All I’m going to be is bait. You’re going to be the one who follows Darzin back to wherever Gadrith is hiding so you can tell Tyentso. She is going to be the one who contacts Emperor Sandus and lets him know where to bring the wrath of the Empire. And Sandus is going to be the one who puts that bastard permanently in the ground. See? Team effort.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He stood up too, scowling.
“I know what you meant. Why am I doing this? Because someone damn well should. Because four years ago when I saw Gadrith and Darzin torturing that vané, I could have put a stop to this whole thing if I’d just known who to talk to. Now
I do know, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let those bastards ruin any more lives when I can stop them. This isn’t about Relos Var or Vol Karoth or any demon prophecies. This is about Galen. This is about Talea. This is about Thurvishar.” There were other names, of course. Miya, most of all. I knew in that moment that regardless of what happened with the others, Therin and I were going to have a talk about my mother’s freedom.
Teraeth raised an eyebrow in surprise at the last name I’d spoken aloud. “Thurvishar? I don’t think he should be counted—”
I flicked my thumb and forefinger at the gaesh around my neck. “I know how someone acts when they’ve been gaeshed. I would bet you whatever price you named Gadrith has a trinket somewhere on him that contains a sliver of Thurvishar’s soul. That’s why Gadrith never bothered to lie to Thurvishar about his real parentage; he knew Thurvishar would never be able to tell anyone. Thurvishar may be the D’Lorus Lord Heir and he may be an amazing wizard, but he’s still a slave. Just as much as any of the other people I named.” I shook my head. “Killing Gadrith and Darzin may not save thousands. It may not even save hundreds, but it will absolutely free those people. So why am I doing this? Because I can.”
Teraeth blinked at my vehemence, and then began to laugh.
I took a deep breath, feeling the anger wash over me. To hell with him.
As I turned around to leave, Teraeth grabbed my hand. “Wait, wait. Please, I’m sorry. I promise I wasn’t laughing at you.” He let go of my hand and sat back down on the edge of the crates, still grinning but looking more embarrassed. “Did Khaemezra or Doc ever tell you who I used to be? In my past life?”
I paused, sensing a rare opportunity had just presented itself. I turned around. “No.”
He nodded. “I started to remember right around puberty. All of it. Not just my last past life either. I also remember being in the Land of Peace.” Teraeth gave me a sideways glance. “It’s nice.”
“What does this have to do with—”
He ignored my interruption. “So naturally, I remember when the Eight Immortals showed up and asked for volunteers: four souls willing to help fulfill the prophecies. But there was a price. They had to be willing to leave paradise, to be reborn to all the pain, hardship, and suffering of the living world. And do you know who the first volunteer was? Without a second’s hesitation?”
“You?”
He chuckled. “No. You.”
My stomach rolled over. “Teraeth—”
“You showed up in the Land of Peace not too long after I did. And for five hundred years, give or take, you never spoke. Not a single word. Not to anyone. You just stared off into nothing, like for you the Land of Peace was anything but. And the gods didn’t expect you to volunteer. I remember the shock on their faces when you did. One of them asked you why you wanted to go back and you said—” He gestured toward me, inviting me to finish the sentence.
My throat tried to close on me, but I still managed the words. “Because I can.”
“Because you can. And that was the moment I knew—” He stopped himself.
“Yeah? Knew what?”
He didn’t answer for a long beat. The silence started to loom when he finally spoke. “Knew I couldn’t let you get one up on me, obviously,” Teraeth said, looking away. “You were going to make me look bad.”
“Please tell me you didn’t volunteer to be reborn because of your ego?”
“Oh yeah,” he agreed. “That’s me. Nothing but conceit. Plus, my wife raised her hand as soon as she saw you do it, and there was no way I was leaving the two of you alone with each other for an entire lifetime.”
I stared at him. “I swear to the gods, Teraeth, I can’t tell whether or not you’re joking.”
He grinned at me and brushed ash from his nose.
“You boys ready to be on our way?” Tyentso walked up behind us. “I’ve prepped all the weather spells we’ll need to make sure we arrive back in the Capital exactly on time.”
I sighed inwardly as I saw that opportunity to get a little more information from Teraeth stand up, dust off its shirt, and mentally gag itself.
So much for that.
“I’m good,” I told her as I stood. “We’re still on schedule?”
“The pieces are all on the board.” She motioned to the black-sailed ship. “Last one to claim a bunk buys the first round at the Culling Fields.”
70: THE RAVEN RETURNS
(Talon’s story)
Faris watched the crowd mill through the streets of the Lower Circle. Most of the crowds in the Capital vanished during the monsoon months. They drained from the City to return to farms and fields, where they made extra metal helping with planting or simply escaped the floods of the rainy season. The New Year marked the official end of the monsoons, and the City’s population exploded to nearly a million people as its migrant workers returned. Everyone took to the streets for the weeklong New Year’s celebrations of thanks to the gods. Nobles expressed their humility and success with gifts and gestures of generosity. Tradesmen timed their return to the City to show off new wares. The whole event was overcrowded and frantic, filled with too many people all trying to fit in too small a space.
For a thug like Faris, it was heaven, a mugger’s market where he could leisurely pick off the juiciest targets and make every Shadowdancer quota. He watched the roaming crowds like a barn owl looking at a field of mice, a situation of such plenty that he could afford to take the time to pick the perfect target.
A flash of gold caught his eye. Faris bent forward from the rooftop where he was perched with the rest of his boys.
“Hey,” he muttered to himself, then turned his head and smacked Dovis in the arm. “Hey!”
“What?” The younger boy rubbed his forearm.
“Look at the boy in the blue,” Faris said. “The one with the guards and that other kid walking next to him.”
“Yeah? Looks like a royal.” The kid shrugged, although the embroidery on their chosen mark’s clothing earned an appreciative glance.
“That’s Rook,” Faris said. “That’s gods-damned Rook. I can’t believe it. That’s Rook!”
“What? No!” The group responded with skepticism and disbelief.
“This is our chance. Let’s get him.”
Dovis put his hand on Faris’s arm. “Are you sure, boss? Those are armed soldiers down there. That doesn’t make for a good mark.”
Faris slammed his good hand across Dovis’s face. “Shut up, rat. This is my team. We do what I say.” He pointed down to the crowd. “We follow him. We follow him and wait for an opening. There’ll be one. Always is.”
* * *
Kihrin held up a piece of elaborate jewelry decorated with hematite and silver. “Can you make this larger?” he asked the vendor.
“But of course, my lord. How much larger would you like?” The merchant leaned over with great courtesy. He could smell the sale.
“About, oh—” Kihrin held up his hands about two feet apart. “It’s for a horse,” he explained to the bemused and now wide-eyed man.
Galen blinked next to Kihrin. “What?”
The gold-haired boy nodded. “I’m sure she likes jewelry.” He kept a completely straight face, although his blue eyes danced with mirth. Kihrin turned back to the jewelry. “Let me know when you have something. Deliver it ahead. The Blue Palace, yes?”
“Yes, my lord. Uh, for a horse?” The merchant hadn’t quite gotten over his shock.
“She’s a very special horse.” Kihrin winked at the man.
Kihrin was laughing inside, thinking of how that would probably be misinterpreted.* Somehow that made it even better.
Kihrin made a show of continuing to look at the jewelry, placing brooches against his agolé or Galen’s, looking at belt clasps and jeweled shawls. He watched as the guards gradually moved to stand outside the tent, which wasn’t very roomy to begin with.
He tapped Galen on the shoulder and crooked a finger for the younger man to follow him toward
the back of the tent. When they reached the very back, he tipped the shopkeeper several thrones plus the price of two dark brown sallí cloaks meant for rich merchants and then ducked through the back entrance. Kihrin gave one cloak to his brother and spread the other one around his own shoulders, covering the distinctive D’Mon House blue.
“Run,” Kihrin whispered to his brother.
Galen hesitated, but then Kihrin had grabbed his agolé and was pulling him through the crowds and the boys were both laughing as they sprinted away from their minders, losing themselves amongst the street fair. They paused, grinning and holding their sides, to catch their breath.
“Think we lost them?” Galen asked.
Kihrin nodded. “For a little while, anyway. Long enough, I think, for us to have a little—” He paused, his gaze swinging upward.
The crowd had parted to form a small empty circle around them, as if the mass of people had an innate survival instinct suggesting Kihrin and Galen weren’t safe. Into that gap stepped a familiar face, and Kihrin groaned.
“Hey, lookie here,” Faris said. “If it isn’t old Rook, all prettied up. Taking your girlfriend to see the street fair?”
“You know, even for you, this may be the worst mistake you’ve ever made, Faris.”*
Faris didn’t seem to agree. “Oh no. I’m so going to enjoy this.”
Kihrin looked around. No sign of guards who might be catching up to their location, no sign of other Houses’ guards who might be inclined to interfere, and no Watchmen who could be called in as protection. Faris smiled unpleasantly, and Kihrin saw that he had his whole gang with him. They had knives and saps and small little clubs that could be tucked under cloaks.
“What do we do?” Galen asked. His hand rested on his sword.
“Same thing we did last time,” Kihrin admitted. “Run!” He pulled a knife from his belt, flipped it up, and tossed it. The handle smacked against one of the adolescent’s hands, but several of them had ducked to avoid the possible blow and it bought them a small opening.