The Ruin of Kings (A Chorus of Dragons)

by Jenn Lyons

I took one of the daggers from my belt and started cutting the coins off my coat, staring at each one for a moment to pull back the talismanic energy before I tossed the metal out the carriage window. Some urchin was going to have a very good day. Being a witchhunter sounded like fun, but it didn’t really make someone immune to magic, just immune to certain kinds of body-affecting magic. If I wore enough talismans, a sorcerer like Gadrith wouldn’t be able to melt the flesh off my bones or turn me into a fish, but he could still electrocute me or set the air around me on fire. The witchhunters that House D’Lorus had sent after Tyentso had never lasted long.

  All things considered, I’d rather be able to do some magic of my own.

  “You know, I still think it would be better if we were explaining things to the High General himself,” Teraeth said. His disguise didn’t need any modification, but he preferred working with daggers. He made a motion to me to hand them over.

  “Maybe.” I stopped cutting talismans free for long enough to unbuckle several braces of daggers. “But I can’t be sure High General Milligreest wouldn’t just drop me off at the Blue Palace like a trussed-up pig. I get the feeling he still thinks of me as Therin’s troublesome brat of a son, the one who can’t be trusted to tell the truth and shouldn’t be left alone with the valuables.” I paused. “Well, second-most troublesome brat. As long as Darzin’s still around, anyway.”

  Teraeth traded my daggers for his sword and scabbard. “You think the High General knows that Therin’s your real father?”

  I rolled my eyes. “They all knew. Qoran, Sandus, Doc if I’d gotten to know him when he was still here. Emperor Sandus once told me he considered my father a good friend. He wasn’t talking about Surdyeh.” I buckled the new belt and draped the gold-side agolé around myself before continuing my work with dismantling the talismans. I’d leave a few, because I was not an idiot.

  “I could still come with—” Teraeth started to say.

  “No, stick to the plan.” I checked out the window as the carriage pulled to a stop. My stop. “Meet up with Tyentso. I’ll join you as soon as I’m finished here.”

  He pulled a long silvery spike out of his belt, flipped it in his hand, and put it back. “Okay. Let’s get this started.”

  72: THE NEW YEAR’S FESTIVAL

  (Talon’s story)

  Galen looked at himself in the mirror and groaned. “What am I supposed to be?”

  Kihrin rolled his eyes and reached over to straighten the gilded, jeweled stretched leather mask on his brother’s face. “The sun. You see? You’re half the D’Mon crest, and I’m the other half, the hawk.” Then it was Kihrin’s turn to scowl at himself in the mirror. “Be honest, I look like a chicken, don’t I?”

  “Oh no, not at all,” Galen said, putting his hand on the other boy’s shoulder as he looked at their reflections. He kept a straight face for as long as he could and then muttered under his breath, “Bwawawok!”

  Kihrin tried to elbow him, which only highlighted the fact that his sleeve arms had feathers sewn along them. Galen laughed as he dodged his brother’s swing. “Okay, so maybe a bit like a chicken.” He picked up his brother’s mask from a table and tossed it to him. “Fortunately, we’ll be in disguise.”

  “Aren’t you two ready yet?” Darzin’s voice called to them just before the man stepped through the door. Darzin wasn’t dressed as a hawk or a sun, but wore a suit of dark colors, green and black, savage and wild, with a helmet crowned by deer antlers. It looked feral and wicked.*

  Darzin examined his two sons and snapped his fingers. “Come on, we’ll make the entrance together, then attend the greeting line. Once everyone’s seated, you’re on your own.”

  Both young men nodded their heads, knowing better than to disagree. As they shuffled past their father, Darzin looked at Kihrin and shook his head. “Remind me to have our tailor whipped,” he muttered. “You look like a chicken.”

  * * *

  Each of the Houses held their own party for New Year’s, and since there were twelve Houses, and only six key nights (because no one dared throw their party on the Day of Death, and the Day of Stars was reserved for the Imperial Ball), the appointments for party times were drawn by lots. The losers were relegated to daytime positions with smaller crowds, since most Festival revelers were sleeping off the activities of the night before. Ideally, a House wanted a time either at the beginning of the New Year’s Festival—when they might be held as the standard to which all other Houses must aspire—or at the end. Then they might make the best and most lasting impression on drunken and malleable minds, before the casting of lots for council Voices.

  The D’Mon party was on the penultimate night, and it was a grand masquerade. Therin had ordered the entire Third Court emptied and the outside walkways strung with blue mage-lights. Open manicured lawns became a hive of activity. Workers spent weeks installing plants imported all the way from the Manol Jungle; specialists employed by the House had grown them into fantastic sizes, shapes, and colors that existed nowhere in nature. The scent of blue orchids and rare, impossibly crested birds-of-paradise mixed with exotic liquors and rare spiced wines. Professional revelers skipped along tightropes and performed feats of acrobatics from high wires.

  The greeting line was deadly dull, and it was all Kihrin could do to keep himself awake. There was a lot of shaking of hands and bowing.

  And then he saw the girl.

  His heart almost stopped beating. He nearly choked from an emotion he could scarcely name. She wore a dress of red metal scales, layered to resemble the skin of a dragon, the tail trailing on the ground while delicate metal bat wings stretched out to either side. Her hair was black, but it had been washed with some sort of dye so it shimmered crimson. And her eyes, underneath that draconic half-mask, were red.

  “Who are you?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

  She giggled and turned her head to the side. “Silly! You’re not supposed to ask that … this is a masquerade.”

  Kihrin instantly knew he’d made a mistake. Her hair covered her head completely rather than forming a single stripe from front to back. Her skin was too pale and her eyes were a single tone. They didn’t glitter with the yellows, oranges, and reds of a roaring fire.

  Still, what he saw of her was lovely, from her full lips to the ample cleavage pushed up by her tight raisigi. Kihrin leaned toward her and whispered, “What good is a masquerade if one can’t uncover a few secrets?”

  Someone cleared their throat, and Kihrin realized he was holding up the line.

  “Sheloran,” Galen whispered to him. “She wore that dress to the last masquerade too.”

  “What?”

  “Sheloran D’Talus,” Galen said. “That’s who she is. She’s the High Lord D’Talus’s youngest daughter.”

  Kihrin smiled. “Ah. Good to know.”

  There was a shadow over both, and Kihrin looked up to see that Therin D’Mon stood there, dressed in leather elaborately worked and gilded to appear as metal armor. He looked like a knight or a general, including the eight-span circle and dragon of the Imperial crest. “Come with me,” the High Lord ordered. “It’s time for your performance.”

  Kihrin’s stomach flipped over. He hadn’t been sure Therin would remember, or would want him to go through with it.

  “Good luck!” Galen told him.

  All he could do was nod at his brother, before Therin’s hand took his arm, leading him off to the stage area. His harp, Valathea, waited for him next to a small stool. As Therin walked him over like a prisoner being led to the gallows, he saw the crowd contained a great many of the more important nobility. This included the High General and the Council Voice Caerowan, who’d overseen Thurvishar and Jarith’s duel. Lady Miya watched from underneath a shaded jungle tree whose branches had been twisted together with flowering vines to form a bench.

  Basically, everyone was watching.

  After the Reveler musicians announced they had a special surprise guest, he took the stage.
Kihrin told himself he was still a musician, still back with his father: this was nothing more than a new commission.

  He put his hands to the strings, wondering if he would freeze or faint or worse still, just play poorly, but no: Valathea would have none of that. He played with all that was in him. Reveler magic made sure every corner of the Third Court heard. Even the Revelers, he noted, gave him a grudging round of applause when he finished, loath to admit anyone might play as well as they. Afterward, he left Valathea for servants to take back to his room while he walked down, mask still present, to join the others.

  Propriety and the honor of both House D’Jorax and House D’Mon were appeased by the fact that he had never been directly identified. Everyone knew, of course, but they could pretend his identity was a mystery. Perhaps House D’Jorax would even claim he was one of their own musicians in disguise.

  Therin turned and left without saying a word, and Darzin had never been present at all. The young man knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, but his gut still clenched and his throat tightened. He had thought that Therin at least might say a kind word …

  “I believe Lord D’Mon enjoyed your performance,” Lady Miya said as she approached. She added in a quieter voice, “But he will never admit it.” The vané woman leaned over and kissed Kihrin’s cheek, the part showing behind the mask. Then Miya looked behind Kihrin and said, “High General, I approve of your gift. She is in good hands with the skill of these fingers.”

  To Kihrin’s surprise, Qoran Milligreest bowed to the woman. “I’m glad to hear it. Caerowan, what do you think?” He looked to the Voice, the strange, small man dressed like a peasant.

  “Very well played,” Caerowan agreed. “The harp is particularly interesting. Do you know its history?” This last question was directed at Kihrin.

  Kihrin swallowed and wondered how to make a retreat. “Ah, no. It’s a Milligreest family heirloom, is it not?” He pointed to the General. “He’s the man you should be asking.”

  “And the hawk costume you wear—” Caerowan turned to Milligreest. “The hawk plays a significant role in prophecies relating to the Hellwarrior.”

  “That’s a hawk?” Kihrin watched the High General make a valiant effort to keep from rolling his eyes. “I don’t put a great deal of stock in those stories.”

  “What’s a Hellwarrior?” Kihrin asked, and ignored the dirty look the High General gave him.

  This seemed to throw the Voice into confusion for a moment, and he frowned as if he were wondering if Kihrin might be mocking him. Then he gave a tight smile and tilted his head. “Ah, there are a set of prophecies, you see.”

  “Gods, I really don’t think the young man needs to be bothered with such trivialities,” Qoran snapped.

  “But I’m very interested,” Kihrin insisted, not because he was, but because it so clearly annoyed the High General.

  “There are a set of prophecies,” Lady Miya whispered to Kihrin, “that foretell the end of the world, ushered in by a herald called War Child, or the Hellwarrior, or Demon King, or Godslayer. The End Bringer who will usher in the annihilation of our world.”

  “Stories,” Milligreest growled. “God-king tales. The delusional fancies of superstitious, crazed men and women who hide from the reality of the world. Prophets, seers, and insane monks have been foretelling the end times since the beginning of the Empire, and always the danger is right on our doorstep. Something must be done.”

  Kihrin turned to the High General. “So it’s just a way of selling something?”

  The High General let out a bark of laughter. “Just a way of selling something? Oh yes. Oh yes, indeed.” He chuckled, clasped the young man on the shoulder enough to stagger the boy, and then looked forlornly into his goblet. “My drink is empty, as was foretold. Something must be done.” With that, he stalked into the crowd.

  Caerowan hadn’t moved, and stared at him intently.

  “May we help you, Voice?” Lady Miya asked.

  “I still have questions for the young man,” Caerowan explained.

  “You’re not Quuros, are you?” Kihrin asked, starting to feel peevish about the attention he was receiving.

  The little man looked at him and blinked, owl-like. “I’m a Devoran priest,” he said. “Devors is part of the Empire, although not within any dominion.” He paused. “Yes, I am Quuros.”

  “How can you have a priest of an area? I thought priests were the devotees of gods,” Kihrin pressed.

  “We are not priests in the same sense,” Caerowan explained, his voice calm. “Do you know what a gryphon is?”

  The question was unexpected enough to make Kihrin pause, and he looked back at Lady Miya to see her staring at the Voice with angry, narrowed eyes. Kihrin turned back to Caerowan. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard stories. It’s a monster. Half-eagle and half-lion.” He added, “They don’t really exist, you know.”*

  The small man smiled. “Did you know the name Therin means lion?”†

  “Do these questions have a point, Voice?” Lady Miya’s hand closed on Kihrin’s shoulder protectively.

  “The High General, although I hold him with the greatest possible respect, sometimes sees only what he wishes to see—and not those truths that may hold the Empire by the throat,” Caerowan explained. “We have been watching the signs, Lady. And while it would be pleasant to believe the threat is a storyteller’s fancy, the time is upon us.”

  “Kihrin D’Mon,” Miya said firmly, “has no part in any prophecies, nor any association with gryphons or a so-called Hellwarrior. Your precious Thief of Souls died when Nikali slew Gadrith D’Lorus.” She spoke with a grandeur and authority that allowed no room for dissension.

  Thief of Souls …

  Kihrin remembered that Xaltorath had once called him by that very title. He hid his shudder.

  The Voice seemed about to say something else, but instead he put his hand to his chest and bowed. “Yes, of course, Lady. Forgive me.”

  When the Voice put his hand to his chest, Kihrin noticed the ring on his finger: an intaglio-carved ruby, set in gold. It was all he could do not to give a shout of alarm, but instead he had to smile and duck his head as he watched the Devoran priest take his leave.

  “Weird little man,” Kihrin said to Lady Miya. “Why would he ask me if I knew what a gryphon is?”

  “I do not know,” Lady Miya said, as they both watched the man fade into the crowd.

  But Kihrin could tell she was lying.

  73: RETURNING TO THE RED SWORD

  (Kihrin’s story)

  Commander Jarith stepped through the door to the Milligreests’ estate courtyard, an angry look on his face. The courtyard looked the same as the last time I’d been there at age fifteen, down to the damn mural of Emperor Kandor dying in the Manol, but Jarith looked older. The man would never wield the sheer physical mass of his father, but he was looking like someone comfortable giving orders and having those orders followed.

  “Darzin, I am a busy man and I do not have time for your—” He stopped as he realized who was waiting for him. “Kihrin?”

  I stood up. “Did you miss me?”

  The Citadel Commander crossed the space between us and clasped me around the chest, thumping my back. “Kihrin! You devil! Look at you … Where have you been? Do you have any idea how many people have searched for you?”

  “I saw the changes in the harbor.”

  Jarith sighed as he let go of me. “Yes. We turned everything upside down. My apologies for the greeting. The guards said a D’Mon was here to see me. I thought it was your father trying to cause trouble.” He motioned for me to follow him. “How did you know I was here? I’m usually at the Citadel but I’m preparing to leave for Khorvesh…”

  “Ah, well aren’t I the lucky one then? Good timing.”

  “Indeed! I was just finishing up some paperwork. Mind coming inside my office? Do you want anything? I only have maridon black but I can go to the kitchen for something stronger if you prefer.”

&nbs
p; “No, no, that’s not necessary,” I said. “Tea would be fine.” Jarith showed me through hallways that were familiar even though I’d only been inside the house once. His office was a clutter of orders and scrolls, notations marked on maps pinned to walls. A chair serving as a filing cabinet for a stack of reports was cleared away, so I might have a place to sit. Evidently, he was a man who liked to bring his work home with him.

  He cast his eyes around the room. “Damn. I thought I had some tea—wait here. I’ll be right back.” Jarith walked out of the office, leaving me alone.

  “Where would I go?” I said to the empty air. I fought the urge to run, the paranoid, itchy feeling that Jarith had invented himself a flimsy excuse so he could go fetch the soldiers with halberds and spears. Focus, I told myself. Jarith was not in league with Darzin, and Jarith’s father was in Khorvesh. Jarith was happy to see me.

  To distract myself from my anxiety, I examined the walls. The map focused predominately on the dominion of Jorat, on the other side of the Dragonspire Mountains. Small pins marked various towns, although I couldn’t tell what the pattern behind them might be. More pins held up pieces of vellum and paper, all sketches of the same subject.

  It was a dragon.

  Not the Old Man, I saw with no small relief, but a dragon all the same. I realized the towns had to be rampage sites and felt a shiver run through me. Those poor people.

  There was one last piece of paper nestled in the middle of all the dragon sketches: a wanted poster written in curiously precise, neat lettering. The Duke of Yor, Azhen Kaen, was offering a truly obscene amount of metal for the death of someone from Jorat called “the Black Knight,” who evidently needed no further qualifier. The sketch of the knight in question looked like something out of nightmares, although I knew a group of assassins who would’ve approved of his fashion sensibilities.

  What this Black Knight had to do with the dragon eluded me, but I knew one thing: anyone who Relos Var’s puppet Kaen wanted dead that badly instantly marched to the top of my interesting-people list.