The Ruin of Kings (A Chorus of Dragons)

by Jenn Lyons

  “Never let you escape? Have you spent the last four years under Darzin’s thumb? I orchestrated your escape so perfectly even you were fooled.” Talon shook her head. “I suppose it is too much to expect a little gratitude from my own son.”

  “I’m not your son!”

  “You were Surdyeh’s and Ola’s son. And they are me. It’s close enough.”

  Kihrin lunged at her, but the bars blocked his progress. “I was gaeshed because of you…”

  “Shh,” Talon said. “Quiet. Let’s leave that as a surprise for the others, shall we?”

  They both paused at the sound of footsteps on the stairs above. Someone was whistling a jaunty tune. Kihrin’s gut tightened, recognizing who it had to be.

  “Hello, Darzin,” he said.

  The Lord Heir of House D’Mon grinned. “Hello little brother. Ready to die?”

  Kihrin shook his head. “I don’t know. How long have I been here?”

  “Three weeks, give or take.” Darzin smiled at Talon, grabbed her hand, and presented her knuckles with a kiss. “Did he give you any trouble?”

  “He’s been a very good boy,” Talon said.

  “No,” Kihrin said. “I’ve decided. This isn’t a good time for me. Why don’t you come back never?”

  “Bring him,” Darzin said, and then wrinkled his nose. “Hm, he’s ripe, isn’t he?”

  “Do you see a bathtub in this cell with me?” Kihrin snapped.

  “I offered to clean him with my tongue but he said no,” Talon complained. She opened the prison doors and formed a large violet tentacle that reached out to wrap around one of Kihrin’s arms.

  Darzin grinned. “Yes, well, I can’t imagine why.” Darzin grabbed Kihrin’s other arm and, while Talon still had him confined, bound his hands. “Let’s go. We have an appointment with an old friend.”

  Kihrin gave him a bemused look and Darzin chuckled. “You remember Xaltorath, don’t you?” He laughed. “Oh gods, the look on your face, kid. I swear it makes everything worth it.”

  Talon reached over and tore the necklace of star tears from Kihrin’s neck.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t do that weeks ago,” Darzin told her.

  “I was hoping you’d let me eat him,” she admitted, then shrugged. “But since that’s not going to happen now, I’ll settle for treasure.” She winked at Kihrin and tucked the necklace away before she followed behind Darzin. The three of them then walked down to where Thurvishar waited, next to the open gate.

  “Thurvishar?” Talon asked.

  The wizard looked toward the mimic, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “Catch.” Talon tossed him a small stone, smooth and plain.

  Kihrin’s eyes widened. He gave Talon a bitter, angry glare, but he didn’t explain why he found Talon’s “gift” to Thurvishar upsetting.

  Thurvishar caught the stone and looked at it. “What’s this?”

  “Just a keepsake to remember him by.” Talon winked at Thurvishar. “I’m sure you’ll figure out a good use for it.”

  “Talon, you bitch,” Kihrin said.

  “You were right,” she replied. “It was a sucker’s bet.”

  She was still laughing when everyone walked through the gate, and Thurvishar collapsed the magical portal behind them.

  * * *

  Kihrin had never seen the other side of Galen’s hiding spot, the underground tombs built for a D’Mon High Lord. They’d been claimed by Pedron, his son Therin, and later, by Darzin. Still, he recognized the place. He knew it in his bones, prompted by the chill that settled there. The stench of ancient death and fresher poison gave it away. The tenyé of the room vibrated, ugly and evil. Every surface of the stone had been decorated with the tiniest of glyphs, forming whorls and eddies of bloodred paint.

  Not paint. Of course, it was real blood.

  Thurvishar followed behind, shutting off the gate from Shadrag Gor. Gadrith waited in front of a black stone altar lit by candles. Shackles sat at the corners of the altar. Gadrith himself held a wicked, evil knife, a multipronged, barbed contraption, which looked like its purpose was to drill through flesh and tear out chunks.

  Darzin whistled as he dragged Kihrin into the final, prepared ritual area. “This is even more elaborate than last time.”

  Gadrith seemed amused by Darzin’s flattery. “This is more important than last time.”

  Thurvishar looked at Kihrin. “We painted the glyphs at Shadrag Gor, in a room the same size as this, then used magic to transfer them. Thus, we could take as long as we needed to.”

  Darzin raised an eyebrow. “He didn’t ask.”

  Thurvishar ignored him, walking to the back of the room to stand behind the altar. “Don’t forget your lines, Darzin. Remember, he’s your family, so you have to be the one to do the ritual.”

  “Oh, so that’s why they haven’t killed you yet. I’ve been wondering.” Kihrin looked back at Darzin. “Good news, Darzin, you’re about to outlive your usefulness.”

  “Shut up,” Darzin snapped. He dragged Kihrin over to the altar and pushed him onto it. “Help me,” he said to Thurvishar.

  They both wrestled Kihrin into position and clamped the manacles around his wrists and ankles. That was followed by a spell to silence him as Kihrin refused to stop cursing.

  “I must remember that one about the morgage and the goat,” Darzin said. “Inventive.”

  “Should I remind you time moves at the normal pace here?” Gadrith said. “This is not where I want Sandus to find me.”

  “No, Master. I’m sorry.” Darzin bowed and looked rather uncomfortable. He took up position behind the altar and began to chant.*

  At first, nothing happened. However, one archway leading to the various tombs, cells, and antechambers became darker than the mage-lit halls should have allowed. That darkness was less a lack of light than a palpable abyss, an absence so profound it took on a distinct character of its own.

  Out of that darkness stepped Xaltorath.

  He was smaller than when Kihrin had seen him four years earlier. He also wore an ornate set of curling armor that didn’t seem very protective. In fact, it only stressed how little he wore, and how alien he was.

  “Xaltorath, I have called you as the old ways require,” Darzin told him.

  ***SO I SEE. AND YOU ARE HERE READY TO SACRIFICE YOUR YOUNGER BROTHER, WHOSE DEATH WILL NOT BE MUCH SACRIFICE.***

  Thurvishar and Gadrith gave each other uneasy looks.

  “Nothing in your call says it has to be someone I’ll miss,” Darzin protested. “The same blood runs through our veins. Isn’t that enough?”

  ***PERHAPS. WE SHALL SEE.***

  Xaltorath’s form shifted then, flowed like water, and when it stopped, he was a mocking parody of Tya, Goddess of Magic. He resembled a beautiful woman with red skin that looked hard as bronze and smooth as glass. Her eyes glowed red and her arms and legs no longer looked dipped in red gore but dyed by black ink. Her hair looked like flame. The gold armor covered even less on her, more bedroom jewelry than clothing.

  Kihrin struggled. He would have said something, but the spell gagged him.

  Xaltorath ripped the magical silence away with a wave of her hand as she slinked to the altar and rested a hip against its edge. ***HEY HANDSOME. MISS ME?***

  Kihrin tugged at his restraints. “Get away from me!”

  Xaltorath walked her fingers across his stomach. ***MM-HMM. POOR LITTLE BIRD. YOU’VE BEEN IN BETTER SITUATIONS.*** She winked at Kihrin, sharing the joke with him, but ignored the other men in the room. ***WANT TO HAVE SOME FUN?***

  “I don’t think it’ll be much fun,” Kihrin snapped.

  Xaltorath shook her head. ***OH, BUT IT WILL. YOU AND I COULD SPEND ETERNITY ENJOYING OUR IDYLLS. WE’D HAVE SUCH FUN TOGETHER. I WOULD GIVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU DESIRE.***

  Kihrin shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Xaltorath changed again, although not by a wide margin. Her skin shifted from bloodred to a cinnamon brown and her body lost some of it
s ripe curve. Her features shifted so she might not have changed them at all, but her hair went from being flame to a darker hue—a red so deep it was almost black, running in a single stripe across her head from front to back.

  ***TRULY?*** she asked again, this time her voice a throaty purr.

  Kihrin made a noise that might have been a whimper. “No,” he said. “Not even for her.”

  ***A HERO. SO FULL OF SELF-SACRIFICE.*** Xaltorath straightened and looked at Darzin. ***YOU’RE RIGHT: HE’S PERFECT. GIVE ME ALL OF HIM, HEART AND SOUL, AND I WILL DO ALL YOU ASK OF ME.***

  Darzin smiled. “With pleasure.”

  He grabbed the knife, and without prelude brought it down hard on Kihrin’s chest.

  * * *

  Kame hated New Year’s. The money was good enough—and Kame was never at a loss for customers willing to slink into an alley or return to her crib at the joy house. Yet the whole city felt strung into thin streamers of twisted energy, ready to snap. She made more metal, but she sported more injuries. Some years it seemed like the price she paid to the Blue Houses was more than what she earned.

  She loitered at the corner of a warehouse by the docks, watching the sailors load their ships while the good weather prevailed, before they cast off for foreign ports. Kame looked for the stragglers, the lost, the men who had a few hours of free time. Or really, a few minutes would do. Most of the sailors were already ashore, drinking in taverns, or rutting in some other crib. She turned as she heard the sound of water splashing.

  A giant parody of a human waded to shore, three times the height of a tall man and no natural color. His skin was white, except for where it was purple or green, and his hands looked like they had been dipped in blood. The monster had a large tail that slapped the ground behind it like a crocodile. The demon grinned as the few people on the docks noticed it. They cried out in terror.

  Kame was paralyzed. It was huge, giant, and horrible. It was …

  The demon saw her, smiled an impossible obscene rictus, and reached for her. She screamed and screamed.

  Blood splattered the cobblestones and splashed against the warehouse wall, but Xaltorath didn’t pause to enjoy his kill.

  He had a schedule to keep.

  80: THE BLUE PALACE

  Teraeth moved to follow as soon as Darzin retreated into the Blue Palace.

  He had to hand it to the Lord Heir; the man moved like he meant it. Darzin openly sprinted as soon as he was out of sight of the First Court, running as though he were being chased.

  Well, he was being chased, but Teraeth was certain Darzin didn’t know that.

  The run was, if anything, a reminder of just how large the royal palaces were. Darzin didn’t seem intent on the wings of the palace used primarily by royalty, but one of the smaller passages just off the servants’ quarters, used for storing food.

  Teraeth came around the corner a second after Darzin and stopped.

  The corridor was empty.

  Teraeth paused. He heard no sound of footsteps, no shuddering whisper of lungs eager to catch their breath after a run. Nothing at all.

  He slid his vision past the First Veil in case Darzin was using some sort of illusion or magical concealment. Nothing.

  Teraeth focused his concentration on the intaglio ruby ring. “Your Majesty, we have a problem. I could use your—” There was a clapping sound and a rush of air. “—help.”

  Emperor Sandus stood next to him. “What’s the problem?”

  Teraeth didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Darzin may have used some means of magical transport. I was right behind him, and he’s vanished.”

  Sandus looked thoughtful. “Okay, let’s see if that left any traces.”

  The Emperor moved his hands in a peculiar, twisting fashion. Thin traceries of energy followed the lines on the floor, the walls, every edge, before settling into one particular stretch of wall as a tangled mass of glowing runes and sigils.

  “A gate,” Teraeth said, recognizing the signs. “A hidden gate.”

  “A locked hidden gate,” Emperor Sandus corrected, “but it very likely leads to wherever Gadrith has been hiding.”

  “Can you unlock it?”

  The Emperor smiled grimly. “It would be my pleasure.”

  * * *

  Tyentso sat at her table at the Culling Fields, watched her glasses, and wished that someone else—anyone else—had invented a method for detecting demonic incursions. She would rather be with Teraeth and Kihrin, finally bringing some justice to that son of a bitch Gadrith.

  Of course, the “fuck you” thrill of performing major divination magic in public almost made up for it.

  The detection method was simple enough: demons were energy beings who were drawn to and fed on additional sources of energy. They didn’t set fires just because they craved destruction; they also fed on resulting heat. Therefore, any area with freed demons rampaging through it vacillated between hot and cold in highly identifiable ways if you knew what you were looking at.

  The glasses on the table in front of her thus formed a sympathetic temperature map of the entire city. Tyentso could tell with a glance which streets had working khilins and which houses were rich enough to afford visits from the Ice Men.

  Someone slid a hot cup of green tea onto the vacant seat next to Tyentso, who looked up to see a Khorveshan woman smile at her.

  “You said you didn’t want beer,” Tauna said, “so I thought you might like a different option.”

  “Thank you,” Tyentso murmured. She started to turn to face the young woman when a flash of blue caught her attention. “Wait, what was that—”

  She concentrated. A wave of cold had registered in the Upper Circle, but with none of the heat spikes that would have suggested freed demons on a rampage. She studied the map, then her eyes widened as she realized what other sort of magic would draw heat without giving anything in return.

  “Necromancy,” she whispered.

  The disturbance was centered around the Blue Palace.

  Tyentso focused on the ring on her finger, activating the connection that would allow her to talk to the Emperor.

  Nothing happened.

  “Oh fuck.”

  * * *

  There were no guards at the front gate to the D’Mon estate, and no one protested when Tyentso used her magic to unbar and open the door.

  Something was wrong.

  Tyentso looked around the First Court. The signs of violence were obvious, but none more so than the pile of bodies that lay near the entrance to the royal stables. A massive gray-and-white horse stood over the bodies as if it had appointed itself as a soldier to protect the dead. The horse tossed its head and whinnied at Tyentso as if daring her to approach closer and put herself within the range of its sharp hooves.

  “Whoever you are, turn around and leave,” a voice said.

  High Lord Therin stood at the main set of doors separating the First Court from the palace beyond. He looked as though he’d been in the middle of a battle, and carried an open blade in one hand.

  “Therin?” Tyentso said. “What’s happened here? Where are your guards?”

  “Dead, mostly.” He held out the sword in a threatening way. “We’ve been attacked, but the Emperor is here now. I suggest you find shelter until this is all over.” He smiled grimly. “Don’t take it as a suggestion.”

  Tyentso stared at him for a moment. “Yes, of course, High Lord. I’m sure you’re right.”

  They both stood there.

  “I can’t help but notice you’re not moving,” Therin said.

  “Funny. I can’t help but notice you’re not Therin,” Tyentso responded.

  Talon narrowed her eyes. “What gave me away?”

  “Truthfully, it was a lucky guess, but thanks for confirming.” Tyentso grinned and cocked her head to the side, looking past Therin. “Where have you been?”

  Teraeth stepped down into the court. Like Therin, he looked like he’d fought his way to the front. “On the other side of the co
ntinent, apparently. I’ll take it from here. Look around and see if there are any survivors.”

  Talon sighed. “It’s way too late for survivors, duckies. You two should just turn around while you have the chance.”

  Tyentso began stepping to the side, circling around Talon (who still looked like a very good impersonation of Therin). “Where’s the Emperor?” she asked Teraeth, not taking her eyes off the mimic.

  “The harbor. There’s some sort of problem down there.”

  “That would probably be Xaltorath,” Talon said. “Don’t leave. I’ve so much to talk to both of you about.”

  Tyentso raised her hand, and a section of the ground rose up, forming a wall between herself and Talon. The mimic snarled and rushed forward, but the wall prevented her from following.

  “Forgetting someone?” Teraeth pulled several daggers from his belt.

  Talon turned back around. “Oh yes. Kihrin’s pretty little killer. Too bad you didn’t have more time with him. You might have won him over.”

  Teraeth’s expression went flat. “Kihrin’s not dead.”

  “Oh, he very much is, I’m afraid, but there’s good news: I think Darzin will let me eat the body.” Talon grinned. “Hey, you might still have your chance to get into Kihrin’s pants, after all.”

  Teraeth attacked.

  As he slashed at her, Talon lashed out with an arm, quicker than eyes could follow. That arm elongated, transformed, until it looked like nothing human. It was now a thin winding tentacle, with wicked sharp blades where an octopus would have suckers.* The deadly lash passed through the spot where the illusion of Teraeth had lingered a moment before.

  Talon laughed. “Aha! Oh, this will be a challenge!” As she finished speaking, she felt a sharp blade slice through her back. She formed another tentacle out of muscle and lashed out, rewarded this time with a hiss of pain and a splatter of blood against the cobbles.

  Talon turned, eyes forming on the skin of her shoulders, her back, her thighs as she moved to find the assassin. “You should run, little vané.”