The Kingdom of Liars

by Nick Martell

  I began to walk away from Domet.

  Despite everything that had happened between us, I felt bad for the man. He was a chronicler of the world, never gathering anything of his own. No friends. No family. No legacy. Only empty bottles and regrets. Why had I feared this broken man holding on to what little he had? No wonder he wanted to die.

  Eternity must be awfully boring without anyone to share it with.

  “Where are you going?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat.

  I kept going. There was still so much to do before.

  Domet grabbed my wrist. “Wait! Stop! If you leave this house, they’ll find and arrest you!”

  “That’s the point.”

  “They’ll kill you! The trial will be a formality; your innocence won’t even be considered. I’ve made mistakes in the past but I won’t with you! Give me some time and I’ll—”

  “If you want to help,” I said, “protect my friends and family. That’s all I’ve ever cared about.”

  “No. I won’t let you die like this. All your potential will be wasted! I’ve been an observer for too long! I won’t let another Kingman—”

  “I did it,” I said. I looked straight into his golden eyes. “It wasn’t Dark. It wasn’t some rival spy, or king, or noble, or military genius striking against you—it was me. I hated you for threatening my family and keeping Sirash’s imprisonment from me, so I burned down the Shrine of Patron Victoria to hurt you. So don’t think I’m as good as my ancestors. I’ve had this coming. I deserve this. If you want to do something for me despite that, protect my friends and family from the Corrupt Prince as you promised to do, back when all this began. They don’t deserve to suffer because of my actions. Do that if you must help. But I don’t need you anymore.”

  Domet let go of my wrist, hand limp. His mouth was slightly open and his eyes were staring beyond me. I left him in his living room, the fire sizzling out.

  * * *

  It was bitterly cold outside. I dug my hands into my pockets and watched my breath mist in the air.

  In the little time I had as a free man, there were a great many things I wish I could have done. I wish I could have walked around in the snow, listening to the crunch it made under my boots while basking in the sun’s glow. Or wandered the city one last time, seeing everything from the dye pits to Kingman Keep. Or even to have one last meal of freshly baked bread and butter.

  There were people I wished I could speak to one last time: Omari, Jean, Arjay, Gwen, Lyon, Angelo, and Trey. But if I was caught with any of them, they would suffer with me. I doubted the princess or the Corrupt Prince would be merciful to anyone until my head was separated from my neck.

  But I did have one last selfish act left.

  I was thankful that the path I had taken from the Upper Quarter the morning after I had burned down the Shrine of Patron Victoria wasn’t commonly known. It allowed me to traverse a heavily patrolled area easily, and by the time I had to step onto a crowded street, I was already close to my destination.

  Once I could smell smoke and musk and saw the abandoned buildings that had once been used by Hollow Academy, the Hollow Library was in sight. From there it was even easier. The Archivists were so preoccupied with their own work, they didn’t notice me sneak past them and into the depths of the library. And since I knew its layout so well, I was able to avoid most of the Archivists on my way to the Archmage Room.

  The Recorder jumped to his feet as I entered the room, knocking his chair to the floor. His eyes widened and his mouth opened on instinct to ask me his final question.

  I cut him off before he could. “Before you ask your question, I’ll offer you something better. Why have a yes or no when you could have the entire story? Everything that led to me being labeled a king killer. And all I ask from you, in return for the greatest story ever told, is a small favor and to let me live long enough to tell it.”

  Symon tapped his fingers against the table. “You’ll tell me? Everything? You do realize what you’d be giving me, correct? There will be no one to refute what I write once you are gone. You are placing yourself, and your family’s legacy, in my hands to preserve or destroy if I wish.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “What is this small favor you’d ask of me?”

  “I need your Light Fabrications to help me cure my mother. She’s been in the asylum for a decade with all the symptoms of a Forgotten. I’ve tried everything to help her except magic, and before I die, I need to know I did everything I could.”

  “Close the door,” he said. “Juliet Kingman has been alive this entire time? I feel like a fool. And you should, too. Forgotten can’t be cured.”

  “She can’t be a Forgotten, she’s not a Fabricator. It has to be caused by a Darkness Fabrication.”

  Symon righted his chair and sat back down in it. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a pair of red robes—the same as the ones he wore—and then slid them across the table to me. “Put this on and pull the hood up. It’s not much of a disguise, but it’ll buy us time while you tell your story and get us to the asylum.”

  As I changed, I said, “No, you’ll get half now and half once you’ve treated my mother.”

  “That’s absurd,” he said. “It’ll take you a long time to tell me the entire thing, and I have everything I need to record it here. If you don’t trust me to keep up my end of the bargain, you can hold on to this.”

  Symon handed me a small book that showed years of use. Softly he said, “That’s my diary. I write in it every day. If something were to happen to me, it’s the only way for me to remember anything about my life. If I break my word, destroy it.”

  I flipped through it. Symon wasn’t lying: there were diary entries in there that dated back to his eighth year. It was his lifeline as a Fabricator, and while it was not nearly as valuable as the story I was about to tell him, it would do. With insurance in case he betrayed me, I took a seat.

  Symon already had a quill in hand and a stack of parchment next to him. “Begin whenever you’re ready.”

  I took a deep breath. “You will hear this story as I have lived it.”

  THE LAST TESTIMONY OF MICHAEL KINGMAN

  “…And that’s how I ended up here. With you. Bartering my story in exchange for a chance at saving my mother.”

  Symon set his quill down on the table. “I should have realized you nullified my Light Fabrication when I used it on you. I was a fool to think I had seen your shadow wrong when you had been here.”

  “My shadow?”

  “Yes,” he said. “When someone is affected by Darkness Fabrications, their shadow usually looks distorted to Light Fabricators. Yours was subtle—it flickered in and out—but it manifests differently for each individual.”

  “How did I not know that?”

  “How many trained Light Fabricators do you run into daily? Untrained ones wouldn’t understand what they’re seeing. It’s a trade secret, and one we keep very well hidden.”

  I didn’t respond, suddenly seeing Trey’s words in a different light. Even as I told my story to the Recorder, I wondered how much I still didn’t understand. How much I had missed.

  “You must know,” Symon said, “no one will believe that the king killed himself.”

  “I’m just satisfied that someone knows the truth.”

  “If you say so,” he said as he placed all his papers and books into his bag. “Pull your hood further forward: we’re heading to the asylum.”

  Traveling through the city with Symon was the most pleasant stroll I’d ever had, even before my father had been executed. We were ignored in our red robes, and people moved out of our way. At the asylum Symon had the nurses lead us to my mother’s cell with just a few words, and once they left, I sat down on my mother’s bed as she slept while Symon rolled up his sleeves.

  “Is her shadow distorted?” I asked as I gently ran my fingers through her hair.

  “With no natural light in here, it’s hard to tell. I’ll try using a Light Fabri
cation, anyway.”

  He put his hand to my mother’s forehead and a blinding light came from it to cover her like a veil. Symon let the light bathe my mother for considerably longer than he had when he had used it on me in the library, and when he was finished, he stepped away from the bed and attempted to catch his breath.

  “Did it work?” I asked.

  “Unsure,” he said. “But I used more magic on her than I needed to lift twenty-year-old Darkness Fabrications from an elderly gentleman’s mind. If it didn’t work, there’s nothing I can do to help her.”

  “How long will it take before I know?”

  “Hours? Days? Weeks? It’s hard to be precise. Certainly within a month.”

  “I don’t have a month.”

  “Then you’ll just have to hope.”

  I kissed my mother on her forehead and let my warmth flow over my body and onto her like a blanket, to protect her from what was about to come. With any luck it would also nullify any trace of the magic Symon’s Light Fabrication had missed. If it had worked, I hoped Gwen and Lyon would get their mother back. And if not, I hoped that whatever afflicted her mind would allow her to forget me, too, rather than grieve for her dead son.

  “It’s time for me to go,” I said. “Can you stay with her until Gwen arrives? If it works, I don’t want her to wake up alone.”

  Symon hesitated for a few heartbeats, then said, “Fine. I can go over your story again while I wait.”

  “Thank you,” I said as I returned his diary.

  “Don’t. I wouldn’t if the position were reversed.”

  “Do you think they’ll remember me?”

  “The world will know your name.” Symon held out his hand and I shook it without hesitation. It was a small comfort that someone knew the truth. Maybe he’d tell Gwen and Lyon some of it, too. Then they’d know what I was about to do had been to protect them.

  I bid farewell to the self-proclaimed King of Stories and left the asylum in no rush for what was about to come.

  * * *

  Dressed as I was, it would have been simple for me to walk away from the city and disappear, to start a new life somewhere on the Gold Coast or find out wherever my father had gone in those years he walked away from Hollow. I’d never figured that part of his life out. Or heard how he met my mother. I guess I never would. It didn’t matter: where I was going was no place for the truth. I walked the same path he had taken a decade ago, if for different reasons. I had known since I left Domet’s house how I wanted this to end, and who I wanted at my side when it did.

  I waited outside Naomi’s house, bundled in the Archivist’s robe. There was only one light on in the house, but it felt alive, albeit only slightly more than I did. I waited until Lights Out before I approached. I used the metal knocker on the door and watched as the light moved through the windows and down to where I was waiting. Naomi opened the door, lantern in one hand and cane in the other, and didn’t say a word when she saw my face. She was paler than I remembered, but that was to be expected after taking a bullet to the gut. She took a step out into the street with me, and we stood together as the snow fell around us.

  I pulled back my hood. “Naomi.”

  Her electric-blue eyes were as fierce as when I first met her.

  I held out my wrists to her, palms up. “I surrender.”

  Naomi looked at my wrists and then my face. “Did you actually do it?”

  “Would you even believe me if I said no?”

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m done lying and running away.”

  “And why come to me for this?” she said, voice rising. “Why not just walk into the castle, or Scales headquarters? I don’t want your charity.”

  “I don’t want to be alone when it happens. I trust you.”

  That much was true. She was cunning and ambitious, but she was honest. There wouldn’t be many honest people where I was about to go.

  Naomi wiped away an unexpected tear, the first genuine emotion of hers I had seen.

  “Then on behalf of the Executioner Division of Scales, Michael Kingman, I’m arresting you for the murder of King Isaac Hollow.”

  THE LIFE AND DEATH OF MICHAEL KINGMAN

  They tortured me.

  Not systematically. But once I was in my cell, various people took turns beating me until I was coughing up blood and my chest was as colorful as a painting. The Ravens were the worst; they truly wanted me to suffer. The others were simply joining the mob. Like father like son, some of them said to me as they cleaned my blood off their knuckles. I had no doubt my father had gone through the same thing a decade ago. And I’m sure we both got the same special treatment from the Ravens. One would hold me while another cut into my skin: long, shallow slices. They didn’t want me to bleed too much; it was about the pain. The worst was when they cut down my fingers from the base of my nail, over my knuckles, and across my palm.

  Whenever I opened or closed my hands, they would burn in pain, more so after grain alcohol was poured onto them. As soon as the cuts closed over, they would do it again, a fresh slice beside the old one. For variety they would bring out a pair of pliers and threaten to rip out my nails one by one until I wanted to rip my own throat out—but couldn’t. One wanted to rip out my tongue. Another wanted to castrate me and make me eat it. A third wanted to mix broken glass with my food to shred my insides. I was thankful that Efyra needed me presentable and whole for my trial, or else I suspected the Ravens would’ve done much worse to me.

  Neither Chloe nor Kai’s elder sister were among the Ravens that came for my flesh. Perhaps because it wouldn’t quench their thirst for revenge as it did the others. Or perhaps they didn’t have a high enough rank to torture me. I didn’t know. But it was among the millions of questions I asked myself while in that cell. And although the torture was relentless, I never said a word to them. I wouldn’t give them the pleasure of anything but my screams.

  They saved something special for the night before the trial. After starving me and leaving me in a completely dark cell devoid of windows, I was taken out and pampered like a prince. The Ravens who had subjected me to all that pain proceeded to clean my entire body with lavender soap and scrubs. They cleaned and dressed my wounds, cut my hair, and brought a barber to shave me. Then they dressed me in one of the fine outfits Domet had given me and said how handsome I looked. How proud my father would’ve been of the man I had become.

  I wasn’t angered by the torture. But for them to treat me like that afterward wasn’t human. It scared me. So much so that I couldn’t look any of them in the eyes after what they had done. I felt like a pig being presented to a butcher before slaughter, with fresh rosy cheeks and a bow on my head.

  When the trial finally came, it was a relief. Domet was on the council that would decide my fate—a small benefit of keeping our connection a secret, though I was sure anyone who was determined to could have discovered it. But I doubted anyone cared, since Domet wasn’t trying to protect me in this trial, just my friends and family.

  The prosecution didn’t have any real evidence against me, just the testimonies of witnesses who saw King Isaac hit the ground. Most, if not all of them, claimed they had seen me pull the trigger of the gun right before he fell over the ledge. A bunch of liars.

  But who was I to judge?

  After their stimulating testimonies, the prosecution reconstructed the timeline while speculating about my motives.

  Some scared guard with freshly shined boots was their first major witness against me. He told a wild story of how I had climbed over the walls and snuck into the Royal Tower through a window. No one could back up his testimony, but neither could he be discredited. Of the two true witnesses, Dark couldn’t be found, and Domet had protected Omari.

  Trey wasn’t called, either, despite having seen me in the Star Chamber. Toward the end of the trial, he did appear in the back of the courtroom, dressed as an Advocator, watching me. Deep down he might have had a thought about where my secret passa
ge was, but I could only guess that he remained silent because of everything we had done together.

  Over the course of the trial, I heard people damn me with every misstep I had ever made, to prove that I had been slowly blooming into my father’s successor—a true king killer—and the council and audience ate it up like slop in a trough.

  Naomi didn’t give a testimony. Perhaps she didn’t want to, or possibly her superiors or her father had prevented it. So the nickname of Kingman Whore could die with me.

  But, more surprisingly, the princess was absent, too, despite talking to me in the baths. Perhaps out of shame or anger at having a chance to stop me but failing to, she remained silent and out of sight.

  Every so often, between bouts of berating and dehumanizing me, the judge would ask me two questions: Do you have anything to say in your defense; and do you plead to be a Forgotten? Both questions were ridiculous. If I said anything in my defense, I would risk making the Royals angrier and more likely to lash out against my family once I was gone. Their strongest defense was that I said nothing. And, no, I wasn’t a Forgotten. I remembered everything. Now more than ever. My only regret was that I would never be able to make amends with my family and friends in person. Maybe one day they would understand what I was doing was for them—as I had with my father.

  The verdict came quickly: I was guilty. I would be executed. No big surprise. The only thing I hadn’t expected was that the judge declared that I would be executed in the same vein my father had been. He must’ve been a romantic at heart. Two Kingman traitors having their heads cut off at the top of the steps to the Church of the Wanderer. Maybe someone would write a ballad or song about it. Maybe then my name would be known to the world and I wouldn’t be forgotten.