“I think they were praying on your fondness of dragons, your Majesty,” the woman said, her voice even.
“Right you are. Issue a statement through the press chancellor. I want them out of Arnin immediately.”
“At once, and at your service.”
The king stood in the doorway as the woman’s footsteps echoed away, then he turned, and the door closed behind him. A wry smile spread across his lips when he saw Trent. He stepped toward the window, where he pulled a tiny bottle of amber liquid from the drawer of a lamp-stand and drained it, holding the nozzle between his teeth.
Trent didn’t react.
Brech wiped his mouth with his fingers and stifled a laugh when he eyed Trent again. “So what is this? Did you become a Karlian over night?”
“No.”
“Then it’s a costume,” his Majesty suggested. He pulled another bottle from the drawer, pocketed it, then walked around the table. “Must say, that armor is—ornate. How long have you been working on it?”
Trent shrugged. “All my life, I suppose.”
The king laughed. “Should have worn it yesterday, then. Denard would have loved it. Could have made a huge spectacle—more than it already was.”
“I didn’t need it yesterday.”
“And you do now? Saw you talking with him last night.” Brech squinted his eyes and cast a sidelong glance. “Then you ducked out.”
“Should I have stopped and thanked you for the invitation, your Majesty?”
Brech’s face blanked. “Why are you here? Trent, it’s one thing when the scepter calls upon your service and grants you a royal audience, but to presume my time is”—he shook his head and huffed—“nothing short of disrespect, especially—like this.”
“I mean none,” said Trent. “Your Majesty, there’s no easy way for me to say what I need to, so I’ll be straightforward with you.” He had to stop himself from laughing at how ridiculous it sounded in his head. “I am Grand Master of the Karlian Order. Last night, I found out about the next demon invasion of Coroth, and I came here to make you aware of my need for”—he swallowed—“for your service.”
The king’s face creased with resent. He templed his hands in front of his chest and ambled away. “If this is a joke, it’s unappreciated.”
“Understood, your Majesty. It’s not.”
“Then step out of that ridiculous armor,” Brech said, his voice a lashing vine. “You’ve no right to stand in it.”
“Brech”—
“Do not presume!” his Majesty shouted, wheeling around. “Make no presumption of our relationship. You will address me by the title the gods have bequeathed me by birthright. Do not pretend to be someone of the highest order—you border dangerously on contempt. I promise you, I’ll make the Chamberlain aware of your trespass, and then the Order can sort you out. I’m finished here.” He walked away.
“Stop,” Trent said, more forceful than he’d wished. “Stand where you are.”
The king stilled. “Do you pretend to give me an order?” He turned, his face twisted in malice, and he raised a finger to his right temple.
Trent put forth a hand. The armor at his thigh folded apart when he reached for his pocket, from which he pulled the monocle Jeom had given him. “You speak of birthright. The Goddess Herself has anointed me.” Brech caught the glass when Trent tossed it to him. “Gaze upon me and see my true self, old friend.”
Hostility spread across his Majesty’s face as he looked between the monocle to Trent. “When my guards arrive, they will take you into custody. And when I see only you”—he raised the monocle to his left eye—“I”—
Trent stepped out of his leggings and set his breastplate on the table next to him. He stood before the king in his slacks and undershirt from the night before. The runes across his body still glowed a faint white-blue, and to his right hand, he called a beam of Light.
Brech lowered the monocle and looked at Trent before he raised it again to his face. “What sorcery have you put me under?”
“None. There’s no magic in that glass. My secret-keeper herself melted it.”
The king raised the curio to his eye again, and his expression dissolved. “I don’t understand. H—Why?”
Trent stepped forward and let go of the Light. “In days of need, when complete becomes the ring, the king becomes the master”—
“And the master, king,” said Brech.
“My actions are gross, both in number and reason, all of them shameful. Twenty years I took to work them out for myself—almost enough time for the world to fall again. That looking glass is the only proof I can offer, apart from my word and my service.”
Brech’s hand fell to his side. “I’m sorry, give me a moment.” He breathed. “The world—it just echoed around me like it did when my father’s chief secretary told me I’d become king. This, unlike then, however, is—something of an answer to prayer.”
“I understand it’ll take time to process,” Trent said, “but time is something we’re desperately short on now.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Last night, after the party.” Trent removed his gauntlets and tucked them under his arms, then held out his hands.
“Gods. That can’t mean”—
“More and worse. The demons’ master herself pulled me into the nether.”
Alarm shot across Brech’s face. “Her?” He sounded excited. “You mean this isn’t M’keth?”
Trent shook his head. “Someone far deadlier, I think. I’ve recalled all Karlians to Karhaal to discuss our next course of action, if anything. But Brech”—he paused. She can manipulate the Light, he wanted to say. It can still hurt them, but hardly as it did. “This is a new machine we face this time.”
“Gods.” After a silence, Brech went on. “It feels like just a few years ago we got past the last War. I know it’s not the worst one Coroth ever faced, but it’s the worst one I ever did—that we ever did. Back then, though, you were off being—gods—Russell Hollowman while I sat safely at Arnin.” The king chuckled and looked through the monocle a last time before he tossed it back to Trent. “If I’d known who you were—who you are.” He paused. “I should have bowed to you. Titles and”—
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Trent. “Now’s not the time.”
Behind Brech, the door opened, and two guards stormed inside. “Your Majesty,” one of them said. He saw Trent’s hands, drew his weapon—a sword hilt that he turned on a joint to transform it into a firearm—and stepped between his Majesty and the Master.
“Stop,” the king said and held up his hand. At his command the guards ceased all movement. “I’m no longer in need of your presence.” The guards dropped their postures. “Rather a misunderstanding. Gentlemen, we stand before a hero, one who doesn’t deserve the treatment he’s received.” He winked at Trent. “For sortie blows the windy gale.”
“Your Majesty,” the one between Trent and Brech said. He twisted his weapon back into a hilt, and the other guard and he left.
“As the father, so too the son,” said Trent when their audience had become private again.
Brech laughed. “I hope not. But Trent—Russ—there’s every reason the Order chose you, why Karli chose you. I don’t have to know why you’ve done what you’ve done. Those words I used for Denard last night were more than just bluster—almost nothing happens by sheer chance. I’d hoped beyond hope something like this would happen, and now the gods have made it so.”
The king paused for a few seconds, perhaps to marshal his thoughts. “You fought off the demons once, stood alongside Master Jeom, and we’ll win again.” His Majesty spoke so easily while he moseyed away. “I’ve had our scientists working on a special project, of sorts. It’s the reason I pushed so hard for the formation of the Priesthood”—he looked at Trent—“in case you didn’t know. I’ve refused to work with this Chamberlain fellow, but the Undertaker, she’s another matter. When the time calls, the Castle Arnin should have a stake in the fight thi
s time—a meaningful stake alongside Karhaal.”
“We’ll have to have a chat about that sometime.” Trent wanted past this, and with the king amenable, they could small-talk later.
“I’m sure we will. But what can I do now?”
“I need a portal to Karhaal for a start. And a royal rune ring—one that grants unlimited passage.”
Brech sighed. “Damn. One for two. Believe me if it were within my power to get you directly to Karhaal, I would, but the dragons have made a mess of everything. I don’t know how close our Tower will be able to get you. But a rune ring?” He pulled a band off his left hand and tossed the piece of platinum to Trent. “Loads more where that came from.”
Trent turned the ring over and looked at its face. A dragon’s head blazed across it, to its left, a ‘K,’ on its right, an ‘L.’
“All this time,” said Brech. “My pumpkin farmer.”
“Didn’t set out be. The gods are just funny that way sometimes.”
Brech shook his head. “The gods are never funny. Almost always they hang bait in front of the royal caste with which we can do nothing. But not this time.”
“Then let us be ahead of this.”
“Yes.” The king hesitated then nodded. “Yes.”
Trent re-equipped his armor, and they left. They headed for a different bank of elevators than the ones Trent had used to ascend the building.
“We can get to the Estate underground,” the king said. “I’ll get a taxi for you down in distributions.” A lift stood open for them. Brech worked while the elevator moved, tapping at spots in the air in front of him. After twenty seconds, their descent slowed, then the lift propelled laterally. Trent leaned on his hammer to balance himself.
“Just confirmed,” Brech said. “The closest Tower we can get you to is in Munsrow, but you need to leave—almost immediately. The ash storm’s causing too many problems. Gods, it’s big this year.” He looked to a corner of the carriage. “Guess we know why now.”
Munsrow, Trent thought. It’s a start.
A quick ascent finished their ride. “A Leynar will escort you to the Tower from the garages,” said the king as they exited the lift. The foyer’s glass ceiling hung overhead. “Doubt you’ll want to use the front entrance. They’re still dealing with the fallout from last night. Apart from that”—he sighed. “I wish—gods, I wish I could do more.”
“You can. One way the enemy will sow discord is through misinformation. Her agents”—Trent thought of the dirty woman, how she’d looked human—“could be anywhere, even now. Get word about what I’ve told you out as soon as you can.”
“I will. I’ll hold a briefing this afternoon, even.” Brech swiped the air. His eyes darted between points in front of him.
People moved around them while they stood in collective silence for a quarter-minute. Most bowed to the king as they passed, but a few missed his presence for the Karlian next to him.
Chrissa came around the corner from the private elevator banks in a long skirt of burgundy and a copper blouse that draped to her hips. Befuddlement coated her face when she saw Trent.
“Old friend,” Brech said, “unfortunately, I have other matters to which I must attend.”
“Sure.”
They gripped each other’s forearms in a symbolic gesture that spoke of the special accord between Karhaal’s Grand Master and Coroth’s Majesty. The king turned toward the elevators.
“Your Majesty,” Trent said, glad that he’d remembered. “My sigil, if you would.”
The king reached into his pocket and tossed the trinket to Trent, who rolled the boar’s head in his fingers before snapping it back onto his codex.
Brech bowed. “Good luck, Grand Master.”
“May the Light illuminate your path.” Trent’s tongue hardly folded the words correctly as Brech left him.
Chrissa bowed to the king when he strutted past her. Trent saw her say, “Your Majesty,” before she slinked toward him. “Fancy seeing you here again,” she said once near. “Ya look good for a farmer.”
“Things change,” said Trent.
“Apparently.” Chrissa stepped near enough to whisper. “A Karlian, though? Seriously? Is this about the queen?”
Trent shook his head. “There’s more to it than I thought. I’m not sure how Pinny fits into it. Or if she even does.”
“Then why are ya here?”
“Needed to meet with the king.”
“For what?”
“I think his Majesty will make a statement sometime today. Don’t know when exactly.”
Chrissa frowned. “I don’t get to hear it from you?”
Trent shook his head. “I think it’s best if you hear it from the king. Like everyone else.”
She gestured uncaring. “So what—you’re off to be a hero?”
Trent had told her something similar to convince her to help him months before. He returned her amused look. “Tell Therrance what you know, what I’ve told you. Haven’t had a chance to speak with him.”
“Kay.” She smirked. A glint of sunlight reflected off the enrichment in her left eye.
“What?” Trent said. “I know that look. It means trouble.”
“Told ya there was more to ya, remember?”
“You’re smart. Things’ll get on fine here.” He leaned toward her. “But do try to keep tabs on her Grace. I don’t think she’s evil. But misguided—probably.”
“And she’s a fucking cunt.”
“Shh,” Trent said, eyeing those who passed by. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Don’t say shit like that here. And if that’s the worst you’ve got to worry about, thank the gods every day for it.”
Chrissa giggled. “When’s the next time you think you’ll be in Keep?”
“Dunno.” Trent tried to think of what to say to her, but everything that came to him—You were a big help, Keep your head down, Something-something-we had fun didn’t we?—sounded either reductive, trite, or both. He leaned down to kiss her cheek, but she turned her head just before his lips met her face, and they kissed. Too many things ran through Trent’s mind—the way her skin smelled of cinnamon, how her nose fit a little too well next to his, how soft her lips felt, how soft they’d always felt—for him to react, and before he could, they parted.
Chrissa at least had the grace to blush against that trouble-smile that spread across her lips. “Thought I was being cool, but I regretted not doin that last night.”
Trent puffed. “Right. Hold the place together while I’m gone.”
Chrissa’s smile turned crooked, like it had when she found something particularly droll. “Yeah. I fuckin run this place.” Trent watched her wander across the foyer, where she disappeared into a descending stairwell.
At the lift to distributions, he had only to show the servicemen the ring he’d hung on a tie around his waist guard. A transport waited for him when he walked into the garages-proper, where a warm breeze caressed his face from the bowels of Arnin. He looked around for Therrance, who he didn’t find, before he neared the vehicle.
“Mr. Geno, I presume,” the driver said from under a handlebar mustache as Trent climbed aboard. His pageboy haircut framed his young face with gray hair. “They told me a big feller in fancy armor needed a ride.”
“I do,” Trent said. He sat. “Think you can get me Karhaal?”
“Bit tricky in this rig,” the Leynar said, tapping the console as they pulled away. “But I’m sure the Tower can fix you right up. Better hurry, though, if you’re headin north.”
Trent thanked the driver when he stepped off the taxi at a side-entrance to the Tower, where he only half-expected to find Grenn waiting for him. But the young man apparently hadn’t arrived yet, so he pulled his terminal from his belt and tapped a message to Sieku while he waited, alone. ‘How’s market?’
Fourteen seconds later, he received a response: ‘Thirty-seven percent stock move. Regular buyers agreeable to price inflation.’ Not bad, Trent couldn’t help but think, e
specially for midwinter.
But that thought served a life that now quickly faded to nonentity, and his mind pulled against itself. Understand, a thought said, but Trent couldn’t discern his mind’s query.
He picked the stone Lillie had given to him from his pocket and rolled it between his hands. Grenn had asked about it during the ride north. “Pretty thing, huh?” Trent had said—all he had said about it. When his mind had spare time, his thoughts turned to it, what it meant, but as he stared into its facets, as though he could somehow divine from it like a seer’s ball, it only showed him a point of orange that stuttered through a sea of black.
Vehicles filtered past for eleven minutes. Trent had almost headed for gate access, worried they might not have let the young Karlian through, when one finally pulled up with Grenn inside. In the back seat, a brunette sat on Grenn’s lap, wrapped around him like how serrens often cling to each other in times of fright, kissing him as though the young man provided her a sole source of oxygen. Grenn held her just as close, his arms folded around her bared waist, and his hands wandered across her skin. He opened his eyes when the urlan-driver spoke at him, and from a pouch on his belt, Grenn pulled a few coins, a flash of platinum among them. The cabbie looked at the pieces Grenn handed to him, shrugged, and turned to wait.
A minute and half later, Grenn pushed the girl onto the seat next to him. “I know,” Trent watched him say. The pilot retracted the shield, and Grenn stood and grabbed his mace. “But I’ve gotta go,” came the young man’s voice.
The young woman held onto his hand, looking to him with madcap need as he stepped off the stage. She knelt to bring her face level with his, laid a hand around Grenn’s neck, and whispered against his lips.
Grenn spoke in kind, then stepped away. “Write me.”
“You’re the one who’s going,” she said, her face and voice colored by regret. “You write me.”
Grenn only laughed as the pilot raised the cabin’s shields.
“I thought you had somethin important to do,” Trent said while they watched the cab pull away.
“Did you see that girl?” Grenn said as he waved. “You’re gonna tell me she’s not important?” The young woman peered through the car’s back window. “I thought I had enough time to say goodbye to them all, but she—she was the best.”
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