Kingdoms and Chaos (King's Dark Tidings Book 4)

by Kel Kade

  A wave of angry shouts and fear-filled shrieks passed through the crowd, and the soldiers raised their bows in answer.

  “Surrender him to us!” the purifier said.

  “No, but you are welcome to try to take him. You will not survive the encounter.”

  “He cannot unleash his foul scourge in this sacred place. The runes—”

  Wesson produced a ball of swirling fire over his open palm.

  “Are ineffectual,” Dark Tidings said.

  “Seize him,” the purifier shrieked.

  The purifiers raised their arms, and Wesson’s fireball fizzled in a thin puff. Wesson was overwhelmed with alarm as the power of ten mages wrapped around him. He felt imprisoned, trapped. His outward calm was in complete contrast to the internal battle he was waging against the confines of power. He knew Rezkin could probably feel the purifiers’ attack, but if so, he gave no indication. After the initial panic began to subside, Wesson realized the restraints felt wobbly and frayed. Part of him was still wondering how he was able to fight them at all. He had seen the numerous runes carved into the columns, roof, and floor, and he should not have been able to light a candle, much less create a fireball. Even now, he could feel his strength mounting, and he knew that if he kept pressing, he could overcome the assault. Whether he could do it in time to save himself was another matter.

  “I invoke the rule of the Interkingdom Accords,” said Dark Tidings. “The mage cannot be touched. As you have seen, he is not as limited as you hoped.”

  “The Interkingdom Accords apply only to monarchs and diplomats,” the purifier replied. “You are neither.”

  “Stand down, Mage,” Dark Tidings said, eliciting a deep scowl from the purifier, and a flurry of angry grumbles from the crowd. “That is not your decision to make.” He nodded toward another man descending the steps.

  The purifiers turned and bowed toward the new arrival. King Privoth paused at the base of the steps, and Dark Tidings finally dismounted. His warriors followed in unison, maintaining positions beside their mounts. It was a display they had practiced to proficiency.

  “You are audacious,” said Privoth, “to come here to my kingdom, to demand an audience with the king, to bring with you but a handful of warriors, and to deliver unto us this scourge-infested demonkind. If you think to intimidate me, as you did Ionius, you will be disappointed.”

  Privoth was a young king of merely thirty years. His brown hair was cropped short in the Gendishen military style, as was his short, pointy beard. He wore the uniform of a soldier but with a ruby encrusted gold crown atop his head and five embellished gold chains stretching across his chest. He carried himself with the assurance of a general, but unlike most of the monarchs about the Souelian, Privoth had earned an officer’s rank before taking the throne.

  Dark Tidings said, “I do not come to press or beg”—he grasped the black mask and pulled it from his face—“but to bargain.” He met Privoth’s hard stare and was pleased to see the dutifully concealed surprise in the king’s dark eyes. Unlike his warriors, Rezkin had not painted his face. The strikers and the baron had said they saw in him a resemblance to the Ashaiian royal family, and he wanted Privoth to see it, too.

  “Your Majesty,” the lead purifier said, “the afflicted …”

  “Yes,” Privoth said, diverting his attention, “read him.”

  Rezkin felt a rise in the buzz of mage power directed at Wesson. The purifier’s face contorted in anger—an anger that gradually morphed from righteous indignation to fear.

  “He is strong. No, too strong. He wields inconceivable destructive power. Your Majesty, we cannot hold him. He will break free. I implore you to seek safety. We must kill him now before his power is released.”

  King Privoth was unmoved. He stood, stoic, as he examined the black-clad warriors who remained as still and unperturbed as their leader.

  The purifier stepped closer to his king and hissed too low for any but Rezkin to hear. “Your Majesty, we cannot wait. Why do you delay?”

  “I wait for him,” said Privoth with a nod toward Rezkin.

  The purifier stared at his king. “Have they used their demon-gotten power to corrupt your mind?”

  Privoth sounded as if he were schooling a child as he spoke. “Look at them. They do not appear concerned. Why are they not concerned?” He turned hard eyes on his zealous servant. “Read him.”

  The purifier looked doubtfully at Rezkin but did as his king bade him. The tingle of power slipped over Rezkin, and he could feel it trying to grasp something within, but nothing answered. The purifier shook violently and stepped back.

  “He is … cold. It is a deep, bitter cold, and disturbing, but he is not one of them.”

  “What does it mean?” Privoth said.

  The purifier lifted his nose and said, “I am sure it is nothing. He has probably spent too much time in the presence of the scourge afflicted.”

  Privoth appeared unsatisfied with the answer. He raised his voice and said, “Bring the old woman.”

  A runner dashed away beyond the colonnade. Rezkin spent the next few minutes studying the spectators and guards while Privoth studied him and his companions. He nodded in appreciation of Minder Finwy’s presence, and then the man’s gaze lingered on Yserria, which was not surprising. Women were not permitted the same freedoms in Gendishen as they were in Ashai. Aside from that, even Rezkin had noticed that the woman looked particularly stunning in her present attire. Her pale, freckled skin glowed beneath the black cloak and tabard, her green eyes were like fire blazing through the darkness of the black paint, and a few stray red curls danced around her face in the shadow of her hood. With her determined gaze and the array of exposed weapons, she was a beautiful but deadly viper. Rezkin thought her well suited to play the role of enchantress.

  His attention flicked to the top of the stairs. An old woman in a worn frock made of layers of colorful fabric was shuffling down the steps with the aid of the young runner. Long, silver hair, streaked white with a few remaining black strands, was tied back in a tail that hung past her waist. Her skin was pale, wrinkled, and marked with many years of age spots. When she reached the base of the steps, she paused and looked up at their party. Her aged grey eyes flashed with intrigue when her gaze landed upon Wesson.

  “Greetings, young one. It has been many years,” the old woman said. “You are underdressed.”

  Rezkin glanced back at his mage. Wesson appeared startled and uncertain if he should speak. “You are acquainted?” Rezkin asked.

  “Yes,” Wesson replied. He turned to the old woman and performed a shallow bow. “Greetings, Master Reader Kessa. It is an honor to be in your company.”

  Rezkin looked back at the old woman. Her eyes flashed with mirth as she said, “King Privoth is wise to treat you all well.”

  Privoth said, “What is this? What do you know?”

  She looked at Wesson with a pleased smile. “I am certain your purifiers have already told you what you need to know.”

  “I will be the judge of that. You were invited here to teach and to serve me. Do as I say and answer the question.”

  Kessa pursed her lips and frowned at the young king. “King Privoth, you do not understand how an invitation is supposed to work.” She glanced from Wesson to Rezkin. “With an invitation, the recipient has the option to refuse.”

  “Answer the question, old woman,” Privoth said.

  Kessa pointed at Wesson. “I know that no one can force that one to do anything he does not wish to do. You would be wise not to press him.” Her grey gaze turned to Rezkin. “I know that if this one has managed to garner the loyalty of the mage, then he is most dangerous.”

  Privoth growled in frustration. “Do you know him as well?”

  “No, I do not, but the likeness is enough, do you not agree? In which case, you should be very concerned.”

  “Read him,” Privoth demanded.

  Kessa gazed, unfocused, at Rezkin for a long time. She became unnaturally still, an
d her lips began to turn blue. Her focus returned, and she shivered violently. “Co-o-o-ld,” she said through chattering teeth, and a puff of frosty air escaped her lips. She pulled her shawl tighter around her and studied Rezkin’s face anew.

  Privoth prompted, “What does it mean?”

  “He is not a mage,” Kessa said. “I can say this with certainty.”

  “Then what is he?”

  The old woman shrugged. “A man?” At Privoth’s dissatisfied look, she said, “He is probably under the influence of a spell, one that I cannot see.” She nodded toward Wesson, “He may be capable of such a thing.”

  Privoth looked pointedly at the woman and said, “If he is not afflicted, then he cannot be of the Ashaiian royal line.”

  Kessa looked at Rezkin skeptically. “That I do not believe.”

  The purifier stepped forward with a gleeful grin. “Your Majesty, perhaps he has been cured. What if the power of the fiery Hells has been ripped from him, leaving behind a frozen, purified vessel?”

  Rezkin did not like the idea that a piece of his innate being had been stolen. He said to the purifier, “You bear the talent, same as the mage. It is the source of your power.”

  “We bear the curse of demon power so that we may identify and bind those afflicted with the scourge. It cannot be used any other way. The Maker deemed it so and blessed us with these runes”—he waved a finger around the adorned structure—“to assist in our crusade.”

  Rezkin glanced at the runes. “These were created by mages like you and him. How you choose to use your power is your prerogative, but we both know you are capable of much more.”

  Kessa grinned and King Privoth glanced at the fuming purifier. He lifted his hand to forestall the imminent, vicious tirade. To Rezkin, he said, “You are clever. I recognize your attempt to divide us, and it will not work.”

  “I seek only to expose the truth of your hypocrisy,” Rezkin said.

  “Like my fathers before me, it is my prerogative to use whatever resources are available to maintain the balance of this kingdom.”

  “By balance, you mean the existing power structure.”

  “Indeed, for it is by the blessing of the Maker that my family has ruled this kingdom for twelve generations. You said you came here to bargain. You call yourself the King of Cael, True King of Ashai. By your looks alone, I might be inclined to believe the latter has some substance. Cael, however, belongs to me.”

  “Ionius said the same.”

  “Channería has only ever claimed that worthless rock to vex us. Now, it seems, they have given it to you—but with a few stipulations.” Privoth chuckled. “I hear he gave to you his daughter. You must have been very convincing in your methods. In the matter of Cael, though, I believe Ionius said that I must recognize your claim. It is interesting that he should do so. Our people have never agreed on anything regarding Cael, and now we should consent to give it to you. What incentive do I have?”

  “I have more resources than either you or Ionius realize.”

  “Oh?” Privoth smirked. “I heard you went to Ionius practically begging for favor.”

  Rezkin grinned devilishly. “Men hear what they wish, men of power especially.”

  Privoth’s expression soured. “I can only assume your candidness is designed to convince me of my own desire to give to you my land.”

  “On the contrary, I have no need of your gift. As I said, I came to bargain.”

  “Very well, what is it you have that I should want?”

  “You and your predecessors have been seeking an alliance with the tribes of the Eastern Mountains for more than a hundred years. A trade relay would be of great value, particularly one bearing a strong force in the mountains that could assist with that nasty drauglic problem.”

  Once again, Privoth hid his surprise well. “That would be a valuable deal, indeed—one that I do not believe you are capable of delivering.”

  “For Cael, it will be so,” Rezkin said.

  “Why do you want it?” Privoth snapped.

  Rezkin smiled. “We are refugees. It is our home. What would one not do for one’s home?”

  Privoth scoffed. He glanced at the assembly, pausing on the rows of councilors and military officers and then on his four daughters who were present out of the eight. When he turned back, Rezkin could see that he had not been swayed.

  “What you offer is a worthy price, but I do not accept. There is something else of greater value, and I will accept nothing in its stead.”

  Rezkin had anticipated a counter offer but not complete rejection. As such, he was left in wonder as to what Privoth would demand. He did not like entering negotiations lacking such knowledge. Regardless, he gave the king a knowing look and said, “What is your price?”

  “The Sword of Eyre.”

  Rezkin waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. It was not at all what he had expected. He schooled his features to appear unfazed; but, truly, he was at a loss.

  “You desire the Sword of Eyre? The sword that is said to rest beside your very own throne?”

  King Privoth frowned but glanced back at the councilors. He balled his fist and looked back to Rezkin. “The sword beside the throne is a fraud—a blight on my house. The real Sword of Eyre was stolen on the day of my father’s death. I will have that sword returned, even if I must bargain with you to get it!”

  “You would trade Cael for a single sword?”

  “It is not just any sword,” Privoth shouted. “It is the Sword of Eyre!”

  Where previously stood a sensible military commander, now brooded a fanatic. The man’s behavior was in contradiction to all the reports Rezkin had received.

  He cautiously said, “I understand the sword has mythical significance—”

  “It is not a myth!” Privoth said. “The sword is bound in prophecy. As such, this kingdom is bound to it as well. The prophecy is as old as the kingdom.”

  “Gendishen is eleven hundred years old. The Sword of Eyre was forged only two hundred years ago,” Rezkin said.

  “Of course, the sword did not exist when the prophecy was spoken,” Privoth said, as if it were obvious. “And still the sword exists, and every king since its creation has ruled with it at his side, knowing that he could be the king of prophecy—every king but me!”

  “But the prophecy states that the sword will burst aflame,” Rezkin said, “and the kings of Gendishen do not bear the talent.”

  “It is not the demon-cursed scourge that impels the prophecy, but the might of the Maker’s cleansing power. Oh, I have spoken with the purifiers. I know that the scourge fire cannot be embedded in a blade, and the afflicted cannot brace the fire to the blade long enough to satisfy the remainder of the prophecy. It is proof that the Maker’s grace and the blood of a mighty ruler of Gendishen is that which will bring forth the glory foretold in the prophecy.”

  “What is the remainder of the prophecy?” Rezkin asked. Although the beginning was common knowledge, a story told in legends, the final passages of the prophecy had been kept secret for so long, most believed them forever lost.

  The king’s gaze cleared as if night had abruptly turned to day. “It is none of your concern.” He shook a finger at Rezkin and said, “Do not think I am unaware of what happened to my men. You came up from the coast where three purifiers and a double patrol disappeared, ten of them turned to stone! As soon as I was told of your arrival, I knew it was you! You and that demon cursed!”

  Rezkin shrugged with nonchalance and said, “We were on a peaceful, diplomatic mission, during which we were unjustly detained and assaulted on our way to meet with you, the king. We had every right to defend ourselves.”

  “I do not need your excuses. It is because of this that I think you might have a chance at succeeding. If you fail, a thorn will have been plucked from my side, and I will have lost nothing. Bring to me the Sword of Eyre, and Cael is yours. I think you will not be so eager once you learn of its taker.”

  Indeed, the news was grim. Rezki
n had no desire to contend with Privoth’s problem, but it was the price he had to pay to acquire Cael and maintain peaceful relations with both Gendishen and Channería. Privoth dismissed the court; and, at Kessa’s assurance that the guards and purifiers would be ineffective, he begrudgingly instructed them to go as well. Only the king’s personal guard and the old woman remained for the revelation. Rezkin later regretted that he could not have dismissed his own entourage for this particular news.

  Once Privoth revealed who had stolen the sword, he turned away to instruct his guards to gather an escort. Kessa stepped closer and brushed her frail fingers across Rezkin’s hand. She held his gaze, her focus so intent he thought she might have been trying to communicate with him through her mind, and he was disappointed that he could not hear her. She said, “I wish for your success and hope that you return safely with the prize so that you may help your people—all of your people.”

  The king called the old reader away, and she departed without another glance. The armed escort led Rezkin and his party to a guesthouse where they were to stay the night. The place was barely a step above servants’ quarters with only two small rooms besides the common room and a single hearth to heat the entire structure. The furnishings were functional, and by the layer of dust that had accumulated, it appeared the place had not seen company in quite some time. It also had no cistern or running water, so Farson stepped out to search for the well. Since Wesson’s status had been exposed, he was free to ward the residence against eavesdroppers and uninvited guests.

  “This is an insult!” Malcius grumbled.

  “It is meant to be,” Kai said as he piled a few logs onto the hearth.

  Malcius slapped dust from the seat of a chair with an equally dusty rag he had found in a cupboard. “You are a king, Rez. You should not put up with this.”

  “To react would be to let him win,” Rezkin said. “He is a military man. To complain about these lodgings, which are luxurious compared to an army camp, would be to admit weakness.”

  “How did they get so many readers?” Wesson said to no one in particular. “They are so rare!