by K. C. May
“Your generosity is appreciated, my lady,” he said, “but I’ve only underestimated the weather today. I’ll be fine once I reach the palace.”
“Well, do hurry, dear. I’d hate to learn the news of your untimely death from the chills.” She patted his arm with a kindly smile and shuffled away.
With his shoulders hunched against the cold, he started across the bridge. As he approached the other side, two armsmen dressed in mail beneath thick, black cloaks looked at each other with raised brows before turning back to Gavin. They widened their stances and gripped their polearms as if prepared to use force to turn him away. Refusing to be so easily cowed, Gavin continued walking toward them.
“Your business here?” one asked him.
“I need to see Ronor Kinshield.” It occurred to him that his family name might get him inside. “I’m Gavin Kinshield.” By now, the cold had seeped into his bones, rattling his teeth together.
The second armsman said, “You must be Ronor’s younger brother. I see the resemblance now. Let me secure your weapon, and you can proceed.” He pulled a strip of blue cloth from a hook and motioned him to turn around. Gavin felt some light tugging on his sword as the soldier tied Aldras Gar into its scabbard.
The armsman clapped his shoulder. “Go on up. Marton will see that you get warm while you wait.”
“My thanks.” Gavin grinned as he continued up the broad walkway leading to the tall double doors of the palace. Though his father’s and grandfather’s features were strong in his face and in Rogan’s, he didn’t think he could bear any resemblance to such a distant ancestor after so many generations. His amusement faded with every footstep as he neared the palace. Its red-brick walls looked clean and new, and the glass in the windows sparkled in the sunshine. His heart began to race as he neared the doors, so tall and wide. Even at twenty paces, he could make out the beautiful detail carved into the dark cherry wood. The enormity of what he was doing hit him. Gavin paused to catch his breath. King Arek was in this building this very minute.
The right-side door opened, startling him. A young man with barely a beard to grow, well-dressed in blue and gold, bowed crisply. “Welcome to Chatworyth. Goodness! What are you doing outside without a cloak? Come in, come in.” He took Gavin by the arm and urged him inside. “You must be nearly frozen solid. Come with me to the fire and get warmed up.”
Gavin was not prepared for what he saw on entering. All his life, he’d known the palace as an ugly, old building covered in bird shit and choked by ivy and weeds. Now, its beauty stirred a memory from long ago when it was so familiar to him. It was gorgeous, from the polished marble floors to the sculpted crown moldings and brass chandelier. At the top of the four steps leading to the upper foyer were two wide doorways. Inexplicably, Gavin knew what he would find in those rooms, as if he were remembering a home from his childhood. Two armsmen stood beside the front doors and two more at the foot of the twin staircases that curved outward as they led to the upper story. Their faces looked oddly familiar, as though he’d known them many years past. Maybe he had.
The servant led Gavin through the doorway on the left and into a room the size of Rogan’s house. Shelves, filled with leather-bound books, stretched from floor to ceiling along two of the walls. At the far end, a fire blazed in the ample hearth. Plush chairs and sofas of deep red invited him to sit in luxurious comfort. The warmth of the room took the hard edge off Gavin’s chill, and he approached the fire with his hands extended, relishing its heat.
“Now,” the servant said, hands clasped before him, “how can I assist you today?”
“Are you Marton?”
The man bowed. “I am, but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”
Feeling both awkward and self-conscious, Gavin wasn’t sure whether to extend a hand or bow. He settled for a bow. “I’m Gavin Kinshield.”
Marton’s eyes widened in recognition. “But of course. You have those Kinshield eyes. I presume you’re here to see Ronor?”
Seeing his ancestor, the man who’d gotten him into his current predicament, was something he’d hoped to avoid, but he didn’t think waltzing in and asking to see the king would be proper. He was confident he could talk Ronor into getting him an audience. They were basically the same man, after all. “If he can spare a moment.”
“Please,” Marton said, gesturing to a chair, “make yourself comfortable. I’ll have hot cider brought in.” He bowed and left.
Gavin brushed off the seat of his trousers before sitting. When his arse sank into the pillowy depths of the cushion, he flinched and wondered whether he would ever get used to furniture like this. Staring into the fire, he considered what he would say to Ronor Kinshield. He imagined twisting his fist into Ronor’s shirt collar, screaming, “You took an oath, you bloody bastard!” Except that Ronor knew it. He’d always known it. He just hadn’t had the courage to fulfill his promise, and that was why he was here now, contemplating facing himself two hundred years in the past.
He’s me, Gavin reminded himself. It was his own damned fault. He had no one to blame but himself. It was no different than chastising himself as a youth for disobeying his father in the woods that fateful day. As a boy, Gavin hadn’t known his father would die because of it. How could he?
When he heard footsteps approaching, he stood. Marton came into the room and bowed. Another servant, a woman in a blue and gold dress covered by a white apron, followed him in. On a table beside his chair, she set a tray with a cup of steaming cider and plate of four tarts. “Ronor is in a council meeting,” Marton said. “I’ve let him know you’re here, though it might be a while before he’s free. Please relax and enjoy some refreshments while you wait.”
He waited until Marton and the serving woman left before picking up one of the tarts. The scent of it made his stomach rumble. It was so warm and delicious, he devoured the first one in two mouthfuls before remembering Daia’s complaints about his table manners. He chewed quickly and swallowed, then made an effort to take smaller bites of the second tart and chew with his mouth closed.
Now warm and sated, he relaxed in the chair and took in the stone hearth. On the wall above the fire was a painting of some buck with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. His old-style dress consisted of a high frilly collar and sleeves, not the kind of thing a battler would be caught dead in, though the man wore a decorative sword on his hip. He couldn’t quite remember which former king it was, but the color of the man’s hair and eyes reminded him of Brodas Ravenkind. That was when he realized that King Arek and Brodas Ravenkind shared their distinctive coloring.
Beneath the painting was a clock. Gavin stood to inspect its old-fashioned mechanics. One vessel of sand hovered over another, which tipped a bar as the lower vessel became heavier. The internal workings of the clock weren’t visible, but the faint glow emanating from behind the clock’s face suggested it was also powered by magic. The time read seventeen minutes past nine.
“Ah, Ronor, there you are,” said a voice behind him. Gavin turned to see who was addressing him. “I want to talk about the plan for— Oh. You’re not Ronor.”
Gavin’s heart stopped beating, sputtered, then began to race. It was King Arek, the man whose death he bore responsibility for.
Chapter 42
“No, my liege.” Gavin sank to one knee. He bowed his head in reverence and to hide the tears welling in his eyes. King Arek had been his idol, his hero, his best friend lost to him across more than two centuries, all because of Ronor’s failure. “My name’s Gavin Kinshield.”
“Rise, son.” He took Gavin by the arm and urged him to stand. Gavin wasn’t sure he’d have been able without the king’s help. At his full height, he towered over King Arek by a good eight inches. “Sit with me and explain what I don’t understand,” King Arek said, sitting. He waved away the two guards who’d entered behind him. They bowed and stepped out, shutting the wide oak door behind them. “I see by your haze that you’re Ronor Kinshield, yet I see with
my eyes that you’re not. How can this be?”
Gavin sat obediently, thankful for the invitation. He hesitated to meet King Arek’s eyes, knowing what he’d done so many years ago, knowing he’d failed to protect and obey as he’d sworn to do. To avoid the eye contact would be rude and disrespectful, so he slowly lifted his gaze to meet the king’s. King Arek’s azure eyes, as brilliant as he’d remembered, bore into him. His hair, blackest black and still untouched by gray, was a stylish collar-length, as it had been in Gavin’s most distant memories. Rather than the stiff, regal suit he’d been wearing for the portrait that now hung in the museum, the king looked comfortable in a black long-sleeved overshirt and black trousers with a golden braided belt.
Gavin took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. “I was Ronor Kinshield, my liege. I’ve been several men in the last two centuries — two centuries that lie ahead o’you. It also happens that Ronor was my great- great-grandfather’s great- great-grandfather.”
King Arek was silent for a moment, though judging by the way his eyes held Gavin’s own, the king was trying to make sense of it all. “How did you come to know you’re Ronor reborn?” he asked.
“I have old memories o’things he did, my liege, buried deep in my mind. Memories of my time with you, o’things to come in the days that follow.”
“Curious. These memories come to you how? In dreams?”
“I get help from a mystical conduit. When I ask—”
King Arek’s eyes widened. “You know a vusar?”
Gavin was fairly certain the Farthan mage Jennalia had used that word to describe Daia. “Yes, my liege. She’s a good friend and valuable ally.”
“I can imagine.” King Arek smiled. One of his eyebrows hunched in such a way as to stir another of Gavin’s lost memories. “If only I could borrow her for a few days, she would make the task ahead...” His voice trailed off, and a serious, pensive expression changed his face. After a moment, he seemed to return to the present. “I presume by your presence here that you’re now Wayfarer, and you’ve back-traveled for information. I wish I could ask you questions about the future.”
“Ask me anything, my liege.”
King Arek chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, if only I could. I’d love to know whether Calewen carries a son or a daughter, or how a Kinshield came into the throne, but the future isn’t for me to know. Is this, perchance, your first time back-traveling?”
Gavin wondered how the king would know that. “It is, my liege.”
“Please, there’s no need to address me so formally. You’re also King of Thendylath, are you not?” When Gavin nodded, King Arek said, “Then let us talk as equals. Call me Arek, and I’ll call you Gavin, if you don’t mind... my liege.”
The heat of embarrassment burned in Gavin’s face. While he understood King Arek’s position, he didn’t feel worthy of addressing the man so informally, but he’d do it if it meant Arek would never call him ‘my liege’ again. “Yes, my— Arek. Gavin’s fine.”
“Let me give you a few words of advice, if I may.”
“Please do.”
“Back-traveling is for information only. You cannot change anything that happened, or at least, nothing that would affect the future. I learned that the hard way. If you try through your actions, you’ll be completely ineffective, as if you weren’t there at all. If you try through your words, you’ll end up back in your own time with a terrible headache that might keep you in bed for days. If you trust me, heed this warning.”
“But me being here has already changed what’s happened, hasn’t it?” Gavin asked.
“It’s easy to think so, but from the perspective of the future, your visit has already occurred. Your history books will say that I received a visit from a mysterious stranger today. If I were to write down our conversation and preserve that writing, you might have read it in school as a boy, not realizing that stranger was you.”
Maybe all children went to school during Arek’s reign, but only the wealthy did in Gavin’s time. Instead of explaining that, he grinned. “So I could’ve brought it with me and showed you what you would write?”
“Then we’d have to ask ourselves which came first, the writing or the written?”
“The chicken or the egg?”
Arek laughed. “Precisely. It’s good to know you’ve a better sense of humor than Ronor has. It serves you well as king, doesn’t it?”
Gavin’s smile faded, and the urge to weep fell upon him. As Ronor, he’d spent many months lamenting the loss of his king and friend. Now here he was, sitting with King Arek as though none of those horrible events had ever taken place. He cleared his throat and swallowed the lump that threatened to snag his words. “I ha’n’t been king very long, my— Arek. Only a couple o’weeks now.”
“Curious. You’ve recently come into the throne and your first time back-traveling was to come here, to my time. So tell me, Gavin Kinshield, descendant of the man whose soul you bear, what information do you need?”
Gavin gestured toward the large painting over the mantle. “Who is that?”
“My father’s father, King Ivam. I don’t remember him well. He died when I was about six years old, not too long after that portrait was done.”
“Your father was an only child?”
“He had a younger brother, Stefram, who had two children. Sadly, my cousin Hent suffered a head trauma as an infant and now sweeps floors in the church. My cousin Corla never married.”
“Hent never had children, then?”
Arek looked at him with something like embarrassment on his face. “I suppose that story is only scandalous in present times. Thankfully time has a way of dulling the shame of such things. I’m glad the story hasn’t lived on in legend. Hent raped his sister and got her with child. Corla gave her baby to one of the lordovers to be raised as his ward and now lives a quiet life at the convent in Lavene.”
Gavin thought of Brodas Ravenkind. “Could a descendant o’that child have a legitimate claim to the throne?”
Arek laughed, shaking his head. “An illegitimate child has no legitimate claim to his father’s property or titles, so no such claim could be handed down. Did you come today to ask about my family history?”
Gavin took this in for a moment, glad that he had another way to thwart Ravenkind’s attempt to seize the throne. Facts made strong weapons. “No, I came to learn how to craft the Runes o’Carthis, in partic’lar the summoning rune.”
Arek’s eyes snapped open wide. “Oh, my.” He stood and paced for a moment, rubbing his chin. Gavin stood as well, not wanting to remain seated while the king was not. “That one the Elyle refused to teach me. After Crigoth Sevae summoned the monster, I’m sure you can understand why. That rune should never have fallen into the hands of someone like him to begin with — another shame upon my family that I hope is forgotten in time.”
“Maybe it was,” Gavin said. “I don’t know that story.”
“I hope you aren’t going to ask me. I’d prefer it stay forgotten.”
“No, but I would like to ask about back-traveling.” When Arek nodded, Gavin continued. “Can I move from realm to realm and time to time, or do I always got to return to my own realm and my own time afore going elsewhere?”
Arek put on a pensive expression. “I haven’t tried traveling from one time to another without returning to the present first, but I don’t see why it wouldn’t work. I can travel from one realm to another, whether in the past or the present.”
“Could I return to this time? This very moment the two of us are talking?”
Arek started. “I— I don’t know. I suppose it would work because you’d be traveling back to your own past.”
“It wouldn’t make two o’me? The one that’s here now, and the one that back-travels here the second time?”
“I don’t believe so, no. Perhaps nothing changes except your memory of the event.” Arek fell silent as he rubbed his chin with a knitted brow. Gavin tried to think about it, but his thoughts tumb
led into confusion and threatened to give him a headache. “It’s an interesting notion,” Arek said. “I’ll make a point to experiment.”
Both of them were startled by a knock at the door.
“Yes?” Arek asked.
“It’s Ronor, my liege. Marton said I have a visitor. May I enter?”
Gavin looked at Arek with wide eyes. This was the moment he’d fancied for most of his life, yet now he found himself dreading it.
“Do you want to meet him?” Arek asked with a mischievous smile.
Gavin shook his head frantically, but the door had already begun to open.
The first thing Gavin noticed about Ronor Kinshield was, of course, the eyes. He saw immediately why people so readily accepted him as a kin to Ronor. Like Gavin’s own eyes and those of his father, brother and three nephews, Ronor’s eyes were dark brown and deeply set under a heavy brow. That was where the similarity ended. Older by at least ten years, Ronor stood under six feet tall and had a stocky build, though one could plainly see he was well-suited to his task of protecting the king. He wore his brown hair long and tied back behind his neck. What stood out to Gavin most of all was the lack of scars on Ronor’s face. The two long furrows in his cheek that had become the distinguishing feature to live on in songs and paintings for the next two hundred years had not yet been carved. To Gavin’s surprise, that fact annoyed him. Gavin had lived with his scars since he was twelve — a constant reminder of Ronor’s selfish refusal to honor the vow he’d sworn. That Gavin might not have been born at all otherwise was a fact he dismissed in favor of his annoyance.
As well, Ronor measured Gavin with a glance as if to assess him as a foe or a friend. “I was told a Kinshield was here, but I don’t know you,” he said. His voice wasn’t as deep as Gavin’s, but it had a gritty quality that Gavin heard in his own voice from time to time when he was angry.
Arek approached his champion. “Gavin meet... What am I doing? Ronor needs no introduction to you. Ronor, meet Gavin Kinshield.”