by Amy Keeley
“You’ve known since then?”
“Oh, I asked the goodwife to confirm it after Lord Felldesh complained. And at first, Zhiv, I was angry. Very. Angry.” Krysilla began to grow worried, yet couldn’t move. The King sighed in exasperation and continued. “Magic like this, the techniques the Ornic used, isn’t really meant for one such as you. You’re too weak, and when you use too much your poor body goes into a terrible fever from the weakness. You’ll be right again in a few days, depending on how hard you pushed yourself, but Zhiv, really. It’s not for you to try.”
“No. I suppose not.” Zhiv looked at the enormous bell and brushed some dirt off it.
“I am sorry, my boy.”
A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “Can you forgive me?”
The King smiled with such warm affection that Krysilla couldn’t help smiling herself. The King inhaled deep. “You’re such a dishonest boy.”
“You’re stating the obvious.”
“I’m sorry you had to live through that.”
“Through what?”
“The massacre.”
Zhiv studied the sideways bell.
“The nobles had betrayed me,” the King said. “I couldn’t let anyone, treaty or no, continue in those ways. Ornic beliefs were too close and letting your kind—” Zhiv chuckled at those words, “—letting them live was a terrible thing for the nation.”
“That makes sense.” Zhiv put his hands behind his back. “So, where does that leave us now?”
“You may stay if you wish, and keep watch on the entrance while I open the rift, or go back to my study where we can discuss the day’s events after it’s done. Otherwise, I will have to kill you.”
“And the goodwife?”
“Why ask about her? Happiness waits the moment she returns to her place.”
“And what is her place?” Zhiv lightly tapped the bell, causing the King to spring forward and push him away.
“What are you thinking, Zhiv? Do you realize how many spells I have woven through this?”
“Ah, yes. Can’t fail this task, now can you?”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I think I do. I promised I would help you in whatever way you needed.”
“Spoken when you were less of a boy than you are now.”
“It’s just as true.” And with a sadness Krysilla didn’t think Zhiv was capable of feeling, he said, “I truly wish to help you, Highness.”
“Then tell me, Zhiv, among your people, are there any stories of how the rift was made?”
“The Ornic are dead, Highness. There are no more.”
“No more but one,” the King grinned, turning toward Zhiv. “The only tragedy is that you were so young when you lost all that.”
“The Ornic died long before my grandfather was born, Highness. Their ways only exist now in books and on stones.”
“But you exist.”
“I am not Ornic. Though, at times, especially when I was younger, I wished I were.”
The King stared at Zhiv for a long time through narrowed eyes. Then, he lifted his chin in understanding. “Ah. And now is one of those times, isn’t it? Stop the mad king before he destroys his own kingdom, just as the Ornics of old. You think I’m one of them. And the only way to stop an Ornic is through another Ornic. That’s how the Dogs were created, you know. The old Ornics, the ones who agreed to Tothsin ways, either became nobles or Dogs, depending on which they preferred. But then, you know this. Your family was the exception.”
“Highness—”
“I thought it strange, when you first gave me your name, that it sounded like the name of one of the minstrels of the Okya Valley. Zhiv Mikailsin. I thought it was a gimmick, in spite of the note you sent, and you certainly let everyone believe that.”
“Highness, the—”
“But how does she fit in your plans?”
Whatever Zhiv had been trying to say, he stopped. Waiting, he didn’t even seem to breathe.
“Daegan is earth,” the King said, “because of his talent with metal. You are dividing things according to the old ways, I presume? So, Daegan is earth, and you would be air, though I imagine you would play with water when you travel, since you prefer the river paths.” The King’s smile grew and twisted. “A baker’s wife. You need her for fire.”
“That’s not her talent.”
“But what else is there? And a talent like fire, calling that forth, especially when your King is about to do something you disagree with down to your very bones,” the King’s voice began to rise, “that’s what you would do, isn’t it. Answer me!”
“She has nothing to do with this. All she wants is her freedom.”
“Freedom?! Near you? She’ll be lucky you aren’t between her legs before the day is over, enchanting her with silly notions. No self-control. None whatsoever and yet you think you can control magics that exceed even mine.”
“Highness, the Queen is coming.”
The King froze at that. “I sent her away.”
“Why did you do that, Highness? This will work, won’t it?”
“No—yes. Yes. It will work perfectly. I read all the books I could find in the library here in the castle. I even found a couple of bookmarks I’m sure you left.”
“Then why send the Queen away?”
“She isn’t far,” the King muttered, obviously agitated. Thinking. “No. You’re trying to make me doubt.” And he began to walk toward Zhiv, still thinking. Still agitated.
“I’m trying to get you to think this through before you kill your own wife and children. There are places near the mountains that still haven’t recovered from the day the Ornic opened the rift.”
“No,” the King shook his head, his voice low, “you don’t talk to me like that, son.”
Zhiv had backed up and now hit the grating, just low enough that one push would send him over the edge and to the ground. Krysilla stood, dagger in hand.
“Highness, I am only trying to help.”
“You’re an Ornic,” the King hissed.
“What of your ideals?”
The King pointed at the bell. “This is my ideals!” he roared. “Or would you rather live in a world where a noble would drink wine at his leisure than save his own people? I can save them. And you are nothing but doubt personified.”
“I’m trying to get you to think.”
“Thinking is noble. But not when it comes to magic.”
Terrified at how close he was getting, Krysilla, dagger in hand, moved forward. Zhiv saw her, and, for a moment, his eyes focused on her.
The King noticed and turned. With a cry he raised his hands. Magic crackled around her, and she could hear a shout from somewhere inside it, as if someone were running toward her from a very far distance. And then, the sensation was yanked away and she saw Zhiv pulling the King to the ground. His head smacked against the wood, yet he reached out and the sensation of magic crackling around them whipped around her, circling her. “I have your fire, Zhiv!” the King laughed.
Zhiv stood and—through the crackling that made him appear like he was standing on the other side of a waterfall—she saw him fall to his knees.
“Zhiv!” she cried. Fighting through the magic, she raised the dagger. Light shot from her hand, illuminating the world around her and ending the crackling.
The King’s eyes filled with wonder as he looked at it, this strange dagger Zhiv had built. And then his features twisted. He reached up and, with a gesture, yanked it out of her hands and into his. He whipped around. Krysilla reached out after it, grabbing hold of the King’s hand before he could strike Zhiv, who still knelt on the ground, his fingers tapping against his thigh.
No, she realized. He was casting with them.
The King waved his hand and she felt as if an enormous hand had grabbed her. “Zhiv!” she screamed, feeling as if she couldn’t breathe.
“Fire needs air, doesn’t it, Zhiv?” the King chuckled. “Is that what you counted on?”
&nbs
p; Zhiv raised his hands, and clapped once.
Silence stretched along the entire platform, as if the air itself had decided to hold its breath. Only Zhiv moved through it. Only Zhiv was able to force Krysilla to run, to duck, as the air underneath the enormous bell exploded.
The bell tower’s floor opened up, the fire sweeping over them without burning them. “Hold on,” Zhiv said. They fell to the clock room’s floor. He grabbed her hand as timber with bits of flame rained down around them, the ceiling collapsing on them until Zhiv waved his free hand. “I weakened the tower. There’s not much time.” The air became difficult to breathe, and the space above them began to feel hot. But when they got to the door, Zhiv shoved her through. “Run!” he said, and ducked back inside.
Krysilla followed him back inside the clock room and watched as he traced figures in the air, coughing now and then. The ceiling held, the debris parted, and Zhiv rushed forward to pull the King out of it. Krysilla raced forward to help. Eyes wide he said, “Are you mad?”
“As much as you,” she replied.
But that was all. Just getting to the stairs in what looked like a drunken dance among friends took too much time. They weren’t going to make it out before the tower fell.
“This way,” Zhiv said, and they carried the King between them to the clock face. Setting him down, Krysilla watched as Zhiv touched each of the compass points in the air in front of him, drawing a figure in the air at each one. “You’re not going to die, Highness,” he shouted above the roar of the fire in the bell tower that was rapidly consuming the room behind them. “Not yet.” Holding his hands out in front of him, he made two tight fists, then opened his hands.
The stone in the clock face shattered outward.
The tower began to tilt forward. Zhiv reached into his bag and pulled out his cloak. “Do you believe my talent is air, goodwife?” he said as he hoisted the King over his shoulder.
“I believe you can do anything you wish,” she said without thinking.
“Good. I hope you’re right.” He threw his cloak through the gash he’d blown in the clock face.
He closed his eyes and reached out his hand for her to take. “Jump!”
The cloak went taut, with only some give when they landed on it, both kneeling. Zhiv pulled her tight against him as the cloak began to race down to the ground at an angle away from the tower. Faster it fell, and above them, the tower began to crumble. Two of the bells hit each other, sounding out a loud gong as it collapsed.
Some of the debris hit Zhiv’s cloak, causing it to wobble, then flip. They fell to the ground so hard, Krysilla was surprised she hadn’t broken a leg or something more important. Around them, pieces from the tower covered the ground.
The King and Zhiv had managed to roll as they fell. Zhiv was shaking as he sat up. “Highness?”
The King groaned.
“Circle blessed,” Zhiv sighed with relief. Looking up at the fast-approaching Dogs, Zhiv called out, “He’s hurt! Get him to the castle!” And then he laid down, exhausted.
The Dogs picked the King up, and then she heard a woman yelling. “What happened to him?”
She looked up and saw Daegan and a woman dressed far too well to be anything other than the Queen racing toward the Dogs. “Let me see him,” she demanded. Before Krysilla had realized it, the Queen had already begun working healing magic, the kind that didn’t need herbs, on her husband.
“We must get him to the castle,” she said and waved them forward.
“What about those two?” one of the Dogs asked.
The Queen walked forward, enough to see Zhiv and her breath quickened. That was the only sign she gave that she recognized him. “Take him to one of the guest chambers, along with the woman, and set guards around them until I arrive. I wish to speak with them once they’ve recovered.”
Krysilla looked at the sky and tried to get up on one elbow.
“How are you, goodwife?” Zhiv asked.
“Well enough.”
“Do you see anything?” he asked softly, nodding toward the sky.
“Not a thing.”
“Good.”
Around them Disciples scrambled. There were calls for water, and cries of horror. No one came near them, not while the Dogs stood guard.
Daegan stood above Zhiv. “Doing all right, Parlay?”
“As fine as ever, Hon Jixsin,” he grinned, though he looked exhausted.
Daegan helped Zhiv to his feet, and stayed a moment while Zhiv swayed. “How did the King look?” Zhiv asked.
“Bad. But he’ll live.”
And then a look passed between them and Zhiv’s jaw hardened. “Help us get to him, Heir Jixsin.”
“The Queen—”
“Now. There is not a moment to lose.”
Daegan nodded and helped Krysilla to her feet as well. The world spun for a moment, but, blessedly, only a moment. Daegan offered his arm for her to lean on as they followed Zhiv, who had begun walking purposefully, flanked by Dogs, toward the entrance. One of the Dogs stared hard at Daegan as they passed through. “We only answer to the King,” he said to Daegan.
“You may be answering to the Queen very soon,” Zhiv replied.
Now a look passed among a few of the Dogs that almost resembled concern. Daegan said, “Tell the Queen, Parlay the fiddler wishes an audience.”
Though she could tell more than one Dog questioned what the Queen would want with a fiddler when their King lay dying, one ran ahead. The rest guided them to a small room with a wash basin and a bed, which Zhiv looked at for several moments before going to the basin to clean up.
“Are you sure you don’t want to rest?” Daegan asked.
“I lay down now, I may not get up for days.” He smiled at Krysilla before pouring some water into the basin. “Unless the goodwife has access to that medicine?”
She remembered the fever he’d had when she’d met him. It was a terrible one, and it had taken herbs that usually regulated the temperature quickly far too long to calm it down. “How bad will it be if I don’t?”
“Bad.” He dipped a cloth into the water and began to wipe the grime off his face. But his eyes were focused on the door as if waiting for the moment when he could break through. “Daegan, would you—”
Daegan sighed. “Yes, Parlay.” He got up and left.
The silence stretched out. There was nothing Krysilla wanted to say that didn’t involve things that the Dogs shouldn’t hear. And she could hear them outside their room, shifting their weight, talking in low voices. Once, she turned to look at Zhiv, but his watchful gaze remained fixed on the door, even as he finished wiping off the grime, even as he dusted off his clothes. Without looking away, he said, after a long time waiting, “You might want to clean up a little, goodwife. You’ll be meeting the royal family soon.”
She didn’t say anything. Afraid to move, afraid to speak, thinking over the sensation of falling, of Lord Teranasin’s dead body and the King’s rants against Zhiv, she was trapped by all the things she couldn’t say. Not yet. Not until they were safely inside the Jixsin home. But he deserved a response, so she somehow managed, “No.”
Zhiv stopped watching the door. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry. I was so concerned about—”
“It’s fine,” she said quickly. “That was more important.”
He walked toward her, obviously concerned. “Don’t. Please.” If he came any closer, she would fall into his arms and give him everything the King had predicted.
Zhiv stopped where he was. He looked away and shook his head, concern changing to anger. “I’m sorry. You came here to rebuild, and because I contacted you, all your plans fell apart.”
Her laugh was brief, tense. “I think he would have come to me, even if you’d never done a thing, Z-Parlay. Parlay.” She closed her eyes, amazed at her gaffe.
She felt his warm hand on her cheek. Her eyes flew open just as he said, “No more than friendship, goodwife.
I swear.” Tilting her head down, he kissed her forehead.
True to his word, he went no further, and walked away with his fingers tapping a mad rhythm against his thigh. “I’ll make this up to you. You won’t suffer because of my foolishness.”
Tears stung Krysilla’s eyes. She was just about to tell him that it didn’t matter, that it was her choice, when the door opened and Daegan poked his head through. “You and the goodwife. Now.”
Krysilla barely noticed the large, white halls as they hurried to wherever Zhiv wanted them to go. For once, she wasn’t thinking anything through. All she knew was that she was here beside Zhiv, in halls he must have walked more than once as his true self, with paintings and reliefs surrounding them, extolling the Tothsin kings, and denouncing Ornic sins. Why they were hurrying to the King’s side was a question that slid in and out of the moment, the answer close enough she could almost put it into words.
When Zhiv grabbed her wrist just before they entered the King’s chamber, the answer fell into place.
“Is he conscious?” he asked the Queen, not slowing as he approached the King’s bed, still holding Krysilla’s wrist. There was no one else in the room.
“He was when I sent for you.”
But not now. Eyes closed, the King looked as if he were sleeping.
“The divorce he promised the goodwife. Where is it?”
The Queen shook her head, confused. “I know of no divorce.”
“Of course not. You were telling me the truth up there, weren’t you, you miserable old man?”
“Zhiv,” the Queen warned.
“Your ideals are worth nothing,” he said, leaning down now over the King. “Do you hear that? Do you want to know why I did what I did? Hmm? Because of this.” He held Krysilla’s wrist in front of the King’s face. The old man’s eyes tensed, and slowly opened.
“You feel it, don’t you? The magic you wove? You owe me, Highness. You owe me more than money. And you owe her. For the sake of our friendship, a friendship I didn’t think was possible after what I saw, and for the sake of the innocents you claim to protect, undo it.”
The King blinked, his eyes barely focused on Zhiv. The Queen moved closer, obviously concerned. “Zhiv, he won’t call for me again,” Krysilla said, worried about the intense focus of Zhiv on the King’s face.