Kern glanced at the other ten boys; they all bore the marks and signs of fighting, both from recent encounters and older ones, both with and without weapons. He observed all this in a single glance, as easily as other children his age might notice other children’s ages and toys. He saw, too, that at least five of these boys—three of the bigger ones and two of the smaller ones—were seasoned fighters, with their numerous scars and bruises suggesting frequent conflict. They had seen things as well; they had a look about the eyes and in the way they held themselves that spoke of hard lives, struggles endured, hardships suffered, and abuses inflicted, both upon and by themselves. All of the boys had some part in the “nefarious activities” his father spoke of, but it was those five, as well as the two seasoned fighters, who were the main threat. The rich boy’s sword ought to have qualified him too, but he appeared so unfamiliar with actually wielding the blade that Kern discounted him. That was a mistake, as he would soon learn, for everything and everyone was a weapon, and not all weapons were deployed physically.
The rich boy finally realized that Kern was not going to answer. He lowered the chillum and glared at Kern.
“I asked you a question, boy. Answer.” Except he didn’t say “boy,” he used a vulgar word that Kern didn’t fully understand but which he knew was not a polite word to use for anyone, especially not a son of a respectable charioteer, a charioteer to royalty. The use of the abusive word didn’t upset Kern, but it did tell him something about the character of the rich boy. Only a weak person hurled abuses without provocation.
Kern didn’t answer. He maintained his breathing pattern while watching the other boys. They were moving away, almost casually, but he was watching them out of the corners of his eyes and could see them circling around him on both sides. They were cutting off his retreat. In a few moments, he would be surrounded, with no place to run. He didn’t mind that. He had no intention of running. This was his clearing, and it was late morning, so he had a full nine or ten hours of beautiful sunshine left. He wasn’t going anywhere.
The rich boy handed his chillum to one of the other boys with a sharp look that Kern interpreted as a warning not to partake. The boy held the chillum in his cupped hands the way Kern had once held a sparrow with an injured wing that he had picked up to examine out of curiosity—as if it was fragile and would break if held too tightly. The other boys were milling about with apparent aimlessness, but their eyes kept cutting to Kern, and he saw the growing curiosity in their faces as they tried to intuit his true nature: Was he a boy playing with his elder brother’s practice sword, perhaps? A little thief who had stolen the wooden shastra? An acolyte from a forest gurukul who was playing hooky?
“How old are you, boy?” Rich Boy asked. This time, he didn’t wait for Kern to answer—or not answer—and turned to one of his two bodyguards. “Farsha? What do you think? Five? Six?”
The bodyguard shrugged his powerful shoulders. “The way he holds that shastra, at least seven or older. But his size and height make him look younger.”
“Younger.”
Rich Boy turned his gaze upon the boy who had spoken. It was one of the older boys, one of the five big louts that Kern had identified as a potential threat. He had circled around to Kern’s left side, and was standing about three yards away. “He’s the son of a charioteer. No more than five, if that.”
Kern tilted his head sideways to look at the boy who had spoken. He did this for two reasons: it gave him a deeper peripheral perspective of the space behind himself, where several of the boys had drifted around to close the circle, and because dogs did it.
Kern liked dogs; they couldn’t concentrate on one thing for long, slobbered a lot—especially on your face—and would eat just about anything, but he liked them all the same. They had a drive and intensity when excited about something that he admired. He liked the way they tilted their heads when you spoke to them as if asking, Huh? What was that you just said? Kern liked talking to them. They listened even though they didn’t understand most of what you said. It was by watching dogs that he had learned that it was the tone used—the emotional state and body language of the person speaking—that was more important than the actual words spoken. Dogs listened and understood far more than most people. People, on the other hand, only pretended to listen, but really they were just hearing whatever they wanted to hear, busy listening to the voices inside their own heads. If they’d actually listen, as dogs did, they wouldn’t need to talk so much. Dogs conveyed most of what they needed to say through looks, expressions, and brief sounds. People, on the other hand, could use scrolls of words without saying anything useful. Even his father said so. “Courtiers . . . all they know is talk!”
“A charioteer’s son? This ruffian? You must be joking.”
“I wouldn’t jest with you, Masher. I saw him going back to the charioteer quarters just the other day, at sundown. He was carrying that same wooden sword.”
Masher, the rich boy, looked at Kern with new interest. “A charioteer’s son? What is he doing with a practice sword, then? Hey, boy? Who did you steal that from? You’re a charioteer, aren’t you? Your kind aren’t allowed to handle shastras.”
“Except to pick up and hand to their masters,” said another younger boy. This one had a mean look to his pale features. They were all pale and fair-skinned, several with light colored hair too. This one had eyes as blue as the sky above. Kern saw the way Blue Eyes touched a long object he had tucked into his dhoti. A blade of some sort. He guessed they all carried shastras of some kind, though only the rich boy, Masher, and his bodyguards carried proper swords. One of the smaller boys carried a makeshift bow made of balsa wood with a few reed arrows, which would hardly bring down a crow, but at least one of the bigger boys (standing behind his right shoulder) had a small throwing axe, and one of the others (directly behind him) had a long chopping knife. Two of them had slingshots, one the kind that you held in one hand and pulled on with the other, the second the kind that you swung around with one hand then let go.
Kern only had the practice sword.
And himself.
Masher grew impatient of waiting for Kern to answer and gestured to the bodyguard who had spoken. “I don’t see any master around, do you? This charioteer boy shouldn’t be carrying that sword. This is why Hastinaga is going to the dogs. These lower castes all think they can do whatever they please. As if we all exist to serve their whim and fancy. Farsha, go take that from him.”
The bodyguard frowned. He looked at Kern. “It’s just a wooden sword, sire.”
“I don’t care if it’s an elephant’s stinking penis. If I say go get it, then you go get it.” Masher turned to the boy to whom he’d entrusted his ivory chillum and took it back from him. The boy’s tense expression dissolved in a look of such abject relief, it made Kern smile. “What in the name of the gods are you smiling at, charioteer? Did you see that, boys? He’s an arrogant one. I tell you, these low castes should be whipped every day just to remind them of their place in society. Because the Krushan don’t enforce the ancient customs, the world is going to hell. My father says that in Emperor Shapaar’s reign, every low caste who didn’t fall to the ground and kiss the earth when a higher caste passed by was executed on the spot. That’s how you keep these bastards in line. When I become king, I’m going to make every one of these wretches sport a mark, carved into their foreheads the day they’re born, so they never forget that they were put on Arthaloka to serve and suffer, not smile and strut about playing at being warrior castes like this insolent charioteer. Farsha, go get that boy’s sword, or I’ll put my sword up your backside and push it out your face!”
Farsha grimaced, sighed, and moved toward Kern. His sword remained in its scabbard at his waist. He must have felt that this little charioteer needed no more than a little physical intimidation. Probably felt sorry for him. Kern could see it in his eyes. He had intimidated, bullied, beaten, abused, broken, and even killed too many times for his spoiled young master before. Farsha was st
arting to feel that maybe he should change his employer, but Masher’s father paid him well, and he had access to the boy’s well supplied wine and ganja stock. (Not to mention the girls.) Kern read all this in the young man’s eyes and in the way he reacted to his master’s threat. It was like seeing into the man’s mind.
Kern raised his face, looking up at the sun, which was almost directly overhead now. He felt the blessed heat of the noonday sun wash over him, into him, and drank its energy with every pore, every inch of his skin, through his eyes, his nostrils, his mouth, his ears, sucking it in as avidly as Masher was sucking in the intoxicating smoke from his ivory chillum. Kern drank in the energy of the noonday sun and felt his body sparkle with energy.
He was ready for the first bodyguard when the man reached out, intent on violence.
He was born ready.
Jilana
1
Jilana and Vrath were holding court when word came of the events in Reygar. They listened intently to the courier’s description of the city that had come alive, broken free of the mountain, and attacked the Krushan forces. From the courier’s appearance and her expressions, it was evident that she was making a great effort to suppress her own personal reactions. Her tone was even, her vocabulary impeccable, her manner immaculate.
Jilana admired the woman’s strength of character even while her heart sank with each successive description. When the courier came to the part where Shvate, Mayla, and Vida had decided to attempt to enter the living city and confront Jarsun themselves, Jilana could not help but clutch her throne arm tighter. She had seen what Jarsun was capable of, in his stunning display of power at the Battle of the Rebels. On that occasion, he had been up against no mere mortal adversary, but Vrath himself, and so the thought of her all-too-mortal grandson and his wife confronting that demon with nothing but their skill and steel was terrifying. She managed to restrain her own emotions till the courier had finished speaking, then thanked her for her service and dismissed her. The moment the woman had bowed and backed away from the throne dais, Jilana signaled to the prime minister to call for a brief interval in the proceedings. The elderly statesman formally announced that the court would take a brief recess but would resume very shortly.
Jilana turned to her stepson. “Vrath, you must go to Reygar at once.”
Vrath acknowledged her use of his first name with a very slight nod. His greying whiskers, beard, and mane of greying hair framed a face that looked as always as if it had been carved from the ice of Mount Coldheart, then weathered on the same high slopes. “That would not be wise, Mother.”
“You have seen what that demon is capable of.”
“And so has Shvate.”
“Shvate is mortal, a young man. You, with all your power and experience, were hard-pressed to overcome Jarsun. Shvate will surely not survive such an encounter.”
Vrath gazed at the eastern wall, lined with elegantly shaped windows carved from the stone itself. The afternoon sunlight shone through the gaps between the numerous pillars that lined the length of the enormous sabha hall, lighting up the gold inlay and precious gems embedded in the pillars and ceiling frescoes. It was a grand, ostentatious chamber, built to display the might, power, and wealth of the Burnt Empire. Vrath’s ice-grey eyes reflected the glittering grandeur with an aspect of stony fortitude. “He will do what he must to succeed.”
“What if he does not succeed?”
“He is a prince of Krushan in line to be king. He must prove himself.”
“What if he does not survive? Then he will never be king.”
“What will be will be.”
“Jarsun is no mere enemy. He is a being of enormous power . . .” She stopped. “You already know all this. You know that Shvate is outmatched. He stands no chance of surviving this encounter.”
“You knew the odds when we sent him on this campaign.” Vrath’s voice was mild, unemotional. He continued to gaze at the sunlight streaming through the hall. His face was as implacable as one of the many statues placed around the chamber and palace.
“I thought he would wage a pitched battle against a mortal enemy.” She heard the lie even as she spoke it. “No, it’s true, I admit I feared that something like this might come to pass. But I thought if things got too dire, you would step in and assist your nephew.”
“I will not.”
“You did so at the Battle of the Rebels.”
“He was but a boy at the time. It was his first battle. He was inexperienced and unprepared, unblooded. He has fought many battles since then. He is a man now, married twice over, well blooded, well seasoned. He has our finest fighting akshohinis at his command, an in-depth knowledge of the terrain and of Reygistani military tactics and strategy. He has a great general in General Prishata. It is time for him to prove himself as capable of facing an enemy and emerging triumphant. It is a necessary stage in the long journey from princehood to kingship.”
“What use is the journey if he never achieves his destination? If he dies in Reygar, he will never be king!”
Vrath contemplated a palace cat, stretching out languorously to sun itself in a quiet corner behind a pillar. He turned to look in Vrath’s direction, eyes glittering. “If that unfortunate day comes to pass, then Adri will ascend to the throne.”
“We both know that Shvate is the best suited. He is the best choice to be king.”
“Then he shall be.”
“That is why you must protect him, to ensure that he survives to be king.”
“If he requires constant protection and oversight, then he is not the best suited. He must be independently capable. That is Krushan law, as you know.”
“I am not talking about law, I am talking about my grandson. The hope of Hastinaga, as he is popularly known, and for good reason. Shvate represents hope, a bright future, the legacy of your father, Sha’ant, upheld honorably. It is our duty as his elders to watch over him.”
“What use is a king who cannot face his enemies in battle without the help of his elders? What will people say if I rush to fight Shvate’s battles every time he is in trouble? How long will that popularity last if he cannot turn hope into triumph, intent into accomplishment? There are things he must do on his own in order to prove himself capable. This is the most important of them all.”
Jilana seethed in frustration. She knew Vrath was right, but she could not bear the thought of young Shvate all the way in distant Reygar, battling against a foe who was a thousand times as powerful as he, facing certain defeat and death. “Vrath, I am not asking you as Dowager Empress Jilana. I am asking you as your mother. As the widow of your father, Sha’ant. The woman for whose sake you took the very vow for which you were dubbed “Vrath.” You gave up so much so that your father could marry me and find happiness. I know you care for me, and for Shvate. Go to him discreetly if you must. Go in secret. Go incognito. But go and help him defeat Jarsun, aid him in his moment of need. The world need never know you had a hand in Jarsun’s defeat. Let Shvate take all the credit, let him be the hero of the hour. You must do this to ensure his survival—and the survival of your father’s lineage. Otherwise, what purpose did your vow serve? What of your father’s legacy? What of Hastinaga’s future? I entreat you, Vrath, do this for the sake of your family.”
It took every ounce of Jilana’s strength to keep her voice pitched low, so only Vrath would hear her. It was hard enough having such a conversation in front of a courtroom filled with people, all the dross and dreck of the empire’s politicians, courtiers, nobles, aristocrats, ministers, and the small army of servants and sentries as well. She had to keep her face composed, her manner calm, her tone controlled and soft. Yet she had to make Vrath see reason. He had to see reason.
Vrath looked at her with eyes as distant as that of the palace cat in the corner. Her passion had not melted his ice or whittled his resolve by even a single chip. “It will not be necessary,” he said.
Jilana met his gaze, trying to interpret that cryptic remark. What did he mean by t
hat? Was he saying that Shvate could succeed on his own? Surely that was impossible! She already knew that it was impossible, or else she would not have begged Vrath at all. Or did he mean that something had happened that made the whole discussion irrelevant? Something . . . so decisive that there was no point in him going to Reygar now? But she had received the same news that he had, only moments ago. There had been nothing else since then, no other courier or communication.
But then she recalled that Vrath had his own sources of information, just as she herself did. Before the Battle of the Rebels, when she had received word of the imminent threat from her firstborn son, Vessa, and brought the news to Vrath, he had already been informed of the same threat. She had guessed at the time that he had learned of it through his true mother somehow. Gods and goddesses communicated in ways mysterious to mortals. She had assumed that Jeel Goddess had somehow communicated the threat to her demigod son. Was that what had happened just now? While they had been sitting here arguing, had Vrath received a communication of some kind from his mother? Something that told him . . . what exactly? That it was too late? That Shvate was . . . already dead? A dozen terrible thoughts raced through Jilana’s mind. She clasped her throne arms tighter, sitting up, staring rapt at Vrath, searching for answers in his stony sculpted face and icy grey eyes.
Before she could ask him any of these new questions churning in her mind, the prime minister of Hastinaga stepped forward, bowing formally before the dais.
“Dowager Empress Jilana, Prince Regent Vrath, forgive my interruption. There is an urgent matter that has just been brought to the court’s attention. I beg your leave to present it at once.”
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