The Immortal Crown

by Kieth Merrill

  Qhuin hurried his horses past the carriage, but the iron fist of fear held its grip, and he could feel the princeling’s eyes burning on the back of his neck.

  Prince Kadesh-Cor’s coach was still some distance ahead and flanked by three kings­riders abreast, two in back and one in front, who wore the rank insignia of captain. Ahead of him, and leading the procession itself, were the bannermen who bore the sigils of Blackthorn—a standing bear—and House Kublan—a peacock on a field of black with arrows dripping blood clutched in its claw.

  As Qhuin’s chariot pulled even with the prince’s coach, his heart thumped with anticipation. He had seen the prince a few times in the stables, but a slave was taught to keep his eyes down and speak only when spoken to. He drew slightly forward of the coach’s window and looked inside. There was no prince.

  The face smiling up at him through the rippled glass was Prince Kadesh-Cor’s squire, Nimra. He was young. Almost more a boy than a man.

  Nimra caught Qhuin’s eyes and nodded. He had a bright countenance about him and a face incapable of a frown. A squire so esteemed he rides in the royal coach? Qhuin’s thought was whisked away by the sudden movement of the kings­riders spurring their horses forward.

  “Halt!” One of them shouted. The kings­rider riding guard in front whirled his horse around and galloped into the weeds to stop the chariot.

  Qhuin reined in as the captain seized the horse by the bridle. The other kings­riders flanked the chariot, their long swords drawn. The rider on the lead courser stopped, and the procession stuttered to a stop.

  “What is this?” the largest of the men demanded.

  This close, Qhuin could see the captain’s face was badly scarred, ruined by fire.

  The courier withdrew the parchment from his leather satchel. “I am the courier to the king. I’ve a message for the prince.”

  The captain was about to speak when the sound of iron hooves on the hardened clay of the road drew his attention.

  Prince Kadesh-Cor rode into view. He was mounted on a long-legged horse bred from the wild tarpans. It was black with a blaze of white on its forehead and a muzzle the color of cherry blossoms. His two large Alaunt hunting dogs ran just behind.

  Qhuin saw at once that Kadesh-Cor was a fine horseman. The way he sat the saddle, the gait of his horse, and his cape rippling in the wind created the illusion he was floating. At the sight of him, a shudder traveled up Qhuin’s spine.

  The bannermen turned their horses aside, and Kadesh-Cor rode to where the kings­riders held the chariot.

  The courier began again. “I am Nagor, son of Romnolof, royal horseman of the stables of Kingsgate and courier to His Greatness, Orsis-Kublan, Omnipotent Sovereign and King. I bear a message for Prince Kadesh-Cor, the noble Baron Magnus and gracious prince of the North.” He bowed and held up the parchment.

  Kadesh-Cor dismounted and walked to the chariot.

  Qhuin was relieved the prince did not appear disturbed that a bondsman had taken it upon himself to bring the courier forward. Had he even noticed who it was that drove the chariot? No. He remained invisible to the man who owned him. Qhuin had saddled the prince’s horse at the stable many times. Each time he had hoped to be noticed or hear a word of acknowledgment, but in all the years, the prince had never spoken to him or even looked at him.

  The prince reached for the parchment.

  Eyes to the ground. Speak only when spoken to. Qhuin knew the dictum well and was about to lower his gaze when he was taken by a sudden impulse that would not be denied. He looked directly at the face of the prince as if it was his right as a nobleman of highest birth. The act was bold and brazen and dangerous, but it came with a rush of emotion Qhuin had never felt. He was seeing—truly seeing—the man who owned him.

  Qhuin was taller than Prince Kadesh-Cor, and if measured the same way they measured horses in the stable, the prince was eighteen hands. From a distance the Baron Magnus of Blackthorn and prince of the North looked younger than his forty-nine years. He was lean without being thin and carried himself upright.

  There was a ridge of furrows between his brows and weathered cracks in the skin around his gray-green eyes. His beard was the color of burnt bread and looked like a gnarled hand holding his chin. His hands and arms were bare and tanned by the sun. His only jewelry was the heraldic ring on the index finger of his right hand.

  Unlike many among the regal classes who sought to define their position by an ostentatious display of costly raiment, Kadesh-Cor preferred the sturdy polished leathers of the kings­riders and a bloodred cape slung from one shoulder. Even then he was less imposing in his dress than most knights. Dressing down created a sense of accessibility among the common class that made him beloved among many of the villagers.

  Qhuin noticed a strange symbol inked into the skin on the inside of the prince’s arm as he reached for the parchment.

  The courier bowed his head as he handed over the king’s message.

  Qhuin likewise bowed, but as his head came up, words tumbled from his mouth as if put there by another power. “I brought him quickly as I was able, m’lord prince.” He stood straight and looked at the prince, unblinking. What prompted such madness? He felt the presence of the stone close by and for an instant felt a strange sensation that he was watching the events unfold as if they were happening to someone else. His muscles tightened. He had stopped breathing.

  Kadesh-Cor glanced up and locked eyes with his slave for a fluttering beat of Qhuin’s heart. Qhuin thought he saw the slightest twitch of a smile at the corner of the royal mouth before Prince Kadesh-Cor broke the wax seal on the parchment and walked toward his carriage.

  “Of awful fears, both great and small, the things that never happen are the greatest of them all.” Rusthammer’s whimsical platitude danced through Qhuin’s head.

  I made a decision to leave the procession and drive the courier forward by my own free will. I have broken the rules and taken action. “To do, not to think, is the burden of bondage,” but I cast it aside and made a choice to disobey. I met the prince of Blackthorn and did not look away. I gazed into his royal eyes and spoke to him without being spoken to. A thousand tiny prickles danced at the nape of Qhuin’s neck as a sense of joy shivered through him along with a wave of terror.

  Rusthammer had taught Qhuin that a man was the accumulation of his experiences. Each event changed him in some small way for good or for ill. A’quilum Ereon Qhuin of unknown blood could not undo what he had done, nor did he wish to, for in that moment Qhuin knew that he was changed and would never be the same again.

  Of all your awful fears . . . The words were almost a song in his head until a loud squawk behind him shattered the tranquility of his hopeful illusion.

  “Put the slave back in his chain!” Sargon snarled and slammed his ebony walking stick against the iron of the chariot to punctuate his scorn.

  The strong hands of a kings­rider gripped Qhuin by the shoulder. Iron clanked on iron as the collar was lifted and put around his neck.

  “Put the bastard of a dog back in our dust and see that he stays there until we get to Stókenhold Fortress.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Maharí’s thumbs massaged the pallid skin on the bottom of the king’s bare foot. She added pressure as she slid her thumbs slowly upward from his heel to the softness below the padded ball. It was calloused where it rubbed on his boot, and the largest of his toes bent inward. His nails were cracked and stained an ugly yellow. A guttural groan of pleasure gurgled up from his throat.

  “Too much pressure, m’lord?” the concubine cooed.

  “Hmm,” was all Kublan could manage. He sprawled on a couch in his private chamber with his feet propped up on a low seat that was heavily padded and covered with embroidery. Maharí sat cross-legged on a cushion, rocking forward with each crush of her thumbs. She increased the pressure until she felt him flinch. Giving him pain satisfie
d her for reasons that never entered the sovereign’s mind.

  “Oh, ouch, ouch,” he complained, and she smiled.

  Maharí lifted the stopper from a small vial of perfumed oil and poured a few drops on her hands. She rubbed them together and worked the sides of his feet with the palms of her hand. The tips of her fingers pressed into the bony ridges on the top of his foot.

  Kublan groaned again in a mixture of pleasure and pain.

  A drape of sheer silk lay across Maharí’s shoulders and twined about each arm. Another layer of silk was wrapped around her body and hung to her feet in graceful folds. The pearls and shells woven into her top shone bright against the deep copper of her skin. She wore bracelets around her upper arms, and a tiara with dangling pearls was snuggled into her raven-black hair.

  The knock on the thick wood was not the timid knocking one would expect of a person invading the privacy of the king. Kublan rolled his head toward the door, and Maharí braced herself for his wrath. There was none.

  With Maharí’s help, Kublan swung his legs from the low seat and put his feet on the bearskin rug on the floor. “Enter the presence of your king,” he bellowed with a delightful laugh.

  The heavy door swung open, and Kings­rider Captain Ilióss Machous entered the room. “Your greatness,” he said, pounding his hand across his heart. He dropped to one knee, the iron shanks of his leather boots clanking against the stone. He was clad in the formal armor of the kings­riders with a massive helm beneath one arm and the coiled viper of the kings­riders emblazoned in relief on his chest piece of boiled leather.

  “Arise, arise,” Kublan said. “Come forward.”

  Captain Machous strode across the stones until he was standing next to the king. Machous was half a head taller than Kublan and half again his weight without a pinch of fat on his battle-hardened body. His skin was dark, and his hair and beard were the color of red river mud. His orbital arch was thick, the brows thrust up from a furrow between dark eyes. His nose was large and broken, like the knuckle on a giant’s hand. A double-handed long blade had left a lumpy scar from the bridge of his nose to his jaw, his skin raw where it passed through his beard.

  “You called for me, great one,” Captain Machous said. His voice was deep like a pattern-maker’s rasp on iron. His eyes flitted to Maharí.

  A spark of fire caused her neck to flush, and she looked to see if the king had noticed, but his gaze was on his captain.

  “How may I serve you, mighty king?”

  “Bring me the head of the bandit Drakkor,” Kublan said. “You must exact vengeance for the murdered Captain Borklore, the poor fool, and put those traitorous kings­riders who betrayed me to the sword.”

  “Traitorous kings­riders, m’lord king?” Machous asked, puzzled.

  The king caught the slip of tongue and flushed. The few who knew of the humiliating betrayal were sworn to secrecy, lest the shame of their defection be known.

  “You must never speak of it,” he said, “but some few of Borklore’s men were seduced by their fear, or threat of death, or”—the words trembled across his lips—“by some dark magic to betray their oath of blood and join with this son of a whore who calls himself Blood of the Dragon.”

  “I do not believe in magic, your greatness. I believe in this!” The captain gripped the handle of his sword. “I will savor the stench of his blood when it flows from his neck and soaks into the dirt.”

  Kublan smiled. “Take a double march of kings­riders, more if you like, and officers of your choice, but hear me now and listen well.” He stepped closer to the captain and put both hands around the fist holding the hilt of the sword. “It must be done before we leave for the great council at First Landing—before the first day of the Moon of Falling Leaves in season Mis’il S’atti. You and your march shall go with me to the place of First Landing, and there I shall present the head of this bandit as a symbol of my power and the invincibility of the Peacock Throne.”

  “And the prowess of your most remarkable captain,” Maharí whispered in his ear.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, “my most trusted Captain Machous, the mightiest of the kings­riders.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “You think me a fool?” the king shouted at the men who sat in the semicircle of stools before the Peacock Throne.

  The throne was a symbol of splendor and terror. The seat was cut from a single block of granite and decorated with elaborate carvings of birds. The king was nestled in a crush of cushions at the breast of a colossal peacock, which was made of iron and whose head arched over the throne on a long neck encrusted with glistening bluestone. The head was huge and its eyes fierce.

  There was an old wives’ tale in Village Darc that the eyes of the peacock had been put there by a sorcerer and cursed by dark magic. Some said the look of the peacock’s eyes could kill a man. Others claimed the glimmering was an evil fairy trapped inside and trying to escape.

  The beak of the giant peacock was a threatening spike of curved iron, more the jaw of a raptor than the beak of a peacock. It loomed over the head of whoever stood before the throne.

  Enormous iron claws gripped the thick arms of the chair and protected the king on either side. A fan of feathers made of burnished brass splayed out in a circle of full plumage behind the sovereign ruler. The rigid plume was taller than one man standing on the shoulders of another and etched in meticulous detail. Every barb, barbulles, plumule, and flue was painstakingly engraved until they appeared to have the softness of real feathers. Two hundred eyes were created with a profusion of inlaid gems from the pits of desolation. Topaz, sapphire, and emeralds, dug by Mankins and bought by blood.

  Kublan wagged an accusing finger that, but for the wrap of thin skin and bulging blue veins, might have been a broken stick with a gnarled fingernail. “I can tell by your shuffling and your loathing to look me in the eye that you think me mad!”

  He sagged into the pile of cushions, brooding and mumbling under his breath. “I will admit it is hard for common men to fathom the will of the gods, but I have heard of late that you . . .” He let whatever he was about to say drift away and scowled disapprovingly at the men huddled before him.

  The circle of men seated before the king was a clandestine cult of mystics and practitioners of magic and dark arts: the Wizard of Maynard, Magus Zuwor; Sorcerer Vorrold, one of the priests expelled from the brotherhood of Oum’ilah for sorcery; Bawork, Necromancer of Oldwoods; and the Dwarf of Summercross, bewitched some said, by the sorceress of Dragonfell. Chief among the king’s secret order was Than-lun, the alchemist and transformer of elements.

  Was he not, of all, the most important? Few knew or understood the nature of their dark arts and inscrutable works. Even those gathered did not know the fullness of the king’s purpose.

  Also present was the high pontiff. The king had given him the task to search the nine dominions for those who did wondrous works by the powers of darkness and to entice them to bring their supernatural powers to Kingsgate. To swear an oath of secrecy.

  The Raven thought the high pontiff an odd choice to gather a sodality of sorcerers, supposing his religious convictions would condemn the dark doings of Wiccans and witches. He was right.

  “Blasphemy!” the high pontiff had blurted in pious indignation when the Raven had told him of the king’s assignment. “It is a mad, unholy quest.”

  The Raven replied that voicing such opinions of the king’s command would likely cost the high pontiff his royal appointment. “Or even,” the Raven added, “your tongue or your pious head.”

  After their tête-à-tête, the high pontiff found enlightenment. “A miraculous epiphany,” was the way he described his change of heart with tears welling up in his reddened eyes.

  The high pontiff’s religion demanded nothing. Life was a journey of fate, determined by the gods without recourse or appeal. Life was a haphazard and helpless existence,
and then you died.

  He mocked the cult of pilgrims who lived on the Mountain of God who spoke of prayer and purpose and the notion of life beyond death.

  Beneath the shroud of ceremony, elaborate vestments, and feigned religious piety, the high pontiff embraced a single truth: The king is the only god with whom I have to deal.

  And so he had gathered the cult of mystics, and now he stood as one of the king’s most secret circle.

  The king pierced each member of the circle with a glare.

  “You speak in forgotten tongues and baffle the wise with your riddles. Why are you so impotent in this divine appointment? It is the will of the gods. It is for you to make it so!”

  He glanced at the Raven, who stood beside the throne and nodded affirmation as he always did. Kublan raised a chalice, and Tonguelessone hurried forward to fill it with wine. He savored a swallow, then swirled the cup and stared into the tiny whirlpool of wine.

  “You think me mad, but you are the fools,” he croaked. “Tell them. Tell them,” he said, turning to the plump man with rounded shoulders standing near the treacherous claws of the giant bird that gripped the arm of the throne. “They need to hear it.”

  “As you wish, m’lord,” he said. His face sagged, and his bleary eyes bespoke a life of books and candlelight. His name was Quohorn Milner, of House Milner, an obscure family and minor house. He was the keeper of the codices, scrivener, and the loremaster of Kingsgate. He held a battered codex and quires of papyrus in his hands.

  Quohorn cleared his throat and waited until each man had given his attention. He took a step forward and began. He recited the epic poem with scarcely a glance at the parchment. His voice echoed in the vaulted hollows of the throne room.

  “Hear ye now, all present, the epic of Tishpiin, hero of the great deluge and poem of Melgeshrabin, king of Uruk, from the tablets of Sha naqba īmuru.”

  Sha naqba īmuru. Kublan knew the meaning of the ancient tongue. He who sees the unknown. He who was immortal. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in the images that always came. He knew the epic of Tishpiin nearly word for word. He was Tishpiin, favored of the gods. Whether by the words of the loremaster or by the voice of his memory it mattered not, the epic of Tishpiin wrapped its warm arms around him with a whispering assurance of his immortal destiny.