by Simon Brown
The assailant spasmed once and dropped to the ground, dead. Kumul tugged his sword free and spun around, using his left arm to keep his charge behind him. Relief flooded through him when he saw the second assailant on the ground, Ager on top of him, blade sunk deep into his heart and lungs.
“Well done, old friend,” Kumul said, then noticed how still the crookback was. He moved forward and placed a hand on Ager’s twisted shoulder. “Are you all right?”
Ager coughed, turning his head so he could see Kumul with his one eye. “The bastard shifted his knife to his left hand,” he said weakly. “Too late for me to change my grip.” His head slumped and his eye closed as he lost consciousness.
Kumul bent down and saw that a knife had been driven into Ager’s right side to a third of its length. Blood was flowing freely. The youth knelt down next to Kumul.
“That is a serious wound,” he said. “We must get him to the palace.”
Kumul nodded. “I’ll carry him. You take his sword.” Leaving the blade in for fear of doing more damage, Kumul lifted Ager gently as if he weighed no more than a child.
The youth jerked the short sword out of the dead man. “I’ll run ahead to wake Dr. Trion.”
“God!” shouted Kumul. “Behind you, boy!”
The youth spun on his heel and saw a third attacker almost upon him. Obviously undeterred by the fate of his two companions, he had seen his chance to strike when the giant had taken up his burden.
“My friend,” the youth said quietly, “that was a mistake.”
The assassin saw his target move forward to meet him. Surprised, he had no time to slow his charge. Instinctively, he raised the knife’s point to deflect as best as possible any swing toward his neck or head. It was the last mistake he would ever make. He saw the youth take a step sideways and crouch. Before he could react, a sword sliced upward into his belly and ripped out as he stumbled forward. He gasped in pain, felt the earth rise to smash against his head, and lost consciousness before the blade fell against his neck, almost severing it through.
The youth stood, washed in blood, his eyes alight for a moment and then suddenly as dull as coal. His sword hand dropped limply to his side. The crowd started talking excitedly as if the fight had been put on for their benefit.
“Quickly, Lynan! We have to go. There may be others!”
Roused by the use of his real name, Lynan looked up at Kumul. “It’s… it’s not what I thought it would be like.”
“Later! We have to go. Now!”
The two hurried off. Ager, still unconscious in Kumul’s arms, moaned in pain.
“I fear we will be too late,” Kumul said grimly.
“He will live,” Lynan replied fiercely.
“If God is calling him, no one can hold back his ghost.”
“He will live,” Lynan insisted. He looked up at Kumul, tears welling in his eyes. “He knew my father.”
Chapter 2
Ager slipped in and out of consciousness, at times the feeling in his side a gnawing pain and then nothing more than a dull, persistent throbbing. At one point he thought he was floating in air, but he managed to open his eye and realized Kumul was carrying him. He had a vague memory of Kumul doing this once before, but then remembered the memory was of Kumul carrying a friend of his from the battlefield. Dimly it occurred to him that his friend had died, and he wondered whether that would be his fate, though whether he died or not did not seem terribly important to him this moment. Another time he caught a glimpse of a figure of a man floating in the air beside him, his face young and then surprisingly older, and he knew that face, knew it almost as well as his own. It’s his ghost, he thought. He’s come back to take me with him. But then the face was young again, and none of it made any sense to him.
After a while, the feeling in Ager’s side was gnawing more than throbbing, and in his clearer moments he understood it meant he was still alive and unfortunately coming out of whatever delirium had held him. He tried to say something, but Kumul told him to shut up. On reflection, that seemed like a good idea, so he did. Then, just as the pain was becoming too much for him, he was carried through a huge gate. Kumul shouted orders and soldiers scurried away to do the constable’s bidding. He knew he was coming to the end of his journey, and knew that meant some bastard with small hooks and cutters would soon be slicing into him to dig out whatever it was that was causing the hurt.
Kumul was carrying him up a flight of stairs now, and the man’s jolting stride sent spasms of pain through his body and, absurdly, made his empty eye socket itch. He moaned involuntarily, and felt humiliated. He tried apologizing, but Kumul again told him to shut up. Eventually they entered the most luxurious room Ager had ever seen. One wall was hidden by a tapestry of dazzling color. Opposite, a hearth was aglow with a blazing fire. Kumul finally laid him down on something he assumed must have been a proper woolen mattress, for it made him feel as if he was floating. He could hear Kumul and the young man talking earnestly with each other, but for some reason he could make out only a few words, and they made no sense at all.
Despite the warmth from the fire, Ager was beginning to shake. He concentrated on trying to keep his limbs and jaw still, but to no avail. To make things worse, the pain in his side was almost unbearable. He wanted to cry out, but the only sound he could make was another moan. He reached for the source of the pain, but felt something hard there instead of his own flesh. Perhaps he was shaking so much Kumul had had to pin him to the bed. The thought made him want to laugh.
And then Ager was aware of a new presence—a short, bearded man with a clipped monotone of a voice that only added to the room’s background hum. What distinguished him from the other two was a smell that was strangely comforting, and after a moment he realized it was the smell of the sword bush. The realization alarmed him.
Oh, no, he thought. It’s a surgeon. I’m going to hate this man, I know it.
The doctor placed a gentle hand against his forehead. Kind brown eyes looked down into his single gray one, then the hand moved to his side and took hold of the thing sticking into him. The doctor did not move it, as Ager had been afraid he would do, but he retreated and talked to the other two again. A second later he was back. Ager heard him say, “This will hurt like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”
“I’ve had a fucking ax in my back,” Ager tried to say, but could make only a hissing sound. “Nothing can hurt more than that.”
Then Kumul was leaning over him. The giant gave a lopsided smile and held Ager by the shoulders, pinning him down. He felt the young one doing the same with his knees.
And then agony. The surgeon was right. It did hurt more than anything he had ever felt before. He screamed. His body arched into the air. He screamed again. A great, swallowing abyss opened beneath him and he fell away from the earth.
The surgeon Trion left the room shaking his head. “I don’t know, Kumul. I just don’t know.”
“He saved my life,” Lynan told Kumul.
“He saved both our lives,” Kumul replied, not lifting his gaze from the crookback. “You were lucky tonight.” Lynan said nothing. “You must not do this again.”
“Do what?”
Kumul turned to face him. “You know my meaning,” he said, anger creeping into his voice.
“I’ve been leaving the palace—”
“Sneaking out of the palace,” Kumul corrected him.
“—sneaking out of the palace most nights for over a year now. Nothing like this has happened before.”
“You know I put up with these expeditions because I think you deserve some leeway—you’re a young man now—but I warned you to stop last month.”
“For no reason.”
“No reason!” Kumul barked, then glanced anxiously at Ager, guilty about raising his voice. “You know as well as I do the reason.” He grabbed Lynan by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “Your mother the queen is dying. Her ghost may stay with her for another week, or another month, or even anothe
r year, but it may just as easily flee her body tonight. Things are starting to happen in Kendra. Forces are aligning themselves for the succession, including the Twenty Houses.”
“The Twenty Houses have no reason to hate me,” Lynan said weakly, knowing the lie even as he spoke it. “My mother is Usharna, Queen of Kendra. I am one of them.”
“And your father was a commoner made general, and his mother was a Chett slave. The Twenty Houses have every reason to want to see you put out of the way before the queen dies.”
Lynan turned away, not wanting to hear. Kumul sighed heavily and leaned over Ager to check his bandages.
“He is still bleeding a little. And that fire is dying. I will get more wood.”
“I hope this wound doesn’t weep for two years like his last one,” Lynan said. As soon as he had spoken the words, he regretted them. He had not meant to sound so callous. But it was too late. Kumul stared angrily at him.
“Have the courtesy to watch him for me while I’m gone,” he ordered, and left.
Unreasonably angry himself, Lynan tried standing on his royal dignity, but alone and with no one to be arrogant with, he slipped back to reality. What did he think he was doing? Kumul deserved better than that from him. And who did he think he was fooling? He had all the royal dignity of a midden, unlike his older half-siblings, all true bloods and sired from Usharna’s first two noble-born husbands. Kumul was right: he had the form but not the substance of the court’s respect. His own mother, the queen herself, did her best to ignore him. He knew, too, that this was why he so desperately wanted to know more about his father, whose blood apparently flowed thicker through his veins than his mother’s. But General Elynd Chisal was not even a memory for him. He was made up of tales and anecdotes, history lessons and hearsay. “Kendra’s greatest soldier,” Ager had said of him.
Lynan remembered the crookback then with a strange mixture of gratitude and unexpected affection. He checked Ager’s breathing—shallow but blessedly regular—and laid the palm of his hand on the man’s forehead to test his fever. He heard someone come in the room, and turned, expecting to see Kumul.
“That was quick…” he began, but stopped when he saw a small, slightly built young man with a mop of hair on his round head that did not seem to know which way to sit.
“Olio!”
“Good evening, b-b-brother,” said Olio, and hesitantly approached the bed. “Is this the one?”
“The one?”
“I met Kumul rushing down the p-p-passageway. I asked him where he was going and he shouted something about a wounded m-m-man.” Olio looked with real concern at the hapless Ager. Of all Lynan’s siblings, Olio was the only one who had ever had time for him, and his gentle nature made it easy for Lynan to like him despite his noble father. Even when he was a child, it had been only Olio among the royal family who seemed to acknowledge him as a member.
“Yes. He saved my… I mean… Kumul’s life tonight.” Lynan did not want the whole court to know he had been out of the palace. The last thing he needed was to be kept under close supervision by a nervous Royal Guard. Being tagged by its constable was bad enough.
Olio’s eyes widened in surprise. “And he is wounded b-b-badly?”
Lynan nodded. “Trion seemed doubtful he would live,” he said, but added quickly, “I think he will.”
“He is a friend of yours?”
“No. Yes. I mean, I hope so.” He groaned inside.
Olio simply nodded, as if he understood exactly what Lynan was trying to say, and of what he was trying not to say. Olio was eerily empathic like that. “Then I will p-p-pray for him.” He turned to leave.
“You would pray for him if he was your worst enemy,” Lynan said without sarcasm.
Olio inclined his head as if he was seriously considering the remark. “P-p-probably,” he admitted. “And b-b-by the way, I would change your clothing if I were you.”
Lynan looked down at himself. His clothes were covered in dried blood.
Before Olio reached the door, Kumul returned, followed by a male servant carrying a basket filled with firewood. They both bowed briefly to Olio, who waved an informal dismissal and moved out of their way.
As the servant started stacking the firewood by the hearth, Kumul mumbled to Lynan, “Prepare yourself.”
“What are you muttering—?”
Lynan never got to finish his question. He heard the sound of heavy feet coming from the corridor and Dejanus appeared, dressed in the full regalia of the queen’s own Life Guard, his mace of office held erect in one hand. He was an even bigger man than Kumul, and filled the doorway. He saw Lynan and offered one of the quizzical smiles he was famous for, then stepped aside. Behind him, standing with what seemed impatient frustration, was Usharna, the queen herself.
She was fully dressed for office, with a heavy linen gown bejeweled with emeralds and rubies, and a black velvet cloak sweeping behind her that shone in the firelight like still water under a full moon. Around her neck hung the four Keys of Power, the ultimate symbols of royal authority in the kingdom of Grenda Lear and all its subject realms. Their weight seemed to drag her head down, and the muscles of her neck and shoulders were taut with the strain of carrying them. Already small in size, the tangible burden of office, together with her illness, made her appear like a frail clay doll. Her white hair was pulled up on top of her head and kept down with a gold tiara decorated with an engraving of her family crest, the black silhouette of a kestrel against a gold field. Fine hands like china nested together under her heart, and her pale brown eyes tiredly surveyed those before her.
“Your Majesty!” Lynan called out in surprise. All in the room bowed stiffly from the waist.
Usharna snorted her satisfaction and allowed Olio and Lynan to come forward and each kiss a cheek. “Well, it’s nice to see you at home, however late,” she said to Lynan, looking disapprovingly at his bloody dress. Without waiting for a reply, she went to Ager and peered at him closely. “This is the one?” The question was directed to Kumul.
“Yes, your Majesty.”
“Where is my physician?” she called out, and Trion seemed to appear from thin air. Lynan caught a glimpse of the crowd waiting in the corridor; it looked as if the queen’s entire entourage had followed her down.
“Your assessment?” she asked Trion.
“He is seriously wounded, your Majesty. If he survives the night, he may live, but I do not think he will see another dawn.”
The queen stood deep in thought for a long time. Lynan had never seen her looking so frail. He wanted to go to her and hold her arm, take some of her burden on himself, but he stayed where he was, made immobile by her aloofness. Always so far from me, Lynan thought.
“I wish to be alone with this man,” she said at last, but Lynan thought her expression suggested she would rather be anywhere else than alone with Ager.
Dejanus looked as if he was about to object, but Usharna raised one hand and he bowed deferentially. Everyone filed out obediently, Dejanus shutting the door behind him and standing guard over it. Lynan, squeezed between Kumul and a courtier whose violet scent made him feel queasy, wondered why Usharna should worry about a cripple injured in a street fight—he looked at Kumul out of the corner of his eye—unless someone was indiscreet enough to let on about the night’s events and their role in them.
Was she going to wake up the poor man and interrogate him? The hair on the nape of his neck started to rise and he tried to ignore it. Trion was saying something to one of his aides, an attractive young woman dressed in the latest fashion of fine linen layered with strips of colored felt. She was only recently attached to the court from one of the outlying realms, and her dark golden skin told Lynan she was either a Chett or an Amanite. Probably the latter; by all accounts the Chetts did not take well to lots of clothing. The thought made him smile. The woman saw it and thought he was smiling at her. Appealingly, she returned the favor. Lynan’s heart skipped a beat. Most of Usharna’s courtiers, while making some s
how of bowing to him if cornered, would not look at him sideways under normal circumstances. They haven’t gotten to her yet, he decided, and the thought saddened him.
He was aware that the hairs on his arms were starting to rise, and the skin on his face seemed tight and irritated. He saw the blond hairs on Kumul’s massive forearms beginning to stand as well, and realized that whatever was affecting him was affecting everybody in the corridor. Some of the courtiers were starting to look distressed.
“What’s going on?” he asked Kumul in a hushed voice. Kumul refused to answer him, his blue eyes locked forward and his body rigid as a board.
One of the courtiers fainted. Lynan recognized the very round Edaytor Fanhow, Kendra’s magicker prelate, his ceremonial robes folding around him like the wings of a giant moth. Someone knelt down to make sure he was all right. Lynan felt sorry for the prelate, then decided his time would be better spent feeling sorry for himself. His stomach had started roiling, and he was afraid he would pass out as well. And then it occurred to him that the prelate was by no means the largest or oldest in Usharna’s entourage. So why did he pass out so quickly?
The answer shook him. He stiffened, his breathing became shallow, and a cold wave passed through his body despite the close, hot confines. Edaytor fainted because among those present he was the most sensitive to magic. Usharna was using one of the Keys of Power. It must be the Key of the Heart, the one sometimes called the Healing Key. He had never, in all his years, seen Usharna employ the power inherent in the royal symbols. He had been told stories about their strength, but he had cynically believed they were nothing but legends created to give the throne more authority through their possession, just like King Thebald’s Sword of State, an overly ornate and utterly impractical weapon held by new monarchs during their crowning. It was not that he doubted the existence of magic—he had seen members of the five Theurgia employ it—but the fact that his own mother could wield it disturbed him greatly. And to wield magic of such strength!