Blood of the King kj-1

by Bruce Blake

  This is more like it. A smile tugged at Therrador’s lips but the dread gnawing his gut extinguished it. Oh, how I miss my boy.

  The ride through the hall met his expectations. Lord Emon Turesti had outdone himself with what little he had at his disposal, taking Therrador’s suggestions and expanding upon them. Trumpets called and answered, doves flew overhead to perch at the edges of the high columns, maidens cast flowers at the feet of his destrier. The rest of his party came behind, afoot as they’d dismounted before entering the hall so that Therrador was the only one still mounted. He raised his hand to the crowd; they cheered, tapped spears on the floor and swords on shields. A young girl broke from the crowd and rushed to his side to offer him a single white rose-a plant of Turesti’s, no doubt. He bent and took the flower from her, sniffed deeply of its sweet aroma before pushing it into the clasp holding his cape.

  The short ride went too quickly. When they repeated the ceremony in Achtindel, he’d have Turesti arrange for the entire Street of Kings to be like this. That would be an appropriate reception for the deliverer of the kingdom. And, when the day came, Graymon’s reception would be even greater.

  Therrador reined to a halt at the foot of the marble stairs, dismounted, and handed the lead to a squire. He climbed the steps, hand on sword to steady it as he forced a measured pace despite the urge he felt to rush up two at a time. Trumpets and cheers loud enough to drown out the clank of his armor followed him as he climbed.

  At the top, High Confessor Aurna waited, the plain gray cloak of his order tied about his waist with a knot of golden cord. He watched without expression, hands tucked inside his sleeves, lips moving slightly as he recited some prayer or blessing. Therrador knew Aurna wore clothes richly adorned with gold beneath the plain robe and jewels hung about his neck. The High Confessor headed the rich and powerful church and took advantage of its wealth.

  I’ll have to do something about that.

  At the top of the stairs, Therrador drew his sword from its bejeweled scabbard and offered it to the High Confessor. When Aurna accepted it, Therrador went to one knee, head bowed and hands clasped before his heart. The cheering and whistling ceased as the blare of trumpets ended, echoes fading to silence a few seconds later.

  Therrador closed his eyes; butterflies fluttered in his stomach. So many years of being the faithful servant, of waiting and planning, finally coming to fruition. He thought of Graymon, and of his poor, lost Seerna. He’d never forgive Braymon for what happened to her, but here was his vengeance, and he hadn’t raised a sword. When he imagined these moments, they tasted sweet-not so now. The specter of Graymon’s abduction clouded his mind, stealing enjoyment from every thought and deed. He drew a deep breath.

  It occurred to him the throngs would think him praying as he knelt there like a good, Gods-fearing king should. He was praying, of a fashion, but not for the things which they’d want their king to pray. He prayed for Graymon and that the Archon would hold to her word. He silently told the Gods he’d give the entire kingdom away to get his son back safely.

  The priest spoke, interrupting Therrador’s thoughts.

  “Earth and Wind, Fire and Water,” he intoned in a deep voice practiced at addressing crowds. “The elements, the Gods, have brought before us this day our new king, to guide us and lead us in these troubled times.”

  A neophyte appeared beside Aurna to take Therrador’s sword from the High Confessor. A second boy gave the priest a wooden box intricately carved with scrollwork on all four sides. Aurna opened the lid on ancient, creaking hinges, put his hand in and came out with a fistful of soil.

  “Earth supports us, gives us food and hope as the king supports us, loves us, provides for us.” He waved his hand toward Therrador sending a spray of soil first across one shoulder then the other as he remained head bowed and eyes closed. “By Earth, with Earth, do you vow to provide for and love your kingdom and all its people?”

  Therrador raised his head and opened his eyes.

  “As king, I swear by Earth.”

  Aurna nodded and returned the chest to the apprentice, brushing dirt from his soft white hands before the boy closed the lid. The next neophyte came to the High Confessor’s side and handed him a wooden tube. Aurna accepted it without removing his gaze from the man kneeling before him.

  “Wind guides us and moves us, brings us weather and seasons as the king guides us and steers us through times of feast and famine, abundance and drought, war and peace.” He pressed the wooden tube to his lips and blew through it onto Therrador’s face. His breath smelled of last night’s wine and a bit of spittle landed on Therrador’s cheek. “By Wind, with Wind, do you vow to guide and steer your kingdom and all its people no matter the season?”

  Therrador swallowed, resisting the urge to wipe the saliva from his cheek. “As king, I swear by Wind.”

  Aurna nodded and passed the tube back to the apprentice, then received a lit torch from another. The torch guttered and spat in the still air, sending black smoke swirling toward the ceiling.

  “Fire warms us and lights us, keeps darkness and cold at bay in the deepest night, protects us from all it holds as the king holds us close and keeps us from evil.” The High Confessor touched the torch first to Therrador’s right forearm, then his left. The kerosene spread upon them before the ceremony burst into flame. The crowd gasped. Therrador held his arms to the side keeping the flames from his face. “By Fire, with Fire, do you vow to be the light of your kingdom and keep the evils in the dark from your people?”

  “As king, I swear by Fire.”

  A sheen of sweat shone on Therrador’s brow and cheeks. It was good Water was the next God to be addressed. As another neophyte appeared, handing Aurna an ewer filled with clear water, the flames on Therrador’s arms faded leaving a layer of black soot on his previously dazzling armor. He cursed to himself.

  “Water gives us life, replenishes us and strengthens us as the king lends us strength and keeps us alive.”

  Therrador tipped his head back as Aurna lifted the ewer. The High Confessor sent a thin stream of cool water trickling over Therrador’s face, running down his neck and under his armor. It felt good after the fire, refreshing, but would be uncomfortable until it dried.

  “By Water, with Water, do you vow to give your life to strengthen your kingdom and all its people?”

  “As king, I swear by Water.”

  He lowered his head, looked at Aurna, and felt the droplets of water running off his face. The High Confessor looked back at him with bloodshot eyes brought on by last night’s wine. The church guarded Aurna’s secret indulgences like a new born babe, but the king must know all for it might come in handy one day.

  As a final apprentice took the ewer, the High Confessor raised his arms above his head, hands spread open, palms facing Therrador.

  “By the Gods Earth and Wind, Fire and Water, the givers of life, the takers of life; the Gods see all and know all, and now they know Therrador as king, regent of Erechania, Protector of the Realm, the Life of the People.”

  Aurna stepped away from the new monarch, hands still held above his head. No one in the hall made a sound as the High Confessor disappeared behind a curtain at the back of the dais and Lord Emon Turesti, Chancellor of the High Council, stepped out to take his place.

  Turesti wore the red robe trimmed in white ermine denoting his office; a golden belt adorned with jewels of many colors, no two alike, encircled his waist. The chancellor carried a great sword in his hands, six and a half feet long and gleaming gold. The Sword of the Realm, the Chooser of Kings. Its edge honed daily by a master, the sword saw little work these days. Two decades had passed since it last chose a king and, under Braymon, beheadings became scarce. With war happening, the Sword of the Realm would see more work in the future as there were always traitors and enemies to be made examples of during wartime.

  Therrador, still kneeling, swallowed hard as Turesti stood before him; the water Aurna splashed upon him had collected at the small of
his back, causing him discomfort.

  Thank the Gods this will soon be over.

  “The Gods have given their blessings, Therrador Montmarr,” Turesti began, his voice surprisingly loud and strong from a man so slight and frail. “But it is the Chooser of Kings who passes final judgment. Are you ready to be judged, Therrador Montmarr?”

  “I am ready.” Therrador kept his voice steady with effort. If he didn’t flinch, if the blade didn’t draw blood, he’d be confirmed king.

  Therrador wondered if he should trust Turesti, who held his fate in his hands. If the chancellor didn’t want Therrador to be king, all he need do was touch the sharp edge to his flesh and all would be at an end. Bringing the blade down on the right spot meant everything. A hair’s breadth to one side or the other could mean the kingship, or death.

  Too late for worry now.

  Therrador breathed deep and held it, readying himself as Turesti raised the blade above his head, thin arms shaking with the effort. Sweat broke on Therrador’s brow. Perhaps it wasn’t trust he needed to worry about, but strength. Could the frail man wield the sword? It was the chancellor’s job, no one else’s.

  The great hall fell into deeper silence as the crowd held their breath along with the man who’d soon be their king. Therrador bowed his head but kept his eyes on Turesti’s shadow to see the blow when it came.

  Light glinted on the blade and it made a faint whistle as it sliced the air. Therrador gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw bunching. The clang of metal meeting metal rang through the still hall. Therrador didn’t move.

  No pain.

  The blow to his shoulder came swift but light, the flat of the blade striking against his epaulet. Turesti had done his job well. To the throng crowding the hall, it appeared Therrador survived a deadly blow. Lord Emon Turesti raised the Chooser of Kings above his head again, the shake in his arms more pronounced this time.

  Only a few more moments.

  The blade cut the air a second time. Therrador tensed. The flat of the blade struck his armor, harder this time, and the edge slipped under the corner of his epaulet. Years of combat and training kept Therrador from reacting, but Turesti must have realized what happened. He pulled the sword away quickly and examined the blade. After a few seconds, he nodded, signaling it free of blood.

  “Rise, Therrador Montmarr,” he said, some of the shake in his arms transferring to his voice. “Rise and accept your crown.”

  Therrador did as bidden, hoping the warm blood trickling down his chest would remain contained beneath his plate. He reached up with both hands to remove his helm and managed to keep his face free from expression despite the pain in his shoulder. His hair dripped with water and sweat as he tucked his helm into the crook of his elbow and cocked his arm so blood wouldn’t flow from the tips of his fingers. He waited while Hanh Perdaro, the Voice of the People, took Lord Turesti’s place in front of him.

  “The gods have given their blessings,” Perdaro said speaking with less effort than the others had. “The Chooser of Kings has seen you worthy.”

  He extended his arms above his head, displaying the heavy golden crown to all. Not so long ago, this crown had rested upon Braymon’s head and, being his closest friend and advisor, Therrador knew it wasn’t merely the diadem’s bulk which weighed on him at times. Now that responsibility fell to Therrador and he felt a pang of regret his one time friend was gone.

  “And, in the name of the people, I declare you King Therrador.”

  The room erupted with cheers and applause, the clamor bouncing from walls to ceiling, the room doubling and trebling the volume. Therrador raised his right hand, waved to the crowd as he faced them, and put on a smile he didn’t feel like wearing. He drank in the adulation for a minute, then turned to Lord Turesti standing to his right. With the crowd still hollering and whistling, he raised his voice for the chancellor to hear with no danger he’d be overhead in the uproar.

  “Get me out of here before I bleed to death.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  The tunnel changed from rough-hewn gray stone to polished white marble as they neared the arched doorway. No seam showed where one stopped and the other began, like one faded into the other. Ancient runes and depictions adorned the walls, carved into the marble, including one series which Khirro recognized as the story of Monos, the first necromancer. It seemed an eternity since Athryn had told him the story of the necromancer and the Mourning Sword.

  So much has happened.

  They stopped in the doorway and peered into the chamber beyond. The same iridescent glow lit the chamber as had the previous one, but here the color shifted and changed. As Khirro’s eyes registered one color, recognizing it, it would change to another. Under different circumstances, he’d have considered it beautiful, awe-inspiring, but here it was eerie and unsettling.

  “This is it,” Athryn whispered pointing to the far corner of the chamber.

  A marble throne carved from the wall and stretching from floor to ceiling fifteen feet above sat empty. Pools of light ebbed and flowed about its base. Khirro blinked, unable to tell if the floor near the seat was solid.

  “There’s no one here,” Elyea whispered.

  Featureless except for the carven throne, no corner of the room was hidden from their view. One by one they stepped across the threshold. Mist swirled about their ankles like a living creature investigating their presence. Khirro looked around but saw no cracks or openings in the smooth walls, no place where the mist might enter the room. The floor, visible in spots through the moving fog, was the same polished marble as the walls. Nature had no hand in the design or building of such a chamber.

  Khirro entered the room last and halted behind his companions. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as though the room sucked the air from his lungs before he had the chance to let it out. The Mourning Sword’s glow brightened to a rich golden light as the mist twisted through Khirro’s legs and up his body leaving the floor in the room laid bare as it swirled about him. His head felt light and the blade glowed brighter still. Athryn turned to him, asked if he was all right and the radiance from the sword washed over him. Khirro’s breath caught in his throat.

  Maes stood at his brother’s side.

  Khirro knew it for a vision immediately. The figure of the little man shimmered, flickering in and out of view before steadying. Khirro watched, mesmerized, as a younger version of Athryn joined him. A bandage covered half the magician’s face, hiding what Khirro knew to be a fresh burn, cracked and oozing, healing itself into the scar Athryn tried so hard to disguise.

  The two figures knelt together at the real Athryn’s side, but he didn’t notice. Maes’ mouth moved forming words, teaching his brother an ancient language intended for only one use: magic. Khirro watched, agape, as he saw the little man speak.

  A knife appeared in Athryn’s hand and the brothers looked the same direction, reacting to someone outside Khirro’s view. Athryn dropped the knife and held his hands up in protest before something knocked Maes violently to the floor, bloodying his nose. Begrudgingly, Athryn retrieved the knife, moving awkwardly as though forced by an unseen hand. Maes sat upright.

  Khirro tried to look away when Athryn removed the tip of his brothers tongue, but he couldn’t. Tears flowed from Athryn’s unbandaged eye.

  The scene shifted to Maes teaching Athryn again, a red froth of words and blood bubbling from his lips. The blade appeared in Athryn’s hand again. More blood. More tears. More tongue left Maes’ head. Khirro stumbled back a step, blinking, and the vision disappeared.

  “What’s wrong, Khirro?” Elyea caught him under one arm as Ghaul grabbed the other.

  “I… I saw Maes.” He looked up at Athryn staring at him, eyes wide beneath his mask. “I saw you take his tongue from his head.”

  “You could not know. No one knows.” The mask on his face hid the sorrow evident in his voice. “But that is what happened.”

  “But how could I-?”

  “The light of truth s
hines from the Mourning Sword. Secrets are revealed in its glow.”

  Khirro stared at the blade in his hand, then looked at Elyea standing beside him. At her feet, a girl of perhaps five years lay on a bed of straw; tears flowed down her cheeks but no sound gave away her lament. A man appeared beside her, huge and threatening, and Khirro knew the man as her father.

  The man moved toward her, pulled his shirt over his head. There was a familiarity to the act, like this wasn’t his first visit like this. He knelt beside the young girl, grabbed her shoulder and flipped her onto her back. The dagger she had hidden beneath her slashed out, opened his throat. Warm blood rained down on the girl, absolving her of her sins, of his sins. The man grasped at the wound in his throat, curses gurgling at his lips as he toppled to the dirt floor. The young girl stood and ran from Khirro’s sight but, as she did, Khirro saw the dagger in her hand, its hilt adorned with jewels. The same dagger Elyea still carried.

  Khirro gagged. The urge to throw the Mourning Sword from his hand nearly overwhelmed him, but one more truth still needed to be uncovered, one more secret revealed.

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Graymon stared at the tent flap expecting someone or something to pull it aside but dreading who or what might come through. The lady had treated him nice so far-animals and sunshine graced the pictures on her fingernails again-but he didn’t like being in a strange place. He missed his Da, he even missed nanny. Men who smelled like dead things and had no faces haunted his dreams each night. Every time he woke, he woke scared and shivering, wanting to call out for comfort but knowing no one would give it to him.

  He tip-toed to the door of the tent and stopped before it, hand outstretched. He hoped he’d move the flap aside and find his father waiting to tell him that this whole thing had been a dream, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. His throat squeaked as he drew a shuddering breath; his fingers brushed the green canvas. He grasped the edge of the flap and pulled it aside slowly. The woman stood as though she’d been waiting for him for a long time. Graymon dropped the flap and jumped back with a screech as she entered.