Heart of the King

by Bruce Blake

  Her rapist—her husband’s murderer—collapsed at her feet, and she stared down at him as he twitched on the ground, his life spurting onto the grass. She felt his blood on her fingers and tasted the metallic tang of fear and disgust on her tongue, but her body felt numb, otherwise. When she looked up, she saw Therrador lying prone a few yards from where the tyger was mauling the woman and immediately forgot the dying man at her feet.

  Maybe he knows where Iana is. Maybe he took the children to safety.

  Emeline dropped the knife and stepped over the first man she ever killed, moving toward the king as quickly as she dared. She crouched, shuffling between the bodies scattered across the ground, but hesitated with only five paces separating her from Therrador to watch the tyger back away from the Archon, leaving her burning to ash upon the plain.

  The animal’s flames flickered out and Graymon stumbled back a step before his knees gave way and he crumpled to the ground. The king called out to his son; Emeline found herself unable to do more than stare at the tendrils of smoke rising from the boy’s clothes, her mind refusing to believe what her eyes saw.

  Graymon has become the tyger?

  She stared, mouth agape, fear and anger and death forgotten until the boy rolled onto his back and she saw the bundle he held in his arms. It felt to Emeline like her heart leaped into her throat, choking her before she found the breath to call out her daughter’s name.

  She ran across the scorched and cracked earth where the fight between dragon, tyger and Archon had occurred. The hard ground scraped gashes in her legs as she fell to her knees at Graymon’s side.

  Other than a smudge of black soot across her soft, pink cheek, Iana’s face looked peaceful, like it did when she slept. The baby didn’t move.

  A weight fell on Emeline’s chest, compressing her lungs until she couldn’t breathe. Her shoulders trembled; a cry of grief began deep in her throat, clawed its way up into her mouth and between her lips. She reached a shaking hand out toward her daughter’s cheek to wipe the soot away, but stopped short of touching her and put her hands instead over her own face, stifling her sorrowful wail. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and let the sobs shake her.

  “Em...ah...leen.”

  Through her grief, she barely heard the quiet syllables. She sniffled deeply and moved her hands from her face, wiped away her tears. Graymon’s looked up at her from beneath drooping lids.

  “I’m here,” she said.

  The boy’s face pinched with pain and discomfort for a second, then he looked back into her eyes.

  “Iana. She...she...”

  “Sshh.” Emeline brushed sopping hair from his sweaty forehead. “Don’t speak.”

  Graymon nodded minutely and Emeline inhaled a deep, shuddering breath; in it, she smelled her daughter’s familiar scent mixed with the stink of brimstone and singed grass. She forced an unconvincing smile on her lips for the sake of the boy and reached out to take the baby from him.

  Iana’s skin was warm. Emeline hugged her close against her chest and looked down into the babe’s angelic, innocent face, struggling to keep tears from coming anew.

  Why did this have to happen to you?

  She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer to the Gods to take care of her child, to make sure she found her father in the fields of the dead.

  Both of her fathers.

  She kept her eyes closed and rocked back and forth on her knees as though she comforted her daughter, but it was herself in need of comfort. But where would she find it with Lehgan and Khirro both dead? What was she without her child?

  A soft sound reached her ears and she held her breath. She heard it again and opened her eyes.

  Iana looked up at her, smiling.

  A ragged, laughing sob broke free of Emeline’s throat and she kissed all over her daughter’s face, eliciting coos and giggles from the baby. She hugged her close and breathed deep of her baby smell.

  “Graymon!”

  The king’s voice rasped behind her and Emeline chastised herself silently; she’d been so concerned for the welfare of her child, she’d forgotten Therrador must be experiencing the same thing.

  “Graymon is alive. So is Iana,” she said over her shoulder. She turned to Graymon and saw his eyes were brighter, more focused. “Can you stand?”

  “I...I think so. Is my da all right?”

  She stood, Iana cradled in her right arm, and helped Graymon to his feet.

  “Take it easy,” she said putting her arm around his shoulders.

  He held onto her to steady himself as they crossed the distance to where Therrador lay. When they arrived, Graymon fell to his knees and hugged his father, his head resting on the king’s chest. Emeline stood back and watched them, emotion clogging her throat. She kissed Iana on the head again and the baby giggled.

  “I’m so glad you’re all right, son.”

  Graymon leaned back and looked at his father. “What happened to you, Da? Are you all right?”

  “The witch paralyzed me.” The muscles in his jaw clenched tight and he looked away from his son’s gaze. “It will wear off with time.”

  Graymon hugged him again. “I was in the fire, Da. I was in the tyger.”

  “You are a brave hero, son. The bravest.”

  “You saved the kingdom, Graymon,” Emeline said.

  Graymon looked up at her, his eyes sparkling. “Iana--”

  “Sshh, honey. The baby is fine,” Emeline said.

  “And what of Khirro?” Therrador asked, his neck straining to hold his head up and look at Emeline.

  “Khirro has gone on to the next life.”

  “And the magician?”

  Emeline looked around, noticing for the first time that the battle had not resumed. The dragon, the tyger, the Archon’s death had taken the fight out of the living, and the dead were staying dead. Kanosee soldiers retired from the field of battle as Erechanians tended their fallen comrades.

  “He is gone, too.”

  Therrador let his head drop back to the ground. “But the kingdom is saved. Because of Prince Graymon.”

  The boy raised his head from his father’s chest. “Iana--”

  “She’s fine, see?” Emeline said kneeling beside him. “Here, you can hold her for a moment. It seems the two of you are friends now.”

  Graymon stood and Emeline placed the baby in his arms. He cradled her close to him, both of them smiling. Emeline looked at the king.

  “Can you move at all?” she asked leaning close and keeping her voice quiet so Graymon wouldn’t hear.

  “Nothing below my neck.”

  Emeline nodded and looked up. To her right, a man clad in Erechanian armor was dragging the body of another soldier out of a pile of the dead. She waved her hands over her head and called out.

  “Help us. Please help us. The king is injured.”

  The soldier let the dead man’s body fall to the ground and rushed across the scorched ground to their aid.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Khirro blinked.

  The cerulean sky stretched away above him, unspoiled, unmarred, cloudless. He saw nothing but endless blue and realized there was nothing but the sky—no smells, no sounds, nothing.

  Smells returned first, all of them familiar—grass and earth, the fragrances of flowers and trees; the scents of his life that had always been present.

  The farm, then. I’m on the farm.

  But that didn’t ring true. He felt warmth on his face and a lightness to his body; memories seemed faint, distant, as though seen through the wrong end of an eyeglass. It couldn’t be the farm, he’d left home long ago...but for where?

  Sound crept back into Khirro’s world: the sigh of wind through grass, the creak of a tree limb, the beat of his heart, the sound of his breath. The sounds prodded Khirro’s mind and memories came back to him like a butterfly alighting on the petals of a flower. Consciousness returned, gently, lovingly.

  He turned his head and saw the grass, impossibly green; in the o
ther direction stood a tree, its limbs outstretched as though it cradled the sky against its bosom. The movement of his head caused no pain, though he’d suspected it would. Instead, he felt the tickle of the grass against his cheek, the delicate touch of his clothing on his flesh. The sights and sounds, the touch of grass and sun and cloth, all were pleasant, but none meshed with the memories of blood and death and pain. None of them matched his recollection of the farm, his home.

  “Khirro.”

  He hadn’t noticed the woman standing near his feet—perhaps she hadn’t been there a moment before. Khirro propped himself on his elbows to see her better.

  Sunlight brightened her red hair to the color of fire; the smile on her face made her cheeks glow pink and her green eyes sparkle. The wind tugged at the hem of the thin white dress hanging to her ankles.

  “Elyea,” he said. “So I am dead then, am I?”

  She nodded and offered her hand. He took it and she helped him stand; he felt no aches and pains in his body, no evidence of the wound through his stomach and back that he remembered taking his life. They embraced.

  “That is a sight I was not sure I would ever see,” a man’s voice said.

  Khirro pulled away from Elyea and turned toward the voice.

  “Athryn.”

  The joy he felt at seeing Elyea again diminished with the sight of the magician. He should be happy to see his friend, but if both of them were here in the fields of the dead, surely it meant they failed to stop the Archon. Khirro went to Athryn, put his hand on his shoulder.

  “I’d have hoped not to see you here,” he said.

  Looking at the magician, Khirro saw changes in him and wondered if the same was true of himself. Athryn’s shoulder length hair was no longer blond, but ash; his skin glowed, his eyes glimmered, his smile was infectious. Despite Khirro’s distress that his friend, too, had been killed, he couldn’t prevent his lips from mimicking the magician’s expression.

  “All is not what it seems to you.”

  Khirro raised and eyebrow. “What happened?”

  “We prevailed.”

  Khirro hesitated an instant, then clasped Athryn’s other shoulder, gave his companion a friendly shake and laughed aloud.

  “Yes,” he exclaimed. “But what of Graymon? And Emeline and the baby? Therrador?”

  “The world of the living is no longer your concern, Khirro.”

  “You can’t leave it like that for me.”

  “I have already said too much.”

  Khirro nodded. “But you fell, too, Athryn.”

  “No, Khirro. I did not.” Athryn shook his head; his smile remained steady. “I now move freely between the living and the dead.”

  It took a second for the magician’s words to sink in. When they did, Khirro’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped open.

  “You...you are the Necromancer?”

  Athryn didn’t reply, only looked into his friend’s eyes, and his look told Khirro everything.

  Elyea placed her hand on his arm.

  “Come. It’s time to go.”

  Khirro nodded and embraced Athryn, slapped him on the back.

  “Thank you for everything you did for me, my friend.”

  Athryn nodded and Khirro let Elyea draw him away. They walked away through the grass and Khirro noticed dew on the green blades; it felt cool and pleasant on his bare feet. He looked back at his friend.

  “Will I see you again, Athryn?”

  “Do not be surprised if you do. And Khirro...” The magician hesitated, as though considering his words. “Your friends and family go on.”

  Relief washed through Khirro as a white mist rose up out of the grass and swirled around the magician, obscuring him from Khirro’s view. The mist became a column, then it sprouted wings, a head, a tail. The mist dragon flapped its wings once and the mist became vapor and disappeared, leaving the emerald grass and azure sky. Khirro breathed deep of the clean, crisp air and smelled the sweet odor of magic.

  Elyea tugged at his arm.

  “Come, Khirro. There are people waiting to see you.”

  Their bare feet whispered through the soft grass as they headed toward the tree reaching to embrace the Heavens. Khirro ached to climb to the top of it and touch the sky.

  Epilogue

  Iana shifted uncomfortably beneath the tight corset and adjusted her skirts as she waited for the pages to strap Graymon’s armor in place. When they finished, the barber stepped forward to adjust his hair, then the Master of Wardrobe threw a cape around his shoulders and fastened it in place with a jeweled brooch. Graymon smiled his appreciation at Iana for her patience—he knew she didn’t like the fancy dress her station required.

  With his armor in place and hair adjusted, Emeline shooed his attendants away and stepped forward to brush a lock of hair off Graymon’s forehead and back to where it had been before the barber interfered. She stroked the thin, neat beard on his cheek.

  “I am so proud of you, my son.”

  “Thank you, mother. My queen.” Graymon smiled and embraced her

  “Not for much longer,” she said and looked to Iana. “In a short while, your wife will be the queen.”

  “You will always be my queen.”

  Graymon released her and stepped away to look at the wheeled chair sitting empty beside the hearth, a blue blanket with a frayed edge hung over its arm. His smile faltered and he thought of the statue of King Therrador recently installed in the courtyard to commemorate his twenty-two years of rule. The kingdom’s greatest sculptor—the same man the king had commissioned twenty years before to create the statue of a farmer named Khirro also standing watch in the courtyard—had depicted Therrador with sword in hand, head held high and proud, the stern look of benevolent rule in his expression. No one could dispute that the talented artist had captured so much of Therrador’s essence, so much of his charisma, but there was one thing that always seemed wrong about it to Graymon: his father was standing.

  Graymon could barely remember his father standing.

  Because of this, it was the wheeled chair that had carried him about his business rather than the king’s marble likeness that would remind the family of him. Rarely in over two decades had Queen Emeline, Prince Graymon or Lady Iana allowed a servant to navigate the corridors of the castle with the king. Instead, they insisted on pushing the chair themselves.

  “You miss him,” Emeline said.

  Graymon nodded.

  “Hold him in your mind and your thoughts today, Graymon. Know that this moment was what gave him reason to go on these last decades. It was the reason behind much he did in his life.”

  “I know, mother. He was a great king and a better father.”

  “It didn’t start off that way, but he tried very hard to make up for his transgressions.”

  “He did that. And more.”

  She nodded and a man clad in the armor of the Kingsblade standing near the door cleared his throat.

  “It is time, your Highness.”

  Emeline glanced over her shoulder at the knight and acknowledged him with a shallow nod and a sad smile. Though he’d been appreciated and awarded, the knight’s presence still reminded her of the day he’d helped them take the king from the battle field—the day the Archon stole Therrador’s body.

  “Yes, Sir Rindel.” She turned back to Graymon and adjusted his cape. “Let us hope that fool Aurna hasn’t gotten too deep into his bottle already.”

  Graymon nodded and Emeline looked into his eyes for a moment before moving to stand in front of Iana.

  “And you, my love. So beautiful, so grown up.” She hugged her tight and felt her heart ache for the days she cuddled her against her chest wrapped in a blanket, cooing and laughing. “A coronation and a wedding all on the same day. You are truly blessed, Iana.”

  “Yes, I am. To have a mother like you.” She looked at the prince. “And a husband like Graymon.”

  Emeline leaned back and looked at her daughter’s face. As Iana had grown and matured, t
he line of her nose, the placement of her cheekbones, the shine in her eyes had come to remind Emeline so much of the girl’s father. The passing of years had faded the image of Khirro’s face from the queen’s memory, but she would always have his daughter to remind her, and for that, she was thankful.

  “I am thankful for so much,” she said and smiled at them both, then took Sir Rindel’s arm and allowed him to lead her from the room.

  Graymon sighed deeply as Iana came to stand in front of him.

  “Are you all right, my love?”

  “Yes,” he said. “This is the greatest day of my life. I just wish father could have been here to see it.”

  “I know,” she said. “But he is watching from the fields of the dead with Khirro by his side, just like their statues.”

  She smiled the sweet, beautiful smile she saved especially for him, the one she wore when she allowed the spark to flicker at the back of her eyes, reminding him of the secret the two of them had shared for more than twenty years. He smiled back at her when he saw it, unable to stop himself.

  “Come, my king,” she said and grabbed him by the hand. “Let us go and get you a kingdom.”

  “And a queen,” he added and laughed.

  Graymon called for the pages and they let the procession lead them out of his chambers and toward the clamor of the great hall where the high priest, the king’s council, and seemingly the entire kingdom had gathered to meet their new king and queen.

  ####

  Urban Fantasy Also Available from Bruce Blake: On Unfaithful Wings (Icarus Fell #1)

  I stood with my back to the church, much the way I’d lived my life.

  Rain poured down the eaves, splashing my shoes. Each drop pattering against the leather felt as though it landed directly on my mood. I tugged my suit jacket tighter and glanced at my watch--almost eleven p.m. If the rain didn’t let up soon, Trevor would be in bed, his belated birthday present another day late. After letting him down again, Rae probably wouldn’t let me give him the gift, anyway. A heavy sigh drew the taste of rain on dry soil into my lungs as I suppressed the desire to call her names in my head, to blame her for everything. It wasn’t her fault.