For the Killing of Kings

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “By that point in the war, the Naor feared N’lahr more than anyone else alive. It’s reasonable to conclude that any negotiation would have included some reference to him. And he died immediately before we were told the deal was struck.”

  “You’re saying the queen handed our greatest general and his sword to the Naor?” Rylin’s voice, he realized too late, was rising to imprudent levels. “For hearthstones?”

  Varama replied coolly. “I’m saying that the stones were obtained from the Naor at some price and that, barring an incredible coincidence, that price appears to have included cessation of hostilities and, possibly, N’lahr and his sword. The sword that’s reputed to be the only thing that can kill Mazakan.”

  Even with the evidence before him, Rylin had a hard time accepting Varama’s accusation. The depth of betrayal that would have to be involved was almost physically revolting to him, and then if he factored in the threat to the security of the realms the queen purported to rule, her actions were almost suicidal. “What now?”

  “I think we must give up on the sword. And I think we must give up on Darassus. If Kyrkenall had learned any of this, his most likely destination was to Alantris, to seek counsel and sanctuary with Aradel. He might not know where any of us stood, but he surely knew her feelings. We’ll link up with them in Alantris and assemble a quorum of governors and present the information we’ve learned. We may already have enough grounds for them to replace the queen.”

  “You make it sound simple.”

  “Do I? It won’t be. Let’s go pick out some hearthstones.”

  “You mean we’re going to steal some?”

  “That’s an ugly thought. We’re requisitioning state property for lawful purposes.” She lifted the lamp and walked around the bookcase to the stacks. “We’ll select mostly lighter-colored ones. The blue and clear seem simplest to work with. Did you note that curious notation when they found a ‘match’?”

  He hadn’t noticed anything of the kind. “There were a lot of curious notations.”

  She gave him an empty satchel she pulled from the one she carried. “It was under the heading ‘Fittings.’ Some hearthstones, apparently, have affinities for others and their energies grow more powerful when those stones are deployed together. When the mages find any that are closely attuned with others, they move them out of this library. Where, I’m not sure. But I’d like to know.”

  Rylin noticed that Varama was selecting hearthstones—not at random, as he would have, but by remembering the descriptions she’d read. Fortunately, the shelf where each one sat had been labeled. While she made her choices, Rylin debated looking around for one of those lavender shards. Just as he’d resolved to do so, Varama handed over a light blue and pinkish stone, which he placed gently in his canvas pack. She deposited two more, along with some shards.

  “Won’t we look suspicious as we leave?” Rylin said. “With the satchels?”

  “Perhaps. But it’s essential to have comparable weapons of our own and deprive them of key tools they may wish to use against us.”

  They shouldered the satchels, left the stacks, and started for the door. They were only eight paces away when it was thrust widely open.

  Thelar, frowning, with drawn sword lowered, came to an abrupt halt, with the twin women Meria and M’vai banging into him from behind. Verin backlit all three with a lantern. Though clearly expecting something amiss, Thelar apparently found facing himself more alarming than he’d imagined. His eyes widened in surprise.

  Rylin touched his enemies with a wave of confusion at the same moment his hand closed on his sword hilt. Then he charged them.

  But Varama moved more swiftly. Her disguise carried no weapon, so she swept up a nearby chair and swung it sideways in one smooth motion, trapping Thelar’s sword arm between leg and support spindle. There was a terrible cracking sound as she twisted, then he shrieked in pain and his weapon clattered to the floor. For a brief moment it looked as though Varama had lost balance. She went half down following the motion of the chair, dragging Thelar’s trapped arm to the floor, but she planted the simple furnishing solidly on all four legs, using it as a pivot point to kick out and take Meria in the head and shoulder.

  The twin slammed into her sister as Rylin drove his sword point into the back of her wrist; M’vai, screeching, dropped her blade. As both weapons rang against the stone floor, Varama landed a handspan from Thelar’s writhing shoulder, and freed the chair for a broad overhead strike that smashed the signal horn Verin was raising, and broke the lantern in his other hand for good measure when he crumpled. The lantern’s fire greedily ate the oil spilled across the stone floor.

  Varama and Rylin bolted from the room.

  While he’d been fully aware that anyone bearing the ring had passed innumerable martial trials, Rylin had never imagined Varama in the field. Her reaction time had been phenomenal, but so had her precision and economy. Not a single one of her movements had been wasted. She’d been twice as effective as him without using sorcery or even a sword.

  Now she sprinted down the corridor, her disguise melting away as she ran, but it wasn’t her own appearance she assumed. Rylin didn’t recognize the back of that head, although he realized as they neared the exterior doors that she wore an exalt’s khalat.

  Varama pushed through the portal even as shouts to halt rang through the air behind them. A horn call signaling alert echoed in the halls.

  The two squires who waited in the nighttime air just beyond the portico were so nervous that both spun on the instant, hands to sword hilts.

  It was then Rylin saw who Varama imitated. Synahla, commander of the Mage Auxiliary.

  Varama drew herself up to Synahla’s full height. “Intruders are headed into the east courtyard! Run, fools! Head them off!”

  The squires saluted, replied in the affirmative, and hurried away to the east. Neither seemed to have noticed that Synahla’s voice wasn’t really hers. The moment their feet left the stairs, Varama started down to the west. Rylin followed.

  There was another shout of “Halt, intruders!” as they veered around the side of the building and raced into the darkness.

  “Lose your semblance,” Varama called through gritted teeth. Her true appearance met his gaze. “Call on your personal energy. No hearthstones. Run for the workrooms.”

  He’d known from a young age that every mage had a core of power to tap into for enhancing performance. Many believed that the souls of mages were blessed, or cursed, with a connection to the chaotic energies that swirled in the Shifting Lands. He’d never much cared where the power came from, only that he had a limited quantity. Improving magical endurance wasn’t like strengthening yourself by doing push-ups. No matter how much he’d practiced, he’d only managed to increase his built-in sorcerous stamina by a little.

  He called upon it now with spells he’d honed in long years as a squire, first under the tutelage of Alten Kalandra, then on his own. He lent strength that was more than human to his legs and sharpened his awareness to a fever pitch so that he tore ahead through the darkness even as Varama vanished from view. He had no idea of the spells at her command—all mages, even Altenerai, were a little protective of magical secrets.

  She’d seemed to suggest they separate, and he didn’t know where she was, so he tore on alone over the flagstones, racing along the darkened length of one palace wing, his steps all but silent. He veered north toward the tributary of the Idris that crossed through the palace grounds, and he decided against the bridge where he saw a figure crossing, backlit against the workshop’s glow.

  As he sprinted along the sward he felt his energy reserves ebbing and cursed himself a little. Was he really so weak that he couldn’t hold out any longer than this?

  He willed the shadows to embrace him and raced toward the walled river, a line of darkness with glistening ripples of silvered moonlight at least ten feet across. He boosted his speed, thrust all his strength into his legs, and leapt with a running start.

  The
hostile spell touched him as he was airborne. He felt the distant regard of some powerful sorcerer, searching from afar, sensed an almost rapturous glee as that someone understood it had found a magic worker. He hit the far side with inches to spare, stumbling as he lost focus. The cloaking shadows drained away from him like inky water leaving a tub as the presence pressed on.

  And his ring lit. With that he knew a brief sense of shock from the person searching for him, and in that moment of surprise he glimpsed a facet of his watcher’s personality. He realized with sick dread that the queen herself had discovered him. Her connection with him fell away as he picked himself up and ran flat out across the darkness that lay between him and Varama’s central workbuilding

  He thought he could guess what had happened. When his ring kicked on, it had marked him as Altenerai. And there were currently only two Altenerai stationed in Darassus, just as there had been two interlopers within the Mage Auxiliary wing. They were found out. The queen would be marshaling all necessary forces to stop them at this very minute. She was said to be a powerful caster, and he feared whatever spells she might bring to bear after years of working with hearthstones.

  As he came panting to a stop, he found Varama before a line of her craftsmen and squires in the open space. With them were a handful of saddled animals. She’d warned him that if everything went badly they might have to flee, but he hadn’t realized she’d been so careful about contingency plans.

  A horn sounded from the barracks or stables. An action call. The queen must be preparing to set the squires on them. He hoped this wouldn’t come to a fight against unwitting lower rankers.

  When he came up, Varama was speaking quickly to her workers, telling them to throw their papers into the forges. “Retreat and blend.”

  Gods. They were going to destroy their work? “They know it’s us,” he reported to her between breaths. “They felt my ring come on.”

  “Then there’s no more time.” Varama flung herself into her saddle. “Mount up.”

  One of the burly craftsmen, grim faced, handed a pack to her. Rylin wasn’t sure whether to be unnerved or impressed that his favorite horse, a black named Rurudan, was waiting for him with apparently full saddlebags. Two of Varama’s squires climbed onto the remaining horses as he climbed into the stirrups himself. Varama urged her horse into a canter even as those remaining called farewells.

  So now, Rylin thought, I’m a fugitive. He wondered what his sisters and brother would say to that, and what lie would be concocted to explain his disappearance. How would he be framed? Would they kill someone and lay the blame at his feet, like they’d done with Kyrkenall?

  Varama led the way straight for the north palace gate. Rylin realized the fifth ranker on his left was haughty Sansyra, one of his least favorite squires in the corps.

  From out of the night came the thunder of hooves and Rylin tensed.

  “Easy,” Varama called. “They’re expected.”

  A half-dozen third rankers were in the lead of what looked to be more than two-thirds of the squire corps posted to Darassus, probably close to seventy-five individuals.

  “How—” he said.

  “I ordered all but a few to drill all evening,” Varama replied.

  Another horn call rent the night, high and clear. Rylin imagined a squire racing to the balcony overlooking the main courtyard and setting the horn to her lips. Like the most important alerts, it was short and to the point, so there was no mistaking intent. The palace was being locked down. No one was to exit or leave.

  The gilt, iron-topped stone palace wall loomed ahead. Currently the heavy and well-polished wooden gates hung open, but as they galloped toward them Rylin spied a trio of squires racing from the little gatehouse.

  The second-rank squires had just set hands to push on the gates as Varama shouted to close it after them and watch for intruders.

  The squires looked up in confusion as they all passed, lantern light from the gatehouse showing in the whites of their eyes. They gave no challenge. Varama had simply planned too well against the worst possible outcome. Who would see fit to stop two Altenerai leading a vast swathe of forces off to some battle? Surely they looked as if they were out to confront whatever had caused the signal.

  And now they were mounted and speeding through the dark city streets with a small army of squires in tow. They made quite a racket, and brought a few bleary-eyed stares in their wake, but the streets they chose were wide open at this time of evening. Most of the city’s nightlife lay south, along the Idris. Here shops and homes were sealed up as folks were already in their beds. Far behind, Rylin spied quite a few lit shutters thrust open to investigate horn calls and the clatter of horseshoes, but no one lagged to offer explanation to the citizens.

  After a few minutes, the bugle calls changed, alerting distant outposts of the city’s guard to fugitives on the road. But the dilapidated post they neared hadn’t been manned in a generation, despite some repeated appeals for funding, and the old west wall was low enough for a man to leap, much less a horse. They pushed past it and diverted around the Cemetery Ridge, skirting southeast until they could angle toward the eastern road, and The Fragments.

  Rylin found himself laughing. “Who do they have to send after us?” he shouted to Varama. “Damn, you’re good!”

  “I am,” she said. “But don’t get too cocky, Rylin. They have the Mage Auxiliary. And they have the hearthstones. There may be much that they can do to harm us. We’re in grave danger until we cross the border to The Fragments.”

  Rylin’s eye swept back to the troops obediantly following. “Even against all of us?”

  “Even so. We’ve declared ourselves now. The queen need hold nothing back.”

  12

  Dueling with the Truth

  The impossible vision before her was a perfect duplication of the man Elenai had seen years before. The straight brown hair that hung to the nape of his neck. The sharp nose and deep-set eyes. The spare, angular frame draped in blue Altenerai khalat, the dark pants and knee-high boots.

  The twin of N’lahr addressed them in a low, tense tone. “Kyrkenall? What are you doing here?”

  The archer stared, his sword leveled. “Elenai, is someone weaving us?”

  Her sapphire glowed. A warning that magic was being employed, or a leftover effect from her hearthstone use? She still didn’t know enough about the rings to be certain. The most recent exercise of power had already left her short of breath, but she acted without hesitation.

  With her eyes open, the inner world lay across the outer. There was no missing the brilliance of the hearthstone now lying on the moth-eaten rug or the diminished glow of its shattered look-alike in two halves nearby, or the shifting golden corona around Irion. More importantly, N’lahr’s duplicate was formed from the same complex mix of threads as she and Kyrkenall. He was no more an illusion than either of them. But was he the real N’lahr?

  “Squire?” Kyrkenall demanded without looking away.

  She stammered her answer. “He’s real.”

  “No he’s not,” Kyrkenall said savagely. “This is some hearthstone shit. Another trap.”

  “Kyrkenall?” N’lahr asked. “What’s going on? Where’s Denaven?”

  “You’re not real!” Kyrkenall charged him.

  N’lahr neatly batted the swing aside and back-stepped to the fireplace, brow drawn.

  “Stop!” Elenai shouted, but the archer bore in.

  “You’re not him!” he screamed.

  N’lahr parried each of the attacks. His eyes slitted as he parried a deft slice.

  “The real N’lahr would fight back!” Kyrkenall said.

  “I am N’lahr!”

  “He’s dead!” Kyrkenall beat his opponent’s blade to thrust home.

  “No!” Elenai cried.

  She needn’t have worried. N’lahr wrenched himself to the right—his only movement, she realized, that hadn’t looked effortless—and locked his opponent’s blade at the hilt with his own. “I’m
not dead!”

  They stared, face-to-face. Kyrkenall bared his teeth. “I saw you interred!” He strove to push the blade away by sheer force of strength.

  Though his voice was strained, N’lahr still somehow sounded calm. “I swear I’m as real as you are. Put down your sword.”

  “Tell me something only N’lahr would know.”

  “Like what?”

  “Prove you’re him! What did you say to me before the battle at Broken Ridge?”

  The taller man’s brow furrowed. “I don’t remember. You were galloping ahead of me anyway.”

  “No, you idiot, before! When you and Rialla and I rode out after Asrahn!”

  N’lahr looked blankly back.

  Gods. Elenai licked her lips. Was Kyrkenall right after all? Was this some kind of elaborate trick?

  “You mean when I laid out the ambush,” N’lahr asked, “or how I asked Rialla to link us?”

  “Not the tactics! You don’t remember the speech?”

  “Something about standing together? I don’t know.”

  Kyrkenall cursed under his breath and backed away. He spoke softly, almost resentfully. “It is you.”

  “I’ve been telling you that.”

  He slowly lowered Lothrun. Still staring, he slid his blade home into its sheath.

  “Now would you tell me what’s going on?” N’lahr looked to sheath his own weapon and found no sword belt at his side. “And where are we? This looks like the Chasm Tower.”

  “We are in the Chasm Tower,” Kyrkenall answered dully. “You’ve been dead seven years.” To N’lahr’s stolid look, Kyrkenall replied: “I used to come to your tomb on your birthday and raise a drink.”

  “I was dead?” N’lahr asked.

  “I saw your body.”

  “It must have been faked.”

  “I guess so! But it was a good fake. It fooled all of us.”

  N’lahr frowned. “You still haven’t answered me. What am I doing here, and what’s going on? And why is a squire wearing a khalat and ring?”