Death of the Immortal King

by Sarah McCarthy

  Harram went to sit on his bed. He could hear her crying all afternoon, until the heavy boots of his father clunked across the porch. There was a lot more crying, then. Eventually, the boots made their heavy way up the wooden steps, stopping outside Harram’s room. A key turned in the lock, and Harram’s father came in.

  His face was drawn, the corners of his mouth turned down, but he closed the door behind him with a soft click, then went to kneel in front of the bed, looking up into Harram’s ink-black eyes.

  Harram waited for his father to speak.

  “Who are you?” he said, his voice gravelly.

  Coralie couldn’t even tell him the truth. “I am the Mandrevecchian.”

  “The immortal leader of Mimros?”

  Coralie nodded. It was dangerous, she knew, to be born in the Republic. Reincarnates were hated here. They were often killed, often by their own parents. In the past she’d run, when she’d been born here. But she wouldn’t this time. These parents had been some of the kindest and most loving she’d ever been born to, and she wouldn’t cause them the pain of just disappearing on them. And perhaps part of her was hoping they would kill her after all, and free her from what she had to do, what she had already done.

  Harram’s father let out a long, slow breath.

  “Is my son still in there?”

  “I am your son,” Harram said, his small voice breaking.

  His father’s face darkened. “No. You have stolen my son’s body.”

  Harram looked down at his small legs, and grief welled up in the part of him that was still a small boy, to hear the hatred in his father’s voice. “No, I really am your son. I would have been your son, if I hadn’t still had these memories.”

  His father placed his hand over his eyes for a moment, and Harram heard the man’s breath hitch. Then he took a deep breath, rubbed his hands across his eyes, and looked at Harram.

  “She wants me to kill you. So that we can at least bury our son.”

  “I understand.”

  “No. You do not understand,” the man said.

  “I had a daughter, once,” Harram said.

  Harram’s father placed his face in both hands and groaned. He scrubbed his palms over his face again and then looked up.

  “What you’ve done is evil. But I won’t add to that.” He stood and opened a window that was high on one wall. It led out onto the roof. “I won’t kill my own son’s body. Whatever part of him that is left in you, take good care of it. And don’t ever, ever come back here or I will kill you.”

  Tears welled in Harram’s eyes as his father moved to let him climb out the window.

  “Don’t let her see you. Hide on the roof for a few minutes. I will distract her. You climb down then and get out of here.” There was iron in his father’s voice, and Harram, his heart breaking, climbed out the window and crouched on the roof.

  He heard his father leave the room and go back down the stairs. The sobbing started again, and Harram climbed down the outer wall of the house, dropped the last few feet to the ground, and ran out into the fields, heading for the mountains in the distance.

  69

  Coralie

  There was an outpost in the dusty foothills of the Republic. Coralie made her way there. She’d done this a thousand times, it felt like. Always she seemed to find herself, a child on stubby legs, working her way alone across some landscape, looking for an outpost of the monastery. She’d seen more than enough of Mimros, Volaria, the Dymri, and the Republic to last, well, several lifetimes.

  Up a dry creek bed, then right at the burned-out stump. If the people of the Republic found this outpost, they would destroy it and imprison its occupants and torture them for information. They called the reincarnates ‘child killers’, and Coralie didn’t blame them. They didn’t reincarnate themselves, so all they saw of it was their children growing up and then becoming someone else and leaving off on their own, back to Mimros.

  The little cabin appeared, set back into the red sandstone, and she paused, called out the greeting.

  Two light-eyed initiates appeared, armed with crossbows. They took in Coralie’s dark eyes.

  “Password?”

  “Eleven, ninety-three, blue pine.”

  Their eyes widened.

  “Get the book,” one whispered to the other, lowering his crossbow.

  The other scampered off, and Coralie took a deep breath. Now was the moment when she would find out whether her preparations had been enough.

  They offered her a glass of water, and then the questioning began.

  “State your full name.”

  It was a trick. This was an easy one, she knew. “The Mandrevecchian.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I am immortal. I am the immortality bringer.”

  “What is your favorite food?”

  “Red.” They were all trick questions. None were based in reality, just password after password.

  The questioning went on for minutes. Pages and pages of questions. Many of which Coralie had helped Lilianna write, all those years ago. She’d been surprised when she’d spoken with Kara and found that none of the questions had changed. Every other aspect of Lilianna’s security had changed, increased, but not that.

  At last they finished, and one of the initiates pulled out a small pouch. They dropped to their knees, bowing their heads.

  “Welcome back, your highness,” one said, lifting the pouch high.

  Coralie took it, surprised. This hadn’t been in her notes. Was this a trick? Had she failed somehow, or was this yet another test that she didn’t know and so wouldn’t pass? There was no way to know, and she was curious, so she loosened the drawstrings and shook the contents into her palm. She bit back a gasp as the silver caught the sunlight. The metal had worn away over the years, but it was still unmistakable. It was the ring. A lump rose in Coralie’s throat. This was the first thing Lilianna wanted given back to her when she reincarnated. How many hundreds of years had it been since they’d spoken last, and she still wore the ring? She still loved me.

  With grief thick in her chest, she slipped the ring onto her finger. It was too large, sat there loosely, and she transferred it to her thumb so she wouldn’t lose it. Gently, she ran her finger along the design, and for a moment she was back, all those hundreds of years ago, in her grandmother’s forge, thinking of Lilianna and etching that design into the metal. Gods, if she’d known then…

  She realized suddenly that Lilianna was gone, and she was never coming back. Tears welled in her eyes and she took a deep breath, trying to swallow them back. She wondered where Lilianna’s soul was, then, and for a moment she wanted to leave the monks, leave Mimros, and go looking for Lilianna. She knew she would know her when she found her. She had known her in every shape and size and form, every light and mood.

  But she had come this far, had sacrificed this much, and she had to keep going.

  70

  Coralie

  “Here you are, your excellency.” The man bowed low, presenting her with a mahogany box.

  Coralie lifted off the lid, breaking the wax seal. A small thread broke, curling back. A strand of grey hair. From the box, she lifted a gold key, huge in her little, boyish hands.

  The man, still bowing, shuffled backwards, turning to stand guard as Coralie inserted the key in the lock. She’d opened this door a thousand times, but this was the first time Lilianna wasn’t waiting for her on the other side. Her hand shook as she pushed the door open.

  The room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn across the floor-to-ceiling windows. The door clicked as she pressed it shut behind her and took a long, deep breath of the musty air. The last time she had been here came to mind. A white sheet lay draped over the four-poster bed. Still the same furniture. The desk was the same, too. Coralie could still see Lilianna’s slim form perched on the chair in front of it, her pen scratching out letters as she had painstakingly taught herself to read and write.

  Coralie let out her breath and her
gaze swept over the rest of the room, the white sheets draped over everything. One by one she pulled them off, sending up clouds of dust.

  She left the desk for last. As she pulled off the cloth, she dislodged a pile of papers, sending them spinning across the floor. One by one she gathered them up, replacing them on the desk and then, sitting down, began to page idly through them. Her eye was caught by her own name. Or, one of her names. Cormac ni Connoly. It was the notice of her execution. It was crumpled, the edges of it torn. Spotted with what looked like… tears.

  She held the paper, staring down at it, for several minutes, imagining Lilianna here, doing the same. Finally she turned to the next paper. It was a letter from Gilmurry. Assuring her that her orders had been carried out, and those who had been responsible for executing Cormac without her permission had been executed.

  Coralie’s breath hitched in her chest. You still cared.

  She slid open one of the side drawers, her hand going to her mouth. It was full of letters. Her letters. The ones Lilianna had never answered. One by one, Coralie pulled them out. She remembered each one, recognized the different handwritings she had had over the years. She crawled up onto the bed, sending up a cloud of dust, and one by one began to read. The more she read the more she cringed. You are making horrible errors… That last decision was a huge misstep… Your mismanagement is… How had Lilianna managed to read all of this? Not a kind word amidst a sea of criticisms masquerading as suggestions. Did I never tell you I still cared, too?

  Her mind went back over that final day. The day she had walked out of here for the last time. No, she was sure that day had gone the same. She had probably lectured Lilianna then, too.

  Coralie dropped the letters into her lap, looking helplessly around the empty room. Lilianna was gone. I’m sorry. It was too late.

  71

  Elaine

  Year One of the Reign of the Traitor.

  The lie had lasted exactly three weeks. For the four years after that, Elaine had tried to avoid noticing the passage of time, to be as unaware of what was happening to her as possible. Her prayers to the gods ended after the first three months, her hope of ever getting out alive after seven.

  Elaine was sitting with her back to the wall, eyes closed, head leaning up against the mildewy stones, when the click of boots coming down the hall reached her ears. A silence descended after them. The crying and shouting quieted, drummed into silence by the clicking of the boots.

  Feet shuffled over cobblestones as the the others pressed themselves against the bars, craning their heads to look.

  Elaine got up stiffly, found herself a place at the bars, and leaned out, squinting down the dark hallway. Torches illuminated the passage, reflecting off grungy puddles of water. A boot splashed down, moving into the light, disrupting the reflections, and a girl stepped out of the shadows. She looked familiar, but Elaine couldn’t think from where. Another life, something so long ago it must have been a dream. She closed her eyes, straining, licking her dry, cracked lips, and saw in her mind a flash of red hair, the flutter of a sail.

  It was Jole. The girl from the boat race. Elaine shook her head, wondering if she was hallucinating again.

  Jole looked taller, with a dark, sleeveless leather tunic and a dark blue wrap. Her black leather boots glinted with polish, but the edges were scuffed and caked with mud. Her red hair shone in the torchlight. It flowed over her shoulders in bright, wine-red waves. Her tattoos were even more startling in contrast to the drab surroundings, almost alive. They covered her bare, muscular arms and neck; only her face was free of markings. Gaunt faces stared at her as she strode past, shocked into a reverent silence.

  “Hey Elaine,” she said, stopping in front of the bars.

  Elaine gaped at her.

  “Jole? What… what are you doing here?”

  Jole reached into a pocket and pulled out a battered leather pouch.

  The lock to their cell fell apart in her hands and she yanked the door open and stood aside.

  The prisoners backed away from the open door.

  Jole rolled her eyes.

  “The guards are busy on the west ramparts. You have maybe two minutes to get out before they go back to their posts.”

  Dem broke into a sprint, darting through the open door and splashing through the puddles down the hall without a single look back. After an expectant pause in which nothing bad happened to him, there was a mad rush as the other prisoners followed. Elaine shook watching them go, her fingers still gripping the bars. None of them even looked back.

  The silence that had descended earlier was gone now as prisoners in other cells screamed to be let out, too, but Jole and the fleeing prisoners ignored them.

  “What are you doing here?” Elaine repeated.

  “Rescuing you, obviously.”

  “Why?” It was one of about fifteen questions Elaine had.

  “Do you want to stay in prison?”

  “No.”

  “Then come on.”

  Elaine followed, her mind slowly awakening. Have I died? Am I delirious? If I was delirious, wouldn’t I think of some better fantasy than just this?

  “How did you know I was here?” she managed to ask.

  “I know people.”

  Jole led her through several dank passageways until they came to a small iron door, bolted from the inside. The bolt was rusted, but she yanked it back and jerked the door open. Blinding sunlight spilled onto their faces. Elaine’s eyes shut involuntarily, and she raised her hand to shield herself from the light. A blast of cold, fresh air hit her face and tears came to her eyes as she breathed it in gratefully. She’d never thought she’d taste air so fresh again.

  “Hurry up,” Jole said.

  Elaine blinked away her tears and squinted, following Jole. The door slammed shut behind them.

  Elaine struggled to keep up as Jole wound through a maze of streets that grew narrower and narrower. Slitted eyes watched them from doorways; old women leaned on widow sills above them, watching their progress. They stopped at the entrance of an alleyway where a man slept under a pile of refuse. Jole whispered something to him as they passed, but Elaine couldn’t quite catch what it was. They stopped at a nondescript door, and Jole banged out a complex pattern on it. It was yanked open immediately.

  A girl a few years younger than Elaine, with a pixie face and at least four weapons strapped to her, jumped to her feet. “Jole, one of the sentries is back. And Andrews said to give you this.” She handed Jole a sheaf of paper. Jole took it, rolled it up and shoved it into a back pocket, and swept inside.

  Elaine followed, the girl eyeing her curiously.

  They passed a small, dirty kitchen on the left, and a few closed doors on the right, then turned up a flight of steps and came to another small, closed door at the top. Jole turned the handle and pushed the door open.

  Inside was a bed, a spindly table, and a row of empty shelves. She ran her hand across the bedspread wonderingly.

  “You can stay here,” Jole said briskly, turning to go.

  “Wait,” Elaine said, turning. She took a deep breath. “Who are you, what is this place, why did you break me out of prison—”

  Jole watched her impassively with her milky turquoise eyes. She tossed a lock of red hair back over her shoulder. “I want in.”

  Elaine stopped. “In what?”

  “In on whatever you and your father are planning.”

  “I’ve… been in prison for… four years. And my father… my father’s dead.”

  Jole rolled her eyes. “I seriously doubt that.”

  “He was executed. For iris smuggling.” She swallowed. “Wrongfully.”

  “Eh.” Jole crossed her arms.

  Elaine’s cheeks heated and her throat constricted. Some part of her that she’d thought long dead flared up. “I’m not lying to you. I have no reason to lie to you. I saw him burned.”

  “You’d have a reason to lie to me if your father were planning a revolution.”

 
; Elaine gave a bark of surprised, bitter laughter. “A revolution?”

  Jole uncrossed her arms. “I get the feeling you’re not a good liar.”

  The barb hit deep. “I’m not.”

  “So, let me ask you a question, then.”

  “OK.”

  “Did you actually see your father burned? Like, are you sure it was him?”

  Elaine opened her mouth, then shut it again. She struggled to pull her memory back to that day. “I—I saw a man. With a hood over his head. But… he’d been arrested. They said it was—”

  “Your father is well connected.”

  Hearing someone speak about her father in the present tense shook Elaine to her core. “He’s not. He’s not well connected. Because he’s dead. If he were alive, I would have heard from him.” And I wouldn’t have spent the last four years… She tried to pull her mind away from the memories.

  “You don’t have to believe me,” Jole said. “But I bet your father is alive.”

  Elaine shook herself. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re helping me.”

  “Your father and I are on the same side. As I said, I want in.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything.”

  “You just think you don’t know anything.”

  “You think my father was planning a revolution? That’s crazy; he helped build Mimros.”

  “Yes. He was immortal and rich and powerful. But he wasn’t the most powerful. People who have power always want more of it.”

  Elaine cringed. “He wasn’t like that.”

  “He was just an iris smuggler?”

  She swallowed. “He wasn’t that either.”

  “You don’t know much about him, do you?”

  “I know he was a good person.”

  “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.” She sat down on the bed. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to stay here, in case your father tries to contact you. And I want to hear everything about the last few days before he was arrested.”