The Ruin of Kings

by Jenn Lyons

  There was no help for it. Kihrin would leave. Kihrin could go back and buy a harp, any harp, claim it was a present and give it to Surdyeh. Ola was right. He’d slip a note to Jarith, tell the Captain what had happened once Kihrin was long gone. Silently he started his chant: No sight, no sound, no presence. I am not here . . .

  “What good fortune the Emperor showed up, or it would have been a real mess, wouldn’t it?”

  “It is Sandus’s duty to protect the Empire, Darzin. He would never ignore the threat of an unbound demon prince.”

  “I’ll have to remember that. My son will be so relieved.”

  The General looked around the room in obvious disgust. “Argas’s forge! It’s like an oven in here.”

  Darzin shrugged. “I like it that way. So why bring the boy back here? Jarith finally proved a disappointment, so you’ve decided to adopt?”

  “Of course not! He—?” The General looked around, and then stepped out in the hall. “Kihrin? Where are you going?”

  Kihrin stopped his casual stroll and turned around, hiding his sigh. “Oh, I’m sorry, Your Lordship. I thought you might wish to speak with the prince in private.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Get back here. The faster we do this, the faster we can send you on your way.”

  “Yes, sir.” Kihrin shuffled back to the General.

  “That was amazing,” Pretty Boy said. “I didn’t even notice you leave.”

  Kihrin kept his eyes on the floor. “Yes, my lord.”

  “A boy like you could make quite a career with such skills of stealth.”

  “I have no idea what you mean, my lord.”

  “Yes . . . of course you don’t. Kihrin, you said your name is?”

  “Yes, my lord.” He contemplated lying, but the High General already knew his name.

  “Darzin, leave off shopping for people with a talent for law-breaking until you’re outside these walls. Young man, follow me and I’ll give you that reward.” Qoran walked down the hall with the attitude of someone who expected to be obeyed without question.

  Kihrin hesitated before following, realizing Darzin was doing so as well. Every step was like walking on fire, as Kihrin forced himself forward against his body’s overwhelming desire to bolt and run. He would collect the harp and go. Darzin didn’t know Kihrin was the thief who had witnessed Xaltorath’s summoning.

  Kihrin reminded himself everything was fine. He reminded himself several times.

  Darzin whistled a jaunty tune as they walked, until the General gave him an annoyed look.

  At last Milligreest arrived at a set of carved doors, which he unlocked with a heavy brass key. The General swung open the doors.

  Against the far wall of the room rested several harps, some floor-length and others of smaller size. Kihrin frowned as he saw that the General kept them uncovered, but at least the room had no window to let in the sunlight, which might have warped the wood of a harp and soured the tone.

  Milligreest nodded in the direction of the harps. “Pick one out you like, then I want you to play something for me.”

  Kihrin turned back to him. “Excuse me, sir?”

  Milligreest frowned. “What didn’t you understand? I want to hear you play something. That demon broke your harp and you deserve a replacement, but I’m not giving up one of my harps to someone who can’t use one, understand?”

  Darzin snickered.

  Kihrin started to protest the harp had been his father’s, not his. Then it occurred to him that the General was his only protection against Pretty Boy, or “Darzin,” or whatever his name was. He couldn’t afford to upset him. The young man nodded and crossed the room. He would pick something quickly. He would pick something that the High General wouldn’t care if he lost—the least valuable harp in the collection—and he would run back to Surdyeh as fast as he could.

  Each musical instrument was a work of art, lovely in form, but most of them were too fancy, inlaid with rare woods and metals, set with precious gems. They were harps as art objects, not as musical instruments. If he sold one of these, he’d be arrested as its thief.

  One harp looked like it might cost less than the yearly total income of the Shattered Veil: a small double-strung lap harp tucked into a corner. He turned to Qoran Milligreest for permission.

  The High General nodded to him.

  Kihrin sat down on a stool and pulled the harp onto his lap. The style of the harp was old-fashioned; he groaned as he realized the strings were silver instead of silk. He wasn’t sure he could play this: he wore his nails clipped short, since silk-strung harps were played with the fingertips, not the nails. He plucked a single string to test if he needed to ask for picks. To his surprise, a pure clean note rang.

  He plucked an arpeggio, and couldn’t help but smile at the harp’s laughter. The notes were so clear, so perfect! Who wouldn’t sound like a master using a harp like this?

  “Play it, don’t sit there and drool on it,” the General admonished, not unkindly. “Figures you’d find the prize of my collection.”

  Kihrin looked up, shocked. “This?”

  “She’s an antique. I more than half-suspect this is what Sandus had in mind.”

  “The Emperor?” Lord Heir Darzin asked. “The Emperor ordered you to give that boy one of your harps?”

  “The Emperor was impressed. Kihrin was very brave.”

  Kihrin’s fingers paused on the strings, his look one of confusion.

  “Yes, young man?”

  “General, I don’t remember meeting the Emperor.” He frowned. He had smacked his head hard when the demon had thrown him. Just because he didn’t remember meeting the Emperor did not mean it hadn’t happened.

  The General’s smile was kind. “Remember the man in the patchwork sallí?”

  “That was Emperor Sandus?”

  Darzin scoffed. “He might wear the crown, but he’s still a peasant. I wonder if he’s paid up on his magic license fees?”

  “That’s enough,” the General growled. “Your father may be one of my oldest friends but that doesn’t mean I will tolerate insolence from you.”

  Darzin stared at the General. The bone of his jaw turned white and clenched and his nostrils flared. He tilted his head in the General’s direction. “My sincerest apologies, High General.” Nothing in his tone of voice sounded sincere or apologetic.

  “But that—that’s not possible,” Kihrin protested. “That man said he was a friend of my father’s. My father doesn’t know the Emperor.”*

  Darzin blinked and straightened. His eyes widened as he turned and stared at Kihrin, stared long and hard. Despite Surdyeh’s lectures, Kihrin met the Lord Heir’s stare.

  Why was he surprised Darzin had blue eyes? It was so obvious, in hindsight.

  You look like him, Morea had said. You even wear his colors . . .

  How many noblemen had god-marked blue eyes? How many noblemen who delighted in murder and dealt with demons?

  Kihrin stared too long. As he did, Darzin frowned in confusion.

  “You have blue eyes . . .” Darzin whispered softly, staring at Kihrin as if to memorize him. A look of dawning comprehension stole over him. Darzin smiled then, cruelly, and ran his tongue over his lips. “And here I didn’t think Taja liked me.”

  Kihrin’s hands tightened on the harp.

  Darzin chuckled.

  The sound of Xaltorath’s screaming had not filled Kihrin with more dread.

  “Are we amusing you, Darzin?”

  The Lord Heir stifled his laughter, giving General Milligreest an embarrassed glance. “Oh, not at all. My apologies. I just remembered the punch line to a funny joke. The young man was going to play us a song, yes?”

  The General stared at him a moment longer, then turned back to Kihrin. “Go on, play something.”

  Kihrin wanted to vomit. He realized with sick dread both Ola and Surdyeh had been right. He shouldn’t have come. Pretty Boy had blue eyes.

  Kihrin bent his head over the harp and fiddled with the
tuning while he tried to keep himself from shaking, while he tried to remember something, anything, to play.

  Surdyeh had often said Kihrin was a hopeless musician. Kihrin was hurt every time his father said it, but only because he knew it was true. He had no motivation. When he was a child, Kihrin always found more important things to do than sit in darkened rooms practicing his fingering. And now that he was growing up, plenty of new diversions, especially female diversions, attracted him away from lessons. He was a passable harpist, but he wasn’t in love with music. When Kihrin’s voice broke, he discovered it was good enough for entertainment, and that had been sufficient.

  He sat still, trying to remember the old songs that his father had made him memorize. He froze, thinking he had forgotten them, but after a few hesitant strokes, Kihrin began to play with more confidence.

  It wouldn’t have mattered if he plucked the strings at random. The harp wouldn’t allow him to play poorly. The room ceased to be, his worries about demons and royalty ceased to be, and all he felt were silver chords of music floating around him, dancing on the air. For the span of a song, he forgot every concern.

  The music died. Kihrin fought the need to keep playing, even though the tips of his fingers ached from plucking silver instead of silk. He looked up and saw Milligreest examining a far wall, his eyes unreadable except for pain and an almost-forgotten wistfulness. Darzin’s eyes were closed and his mouth open; the prince shook himself as from a dream.

  “Huh. You’ll do well by her I think. She likes you,” the General commented. “Her name is Valathea.”

  “Valathea?” The response came out like a question.

  “Very special harps, like special swords, are named. She is a vané harp. In their language her name means ‘sorrow.’* She has never left the possession of the Milligreest family until now, so you will take care of her.” The last sentence had the weight of a command.

  “I will, High General.” Kihrin covered her. For a moment, he forgot the danger he was in. She was beautiful, the most beautiful harp he had ever heard. Surdyeh would be so happy. How could he stay angry with Kihrin after this? If he sounded this good playing her, how much better would Surdyeh sound?* “May I go?”

  “Of course. Go show your father your reward.”

  Kihrin left as quickly as the burden of the harp allowed.

  After he left, the room was quiet. Then Darzin broke the silence. “Well. If you’ll excuse me as well . . .”

  “Nonsense, Darzin. You wanted to dine with me, did you not? I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you.”

  “Of course, and I’m honored, but . . . umm . . . pressing business. You understand.”

  “I do not understand. You said you were here to take your father’s place. What business draws you away from that?”

  Darzin frowned. “I assumed you invited my father here because of the boy. Which I appreciate: he’s clearly one of ours. I know you’d rather not share my company; why don’t I go inform my father you’ve found one of our house’s lost scions?”

  “Think of this as your best chance to impress me. Which you will need to do, if you are ever to convince me that your son and my daughter are not so closely related that marriage is out of the question.”

  The Lord Heir ground his teeth in defeat. “Of course.” He waved a hand at the harps. “The boy was raised as a street rat, you realize. He’s just going to sell your precious harp the first chance he has, maybe even tonight.”

  “No, he won’t. I saw the look on his face. He would die first.” The High General shrugged. “Besides, it’s not my decision. The Emperor is interested in that boy. I wouldn’t want to be the person who allowed him to come to harm.”

  Darzin D’Mon looked as if he’d swallowed bile. “No. No, neither would I.”

  21: THE ISLAND OF YNISTHANA

  (Kihrin’s story)

  I woke, alone, lying on a reed mat in a cave full of the wet sound of water dripping off rock. I remembered the dream with unusual clarity, probably because it was the first dream I’d had since Tyentso’s summoned demon had torn out part of my soul.

  Had it been a hallucination, the product of a near-drowning, or had I really just experienced a heart-to-heart chat with the Goddess of Luck herself? The dream had been surreal, but no more so than any events of the last week. Had I really survived a passage through the Maw, and a Daughter of Laaka, and sung a duet with a dragon?

  A real dragon. I felt immortal.

  Sure, I thought to myself, and now you’re the gaeshed slave of a vané hag who might also be a dragon, trapped with her rabid son on an island somewhere in the Desolation. If they’ve saved you for something, you won’t like it.

  Taja said I just needed a better attitude.

  I laughed out loud.

  I lay there and listened to the surrounding sounds: the drip, drip, drip of water and the distant cries of seagulls. Nothing sounded like people or the heavy breathing of a large dragon, so I sat up and looked around the cave.

  A few pieces of incongruous furniture decorated the place: the reed mat I had been lying on; a large chest; a table, two chairs. Small lanterns fixed high into the walls provided light. The cave was large, though not large enough to fit the dragon I had seen. The glossy, smooth black stone walls looked like they had melted and solidified many times in rapid succession.

  The air was warm and humid against my unclothed skin: the rough Black Brotherhood robe was gone. I panicked for a moment, reached up for the Stone of Shackles, and sighed in relief as I realized it was still there.

  I searched through the chest and found a pair of loose-fitting trousers (I’ll give you one guess what color), a set of sandals woven from reeds, and a small silver hairbrush and clasp. There was nothing to wear for a shirt, but the kef and sandals fit well enough. I spent several minutes forcing the brush through the mess of my hair before pulling it away from my face with the clasp.

  The cave ended in folds of ropy, coiled rock, which let in a bit of light. I walked to the edge, and even with my love of heights I felt a moment’s dizziness.

  The cave opened out onto the side of a cliff, near the top. The opening was so high I could see above the treetops of the jungle stretched out below me. A thin fog obscured the foliage below, thickening into a wall of white in the distance: the mists of the Desolation. The calls of birds and monkeys, and other sounds I couldn’t pretend to identify, echoed in the distance. There was no sign of anyone: human, vané, or otherwise.

  I leaned out. A net of interwoven vines grew up the sides of the cliff. The vines spidered, leading not only to this cave, but to hundreds of others. Narrow ramps woven from wood planks and dried vines formed awkward stairs and walkways tracing the route from heights to ground. This cave possessed no such advantage, but if their intention had been to trap me, they’d miscalculated. Many of the vines looked sturdy, and as good as any ladder to a thief such as myself. There was nothing to keep me from escaping.

  Except the gaesh.

  Except . . . I stopped. Could I escape? They must have boats, or Teraeth wouldn’t have needed to memorize the safe route through the rocks. Taja had said they would bring another. I could sneak down to whatever harbor they used, steal on board a ship . . .

  I waited for the pain of the gaesh to overtake me.

  Nothing.

  Khaemezra’s words echoed, almost an audible whisper: I’ve removed the previous prohibitions.

  Then Taja’s words: You can walk away. If you want.

  I bit my lip to keep from jumping up and down and whooping out loud.

  I climbed down the cliff. When I reached the bottom, the jungle seemed claustrophobic. Thick fog blocked most of my vision. I wasn’t blind, however: I saw a path formed by the passage of many feet, a smoothed line of rock snaking around the base of the cliff, where it faded into the mist. There was no one around, and no sounds but those the jungle gave me.

  I was on an island. The jungle was no shelter for a city dweller like myself. Whoever had me captive, B
lack Brotherhood or black dragon, was obviously aware of this, which was why they’d made no effort to put me under any kind of guard. The clothes and furniture made me think the Black Brotherhood still had me. Good enough. Once I had the lay of the land, I would organize my escape.

  Whistling a tune, I headed down the path.

  22: A GOLDEN HAWK

  (Talon’s story)

  Morea stumbled out of bed as Kihrin ran through the door. He carried a large triangular package slung over his shoulder as he panted, out of breath.

  “Are you hurt?” Morea rushed to him. “Ola didn’t see you, did she?”

  Kihrin lowered the package to the ground. “Morea, I need you to hide this.”

  “What’s going on? What happened?” She grabbed for her agolé to cover herself, but he paid no attention to her nudity.

  “I have to go. I don’t have time to explain.”

  “What—” She reached for him, realized her mistake, and instead placed a hand on the cloth-wrapped triangle. “The harp? You met with the General?”

  Kihrin shook his head. “Yes, I mean, no. He was there. Your nobleman was there.”

  “MY nobleman? But I—”

  “The one with blue eyes. Darzin D’Mon. I saw him.” A desperate look haunted Kihrin’s eyes. “He saw me. Shit. He saw me. He must have sent the demon. I know he sent the demon to attack me, but why did he seem so surprised to find out it had? Was he acting? They were looking for something—” He rubbed the sides of his temples.

  She gasped. “Wait—Darzin is the one who sent the demon? Oh no!”

  “I want you to find my father and Ola and get them out of here. We need to leave the City. We need to leave tonight. Surdyeh should be upstairs. Find him.”

  “What do I tell them?”

  “You tell Ola I saw a golden hawk. Understand? It’s a code phrase that means—” Kihrin stopped midsentence.