The Ruin of Kings

by Jenn Lyons

  He was escorted down long avenues and past graceful colonnades—still inside the Private Court, he reminded himself—until they reached a sculpted garden of tall trees and beautiful flowering hedges, surrounding a long bathing pool. Over a dozen naked women, all young and beautiful (if as varied in color as the flowers in the garden), sported with each other in the water. In an alcove to one side, musicians played a soft air on a double-strung harp and sarod.

  Kihrin wondered if they were with the Revelers Guild.

  The paving of the garden path led to a crossroads in front of the pool, where a table sat covered with blue linen and a gold breakfast setting. A servant, dressed in bright blue, hovered to the side with a serving cart. There were two chairs: Darzin sat in the one with the best view of the women.

  Kihrin stared malevolently. Finally, he shrugged, squared his shoulders, and marched over to the prince. Darzin glanced up and smiled to Kihrin’s right. “Thank you for bringing him, Captain. You may go.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. You’re welcome.”

  Kihrin heard footsteps as the Captain turned on his heels and left.

  “Kihrin, so nice to see you up and about. Sit with me. Eat your breakfast and enjoy the view. You must be hungry.”

  Kihrin ignored the invitation. “What do you want with me?”

  “Right now, I want you to have breakfast.” Darzin gestured toward the other chair. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. I’d thought we’d lost you back there.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have sent assassins.”

  Darzin laughed and popped a cherry tomato into his mouth. “What did you do with Ola?”

  The prince sighed and leaned back farther. His gaze was contemplative. “We must catch up on years of training. One of the first lessons you will have to learn is to avoid asking questions like that. It lets other people know who you care about. And caring about people gives power to anyone willing to use your loved ones against you.”

  “Is that why you killed my father?”

  “He wasn’t your father,” Darzin corrected.

  “He was the only father I ever knew, and you had him murdered.”

  “A mistake,” Darzin said with a shrug, as if he were discussing an accounting problem.

  “A mistake? Your crazy assassin slit his throat. That’s a mistake?”

  “Absolutely. A terrible mistake. Had I realized who you were, I’d have left him alive in our dungeons as insurance on your good behavior. He would have been useful. I even tried to persuade the priests of Thaena to Return him, but he must have been running on the last sands in his hourglass: they said it was his time.”

  “What about the girl?” Kihrin asked.

  Darzin looked bemused. “The girl?”

  “You said the priests of Thaena wouldn’t Return him because it was his time, but what about the girl killed with him? Did they say it was her time too?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” Darzin’s voice was smooth.

  Kihrin knew he was lying. Darzin hadn’t cared what happened to a dead slave girl. He hadn’t asked for her Return. He hadn’t bothered to even check.

  While Kihrin fumed, Darzin helped himself to a cup of coffee, added coconut milk, and stirred. “A pity about both. I find I have many questions, just as I will have many questions for Ola Nathera when we track her down.”

  “But—” Kihrin looked around. He realized none of the servants were within hearing. “Your assassin said she was going to kill her.”

  Darzin shook his head. “I’m afraid all the commotion over you probably alerted Ola to what had happened. She’s fled.” Darzin smiled. “Just as well, as some of my servants can be overzealous, and I want answers. I want to know how Surdyeh fits into all this and who was paying him. Someone must have been. I think I know Ola’s involvement well enough: she was one of my father’s favorite slaves for years, and she was very close to your mother before Ola bought her own freedom. I can well imagine that when Lily ran away with you, Ola would have been the first person she would have gone to for shelter. Foolishly, it seems.”

  “Lily?”

  “Hmm, yes. Lily. Your mother, Lyrilyn. She was quite a woman. I loved her very much.”

  All the air froze in Kihrin’s lungs. He blinked and shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. No fucking way. Not you! Anyone but you.”

  “Watch your language, son.”

  “You’re not my father.”

  “On the contrary,” Darzin said, “I very much am your father. I don’t take your reaction personally, you know. I don’t really like my father either, and I understand Therin’s hatred for his father could only be described as epic. Why, your enmity is practically upholding a family tradition.”

  “This is insane!”

  “It all must be a bit of a shock, I admit. You should sit down and eat something. Aren’t you hungry?”

  Kihrin glared at him. As he did, a wave of weakness washed over him, and he realized despite Lorgrin’s healing and whatever else they’d done to him while he was unconscious, he possessed a ravenous hunger. He looked at the food on the table for the first time. Marinated steak, first of all. Then cherry tomatoes in a broth of herbs and spices, and a flaky pastry containing bits of meat and white cheese. Sag flatbread smeared with a thick paste he didn’t recognize. He stared at the food and tried to ignore the way his mouth watered.

  “Go on,” Darzin urged. “Eat.” He sighed, exasperated. “If I wanted you dead, I had five days while you were recovering to do the deed. Here.” Darzin tore off some sag and ate a little of each dish with a showy wave of his hand. He drank a gulp of water from each crystal goblet and washed it all down with the coffee. “There. If it’s poisoned, we both die. Eat.”

  Kihrin sat and ate quickly, without manners. It all tasted wonderful. Kihrin watched Darzin while he ate, as if the noble were a snake who might bite if the young man turned away from him for even a second.

  When Kihrin couldn’t eat any more, he shoved the tray away and leaned forward in his chair, his arms resting on the table, his finger brushing up against a sharp steak knife. Kihrin glared at Darzin a little more.

  “Let me tell you a story, Kihrin,” the Heir of House D’Mon began.

  The young man scowled.

  Darzin stared at Kihrin, then sighed. When he realized the young man’s expression wasn’t going to soften, Darzin continued anyway. “When I was little more than a boy, I fell in love with one of my great-uncle Pedron’s slaves, Lyrilyn. She was extraordinarily beautiful. Dallying with the slaves is far from forbidden, but she wasn’t my slave. I took it too far. It was a time of great chaos. I didn’t think anyone would notice or care—after all, it’s not like my father was in any danger of inheriting. But Therin inconveniently managed to do exactly that and became High Lord, and suddenly I was Lord Heir. My father decided Lyrilyn was an embarrassment. The easiest way to deal with the embarrassment was to eliminate its source. Lyrilyn, being a little sharper than I in such matters, realized her life was in danger.”

  Darzin paused while he refreshed his coffee, added more coconut milk.

  “What happened?” Kihrin finally asked, not able to override the sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “She ran away,” Darzin explained. “Only afterward did she realize she was pregnant. Lyrilyn sent word to me, but by the time I reached her it was too late. She was strangled in Arena Park during the ascension of Emperor Sandus. The baby was never found. That was fifteen years ago. You’re fifteen years old, aren’t you?”

  “There’s no way—”

  “Kihrin,” Darzin said, “I believed Lyrilyn had lost her baby. But she had a token of my love, a particular kind of vané necklace. This one was prized because it’s in our House colors: a blue stone wrapped in gold. I wasn’t sure when we met at Qoran’s house. It was possible that you were a velvet boy who had paid the Temple of Caless to change the color of your eyes. However, when I found you at that brothel and saw the necklace, I knew you were Lyrilyn’s missing son. My missing
son.”

  “Why didn’t you just take the damn stone? Why didn’t you just take it and kill me?”

  “The necklace is but a symbol of my love, boy. You are my son. You are the one who matters to me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I think a part of you does, Kihrin. Why didn’t you tell General Milligreest I was the one who summoned Xaltorath?”

  Kihrin stared at him, the blood draining from his face. He knew.

  Darzin smiled at his son. “Oh yes, I’m quite aware that you’re the one who burgled the house of a certain merchant down in the Copper Quarter, and therefore know I summoned that demon. By the way, who told you that house would be empty?”

  Kihrin swallowed bile. “Butterbelly. I don’t know who told him. He wouldn’t say.”

  “Hmm.” Darzin frowned. “This little adventure has been full of sloppy mistakes, hasn’t it? Pity someone killed him too quickly.”

  “You’re the one who killed him—”

  “Seems like quite the coincidence, don’t you think? That you’d be given a lead on the same house that we were using for our little question-and-answer session?”

  Kihrin couldn’t stop himself from snorting.

  Darzin grinned. “My thoughts exactly. Someone set us up, you and I. I wonder if it was an enemy or a friend?”

  “Who knew you were going to—do that?”

  The Lord Heir scowled. “That’s what I’d like to know. I’m grateful for the nudge in the right direction of course—honestly we may never have found you otherwise—but I’d like to know more about my mysterious benefactor before I start pledging him my vote for the New Year’s Ball.”*

  Kihrin stared down into his coffee cup. It was beautifully made, not solid gold, but paper-thin porcelain with the finest gilding on top. The coffee was rich and black and he was completely numb. He was sitting here chatting—chatting—with the man who ordered the deaths of Surdyeh, Morea, and Butterbelly. The man who had summoned the demon who had raped his mind. Darzin was talking to him with that pleasant voice and that pretty face and those fancy clothes, like Kihrin was some kind of old friend, like Kihrin was . . . family.

  Kihrin set down the cup rather than shatter it in his fist. “You’re not my father,” he mumbled.

  “Son, we’ve been through this—”

  “No. FUCK NO. YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER!” he screamed. The music stopped. The girls in the pool paused from their games.

  Darzin’s eyes turned flat. It was as if they no longer reflected any light at all, or held any expression. They looked dead.

  “Watch your language,” Darzin said.

  Kihrin didn’t respond. His lip curled and his nostrils flared.

  “I tried to be reasonable,” Darzin whispered. “I tried to be nice. I want you to remember I tried to do this the right way. But you seem to want the wrong way, so I’m happy to oblige you.” Darzin turned to the side and snapped his fingers to catch someone’s eye. He turned back to Kihrin. “It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. There is a simple magical test that determines if you have the blood of House D’Mon in your veins. We are one of the god-touched Houses, after all, one of the genuine, original eight Royal Houses. While you slept, a Voice of the Council was here—and my father, the High Lord, stood as witness. The results of that test are irrefutable and legally binding.”

  “Great. Give my regards to the Council, but I’m not staying.” Kihrin rose to leave.

  “On the contrary, my son, this is exactly where you’re staying for the rest of your life.” He waved his hand, and guards rushed into Kihrin’s field of view.

  This time, they weren’t alone. They brought forward a woman dressed in rags and dumped her on the floor. Kihrin didn’t know her, but he saw her pain. She was a slave in shackles and she could barely move. She pleaded with the guards, begged them for mercy. They ignored her.

  “Since your introduction to the House should be memorable, son, I think you should see what is done with new slave acquisitions, much like yourself but for a small quirk of fate.” Darzin motioned toward the back, and a large man with a whip stepped forward. “You see, when a slave is first brought in ‘from the rough’ so to speak, it is usually necessary to break them in. To ‘season’ them. Watch.”

  One of the guards ripped away the remnants of fabric from the woman’s back. The others cleared a space and the man with the whip swung hard. Kihrin didn’t see the strike, but he heard a loud crack and saw a line of blood appear down the woman’s back.

  She screamed. He flinched.

  “The trick,” Darzin explained with detached interest, “is to whip them enough so that they understand their place in the household and to break their will completely, but not so much that they bleed to death. Normally—”

  “Stop it!”

  Darzin continued as if he hadn’t heard Kihrin’s interruption. “—that balance between injury and death is a fine line. Since we control the College of Physickers, we have an advantage. Being able to ensure someone won’t die from their injuries isn’t a favor to them, when you’re causing the injuries in the first place.”

  The whip came down several times during Darzin’s explanation. Each time the woman’s scream and Kihrin’s flinch were simultaneous. D’Mon noticed the young man’s reaction and smiled.

  “You understand that failure to cooperate on your part could have dangerous repercussions? Not for you, of course. I would never hurt you—you are all I have to remind me of my dear Lyrilyn. But I do have to take my anger out on someone, don’t I?” He motioned for the slave trainer to quicken the pace of the lashings. The woman’s back was a river of bloody cuts, and her screams were fading in volume. Kihrin looked to the side and saw one of the D’Mon healers standing there, his face a careful blank. He understood: when she had suffered enough, the healer would fix her—and they would begin all over again.

  “Taja,” Kihrin whispered. “Please stop this.”

  “Say ‘please stop it, Father,’ and I might.” Darzin leaned forward as he watched the woman’s bloody back. His expression was hungry.

  Kihrin grabbed the gold coffeepot and threw its contents at Darzin. When the older man ducked, he grabbed the steak knife and leapt at the trainer with the whip. The trainer looked up, surprised, but not fast enough to dodge Kihrin’s kick to the groin or the follow-up succession of stabs. The whip fell to the ground, followed a half second later by the guard’s body.

  Darzin was on Kihrin before the dead man finished falling. The teenager felt a grip like a python wrap around his wrist, painfully forcing his hand to release the knife. Caught as he was, there was no way for Kihrin to escape Darzin’s knee crashing into his side hard enough to make the world spin. He jabbed out with an elbow, but Darzin dodged that.

  “Idiot boy,” Darzin said as he punched Kihrin’s jaw. “I see you need breaking in too.”

  When Kihrin staggered from the punch, Darzin grabbed the boy by the hair and shoved his face against the tabletop.

  “Grab him,” Darzin ordered the other guards.

  Rough hands held Kihrin down. He struggled to slip out of their grip and failed. “Fuck you!” he screamed.

  “What did I just tell you about watching your language?” Darzin said. “You’re a prince. You must learn to talk like something other than a sewer rat.”

  “Go to hell. You killed my father.”

  Kihrin heard the fabric of his misha rip and realized Darzin was exposing his back.

  “No, I didn’t,” Darzin said as he picked up the whip from the ground, “but you’re making me wish I had. I wonder how much you’ll bleed before you learn your place?”

  The whip cracked. For a second, Kihrin felt nothing, then a searing pain flared across his back. He ground his teeth to keep from screaming.

  Darzin laughed at his reaction. “So where did we leave off? Oh yes, you were going to say ‘please stop it, Father.’ Shall we begin?” The crack of the whip came down again and this time Kihrin screamed out loud.
<
br />   “What are you doing, Lord Heir D’Mon?” A woman’s voice burned through the gardens.

  The nobleman paused. “Miya. I didn’t expect you.”

  Kihrin lifted his head up toward the voice and inhaled sharply.

  A Kirpis vané* stood at the entrance to the garden.

  Unlike the other vané he’d seen back at the Kazivar House, this vané wasn’t in pain, wasn’t being tortured. She was extraordinary: light brown skin dusted with gold, with eyes like blue sapphires. Her hair started out the color of blue Kirpis pottery glaze but darkened along its length. By the time it reached her calves it was the same dark blue as her eyes. She gleamed. Her brightness made the gardens seem dark and the sky overcast.

  She’s in the House colors, Kihrin realized, and then wondered if the coloring could possibly be natural.*

  “I have arrived to escort your rediscovered son to his chambers, but I see perhaps you’ve decided he will not be in need of such compartments. Shall I order the guards to prepare a dungeon cell instead?” Her voice cracked with sarcasm sharper than any whip.

  Darzin cleared his throat. “The boy has a temper.”

  “The blood of House D’Mon runs through his veins, does it not?” The vané’s gaze slid over the garden with displeasure before coming to rest on the cowering slave girl and the body of the trainer. She frowned at the physicker stooping over the body. “How badly is that man injured?”

  Darzin look confused for a moment, then snorted. “Oh, he was injured very well—fatally, in fact. The boy has a talent for killing.” He motioned the guards away from Kihrin, who hauled himself to his feet with murder still hot in his eyes.

  “As the father, so the son,” the vané woman said.

  Darzin laughed. “Good one. And here I didn’t think you vané had a sense of humor.”

  “We do not, Lord Heir. May I escort the young man to his rooms?”

  “In a minute.” Darzin turned and punched Kihrin in the face, sending him to the ground. “That was for splashing coffee on my shirt.”