The Ruin of Kings

by Jenn Lyons

  Anyway, I woke to the sound of Khaemezra and Doc arguing.

  “How many times are you going to make this same mistake, Khae?” Doc snapped. “You’ve got to stop treating people like enlisted soldiers. People aren’t going to blindly follow your orders.”

  “I’m not asking him to blindly follow my orders,” Khaemezra corrected. “Nor you. All I want from both of you is that you make sure he’s ready.”

  “He didn’t ask for this.”

  “Actually, he did.”

  Doc sighed. “I hope you appreciate how difficult this is. He’s the spitting image of Pedron—and you know my feelings about Pedron.”

  So. That answered whether they were talking about Teraeth or me.

  “Don’t you mean he’s the spitting image of King Terindel?” The venom in her voice could have melted stone.

  Silence ruled. Khaemezra had struck too close with that comment. Doc needed time to recover from the attack. “Teraeth should have named himself after you,” he finally said.

  “Teraeth feels the lineage can be redeemed.” There was a brief pause. “Don’t call him a fool, just because you don’t agree.” Sounds of swishing fabric, growing soft. She was leaving, walking to the door.

  “Just be careful, Khae. Don’t make the same mistake with this one that you made last time.”

  She laughed. “As if I’ve only made that mistake once.”

  I held my breath as silence once more filled the room, interrupted only by the soft scuffs of the tiny voramer woman retreating.

  A booted toe nudged my shoulder. “How much of that did you hear?”

  I rolled over as I looked at my hands. Any injuries on them were long gone. I assumed I had Khaemezra to thank for that. “So Valathea was sentenced to the Traitor’s Walk. What happened to her?”

  “So, you heard most of our conversation, if not all of it.” He scowled. “Get up. It’s time to continue your lessons.”

  “Answer my questions first.”

  “I’m not here to answer your questions. I’m here to teach you how to fight.”

  I pretended I hadn’t heard him. “You’re not here as a favor to Therin or Khaemezra. You’re here because I’m descended from Terindel. Not from you, technically, as you aren’t in Terindel’s original body anymore. But I’m guessing—” I made a moue. “What was your daughter’s name? Valrashar? I’m guessing she ended up being sold as a slave. She was supposed to be executed along with your wife, Valathea, but someone decided to make a little metal on the side and she ended up being owned by the D’Mons, where she gave birth to Pedron and Tishar. Am I close?”

  I thought he was going to ignore me. He picked up the loaf of dark bread and dropped it down on the ground next to me. Then he sat down on the stone floor, pulling his feet up into his lap.

  “They told me Valrashar had died fighting,” he said. “I never looked for her. My wife . . .” He grimaced. “I traveled deep into the Korthaen Blight, all the way to Kharas Gulgoth. I was too late to save her.”

  My throat tightened at the grief in Terindel’s voice, still raw after centuries. “I’m sorry.”

  “I didn’t have anywhere to go after that. Word had spread about who I really was. No vané would have anything to do with me. I met a woman—” He stopped and laughed at some secret humor. “I met a woman in Kharas Gulgoth. She’d been traveling with Valathea, been kind to her, so even though she was Quuros and human, I stayed my hand. I helped her. She was widowed herself, pregnant with her late husband’s child, and I guess it seemed fitting that I protect her. Maybe I was just looking to do something right for once in my life.”

  “What . . . what happened?” I took the opportunity to finish off the rest of the bread.

  “When Elana Milligreest went back to Khorvesh, I went with her. Nothing came of it for years; we were both in mourning. But I helped her raise her son and I came to view them as a new family. Sadly, they were a mortal family. Elana died and went to the Land of Peace and I looked after her children, and then their children. I became that odd cousin or uncle who’s always popping in for holidays with gifts from his travels. I was going by the name Nikali when Qoran’s mother asked if I might keep an eye on her troublemaking son, when he went to the Capital.”

  I blinked. “Nikali Milligreest? You’re Nikali Milligreest, the swordsman? My father Surdyeh used to tell stories about you. The one where you fought off those men behind the Temple of Khored and how you defeated—” I cleared my throat. “—how you defeated Gadrith the Twisted.”

  He snickered. “I love how awestruck you sounded right there. Several-thousand-year-old vané king? Whatever. Khorveshan ne’er-do-well who killed a few idiots in drunken duels? Set up the altar, boys, it’s prayer time.”

  “Well, I . . . I mean . . . there’s some pretty cool stories about you, that’s all. What happened? You get tired of it all and change your name to Doc, open a bar?”

  “One gets tired of the hero worship. I also adopted a daughter.”

  “Tauna. I’ve met her. Khorveshan, right?”

  “Naturally. She’s a Milligreest actually, a second cousin of Qoran’s. Truth is, I had a lot of fun tagging around with Qoran. Got into some trouble, did a good deed or two. And then . . .” He shook his head. “I never realized my Valrashar had been a slave in the Capital the whole time. Then I met Therin. The moment I saw him—I knew what must have happened. Too late by then. She’d been dead at least a decade. Onto her next life and rebirth, I suppose.”

  “Does Therin know?”

  “Gods no. Hey buddy of mine, did you know that I was once your great-grandfather? Though not anymore, because I’ve switched bodies since then. Oh, also, your aunt Tishar is technically the long-lost heir to the Kirpis vané throne, and if anything happens to her, you’re next. Best not to tell anyone; it would be awkward all around, but most especially for the Kirpis vané.”

  “Yes, I suppose the fellow currently on the vané throne might take objection to having competition.”

  “What competition? Tishar’s welcome to lay claim to the Kirpis. I’m sure Quur won’t mind at all.” He rolled his eyes.

  I stood, trying to ignore the way my body protested. I couldn’t believe how sore I was. “If you don’t mind, I have something else I need to do.”

  Doc crossed his arms over his chest. “I do mind. I played story time with you. Now comes practice.”

  “Sorry for giving the wrong impression, but I wasn’t asking permission.” I grinned at him as I backpedaled toward the door.

  He gave me a flat stare. “When you’re done trying to goad the Old Man into swallowing you whole, get your ass back here. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

  I tipped my head in his direction and ran.

  I was a little surprised when he let me go like that. I’d assumed he’d try to stop me, and I hadn’t been sure what I could do about it. I had a lot of questions, and nothing at all like answers.

  But at least I had a plan. Well, it was kind of a plan.

  If you didn’t look too closely.

  My heart slammed inside my chest as I raced back down to the beach. Smart? No, not smart, but I wanted off the island, and from what Doc had just said, I had the means. The Old Man wasn’t going to kill me. He didn’t dare unless his fervent desire was that he die and I become an incredibly destructive dragon. So, I could call his bluff, and if I did that, well . . . I would be free to leave the island whenever I wanted.

  When I made it back to the beach, everything was still except for the sound of crashing waves. No bird call interrupted; the seagulls had gone elsewhere to hunt. The jungle noises and the warbles of hunting drakes didn’t carry this far down to the black sand.

  I felt weak and shaky, near to collapse even after my rest. I must have slept for some time; it was evening now and the stars overhead twinkled behind the rainbow colors of Tya’s Veil.

  And yes, the Old Man had returned to his perch.

  The dragon shifted. My pulse sped up.

  “Yo
u didn’t bring the harp,” the dragon whispered. “No matter. Sing for me.”

  I felt the tug of the dragon’s will, the incredible force of command pushing those sentences into my mind.

  “No,” I said. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Sing for me!” the dragon bellowed, and I nearly tripped and fell backward.

  “Talk,” I insisted.

  The dragon curled his tail around his body and beat his wings, sending waves crashing countercurrent against their shore-facing kin. “Talk?” He cocked his head in a way that reminded me of parrots or the hunting drakes the Thriss used. “The Malkath vordredd talk using a method of tapping that carries for great distances over coated copper wires. The vorfelané clan Esiné talk using precise finger movements. The voramer sing in low-pitched notes that carry for hundreds of miles underwater. The vorarras enchant crystals to carry images of the gazers to each other. What sort of ‘talk’ did you mean?”

  I cleared my throat. “I want to talk about the Stone of Shackles.”

  The dragon twisted on the rocks, the giant loops of his body drawing up under him like a cobra coiling. “Rolumar’s Gem, the Stone of Shackles, Soulbinder, the Crown of Kirpis. Its first power is to warn its owner of physical danger and its second power is to swap souls and its third power makes the taking of gaeshes possible. None of which is of any interest to me, little man.”

  I pulled myself up. “But I’m wearing it. And that means you’re not just going to kill me.”

  The dragon leaned its long neck forward. “I was never going to kill you, tiny fool. Now sing.”

  I shook my head. “You can’t . . . you can’t control me. That worked once, but it won’t work again.”

  The dragon settled down again, resting its head against a clawed hand in a human gesture. “Sing me the Ride of Tirrin Woodkeeper. Oh, or I know, why not sing to me of Sirellea’s beauty, and the tragedy of Kinorath’s ambitions? Do you know ‘The Fall of Dimea’? It’s a newer song . . .”

  I shook my head. “I’m leaving, Old Man, and you can’t stop me.”

  A terrible rumbling shook the whole island, shook the water and the waves and caused sand to thrum in ripples. Rocks tumbled down the scree-laden sides of hills.

  The Old Man was laughing.

  “Ah,” he purred. “Do you not know those songs? Has so much time passed? Very well. My garden, sing for your newest companion. Sing for him so he can learn.”

  And then to my horror, the pillars began to sing.

  I suppose it would have been fine if they had just been enchanted rocks, but they weren’t. From the center of each pillar, a figure pulled away as if trying to escape mud. They were still covered in rock, but it was a thinner layer, enough to keep them trapped but not to hide their shape. The rock only retreated fully from their faces, letting them open their eyes, open their mouths. They did not scream, even though the horror in their eyes made it clear it was all they wanted in the whole world.

  Each of those pillars was a person.

  I saw the way their eyes rolled in mad terror—the panic and despair as they were allowed to see freedom, if just for a moment—while they sang for the Old Man’s pleasure. The worst thing was how glorious they sounded: they were a perfect sunrise, a walk through a well-tended garden in spring, the laughter of someone you love. I could have listened to them for hours in rapt wonder if I didn’t understand the atrocity that had been committed to capture that sound.

  And I knew at that moment what the Old Man intended to do with me.

  “Never,” I whispered in horror. Underneath that initial revulsion dwelt a deep well of dread. I felt an instinctive and infinite terror, akin to the blind panic of those afraid of tight spaces. The worst part was how familiar this feeling was. I knew what it was like to be trapped and unable to move, conscious and yet kept prisoner inside my own body.

  I had been through this before. I didn’t know where. I didn’t know when. I didn’t even know how. But somehow, I had been through it before.

  And I would rather die a thousand times than go through it again.

  Then I wasn’t on the beach anymore. At some point I had started running, and jungle leaves lashed against me as I passed by without pausing. I ran and ran and ran.

  It was hours, though, before the sound of the Old Man’s laughter faded from my ears.

  52: DARK STREAKS

  (Talon’s story)

  Fine, we can skip ahead. I enjoyed the next morning more anyway.

  Darzin D’Mon was in a wonderful mood as he walked up the stairs of the southern tower of the Blue Palace. He whistled to himself and contemplated something he identified only through its absence: boredom.

  Darzin D’Mon was never the most introspective of men. He was, even he admitted, poorly gifted in the arts of self-examination. In most cases, he found this to be more benefit than hindrance. For he was not the sort to whine about his situation or be moved into bouts of self-pity, reactions that weighed down his father with guilt and doubt. If he didn’t like his situation, he changed it, and if he couldn’t change it, he didn’t let it gnaw at him. But there were enemies even he found himself hard-pressed to challenge. Enemies who snuck up on him not by stealth or means of magic, but through success and wealth and prosperity.

  Winning was fun, but after the winning . . . then what? So often too easy, too often so boring: the victories had tasted stale of late. Darzin found himself venturing further and further afield to find distractions capable of keeping his interest. His forays into his father’s underworld Shadowdancer cartel had stemmed from such a desire. He longed to fill his nights with something other than the same old pleasures and entertainments.

  But this—ah, this was different. Darzin warmed at the thought of his young adopted “son.” A challenge indeed. Tricky. It would be easy enough to break the boy. Few had the fortitude to resist the malice and torture that Darzin could unleash if he chose to do so. No, Darzin didn’t doubt for a moment he could grind Kihrin’s will underfoot as thoroughly as a cut flower on hot cobblestones, leaving nothing but a faintly perfumed smear. But destroying the boy’s mind wasn’t the goal. It would, in fact, make the true goal impossible to obtain. If the boy could only give the necklace of his own free will, then he had to possess enough will, enough spirit, to make such a foolish choice.

  So then, subtlety was the necessary ingredient, something to which Darzin was unaccustomed and therefore found unexpectedly, delightfully challenging. He needed to make Kihrin miserable, but not too miserable, desperate, but not so despairing that he wanted to end it all. Once Darzin had shown with painstaking clarity that there would be no shelter or happiness for Kihrin within House D’Mon; then and only then could Darzin offer the path of escape—

  For the reasonable price of one sapphire necklace.

  And after the boy gave up his only protection?

  Darzin smiled to himself. It would be nice to kill the boy in front of his father. He’d enjoy the look on Therin’s face—just before Therin too saw the bloody end of Darzin’s sword.

  He was still smiling when he turned the key in the lock and walked into Kihrin’s room, unannounced.

  Then he stopped smiling.

  For a moment, he forgot where he was. He forgot who he was. Most importantly though, he forgot who she was. For the span of a few seconds, not more than a few hammered, pounding heartbeats, Darzin looked at the scene with the eyes of any man who had just discovered his wife in the arms of another.

  Those few seconds were nearly enough to ruin everything.

  Darzin had entered the room quietly from force of habit. He found his “son” still asleep in that preposterous bed, but the boy wasn’t alone. Alshena lay next to him, the sheet partly covering her naked body. Her red hair spread out in ripples over the boy’s chest. One arm draped possessively over his abdomen.

  A discarded bottle of wine lay next to the bed, along with clothes—Alshena’s agolé and undergarments, the boy’s boots, kef, and shirt. The boy’s necklace, tha
t damned sapphire, rested uncovered in the hollow of his throat. There was no doubt, could be no doubt, of what had happened here.

  The brat had bedded his wife.

  Only when he redoubled the pressure of his clenched fist did he realize he had, unknowingly, drawn his sword. Darzin stepped forward, and raised his arm to strike down the appalling little bastard who would dare do something like this to him.

  Then he saw the bruises on Alshena.

  Her body was marked by the signs of a violent infidelity: scratch marks down her back, bruises on her thighs, even bite marks. These two had not made love, but battled, and Kihrin had proved a merciless opponent. Perhaps that explained why a ripped piece of embroidered blue silk had been used to tie one of the boy’s hands to a tree trunk, where it was still trapped, even in sleep.

  But Talon can’t bruise . . .

  And it was only then the Lord Heir remembered that it was not his wife in bed with the boy, and never had been. The real Alshena D’Mon had been dead for weeks now, her body and brain devoured by the ever-hungry mimic who had taken her place, her soul sacrificed to summon Xaltorath. The very same Xaltorath Darzin had used to track down the Stone of Shackles—and also its bearer.

  Darzin knew Talon was skilled at improvisation. If she had seen an opportunity, she wouldn’t have waited for permission to take it. All the anger drained away as Darzin understood her intention: Talon was giving him a gift.

  The mimic raised her head to look up at him. She smiled, those green eyes shining, large and luminous in the soft morning light. She nodded: Do it.

  Darzin didn’t think he’d ever seen Talon look so beautiful.

  He steeled himself and took a deep breath. Then he grabbed a fistful of her lovely red hair, and dragged her, screaming, out of the bed.

  “HOW DARE YOU? YOU WHORE!” Darzin raged as he backhanded her across the face and sent her stumbling away from him. “You would cuckold me with my OWN SON?” He hit her again, hard enough to split her lip and splatter red blood across delicate skin.

  Kihrin woke. “Leave her alone!” his “son” shouted.