The Ruin of Kings

by Jenn Lyons

  But it was hers alone.

  Hosun had hitched four matching golden horses to the front of the carriage, and sent along not just her usual driver, Sironno, but also a half dozen guards in the House colors to sit on top.

  He was feeling protective today. Perhaps he had cause.

  “My brother, Pedron, gave it to me,” Tishar said as Sironno held the door open for them both. “Just before he sent me away to marry the Lord Heir D’Evelin.” She nodded to the driver. “Take us to the Octagon. Use the northern route.”

  “Yes, my lady.” He bowed to her, and waited until they both sat inside before closing the door.

  “Thank you,” Kihrin said, although he was fighting his own distraction as his fingertips lingered over the soft velvet cushions.

  “I am curious why you are so eager to go to the slave market. Don’t tell me you want to own one of your own.” She didn’t even try to tone down the disapproval in her voice.

  He winced and looked away. The brooding expression on the young man’s face reminded her more than a little of Pedron.

  Also of Therin.

  “If you’re wondering if you can trust me with whatever secret has you looking so grim,” Tishar said, as Sironno cracked his whip and set the horses out onto the city streets, “the answer is no.”

  Kihrin threw her a shocked look.

  She continued, “You have no way of knowing who I’ll tell or how I’ll use the information. I can’t provide you with any guarantee worth the breath I’d use to speak it.” She leaned forward. “Nothing is gained without risk, young man. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to take a chance on someone.”

  He scowled and stared at his hands. “Maybe none of you are a good choice.”

  “Oh, we are a house of serpents, true enough.” Tishar smiled at him. She pulled down the blinds over the windows, habit more than need driving her motions, and activated a lantern of mage-light. “If it’s any consolation, I was married to Pharoes D’Evelin for almost twenty-five years. I outlived him. I outlived our sons. Despite how young I look, I am old and jaded and so very done with games of Empire. It’s not that I can be trusted, as much as it’s unlikely you have anything I want.”

  He smiled, although she wasn’t blind to the fact that smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I need to buy a slave Darzin just sent to the Octagon. Her name is Talea.”

  “Ah, excellent. Now we have something.” She held up her hands. “Further considerations: you are not legally an adult, my young nephew. Not yet. Not until the New Year’s and your birthday. If we enter the Octagon and you buy this Talea, Darzin may simply claim her again, as he may claim anything you own, for you remain your father’s property.”

  His eyes went very wide. Then he closed them and tilted his head back until it hit the back of the carriage. “I’m an idiot.”

  “Don’t confuse ignorance with stupidity, young man. You just aren’t used to having a father who doesn’t actually care for your welfare.” She gestured. “My recommendation: don’t try to buy her yourself. Buy her on your grandfather Therin’s behalf. He may be a little irritated to have you making purchases against his credit, but he’ll be willing to work out a repayment plan.”

  “That could work.” He chewed on his lower lip. “I have the metal to buy her. That’s not the problem.”

  “You must really like this girl.”

  Kihrin shook his head. “I’ve never met her.”

  Tishar raised her eyebrows and waited for an explanation.

  “I knew her sister. Back at the Shattered Veil Club. She was murdered because of me.” He swallowed, looking like he’d just eaten something foul. “I saw Talea as they led her away. He’d just offered me my pick of any of his slaves. I could have chosen her then. But I refused him.” He let out a dark laugh. “He’d have killed her if he’d realized she was important to me.”*

  “I applaud your swift adjustment to D’Mon family politics,” Tishar said. “I don’t doubt for one second you’re right.” She made a motion as if saluting him with a phantom wineglass. “I believe that only leaves the matter I came looking for you to discuss in the first place.”

  Kihrin blinked. “Wait. You were looking for me?”

  “Yes. You see, I wanted to share my secret with you. Do you know how I’ve managed to survive so many years in this city?” She didn’t wait for an answer before pressing on. “It’s because I’ve never forgotten my mother was a slave. If not for my brother’s efforts, I probably would have ended up as one myself.”

  He frowned. “Slavery isn’t inherited.”

  “No, but why would a slave owner spend money raising a free citizen? Technically only a parent can sell their children, but when the parent is themselves a slave, a great deal of . . . pressure . . . can be applied to force their cooperation. A loophole I saw exploited all the time when I shared a roof with House D’Evelin.”

  She paused enough to note Kihrin looked sick to his stomach. Not quite as jaded as you thought, are you, young man? “Never forget we’ve built this Empire on the backs of slaves and servants and they are—all of them—disposable. People hate my brother, Pedron, because he tried to overthrow this way of doing things, but I ask you: would that have been so terrible?”

  Kihrin swallowed. “He, uh . . . the wrath of the gods though. The risk of triggering the curse . . .”

  She waved a hand. “He thought he could prevent that. He didn’t think he was an evil man. He thought he was doing what was right—what needed to happen for the good of the Empire. He wanted to fix those things. The tragedy is that he fell in with people who were only too willing to exploit that idealism to obtain the goals they wanted, and then set him up to take the fall should their plans be discovered.”

  “You mean he was just a victim in the Affair of the Voices?”

  She sighed. “No, probably not. I hold no malice against Therin for doing what he did. If he hadn’t, the gods’ curse would have killed all of us. Sometimes though I cannot help but wonder how it might have gone if Pedron had succeeded. There was so much that he wanted to change, so much that he was powerless to change because of who he was. Who knows how different the world would be now?”

  “Different isn’t always better, milady.”

  “Hmm.” She pursed her lips and then shook her head. “I learned from him. From his mistakes as well as his successes. I have tried to be a benefactor as much as my position and gender have allowed. In a house with the likes of Darzin D’Mon stalking its halls, the servants are grateful to have any shelter from his particular sort of storm. And so they tell me things. For example, that Alshena left your apartments this morning on her hands and knees, blood everywhere, but she never managed to make it to one of the healers.”

  It was a low blow, a surprise attack, and the stunned look Kihrin gave her was very nearly heartbreaking. Shame and desperation mixed in equal measure with dread and loathing.

  “It wasn’t—it wasn’t like that—”

  “I know. You’re not the one who hurt her. Darzin left your apartments not long after. I suspect he treated the injuries that he himself caused, to stop any idle gossip from the healers. As to what happened that made him beat his wife, in a manner that’s frankly excessive even for Darzin, the maids who cleaned your bed seemed to think that was obvious enough.”

  All the color that had reddened his cheeks just a moment before drained away entirely. “What do you want?” he finally asked, sounding resigned.

  The boy was a fast learner. Of course, he expected blackmail.

  Tishar sighed. “I want you to answer a question.” She held up a hand. “Listen first. You see, I suspect I’ve been in your position, but perhaps I’m wrong. I have my own memories of such evenings. It starts with drinks and some reason to do the drinking. Someone you trust who smiles while they keep your glass full. And then the night goes on and everything becomes a blur. Not an unpleasant blur, truth be told. Except later. Later, when they’re not paying attention to you saying no and the clothes
are gone and hands are places they shouldn’t be.” She raised a single finger, tapped the side of it against the tip of her nose. “My single question, dear boy: did you want it to happen?”

  Kihrin looked away. “It was all just a terrible mistake. One thing led to another. If I could erase it I would. He found us the next morning. I thought he was going to kill her. He still might.”

  “Kihrin,” Tishar said. She leaned over in the carriage and started to pick up his hand, didn’t follow through on the motion when he flinched and pulled away from her. “Kihrin,” she repeated. “I know how tempting it must be to blame yourself for what happened, or even to say it was no one’s fault, but I want you to remember that only one of the people in your bedroom last night was legally of age.”

  He scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I’m almost sixteen.”

  “Surviving a date on a calendar will not miraculously give you the wisdom to deal with this. You’re almost sixteen. She’s twice that. Consider that if there is one skill we royals universally practice with dutiful persistence, it’s drinking. Alshena could drink a morgage to the ground, so if last night was a case of ‘one thing leading to another,’ it only happened because Alshena wanted it to. My question is: did you want it to? Because if you did, say the word and we never need speak of this again.”

  He couldn’t meet her eyes. He looked at his hands, at the hem of her agolé, at the bejeweled, quilted walls of the carriage.

  Tishar waited.

  “. . . no,” he whispered. “No, I didn’t want it.” He cleared his throat, raised his voice. “I think she was trying to help me.”

  “And did she help?”

  He made a face. “No. Gods no.”

  “Then I think I’m going to pay her a visit. She’s been acting oddly for months now. It’s long past time I called her on it.”

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Kihrin protested. “She’s been through enough.”

  Tishar snorted as they turned down the road toward the Octagon. “Wait until I’m finished with her.”

  55: THE PALE LADY’S JUDGMENT

  (Kihrin’s story)

  I’m impressed you had the guts to tell the truth about that, Talon.

  Then again, what do you care? You’ve done a lot worse than take advantage of a teenage boy, haven’t you?

  Anyway, Tyentso’s plan . . . well, it didn’t go as well as we had hoped.

  To start with, because Khaemezra refused to help us.

  We found Khaemezra the next morning, and I admit I’d assumed she’d agree. After all, why not? She was High Priestess of the Goddess of Death, and what we were asking her to do seemed normal for the weirdness that was a regular part of her religion. Tyentso would die. I’d have a magic lesson. Khaemezra would bring Tyentso back to life again. Easy.

  Except apparently it wasn’t.

  Tyentso cleared her throat, gave me an apologetic look, and turned back to the Holy Mother of the Black Brotherhood. “It’s a small departure from the Maevanos ritual. All I’m asking is we take a few hours out before my Return, that’s all.”

  “Ty thinks this would work,” I added.

  The old woman looked furious we would even make the suggestion. She stared down Tyentso. “This is about Phaellen, isn’t it?”

  I had no idea who that was, but Tyentso turned white.

  “Who’s Phaellen?” I asked.

  Tyentso crossed her arms over her chest. “Phaellen D’Erinwa. He is . . . he was the ghost who taught me.” She took a deep breath. “It’s not important.” Tyentso returned her gaze to Khaemezra. “I didn’t think you knew about him.”

  Khaemezra glared. “I know every one who dies.”

  “And that’s not creepy at all,” I said. “I’m not thrilled about the idea of being possessed, but I’m even less happy about being trapped here by the Old Man. So, if there’s some reason why Tyentso can’t do this—besides flouting the normal rules of the Maevanos—please tell me so I can start working on my next harebrained scheme to get off this island.” I snapped my fingers. “I’ve got it. Any idea where I can buy five crates of hedgehogs?”

  “You shouldn’t be trying to leave at all. You are still in training.”

  I inhaled and fought back the impulse to say something nasty. “I don’t like cages. I especially don’t like what the Old Man wants to do to me.”

  Khaemezra’s nostrils flared. “A ghost is not simply a dead spirit. Souls are not meant to stay on this side of the Veil, removed from the body that nurtured them. When you die, you travel past the Second Veil, into the Afterlife. Everyone does. That includes people who experience the Maevanos. To become a ghost, someone who lingers on this side of the Veil, requires you to be dead, yet too weak, angry, or tied to this world to successfully make the transition. That is dangerous. The lower soul drains away, and if you spend long enough trapped in that state, you—or rather, Tyensto—would be left unable to be Returned or to move on to the Land of Peace to one day be reborn.” Her eyes were hard as she gestured toward Tyensto. “And let’s not forget: you have yet to undergo a Maevanos. There is no guarantee that you would be allowed to Return.”

  “I haven’t gone through it because . . .” Tyentso licked her lips.

  “Because you suspect you might be found unworthy,” Khaemezra finished for her. “And what if you’re right? You have not led a pure life, my child.”

  “I know what I’ve done.” Tyentso’s eyes met mine. “But this is important.”

  I winced. I knew she was doing this as an apology, doing this because she felt guilty about the gaesh. And I hadn’t exactly absolved her of that guilt, had I? Did I really want to have Tyentso’s true death on my hands if this didn’t work? “Ty, I don’t want to get you killed.”

  “Getting me killed is the whole point, Scamp. Anyway, lecturing you on magical theory until your eyes roll back in your head isn’t working, so let’s try something new. Learning this way was good enough for me. It damn well better be good enough for you, because I don’t intend on doing this twice.”

  “Are you certain you want to do this?” Khaemezra said to Tyentso again. “You will keep no secrets while dead. Who you are, what you are, will be laid bare.” Her quicksilver stare turned to me. “That includes to him.”

  “Stop trying to scare me, old woman. I’m doing this.”

  A smile quirked the corner of Khaemezra’s mouth. “It seems you are.”

  Khaemezra picked up a knife. She offered it to Tyentso.

  “Hey now. Wait a minute. When you say we’re doing this, you don’t mean right now, do you?” I looked around, wondering if two Thriss with drums were about to appear.

  Even Tyentso seemed taken aback.

  “Yes. I mean right now. Your request is untoward enough that I don’t want this to be a part of our normal services. This way I can give you my full attention should anything go wrong.” She said it like something going wrong was less a possibility than a certainty.

  My mouth went dry.

  Tyentso took the knife. “Doesn’t this need a bit more ceremony?”

  “No,” Khaemezra said. “All you need is the will to face Thaena.”

  I raised a hand. “Okay, so wait a minute, why don’t we all take a breath and—”

  Tyentso stabbed herself.

  Her blood spread out in a slow stain of pure red across her white linen chemise. Tyentso gave Khaemezra a look of dull accusation before she collapsed on the floor. She seemed small and frail and inanimate.

  Khaemezra stood still and silent.

  “What next?” I asked her.

  “We wait.”

  “That’s it? We wait?”

  The High Priestess tilted her head. “She must find her way back through the wild lands of the Afterlife. That is not an easy thing to do.”

  “And if she can’t?”

  “Then today will not be the day you learn magic from a ghost.”

  “Right. Right.” I started to pace, not knowing what else to do.

  I stopped.
“Isn’t there anything I can do to help?”

  Khaemezra stared straight ahead and ignored me.

  I sighed and paced some more. Finally, I sat cross-legged next to Tyentso’s body and put my hand on her shoulder. I tried to shift my vision past the First Veil.

  The First Veil was magic, and the Second Veil was death. It made sense then that I shouldn’t, as a mortal, be able to see past the Second Veil. But if Tyentso was trying to work her way forward, then I probably didn’t need to. If I could see past the First Veil, and perhaps see almost to the Second Veil, maybe I could act as a beacon for her to find her way back.

  I admit the logic was suspect, but what did I have to lose?

  I shifted my vision past the First Veil easily enough. I’d been able to do that since I was a child. Now I strained for more, focused with sight and something beyond sight. I struggled without moving, trying to push my vision past the normal auras. It was like staring at a mosaic so hard your eyes crossed, the intensity of the stare making the accuracy of the sight worse.

  I reached out. I reached inward. I despaired.

  A hand came down on my shoulder. Without looking, I knew it was Khaemezra, her gold-dusted bone fingers tightening on my flesh like iron claws.

  My view of the universe shifted.

  My previous experiences with seeing magic now seemed as effective as the vision of a newborn kitten. For one thing, I still saw the normal universe with perfect clarity, but simultaneously I also “saw” energy everywhere. There was something like sound too, as if every visible object made an audible sound. Each thing—living or not—existed with its own musical accompaniment, each with a beat, a vibration, a chord. Music and light were, well, everywhere, and it all vibrated against everything else, sending out ripples interacting and magnifying and canceling each other.

  I looked up at Khaemezra, only to realize I had been wrong.

  This was someone else.

  The woman with her hand on my shoulder was a stranger. Her skin was supple and smooth and darker than the floor of the Manol Jungle. The highlights that limned her cheekbones and danced across her forehead glistened blue. Her hair, or her equivalent to hair, reminded me of butterfly wings, delicate and transparent with highlights that shimmered opalescent with greens and blues and violets. Her mouth was small but her lips full, and her nose was flat with nostrils that seemed peculiarly shallow. Her eyes were large and tilted and had no visible iris or pupil. They reflected the golden scales of her dress in mercurial shimmers with no color of their own.