The Ruin of Kings

by Jenn Lyons

  Only then did I notice the belt of roses worn around her hips, clasped with a tiny skull, the matching roses worn as a diadem on her head. I realized that I had indeed seen her before.

  Or, at least, I had seen statues of her, made of onyx and gold leaf.

  I wondered, absently, why we called her the Pale Lady.

  Thaena met my eyes.

  Dread spiked through my soul. What I felt was not a sense of my own mortality or the dark void of a final end, but the most profound sense of nudity. Thaena didn’t look at me, she looked inside me, to every corner of my soul. Thaena knew me better than I would ever know myself. She had always known me, known me before I was born and was now simply waiting for me to return to her.

  I looked away.

  Thaena’s grip tightened on my shoulder. The Goddess of Death turned back to the other woman in the room.

  A woman, I noted, who didn’t look like Tyentso.

  She was young. Older than me, but not old enough to be my mother. This was a stick-thin woman, a sharp-featured Quuros. Her hair was a mass of lavender-gray cloud-curls that swirled around her head like a building storm. Her most striking features were her tilted eyes: large and black, with the endless labyrinthine depths of a god-touched member of House D’Lorus.

  She had the same crimson stain spilling down the front of her chemise as Tyentso. She looked real and solid and I would never have thought her a ghost.

  But I knew better.

  “Tyentso,” said the Goddess of Death, “once named Raverí, daughter of Rava.* I have seen your soul. You have been judged.”

  Tyentso straightened, looking shocked. “Wasn’t there supposed to be a test?”

  “The test was your life,” Thaena replied. “And you have failed it. You are a murderer and a demonologist, an arrogant liar who betrayed people who trusted you and sent the souls of hundreds to Hell. What sacrifice were you unwilling to burn on the altar of revenge? You never had a life worth living. What have you done with yourself but spread misery? What do you leave to the world that made it even the tiniest bit better than it would have been without you? Spend as long as you like teaching Kihrin, assuming he will have anything to do with you. I will not be Returning you.”

  And with that, the Goddess of Death left the room.

  56: THE OCTAGON

  (Talon’s story)

  When the carriage arrived, Sironno held the door open for Tishar and her nephew, while her guards formed an honor line behind them.

  She’d worried that after their conversation in the carriage, Kihrin would be too distraught to deal with the rest of the outing. She’d worried for nothing: as soon as Sironno opened the door, Kihrin sauntered out of the carriage, a perfect picture of bored insouciance.

  He held out his arm to her. “Shall we?”

  “Of course. This won’t take long.”

  “Everyone’s wearing orange,” Kihrin whispered to her.

  “It’s House D’Erinwa’s color,” she explained. “I never wanted for anything while I was married into their House, but I hate that color. I’ve always looked hideous in orange.”

  The public areas of the Octagon were not rank brick and wrought iron, but marble and shaped raenan stone, more appropriate for an Upper Circle salon than a slave house. The most exclusive areas of the Octagon were indeed a little different from salons. Where one might otherwise see fine art, the Octagon presented the finest in flesh to a jaded royal audience.

  The main gallery, lush with hanging plants, artwork, and fountains, contained a simple black slate board that visitors examined before continuing on their way.

  Tishar made her way to it.

  “Normally, you would use this to direct your inquiries,” she told Kihrin. “They change it daily, depending on seasonal variation. Room 1: menial labor. Room 3: entertainers. Room 4: services. Room 7: pleasure. Room 8: exotics. The list goes on. Our tasks, however, require more personal service. Fortunately, I know exactly who to see.”

  With a brilliant smile, she turned on her heels and marched with practiced, fear-inspiring intensity up to a man who was obviously the majordomo, and held out her hand for him to kiss. He smiled up at her as if she were his favorite person in the entire world. She leaned down and whispered her needs into his ear. Moments later, a side door opened for their benefit.

  “Guards, you may stay out here,” Tishar informed them.

  The lead nodded, used to the routine, and fell into position.

  Taking Kihrin’s arm, Tishar walked him into a small side passage, barely large enough for two people, and cramped compared to the opulence of the main hall. The corridor continued for a long time.

  “Is this a servant’s tunnel?” Kihrin asked.

  She indulged him with a smile. “Something like that.”

  When the tunnel ended, Tishar and Kihrin stood in a small round room. There were two doors, a staircase leading up, another staircase leading down, and eight tunnels exiting from the room like spokes on a wheel. Twelve guards were stationed around the room, surrounding a small, wrinkled little man seated behind a desk.

  “Humthra!” Tishar called out to the small, wizened man.

  He didn’t look up.

  Tishar marched up to the paper-stacked desk of the hunched-over gnome. “Humthra!”

  “Humph,” the old man said, and continued to write in his ledger.

  “Humthra, I must ask you a question,” Tishar said.

  “What?” The old slave master looked up. He glanced at Kihrin. “Huh. Middle-teens, excellent physical condition. Yellow hair and blue eyes, very rare. Vané stock, second generation. I’d place the opening bid at . . .”

  “Humthra!” Tishar screamed.

  “What?” the old man squealed.

  “I need to look at today’s registry, Humthra.” She pointed back to her nephew. “HE is not for sale.”

  The old man snorted. “Why not, you silly woman? You’d make a fortune . . .” Then he blinked and looked back and forth between Tishar and Kihrin. “Oh, is he your son? For you, Tish, I’ll double the opening bid . . .”

  Tishar looked back at an uncomfortable, embarrassed Kihrin and smiled apologetically. “So sorry. Humthra can be a little . . . focused.” She turned back to Humthra. “The registry, Humthra.”

  “Oh yes, of course. Here.” He turned around the large, heavy volume he had been looking through.

  “No . . .” She turned to the front, then flipped through pages. “This is this morning’s registry, Humthra dear. I need this afternoon’s.”

  “Oh, right here.”

  Kihrin sounded stunned. “Those are just the slave sales for this afternoon?”

  “Yes,” Tishar replied as she moved on to the afternoon’s figure. “Here we are . . . one lot bought from Darzin D’Mon. . . . oh, you turned these around fast, Humthra.”

  “They were in good condition,” the old man explained. “Didn’t need any cleaning up.”

  “Lucky you.” She moved an elegant gloved finger over the vellum until it stopped. She involuntarily made a low growling noise. “Throne, chance, and chalice,” she muttered. “He’s back already? I thought he was still at the Academy. Did he wash out?”

  Humthra looked up. “Who?”

  She pointed to the ledger entry.

  “Oh!” Humthra shook his head “Oh no. He graduated early and top of his class. Proved everyone wrong who doubted he was really his father’s son. High Lord Cedric sent him down to buy whatever caught his eye.”

  Tishar found herself chewing the inside of her lip. “And no doubt to make sure that what catches his eye is female and still breathing.”

  “Aunt Tishar?” Kihrin asked. “Is there a problem?”

  Tishar threw a sympathetic glance at her nephew. “Oh darling. I’m so sorry, but . . . I’m afraid there’s a problem buying Talea.”

  “What do you mean? Someone’s already bought her?”

  “Not bought. Buying,” Humthra corrected. “He’s still here.”

  “Can we o
utbid him? Who is it? Can’t we still buy her?” Kihrin directed the rapid questions at both of them. The poor boy looked like his heart was breaking.

  Tishar sighed. She dreaded explaining this. “It’s not so simple. The auction house offers an option of outright sale for interested parties who don’t mind paying a premium—in this case, twice the estimated auction appraisal. According to the registry, he intends to buy at least one of the slave girls Darzin sold to the house, but he hasn’t left yet. It’s possible that we’ll be lucky and he won’t buy any of them, or won’t buy the one you want. It’s also possible he may buy all of them.”

  “Is there anything we can do?”

  Tishar turned back to Humthra. “Darling, can we stay for a while on the south balcony? You know how I miss that wonderful tea the Octagon serves.”

  Humthra had already turned his attention back to the registry. He mumbled something that sounded like, “Whatever you like,” and waved them away.

  The two started to walk back up the narrow corridor. “What we do is go to my favorite balcony and drink some truly wonderful Zheriaso tea. It would be criminal to miss the opportunity.”

  Kihrin raised an eyebrow at her. “But Aunt Tishar—”

  “I know the perfect spot, dear nephew. It overlooks the main hall, so you can’t help but see any slave buyer who enters . . . or leaves . . .” She winked at him.

  His eyes widened as he took in her meaning, and then he nodded. “A cup of tea sounds perfect.”

  She patted his hand. “Smart boy.”

  Kihrin straightened next to Tishar, and hissed, “That’s her!”

  Tishar glanced through the intricate wooden screen concealing the balcony, and saw a young woman being led away by collar. Tishar was forced to admit she was exceptionally lovely. She wasn’t sure who had decided to put the girl’s hair in braids like that,* but Tishar suspected it wouldn’t take much to make it the newest fad, considering how fetching the hairstyle was on the slave girl.

  Then her attention focused on the man who led her. He dressed in heavy, high-collared robes of black, trimmed with thread of silver. And if he wasn’t using magic to keep from collapsing in the heat, Tishar was half-morgage. The symbol of House D’Lorus was embroidered above his heart. She frowned down at him from behind the screen. He wasn’t what she had expected.

  He was a large man, tall and broad of shoulder, with the perfectly smooth pate of one bald by nature rather than art. Only his head and his elegant, long-fingered hands showed under his dark clothing, and both were a warm olive brown that looked slightly gray against all the black and silver. He wore no jewelry except a carved moonstone puzzle brooch against the cradle of his throat. His face was strong featured, with high cheekbones, a straight nose, a long upper lip, and a mouth capable of great depth of expression. She knew he was young, only twenty years old at most, and never married. There was a chiseled hardness to his features that made her wonder if he was older.*

  I might have considered him a handsome bed partner, she thought to herself, under other circumstances. He glanced up at the balcony screen then, and the corner of that expressive mouth twitched in a sardonic smile. Although she knew it was impossible, it seemed that for a fraction of a second, their eyes met. Something about him did indeed bear the classic stamp of House D’Lorus–for his eyes were solid black, both iris and cornea, turning them into endless voids. Then he and his entourage passed into the main hallway underneath the balcony, out of her sight.

  Tishar sat back, stunned.

  He couldn’t possibly have known she was there. He couldn’t possibly have known anyone was there. Her imagination . . . Surely her imagination . . .

  “That was the man who bought her, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And she was the only one he bought.” Tishar leaned back against her chair and sipped the excellent tea.

  “What do we do now?” Kihrin asked. “Maybe I could offer to buy her from him . . . although Taja! Did you see that outfit? Only a wizard takes themselves that seriously . . .”

  “My advice is to forget her.”

  Kihrin turned back to look at her. “What do you mean?”

  “That was the Lord Heir D’Lorus. If you are wise, you will stay far away from him. There are men who like to be considered dangerous, and then there are men who simply are dangerous, and care not what your opinion of them might be. He is of the latter stock.”*

  He narrowed his blue eyes, and his expression turned ugly. “House D’Lorus? He’s related to Gadrith the Twisted?”

  “Related? You could say that. Thurvishar D’Lorus is Gadrith’s only son.”*

  57: GHOST WALK

  (Kihrin’s story)

  I stared at the doorway Thaena exited, as if staring might make her return. I heard an inarticulate noise next to me, and when I looked, I saw Tyentso’s ghost standing there. Tears streamed down her face, the same look of dull shock there as when she had taken her life.

  “Tyentso—” I reached out a hand, and was surprised when my fingers passed right through her arm, leaving a glowing trail where the two images intersected.

  I’d forgotten she didn’t exist in the same world as me. Well, not as a living person.

  She flinched regardless, shook her head, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “So let’s begin then.”

  I blinked. She couldn’t mean to go through with the lesson on magic, could she? “Ty, this is exactly what I didn’t want to happen. You know, your body hasn’t been dead for long. Is there some way we can fix it? Restore you to life? Could I heal you if you guided me?”

  She laughed, bitter and hard. “You could heal the body but then what? Return my soul without Thaena’s permission? It wouldn’t be life, Scamp. I’d be some horrible parody of it, while my lower soul drained away to nothing.* What’s done is done. I damn well knew the risks.”

  I swallowed. “What she said about you . . .?”

  Tyentso raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking me if I’m innocent?”

  “Just tell me you had a good reason.”

  “I can’t do that, Scamp. Every fucking thing she said about me was true. I’m a terrible person. I’ve done all those things and more. But you know what? I knew this was going to be a one-way trip from the start. I’m just so angry at myself for thinking that she might forgive me.” She shook her head. “That’s never been my luck.”

  “I can’t—” I struggled to find the words. “You can’t be that bad.”

  She scoffed. “You’re so adorably naïve. I was younger than you when I orchestrated my first murder. I was never caught.”

  “So? I tried to get someone killed a couple years ago. Unlike you, I just sucked at it. And I would have gleefully killed Darzin if I thought I could get away with it. And I’ve done worse. People I love are dead because of me.” I closed my eyes and choked back on a full confession.

  “Oh goddess. Shut up.”

  I opened my eyes again.

  Tyentso glared at me. “This isn’t a fucking contest, you ass. I’m not going to drag out my sins to see who’s graded higher on the awful-person test. It doesn’t matter anyway. You think Mother Death is going to leave one of her special prophecy brats to rot in the Afterlife? Not likely. Me? I’m disposable. You aren’t.” She didn’t make it sound like a compliment, but were I in her shoes I wouldn’t be happy about the situation either.

  I opened my mouth to protest, but paused. I could have tried to explain to Tyentso what the Goddess of Luck had said to me about that very fact. However, I didn’t think Tyentso would graciously accept me having visions sent from one of the Eight Immortals as proof that I wasn’t special. Tyentso had sacrificed a lot for me—far more than anyone should give—and she had every right to be more than a little upset about the outcome.

  “If you want me to leave,” I said, “I understand.”

  She was in the middle of a sigh when some idea occurred to her, and her eyes narrowed. “You can see me.”

  “Uh, yes?”
r />   “Is that your doing or Thaena’s?” Tyentso’s tone was full of fierce curiosity.

  “I was trying to see beyond the Second Veil—”

  “Mortals can’t do that,” she snapped.

  “Then I guess it was Thaena’s doing.”

  She pursed her lips, nodding, and then held out her arm. “Take my hand.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Take my hand!” she insisted.

  I reached for her, knowing as I did my fingers would slide right through hers.

  Instead, her fingers vanished when they touched mine, as if dissolving into acid.

  Then the world went dark.

  Literally dark, and not because I was blinded or unconscious. Tyentso was gone, and I was instead in a dark cave that looked like Khaemezra’s room but with all the furnishings removed. The basalt walls had been replaced by something softer. Roots grew through the ceiling and up through the floor, and the air was thick with the smell of humus and rot. A more ambiguous quality coated everything, a sense of decay and disintegration reminding me of tombs and corpses left long undisturbed.

  I tried to move forward to look outside, but found I couldn’t move at all.

  “Easy now, Scamp.” I heard Tyentso’s voice even though I didn’t see her. “What are you seeing?”

  “Where are you?” I asked her. “What are you doing? Stop it.”

  My hand moved without my orders then, fingers turning back and forth in front of my eyes. It was as if I’d never seen my own hand before and wanted a better look. I hadn’t thought to move my hand, hadn’t wanted to move my hand.

  I realized where Tyentso was: she was inside me, controlling me.

  “Everything’s going to be fine. Don’t worry.”