by Jenn Lyons
What killed me, no pun intended, was that every word felt true, the pieces of the puzzle fit so well. I had to fight not to think too hard about what it would be like to be trapped in such a manner, locked away in a body that was completely and utterly under another’s control. To be locked that way for centuries, millennia, the dull numb passage of time grinding down one’s mind until there was only a gibbering lump of identity. How could anyone stay sane?
“Well, someone must have,” I said, “or I wouldn’t be here.”
She smiled. “When Emperor Atrin Kandor threw himself at the Manol vané and dragged most of the men of Khorvesh to their deaths, his wife, Elana, took it upon herself to journey into the Blight. Her aim was to try and negotiate with the Dry Mothers. She was only partially successful at brokering peace with the morgage, but she did free your soul, which was a feat no one had been expecting.”
“Wait. Elana Milligreest? Doc’s Elana?”
Her smile was wry. “The same.”
“I hope you thanked her.”
“Of course,” Thaena said, “then I did what any good general does when fighting an endless war against an impossible enemy: I sent her back to the front.”
I thought about that. “Is that what you did to me?”
“Yes. If it’s any consolation, you volunteered,” she said.
I sighed. “Yeah. I suppose I probably did.” I tugged a lock of my hair in her direction. “I have to ask though . . .”
“Yes?” The slant of her eyebrows suggested that she was very nearly at the limit of her patience for answering questions that night.
“Would you have Returned Tyentso if this whole mess hadn’t happened? Were you lying when you said that she’d failed your test?”
She hadn’t expected that question. A bit of the old humor returned in the crinkle of her eyes. “The true test was seeing how she’d react to the idea of being judged and found wanting. Even when her hour was darkest, she never lost focus on the reason she was there in the first place.”
“So you lied.”
“Yes.” She waved the hand holding the necklaces. “I lied. I do that. I lie, and sometimes I send unprepared children out to fight demons. The world is an imperfect place.”
The movement reminded me of what she had in her hand. I couldn’t take my eyes from my gaesh, from the star tears. She saw the look, and her smile grew gentle. Then she—
You know what? Fine. I’ll tell you. But only because I know there’s no hiding it from you anyway. There’s no point in trying to keep it secret.
Anyway, she took one necklace in her left hand, and kept the other in her right. The hawk necklace began to glow. It was a subtle thing at first, but the luminescence grew stronger and more vibrant. The glow dripped off Thaena’s fingers and pooled in her left hand like the light of a hundred captured fireflies. As I watched, the glowing ball fell away from the silver necklace entirely, drifting from her left hand to the star tear necklace held in her right. Finally, the nimbus sank into the diamonds, making the starlight shimmer even more brightly. Then she reached up and refastened the necklace around my neck and kissed me on the cheek. I felt a chill, the kind I associated with crypts and stale, old graves.*
“Why—?” I could barely articulate the question.
“Slavers’ gaeshe are crude things, and easily recognized by those who know their signs. It is best that your gaesh be in something whose value cannot be questioned. No one will wonder why you keep these so close, and greed will prevent their casual destruction. This necklace is worth a kingdom. You’re a good match.”
“But if you—” I inhaled. “You could reverse it. If you have that kind of power—”
“Oh Kihrin.” She patted my hand like she was my grandmother. “I have moved a cut flower from one vase to another. That does not mean I can rejoin it to the rosebush. This heals when you die and not before. I would slay you and Return you whole, but I feel certain Xaltorath is waiting for that to claim you, and it is not worth the risk.”
“Why would he? He’s not the one who gaeshed me.”
She snorted. “Oh, but he is the one who gaeshed you. I would know his psychic stench anywhere. He is a wild card, and I do not yet understand his part in this, but until I do, I would not risk playing into his hands. So, I will not kill you.”
I shook my head. “I never thought I’d hear someone apologize for why they’re not taking my life.”
“I do not make the rules, sadly. I never have. Long before I was born, people have died, gone to the other side, and eventually been reborn. It is the cycle. I am simply one of the soldiers standing watch at the walls, and nothing more.” Thaena reached over and tapped the necklace of star tears around my neck. “And the prince of swords shall keep his soul in the stars.” She shrugged. “I have no idea if this is what the prophecies meant, but it’s just as easy not to take the chance.”
Thaena waved a hand toward the exit. “Now go. I have much to do, as do you.”
64: THE D’LORUS FETE
(Talon’s story)
Darzin tightened his grip on Kihrin’s arm as they exited the carriage into the guest court of the D’Lorus palace. “Do not embarrass me,” he whispered.
Kihrin tried to jerk his arm away, but failed. “If you think I’m going to embarrass you, why bring me?”
Darzin’s lip curled, but he didn’t respond.
The guards fell in behind them both, but the blue-garbed men of House D’Mon seemed out of place against the grandeur of the Dark Hall.
Kihrin was surprised to see the D’Lorus palace was not a single color (that color being black). Black was present, from the dark marble steps in front of the great hall to the ebony trim on the windows. However, someone had decided that if black were the only color available, madness would be the sure and certain result—so virtually every available surface of the Dark Hall was decorated with artwork. Sketches and murals and intricate paintings, of virtually every subject and mood, covered the walls to the point of concealing their base color entirely.
As Darzin tugged him along, he reminded himself of his lessons. House D’Lorus controlled the Binders, whose color was black and whose symbol was a flower. D’Lorus, a House with few members, whose Lord was Cedric and Lord Heir was his grandson, Thurvishar. D’Lorus, who controlled the magic Academy at Alavel, and to whom all wizards owed at least some scholastic fealty. D’Lorus, small and fading, but dismissed only by fools.
Inside the Dark Hall, a swirl of color from paintings, lights, and the rainbow hues of other guests pulled the eye in a hundred directions. Kihrin might have lost himself gaping in wonder if a violent yank on his arm had not brought him back to the task at hand.
“What did I just say?” Darzin snapped.
An unfortunate response was curtailed as a cultured, resonant baritone voice greeted them. “Lord Heir D’Mon, I presume? I’m so glad you could make it to my gathering.”
Kihrin recognized the voice: it was the third man. The one who had been with Dead Man and Pretty Boy in the crypts, the one who had caught Galen and him spying but let them go. Kihrin fought the desire to swallow, to look nervous, to shuffle his feet.
The same man he had seen at the Octagon.
Thurvishar D’Lorus walked down the shallow steps leading from the second floor to the great hall where guests mingled. He dressed much as he had been when Kihrin had spied upon him, while having tea with his aunt Tishar. This time the Lord Heir of D’Lorus was wiping his hands on a white rag, as if he’d just come from the privacy or a meal. He finished and tossed the cloth to a servant as he closed the gap between himself and Darzin.
The rag was stained with blood.
“Problems?” Darzin asked. He hadn’t missed the blood on the man’s hands either.
“No, no problems,” Thurvishar replied. He stopped and looked at his hands. “Oh, yes.” The wizard shrugged. “One of my grandfather’s men tried to steal something that belongs to me. I’ll have his body strung up later as an example, after the part
y dies down.”* He gave the pair a self-deprecating smile. “You’ll pardon me, of course, if I don’t offer to shake hands.”
Darzin’s expression held a look of grudging respect. “Not at all. I always appreciate the need for an appropriate level of discipline, especially in the form of object lessons. May I introduce you to my firstborn son? This is Kihrin D’Mon. Kihrin, I’d like you to meet Thurvishar, Lord Heir of House D’Lorus. He’s just returned from the Academy.”
Kihrin bowed as he’d been taught. “I’m honored, Lord Heir.”
“Tall, aren’t you?” Thurvishar said in lieu of more formal greeting. “Call me Thurvishar. Lord Heir’s my father’s name.” He smiled as if daring either of the D’Mons to commit the faux pas of mentioning his treasonous father, Gadrith the Twisted.
Except Kihrin knew it was a lie. Gadrith wasn’t Thurvishar’s father at all.
So, he smiled back. “Don’t you mean ‘was your father’s name’?”
Darzin coughed to cover his laugh, although the way his hand tightened on Kihrin’s arm suggested mixed signals and a warning not to do that again.
The Lord Heir D’Lorus only smiled. “Yes, exactly so. Well, I hope you enjoy yourselves. I believe my grandfather is wandering the crowds, fielding the curious questions of our peers as they attempt to discern just how evil I really am.” He waggled his eyebrows at Kihrin. “Now, with your pardon . . . ah, High Lord Kallin. So glad you could make it . . .” He disappeared in a swirl of black velvet as he left to meet the red-cloaked leader of House D’Talus.
Darzin squeezed Kihrin’s arm again. “Don’t get into any trouble.”
“You’re leaving me?” The young man didn’t hide his surprise.
“I have people to meet,” Darzin said. “The wine table is over there.” He pointed to a crowded area where young men and women in elegant black robes poured wine into fluted crystal glasses. With that invitation given, the Lord Heir of D’Mon turned and walked into the crowd, smiling as he greeted a favorite.
Kihrin wasn’t heartbroken to see him go. Enough interesting activity swirled around the Dark Hall to keep the young man occupied. The young women were captivating, which was unsurprising. The Royal Houses were rich and powerful enough that he imagined no ugliness was allowed to show its head amongst their carefully manicured gardens.
Still, it was one thing to think of such things objectively, and quite another to see a shapely brunette walk by—wearing clothing that would have made a Shattered Veil Club velvet girl blush. She caught his gaze, smiled, and gave him a frank appraisal.
Maybe being royalty wasn’t so bad.
“Kihrin? Kihrin, is that you?” He heard a familiar voice and turned.
Jarith Milligreest stood in front of him, holding a glass of wine. He wasn’t dressed in formal military attire that evening, but wore a white misha with a red embroidered vest over black kef tucked into boots. He might have passed as a noble himself, if he’d stayed with a single color.
The man grinned and clapped Kihrin on the shoulder. “My father told me you’re a D’Mon and I admit, I didn’t believe it could be true . . . but to see you here!” He lowered his voice and said, “My condolences on your father. Surdyeh’s death was a tragedy.”
Kihrin nearly lost control of himself right then. It was the first time anyone had given condolences on Surdyeh’s death without some manner of caveat—how he must have deserved it, how Surdyeh had been a criminal. It was the only time when Kihrin knew the person understood. Jarith had met the man. Jarith had seen the worry on his father’s face, Kihrin’s concern in turn on the streets in the aftermath of that demon attack. His throat tightened and he felt the threat of tears hovering at the corners of his eyes. Kihrin shook his head and managed to stammer out, “Thank you.”
“Come then, I have to parade around and make a good impression, and I will not be so gauche as to drag you with me. Later, some friends of mine are going to gather in a room upstairs and have a card game. Look for the door with a vase of peacock feathers outside. You’re welcome to join.”
The young man ducked his head. “Thank you. That’s kind of you.”
Jarith laughed and clasped his hand to Kihrin’s before he let the younger man go. “Kind? I’m just looking for anyone who’s not depraved beyond reason. We outsiders need to stick together. There’s safety in numbers, you know.” He gave Kihrin a friendly wink before he, too, headed into the crowd to continue mingling.
Kihrin looked around. He couldn’t see the violet-eyed brunette anymore, but probably for the best. The last thing he wanted to do was start an incident.
Most of the guests were past their majority by a decade or more. He spotted a group of teenage boys over in one corner, but he knew a closed gang when he saw one. They’d let him know how they felt about him on their own terms, assuming they didn’t just dismiss him out of hand for his scandalous upbringing.
Key training kicked in. Everyone was here in the great room, near the food, wine, and entertainment. A few were leaving for private assignations and meetings in upper rooms. Yet there were exits from the room that didn’t seem to lead to the kitchens or the servants’ areas.
Kihrin made sure no one was paying attention, most of all Darzin, and quietly headed into the back rooms of the Dark Hall.
Kihrin didn’t know why he was surprised to discover House D’Lorus owned a magnificent library. The room hadn’t been locked and the passage of feet and the wear on the carved mahogany doors suggested regular, steady use. Once inside, Kihrin had taken a few minutes to admire a room nearly as large as the great dining hall at the Blue Palace—but given over entirely to books, scrolls, tablets, and maps.
The room itself was three stories tall, but open in the center, so the higher stories were reached by catwalks and ladders. Every inch of wall space and every section of shelf was lined with books. Kihrin wasn’t in love with books—he’d grown to loathe the giant medical textbook Lady Miya was forcing him to memorize—but the quantity of volumes present couldn’t help but elicit admiration. Some books sat under glass, and some lay on special pedestals, and some were chained to desks to prevent their removal. There were maps too, on tables and under great gilt frames hanging from walls.
A painting rested on one of the lone walls not covered in bookcases, a painting of an elegant woman with long shining hair and hot black eyes. She wasn’t as pretty as many of the women he’d seen in his short stay in the Upper City, but she was handsome and defiant. The subtle slant of a hand on her hip, the tilt of her chin, managed to convey that she was a woman who would never do as she was told. Kihrin liked her immediately.
“My mother, Raverí,” Thurvishar D’Lorus said. “She was sentenced to Continuance for her role in the Affair of the Voices.”
Kihrin only jumped a foot off the ground, and didn’t yelp, although it was a close thing. He turned around and tried to pretend he’d known the Lord Heir was there the whole time. “Sentenced to Continuance? What does that mean?” He hadn’t heard Thurvishar approach, hadn’t had the least inkling that he wasn’t alone in the room. He found himself disconcerted.*
“Oh, you wouldn’t have run across it in the Lower Circle, would you? When a female member of royalty, who is expected to provide an heir, is condemned of capital crimes—she’s kept in prison until the baby is delivered, and then executed. That way the House continues.”*
Kihrin felt a shudder. “That’s, uh. . . .”
“I believe the word you’re looking for is ‘vile,’” Thurvishar said. “Anyway, I’m surprised to find you here. Most people would rather be looking for the wine cellar.”
Kihrin paused. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might be trespassing. He took a step toward the door. “Oh, uh. I didn’t realize it was off-limits. I was—” He waved a finger in a circle. “I didn’t touch anything.”
“Interested in books?” Thurvishar asked. His voice was a purr Kihrin couldn’t help but find menacing.
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?” Kihrin crossed his arm
s over his chest as he continued maneuvering toward the exit. “I can read.”
“Much to your new family’s surprise, I’m sure,” Thurvishar agreed. “Were you looking for anything?”
“No. I didn’t mean to intrude. I should get back to the party.” As Kihrin reached for the door handle, it opened on its own.
Morea stepped into the room.
Kihrin felt a moment’s dizziness. He knew it wasn’t, couldn’t, be Morea. This was Talea, the twin sister Thurvishar had purchased. Still, the resemblance was palpable, a dagger pressed against Kihrin’s throat. A dagger pressed against his heart when she flinched from him, pulling away with a widening of eyes and a look bordering on panic.
Thurvishar held out his hand to her. “It’s all right, Talea. I’m here.”
The young woman edged past Kihrin like a feral cat avoiding a hound and rushed to Thurvishar D’Lorus’s side. Thurvishar put an arm around her waist and pulled the young woman to him, stopping to kiss the top of her head. “Please forgive my slave. Her last owner treated her poorly, and she’s still recovering.”
Kihrin swallowed. “Of course.”
Talea looked up at Thurvishar. “My lord, you asked—” She glanced at Kihrin then, quick and uncertain, as if she didn’t know if she should speak while he was in the room.
“It’s all right, my dear,” Thurvishar reassured her.
“You said I should come fetch you before the card game began,” she reminded him.
“Ah, yes! So I did.” Thurvishar snapped his fingers and smiled before turning to Kihrin. “I would never neglect the passions of a fellow bibliophile. Stay and read if such is your fancy. Alas, my presence is required elsewhere.”