The Ruin of Kings

by Jenn Lyons

  “Run!” Tyentso screamed, which seemed like solid advice: the gate that was to be our escape route lay in the center of the old Temple of Ynis, now rededicated to Thaena.

  That meant we were going to have to run toward the death cloud if we wanted to escape.

  “We can’t,” Teraeth said. “We’ll never make it in time.”

  I knew what he was talking about. I’d paid attention all those times the Old Man had created similar clouds. There was zero chance we would run faster than that air would move. I wasn’t worried about Doc. Khaemezra was with him, and she was more than capable of protecting them both.

  Us? I wasn’t so sure about us. Even if the burning cloud didn’t kill us, the mountain was spitting out molten rocks that slammed into the ground. Just one hit would be enough.

  Tyentso started running anyway, and she had a determined gleam in her eye that told me she was going to try something insane. Probably, she meant to try holding back that cloud through force of will alone, and much as I thought of her skill as a magus, I didn’t think she was that powerful.

  I’m not sure Relos Var was that powerful.

  “Stop Ty!” I yelled at Teraeth, although I was running too. “I need her help!”

  Teraeth didn’t run faster than me, but he could use one of his illusions to catch her attention.

  “Scamp, we need to go!” she shouted.

  “We can’t outrun it,” I said, “but maybe we can redirect it.” I pulled out the saymisso and ran the bow over the strings. “The mountain’s mostly basalt, right?” I looked at Teraeth for confirmation, but he just shrugged. Evidently, he hadn’t paid attention.

  “Basalt and obsidian,” Tyentso volunteered. “The cloud itself will be pumice.”

  “I don’t need to match the composition perfectly, just enough to cause a landslide.” I frantically thought back over my knowledge of Ynisthana geography. The best place to divert the flow would be at the caves, which had the advantage of having already been hollowed out (assuming they weren’t filling up with fresh magma). The trick was keeping all of us alive for long enough to make sure I could cast the spell.

  As if to emphasize that point, the Stone of Shackles went hot around my neck. I looked up in time see a giant glowing orb of rock batted to the side by Tyentso.

  “What can I do?” Teraeth asked, looking as nervous and uncertain as I’d ever seen him, but then his illusions were useless against the foe we fought, and he likewise faced nothing he could poison or stab.

  “Guide us,” I said. “I’ll be playing. Ty will be keeping us both alive. Neither of us will be watching our step. We need to be just close enough to see the caves and not an inch closer.”

  That cloud seemed like it was just seconds from swallowing all of us, but I knew it wasn’t a short trek up that mountain, and the scale of the damn thing made judging distance difficult.

  I muttered a prayer out loud to Taja, because I needed all the luck she could give me.

  Three times on the way, Teraeth either pulled us to the side or Tyentso used her magic to save us from lava fountains or fast, lethal projectiles. I didn’t have a target yet. This wasn’t what I’d spent years practicing, but the theory seemed sound. If I could collapse the cliff edge away from the temple, the cloud would follow that easier path, and we would reach safety.

  If I miscalculated, I would either damn us to an earlier death or bury the temple in burning ash, making escape impossible.

  Finally, Teraeth pulled us to a halt. Ahead of us was the mountain and the giant cliff face that housed both the caves used as shelter by the Black Brotherhood and, farther to the side, the large temple built into the mountain. The volcanic avalanche would reach that temple, and just after would reach us, in a matter of seconds.

  The spell I cast at that moment was considerably less subtle than the first. I had no time to waste on a stealthy ritual that would go unnoticed until it was too late. While I played I hoped Doc was still using Chainbreaker to cloud the Old Man’s mind, because if the dragon felt me cast this same spell a second time from somewhere else on the island, the whole con would be for nothing. He’d know I was still alive.

  I bowed the strings violently, seeking the necessary disharmony and vibration so they could be amplified. All I was doing, you understand, was encouraging rock to do what it wants to do anyway. Rock wants to crumble. Stone wants to turn back into sand. You might think the ground would fight this, but you’d be wrong.

  Everything falls.

  “Damn,” Teraeth said next to me, while Tyentso said nothing as she concentrated on keeping dangerous gases out of our breathing air and boiling rocks away from our skin.

  The sound of the volcanic eruption was so loud we couldn’t hear the avalanche, but a giant section of the cliff face detached, sheared away, and collapsed to the ground, rolling downward into the jungle. The glowing cloud acted like a river that had just found a new course made available; it jogged to the right, following the new bed as it wreaked its path of destruction.

  We ran for the temple.

  68: THE LION’S DEN

  (Talon’s story)

  Thurvishar D’Lorus raised an eyebrow as Kihrin D’Mon entered his private curtained booth at the Culling Fields.

  “You didn’t have to humiliate him, you know,” Kihrin said as he sat at the table. “I’m glad you didn’t kill him, but you didn’t have to make him look like a fool.”

  The corner of Thurvishar’s mouth quirked as he regarded Kihrin with affection. “But he is a fool. He is absolutely a fool. He seems like a nice man, don’t mistake me. He seems loyal and brave and true to his friends. However, only a fool challenges someone like me to duel in the Arena and doesn’t come prepared for the possibility that I will melt his spine.” He picked up the bottle of Raenena wine he’d had waiting for him on ice and poured himself a glass of pale blue liquid. “Be grateful I’m a nice man myself, and only delivered an object lesson.”

  “That’s right. You like object lessons, don’t you?” Kihrin remembered the blood on the man’s hands from the night before.

  Thurvishar swirled the blue liquid in its glass. Then he focused his attention on Kihrin again. “I do. Had circumstances been different, I like to think I’d have made a fine teacher. Now why are you here?”

  “You wanted everyone watching to think you twisted chance, but if you had, if you could really do that, then you shouldn’t have lost last night.” Kihrin paused. “Unless losing was the whole point. I’ve worshipped Taja for a long time, but I never had a run of luck like that. Never. I didn’t win last night because I cheated. I won last night because you cheated. You wanted to spark a duel—just not with Jarith.”

  Thurvishar smiled. “You’re smarter than you look, kid.”

  “Who did you expect you’d be fighting anyway? Darzin?”

  “If I had fought Darzin,” Thurvishar admitted, “our duel would have ended very differently. Darzin is many things, but not a fool.” He gave a small half-smile and shook his head as he stood.

  “Why do you hate my father so much?”

  Thurvishar paused, one hand on the curtains. “I don’t hate your father at all. I hold him in high regard. He was, after all, one of my father’s closest friends.”

  “But you just said—” Kihrin frowned. He knew that Thurvishar hated Darzin. He remembered the threats exchanged between the two men, the unequivocal anger. How could he look Kihrin in the eyes and claim—

  “My father,” Kihrin repeated. There was a catch there. A play on words. Thurvishar’s father wasn’t Gadrith; his father was Sandus. His father. “Wait. Do you hate Darzin D’Mon?”

  “Passionately,” Thurvishar answered. “I’ll leave you with this thought, young D’Mon: an interesting quirk of the Arena is that it is beyond all divination, all clairvoyance. If a wizard can prevent sound from escaping—a simple trick I assure you—there is no force in all the universe that can discern the dialog of a conversation held within its borders. It really is a shame I couldn’t
provoke you into a duel, or that you are too young to be considered a fair opponent. What an interesting talk we might have had.”

  The wizard set down his glass, left enough coin on the table to pay for several nights with his pick of bedmates at the Shattered Veil Club, and walked out of the alcove. Kihrin could only stare, mouth open.

  Kihrin hid in the stables.

  Now one might think the stables a poor place to hide from Darzin’s attention, since the Lord Heir was famously fond of horses, but Darzin seldom ventured into the stables themselves. Instead, the grooms did all the mucking and feeding of the horses while he rode them or presented them to guests at his leisure. And when Darzin did come to claim a horse, Kihrin could count on him not being at the stables for at least a few hours. The location was therefore free of interruption, provided he didn’t draw attention to himself.

  Like play Valathea—which was exactly what he was doing.

  To be fair, he didn’t have a good place to practice. If he tried in his room, the High Lord complained of the noise, although Kihrin thought the room soundproof enough so no one could hear him. If he practiced elsewhere, Darzin always found him, and Darzin hated the idea of Kihrin playing at the upcoming New Year’s Ball. After the duel between Thurvishar and Jarith, Darzin wanted Kihrin to keep a low profile until the High General forgot Kihrin existed.

  Kihrin didn’t know what Lord Therin thought, only that if he never reminded Therin about the harp or his promise, Therin would never change his mind about Kihrin playing. Indeed, it was really Therin from whom the young man hid.

  He’d built himself a fortress of straw bales to keep the sound from echoing into the main stable. Behind that wall, he practiced notes, biting down on the way each played refrain reminded him of the people he had lost. He wished Morea were still alive. He wished Surdyeh were still alive. He had so many questions, and no answers but a strange intaglio-carved ruby ring.

  Kihrin’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of a horse’s whinny. He paused with his nails on the strings. This was a stable, after all: there were horses. And yet this wasn’t coming from one of the stalls, and was much too close. He peeked around one of the hay bales, looking over the side of the loft to the stable beneath.

  “Ah,” he said, smiling. “It’s you, Scandal. Escaped from your cell again?”

  The Jorat fireblood, Darzin’s prized but never-ridden possession, was below looking up at Kihrin. She was an enormous horse, blue-gray throughout her body but with white stockings and a white mane and tail. He had been told her size was normal for the breed, but she seemed too large for a human being to actually ride. Not that she would let anyone ride her anyway; the horse’s typical response to anyone who tried was murder. She was also quite the escape artist, although her attempts had been half-hearted since Star’s arrival.

  She tossed her mane and blew air in a way that seemed like agreement, then stamped her front hoof repeatedly against the ground and lowered her head. Kihrin smiled. He liked to think that she was applauding his performance.

  “She likes it when you play. Can’t keep her in her stall if she hears you,” Star said as he came around the corner.

  Galen had been surprised when Darzin hadn’t had the horse killed, but Kihrin understood well enough. As long as Darzin owned her, he could boast of her lethality, her size, her divine breeding. (Was she not the equine equivalent of a god-touched royal, after all?) He could laugh if anyone suggested she should be ridden or bred, while keeping his private frustrations hidden. If he killed her though—he could only admit his attempts a failure. The deaths had stopped since Star’s arrival; but she remained a magnificent specimen worthy of envy and admiration. Darzin had decided she was worth the effort in exchange for bragging rights.

  Kihrin fished in his satchel, pulled out an apple, and tossed the fruit down to the mare. He’d learned she liked apples. They were an expensive, exotic treat—not native to the areas around the Capital—but what did he care about spending D’Mon metal? “For you, my lady,” he told her, giving her a bow. “Shall I continue playing?”

  The mare expertly caught the apple from midair, and nodded vigorously.

  He pulled the harp up from behind the hay bales, sat down on the edge of one, and began to play once more. It was risky—Darzin would certainly hear him if he came into the stable area proper—but Darzin never let the fireblood horse anywhere near him, so he hoped it would balance. He played a vané song, the one he had been practicing for the New Year’s Ball, and once again let the silver chords of music wrap themselves around him.

  Star leaned against the wooden frame of the barn entrance, a piece of straw having replaced the sliver of wood as his favorite toothpick. He listened with half-closed eyes. The fireblood horse moved her head the way a human might move their hands in time with the music.

  “What are firebloods?” Kihrin asked when he finished the song.

  “Horses,” Star answered.

  Kihrin sighed. “They’re not like other horses.”*

  “No,” Star agreed with a shrug. “Not like other horses. Come on, Scandal. We’re finished here, you think? We should get you back before the little men panic and run.” He chuckled at the thought, a sound mirrored by the gray horse.

  “Why do you call her Scandal?” Kihrin asked as he watched the giant horse turn and trot out of the room.

  Star shifted the piece of hay from one side of his mouth to the other. “Because you call her Scandal.”

  “It’s not her name,” Kihrin said, laughing.

  Star shrugged. “She likes it.” He gave the adolescent a wink and ducked back around the side of the door, following his charge back to her stall.

  Kihrin smiled and put Valathea away in her case.

  “There you are,” Lady Miya said.

  Kihrin looked down to see the seneschal of the house standing in the same doorway Star had just vacated.

  “Lady Miya? Is something wrong?”

  The elegant woman raised her chin. “The High Lord wishes to speak with you.”

  “You’ve been avoiding me,” Therin D’Mon said to Kihrin after Lady Miya left them alone.

  Kihrin crossed his arms over his chest. “What gave me away, my lord?”

  Therin raised both eyebrows, and Kihrin fought the temptation to fidget or worse, to apologize. Instead he looked around the High Lord’s office, noting nothing much had changed since he was there last, save perhaps a different set of papers now occupied his grandfather’s attention.

  If “grandfather” was the right word now.

  “We are allowed the privilege of being friends with the High General and his family,” Therin said as he dipped his quill in ink and signed the next piece of paper, “because we do not abuse that privilege, because we do not rub it in the faces of our peers that we receive special favors. Having his son fight your duels for you . . . how do you think that makes us look?”

  The room grew silent save for the sound of the quill tip scratching against paper. Therin looked up. “Well?”

  “Like we’re well connected and it would be dangerous to cross us?” Kihrin suggested.

  “Jarith Milligreest was left looking like an idiot because of that association. Why would anyone presume Milligreest would jump to our aid after that kind of embarrassment?”

  Kihrin took a deep breath. “That wasn’t my fault. I didn’t ask him to fight that duel for me.”

  Therin leaned back in his chair and regarded the young man. “I think you have me confused with someone who cares if it was your fault. I really don’t. This isn’t a matter of who is at fault. This is a matter of how it affects appearances and how it stains the reputation of our family. Understand?”

  Kihrin fought not to roll his eyes. “Yes, my lord.”

  Therin tilted his head. “You don’t agree.”

  “What gave me away, my lord?”

  “So what is it? What do I not understand about the situation?”

  “That it involves Darzin. He’s doing something.
”

  “I’m aware Darzin is ‘doing something.’ I asked you to find out specifics, not use him as a free license to embarrass the House. You’ll need to come up with a better excuse.” He waved a hand. “Consider yourself confined to your suite until the end of Festival.”

  Kihrin’s eyes widened. “You can’t do that.”

  “It’s done. If I can’t count on you to behave yourself, I won’t give you the opportunity to disappoint me a second time.”

  Kihrin worried at his lip for a moment before he sighed heavily and spoke. “Darzin and Thurvishar are working together. I overheard them talking. They were with a third, someone I call Dead Man. I don’t know his real name. They’re planning something. Another summoning, although I don’t know why. They were scouting an underground chamber. Pedron used to torture people there and I heard one of them say that you had turned it into a Temple of Thaena. I also heard them say that Thurvishar’s mother had been held as a prisoner there, to be sacrificed.”

  Therin stared at him. There was disbelief in those eyes.

  Kihrin fought down his anger. “I saw it. Well, I heard it. But it was Thurvishar D’Lorus. I know it was. I recognized his voice.”

  Therin slammed his quill into the ink bottle, splattering blue ink across the paper in front of him. “You must never lie to me, nor think your upbringing as a minstrel’s son gives you some license for creative invention.”

  “I am not lying!” the young man protested.

  Therin stood and walked to the single window, gazing out over the roofs of the Blue Palace. “Part of what you say is true,” Therin said as he looked back at Kihrin. “There was a young lady found in a chamber used by my uncle Pedron. A friend of mine married her afterwards—”

  “Sandus. The friend was Emperor Sandus, right?”

  “—before she was murdered, as was their son. I don’t think Sandus would appreciate the suggestion that the Lord Heir of House D’Lorus is his long-dead child.”

  “But Thurvishar said—”

  “How old is Thurvishar D’Lorus? Twenty? Cimillion would be younger than you, if he had lived. Thurvishar is far too old, never mind that he looks nothing like Sandus.” Therin shrugged. “To be fair, he doesn’t resemble Gadrith either. We’ve all long suspected Cedric D’Lorus plucked some anonymous Ogenra from obscurity and claimed the child as his grandson. Thurvishar is a D’Lorus. One only has to look at his eyes to see that.”