Spirit of the King (21 page)

They’re only stairs.

He stepped up onto the next stair, then the next, his shoulder brushing the wall his only guide to keep him from going over the edge. Step after step he climbed, fingers trailing along the stone wall beside him. After several dozen steps had passed under his feet, he stopped, listening. He still heard Athryn’s gentle breathing on the floor below, but there was nothing else; no bats or birds flitted overhead chasing bugs, no sounds from outside the tower penetrated its thick wall.

Another step. Another. Khirro climbed the staircase following the curve of the tower wall, each step forward taking him higher and deeper into darkness. He moved slowly, cautiously, silently counting each stair as his foot set upon it without knowing why he was climbing.

When his count reached two hundred, he stopped again, listened to the silence. The only sounds now came from within him: the beat of his heart, the whisper of breath in his throat, the creak of his armor each time his chest expanded. He saw nothing ahead and above him but darkness; behind and below was the same.

A wave of vertigo overtook Khirro, spinning his head in the dark. He leaned toward the wall and felt as though it would surely be gone; it startled him when his back touched it. The dark spun around him, shortening his breath and bringing nausea from his gut to his throat. He flattened himself against the wall, arms spread, and closed his eyes to stop the world from spinning. After a minute that felt as though it stretched on for an hour, his head steadied, his stomach settled, and Khirro opened his eyes to the same darkness they’d observed before.

He looked down and saw nothing. If he hadn’t counted two hundred stairs passing under his feet, he might have thought he could step off right onto the floor, but he knew that would be the death of him, the end of hope for the kingdom. He looked up and thought he saw a sliver of light. It invigorated him and he began moving up the stairs, keeping as close to the wall as he could.

As he climbed, the sliver of light grew brighter, and with it his mood lifted. He moved faster, driven to get out of the dark and into the light. His thighs ached from climbing, sweat ran from his temple, but the light got closer until he recognized it as the sun shining through the narrow crack beneath a door.

Khirro made his way cautiously up the last few stairs, suddenly aware again of the fall awaiting him if he misstepped. Finally, his eyes drew even with the crack under the door and he could see the last few stairs dimly lit, and the landing at the top of them.

He rested a moment as he reached the top, sucking deep breaths into his lungs in an attempt to recover from the climb. How horrible it must have been to be a condemned man making such an ascent, having so much time to contemplate your coming demise. Khirro shivered at the thought but put it aside as he reached for the door.

It wasn’t locked, of course. At such a height, there was nothing to keep out, and who in their right mind would climb the steps to the door.

Only me, I suppose.

The city stretched away in all directions from the spire, its broken down buildings bathed in the golden glow of early morning sun. Beyond the far city wall, yellow-brown steppe led to forest and the ground rose to hills. Khirro didn’t know if he looked toward Kanos or Lakesh, but either way, the view was breathtaking.

As was the sheer height of the spire.

Khirro stepped gingerly onto the ledge outside the door. It was big enough for a few men to stand on at once—perhaps ten feet wide and extending out five feet from the tower—but the lack of any handhold or railing to separate platform from empty air made it a poor idea to crowd it with too many. One was probably enough.

The soles of Khirro’s boots scuffed the rough stone as he shuffled away from the doorway , curious to peer over the edge. He leaned forward, dragged his feet ahead another few inches, then leaned again.

The stairs two hundred feet below were tinted pink, painted that color by the lives they’d taken over the centuries. After the climb to get here and now standing on the platform, Khirro realized that the death at the end of the fall might have been a relief to the condemned who took the plunge. The dread anticipation and exertion of climbing the stairs, the opportunity to contemplate the value of life while standing on the platform looking over the city and the land beyond, the fearful descent to the stairs so far below all must have been tortures heaped upon tortures that hitting the stairs would finally relieve.

Tortures heaped upon tortures.

Like having the life you were raised for torn from you against your will. Like being cursed to carry out a task you didn’t want. Like watching friends and companions die in the name of helping you. Like never having the chance to love the woman you truly loved.

Khirro moved closer to the edge, his toes less than an inch from open air. A bird flew by close to the tower but beneath the level of the platform; cold wind touched his cheeks, drying the sweat on his temples and making him shiver. He looked down at the pink stone stairs and drew a long breath in through his nose.

One death could save so many: Athryn, the child in my dreams, my family. If only it could bring back those already lost.

The wind rose again, flapping his breeches against his legs, tugging at him. He crossed his arms, hugged himself against the cold, but he knew it wasn’t only the cold that made him shiver. It was also where he stood, and it was temptation.

But how many more would die along with that one death?

The thoughts were like words in his head that didn’t feel as though they belonged to him. He swayed slightly forward and back again, forward and back. His legs ached, tired of holding him upright, tired of holding the burden.

Smoke curled from chimneys of many of the decrepit houses below and Khirro caught a whiff of pork frying, bread baking. He saw people moving through the streets. These weren’t his people, but they made him think of his own home, of people like the widow Breadmaker who liked to entertain foreign merchants, and of Maree who showed him her lady flower when they were but children. Did they deserve to die because Khirro didn’t want to go on any longer?

Do they?

The voice again that didn’t belong to him. He knew whose voice it was: the tyger's.

“No,” he said aloud. “They don’t.”

Khirro turned his shoulders to move away from the edge, but his feet wouldn’t do as they were told. The world tilted and he stumbled, arms pinwheeling, desperately seeking balance without finding it. Khirro threw his weight backward, away from the edge, felt air rush around him and the sensation of falling. Saliva flooded his mouth with the coppery taste of panic.

Then his backside hit the platform.

His heart beat fast in his chest, pumping blood and adrenaline through his veins at the speed of racing horses. He scuttled away from the edge like a crab fleeing the sea and scrabbled through the doorway, closing the door behind him to sit atop the stairs in the dark.

Half an hour later, when Khirro stepped off the bottom stair onto the flat stone floor, his hands were still shaking. He paused and found the sound of Athryn’s breathing in the darkness, then peered back up the stairs. The sliver of light from under the door was invisible in the dark, as were the stairs set into the wall and the ceiling so far overhead. He swallowed hard. His heart had returned to its regular rhythm, and the urge to throw himself from the platform was gone, but as he’d made his way down the stairs, another feeling came over him and it returned as he crossed the floor to take up a position beside the door.

Despite the echo of his footsteps confirming the emptiness of the place, he felt like they were being watched.

Cold salt water splashed Graymon’s feet and ankles. The going through the forest with its tangled underbrush had been slow and noisy, so when he emerged onto the shore of what he thought must be the Small Sea, he decided to take to the water to move faster. The numbness spreading through his toes made him regret the decision.

The wind tugged at the blanket around his shoulders and no matter how tightly he held it or how careful he was, a corner kept dipping into the water, the wool soaking it up so a third of his covering was wet. One good thing about the coldness of the water and wind: they made staying awake easier even as they rattled his teeth.

He moved out of the shallow waves onto the shore, drenched boots crunching and gurgling on the pebbly beach. So long he’d dreamed of the water, of seeing the beach and swimming in the surf like his father had done in the stories of his youth. But his dreams of the sea looked vastly different than this. In his dreams, the sun tanned his skin and the water felt warm and inviting.

No dead men chased him in the dreams.

A sound behind him made him stop, the fine rocks shifting and grinding beneath his feet. He held his breath and listened, ignoring the pressure in his bladder as the lapping waves did their best to coax urine out of him, distracting him.

The sound came again—clearly a growl this time—and thoughts of urinating disappeared. An animal? He crouched and listened, annoyed by the noise of the tiny stones under the soles of his boots. A second sound, answering the first. It was no animal.

They know I’m gone.

Graymon looked around frantically but didn’t see the soldiers. The water’s edge lay a few feet to his left, the tree line ten yards to his right. He wiggled his toes, noticed feeling returning, and knew he couldn’t go back into the water. With nowhere to hide on the beach, the forest’s tangled thicket offered his best option.

And the place they’ll be looking.

The boy duck-walked across the rocky beach, eyes fixed on his goal. If they were to notice him before he reached the forest, he didn’t want to see them coming.

Clouds scudded past the half moon, casting shadow and throwing the shoreline into darkness. Each shadow leaping from stones and driftwood increased Graymon’s pulse, building panic that pushed him for the trees. After what seemed an impossibly long time to cross such a short distance, he tumbled into the snarl of brush.

Barbs raked his arms, runners tangled his ankles. He thrashed his way through; the feel of blood running from the scratches on his forearm brought tears to his eyes as he broke free into the forest. Underbrush grew thicker beneath the trees, but it didn’t seek to hurt him. Instead, his feet caught on roots, sending him off balance as he stumbled away from the shore.

Graymon breathed hard and fast through his nose but didn’t slow his pace to fill his lungs and soon felt lightheaded. He slumped down on a fallen log and wiped tears and snot off his face with the dirty woolen blanket. Quiet returned to the night, the silence broken only by the waves sweeping onto the shore. He filled his chest with air and his nose with the earthy smell of decaying leaves.

Be brave!

He took another breath and felt his heart begin to slow. Wind rustled what few leaves autumn had left clinging to the trees.

Be brave!

Gathering his courage, Graymon stood. Did no longer hearing the dead men following him mean they gave up or went to look somewhere else? Or did they hear him and were sneaking up on him? He couldn’t stay in one place no matter how scared he felt.

Be brave!

He crept away from the log, mindful of his footing, but the pressure in his bladder returned and wouldn’t go no matter how he tried to ignore it. He could wait no more.

Graymon threw the blanket off his shoulders and undid his breeches. At first, as he glanced around expecting a decomposed face to jump out from behind any one of a hundred trees, the pee wouldn’t start. He concentrated, pushed hard, startled himself when he passed wind then stifled a giggle at the sound. Finally, the pee came, spattering off the broad green leaf of a plant his father would want him to know the name of but he couldn’t remember. He sighed as his bladder emptied, then took a step back, worried he might be peeing on his boots.

He was almost finished when he heard the growl again.

Fear squeezed off the stream of urine and he pulled his breeches up. The last of the pee ran down the inside of his thigh; he ignored it and forced himself to be quiet despite the urge to run. A shape that didn’t look like a dead soldier loomed ahead, indistinct in the gloomy forest. He moved toward it and found the gnarled end of an uprooted tree. Graymon inserted himself amongst the twisted roots, avoiding thoughts of the spiders and other insects that likely called it home. He hunkered down, sinking as far back into the tree trunk as the space allowed, then remained still.

Minutes passed with no more sound and Graymon began to wonder if he’d imagined the growls. He considered leaving the cover of the tree and looking around but dismissed it—the creepy-crawlies possibly making their way up his sleeves and pant legs were preferable to rotting men. He waited, breathing shallowly. The wind shook the trees and he shivered, hugging himself against the cold, teeth chattering. Then his breathing halted.

The blanket!

In his haste to hide he’d left the blanket lying in the brush where he peed. His eyes flickered across the narrow slices of forest he saw between the twisted roots. Nothing.

Should I go get it?

He wished his father was with him to tell him what to do. His da was a brave hero, but no matter how much he wanted to be one or how hard he tried to convince himself he was, Graymon knew he wasn’t really a brave hero himself. He was just a boy trying to survive.

If I don’t get it, they’ll find it and know I’m here.

He clicked his teeth together as he thought.

If I leave here, they might see me.

He chewed his bottom lip, weighing the two options, deciding between the lesser of evils. He felt safe with the gnarled tree at his back, but how long would that last?

Another growl, low and barely distinguishable amongst the rustle of leaves, convinced him to stay put. He let his breath out slowly and scanned what little he could see. Wan light streamed through the trees as a cloud moved past the moon.

A many-legged insect crawled onto Graymon’s hand and he moved instinctively to brush it away when he saw a figure outlined in the dim light. The man grunted, stooped, and rose again holding Graymon’s blanket. Another man joined the first, then another. The many legged-thing scurried over Graymon’s wrist and up his sleeve. A squeal rose in the boy’s chest but he strangled it before it escaped his throat. Another unseen creature crawled onto his face, this one with fewer legs and a gentle touch he wouldn’t have felt on any other part of his body. It moved across the thin line of his pressed-together lips. Unable to bear any more, Graymon closed his eyes and held his breath for fear of sucking some insect up his nose. The thing on his face passed over his ear and into his hair where it might have remained, but he no longer felt its presence. The one in his sleeve made itself at home in the crook of his elbow.