Spirit of the King (26 page)

She has failed.

She stood and crossed to the window, the soft fur of the bearskin rug grating on the bottom of her feet more than usual, her hatred of it amplified by her mood. Her skin was thankful when it touched cool stone.

I should have the damn rug removed.

She threw open the shutters and stared out into the night. From the window in the king’s quarters on the third floor, she could see the tops of a few buildings and the inside of the fortress’ wall, nothing beyond. She knew the building faced north when the happenings of her dream lay to the west, but she stared hard into the night as if doing so would allow her to see into the distant public house and look into the face of her enemy.

When it didn’t, she put her hand on her chest and breathed deep, her chest and heart and lungs stinging with the wounds inflicted by the flaming tyger on her assassin. She felt blood oozing from the wound and onto her fingers, heard the hiss of breath escaping from the holes in her chest. Life escaped the body with the fluid and the air. The Archon closed her eyes and concentrated, willing the power to rise in her, and the pain faded.

Vanquishing the feeling of Shariel’s wounds changed neither the fact of her death nor the survival of the man and the spirit of the king within him.

Her eyes remained closed another minute as she fought the urge to build the power further, to use it to transport herself to that distant city and finish herself what the assassin started, but she knew she didn’t have the power to do it. It took too much of her to raise the dead men and keep them going for her to expend so much energy elsewhere. She must trust the man’s journey would be cut short another way, or that he would come to her and find his death at her hands.

A cold breeze gusted through the window, blowing the scent of Perdaro’s body out of her nostrils and carrying with it the briny scent of the sea and the hint of winter coming in the near future. The wind embraced her, caressed her like no man ever could, but his time it didn’t calm her or make her feel better like it so often did. Instead, it was the gust of air to fan the flames.

“He lives,” she said aloud; Perdaro snorted in his sleep. “And he still carries the king within him.”

This wasn’t what she had foreseen. In her visions, Erechania’s king and its people simply bent to her will, provided her the stepping stone she needed to launch her offensive on other kingdoms. As her army and her might pushed forward, she would eventually overthrow the southern kingdoms and learn the secrets of their dark magic no northerner had ever learned, not even Monos. She’d be the most powerful Necromancer who ever lived. No one would stop her.

Yet this man, this farmer, stood in her way.

“How is it he yet survives?”

She knew the answer. It was unexpected and unlikely, but not out of the realm of possibility. Only one man could have kept the farmer alive so long, a man who professed not to involve himself in the goings-on of men. Her eyes narrowed, a shadow fell across her face.

“Darestat.”

She cursed herself for not ensuring the old wizard was truly dead as she watched clouds roll across the moon, throwing the fortress into deeper night. If the Necromancer still lived, she would have to find ways to increase her powers to defeat him. It was no longer a farmer or a fallen king against whom she fought, but the powerful magician.

And she relished the challenge.

“This is not done,” she said crossing the room to the divan.

The velvet upholstery chaffed her flesh as she reclined on the bench. She closed her eyes, focusing the power swirling within her until her mind filled with the vision of a verdant field, blue sky, and the shape of a woman reclining in the grass.

“Shariel,” she said and smiled.

The flaming tyger’s claw pierces my heart and I know it’s done.

I’ve failed.

The flames flicker and die and the man called Khirro looks down on me with love and sorrow in his eyes. I want to tell him he’ll be okay, to reach up and stroke his cheek; in this moment I realize I’m Shariel no more. I’m Elyea: the woman he loved, the woman who loved him.

“Khirro.”

“
Shh.
Don’t speak.”

“She lied to me. It wasn’t you. I’m sorry.” He leans forward, puts his cheek against mine. It washes warmth through me not caused simply by the proximity of a warm body. This is the way he made me
feel.
 

“It wasn’t you. I loved you.”

“Don’t go. Not again.” He shakes his head and his cheek touching mine is the last thing I experience. I breathe my last breath and feel myself floating toward the ceiling with it.

Below me, Athryn kneels, his chanting finished. He uses my death to heal them both and the thought fills me with joy. I caused their injuries, so it’s fitting I’ll be the cause of their healing, too. I pass through the roof of the building, floating upward, and can no longer see the two men. The city of Poltghasa stretches beneath me, a sleeping beast, a place where I wreaked such havoc and caused such death.

But it wasn’t me. I see that now.

And I see the truth now, too. Khirro didn’t do those things, the woman in black manipulated me. He didn’t do anything but love me and care for me—the only man who ever truly did. He deserves my appreciation and love, not hatred and disdain, and he’ll have it forever more. It pains me I can’t show him.

I will find a way.

The city disappears, replaced by grass greener than grass should be. I roll onto my back, delighting in the feel of the dewy blades caressing my naked flesh. A cloudless sky carved of sapphire stretches forever over my head and peace fills me. If I can’t be with Khirro, this is where I want to be.

The Gods did not invent the sundial, it is a construct of man, to gauge when his life’s end approaches, so it holds no value here. Lives here have already ended. Perhaps, to a mortal, I’ve been here a few seconds when the colors begin to fade, or maybe it’s eons. No matter, I’ve seen this before, it led me from my paradise to hell on earth and I won’t let it happen again. I concentrate. The field wavers then solidifies. The sky fades, flirting with white, then returns to cerulean when I turn my attention to it.

A spot of black appears before me, small at first. It expands; before it takes shape, I know what it is. Who it is.

Anxiety intrudes on my peacefulness, nesting in the pit of my stomach. The black smudge grows to the size of a person, resolves itself into the woman in black, her cowl pulled back from what I once thought her beautiful face. The look in her eyes sends a shudder through my body.

“Shariel,” she says, a smile oozing across her lips.

“I’m not Shariel. I’m Elyea.”

“Do not be silly, child. There is no shame in your failure. Even I did not know the power within him.” She takes a step toward me and I fight the urge to crawl away, knowing it will do me no good. “I am here to offer you another chance, Shariel.”

“No. He’s done nothing to me. I’m Elyea, and I love Khirro.”

Rage chases the smile from the woman’s face for an instant, then she recovers and I notice the white teeth in her smile end in points. She takes another step closer.

“Nonsense.”

She slides her cloak off her shoulders; it falls in a black heap on my emerald grass, an ugly stain on my perfect place. She stands naked before me, dark nipples against pale flesh, no hair between her legs disguising the flower of her womanhood. I gaze upon the splendor of her body and remember how it made me feel before, but it’s a memory now. This time, instead of the tingling in my loins, disgust writhes in my belly.

“I am Elyea. I don’t do the bidding of a witch.”

She makes no attempt to replace the hideous slash of a smile when it evaporates. Her eyes narrow, her lips pull back from her pointed teeth as though she’ll pounce on me, eat me. She doesn’t. Instead she raises her arm, open hand held in front of her, and slowly closes it to a fist.

My throat constricts.

As my breath stops, I wonder how she can kill me if I’m already dead.

“I cannot kill you again,” she says answering my thoughts, “but worse places exist, places you do not want to be. You will find out about them first hand if you do not aid me.”

I shake my head and try to tell her I won’t help her, but nothing more than a gurgle emerges from my lips. The pressure on my throat increases and the pain spreads into my shoulders and chest, paralyzing me. My world of emerald grass and endless sky wavers. A fuzzy ball of cotton appears over the naked woman’s shoulder, a sure sign my consciousness is fleeing. The white spot grows, swirling larger until it looms behind her.

It becomes a man.

My eyes widen and she must sense its presence. She whirls toward it, breaking her concentration, and I gasp breath into my lungs. My beautiful world steadies itself.

“Leave the woman, Sheyndust.”

“Darestat.”

Her voice drips hatred. The name she utters returns fresh memories to me of a glowing chamber and a giant formed of mist.

“You have over-stepped your bounds, young one. There will be consequences.”

“Your time is passed, old man.” She retrieves her cloak and pulls it around her shoulders like it will protect her from the man with the long white beard. “Stay dead and let the world move on.”

“It will take more than one of your soldiers to kill me.” He chuckles as though having a conversation with an old friend. “Go back to your world of the living and leave the dead to the true Necromancer.”

“You cannot tell me--”

“Go.”

The force of his word flutters her cloak and bends the grass in a widening half moon outward from him. The woman glares; her form becomes indistinct and translucent.

“We will meet again, old man.”

“Yes, we will.”

His tone suggests a smile beneath his whiskers. The woman disappears and I sit up; he turns his attention toward me. Kindness and concern shine in his eyes and the peace I felt before returns.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

He raises a hand. “No reason, child. I am sorry this happened to you. I should have been more vigilant.”

“I know you.”

“Yes.” He nods and a gentle breeze sets the grass waving. It feels good on my face.

“I saw you die.”

He offers his hand and helps me to my feet. “And I saw you die, yet here we are, talking of our deaths.”

“Why has this happened?”

His hand still holds mine. His skin is rough and callused but his grip is tender. He looks down at his sandal-clad feet like my words have brought him shame.

“In order for important events to transpire as they must, a myriad of other things must happen. Unfortunately, our deaths were two of those things.”

“But what about what she did to me?”

It’s difficult to keep my voice even. I remember everything—my real life as Elyea and Shariel’s life of lies. I recall the things which truly happened as well as the untruths told by the woman in black. The thought of her brings the taste of bile to my tongue.

“Sheyndust seeks to change the outcome in her favor, but it must not be. I had thought things would unfold as necessary without my assistance, but I see that will not happen.”

“What will you do?”

His washed out blue eyes gaze into mine, penetrating deep into me. I feel him searching my soul for the truth of me and I know what he will find.

“You love him?”

I nod.

He gestures at the green fields and blue sky. “Would you give this up for him?”

I follow the sweep of his arm, reveling in each blade of grass, breathing the sky into my lungs. It will be difficult but I know it’s right.

“I would.”

His arm wraps around my shoulders and we stride away, our pace slow.

“But how can I help? How will Khirro raise Braymon without you?”

A low chuckle. “You cannot know the minds and plans of the Gods, my child. Nor can I, for things are not always what we expect.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You are not meant to, not yet. For Khirro to complete his task, he must know peace and truth. You are the one to bring this to him.”

I nod again, though my mind spins.

“Will I be with him?”

“Of a manner.”

He squeezes me close in a fatherly gesture I’ve never experienced. My father chose other, less loving and kind ways to show his feelings.

“There is much for you to do, child. Worry not, I will guide you and you will know your task when it is laid before you.”

The sun shines on my back and, for the first time since I’ve been in these fields, I cast a shadow. It stretches out from my feet, walking steadily beside the one cast by my companion. With each step we take, our specters grow, blacking out an expanding swath of lush grass. The shade we cast hides the ground from my eyes so each step is into the unknown, the unseen.

And then we are descending through our black outlines.

I look back over my shoulder and glimpse a final rectangle of sapphire outlined in emerald before the blackness takes it all. I grieve its loss but turn my thoughts to Khirro and whatever I must do for him. Whatever it is, I will succeed.

After what the woman in black made me do, I owe him everything I can give.

Khirro knelt beside her cooling body, his head hung.

Twice I caused her death.

He rocked slowly on his knees, like a child comforting himself, but found no comfort in the movement or in his thoughts. The first time she died, it wasn’t he who swung the sword that took her life. He couldn’t make the same claim this time.

I’m not worthy of her love.

He barely noticed Athryn’s hand on his shoulder. A shuddering breath rattled down his throat and he slowly raised his eyes. Dried brown blood stiffened the magician’s shirt while beneath it the gash had become nothing more than another pink scar marring the black scrawl tattoos inked on his stomach.

“We must go,” Athryn said, his tone gentle.

“You used her.” Khirro spoke through clenched teeth to hold anger and grief and despair from spilling out in a torrent. “You took a piece of her soul to heal us.”