Spirit of the King (3 page)

People lined the boulevard—mostly soldiers dressed in leather and mail standing rigid and ready, hands close to their weapons, but there were others, too. Smiths and farriers, cooks and physicians and entertainers and whores. No one cheered as four hundred hooves clicked and clattered against the cobblestone boulevard, throwing up occasional sparks from the scarred stones. Not a face wore a smile, nor a look of relief or gratitude. Frowns tugged at the corners of their mouths, expressions of worry and fear creased their features. Their apprehension didn’t surprise her.

Surrounded by a group of men clad in full plate, Therrador stood on a stone stair leading to a huge building at the far end of the avenue. She recognized the new king easily amongst the group, the red eagle enameled upon his golden plate resplendent in the sunlight; the armor of the other men paled in comparison. The others would be the generals of Erechania, supporting and protecting their king, advising him if need be, and none of them looked any less tense than the soldiers lining the route boulevard.

But the generals would have no reason to advise him, she knew. He already made his decisions based on the safety of his son held captive in her camp, and he would continue to decide whatever she wanted him to decide, as he did when he agreed to let them into the fortress.

Although orchestrating the death of King Braymon and arranging Therrador’s ascent to the throne had seemed to work as she’d foreseen, she couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t quite done. Any possibility of a smile disappeared at the thought; the man who carried the blood of the king to the Necromancer had failed in his attempt to raise Braymon, but he yet lived. As long as he did, he posed a threat to the Archon’s plans. She’d have to take care of him, but these were thoughts for another time; she pushed them from her mind and focused on the fortress’ courtyard.

Beyond the distraught Erechanians, the Archon saw patches of charred earth and wooden outbuildings lying in ruin, their ceilings and walls smashed and burned by the fireballs lobbed over the wall by her army’s catapults. Of course, any bodies had long since been cleared away, and she found herself wondering where Braymon had fallen, what they’d done with the king’s body. She’d have liked to keep his head as a trophy, but she hadn’t thought to mention it to the soldier she’d sent to kill the king.

What was his name again? Oh, yes: Ghaul. How appropriate.

She reined her horse to a halt at the base of the stair and Therrador descended, his plate clanking as he signaled his generals to stay. He stopped three steps short of the bottom, his head on the same level as the mounted Archon. His mouth dropped open, recognition showing in his eyes.

“You,” he said quiet enough only the two of them heard. “You’re the woman from the plains.”

“Oh, more than just a woman, my dear Therrador.”

“And you command an army?” he said, eyes narrowing. “The Archon is a woman? And a magician?”

“Therrador, misogyny and underestimation are two very poor attributes for a king to have.” Therrador noticeably suppressed a shudder as he realized things were measurably worse than he’d imagined. She savored him having the thought. “You may call me your grace.”

She held her hand out to the king at an angle for him to see the pictures painted on her nails: battles, slaughter, the destruction of Erechania and the death of his son. Therrador stared at the depictions, the stern look melting from his face, then took her fingers gently in his and kissed the back of her hand.

“Traitor!” A woman stepped out of the throng watching from the edge of the cobblestones, a stone in her hand. “Scarlet whore!”

The woman hurled the rock, but the Archon simply gestured with her free hand and the projectile came to a halt in mid-air, hovering for a second before tumbling to the ground. The crowd gasped. At the same time, the blade of a Kanosee dagger thrown by one of the Archon’s personal guard found the stone-thrower’s chest and she followed the stone to the ground, as lifeless as the rock. The crowd watched in stunned silence for a second before a thousand hands reached for a thousand weapons. Kanosee steel sang from their scabbards.

“Stop them or they will all die,” the Archon said to Therrador, her voice calm, knowing.

She felt power swell inside her, a feeling she relished, but it didn’t suit her purposes to slaughter all these people. The point wasn’t to simply take a fortress, but to have a country. Therrador stared at her and she saw the force of the magic building within her reflected in his eyes. He tore his gaze away and ran a few steps up the stair.

“No,” he bellowed. “Hold!”

The crowd did as he said, though their weapons remained bared. A grumble rolled through the throng, discordant dissent barely held in check.

“Put away your weapons,” Therrador said and the troubled faces in the crowd turned toward their king. “Let no one raise their hand against the Archon or her men. The people of Kanos are our friends.”

“But look what our friends have done,” a man kneeling beside the dead woman called, his voice full of tears. “They’ve killed my Lera.”

A portion of the crowd rumbled with angry agreement, but most remained silent, awaiting the king’s response. Therrador considered the man for a moment, but said nothing, as though at a loss for words. One of the king’s generals spoke in his stead.

“As she threatened to kill their leader. What would you have done if they first threatened your wife? Or your king?”

The general’s cheeks reddened as he spoke, his huge black mustache quivered with each word. The Archon knew this man to be the one called Alton Sienhin, one of Braymon’s closest and most trusted advisors.

“Put your weapons away,” Therrador said finding words again. “You only hurt the kingdom by drawing them.”

Dissatisfied mutters passed person to person, but swords returned to scabbards, daggers to sheaths, axes slung over shoulders. Therrador looked to Sir Alton and thanked him with a nod before returning his gaze to the Archon.

“I am sorry for this,” he said, though his expression suggested he wished the stone had found its mark and struck her dead. He glanced at his subjects watching him, waiting to see what he would do next. “The people will get used to having you amongst us.”

Feeling gracious, the Archon nodded and smiled. The feeling of power diminished, leaving her enervated as it always did, but she retained her composure. She leaned forward, beckoned Therrador. He moved closer.

“Your Graymon will not be punished for it,” she whispered. The color drained from the king’s cheeks. “Be sure it does not happen again, though, Therrador. I cannot promise the same next time.”

The king stood stiff for a moment, then gestured to a group of soldiers clad in red capes trimmed with gold.

“Take their horses to the stables. Show the Archon’s men to their quarters.” He smiled tightly and offered his hand; his eyes remained hard and suspicious. “Archon, I will show you to your suite myself so you can prepare. A feast awaits.”

She took his hand and dismounted. Only after her feet touched the ground did her men do the same. Pages and grooms ushered horses and men off in different directions; Therrador led the Archon up the stairs toward the group of generals. She peeked over her shoulder and noticed the crowd’s frowns remained, as did their fear and worry. She felt it, savored it.

Good.
She looked back to Therrador who stared straight ahead, refusing to meet her gaze as they strode up the stairs.
They will soon be mine.
 

The river rushed past on its way to the ocean, the deep, swift water separating them from their goal. To Khirro, the far bank looked a long way away.

“It is too dangerous,” Athryn said. “We will have to find somewhere else to cross.”

Khirro breathed a relieved sigh. His last foray into water, when he’d danced with a serpent, had left him hoping he’d never be any deeper in water than his knees. They headed west along the river toward the forest looming before them, but after their latest encounter with a giant, the thought of traipsing through the forest didn’t excite him any more than swimming.

“Why do you still wear the mask, Athryn?”

They’d spoken few words as they made their way up the beach away from the ruined boat and the giant’s carcass, aware it wouldn’t be long before the smell of blood and decomposing flesh drew the attention of predators. But Khirro knew it wasn’t the prospect of carnivores that stilled his companion’s tongue. The magician’s inability to cast a spell when needed and their proximity to where his brother gave his life to revive him were enough to make any man feel impotent. Athryn’s calm and strong demeanor sometimes made it difficult to remember he was but a man, just like Khirro.

The magician shrugged. “I,” he began, then paused. “I do not know exactly. Partly habit, partly in memory of Maes.”

Khirro nodded and reached for his belt, touching the dagger which had been Elyea’s. He understood the need to have a tangible connection to a lost loved one. The thought of Elyea taking the killing blow Ghaul had meant for him—much like Maes gave his life to save Athryn—squeezed his heart whenever he allowed his mind to wander there. With effort, he wrenched his thoughts away and peered up at the tall trees as they reached the first line of ancient pines.

At first, the forest resisted entry, blocking their way with brush and brambles knotted together like a palisade built to keep them out.

Or to keep something else in.

Neither of them drew their weapons to slice through the lattice of branches; they were both acutely aware they still walked the cursed earth of Lakesh, a place where things were seldom what they seemed. Eventually, they pushed their way through, thorns grasping at their breeches, twigs tugging at their sleeves. Moving through it was akin to walking in deep water against the waves.

After a short while, the tangle parted before them, seeming to invite them deeper into the forest rather than resisting. High above in the forest canopy, birds sang and twittered, the occasional raucous cry of a raven rang out. These sounds were unheard during their trek to the Necromancer’s keep; perhaps things were different here, near the border of Kanos. Or maybe the happenings at Darestat’s keep—like the death of the Necromancer himself—allowed the animals to return, or relieved their fear of showing themselves. The bird song faded behind them and for a while they heard only the rush of water and the scrape of boots on dirt. Athryn broke the silence.

“I am sorry I could not aid you when you needed it.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it is not. A magician with no magic is useless. I may as well be a singer with no tongue, a warrior without arms.”

“I don’t think you’ve lost your power. I still feel the tyger inside me, but I don’t know how to release it. Maybe the same is true with you. Things have changed, Athryn. For both of us.”

Athryn sighed through the hole in his mask, his breath stirring the dirt-streaked white cloth.

“Maybe,” he said sounding unconvinced. “But if this is true, I must find out what to do to change it.”

Khirro kicked a rock from his path sending it skittering through the brush and into the river with a soft plop. “You’ll have to try different things until you find out.”

“Do you realize how many different ways exist to access the power?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “But if there’s a lot, we better get started.”

***

Khirro concentrated his thoughts and energy, focusing on the ember he prayed still glowed somewhere deep within. He hadn’t exactly lied to Athryn when he told him he felt the tyger within him, he just didn’t tell him how dim the feeling was. Maybe so dim, it was only a memory.

Eyes closed, Khirro pictured the tyger the way it appeared in his dreams, all snowy whiteness and coal black. Then he imagined how he must have looked when he became the flaming tyger in the Necromancer’s chamber. He called to mind the dragonfire swirling about him, remembered the way it felt painful yet comforting at the same time. Yellow and orange tongues of flame licked through his imagination, but when he opened his eyes, he was only Khirro with green forest around him and spongy ground soaking through the seat of his breeches. Disappointed, he sighed cool, cedar-scented air and moved to sit on a fallen tree where he might keep his backside dry.

How did I do it?

He picked absently through furry moss and pried a piece of rotted wood from the log, turned it in his fingers. This piece of wood he could easily ignite with the flint in his pouch, but how to set himself burning? In the time since he inexplicably transformed into the flaming tyger, he’d put much thought to the matter, pondered it and turned it over in his mind much the way he did the piece of wood with his fingers, but still didn’t know how or why it happened. Sometimes he found himself thinking of Shyn, who had complete control over his transformation into falcon-form, but Khirro never asked him about it, never had reason until now.

Thinking of Shyn brought a pang of sorrow and invariably invited Maes and Elyea into his thoughts. He missed his companions. They made the ultimate sacrifice so Khirro might complete his mission and he’d let them down. King Braymon remained dead, and good people were lost in the attempt. And now he wasn’t sure they’d find their way out of Lakesh, never mind back to Erechania to aid their kingdom at war.

Ultimate sacrifice. That’s the glorious way to put it. The truth is, they died because of my cowardice and incompetence.

 
Elyea’s face floated to mind but he pushed it aside. Instead, he thought of Ghaul and again felt regret, but of a different kind. He didn’t regret killing the soldier, even in such a horrendous manner. He’d deserved the death he received. But Khirro regretted not even suspecting the warrior’s treachery. If he hadn’t acted on blind faith in the man, Elyea and Shyn would still be alive. Maybe Maes, too.

And King Braymon would be properly raised instead of--

Instead of what?

His hand went unconsciously to the spot he’d carried the vial containing the king’s blood, but the glass lay shattered on the marble floor of the Necromancer’s chamber, the kingdom’s last hope splashed across its cold surface. He missed the comforting feel of the hard container against his chest and the warmth it spilled into him.