Spirit of the King (4 page)

He’s inside me.
Khirro sighed again.
The king’s spirit lives in me, but what good will that do?
 

He rose and brushed shards of rotted tree off the seat of his breeches. Many times he’d strayed down this path, with these thoughts, and never came back with a conclusion or an answer. No reason to tread it again. Better to see how the magician fared.

Can I still call him that?

Athryn insisted on being alone to experiment with various methods of spell casting and Khirro hadn’t asked why. As much time as they’d spent together, an air of mystery he doubted he’d ever penetrate—and possibly didn’t want to—surrounded his friend. The Mourning Sword's light of truth had illuminated enough of Athryn's past to satisfy any curiosity about the man. The vision of Athryn forced to cut out his brother’s tongue kept him from wanting to know more.

The scuff of boots on dirt brought Khirro’s hand to his sword hilt. He headed toward the noise, pushing aside brush until he found the magician, stripped to the waist, crouching by a rock. His cloth mask lay on the ground, bits of dirt and decayed needles stuck to it as though it had been kicked around. Sweat streamed down Athryn’s face; rocks and twigs, leaves and roots littered the area around him. His dagger lay atop the stone. Blood from a multitude of cuts along his left arm dripped steadily from the tip of the index finger. When Khirro emerged into the clearing, Athryn looked up at him, face haggard, eyes sad. He shook his head.

“Nothing.” His shoulders sagged as though someone released the air from him. Khirro felt the same.

“Nor I.”

He picked his way through the piles of detritus to stand by Athryn. Sweat shimmered on the magician’s chest and arms, making the black letters tattooed on his skin gleam.

“I think the Necromancer might have made me become the tyger. I don’t have any control.”

Athryn shook his head again. “Darestat was already gone when you changed.”

“‘Already dead’, you mean.”

“No, that is not what I mean.” He retrieved his mask, shook dirt from it, then used it to wipe the perspiration from his brow and blood from his hand. “The Necromancer is not dead.”

“But I saw--”

“Do you not remember the tale I told you of Monos, the first Necromancer? Powerful magicians are not so easily killed.”

Khirro thought about Ghaul’s arrow piercing the Necromancer’s throat and wondered if Athryn might be fooling himself into believing Darestat still lived.

But he disappeared. There was no body.

Many strange things had happened during their time in Lakesh, and probably more to come, so he supposed he shouldn’t discount the possibility so easily. Let the magician believe what he will.

“Can you conjure him? Get his help?”

The magician shrugged and shook his head.

“And you’ve had no luck casting spells?” Khirro asked.

Athryn grunted and gestured toward the debris spread out around him. “I have tried everything I can with what I have. There are still other possibilities, but I have no gold, nor bones, potions, nor amulets. Nor many other things.”

Khirro suppressed a shudder. When Athryn’s brother Maes still lived, they used another method for summoning magic together. The little man’s torso, arms and legs had been as covered with scars as Athryn’s were scrawled with the words needed to cast the spells. How long would it be before he asked the same of Khirro? He didn’t like the idea of self-mutilation, but it could mean their lives. Given the choice between gaining a scar and living or going to the grave with unblemished skin, Khirro decided he’d rather take the scar.

“There’s one thing you haven’t tried,” Khirro said quietly. Athryn looked at him, blue eyes shining with understanding, but he said nothing. “Maes used to draw his own blood so you might cast your spells.”

Athryn nodded almost imperceptibly. “He did, Khirro, but he was my brother; we shared the power. The fact he is not here may be why I cannot cast a spell.”

“You didn’t know if herbs would work, either, yet you sacrificed these fine plants.” Khirro indicated a heap of leaves near his foot and forced a smile, but it quickly faded. “We'd better find out if it works now, not wait until another giant swings his club at my head.”

“You are right.” Athryn plucked his dagger from the rock and offered it hilt-first. Khirro shook his head and pulled Elyea’s dagger from his belt.

“What do you want me to do?”

He waited while Athryn scanned the swirling lines etched on his arms, tracing the cursive script with the tip of his finger. He stopped on a line that, to Khirro, looked no different than the others.

“What I attempt will be simple. You need not cut deeply, it should only be necessary for you to draw a few drops of blood.”

“Good,” Khirro answered thinking about the scars on his thigh and shoulder where arrows had pierced his flesh. He held the quivering tip of the dagger over his left forearm. “When do I do it?”

“Now.”

Athryn closed his eyes and chanted quietly in a foreign tongue. Khirro looked at him, still not used to his friend’s unscarred face, then took a deep breath scented with disturbed dirt and the magician’s sweat and poked the dagger against his flesh. It hurt but didn’t break the skin. Khirro withdrew the blade and tried again, this time drawing its sharp edge across his flesh.

The blade sliced through his skin. Air whistled between his clenched teeth; a trail of blood trickled around the curve of his arm. The magician opened his eyes and stared at the space between them. Khirro did, too, and saw nothing. Athryn chanted louder, trying harder. Khirro knew little of the workings of magic, but had seen first hand that the volume of the chant was unimportant when Maes healed Athryn with the mumblings of a missing tongue. He was about to say this when a shimmering in the air silenced him.

Khirro’s eyes widened as the tremulous air came together to from a ghostly shape, its appearance causing a blossom of hope in Khirro’s chest. Something flickered in the vision: a tiny version of the flaming tyger he’d become, but it didn’t advance beyond translucence before disappearing. Athryn chanted a few more seconds before falling silent. Khirro stared at the empty air, hoping it would return.

“Why did you stop?” He did his best to keep the note of disappointment from his voice. “It was working.”

“I did not stop, Khirro. That was the best I could do.” Athryn handed him the soiled mask to clean the blood off his forearm. “But it worked better than anything else.”

Khirro wiped his arm then looked up at the magician. “Did it need more blood?”

Athryn shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Let’s try again.” Khirro brandished the dagger, surprised by his willingness to cut himself, but his companion shook his head.

“No, Khirro. We must go.”

“We need to figure this out. Our lives could depend on it.”

Frustration tied knots in the muscles of Khirro’s jaw as Athryn rose from his squat and pulled his shirt on; frustration quickly became anger.

“Why don’t you want to do this?” he snapped. “Are you afraid of failing?”

“No. I think I know what I will need for my magic to work as it should.” He donned his cloak and pulled his pack over his shoulder. “Right now, we have to go.”

“But why not now?” Khirro demanded.

The magician stepped close, his lips inches from Khirro’s ear, and whispered:

“Because we are being watched.”

Therrador tapped his foot; the click of his leather boot soles on stone echoed through the empty chamber. He fidgeted in his chair and leaned forward, elbows on the table, happiness and trepidation battling in his chest. Soon, the Archon would arrive, Graymon with her.

It would be good to have his boy back.

The weeks since the treacherous woman took him had been the worst of his life, worse than when he lost his beloved Seerna. He rocked back in his seat, shifted, then leaned forward on his elbows again, wondering how an agent of the Archon had reached Achtindel, entered the palace and left with Graymon unnoticed.

Someone will answer for that.

The door at the far end of the chamber swung open. Therrador settled his restless feet and sat straight. No door guard entered to announce his visitor—he’d instructed them to let the Archon in when she arrived—but it surprised him when the woman strode through the door with no soldiers of her own accompanying her. And no Graymon. Therrador stood suddenly, pushing the chair back with a scrape of wood against stone.

“Where’s my son?” he demanded.

The woman walked the length of the hall, the cape streaming behind her the same bright red as her painted nails. A jeweled choker with a stone so green it was nearly black shone against alabaster skin where her white chemise was open at the throat; her black riding pants made her look more like she was freshly returned from a hunt than come to address the king of Erechania.

“I have often wondered why your son’s name is so similar to that of your dead friend.” Her smile exposed perfect teeth. “Graymon. Braymon. Graymon. Braymon. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“My son’s name is of no concern to you,” he snapped. “Where is he? I’ve done what you asked.”

“Keep a civil tongue.” Her tone remained conversational as she stroked the smooth, lacquered wood of the table top with the tip of her index finger. The color of her fingernails changed to match the table. “It is precisely this attitude which keeps your son from you.”

Therrador clenched his teeth. “We have an agreement.”

“Yes, we do, but it is not yet a completed agreement. Some of my soldiers occupy your fortress, but that is not enough.”

“When will it be enough?” A tightness grew in Therrador’s chest. It seemed he’d made a grave mistake trusting this one.

The Archon smiled again, eyes gleaming, and the king found his thoughts turning away from anger and toward her beauty. He struggled to keep such treacherous, lecherous thoughts at bay.

“It will be enough when I say it is enough.”

She stepped forward and laid her hand on his chest. Therrador looked down and saw her fingernails were neither red nor the dark brown of the table. Instead, each nail was painted with its own picture, but they were too close for him to see. His gaze returned to her amber eyes.

“You do what I tell you and the boy will be back soon enough.”

Therrador turned away.

“And if I don’t?” he asked, his back to her. It was easier to act defiant if he didn’t have to look into those eyes, gaze upon her pale flesh.

“If you do not, then your son will not live to regret it.”

No time for thought, only action. This woman would kill Graymon if the mood struck. With
reflexes
honed by years of fighting and slowed only slightly by the passing of years, Therrador pulled his dagger and whirled around, slashing at the Archon.

The knife’s edge cut empty air. The Archon stood across the chamber, farther away than she could possibly have leaped. Her eyes burned.

How...?

“I see you have made your decision,” she said, her voice more stern than before. “Your son will remain with me to ensure your continued cooperation.”

“No.” Therrador saw everything now—she’d never return Graymon to him alive. She likely wouldn’t let Therrador live once she got what she wanted. “No.”

In one deft movement, he flipped the dagger in his hand and hurled it at the woman. Her hand flashed up, the loose sleeve of her shirt flapping as she plucked the knife out of the air as though someone tossed her a ball. In the same instant, she raised her other hand, palm facing Therrador, and thrust it toward him. An invisible force struck his chest, knocking him off his feet.

Therrador hit the floor hard; the impact slammed his teeth together and flashed stars before his eyes. He struggled to regain his thoughts and feet quickly, but the woman already stood over him, her long hair and cape shifting and swirling as though lifted by the hot winds of the Four Hells. It seemed a weight sat on the king’s chest, holding him from rising and defying her again. His mind whirled.

How did she do that? How does she move so quickly?

She pointed at him and he glanced at the long, brightly colored nail. This time, he saw the depiction upon it and the fight drained from him. The tiny picture showed Graymon surrounded by undead creatures glowering and grinning at him. Impossibly, the painted version of his son moved, its mouth forming a word Therrador understood.

“Help.”

“Do not defy me,” the woman said, her voice deeper and menacing. “For I am Sheyndust, bringer of death, ruler of worlds. You will beg for mercy or beg for death if it is what I want from you.”

A chill ran down Therrador’s spine; he wanted to push himself away, but the weight remained on his chest, pinning him to the cold stone floor.
Sheyndust.
He’d heard the name before.
Sheyndust.
The one the Shaman, Bale, had thought responsible for the undead soldiers fighting alongside the army of Kanos.

Her lips pulled back in a smile, but this time it held no hint of beauty.

“The world will bow before the new Necromancer.”

The room is dark, but I see the shapes of furniture in the corner and along the walls. I’ve been here two days. I know this because a sun has risen and set outside my room, its light squeezing between the wall boards where the mud that once sealed the space has fallen away. I want to creep to the light, to peer through the crack, but can only lay on the bed of straw, waiting. I don’t know what I wait for, only that I wait.

This place is no comparison to the field I miss, its memory slipping from my mind like honey leaking through cheesecloth, but it is a vast improvement over the black and white nothing. The figure in the black cloak brought me here without saying why, or who I wait for.

Time passes. Sunlight disappeared from the cracks hours ago, leaving me saddened, but at least I know it will return. Morning always comes, the sun always rises. I shift on the straw bed, slowly tiring of the feel of it on my back. Why am I here? I wish the certainty of receiving an answer matched my confidence in the rising of a new sun.