by Bruce Blake
Athryn sighed. “They will know you by what you do, not who you are. The kingdom needs you.”
“What can I do for the kingdom?”
“Maybe nothing,” Athryn said with a shrug. “But someone has to do something. And what else is there for you? Return to your farm?”
Khirro smiled in spite of himself. “No. I guess I’m no farmer anymore, am I?”
“No. And I am no performer of illusions.”
They stood a while in silence. A cool breeze moved the trees and brushed Khirro’s cheek, refreshing him.
So much time has passed, so many things have changed. I can never go back to my old life. My old life doesn’t want me. But what new life lies ahead?
Khirro breathed deeply of the chill night air, strong with the aroma of pine and cedar. It smelled good after being under the ground. He had no nose for the smell of dirt anymore.
“I’ll miss Elyea,” he said and the weight compressing his chest dispelled with the words. “I loved her.”
Athryn nodded. “I will miss her, too.”
“Do you miss Maes?” Khirro looked at his distorted reflection in the magician’s silvered mask. The image looked older, tired.
“Maes is alive within me, as the spirit of the king dwells within you. It is a gift the Necromancer gave me before he left.”
“Before he died,” Khirro corrected.
“Darestat is not dead. He is gone from the world of the living for now, but he has not perished.”
“But I saw Ghaul’s arrow. No one could survive.”
“It takes more than a mortal’s arrow to slay the Necromancer. This world is very different than you know.”
“I guess it is.”
In the distance, a wolf howled and another answered a moment later. They were the first sounds of animal life they’d heard since entering Lakesh. Khirro didn’t pause to ponder why they heard them now.
The world is different than I know.
“Where will we go?”
“We must return the king to his kingdom.”
The words hung in the air between them on the mist of Athryn’s breath until Khirro nodded. He knelt and placed his hand on the knob of bone protruding from the pile of ash.
“We’ve lost so much, haven’t we?” He expected no answer from Athryn and received none. “Good bye, Shyn. Good bye, Elyea. Thank you. We’ll all meet again one day.”
He stood and turned to Athryn. The magician removed his mask, baring the smooth new skin of his cheek. Their eyes met and something unspoken passed between them—a vow, an oath, a bond.
They strode away from the heap of ash Khirro once loved, left behind their dead companions, monsters, dragons, heroes and traitors. The Mourning Sword bounced reassuringly against Khirro’s thigh as he walked, spreading through him a sense of peace. He didn’t know what the future held—adventure or boredom, friends or enemies, life or death. He knew only one thing:
He did not fear.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Figures bustled across the salt flats like bees buzzing around pollen-laden flowers. Craters pock-marked the ground where boulders had struck, but the fortress’s catapults and the Kanosee trebuchets had been quiet in the week since Therrador’s coronation. His long purple cloak streamed behind him in the brisk ocean breeze as he stood atop the wall observing the activity below.
“We should attack, your highness,” Sir Alton Sienhin urged, his voice loud and forceful. Therrador wondered if the man knew how to speak at a normal volume. “They haven’t moved on us in a week. They can’t starve us out, they know that, so they must be up to something. I say we catch them unawares. Crush them while we have the chance.”
“There are still too many.” Therrador crossed his arms to keep his hands from fidgeting, betraying his nerves. Sir Alton stood behind him and probably couldn’t see, but better not to take the chance. No one could know about Graymon. “Don’t doubt me, Sir Alton. Haven’t things been better since I’ve been king?”
“Yes. Of course, my Liege,” Sir Alton blustered. Therrador imagined his chubby cheeks reddening, his mustache quivering. “But we should—”
“Enough.” Therrador silenced the knight with a wave of his hand. Any time now they should see riders. “I’ll hear no more. We’ll wait to see their next move. We have them right where we want them.”
“Yes, your highness.”
Therrador squinted out at the plains.
Where in the name of the Gods are they?
She said it would happen before the sun reached its zenith yet the sun showed midday. He felt Sienhin standing behind him, likely seething at the slight handed him, but Therrador had little concern for niceties and formalities. Only his son mattered. And he was king, it was the old knight’s duty to obey.
Tendrils of gray smoke curled into the sky from cook fires scattered throughout the enemy camp. The days were cooler since they first occupied the land bridge and the salt flats, and the breeze off the Sea of Linghala could be biting. Cold wind had driven more than one army from the wall of the fortress in the past. But it would be two months before it became the weapon it could be, and Therrador didn’t have that kind of time.
Graymon didn’t have that kind of time.
Watching, waiting, Therrador wondered how Suath and the others fared at their task. Months would pass before he knew, but what little he heard before they disappeared into Lakesh was encouraging. It would be a relief when the vial reached his hands, then he’d smash it on the stones, ensuring his kingship. But all would be for naught if he didn’t get Graymon back.
The wind snapped Therrador’s cloak. Sir Alton shuffled his feet. Men and horses and things which once were men continued to shift and flow in the distance. Finally, riders separated from the host. A dozen men on fully armored horses trotted across the plain, the standard of Kanos snapping on a staff above them. A flag of truce flew below the country’s colors.
“We didn’t have to wait long to see what they were up to, did we, Sir Alton?” Therrador pointed out the riders while keeping his hand from shaking. The old knight moved to his side.
“What trickery is this?” He turned to his king, concern plain on his face. “Send them away, your highness. The Kanosee are not known for their diplomacy.”
“But we are,” Therrador said. Sienhin spoke truth and, under other circumstances when he didn’t already know the outcome, he might have taken the knight’s advice. “They fly a flag of truce. Come, Sir Alton. Let’s hear what they have to say.”
“But, your highness—”
Therrador silenced him with a scowl. The knight bowed his head in acquiescence and followed as Therrador swept by, hurrying down the steps.
“Assemble the generals, Sir Alton. We ride to meet them. I’ll speak with their leader myself.”
Sienhin nodded and excused himself. Alone, Therrador leaned against the wall for support as the strength in his legs waned. He filled his lungs with a long breath, hoping the air would force dread from his chest. It didn’t. He collected himself and continued down the stairs.
“Ready my horse, boy,” Therrador barked as he reached the stable. “And make it quick.”
He inhaled the sweet smell of hay and manure. His head spun and he put his hand against a post, supporting himself as the stable boy readied his steed.
Oh, Graymon. I’m so sorry.
Therrador bounced gently in the saddle, purple cloak swirling behind him as he rode. A short distance ahead, he saw Sir Alton and the others where he’d left them. They didn’t allow their mounts to wander or graze, instead standing ready to attack, or retreat; to do whatever their king commanded.
Are they also ready to be surprised?
Sir Alton spurred forward to meet him, halting as their horses came alongside. The old knight bowed his head without taking his eyes from the Kanosee party turning back toward their camp.
“My liege,” he said, his voice quieter than Therrador had ever heard it to keep the conversation between the two of them. “W
hat did the dogs have to say? Did they truly offer their surrender?”
Therrador’s face remained grim despite his effort to relax.
“No, they do not surrender,” he said loud enough for all to hear. He urged his horse on forcing Sir Alton to follow.
“Then what, highness?”
Therrador rode through the cluster of knights, allowing them to fall in behind him before he answered.
“An accord has been struck,” he said finally, thankful to be riding ahead so they didn’t see the strain in his features. “There shall be no more war.”
A mumble rolled through the generals.
“When will the curs be retreating from our land, your grace?” Sir Alton asked on their behalf.
“They won’t be.”
Silence. None of the generals spoke: no murmur, no whisper, no grumbles. Shock or surprise stilled their tongues, but only for a few seconds before Sienhin voiced the question surely on all their minds.
“What do you mean, your highness?”
Therrador ground his teeth and forced a breath out through his nose.
“We will open our gates and welcome our new friends.”
A clamor of protest arose amongst the men. Therrador steeled himself and thought of Graymon. The muscles in his cheek bunched and flexed as he clenched his jaw.
“Why, my king? There’s no reason to give the fortress to these dogs. We’re not beaten.”
Therrador reined his horse to a stop so suddenly the others nearly rode into each other to avoid hitting him. He turned in his saddle to face Sir Alton.
“Do you question your king?” he roared, spittle flying from his lips.
His anger wasn’t really for this man but at the distress of having no control. He’d planned to keep this from happening, but the Archon outmaneuvered him. His only hope was to sway them to what must be to save Graymon.
“N-no, your grace,” Sir Alton stammered. “We were wondering why—?”
Therrador’s blade rang against leather as he pulled his sword free and placed the tip to the old knight’s throat. No one made a move for their weapons as they stared in shock.
“Treason,” Therrador said, his voice loud and firm to hide his true feelings. Sienhin’s mouth fell agape, his eyes opened wide. “I should kill you myself for the treachery of questioning your king.”
Sweat broke out on Sir Alton’s brow, but he didn’t reach for his sword, doing so would mean his life. The other generals wouldn’t stand with him against the king, no matter the circumstances. If he so much as moved toward it, the entire kingdom would call for his head.
“Do you wish to die, Sir Alton?”
“No, your highness.” Sienhin’s voice was a whisper for once.
Therrador settled back into his saddle and removed his blade from the knight’s throat.
“I’ll deal with your treachery later. For now, ride ahead. Have them open the gates, tell them to make ready. The generals of Kanos will join us before nightfall.”
“Yes, my liege.”
Sir Alton launched his horse into a gallop toward the fortress. Therrador guessed he moved quickly more to get away than in haste to obey the order. A proud man, the old knight. His family had served kings for as long as anyone remembered. This would damage his pride, something Therrador didn’t want to do, but it would be for the best. With this, Therrador could remove him from the council and replace him with someone of his own choosing.
Of the Archon’s choosing.
He’d have to keep an eye on Sir Alton, though. He could prove a dangerous man or a great ally.
With a click of his tongue and prod of his heels, Therrador urged his steed toward the fortress. The generals fell in behind, silent but for the creak of saddles, the clank of armor and the beat of hooves. Therrador sighed, mouth pulled down in a frown. He’d hoped for happiness once crowned, as though a title would take away the wrongs done him. But there was always someone else to wrong you. His gut knotted.
It will soon be over. For better or for worse.
He sat straight in the saddle, intending to look the part of the conquering hero he wanted and deserved to be if not for the Archon. The ripe plum hanging from the tree of life waiting for him to pluck had shriveled to a prune, wrinkled and uninviting. He closed his eyes and thought of Graymon, but even that did nothing to make him feel better.
Chapter Fifty-Six
A thin haze obscured everything. It was a dream, Khirro knew, but it didn’t look like any of the dreams he’d had in the past months. No tyger, no lake; all that was behind him now, he supposed. What lay ahead?
The cool mist attached itself to his skin, dampening it as he surveyed the nothing around him. He took a step, then another. The mist swirled away from his feet only to rush back in as the air settled. His breath stirred the tiny droplets, sending them spinning in kaleidoscopic patterns of white and gray. There were no sounds. Khirro halted, worried he might plunge from a dream-cliff, or be attacked by Gods-only-knew what. He waited, expecting the dream to resolve itself into something more than damp, eddying fog.
Then the glow began.
It took Khirro a minute to realize it came from him. A dim light which strengthened and brightened, burning away the mist before him without causing him the slightest discomfort. Yellowed grass, dry and dead, appeared beneath his feet. The view before his eyes cleared to reveal a green wall undulating at the whim of the wind.
A tent. I’m in a tent.
The green canvas flapped more violently and sound came to Khirro’s dream: the snap of the wind against the tent, men shouting somewhere outside, and a whimper. He turned his head toward the last noise, not knowing whether he should expect man or beast, or which he’d prefer.
The boy lay curled on a bed of straw, shivering each time the wind shook the tent walls. He glanced at the door flap like he expected someone to come through at any moment and Khirro realized it wasn’t the wind that scared the lad. Khirro stepped toward him and the boy pulled himself into a tighter ball, gripping the wooden dragon he held closer to his chest.
“Can you see me?” Khirro asked.
The boy froze, eyes darting about the tent, but they held no recognition, as though he’d heard something but couldn’t discern where it came from or what it was. Khirro crossed the dry grass and knelt on the straw beside the boy.
“Who are you?” he said, a breath of wind against the boys cheek that only made him cringe the way the wind shaking the tent did. “What are you doing in my dream?”
Abruptly, inexplicably, the boy’s shivering ceased. He sat up and looked directly into Khirro’s eyes, stared right through them. Seconds passed. Khirro didn’t breathe. The boy hugged the toy dragon tight, then held it out before him, offering it. Khirro took it. He knew he held the toy but couldn’t see his hand. He was invisible to himself, so he must be to the boy, too. A smile tugged at the lad’s lips, but it quickly faltered.
“Please help me,” the boy said, his voice a whimper, and Khirro knew that was what he had to do. He stared into the boy’s sad eyes, wishing there was something he could do for him now, in the dream, but knowing it was only that.
The temperature in the tent dropped suddenly. The boy grabbed the wooden dragon from Khirro’s invisible grasp, fell back onto the straw mattress and curled into the fetal position, eyes clamped shut. Khirro straightened, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. He stood and turned to face the tent flap and whoever or whatever had come through.
The first thing that struck him was the woman’s beauty. Her golden hair cascaded over her black cloak almost to her waist, a startling contrast to her dark brown eyes. But there was something un-beautiful about her eyes: a hardness, a cruelty. They were the eyes of someone who’d watch death without flinching, and they bore into Khirro, searching him.
“You do not belong here.”
He stared at her, chills crawling up his spine. It seemed as though her words weren’t meant for him but for that which dwelled within him. He didn’
t move as she approached, couldn’t.
“Your time has passed. Do not interfere.”
The flesh on Khirro’s arm tingled as he felt the flame begin. The tent brightened as the sensation grew. The boy moaned on the bed behind him and the woman’s lips became a taut red line across her stern face, stealing her beauty. Darkness collected behind her and the green wall of the tent disappeared.
As Khirro’s incandescence grew, so too did the woman’s blackness until the two pressed against each other like beasts locked in a mortal struggle. Khirro spread his legs, pushing against the pressure compressing his chest and threatening to force him back. His glow grew to a blaze as the darkness emanating from her expanded until there was nothing in the dream but him and her, light and dark.
“Leave this place,” she said, her voice more a growl than the words of a woman. “Leave this place and do not come back.”
Sweat streamed down Khirro’s face, ran down his neck and under his shirt. His jaw muscles knotted, his lips pulled back from his teeth with the effort, but the darkness pushed forward, expelling his fire before it. The woman stepped forward until they were inches apart and spread her arms. Night flowed from her cloak, encircling Khirro, sucking the fire from his soul and the energy from his limbs. His knees gave out and the darkness took him.
Stars twinkled down from the sky as Khirro awoke, a knot clogging his throat. He clenched his fists, his fingers dug into the loamy earth upon which he lay.
Who was she?
He glanced at the trees pressing in around him. Athryn should be somewhere close, but he didn’t know where. They’d chosen not to light a fire, and now Khirro regretted the decision. Having the flames to show him that light always conquered night would have been reassuring. He sat up and breathed out a slow sigh through tight lips.
“Graymon,” he said, not sure where the name came from but knowing it was the boy in the dream. Thankfulness and fear mixed in his mind as he realized the dream had shown him what he needed to do next, where he needed to go.
“Graymon.”
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