Tyvian raised an eyebrow. He felt the ring twitch on his finger. “Assassination, Xahlven? Getting your hands dirty like that doesn’t sound like you at all.”
Xahlven sat forward in his chair, causing Tyvian to extend Chance by reflex. The tip floated no more than an inch from his brother’s left eye. If he noticed, Xahlven didn’t react. “Listen, Tyvian—we are reaching a crucial juncture. Not just for me and my plans, not just for mother and hers, not even for you and your own pointless desires—for the whole of the West. This time—right now—is a tipping point in history. Decisive action must be taken, and if you can’t or won’t take it, then I will.”
Tyvian snorted. At least half of everything Xahlven just said was a lie. The trick was now determining which half. “Ever since this odious ring was affixed to my person, I have been a pawn in everybody else’s game, Xahlven, and I am very displeased. Starting talking plainly—make your case—and then maybe we’ll see if I don’t kill you.”
Xahlven chuckled. “Brother, you can’t kill—”
“Do you notice anything different about my sword, Xahlven?” Tyvian slid off the chair, pressing the tip of the mageglass rapier against Xahlven’s robes. The fabric parted cleanly, as though the tear had always existed. Xahlven phased backward through his chair and was then standing behind it, keeping it between him and Tyvian.
“I see nothing different—no.”
Tyvian raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. Mother said she altered it, you know.” Tyvian watched the corner of Xahlven’s eye twitch, just a bit—it was enough. He smiled. “Ah, so you didn’t know. Mother altered this blade specifically to deal with you, Xahlven. You know how prescient she is. She knows you’re here—she knows this meeting is taking place. She set it up weeks ago, when she started backing up Sahand’s rumors about my parentage.”
Xahlven grimaced and came around the chair, gently pushing Chance aside. “That, my brother, is what I’m getting at. Inside of a week, Lyrelle will see the culmination of a plan she set in motion more than thirty years ago. You are the fulcrum upon which that plot is levered.”
Tyvian scowled. “And you want to make sure her little plan never happens, is that it? You’d rather I play into your plan instead of hers? No thank you.” He put up his sword and turned his back on Xahlven, running a hand through his hair. “Get out of here. Skulking around people’s bedchambers is beneath you.”
Xahlven didn’t budge. “Your father was Perwynnon, the Falcon King. You are the heir.”
Tyvian looked back at Xahlven, but did not turn around. “Shut up. I won’t hear it—get out.”
“Damn your stubborn, stupid eyes, Tyvian!” Xahlven strode across the floor toward Tyvian, his feet making no sound on the plush carpet. “You are it, don’t you get it? You are her grand design—her perfect, ultimate plan. You were birthed, raised, and driven toward this exact moment. She drove you to rebel, drove you to become a survivor, and then she corralled you with that ring. She made Myreon Alafarr into the lure for your passions—teaching her and molding her as a young woman so that she would be an ideal lover for you! She made bloody Sahand into a perfect foil, controlling his plots more closely than that violent oaf could ever understand! Don’t you get it yet? You are meant to be king! She means to make it so, and you would have done it without even asking why, because as far as you understand, it would be your own bloody idea!” Xahlven pushed Tyvian from behind, causing him to stagger a pace.
Tyvian came back and punched Xahlven in the nose.
His brother fell flat on his back, eyes watering, blood spurting down his chin. “What about you, Xahlven? What’s your angle? So you want to help me by eliminating the counts? Why? So I won’t ascend to the throne? So I can just slip away into obscurity again, and then you can do whatever you please as Eretheria slips into complete chaos? Is that it?”
Xahlven pulled himself to his feet, dabbing at his nose. “Isn’t that what you want? Wealth, comfort, and a complete lack of responsibility? The excitement of the vagabond life without any of the petty inconveniences? A pirate ship of your own, to sail and pillage to your black heart’s content?”
Tyvian shrugged. “What, no vineyard?”
“You can have it! Just like . . .” Xahlven snapped his fingers. “. . . that.”
Tyvian held out his ring hand. “And what about this? Can you wave your staff and make this disappear? Because so long as I’m wearing it, I’m not going to be pillaging anything! I’ll be forced to wander the earth as an idiotic crusader, living in run-down brothels and vanquishing pimps until the end of my ignominious days.” He shrugged. “Either that or be miserable.”
Xahlven frowned at the ring. “Only the Yldd can remove the ring. I do not know what they are or where they can be found—I have looked, believe me. Mother has as well.” He pursed his lips. “I do know of someone who knows, though.”
“Who?”
“The Oracle of the Vale.”
Tyvian laughed. “Kroth’s teeth, Xahlven! How stupid do you think I am?”
“She is real, Tyvian.” Xahlven was still dabbing at his nose, but his eyes were clear. “I promise you that.”
“The Vale, even assuming it exists, is so far away it may as well not exist. What a fine way to get me well out of your hair while you execute whatever nefarious plot you have cooking.”
“Who says it’s nefarious?” Xahlven snapped. “And what do you care anyway? You’ll have your damned freedom, won’t you? That’s all you’ve ever cared about. Leave the troubles of the world to the people who actually worry about them.” Xahlven shook his head. “Heroism doesn’t suit you, Tyvian. You are no man’s savior.”
Tyvian thought about punching his brother again, but also thought he might be ready for it a second time and didn’t feel like being hit with some nasty Etheric spell or slamming his fist into a sorcerous guard. “Get out. I want nothing to do with your plots, your lies, or your ugly face.”
Xahlven laughed. “Always the contrarian. Fine—I rescind my offer. Die, then. Let’s not fool ourselves, though—I’m the handsome one.”
“Not with that nose,” Tyvian laughed. “Kiss my pale arse, you feather-stuffed gas bag.”
But Xahlven was gone.
Neither the Defenders nor the Guardian ever checked on him—they simply never knew Xahlven had been there. He could be dead right now, and none of his supposed “protectors” would have been the wiser. Tyvian threw a pillow over his head. Great gods, do I ever miss Myreon.
Chapter 30
An Informal Stroll
The next morning, Artus, Tyvian, and his mother were served in a private dining hall the size of a polo field on plates of mageglass and silver brought to them by a sour-pussed Guardian and his attendant serving specters. They were sitting at a long dining table intended to seat at least twelve in a wing of the palace that few travelled—a wing traditionally maintained for the king and his household, even though nothing of that description had existed for the majority of the palace’s existence.
Eddereon was also present, but not as a diner. He stood by Lyrelle’s right shoulder, a kind of manservant in mail—a living example of how the Iron Ring made one servile and pathetic. Tyvian did not acknowledge his existence. Neither did anyone else.
Lyrelle looked up from a book from the far end of the table. Her voice, however, carried perfectly. “How did you sleep?” she asked, as though such a question were innocent and she were innocent in asking it.
Artus, sitting to Tyvian’s right at about the center of the table, piped up. “That bed is huge! I got lost trying to crawl out to the privy!”
Lyrelle frowned at him. “Young man, we are at the breakfast table.”
Artus blushed. “Oh . . . uhhh . . . sorry.”
Tyvian ate his eggs—they were perfectly prepared, of course. He wondered who did the cooking—surely not the Guardian. The cup of karfan he ordered was likewise just as he liked it—lightly sweetened with honey and a dab of cream. The hot liquid was bracing in the coolness
of the cavernous hall.
“Talked to Xahlven last night, you know.” He mentioned it offhand, dipping a piece of pumpernickel toast into an egg yolk.
Lyrelle sipped tea. The woman seemed to drink enough tea to sink a galleon. “Oh really? Did he visit?”
Tyvian nodded. “He did.”
Artus frowned. “Isn’t Xahlven your brother? Don’t you hate him?”
“Hate’s a strong word—but yes.”
“Did he mention how he got in?” She flipped a page in her book. It had come from her own library in Glamourvine—he was sure of it. Tyvian knew the exact volume—a book on Eretherian Law, but about three centuries old.
Tyvian glanced over at the Guardian, who was standing nearby. He fumed behind his beard and seemed to be hoping no one would notice. “He probably slipped in while grandfather here was sleeping. Did you need something?”
The Guardian stiffened. “There is a caller at the door—Lady Elora Carran of Davram. Shall I admit her?”
Artus froze. “Kroth!”
Lyrelle glared at him. “Artus.”
Artus shook his head. “Sorry, sorry.” He looked at Tyvian. “So, about the Lady Elora . . .”
Tyvian winced inwardly, but tried to remain outwardly calm. “Yes?”
“I didn’t mention it before but . . . I kinda, well . . . I kissed her.”
“The Lady Elora?”
Artus turned bright red. “And . . . and another girl, too.”
Tyvian nodded. “And her name?”
“Lady Michelle . . . uhhh . . . Orly. I think.”
“Also of Davram?”
Artus cocked his head. “Yeah . . . I guess so. Yeah.”
Tyvian frowned. Something was tickling his suspicions.
The Guardian cleared his throat. “Lady Elora, sir?”
Tyvian scowled at the old man. “Send her away. Give no explanation.”
Artus stood halfway up. “But . . . wait . . .”
Tyvian waved him into his seat. “Shut up and sit down.”
They waited until the Guardian had left, and then Tyvian grinned to himself. “This really should have been more obvious to me. That Velia Hesswyn is more dangerous than I thought.” He looked at Lyrelle. “You knew about this?”
Lyrelle nodded. “As you said, it was obvious.”
Tyvian sipped some karfan, and looked at Artus. “Velia Hesswyn is trying to leverage you into being her loyal servant. She’s using her grandniece to get her hooks into you, using the duels to scare the life out of you, and then, when the moment is right, she’ll show magnanimity and give you an honorable way out. Via marriage, for instance, to this girl.”
“I figured that part out myself. Well, mostly,” Artus grunted, staring at his breakfast. “But I’m not gonna be king—you are.”
“Not if I were assassinated last night at, say, the Blue Party. Then, as my apparent heir, you would be king—a stupider, more easily manipulated king. One with marriage ties to Davram. One without any known blood vendettas with Banric Sahand.” Tyvian grinned, but he didn’t feel it.
Lyrelle nodded. “If they cannot control the man, they will kill the man and control the boy. As you say—simple and quite ingenious.”
Artus looked at both of them. “You two know I’m in the room, right?” When Tyvian didn’t answer him, he grumbled something about “not being that stupid,” and went back to eating his breakfast.
Tyvian watched Artus eat. There was something about how the boy shoveled food in his mouth. The gusto with which he devoted himself—to meals, to t’suul, to, well, everything. In that moment, Hool’s fears for Brana—which he had always understood intellectually—he suddenly understood on a deeper emotional level. It came over him all at once, making him shiver. Gods, he thought, how much danger have I put this boy in? How different is he than that pathetic peasant girl Myreon was dragging around?
This thought—so simple, and yet so powerful—seemed to break something open in Tyvian’s mind. He took a moment to steady himself, to orient himself in this reality—the one in which he had been living for so long, only never realizing until this moment. He looked at Lyrelle, who was watching him closely, a smile playing around the edges of his mouth. “If I become king, the Great Houses will kill me.”
Lyrelle nodded. “That is very likely, though they may keep you around long enough to fight off Sahand.”
“If I don’t become king, Androlli will snap me up. And I’ll also die.”
Lyrelle nodded again. “Very possible.”
Tyvian frowned at that. “But if I don’t become king, Sahand will cement his claim on Ayventry. He will have his path back to power.”
“And that is unacceptable,” Lyrelle agreed.
Tyvian grimaced. “So I die no matter what . . .”
Artus looked up from his breakfast. “Not if we run away, right now.”
Tyvian stared at him. “If I run away . . . then . . . then the worst of everything happens. Androlli will get us. Sahand will win. Civil war will be certain.”
Artus paused, midchew. “Since when do you care?”
It was a good question. A damned good question. “I don’t know. But we’re staying.”
“But . . .” Artus struggled for the words, “but then I gotta fight those duels!”
Tyvian shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I will be your second and you just won’t show up. There—easy. I spit Valen Hesswyn the bully and then best Ironsides Arving at a game he’s probably never played before.”
Artus’s face had toast crumbs all over it. “But . . . I ain’t no coward!”
Tyvian found his heart was racing for some reason. “Artus, I don’t want you to wind up dead, all right? You’re just about the only friend I have left.”
Artus folded his arms. “Well, I’ll take you as a second, sure, and I’ll listen to your advice. But if we’re staying, I’m fighting those duels, understand?”
Tyvian stood up. “I forbid it!”
Artus stood up as well. “I might be stupid but I know you ain’t king yet, Reldamar!”
Tyvian grimaced. This was it, then—Artus was stubbornly marching off to certain death. And it was all his fault. His appetite vanished. He wanted to cuff Artus over the head and lock him in a closet somewhere. The ring, of course, wouldn’t let him. Fat lot of good you’ve done me, lately.
Lyrelle was smiling at him. “I told you.”
“Told me what?” Tyvian snapped.
Her eyes sparkled. “You love him.”
“Kroth take it!”
He belted on Chance. He needed to get out of here. Needed to think things through without his mother or Defenders or the bloody Guardian standing over him. A plan was forming in his mind—a dark, terrible plan. One that required someone’s help to execute—someone he could trust implicitly. And how many of those people were left, anyway? His eyes fell upon the big man over Lyrelle’s shoulder—his fellow victim of the Iron Ring. “Eddereon, would you care to go for a walk?”
Eddereon looked up from a piece of wood he was whittling. “If you like. But the Defenders won’t let you leave the grounds.”
Tyvian said nothing. He just motioned for Eddereon to follow him, his mind still racing. He heard Artus say good-bye, but only acknowledged with a nod.
They left the dining hall, Tyvian walking at full speed. There were four Defenders just outside. The sergeant struggled to salute as Tyvian walked right by him. “I’m to escort you today, sir. For your own protection, you are not to leave the palace.”
Tyvian nodded, not really listening. He led Eddereon and the squadron of Defenders up narrow servant stairways through hidden bolt-holes in the palace walls—places nobody had seemed to go for ages.
Tyvian counted doors—almost to the fifth floor. “Remember the first time I came to your attention?”
Eddereon nodded, his long legs keeping easy pace with Tyvian’s hasty strides. “The Blue Party, about five years ago now. Always wondered how you got in and out without being caught.”
They came into a long, carpeted hallway decorated with busts of Perwynnon. Tyvian counted down four doors, until they were about at the corner of the South Wing of the palace. “This is the place.”
Tyvian opened the door and motioned for Eddereon to go in. He blocked the way for the Defenders. “My friend and I would like to have a private chat. Is that all right?”
The sergeant’s eyes narrowed and he peered into the room. It had a four-poster bed, an armoire, and a balcony overlooking Lake Elren and the Floating Gardens. There were no other doors. “I . . . I suppose it’s all right. No funny business, though, Reldamar.”
Tyvian cocked his head. “I thought you were calling me ‘sir’ these days.” He slammed the door before the man could answer.
“May I ask why I’m here?” Eddereon said, standing in the middle of the room.
Tyvian threw open the doors to the balcony and then opened the doors to the armoire. Inside it were the disassembled pieces of a ballista—a lightweight Verisi naval model—and a thick coil of rope. “Good—they’re still here.”
“What are we doing?”
Tyvian began to construct the ballista. “I hid this here when I was planning that robbery at the Blue Party—smuggling it in here was actually the crowning achievement of the operation, frankly—but I didn’t end up using it.”
Eddereon watched as Tyvian constructed the device with practiced ease. “What is it for?”
Tyvian positioned the ballista on the balcony. “Winch this, will you?”
Eddereon took the hand cranks and winched the ballista back until it was ready to fire. As he did this, Tyvian tied one end of the coil of rope to the four-poster bed and the other to the ballista bolt. “This,” Tyvian said, placing the bolt and taking aim, “is an escape route.”
THWACK!
The bolt sailed in a clean arc through the clear sky and stuck in a tree at the center of a Floating Garden a bit below them, but two hundred yards distant.
Eddereon smiled. “We just slide down the rope?”
Again without saying anything, Tyvian put Chance’s scabbard over the rope and slid into the void. In a minute, he was rolling on the green grass of that Floating Garden, and the Defenders were none the wiser.
Dead But Once Page 28
