The Uncrowned King

by Michelle West

  Ah.

  There it lay, exposed, the heart of her power. She slid her free hand to her sword’s hilt, and left it there.

  “You aren’t afraid of the darkness,” she said softly to Jewel.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this time,” Jewel replied, with an intensity that Kiriel had rarely heard in her voice, “we’re not helpless.”

  This, Kiriel understood. It was one of the few times she felt that she understood anything about Jewel ATerafin. “You’ll have to stand back.”

  “How far?”

  “Far enough,” Kiriel said softly, “that I can’t touch you immediately after.” Her grip on Jewel’s hand tightened, if that were possible. “Do you understand? It’s important.”

  Jewel nodded. “Far enough back, then. Kiriel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Now.”

  Kiriel frowned and shook her head; she let go of Jewel’s hand. Then, taking a deep breath, she drew her sword. Raised it, in the sun’s light. She stood a moment, perfectly poised, the barrier a blade’s length before her, the sun above, a woman who was almost a friend not fifteen feet from her back.

  She almost couldn’t believe where she was. To be here, yes—but not like this; that had never been the plan. Hers was a position at the head of the armies that would march to destroy this city, the heart of this Empire.

  She had never told Ashaf that. Ashaf would have hated it, and she could not—not quite—bring herself to cause the older woman pain.

  In the end, it hadn’t mattered. Pain was caused, and death, and both because of her.

  The sword dipped in her hand; her hands lost their steadiness. They always did when she thought of Ashaf. Ashaf had no place in war, no place in combat, no place in the lives of the powerful.

  With a cry that was too incoherent to be a word, Kiriel di’Ashaf brought her sword down.

  The creature cried out as if struck, although in truth neither Andaro nor Valedan’s weakening blows had landed. Something in the air shifted; something changed.

  It meant nothing to the Southern warrior, but Valedan kai di’Leonne’s eyes opened in wonder as he felt, for the first time since the darkness had closed in, the sea breeze. He found strength then.

  The sword shivered, rebounded. The barrier denied her an easy victory. No one could see the smile that turned her lips up, and just as well. Kiriel di’Ashaf did not sheathe her sword, although the sword itself became useless as she made her decision.

  She reached out with her free hand.

  Touched the shadow.

  Jewel started forward; Avandar pulled her back, catching her by both shoulders in a grip so sudden she almost lost her footing.

  The shadow touched her. She felt it seeking purchase in skin, in the flesh beneath skin, and she laughed, although the sound came out as snarl to her ears, to her human ears. Here, in the sunlight, she was ascendant; the power to conquer was hers.

  The ring did not defy her; could not contain her. Had it ever? She forgot. This smallness, this shadow—what matter where it came from? Her father’s, her teacher’s, her enemy’s—it was power.

  And Kiriel di’Ashaf had spent her life training so that she might take it. She began to absorb the darkness; instead of fighting it, she let it in.

  Jewel didn’t struggle against Avandar. She waited. But he knew her well enough—no surprise after this many years. His hands remained where they were; on either shoulder, tightly. She knew there was no point telling him to either let go or loosen up; she didn’t try. To speak would have been to somehow break away from Kiriel, from the Kiriel she knew, viscerally and completely, could never be called in truth di’Ashaf. Oh, she’d known it the moment she met her, but she hadn’t seen this. This was a test of a den leader’s faith and strength.

  She wondered how many of the magi could see what she saw. Wondered what they would do if they could. Wondered, in fact, what Kiriel would do when the shadows consumed her. Or when she consumed them. She was grateful that she couldn’t see the younger woman’s face. Cowardice, that, and she knew it. But there are some things that friendship doesn’t survive unscarred.

  Or at all.

  “Meralonne.”

  The magi looked up.

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Ah. Apologies, Sigurne. I was—”

  “Transfixed. Yes. I noticed. Clearly what you’re seeing through Cahille is filtered in some way.” Disapproval in the words, but not as strong a disapproval as he might have expected.

  “What was the question?”

  “Do you understand what the young girl is doing?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Do you think that she can survive it?”

  “I have no question of that whatever.”

  “Good.” Sigurne paused, and then lifted a frail hand; she brushed silver strands of hair from her eyes, and then looked back at the spell cloud that gathered on her bed. At the man who held it there, hair as silver as hers, skin as translucent in quality, but somehow unbowed by the age that she had reached uneasy truce with.

  She knew that his power would fail him soon; that in truth he was being irresponsible—dangerously so—by continuing to fuel the spell. But she was what she was: Magi, and a seeker of knowledge. Where curiosity and concern clashed, curiosity won.

  “Will we?”

  He gave no answer.

  The barrier, to Jewel’s eye, was getting thinner and thinner. She couldn’t see past its darkness, but she knew that in a minute or two it wouldn’t matter; the darkness was almost entirely Kiriel's now—or she, its. Kiriel had still not turned to face them, but her sword hand was slowly rising, the weapon clutched in such a way that it might have been made of bamboo for all the difficulty its weight caused her.

  The shadow spilled from shoulder to ground, rolling off her back like the finest of cloth, a thing that spoke of power, of stature, of rulership.

  Ah. There. Her free hand rose, and when it rose, it pulled the last of the darkness with it, uprooting it from soil, from grass, from anything that was not her.

  Valedan saw the light first.

  Andaro saw the demon.

  Between them, they made a single warrior; they were too injured, too damaged, to stand as two whole men. But when the light came, Valedan rallied for the last time.

  Before the Kings, before the Ospreys, before the Southerners and the people who had come to watch a pretty contest of skill, he cried out the name for which he would become known, and swung his sword in a wild arc—

  —that ended with the creature’s neck.

  The head itself rolled across the grass, its expression shifting slowly from stricken squinting to rage. Not dead, not yet, but aware that the final blow had been struck.

  There was a thunderous silence; the priests, who had until that moment been frozen, practically flew into action; the magi joined them almost as quickly. He saw all this, and then turned his back on it; Andaro had time to bury his sword in—through—the standing, moving body before mage-fires and something older than that began to cleanse it. He rescued his sword in time, and they stood, Andaro di’Corsarro and Valedan kai di’Leonne, in the Challenger’s circle—a circle now marked perfectly by dead, brown grass.

  But they didn’t face each other. Valedan started to turn, and something caught his attention. Caught it, held it, pinned it struggling to the ground.

  He saw the darkness that had had solidity now moving, now seeing, breathing, living. And it was less than five feet away.

  She jabbed Avandar’s insole with her heel and drove her elbows in a one-two thrust into his rib cage. That was enough to make him let go, and that was all she needed. Jewel ATerafin ran. There wasn’t much space to cover between her and her target; less to cover between
her target and Valedan kai di’Leonne, the man lives had already been sacrificed to protect. The boy, really; he was only a handful of years older than Kiriel—if that—and he was bleeding from a half-dozen dangerous wounds and a host of little scratches. In no condition at all to face darkness.

  Of course, if she’d been thinking rationally, she’d have admitted that neither was she. That was her worst problem at times like this: She didn’t remember to think. She just acted. Always just acted.

  How could you rule a House when you didn’t have the brains to rule yourself?

  What had Kiriel said? Far enough that I can’t touch you immediately after.

  He raised his sword; hers was there, limned in shadow the way steel is often haloed with reflected light. It wasn’t the sword that was terrifying; it was her face. Because he almost thought he recognized it, that face, but he could not bring himself to put a name to it. He wasn’t sure why. Wasn’t sure why the recognition frightened him.

  But as he stood there, unable to either attack or retreat, some gift was given him; she staggered; took a step—an involuntary step—toward him, and then turned.

  Gaze broken.

  Valedan turned as well. He offered Andaro a hand; the Southerner, exposed to public regard, stiffly refused it. They retreated to the far edge of the circle, but neither of them crossed it.

  He knew they were fools. But to cross the circle was to end the contest; to admit defeat. Instead, they sat—and they did sit; Andaro could barely stand—and watched.

  This was what she hadn’t wanted; to face the darkness head on. But she faced it because it was Kiriel, and because Kiriel was hers—her responsibility, for better or worse. Hers to save, and if salvation somehow proved impossible, hers to kill. She knew that now. That was why Evayne had woken her, sent her.

  She also knew that Evayne didn’t know it, and that brought her comfort. Cold comfort was better than none.

  Kiriel’s face was wreathed by shadow, blessed by it, awful, terrible in its beauty, its seductive death. Jewel almost took a step back. But she didn’t. Instead she took a step forward, grabbed her den-mate by either arm.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  She could feel the shock of cold ride up her arms, numbing them. Locking them in place.

  “I know you’re afraid, Jewel Markess ATerafin,” Kiriel said softly, softly. She touched Jewel’s face with the palm of her hand. “I can see you so clearly, I can see all your fear. None of it is hidden from me.”

  “Then tell me,” Jewel said, although her teeth were chattering from cold—and worse. “What’s the worst fear, Kiriel. What’s the worst fear I have?”

  Silence. The familiar and completely foreign brow furled. Then, “Me.”

  “R–right the first time. What about you?”

  “Death.”

  Jewel snorted—an act of bravado which was becoming more difficult as the seconds passed. “Good guess. Look deeper.”

  The palm against her cheek became fingers, became claws. She was pushing. Knew it. But desperation makes a woman stupid, and Jewel was desperate. She could feel the magi gathering at her back; could feel the Kings, the god-born, the whole of the Empire’s power staring down at them, waiting.

  Waiting as she waited, but with so much less to lose.

  The darkness readied itself. She saw it in the lines of Kiriel’s shifting expression. But it didn’t pounce; it didn’t strike. Kiriel, darkness-born, found what Jewel had sent her looking for.

  With a wordless, a strangled, cry, Kiriel di’Ashaf pushed Jewel ATerafin away. Unfortunately, that push sent Jewel staggering ten feet back. It was not meant to injure; it was meant to preserve. Avandar caught her again, and this time she knew he’d bind her before he’d let her get away.

  But she didn’t try. She watched as Kiriel crumpled slowly into the ground, the lifeless ground, at her feet. Watched as the sword fell from one hand, watched as both hands became fists.

  Watched, in sadness and with a pride that she knew she had no real right to feel, as Kiriel began to fight.

  Our worst battles, Jewel thought, are always with ourselves. No one else can fight ’em.

  And as she thought it, she knew she was both right and wrong. Something changed; something about Kiriel; something inside of her. The ring on her hand, unnoticed until now, glittered in the sunlight. No; it was flashing as if it, too, were struggling to come to light.

  It succeeded.

  At first the ring’s glow was gentle; soft and somehow comforting. Jewel wouldn’t have noticed it at all if she hadn’t had the eyes of a seer. But she did.

  Platinum ring. Oathring.

  Kiriel’s hands stopped shaking although they didn’t unfurl. She touched the ring with her shield hand. Touched it. Held it.

  A light that gentle, that pale, still shone brightly in the darkness. In a darkness such as this, it was a lighthouse, a beacon, a warning. And as the ring continued to shine, it seemed to grow brighter, and the darkness to grow less. Day broke, for Kiriel.

  “Avandar.”

  “We’ll speak later,” the domicis said, through clenched teeth. But he, too, knew that the danger had passed. He let her go, this time.

  She didn’t make it to Kiriel’s side before the Ospreys did.

  The shadow was gone, the ring remained.

  Kiriel flexed her hand, looking for charred flesh, for burning, for signs of the pain the ring had caused her. This time, there weren’t any. There was the ring, a blurred line of metal that seemed to separate her finger from her hand. She looked up, hoping to see Jewel.

  Afraid to see her.

  The Ospreys were there instead. They surrounded her gravely, with a watchful silence that spoke of their suspicion and their concern. Had she been watching them with the vision she’d been born to, she would have latched onto the suspicion, made of it fear, manipulated it and used it if she needed to. But she saw them as they saw each other, and she knew that there was more there than fear, and more than just one kind of fear.

  Who would have thought that fear could have so many faces, and that one of them could be—

  Ashaf’s face.

  The ring wasn’t blurring; she was, or rather, her eyes were. And her arms were shaking, as if she’d used too much power, too quickly. Isladar had always warned her of that particular risk. She rose quickly, turning away from the Ospreys and toward the two men who sat at the far edge of what had once been a combat circle. She turned away from them just as quickly.

  Auralis came to her rescue.

  Not that she needed rescue, not now—but he came anyway, shielding her from both his own sight and the sight of prying strangers or helpful friends. He didn’t ask her any questions. Didn’t want to know the answers, she thought. But it didn’t matter.

  He knew that she was close to tears. Knew that that weakness was not a thing meant to be shared with anyone. He was very careful when he touched her, but he did touch her; she’d remember it later, that he’d dared to put his arm around her shoulder and lead her away.

  The strange thing is that the only person who tried to stop him was Jewel—and she only tried for as long as it took to make eye contact.

  They rose.

  He watched them: his student, gashed to bone at knee, thigh and calf, and his enemy, gashed likewise at forearm and rib. A cut across the forehead would heal cleanly if tended quickly; it would scar otherwise, but it was a scar that many Southerners would be proud to bear.

  And many prouder still to see.

  Valedan kai di’Leonne had bested the creature in full view of the spellbound coliseum.

  They turned to each other, these two competitors, bleeding and weak with the lack of blood. Neither made a move toward the circle’s edge, as if—having fought for their lives—they might somehow return to the contest that had brought them
so close to death.

  Or, more likely, as if neither one of them could bear to be accused of surrender.

  Outside of the circle, the body and the head remained. Ser Anton’s knowledge of demon lore was a child’s knowledge, hoarded over the years—and that child within said that demon’s bodies returned at once to the evil that had created them. At once.

  “Andaro,” Ser Anton said.

  His student, warily, turned to face him, and Anton knew, as their eyes met, that he was student no longer. His no longer. It stung, which surprised him. The more so because it was absolutely deserved. Whatever he had promised this man, he had in the end only given betrayal, albeit unintended.

  “Ser Andaro,” he said, bowing his head. “Shall I tend to the body?”

  That brought him to life, as Anton had known it would. The circle was his pride and his strength, the test of the warrior beneath the gaze of the open sky. But the body was all that was left him of something that he had valued at least as much. He hesitated on the boundary, and then said, “Don’t touch him.”

  Ser Anton clasped his hands behind his back.

  Waited.

  But here, he found Valedan kai di’Leonne unexpectedly graceful. It cut him, just as Andaro’s anger did.

  “Andaro,” the young kai said.

  The man who was not much older turned.

  “You struck twice; I struck once. If the match is to be judged at all, that will be remembered.” And before Andaro could move, he bowed. And stepped out of the circle.

  There was a sudden whisper from the Southerners who watched, a growing rush of sound, muted and indistinct. Andaro, sword in hand, stared at the kai Leonne’s moving back. And then he shouted a single word.

  “Tyr’agar!”

  The kai Leonne stopped. Turned back. Their eyes met, and Andaro understood that what he could not have taken in combat, he had been given in compassion. Not a thing to burden a Southern warrior with.