The King of the Crags

by Stephen Deas

  Inch by inch the gates ground open, a hundred men pulling on each of them. Vale walked forward and stopped inside their shadow. The first of the dragons stepped into the space in front of him, seeming to squeeze itself down to fit beneath the colossal Gatehouse arch. It stopped, its head a few feet away from his own. He smelled its breath, hot and rank. The creature had golden eyes as large as his head, teeth as long as his leg, a head the size of a horse and a body as big as a barn. A true monster, as large a war-dragon as he’d ever seen. The sort of creature that could smash down even the mighty Gatehouse towers simply by crashing into them. It made him tiny, and as it lowered its head to look at him, it sniffed and its lips twitched, as if to remind him that a dragon this size was always, always hungry.

  And here, Vale knew, was his strength, the strength of every man behind him. For where any normal man would be shaking and quaking and pissing his pants, he stood still, solid and unmoved. He looked for the fear that any normal man should feel in the presence of such a monster and found nothing. Nothing at all.

  The rider mounted on the war-dragon’s neck took off his helm. Prince Tichane. Valmeyan’s second son and ambassador to the palace.

  “King Valmeyan,” roared Tichane. “The King of the Crags answers the speaker’s call.”

  You should be begging to enter, as every other king begged to enter. And it was not a call but a summons. Vale bowed. Jehal was still beside him. And he wasn’t shaking and quaking and pissing his pants either. “The speaker welcomes you and bids you and yours to enter, under the ancient laws of hospitality,” Vale cried. He was about to move aside to let Tichane and his monster pass into the Gateyard, but suddenly Jehal had a hand on his shoulder.

  “You may pass, Prince Tichane,” shouted Jehal. “You and all those behind you. But no dragons save those of the speaker may enter the grounds of the Adamantine Palace. You should know that.”

  There was a very long silence.

  “You did bring enough riders with you to walk all those poor beasts back to wherever they came from, I hope?”

  Vale kept his face still. It was as well, he decided, that he’d had such extensive practice.

  “You’re also late,” said Jehal, loudly enough to carry well past Tichane to the riders behind him. “The council convened at dawn. If you’re lucky, they’ll have waited. It would be a shame for such a grand entrance to be so utterly wasted.”

  For long seconds, Prince Tichane didn’t move. Then the dragon lowered its head even more, so that it touched the ground. Tichane opened the buckles on his harness and slid down to the ground. He ignored Vale and walked up to Jehal. Back outside the palace, other riders were dismounting.

  “You’re a rude nasty fellow this morning,” he said. Jehal gave him a florid bow.

  “Be careful what you say, Tichane. You’ll be calling me Your Holiness before you leave.”

  “So I hear. So you are the speaker’s mouthpiece today, Jehal. I suppose I should not be surprised. My father will be disappointed that she isn’t here to greet him.”

  Jehal replied with a sad shake of his head. “If King Valmeyan wishes to set himself up as Zafir’s equal, I’m afraid this disappointment will be the first of many. You may find yourself wishing you hadn’t come.”

  Tichane snorted. “Then I will not be alone. Are we to run, then, since we are late?”

  “Oh, I dare say a brisk walk will suffice.”

  They walked away together, in between the perfect legions of the Adamantine Men and toward the Chamber of Audience. On the outside, the damage from the Red Riders’ attack had been made good. On the inside though, the chamber still bore the scars. Vale watched them go and waited. He wasn’t here for princes, he was here for a king. He had to wait for the rest of the riders outside the palace to arrange themselves. One by one the dragons were turned and walked away, Tichane’s was the last. When it left, two columns of riders marched through the gates. Vale studied them closely as they advanced. The rider at their head wore the same armor as the rest of them but he had an aura that Vale knew well. He was old for a rider too.

  As they drew up in front of him, Vale bowed low, exactly as he would bow for any other king or queen. “Your Holiness. The speaker welcomes you and bids you and yours to enter, under the ancient laws of hospitality . . .”

  They swept past him without a glance. Vale stayed exactly where he was until all the riders had gone. Then, with a gesture, he ordered the gates closed. As Valmeyan and his riders marched into the Chamber of Audience, he signaled his legions to return to the walls and their duties. Back where they should have been in the first place.

  Most of them. A few he beckoned toward him. A dozen, that would be enough. They followed Valmeyan and quietly entered the chamber. The air inside smelled new, rich with fresh wood and paint. At the far end, Speaker Zafir sat with her kings. Valmeyan was standing before them. Further away stood riders from all the kings and queens assembled here, bearing witness to the words of the council, a company of them from every realm, even a few from the north. Jeiros and Aruch too, alchemists and priests clustered around them. Vale strode briskly among them, all the way to the speaker’s table. All the way to the seat where Prince Jehal lounged insolently, sneering as the speaker and the King of the Crags exchanged their first ritual greeting in thirty years. Vale stood behind him. He gave himself a moment to savor what he was about to do.

  “Prince Jehal.”

  Jehal looked up. He didn’t look troubled so he obviously had no idea what was coming. “Night Watchman.”

  There weren’t many moments of pure joy in the brief life of a Night Watchman. That was something Vale had come to understand a long time ago, and so he took his time with this one. “Prince Jehal,” he said again, lingering on every word, “you are charged with conspiring to aid and abet the enemies of the realms. By order of the speaker, you are stripped of all titles and authorities.”

  “What?” Jehal half rose out of his chair. Vale put a heavy hand on his shoulder, forcing him back down again. You can’t begin to imagine how satisfying this is.

  “You will be taken to the Tower of Dusk. There you will stay for the remainder of your days, awaiting the speaker’s sentence.” At a gesture, four of Vale’s soldiers seized Jehal and dragged him out of his chair.

  “Zafir!” he shouted, but the speaker’s face was cold. She didn’t even glance at him. “Night Watchman, unhand me! I am quite capable of walking. I am hardly likely to escape.”

  Vale didn’t look at him. He lowered his voice so that only Jehal would hear. “True enough. And I will admit to being impressed that you didn’t even flinch in front of Prince Tichane’s monster. But still, all things considered, I think I prefer to have you dragged, Your Highness.”

  The Gateyard outside was clear. His legions were already back on the walls and the towers. Vale took a moment to look around him.

  A good day’s work and we’ve hardly even started. He already had a heavy sword sharpened up for Queen Shezira’s head. It could easily take another. One could always hope.

  21

  THE QUEEN IN THE TOWER

  They opened the door, threw him inside and shut it behind him. Jehal sat up and rubbed his bruises. A pair of servants stared at him, wide-eyed like startled rabbits, then scurried away. As the door slammed closed, twilight enveloped him. The air was hazy with smoke despite the height of the room. Shafts of sunlight pierced the walls and lit patches of fire on the floor; everywhere else danced in flickering shadow.

  “Hello, Prince Jehal. Please don’t get up. I’ll shoot you if you do.”

  Jehal froze. The voice came from off to one side. Shezira. He turned his head, and there she was, sitting half hidden by one of the massive columns that vanished into the vaulted gloom above. She was holding a crossbow, a large one, calmly, steadily pointing it at him.

  His heart began to pound. How much does she know?

  “The trouble with the condemned,” he said, slowly and softly, “is that they have very little t
o lose. You appear to have been expecting me, Your Holiness.”

  “Did you think I was entirely powerless in here? The Night Watchman let slip that you would be joining me this morning. He also let slip a crossbow and a single bolt. Very careless of him, don’t you think?”

  “Very.” An acidic smile settled on Jehal’s face. “I appear to have been well and truly . . . expected.”

  “He must hate you very much, Jehal. I know he hates me. He thinks I killed Hyram. I don’t imagine he much cares which one of us dies. He probably hopes for both of us.”

  “Did he tell you that I was conspiring with him to help you escape?” Jehal frowned. “Trying to conspire with him, at any rate. I wonder how long he pondered my proposal before he ran to Zafir.”

  “I’ve heard that you conspired a good deal. I’m left to wonder how much of it is true.”

  “Quite a lot of it, I don’t doubt.” Jehal shrugged. “I do so enjoy a good conspiring.”

  “As I would enjoy hearing about them.”

  Jehal snorted. “What, so we can pass the time with some civilized conversation and then you kill me? Why not do us both a favor and get it over with quickly.”

  “Killing you is clearly what I’m supposed to do, but I am not inclined to be cooperative. If at all possible, I mean to shoot you somewhere painful and leave you to live as a cripple. That would be much more satisfying.”

  “Pity you wouldn’t be here to watch though, eh. But kill me now and three of the nine realms will be controlled by your daughters, all baying for war and revenge. I doubt Zafir would survive for long. I’m surprised you didn’t get straight on and do it.”

  “I’m not much interested in a war, Jehal.”

  Jehal couldn’t help but laugh. “That’s what I keep telling them. Although . . .” He shrugged and sighed. “Not being interested in a war doesn’t seem to have done me much good.” Keep talking. Talking was good. Talking wasn’t shooting.

  Shezira almost smiled at him, although the crossbow didn’t flinch. “I was under the impression that you being here to have this conversation had rather more to do with Princess Lystra. It is a little difficult to decide whether she’ll live longer with you dead or with you alive. You understand, I hope, that she is my only consideration in how I deal with you.”

  “Ah.” Jehal let that sink in along with all the implications that came with it. “Yes. Unfortunate thing that. I suppose you realize that Zafir had a certain amount of help getting to where she is. I didn’t need to help her seduce Hyram, but I certainly let her steal the potions she gave him. I allied myself with you and made sure Hyram knew about it. Hyram would have had an accident around now. Lystra would have followed a year later. I would have married Zafir and in time I would have succeeded her. That was what we planned, as I’m sure you’ve already grasped. But Zafir got impatient and I found something in Lystra that I didn’t expect, and so here I find myself. That is the extent of my conspiracy, Your Holiness. You can get on with shooting me now if you wish. I should warn you though that you may miss. If you do, why, then I think we shall have some fun.” He shifted onto his knees, trying to get more comfortable, at the same time readying himself to spring to his feet. Shezira gave a slight shake of her head.

  “You stay sitting exactly where you are. Keep your legs flat on the floor.”

  Jehal rolled his eyes. “If you prefer, Your Holiness, I will lie on my belly. Or on my back, with my feet in the air.”

  “As you are will be perfectly adequate.” Shezira rose out of her chair and came slowly toward him, but kept a wary distance, circling around him. “I didn’t push Hyram off his balcony, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. I saw.”

  “Really?”

  “He fell. I’ve been trying quite hard to convince others of your innocence.”

  “Have you now?” Her voice was cold. She didn’t believe him, probably didn’t believe him about Lystra either. She was prowling around him now. Her hands on the crossbow were as steady as stone, and her eyes . . . Her eyes showed no forgiveness, no mercy. In the north they called her the Queen of Stone, the Queen of Flint. Jehal had called her that too, behind her back, but now he understood what they really meant. His heart skipped. He bit his lip.

  “Were you poisoning him, Jehal?” she asked. Jehal hesitated. If he lied, and she already knew . . . but he’d undone himself anyway by not answering straightaway.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And your father?”

  This time he was ready. His face twisted into a sneer. “Everyone seems to think so. Why should I disappoint you all?”

  The look she gave him was a queer one, as if he’d somehow answered another question, one that she hadn’t asked but one that mattered a great deal more. “And me, Jehal? Why were you trying to poison me?”

  He snorted, surprised. “You? Why would I poison you? You were no threat to me.”

  “I am now.”

  “Sadly, my powers of foresight did not predict this little awkwardness. Zafir having me thrown in a dungeon while she had you put to death, yes, I suppose I half expected that. It being this dungeon and my good friend the Night Watchman having left you so wickedly dangerous, that possibility I’m afraid had entirely escaped me.”

  “Again, Jehal, why were you trying to poison me? I cannot fathom what you would gain from it, yet I cannot see who else it could be.”

  Jehal furrowed his brow and shook his head. What are you talking about, woman? “Your Holiness, I never have tried to poison you. In actual fact, despite all Hyram’s little fantasies, I’ve murdered remarkably few people. Your daughter, for example. Notably not murdered, however politically useful it might have been. You. Also not murdered. And I can promise you, Queen Shezira, that when I aim to make someone dead, they die. I helped Zafir steal the Speaker’s Ring from you, but poison you? No. I would have been quite happy for you to go back to Outwatch and fester. I’ve never tried to have you harmed in any way; in fact, since Hyram stupidly fell off his own balcony, I’ve done everything I can to keep you alive. Not out of any love for you, you understand, but, believe it or not, for love of the realms. Of everything. Of life. Zafir doesn’t just want your head. She’s going to execute King Valgar as well, and then she’s going to move on to all three of your daughters. I’m trying to stop her.” He looked ruefully around the Tower of Dusk. “Not with as much success as I’d hoped, it would seem.”

  Shezira snorted and shook her head. “Why should I believe a word you say? Hyram called you a viper, and he wasn’t wrong. We all should have listened to him.”

  “Your daughter Jaslyn sits on your throne. Almiri rules in Evenspire. With Zafir they will take all the realms into flames. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

  “Jaslyn has Hyrkallan to guide her.” For a moment, Jehal wondered how the queen could possibly know that Hyrkallan had abandoned the Red Riders and returned north. Then he realized that she probably didn’t know that the Red Riders even existed. “Besides, she cares more for her dragons than she does for me.” A touch of bitterness tinged Shezira’s voice now. “She won’t go to war, not for me. The only person she truly cares about is her little sister, your Lystra. Keep her alive and safe and Jaslyn will stay in her eyries.”

  “Lystra is carrying my heir.”

  “So I’ve heard. Another reason to keep her alive.”

  “I’m trying very hard to do so.”

  Shezira nodded her head. “Good. Unfortunately, I rather fear for my daughter after she’s given you what you want. So let me give you something that is both help and encouragement.” And with that, Shezira pointed the crossbow between Jehal’s legs and fired.

  The force knocked him back across the polished marble floor; and then came the pain, unbearable, burning, blinding, shrieking pain that seemed to run like liquid fire along every nerve and bone.

  “Zafir will have to find another lover now,” said Shezira, although Jehal could hardly hear her over the roaring in his head. He couldn’t see anything e
ither. “We are truly tied together now, blood to blood, Prince Jehal. If my bloodline dies, so does yours.”

  The roaring sounds, Jehal realized, were his own screams.

  22

  THE EXECUTION OF HIS DUTIES

  Vale stood, still as a statue, as the Herald of Titles announced each and every sitting member of the council of kings and queens. Only the monarchs had any real say in what would be decided, but they’d brought a good few lords and ladies and a smattering of princes and princesses with them. Vale wondered if it made them feel more important. The other possibility was that it made them feel safe, a thought which he took as a personal affront.

  He, of course, was not sitting and was not announced. His soldiers stood quietly, scattered around the Chamber of Audience, some more obvious than others, deceptive in their numbers. A casual glance might say he’d brought only a dozen men to guard the speaker and her guests. The truth was closer to ten times that number. Some of them were also witnesses. Witnesses who would say that they’d seen Queen Shezira enter the speaker’s rooms, invited in by the speaker’s wordmaster. That they’d heard the speaker call out, shouting for something that they hadn’t been able to understand. That they’d gone into his rooms and found Queen Shezira standing on his balcony with the speaker already lying dead below.

  But none of them actually saw the push. None of them saw him fall. He hadn’t given it too much thought until the kings from the south and the east had started to arrive. Then they’d all started asking. Did you see it? Did anyone actually see Shezira murder Speaker Hyram? Narghon’s queen, Fyon, she was the worst. By the time she was finished, even the wordmaster, who’d been adamant that Shezira was guilty, was having his doubts.

  I am the Night Watchman of the dragon-soldiers. We do not have doubt. The Guard are always certain of their cause. From birth to death. Nothing more, nothing less. Hyram fell. Shezira pushed. End. There is no other explanation that makes sense.