The King of Forever

by Kirby Crow

  “The Ava Thule survived,” Scarlet pointed out. “Some of them, at least.”

  “Yes, or a pack of them may have fled south, where we passed them by unknowingly. Just how they did it is not terribly important.”

  Scarlet rummaged in a painted bowl for an apple. Privately, he disagreed. If the Ava Thule survived one army, they could certainly survive another. “In Ankar, they tell tales of how men once lived in caves, without the knowledge of iron or fire.”

  Liall seemed interested. “What’s your point?”

  “All life just wants to be, Liall. Even when it shouldn’t be able to, even when a thousand things are trying to kill it. Look at rabbits. There isn’t a single animal in the wilds here that doesn’t hunt them for food, and yet they thrive. If it’s true for rabbits, how much more true is it for men?”

  Liall’s gaze was steady. “Maybe I should give you a seat on my council.”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  Liall smiled grimly and glanced at the door.

  Scarlet touched Liall’s hand. “Stay a moment? I need to ask you something.” He looked at Chos. Poor lad, he spent more time being dismissed than working. Chos bowed and left.

  Liall brushed his fingers over Scarlet’s cheek. “Ask away.”

  Scarlet bit his lower lip. “Can’t you give Jochi back his post? He truly wasn’t to blame for the hunt.”

  Liall sighed. “I admit, I was wrong to be so angry. He’s not a soldier. I had unrealistic expectations of him. The man I put in his place will not have such difficulty.”

  And what man will that be? “Are you sacking him proper, then?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Making him leave the court?”

  “Oh... no. He’s asked to return to the Blackmoat and I’ve agreed. Now, eat well and look for me in the Leaf Court when you’re finished. I want to ride out and see my lands before we leave tomorrow.”

  As soon as that? Scarlet fought down a feeling of unease. “How will we travel?”

  “At first by sleigh, then horseback. Sul isn’t terribly far, alas, so the comfort will be short-lived.”

  “I remember,” Scarlet said. He had a sudden memory of the first night they had arrived at the Nauhinir; stepping out of the sleigh before the glittering nobles in the courtyard, how the diamonds in the queen’s crown had blazed, how Shikhoza’s eyes had been like chips of ice. There had been so much guarded violence in their faces, so much dislike and distrust. Things had changed in the Nauhinir since then. He felt welcomed here, even liked. He doubted matters would be the same on the road.

  That misgiving must have shown on his face. Liall bent and kissed his forehead. “They may stare and talk, my beautiful t’aishka, but all of my people will come to love you one day. It’s impossible not to.”

  “Pretty words.” Scarlet smiled. “What should I expect in Sul?”

  “You should expect to be treated like what you are. You’re part of my family, part of me. In Rshan, being acknowledged as t’aishka is like being born to my name. You’re a Camira-Druz now. Do you understand? Don’t fret.”

  Scarlet remembered the vicious actions of the rough mariners on the Ostre Sul, and the Nauhinir was full of nobles and courtiers and those trained to behave better than their common brethren. He suspected that being in Sul openly as the king’s t’aishka would be a great deal different than a day in the palace.

  Whatever he felt, he wasn’t about to let Liall see him hesitate to go journeying. He was a pedlar after all. Besides, Liall’s guards will be with us, and Deva knows how many thousands of soldiers. What could happen?

  He summoned a firm smile. “I’m not fretting, you want-wit. Off with you so I can stuff myself with more of Dvi’s bread. There’s precious few master bakers in your army, I’ll wager.”

  ***

  “What are you doing?”

  The voice was harsh, the tone unfamiliar. Scarlet jumped and turned, feeling guilty without knowing why. He had sought out Cestimir’s rooms on instinct, not knowing if Liall had given them to someone else yet, some noble or Setna.

  He’d found the wing empty, the door closed but not bolted. When he entered, the room was as fresh as if it had been cleaned yesterday.

  A stern man stood in the doorway that led back into the hall. He was gray-eyed and had a strange streak of dark silver hair against the white at his temples.

  “I’m—” Scarlet licked his lips. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was looking for. I just wanted to come here before... before.” He wished to see Cestimir’s room one last time before they left the Nauhinir, but he didn’t want to say that.

  The man stepped into the room with him, peering left and right. “You should not wander so deep into the palace alone, ser.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Margun.” He closed the door.

  Scarlet studied him. The words were cultured, but Margun was no courtier. His dress was too severe: a black virca with no ornament, riding boots that had seen heavy use, and worn leather breeches. His features were sharp, severe as a blade, and his face was scarred.

  Not the kind of man to fool about with, Scaja would have said. Scarlet had no sense of danger, but Margun had a manner that reminded him slightly of Cadan. Or at least, Cadan as the man Scarlet had initially believed him to be, before the mask was torn away. A soldier?

  He decided he didn’t like the man. “Margun,” he echoed. “Are you the master of my coming and goings, then?”

  The gruff, commanding air vanished from Margun. He bowed his head. “No, ser. Not at all. If it please you, the king will be looking for you in the Leaf Court.”

  Scarlet frowned. “You seem to know my business rather well, and I haven’t even heard your name before.”

  “Nor would you, my lord. I’ve only recently arrived at the palace.”

  I’m not a lord, rose to his lips. But Liall had given him the hunting lands, and presented him with some fancy paper that made him Lord Wild. Like putting a hat on a mule, he thought. I’m no more a lord than this Margun is a cherry tree.

  “Why are you following me, Margun?”

  “I am in the king’s employ, ser. I saw you unattended, and this wing is unused since the prince’s death. I thought perhaps I could help you.”

  The words were courteous and Margun kept his distance. Scarlet relaxed. “Oh,” he said. He glanced around the room. It had a narrow bed and a reading table. The walls were gray stone with touches of blue. Plain wool curtains. Iron shields on the walls. It was a somber and depressing room for a boy as young as Cestimir. The only colors were the spines of books in a tall iron case.

  Scarlet ran a finger over the brilliant leather covers. “Did you know Cestimir?”

  “I did not, ser. He was quite young and I haven’t visited the Nauhinir in... some time.”

  Scarlet smiled bitterly as he pulled a book with a crimson spine from the case. Was that what Liall meant when he spoke about tact? More to the point, about how Hilurin didn’t have any. “He was three summers younger than me. What you meant was he wasn’t even born the last time you were here. You’re Liall’s age, I suppose.”

  “I’m much older than the king, I believe.”

  He sighed. Margun looked to be in his prime, no more than forty years, as the Aralyrin counted them. Certainly younger than Scaja. “Of course you are. Your lot live forever.”

  Margun smiled. It didn’t suit his face. “I wish that were true, ser.”

  Scarlet opened the book and tried to read the first page. The only words he could recognize were mountain and forever. And one other: a rune distinctly out of place among the elegant Sinha script, scrawled large over an entire corner of the page. He turned the page quickly to cover his shock. “So, how old are you, then?”

  Margun tilted his head. A scrawl of hair the color of lead slipped over his shoulder. “Are you always so impolite?”

  Scarlet raised his eyebrows. “That’s plain speech, right enough. Now I really believe you’re new to the palace.”
He flipped the pages. “And no, I’m not. Or, well... I try not to be. It’s hard to know what offends one of you giants.”

  “I see,” Margun answered coldly.

  “For Deva’s sake, what did I say now?”

  “Other than refer to me as a creature instead of a man, not a thing.”

  Scarlet sighed and snapped the book shut, knowing he was in the wrong and nettled by it. “I apologize. Now will you please go and let me say goodbye to Cestimir in peace?”

  Margun swept his hand at the empty apartments. “Ser, the prince rests at the Kingsdal. Do you think he can hear you from here?”

  Scarlet tucked the book under his arm. “Yes. I do.” He folded his hands and waited.

  After a long moment, Margun bowed and opened the door. “I will be within hearing, ser. At least until you rejoin the king.”

  With Margun gone, Scarlet walked slowly through the still and empty rooms, his heels echoing on the floors with a lonely sound. He went deeper into the center of the wing, where there were no candles lit and no windows, only darkness all around. To his eyes, every edge in the room was silver, the contours of the walls and the shapes of objects illuminated in relief, as if splashed by stark moonlight.

  Cestimir had few personal effects in sight: a stuffed white bear tucked in a glass case, a little flute made of bone, and—above the cold fireplace—a tall painting of a woman with a strawberry shine to her pale gold hair.

  Scarlet looked up at her. Ressilka’s mouth was curved in a beguiling smile, her large eyes lined with blue paint, and her arms full of roses. Dew sparkled on the rose petals and dampened the breast of her pink gown, and her amber neck was clasped by a necklace like a spider web dripping with precious blue sapphires.

  He recognized it. He should, since it belonged to him now. The necklace was an heirloom of Queen Nadiushka’s family. It was supposed to be Shikhoza’s bride gift, but her wedding day never came and the queen gave it to Scarlet before she died.

  How Ressilka came to be wearing it for the portrait, he didn’t know. He found he didn’t care to know, either.

  “You can’t have him,” he whispered to her image. He turned away from her to address the room. “I’m sorry, Cestimir,” he said, watching a little spider spin a silver thread from the mantel to the floor. “So sorry I don’t even have the words, but not sorry enough to stop loving Liall, or to step aside and let her take him from me. I know you loved her. I’ll look after her for you. I promise.”

  He retreated through the lonely rooms and paused at the main door. “And thanks for the book.”

  He closed the heavy door after him with the same unmistakable feeling that he had when he prayed to Deva, the deep instinct that he had been heard.

  The rune he recognized in the book was one of the few known well by Hilurin. He had seen it painted on the crossroads of the Old Salt Road between Rusa and Lysia as a dire warning to travelers, and he had seen it in his vision of the Overworld.

  The rune was Senkhara, the god of the Minh.

  ***

  Liall was not in the Leaf Court when Scarlet came down. The portcullis—a giant iron affair, forged in a pattern of thorny vines and leaves—was open. Fires were blazing in great iron pits throughout the yard, driving out the lingering chill.

  The courtyard alone was bigger than the whole village square of Lysia, surrounded by walls twenty feet high and three feet thick, overshadowed by the towering structure of the massive palace itself, which rose like a pale mountain topped with spires and towers and endless stairs. The Leaf Court was one of many such yards in the Nauhinir. Scarlet had never bothered to count them all.

  He spotted Theor by the gatehouse. The master of horse wore leather armor over a padded gambeson and was saddling a blue-black horse of alarming size.

  The horse dipped his neck low and snuffled when Scarlet came near. He held out his hand to let him sniff. “Hello, boy. Big fellow, ent you?”

  Theor watched. “The beasts like you.” One broad hand the size of a plate gentled the horse’s mane.

  “He just wants a treat,” Scarlet said, but he was pleased.

  Theor shook his head. “I’ve been watching them. When you come into the stables, it’s as if a summer wind blows through the pens. They look for you.”

  Scarlet smiled and ducked his head. “My father was a wainwright. I’m just comfortable around horses. Maybe they sense that.”

  “No,” Theor said. His gaze was level, measuring him. “They sense a kind spirit, and maybe that you have a weakness for them. You never visit your pony without a treat.”

  Scarlet chuckled at Theor naming his mount a pony. That animal was as big as any horse in Byzantur. “Where is Apples? I thought I’d be riding him today?”

  Theor turned and searched the yard. “I did order him to be saddled, ser. Damn that fool groom. Serves me right for letting a green boy do my work. If you will hold Argent, I’ll bring him.”

  Scarlet took the reins, surprised that Theor trusted him to control the horse. “Yes, of course,” he murmured, looking up at the great black head. If Argent bolted, he’d be dragged like the tail on a kite.

  Argent snuffled his hair, seeming as amused as a horse could be.

  Scarlet stroked the silken lines of Argent’s neck and clucked his tongue soothingly as Theor strode off.

  The guards changed duty at the gatehouse as he waited, and servants came and went through side doors into palace kitchens and up winding stairs that led high into open battlements and parapet walks. Black smoke curled up in twisting ropes from the fires and vanished over the walls. Scarlet stamped his feet and wiggled his toes in his boots. The sun might be warmer on his shoulders today, but the ground was cold as ice. Liall said only the top layers of the land would melt. Deeper below, it had remained frozen for thousands of years.

  Two columns of freeriders came in through the open gates, leather-clad and grim as winter, their long white hair flying in the wind. Their horses were as weathered as the riders. Grooms scurried to bring the men water and their mounts grain, for by law, the freeriders who patrolled the roads and highways in the king’s service were entitled to shelter anywhere, even the palace.

  Theor returned with a face like a thundercloud. Liall followed him, blue cloak whipping around his knees, his shoulders hunched.

  Whatever was wrong, Argent seemed to feel it, too. The beast turned his head to watch Liall and exhaled heavily from the great bellows of his lungs.

  “We’re leaving for Sul now,” Liall said without preamble. His fists were clenched.

  “Where’s my horse?” Scarlet asked Theor.

  “Now,” Liall said, his jaw tight. He took the reins from Scarlet’s hands. “Theor, return Argent to the stables. Call for me when the sleigh is ready.”

  “Yes, my Lord.” Theor patted Argent’s neck, who had sensed the change and begun to chew the bit.

  Scarlet waited until the master of horse was out of earshot. He looked at Liall. “Is it bad?”

  Anger flashed over Liall’s features. “I’m sorry, Scarlet. Apples can’t make the trip to Sul.”

  “Is he ill?” At Liall’s nod, Scarlet turned to follow Theor. “Let’s go to him. I could cast a withy. Magic works on animals, too, you know.”

  Liall took his arm and drew him back. “I think you shouldn’t.”

  Scarlet stared, trying to puzzle out why Liall wouldn’t want him in the stables. Then, he knew. “That prancing purple bastard,” he swore. “Did he hurt the poor creature just to stick a pin in me? I’ll stick one in him!”

  I’ll set his boots on fire, he thought darkly. I’ll make him burn like the sails of the Minh ship.

  Liall grabbed his shoulders. “Scarlet, stop!”

  Only then did he realize that his hands were burning with heat. He smelled smoke and tore his gloves off, throwing them on the ground.

  Liall seized his hands and examined them. “Are you hurt? Are you burned? T’aishka, look at me.”

  Scarlet shook his head, trying to cl
ear the fiery haze from his mind. “I’m fine. I just... fine. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath and stared at his hands in amazement.

  Liall’s fingers were trembling. “Gods below, what was that?”

  What, indeed? Was he really thinking of setting Jarad Hallin on fire in the stables, around all that hay and timber? It would have gone up like a torch, along with the horses.

  “I was imagining Hallin hurting Apples. And then it got away from me.” He looked at his palms. They were flushed pink. “It’s becoming hard to control,” he whispered in a shaking voice. “When we left Byzantur, I could barely summon a withy big enough to light a candle. Now...” He shivered, suddenly cold. “Now there’s a lion chained under my skin. It wants to devour everything. I try to starve it by not using magic, but it only grows hungrier.”

  Liall’s blue eyes were wide. “Can it harm you?”

  Scarlet frowned. Could it? He exhaled, growing calmer. No one was hurt. It hadn’t gotten away from him this time. “I don’t think so. My dad always said that Deva’s gift to us was drawing the magic out, that it had been inside of us from the beginning. Can one flame harm another?”

  “A greater flame can overpower a smaller one, yes. The small flame is absorbed, the larger prevails.” Liall rubbed his thumb over Scarlet’s palm. “But we won’t play philosophy with your life. We must find a way to master this magic of yours.”

  Scarlet nodded helplessly. They must, but how? He had no one to turn to in this. No father, no mother, no village. In Lysia, he could have asked old Hipola, or Jerivet, who was a wonder with animals. “Is Apples going to be alright?”

  “He’ll live,” Liall said. “Theor will make sure of that.”

  “I want to help.”

  Liall shook his head. “No more dancing to Hallin’s tune. I wouldn’t wager money on his survival if either one of us confronted him right now. Let’s leave him here to shovel the shit from his damned bride gift.”