For the Killing of Kings

by Howard Andrew Jones

  She got up to pour water from a brass pitcher into a porcelain bowl on the nightstand, washing her hands and face before peering into the tiny bronzed mirror that magnified the lamplight. She thought her eyes looked only a little tired. Her hair was a wild corona of chestnut, though. She stuck a tongue out at herself, rubbed more cold water on her face, and set to ordering her mane.

  It didn’t take long to dress and get ready for her dawn workout, shoulder-length hair in a utilitarian braid.

  She stopped with her hand upon the door, ashamed that in her eagerness she’d neglected an important portion of her daily regimen. She returned to the window, head bowed, and offered prayers, first giving thanks for another day to the Goddess Darassa, who’d founded the realm where she now lived. It was she who’d overseen the construction of Darassus and its great domes and bridges and who had once walked the streets of the city with her people.

  Elenai then prayed to Vedessa, the creator of her homeland. She hoped the Goddess would watch over her father and sister, who might be starting their day, far away in the city of Vedessus, but were more likely still abed.

  Finally, she thanked the God Elahn, after whom she was named, for the continued gift of health.

  It was no bad thing, her father had told her, to be connected to three of the four great Gods.

  Prayers complete, she left her room. The hall mirror showed nothing amiss, from calf-length black boots—slightly worn, for her best boots were reserved for special occasions—to the gray surcoat emblazoned with the sapphire star at its center. It draped her from collar to knee. She studied the familiar figure looking back at her, thinking that her eyes appeared guileless. How could she ever hope to be a full-fledged Altenerai if she looked so young?

  She experimented with lowering her brows, as Asrahn seemed perpetually to do, then laughed at herself and pushed out her lip to look even more ridiculous before moving on. Alten Enada had reached the sapphire when she was twenty-four, a year younger than Elenai was now. Earning the ring wasn’t about looks, but performance.

  The sun had just shaken off its own covers to set the sky aglow beyond the slanting stable rooftops and the golden domes of the city temples, visible through the windows as she descended the central staircase. It was unusually quiet this morning, with even the songbirds silent and only an occasional rumble of thunder … as if the very air urged her to stillness. She had other plans, though. Elenai Dartaan wanted to make excellence a habit, just like the great N’lahr.

  She reached the wider hall at the bottom, her footsteps ringing rebelliously on the ancient marble. The quiet was not entirely unexpected. Festivities were not to begin until the late morning. Normal routines were delayed or canceled. Squires could take their rest for an additional hour, an unheard-of luxury. She easily had time for a warm-up and several runs through the Falling Water sword form, including those tricky middle stances, before thoroughly grooming her horse and herself.

  After that, and breakfast, would come several hours of rigid posture as the parade wound before thousands of eyes from all over the five realms. While the throngs began their celebration, the Altenerai and their squires would further escort the queen to a formal ceremony at N’lahr’s tomb, but after that, three days of light duty were scheduled. The queen wanted her soldiers to revel with the rest of her people—a fine idea in theory, though it struck Elenai as ironic that the realms’ finest fallen general, famed for his devotion to the corps, should be honored by a vacation from it.

  Elenai hoped to follow her hero’s example, so light duty didn’t mean the lounging and feasts her friends planned, but the opportunity to work on her weapon forms without distraction.

  As she emerged onto the worn granite steps and breathed deeply, she spied a figure striding across the yard. Whoever it was wore a knee-length azure robe with a stiff collar, crossed at the waist with a belt. Altenerai. Only a handful currently served in Darassus. Might it be Alten Asrahn after all?

  As she started down she knew that the approaching officer was someone else. The figure walked briskly rather than with Asrahn’s measured military stride that subtly favored one leg. She realized it was Commander Denaven at about the same time he changed course to direct his steps to her. She halted, erect with hands behind her back.

  The leader of the Altenerai Corps rested his hand on the old stone railing at the bottom as if to signal this was a casual meeting. “Squire Elenai.” Denaven’s diction was precise as ever, but he seemed strangely affable, down to his crooked smile. “Good morning.”

  The commander had spoken with her before, but he’d never gone out of his way to do so. And she’d never seen him in the early morning hours. “Good morning, sir.” She saluted, then descended to the ground level so she wouldn’t tower over her superior officer.

  Denaven’s eyes roved over her. She imagined him searching for some unpolished button or frayed thread or even a hair out of place. She was fairly certain he’d find none, but she’d been in the corps long enough to know an alten could always find something wrong with a squire if he or she were in the mood.

  Denaven himself was as impeccably dressed as always. His khalat, blue-black in the pale early light, was crisp and creaseless, and his boots shone like dusky glass. Not a single one of the rust-colored hairs swept back from his high forehead was out of line.

  “What brings you out so early, Squire?” He strove for a relaxed air, as if these sorts of meetings were an everyday occurrence.

  “I like to rise for stretches and informal practice on my own, sir.”

  “The dawn hunter on her rounds, eh?”

  Denaven was a great one for maxims and proverbs. The dawn hunter, like the early bird, always caught fatter game, although in Elenai’s experience a good hunter was out before the sun. “Yes, sir.”

  “And on a feast day! That’s to be commended. I’m an early riser myself. Headed to the practice fields, then?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Stranger and stranger. They’d already exceeded the amount of words exchanged in any single conversation she’d yet held with the corps commander. They paced together across the roadway and on along the edge of the gardens, passing a row of unbloomed bushes.

  “I always forget how tall you are,” he offered into the uncomfortable silence. “I didn’t think Arappan girls grew so high.”

  “It helps my reach,” Elenai said, unsure how else to answer. She might have mentioned that her younger sister was taller still, but this was the response she’d learned to dole out over the years when people said something foolish about her height. She didn’t think her stature remarkable. She could measure up to most men in the corps, it was true, but she was shorter than some.

  Denaven tried another line of conversation. “Asrahn has commented upon your sword use. And your overall talent.”

  “That’s good to know, sir.” An approving nod from Asrahn was more rewarding than precious gems, and she’d been receiving more of them the last few months. Compliments from his lips were rarer still, and she could count the sum total since entering the service on one hand. Still, she wished she could think of something more eloquent to say.

  “He told me he’d picked you for a special duty. How did you like handling N’lahr’s sword?”

  “It was a tremendous honor,” she asserted, trying to keep her relief and enthusiasm in check. Alten Asrahn must have reported to Commander Denaven already this morning. Might the commander have noted her work as well? She’d certainly applied the leathers with meticulous devotion, taking care the risers were well skived like the originals. But … surely the simple soldier’s grip, even well done, wouldn’t garner a special visit from the commander? Had she somehow erred? Was this a prelude to reproach?

  “What did you think of it?”

  This wasn’t the question she’d anticipated, but she didn’t mind answering. “Irion’s one of the most perfectly balanced blades I’ve ever held. And it was still incredibly sharp.”

  He nodd
ed. “Indeed. Someday I’m sure you’ll have a sword like it of your very own.”

  That was an astonishing sentiment, because so far as Elenai knew, no one had ever unraveled the secrets of the weapon’s unusual qualities, try as they might to manufacture its equal.

  He grinned in that lopsided manner. “I imagine Asrahn told you all sorts of stories about it.”

  “Not really, sir.” Where was this going?

  “No? I’m surprised.”

  She didn’t know why he would be. Denaven had squired with Asrahn, and according to everything she’d ever heard, Asrahn trained all of his charges the same way. The older alten was never particularly garrulous. He kept a cultivated distance, careful not to appear overly familiar or to demonstrate favoritism among his pupils, on or off duty.

  They turned a corner and strode by a dense stand of shrubbery from the Storm Coast. These were already heavy with yellow blossoms that reminded her of summer days of her childhood and the perfume of highborn ladies come to see the latest work at her father’s playhouse.

  “N’lahr was his star pupil, you know,” Denaven went on. “Rather like you.”

  “Me, sir?” She felt her cheeks flush. So there wasn’t anything amiss. Denaven was just familiarizing himself with those most likely to rise in rank. But the three sixth rankers were more polished with their sword forms, and two of her own rank managed some of them better. She hadn’t heard of the commander seeking conversation with any of them. Was she truly the star?

  He chuckled. “You’re too modest. Surely you know it was a special honor to be chosen to care for N’lahr’s sword. I just can’t believe Asrahn didn’t talk to you about it.”

  “Alten Asrahn asked me to clean it up and replace the leathers, but didn’t say very much beyond that.” Maybe Denaven was looking for some personal stories to accompany a speech he would give rededicating the sword. She probably should be saying something more meaningful, but couldn’t think what.

  “Hm. Well, I suppose Asrahn was terse as always.”

  They’d drawn close to the carefully tended field of brown sand behind the stables, across from the long barracks building for the third- and fourth-ranked squires. The dry pebbles surrounding it crunched under their boot-heels. She struggled to fill the awkward pause in their conversation with a stray thought. “Do you have any stories about the sword, sir?”

  Something about that question unsettled the commander. His step faltered and his expression blanked. It was as though she’d thrown a log into a mill wheel. There was a delay before he spoke, as if that wheel strained to break the wood before it could reengage and turn once more at full strength. Denaven’s bland smile returned, perhaps a bit more warmly. “I suppose I do. I was there for its forging, you know.”

  Eager to establish an easier avenue of communication, she urged him on without consideration. “You were?”

  Denaven nodded. For a brief moment, her enthusiasm seemed to have struck a sympathetic cord. He opened his mouth to speak, then said nothing. His eyes took on a penetrating quizzical aspect as they searched her own.

  She didn’t understand that at all, so she strove to return a gaze of earnest sincerity. Her manner must have eased his suspicion, because the scrutiny dulled and Denaven cleared his throat.

  “A story for another time.” He smiled slightly. “Asrahn’s remarks drew my attention to you.” He stopped at the edge of the sand and clasped his hands behind his back. “I think I’ve neglected your education.”

  She answered this time with measured curiosity. “Neglected, sir?”

  “I keep thinking I’ll have time to personally instruct squires like you with magical talents, but my official duties continually interfere. So I’m bringing in an outside tutor, and I’d like her to meet with you this afternoon.”

  Elenai brightened. “That’s kind of you, sir.” Apart from Denaven and the reclusive Varama, who worked only with handpicked squires, none of the sorcerous Altenerai served in Darassus. Famous Altenerai mages like Kalandra and Belahn, she suspected, would have been far more skilled after six years of squire training; she’d had to make do mostly with self-instruction, using the library in her off-hours.

  Denaven dismissed her thanks with a hand wave. “Long overdue. I’ll have her meet with you after the parade, today. What say you to that?”

  “That’s wonderful, sir.” She hoped this woman wouldn’t prove to be another Mage Auxiliary officer trying to lure her from the Altenerai path. She’d long since grown tired of their recruitment attempts. “I’d intended on some extra training over the next few days, sir. This will be a perfect addition.”

  He looked at her in bemusement. “That sounds like something N’lahr would say. Of course, he wouldn’t have been nearly as charming while saying it. No offense meant to N’lahr, of course,” he added quickly. “It’s just that he wasn’t the warmest of men.”

  “I met him once,” she said, then regretted it, both for blurting the information and because Denaven had clearly been winding up the exchange.

  “Did you?” He sounded puzzled for a moment. “But he was dead the year before you joined the corps.”

  “Yes, sir. I met him in Vedessus when I was a girl. During the Naor invasion. You were there, too,” she added.

  “Terrible times.”

  The commander had the gift of understatement. The Naor had swept through the realm of Arappa on their long march toward Erymyr, a grim tide of blood and ashes. United for the first time behind a determined leader, their warring clans had left off murdering one another to systematically inflict their evils upon the nearest civilized realms. She felt her jaw tighten as unbidden memories washed against her.

  “I should have realized,” Denaven said in a lower voice. “You probably saw all sorts of horrible things, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.” She wished she hadn’t opened this line of conversation. Pity wouldn’t help her or impress her superior.

  Denaven forced cheer back into his voice. “Did I speak to you as well?”

  “No, sir,” Elenai admitted awkwardly. “I don’t think you saw me.”

  The shadows had been long the evening the Altenerai gathered after their great victory at the First Battle of Vedessus, eleven years before. The temple bells resounded through the central square. Vast crowds cheered and laughed and offered up wine. Denaven hadn’t been the aloof and dignified man before her today; he’d snatched up a goblet and dumped its contents over a companion’s head, the two of them laughing like idiots.

  Elenai, all of fourteen, her mother missing, her father wounded, viewed the celebrations alone on the temple wall near the immense sandaled foot of the statue of Vedessa herself. She watched in awe as the dusty, dirt-and blood-flecked demigods jested roughly among themselves or danced with the most jubilant of the Vedessi people. A dozen of the great winged lizards known as ko’aye soared overhead, calling excitedly in high, shrill voices. As newcome allies to the cause, ko’aye had scouted out the Naor movements, and some had even dragged horsemen from their saddles. Yet only a few among the crowd cast nervous glances skyward.

  She had climbed to her vantage point both in hope she might see her mother among the recovered prisoners and to escape the celebration because she felt certain she never would.

  Amidst the carryings-on, a solitary figure rode up from an alley, reined in apart from the crowd, and climbed down from his horse. He looked over the noisy throng shouting and singing only paces away from the somber zone about the shaded temple. Satisfied, he carefully poured from a watersac into a battered helm for his gray gelding, just as remote and indifferent to the raucous proceedings as his rider. Once finished, the man leaned against the wall beneath Elenai, a mere arm’s length from her dangling feet. She stiffened, statue still.

  The serious soldier, dressed in the famed khalat of the Altenerai, seemed oblivious to her as he uncapped a smaller wineskin and downed a drink, so she was startled when he turned to her and offered it up. She forgot to breathe as their eyes locked.r />
  His face was too angular to be truly handsome, his nose a bit long, his eyes deeply set. Elenai had later studied N’lahr’s image on his tomb enough times to confirm her impressions. Yet when he smiled encouragingly, she’d fallen a little in love with him.

  She’d taken the offered wine and sipped, too nervous to note the flavor.

  Denaven brought her back to the present. “And what did N’lahr say to you? Something encouraging, I hope?”

  “He didn’t really say anything,” she confessed. To this day she wondered if he might have planned to speak before another alten, Kyrkenall she learned after, called him away. N’lahr left her with the winesac. It held a place of honor in her storage chest to this day.

  “That sounds like him,” Denaven said with an air of finality. “Well, I should let you get on with your day. I have duties of my own. I’m sure I’ll see you in the line at the parade.”

  “Yes, sir.” She wasn’t sure he would.

  He nodded once and walked back toward the Altenerai wing of the palace.

  She ran the form a dozen times, then saw to her horse, ate with the upper-ranked squires, and readied herself for the parade. Despite the praise and prospects for enhanced training, a vague sense of unease haunted her. Astride her gelding, Aron, a black with striking points, she joined a long train of paired squires waiting behind the palace, feeling unaccountably smaller than she had at dawn.

  Beyond, the Altenerai themselves waited in a disorderly mass, talking freely with one another. Elenai scanned them from afar, seeing both the faces of legends and the newly risen.

  Asrahn wasn’t there.