For the Killing of Kings

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Morning rays from the upper windows caught the commander’s immaculate copper hair. His narrow face seemed even more pinched than usual, as though he’d been sucking lemons. “Gyldara won’t be joining us,” he said as he took his seat. “She’s had a family tragedy.”

  Lasren glanced at Rylin as if to gauge his reaction, so Rylin cocked an eyebrow at him.

  Tretton’s precise alto cut through the chamber. “Is it something serious, then?”

  Denaven frowned. “Yes. Gyldara’s bad news has some bearing upon our meeting, as I’ll explain momentarily.”

  The primary door opened once more, and this time Varama walked in.

  Perhaps the oddest of the Altenerai, Varama was almost never to be found in uniform anymore, although she wore one today. Her long face was large chinned, and she had dark brown, curling hair she wore pulled tightly back, an unflattering style that emphasized her high forehead and showed more of her strange blue-cast skin. Some with magical talent or phenomenal athletic prowess carried aberrations along with their gifts, and Varama’s peculiar hue marked her as surely as Kyrkenall’s strange eyes marked him.

  “Thank you for waiting,” Varama said. So far as Rylin knew, no one had been. Varama’s seat was at least three chairs apart from everyone else. She looked in turn with unblinking blue eyes at each of them as she took it.

  Denaven cleared his throat. “That’s everyone.”

  “Everyone?” Decrin asked. His voice, from deep inside that powerful chest, would have carried even in a room without fine acoustics. “Cargen and K’narr still missing, then?”

  “They won’t be coming,” Denaven said flatly. “Nor will Kyrkenall. Enada remains in Kanesh and I’ve no idea as to Cerai’s whereabouts. We might as well consider Belahn resigned, at this point.”

  No one looked surprised by this last; it had been more than five years since Belahn had requested an indefinite leave of absence.

  Denaven put his hands flat on the table. “We were dealt a terrible blow with Asrahn’s death. And I have to bear witness to another. Kyrkenall’s killed two more of us.”

  Rylin gaped. Tretton sat straighter. Decrin leaned forward, as though readying to throw himself into combat, and Lasren audibly sucked in a breath. Even Varama raised her head a little.

  “He’s slaughtered K’narr and Cargen and the missing mage exalts. One of them was Gyldara’s sister. Gyldara found the four bodies this morning. They’d been dragged into N’lahr’s tomb.”

  Lasren sat stock-still save for his huge hands, knotting into fists. He and K’narr had been close.

  “What about Elenai?” Rylin asked, and then felt everyone staring at him. “The missing squire,” he added, although everyone had to know who he meant. She’d vanished along with Kyrkenall and the others. She was clever and talented, and pretty enough to be distracting.

  The commander’s stare seemed to see right through him. “There’s no sign of her.”

  Rylin was struck by a sudden sense of profound loss. Not only were the past and the present imperiled but the future was suddenly dimmer as well. He genuinely liked the determined squire, and simply assumed she’d one day be sitting near him at this very table.

  Decrin’s voice was very low. “How do you know Kyrkenall did this?”

  “I sent Cargen and K’narr to ask him questions about Asrahn’s death. Because it looks like he murdered him, too.”

  Gods. Everyone had always said Kyrkenall was a little crazy. But what could possibly have pushed him to murder his old mentor?

  Tretton’s voice was sharp, challenging. “Do you have proof, Commander?”

  “I have more than I’m happy with. Cargen overheard Kyrkenall arguing with Asrahn near the east bridge the night before Asrahn’s death. When he passed closer he saw only Kyrkenall, who was drunk and acting strange. When Cargen asked him what was wrong, he was cursed and threatened.”

  That wasn’t at all hard to believe.

  “Kyrkenall wouldn’t have killed Asrahn,” Decrin protested. “No matter how drunk he got.”

  “No? I can just about tell you what happened. Kyrkenall’s indiscretions have become more and more outrageous, even if you ignore the fact he’s flaunted orders to return to Darassus. I told Asrahn that the next time we saw him we’d have to have a word with him, but he hasn’t been in Darassus for years. I think Asrahn took the opportunity of Kyrkenall’s reappearance to try to set him straight, right on the banks of the Idris. And Kyrkenall snapped, as he’s so often done before.” Denaven’s look was angry, almost challenging. “Maybe,” he conceded, “he was too inebriated to realize what he’d done until later. You said he was asking you about Asrahn’s whereabouts at the parade.” Denaven met Decrin’s eyes, then glanced at Varama, who looked inscrutable as always.

  “But he must have remembered,” the commander continued, “which is why he left the ceremony, and when I sent Cargen and the others to question him, he killed them, too.”

  Rylin let out a long, slow breath. To lose not just one alten, but three, killed by the hand of a fourth. And now they’d have to hunt him down like a rabid beast. The corps certainly wasn’t the shining example of honor, loyalty, and unity it once had been.

  “Why did he take the squire with him when he left the parade?” Decrin asked.

  Denaven turned over a palm. “We can’t know for certain, but she’s one of the last people who saw Asrahn alive. Maybe he wanted to know if she’d seen him after he did. She’s probably dead, too, and we just haven’t found her.”

  Rylin sighed heavily. He’d really hoped his presentiments were wrong.

  “How do we know for certain it’s Kyrkenall who killed these people?” Tretton asked.

  Denaven looked disappointed in him. “First, they were found dead, together. Two Altenerai and two talented weavers are a force to be reckoned with. For all his faults, Kyrkenall remains a deadly warrior. Second, they had been sent specifically to interview him before he vanished again.” The commander paused before continuing, his voice more certain than ever. “Third, he left a note. Gyldara found it with the bodies.”

  The commander removed a small torn slip of paper from the inside of his khalat and set it in front of him. “It’s in Kyrkenall’s hand. ‘Next time you come for me, you’d better send an army.’ He signed it.”

  “Let me see that.” Decrin extended a long arm.

  Denaven passed it across the table to him, and Decrin took it, staring hard while Tretton leaned to get a closer look.

  “By the Gods,” Tretton muttered. He made the Sign of the Four across his chest, diagonally down from right to left, across, then left to right.

  “I have two questions,” Varama broke in, her voice clear and high.

  Denaven turned to her. “Yes?”

  “First, how many bottles were in the tomb?”

  “Bottles?” Denaven asked, completely taken aback.

  “There were bottles in the tomb. I’d like to know how many.”

  “What has that got to do with anything?” Lasren asked under his breath.

  “There were some there,” Denaven slowly confirmed.

  Rylin wondered less how Varama had known about the bottles and more about why the strange woman fastened upon such an odd detail.

  “I can’t say as I counted them,” Denaven continued. “I was too busy taking in the bloated bodies of our fallen.”

  Varama ignored the icy contempt in his voice. “I would like a count. Second—”

  “Hold on, Varama,” Decrin rumbled. Kyrkenall’s letter shook in his scarred hand. “Denaven, I still can’t believe he’d kill Asrahn. Maybe these four attacked him, and he fought back.”

  “They weren’t under orders to arrest him, just question him,” Denaven said. “And as I told you, I can’t believe he killed Asrahn on purpose. Maybe he lost his temper and pushed him into the river and didn’t notice Asrahn hit his head. But we have no way of knowing, because Kyrkenall fled. And he clearly killed the people he left rotting in N’lahr’s tomb.
Even if it were some misunderstanding, he’s got a lot to answer for. I’m sorry,” Denaven added. “We weren’t close, but I wouldn’t have wanted this for him any more than you would. He’s stained the honor of the corps.”

  The only sound was the note crinkling in Decrin’s hand.

  “My second question,” Varama interjected into the silence, “is whether the mages you sent after him carried a hearthstone.”

  Denaven froze for a moment, seemingly uncertain how to respond. Rylin wondered how Varama could sound so completely unfazed.

  “They did,” Denaven admitted reluctantly.

  Rylin looked at Varama. How had she guessed that? So far as he knew, every hearthstone ever discovered had been put under close watch by the Mage Auxiliary. After some disastrous experiments in the war, they’d never been carried into the field. Hearthstones were so secret he’d only been made aware of them after his elevation to the sapphire, and he’d never actually seen one.

  Varama didn’t follow up her question, though, and no one else seemed interested in pursuing the tangent.

  It was Lasren who broke the silence at last. “I volunteer to track him down.”

  “Thank you.” Denaven nodded.

  “Then I’m going,” Decrin declared. “If my brother alten’s to be brought in, I want to hear the explanation from his own lips.”

  “He may be too far gone for that,” Tretton said. “But we’ll try. I’ll track for the expedition.”

  “Count me in,” Rylin promised. Somewhat guiltily, he knew a surge of excitement. Perhaps this hunt, at last, would win him some renown.

  “Very well,” Denaven said grimly. “I’ll lead. We leave in two hours’ time. Bring a squire and arrange for supplies. Gyldara rides with us. Varama, I leave the corps in your hands. Your first duty must be the funeral arrangements.”

  “I’ll need Rylin.” Her strange cold eyes sought his, though her expression was bland as ever.

  Rylin stiffened. Fortunately, his commander came to his aid.

  “You can get by with assistance from the squires.”

  “No,” Varama said, “the sixth rankers are on the borders. I need Rylin.”

  He felt his jaw drop and quickly closed it. Objecting would be unseemly.

  Denaven almost looked apologetic. “You heard her, Rylin. Stay here and assist.”

  “Yes, sir.” Damn it!

  “This is a dark business,” Denaven said, rising. “I hope the corps never sees its like again.”

  Rylin stood with the others, still a little shocked. What could Varama possibly need him for? Bottle counting?

  Tretton caught up to Denaven as the commander headed for the exit, and the two quickly fell into conversation as they left. Varama called for Decrin, who obligingly stepped over to one of the cold fireplaces to speak in hushed tones.

  Lasren smirked at Rylin and patted his shoulder with one large hand. “Tough break. So I guess I’ll be comforting Gyldara. And hunting down a menace to the realm. And you’ll be answering any weird questions Varama can think of.” Lasren pushed back his hair and glanced surreptitiously toward the blue-skinned woman. He rendered a fair impression of her high-pitched voice, affecting a glassy stare. “‘Rylin, what color is the nearest fish? It’s vitally important I know what the queen had for breakfast. Count the times I fart today.’”

  “I thought you’d be more upset,” Rylin said.

  Lasren’s smile faded on the instant. “You don’t think I’m upset? I want to skewer that little brown hastig. What am I going to say to K’narr’s mother?” Lasren smacked one fist into his palm.

  Rylin nodded slowly and watched as Decrin and Varama, still deep in conversation, exited the room.

  Lasren punched Rylin’s shoulder. “I’ll kill him extra for you.”

  “Sure. Keep your robe hooked up.”

  Lasren laughed as he put his hand to the door. “Who are you, my mother?”

  That hadn’t come out right. Lasren habitually left his collar open rather than closing it all the way, and Rylin didn’t want Kyrkenall shooting an arrow through his throat.

  Lasren looked back once as he pushed open the door. “Try not to get too bored.”

  7

  Seven Bottles

  Rylin’s duties proved more aggravating than boring. After vague instructions, Varama absented herself, which meant Rylin spent the day making seemingly endless choices about coffin and tomb decorations, conferring with city functionaries about the funeral procession and dozens of other small but related matters.

  The next morning, Varama made a brief appearance in the Altenerai offices to present Rylin with a thick tome written in crabbed handwriting. It detailed official memorial rituals. He’d never imagined the stunning array of important rules and customs that had to be observed. For instance, no squires were permitted to dismount before the coffin was interred, and no oration was allowed to continue for more than a quarter hour, not excepting the occasional instance of double funerals.

  His second full day of administrative duties stretched late into the evening, for the sketches drawn by tomb artisans proved either ostentatious or overly morbid and he had to order corrections. None of their proposals approached the elegance of sculptures by the great Melagar, still hard at work on Asrahn’s tomb design, and in mourning for his husband besides.

  When Rylin had finally coaxed appropriately sober and coherent designs from the artists, he returned at last to his suite of rooms, ate a cold duck in red wine sauce that his cook had prepared hours before, and fell into an empty bed. Life had altered drastically in the last few days, and rather than contemplating some beauty as he drifted off, he was a little amused to realize he was instead thinking irritably about pale-eyed Varama.

  She’d completely abandoned him to wrestle all the tedious matters Denaven had expected her to resolve. At the least she could have been supervising field training for the squires. Instead, she retreated to her workshops as usual, so Rylin, busy with everything else, had temporarily placed a fifth ranker, Elik, in charge of the squires. Contributing to the instruction of first and second ranks was a routine function of upper squires, but to Rylin’s knowledge, no one below sixth had ever acted as Master of Squires, and he didn’t like the idea of setting the precedent. For all he knew, he might be violating Altenerai tenets as obscure as those for memorials. He was a little frustrated by the thought that he would take the blame for that decision and countless other tiny choices he’d had to make, bereft of input from more experienced advisors.

  He woke from a dreamless sleep, still disgruntled, when the cook pounded on his door. Sight of her cheery smile spread one across his own face, and he returned to his bedroom to shave while she hummed merrily on the tiny patio kitchen. She was a nice little tidbit, round in all the right places. When he’d hired her last year, he’d thought her appearance rather ordinary, but frequent proximity had made him more conscious of the woman’s physical assets. She seemed constantly to be bending over to reach an ingredient or to stir something. Depending upon Rylin’s angle, that presented an enticing view of either a curvaceous backside or generous cleavage.

  Maybe it was time to revisit his promise to himself about not …

  There came another knock. Rylin rinsed his razor and imagined the cook’s swaying trot to the door as he heard the light pad of her feet. Then came the creek of hinges and a throaty “oh” of surprise.

  The conversation that followed was pitched too low for him to hear. Probably a servant was delivering ingredients for the meal.

  He jumped at the unexpected loud thump on his bedroom door. And it wasn’t the contralto of the cook that came through the wood after the knock, but the high-pitched voice of Varama.

  “Rylin, this is Varama. We must talk.”

  He frowned into the mirror, tapping hair off his razor. It was an abrupt shift from thinking of the cook, dripping with sensuality, to Varama, erotic as a plank of oak. He forced a pleasant tone. “Do you want to join me for breakfast?”

&
nbsp; “No. I’ve sent your cook away.”

  Of course she had. “Give me a moment.” If Varama planned to leave him with cryptic, minimal instructions prior to wandering off today, she was going to get an earful. Especially if his breakfast was ruined. Technically, Varama didn’t even outrank him. There was no way he was going to go on taking care of all the menial work while Varama continued her … whatever.

  Rylin finished his shave with three more swift passes. He put on a freshly laundered white shirt but didn’t bother donning his uniform coat before opening the bedroom door.

  Varama had helped herself to two of Rylin’s goblets and set them on the table. She finished pouring liquid from an amber bottle into the first, then started on the second.

  She wore full Altenerai regalia, but she looked a little odder than usual, for her hair was slicked back more severely and dark circles rimmed her eyes. Her khalat was rumpled and its collar was hooked all the way up to her chin, as if she thought someone might assault her at any time. It was a wonder she didn’t have her helmet on, cheek pieces lowered.

  “A little early for drinking, isn’t it?” Rylin lifted a golden pear from a basket the cook must have brought in, and took a bite. He didn’t join Varama in a seat, but propped himself against the wall opposite her.

  “This is cherry juice. It’s delicious.” Varama tapped the stem of one goblet as she lifted the other to her lips.

  “If this is about my orders for the day, we have to talk.”

  Varama lowered her drink. “Who do you suppose came to see me after I went to N’lahr’s tomb?”

  Rylin’s annoyance made him flippant. “N’lahr’s ghost?” He took another bite, which produced a satisfying crunch even if the pear itself was a little tasteless.

  She either ignored or didn’t understand his sarcastic tone. “Sareel. Why do you suppose she sought me out?”

  “No idea.”

  “The glass door on Irion’s display case had been shattered. Sareel’s aware of my experimentation with glasswork and hoped I could manufacture something more sturdy to replace it.”

  So she’d come to talk to him about broken glass? Was Varama planning to tell him this had been more important than the funeral arrangements the commander had personally instructed her to oversee?