For the Killing of Kings

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “You’re supposed to ask me who broke the case,” she said.

  He swallowed and asked carelessly: “Who broke the case?”

  “Kyrkenall.”

  “Kyrkenall?” He lowered the pear. Maybe Varama actually was heading toward something important, though she meandered there like a stumbling drunk. “You mean he’s back?”

  Varama immediately disappointed him by shaking her head no. “He damaged it before he left. But it was Elenai who reported to Sareel that Kyrkenall broke the case. He was examining the sword the day he left. And I suppose you know that Asrahn had handpicked Elenai to repair Irion’s hilt, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure this is all very interesting, but—”

  “Listen, Rylin! Who do you suppose is the last person in Darassus to see Asrahn alive?”

  “Kyrkenall, probably. Since he’s the one who killed him.”

  “Unconfirmed. Sareel is the last person currently in the palace who interacted with him. Asrahn was asking questions about Irion. The night he died.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “That’s it! Now you’re asking the right question.” Varama tapped the goblet with her index finger, a scarred stub beyond its final knuckle. “All three of them were involved with the sword.”

  “What three?”

  “Asrahn, Elenai, and Kyrkenall. Aren’t you listening? One dies, the others vanish. How do you suppose this is all connected to the other deaths?”

  He sighed. “I had a late night.”

  “Not as late as mine.”

  He glanced again at her rumpled uniform sleeves and wondered if she’d even changed out of her khalat since yesterday. Maybe she’d slept in it. Maybe she hadn’t slept at all.

  She kept staring at him. The unblinking gaze out of that lightly blue tinted face made it hard to think. Suppose she’d been investigating the way these disparate pieces of information intersected? The veterans claimed she was brilliant, if admittedly peculiar. Maybe he should give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “All right,” he said, raising his hand with the pear in resignation. “You’ve got my attention. Are you saying Kyrkenall stole the sword? What’s he planning to do with it?” Surely he’d have heard if Irion were missing.

  “That’s not it. The sword we’ve known as Irion is in its case now. Stop guessing.”

  “All right.” She had an odd way of phrasing things. He set down the half-eaten pear and crossed his arms. “Tell me more.”

  “Alten Cargen and M’lahna the mage also came to consult with Sareel just before their deaths. Their central concern? What Asrahn had asked the Keeper of Keys about the sword. After they were done talking with Sareel, they paid a visit to Elenai. Who had been caring for the sword.”

  Rylin nodded, encouraging her to continue. “So the sword is important to all of this. I’ve got it.”

  “Do you? I can never tell if people really understand or not. The sword is at the center of ‘all of this,’ and Denaven didn’t bother to say anything to us about it. Don’t you think he should have?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know.”

  “Of course he knew! He’s the one who sent Cargen after Kyrkenall, by his own admission. Remember?”

  He’d said that. “Yes. But suppose it was a matter of security—”

  “That he wouldn’t reveal to Decrin and Tretton and the rest of us, but that Denaven would share with just Cargen and K’narr? Junior Altenerai? And Denaven saw the connection about the bottles, too.”

  What? Junior Altenerai? That was a new insult; he’d never heard the old guard put voice to the prejudice that clearly before, but … wait a moment. She’d said something else. “The bottles…” Rylin had forgotten them. “You mean in N’lahr’s tomb?”

  “Exactly! Only someone with an Altenerai ring can open the tomb door to pay respects directly. And every year around N’lahr’s birthday I find an empty bottle inside, on the prayer bench.”

  Rylin wouldn’t have pegged her as particularly reverent, which was mildly interesting all on its own. More germanely, though, he still didn’t see what the bottles had to do with anything. “Meaning?”

  She studied him, frowning slightly, as if in frustration. “Kyrkenall has returned to Darassus every year. Denaven had to have seen those bottles and known it. Asrahn certainly knew; he commented about being the third visitor that month when we happened to meet after the fourth year.”

  “Some other alten could have left those bottles.”

  “It’s Murian wine,” she said, as if that made the difference. “No other alten drinks that rot. And what other alten would drink wine with N’lahr? Anyone else would have been burning incense and offering prayers.”

  Rylin supposed that was true. “Maybe Denaven just didn’t make the connection.”

  “Unlikely. There were seven bottles, one quite new.” She continued with an air of overexplaining that two and two made four. “Kyrkenall’s returned every single year, despite Denaven’s accusations to the contrary.”

  He thought he understood, now. She was simply trying to exonerate a friend in some weird way. It was touching, really. “Even if Kyrkenall came to the tomb, he didn’t actually come to the city. That’s probably all Denaven meant.”

  “Don’t be an idiot,” she snapped. “This is further evidence that Denaven’s deliberately misleading us.”

  It served him right for feeling momentarily sympathetic toward her. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “Then start thinking. You’re supposed to be the bright one.”

  That sounded like a backhanded compliment if he’d ever heard one. Rylin reached down, touched the stem of the extra goblet she’d brought, and then, because he needed something to do, lifted it to his lips. He was sorting through everything Varama had just said and finding it a little like rebuilding a rice pot from a dozen shards he’d thought came from a wine jug. He could see the shape of her argument, and, although pieces were missing, they fit as well or better than the previous explanation.

  He drank the cherry juice, and was surprised to find a warm glow spreading down through his chest, as if he’d swallowed a ray of sunlight. “That’s nice.”

  “Are you following, Rylin?” Varama’s eyes were fever bright.

  “I’m starting to. If you’re right about all of this, what does it really mean?”

  “It means things happened differently from what we were told. Asrahn found out something was wrong with the sword. He said something obscure to Elenai and then wandered off to be killed, and his death was made to look like an accident.”

  “How—”

  She talked over him. “The next day, Kyrkenall talked with Elenai at the funeral and something she said alerted him. She didn’t know what was happening, or she’d have been more worried, you see. And then—”

  “She and Kyrkenall looked at the sword,” Rylin said. Everything was growing clearer.

  “Exactly. They went to see Irion. Kyrkenall broke open the case for want of a key. Sareel had one, and—I checked—the other was among Asrahn’s wetted effects.”

  Varama might be on to something. “But Kyrkenall did kill four people.”

  “You’re still fixated upon the wrong things. Think about the sword, Rylin. In N’lahr’s hands we’ve seen it slice through armor and other blades like they were paper. Yet after N’lahr died, Denaven’s never permitted another alten to carry it. Now that I’m experimenting with metallurgy, he won’t allow me anywhere near it, either. You’d think he would want me to know how to make multiple swords with those properties, wouldn’t you?”

  Rylin felt compelled to remind her of a few other important facts. “But Kyrkenall killed Altenerai.” He almost hoped she’d disagree.

  “Almost certainly. Cargen and K’narr and two mages went to question him, or more likely to kill him, because they took superior numbers and a hearthstone. Now you should ask why.”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “Because Irion’s a fake.
I sneaked in to remove it late last night and examined it thoroughly at my workshop.”

  She’d broken in to steal Irion? Rylin’s sense of outrage surprised him. “You stole a sacred weapon?”

  “I borrowed a hunk of metal as sacred as my boot.”

  “Did you know that before you took it?”

  “I suspected. The sword’s well balanced and looks perfect, but its magic is a complex glamour. It radiates enchantment without conveying any benefit whatsoever. The one on display isn’t N’lahr’s sword. It’s never been N’lahr’s sword, which is why Denaven never let me examine it. You follow that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” He’d heard Irion was never to be touched because it was an honored artifact, but now that he thought of it, that seemed more like a specious excuse. None of the other weapons in the hall were untended. “If all this is true, why did Kyrkenall run instead of talking to you, or Decrin? Didn’t he know that would make him look guilty?”

  “He probably wasn’t sure whom he could trust. That seems a little cautious for Kyrkenall, but it’s the only conclusion I can reach based upon his actions.”

  Rylin reached for the chair beside him, pulled it out, all but oblivious to the loud scraping of chair legs against the stone floor. He sank into it as his mind raced. “How do we warn the search party that Kyrkenall’s innocent? That Denaven’s trying to kill him?”

  “Kyrkenall has a head start. He’s wily. He could well evade them.”

  “They say Tretton can track anything, anywhere.” The old alten was supposed to be able to follow trails into the deepest regions of the Shifting Lands.

  “He’s very good,” Varama agreed. “And Denaven knows some weaver’s tricks. But I warned Decrin about my concerns. And Kyrkenall’s always been absurdly lucky. We’ll have to hope, for his sake and the squire’s, that the Gods continue to smile upon him.”

  At least Elenai might be all right in this scenario. Rylin ran his hand back through his hair and studied the gawky, long-chinned woman standing before him. Why had she pulled him into all this? “Why not keep Decrin back to help you? Or Tretton?”

  “Denaven wouldn’t have permitted Tretton to stay back, and I need Decrin with the search party because he’s doggedly certain Kyrkenall’s caught up in some tragic confusion. What you really mean is, why you.”

  He nodded slowly. “How did you even know you could trust me? I mean, it seems like there were three Altenerai involved in this conspiracy already. What if there’re more?”

  “I chose you because: one, you needed more to do.”

  What did she mean by that? She raised her mutilated finger and ticked off an invisible check mark in the air.

  “Two, you had a vital connection.”

  This time he interrupted. “A connection?”

  But she went on anyway. “And three, I’d rather keep to myself.”

  Then why had she even bothered mentioning it?

  “I’ll address your other questions in order. I can’t be sure if other Altenerai are involved. I suspected you weren’t because you were neither particularly favored by Denaven nor especially close with Cargen or K’narr.”

  “Lasren was tight with K’narr, but he’s no traitor.”

  “Can you be sure of that?”

  He started to answer in his friend’s defense, then realized there couldn’t be a statement of absolute surety. “I’d like to be.”

  “But you can’t be. I’m reasonably confident Tretton’s not involved. Likewise Cerai and Enada. But I can’t be sure. I’m suspicious of Gyldara, given her sister’s complicity, but even if she’s innocent she wouldn’t have been as useful.”

  “So I’m useful to you?” Was that a compliment?

  “When you reached the fourth rank, you once turned down an invitation to join the Mage Auxiliary.”

  “Yes.” They’d tried to convince him to switch to their service, just as they routinely did with anyone showing magical talent, especially Altenerai squires. Where was this going?

  “You were intimate with a fellow squire now an exalt in the Mage Auxiliary.”

  How did she know about her? The name slipped from his lips as he thought of her warm, taut body. “Tesra. How is she important?”

  “We don’t have enough information to know why Denaven’s lied about the sword. I’ve looked in vain through his office. That’s a dead end. But we do know the Mage Auxiliary is part of all this. Denaven works closely with them, and they contributed two people to the attack on Kyrkenall.”

  “Wait—how much of this did you suspect two days ago, when you pulled me out?”

  “Enough.”

  He was both disturbed and impressed. “All right then. But you can’t think that Tesra’s just going to spill any secrets she knows. I mean, I’m good, but—”

  “You’re to make overtures. Tell her you’re thinking about switching to the Mage Auxiliary.”

  “You want me to lie to her? That’s against my oath.”

  “Deceptions are permissible when you work against enemies.”

  Of course that was true, or ambushes and battlefield tactics would never be permitted. But to assume that their own sister units were morally equivalent with Naor barbarians was a leap. “The Mage Auxiliary is our enemy?”

  “I believe so. You must seek the truth, Rylin. Use all your wiles to gain access to what they know. You must do so quickly, before Denaven returns or one of his agents catches on to us.”

  This was all moving quite fast. He shook his head and thought of Tesra. She’d been delightful, but he hadn’t spent time with her in years, unless he counted a few casual conversations in palace corridors. Varama, who didn’t seem to have any deep emotional attachments, let alone romantic ones, might not understand the difficulties. Wasn’t there an easier way? “Why not just present what you’ve told me to the queen?”

  “She’s probably involved.”

  That startled him. He began to ask her why, then held back. He could tell by Varama’s look that she expected he should already know. After a moment, the answer was obvious.

  Denaven was known to be close to the queen, and some gossiped that they’d been lovers. In any case, their relationship was much more cooperative than those between the queen and the previous two commanders. Some grumbled openly that Denaven had granted her every wish, even permitting the newly created Mage Auxiliary to recruit from among Altenerai squires, which was widely seen as weakening the corps.

  Yes, all and all, it was almost impossible to imagine Denaven acting so boldly without the queen’s approval. And that meant Rylin wasn’t just being asked to investigate a conspiracy involving his commanding officer, but that the queen herself might be a traitor to the realm.

  Or that he himself might be accused of traitorous action if he opposed her. He envisioned himself in Kyrkenall’s position, with a search party after him soon—assuming he could even get away from Darassus.

  Rylin reached across the table and poured himself another goblet full of cherry juice. He quaffed it like it was hard liquor. “What do we do if she is involved?”

  “Once we have enough evidence, we approach the Council of Governors. And our brothers and sisters in the corps. But we still don’t know the motive. We’ll need a lot more to convince.”

  “Which is why you need me.”

  “Yes. I hope it goes without saying that you must be extremely circumspect. There are a lot of corpses connected with this already.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you’re not careful, one of them might be yours.”

  “I got that.”

  “I hoped you would.”

  8

  Old Friends

  As recently as Rylin’s first squire years, the ground where the new palace wing stood had been flower gardens. Now it was, for all intents and purposes, a separate building, though it adjoined the palace and mimicked its four-story stone structure complete to green tiled roof. It always irked Rylin that second-rank Altenerai squires were posted before its wide entr
ance doors. Bad enough that the auxiliary siphoned equipment and mages away from the corps. Surely they could protect their own holdings.

  He hid his feelings as he reached the height of the building’s outside stairs and saluted the two spear-bearers on the flagged portico.

  Both men returned the salute, and the one on his left stepped forward, a tall, dark-skinned man from the Storm Coast. “Hail, Alten. Do you have an appointment?”

  Rylin lifted the wicker basket he carried, heavy with red and yellow fruits and honey-roasted almonds. “I’m visiting an old friend.”

  “Is your friend expecting you, sir?”

  The youth knew his duty a little too well. “It’s a surprise, Squire.”

  The guard nodded reluctantly, the horsehair crest on his parade helmet shaking as he did so. “I’m sorry, Alten. I’ll have to get permission to allow you entry.”

  “I’m Altenerai, Squire.” He lifted his left hand and willed his ring to light. “And we wouldn’t want to spoil the lady’s surprise.”

  “I’m sorry, Alten. My orders are very clear. Who are you here to see?”

  He shut down the ring and lowered his hand. “Tesra Gerenar.”

  “I’ll convey your request immediately.”

  Not an auspicious start. Rylin stepped back, pretending to study architectural detailing around the cornices while the squire entered the building. He’d left his rooms two hours ago and set out in search of gifts appropriate for courting, although now that he considered the produce, he wondered if he hadn’t delayed this visit so he had more time to let everything Varama had told him sink in.

  He’d wasted time, and he was afraid he wasted it now, waiting on a second-rank squire to convey his message. He fretted his plan to get information was feeble. Why would Tesra tell him anything of import, even if he convinced her he’d leave the Altenerai? Maybe she didn’t know anything anyway. He frowned at himself. He wanted a chance to prove himself, didn’t he? A hero of legend wouldn’t be so indecisive.