For the Killing of Kings

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “Denaven,” Decrin called. “What are you in here for?”

  Denaven gazed steadily at the large man, wrapped in his khalat but dimly touched by the pool of lantern light. A slimmer figure followed behind: Gyldara.

  “Making choices,” Denaven answered.

  Decrin stepped forward, broad and dark. Gyldara came after. Her beauty was impossible to ignore, from the brilliant blue eyes, to the fine-featured face, to the golden tresses reflecting lantern light.

  “You look like you’ve had your wits blown out of you,” Decrin remarked. There was no missing a note of pleasure in his voice. It was to be expected. Decrin’s skepticism of this entire enterprise lurked closely below the surface. Denaven had filtered little threads of his will past the protections of all their rings, an unprecedented skill he’d carefully developed over the last several years. But no one had proven so resistant to influence as simple-minded Decrin, who had unflagging faith in those he decided were friends.

  “You have no idea,” Denaven replied honestly.

  Gyldara interrupted. “We just found six dead soldiers laid out in a hollow south of here.”

  There it was. Denaven saw an opening

  “It looks like Kyrkenall’s doing,” Gyldara explained.

  “There are sword and arrow wounds on them,” Decrin admitted. “And there’s another dead monster of some kind. Different than the one just outside. It was feathered with arrows, most of which are removed, and slashed with a sword.”

  “They were black arrows,” Gyldara added pointedly.

  Now he had his line of attack. Gyldara needed no persuading, so he sent energies solely through a thread invisibly connecting him to Decrin. “Kyrkenall’s killed again. Surely you can’t assign blame for the murders of these soldiers to anyone else, can you?”

  The bigger man frowned, uncertain. “Well—why did he come here? What were these people doing here? I thought the Chasm Tower was abandoned.”

  Denaven was ready, now, with an answer. A least part of one. “They were on official assignment guarding something very important, and very dangerous. And now a madman has it.”

  “You mean Kyrkenall.” Decrin lowered his voice warningly.

  “Yes,” Denaven said testily, “I mean Kyrkenall! I don’t suppose he left a note this time, did he?”

  “No. Not that we’ve found.” Decrin’s obstinate loyalty was preparing objections. “What’s this secret? What was stored here? Why weren’t the rest of us told about it?”

  Why wouldn’t he yield? Denaven resisted the impulse to draw more power from the hearthstone. It would alert the ring, and even a thick-skulled brute like Decrin might detect such an intrusion. Any changes in his thinking had to feel natural. He’d just have to keep implanting doubts. “None of that’s as important as the fact Kyrkenall’s killed more of our people, is it? You wanted evidence of his guilt? Well, here it is. We’ve got to stop him before he kills anyone else. You have to see that.”

  Decrin stood rock still for a long moment before Denaven saw the big man’s shoulders sag a minute degree. “Yes,” he admitted at last. “I suppose I do.”

  Denaven just barely held back a smile.

  Once more he heard footfalls in the corridor. This time it was Tretton who strode forward, helmet under one arm. When he halted beside the others, he stood spear straight as always. The face beneath his trim, graying beard was solemn, yet betrayed little fatigue despite their relentless track of the fugitives, which had demanded more of him than any of the others. He was iron, that one, and Denaven privately hoped he’d never face Tretton’s enmity; he would be an implacable foe.

  “Report,” Denaven ordered.

  “They’re headed east by southeast, probably on a course for The Fragments, and I estimate they have a day’s lead on us.”

  If Kyrkenall was somehow still a day ahead it meant he had even less rest than they. That had to be wearing on him, let alone that green squire. Another advantage.

  “And I poked around in the offices of those outside barracks, sir,” Gyldara volunteered.

  He hoped she wasn’t about to tell him anything that might contradict his own planned fabrications. “What did you learn?”

  “Six soldiers were posted here. I found their names and their duties. They were to keep anyone without permission from approaching the boundary markers or the tower itself, on pain of death, and were to keep the creature inside the walls steadily supplied with meals. What I can’t find is why they were doing any of that.”

  He nodded. He’d known all about their orders because he’d handed them down, but he didn’t want to draw the connection too sharply and was glad those posted hadn’t been too imaginative in their paperwork. “Good. We’ll need their names for the burials and to convey their honors to next of kin.” He also knew that these guards had been picked for this remote duty primarily due to their lack of familial entanglements. “As for the rest, I’d like to speak to the Altenerai and Exalt Ortala. No squires. Decrin, bring them in.”

  The big alten nodded and left.

  Denaven sat with head lowered, hand pressed to his temple, signaling that he was deep in thought and not to be disturbed. The two remaining dutiful and disciplined altens obeyed his unspoken request and departed to wait for the others. By the time Decrin returned with them and Exalt Ortala and Lasren, Denaven had the rest of his approach worked out. This would be the most daring address in his career so far, and he’d have to pitch it near perfectly. He looked up slowly, considering each of them in turn.

  Gyldara was poised for action, her gold hair tightly pulled back from her forehead, eyes shining, eager as a hound straining at a leash. She wanted vengeance for her sister, and expected him to deliver some sound piece of information that would render that simply. He could do that.

  Beside her stood Tretton, the model of restraint. He revealed neither fatigue nor passion for the pursuit. Though no proponent of Kyrkenall, Tretton was proving difficult to win over due to his preoccupation with justice, and the outmoded Altenerai code. More appeals to moral propriety would be needed. He’d have to add something there.

  Ponderous Decrin still held himself with less than his customary assurance, his high brow wrinkled in concern. Good. Now was the time to drive the doubts home.

  Then there was young Lasren, pushing hair back from his widow’s peak as he strode into the light after closing the door to the outside. He seemed always to be on the cusp of smiling, as if he burned with a secret amusement; he was, Denaven had long ago decided, an intellectual nonentity. He’d happily join any purpose that would bring him fame—like taking down a renowned rogue alten. As with Gyldara, any spell work on him seemed almost superfluous. He’d make the effort on them both anyway, for safety’s sake.

  Solemn Ortala was one of the few who knew about N’lahr’s imprisonment and the hearthstones, and she’d be the only one to note the sorcerous augmentations to his arguments this day. He actually would have preferred to have brought an entire contingent of exalts, but the queen would never have permitted so many to be away from their work on the hearthstones, and he could never have excluded the Altenerai from the hunt. Though her loyalty was certain, he’d have to be careful to advance his own agenda without offending her faith in the queen.

  Denaven stood and leaned with both palms against the table. “I’d hoped to never burden another soul with what I’m about to tell you, but Kyrkenall’s rampage has forced me to reveal a terrible state secret.” He paused for effect, met their eyes, and continued with grim resolve. “He has deliberately released a being more dangerous than anything we’ve ever fought. And we’re going to have to stop them before they plunge the realms into chaos.”

  Tretton’s eyebrows rose. “What ‘being’?” he asked gravely.

  The five before him waited, expectant, for his reply. “A monster of our own making.” Experienced orator that he was, Denaven held the pause for a moment longer than strictly necessary. “Our queen was just as distressed as the rest of us when N�
�lahr died. Maybe more so. She gathered the greatest weavers she had available to her, had them commune with the hearthstones, and added their power to her own in an attempt to bring him back. They failed catastrophically.”

  Through his light connections he enhanced their credulity. Decrin let out a muffled oath. Tretton looked outraged at the blasphemy involved with meddling in sacred matters. Gyldara’s eyes widened in dismay. Lasren was rapt in fascination. Ortala’s brows rose and her eyes sought his, probably in concern about his fabricated story. He returned her gaze, willing her to hold her tongue.

  “The duplicate thing she brought to life wasn’t truly sane. I’m told it looked like N’lahr and even sounded like him, but amounted to nothing beyond mindless rage. It cut one of the weavers down before any of the others could react. As the others tried to contain the thing, it sliced their hearthstone in two, generating a bizarre magical backlash that encased it in a huge block of crystal. There was no way to ascertain if it was dead or alive. No one, not even Belahn,” and Denaven paused to let that fact sink in, “could find a way to penetrate it. In the end, the queen decided to place the stone here, under guard and away from vulnerable populated areas while some of her best weavers researched the matter.”

  Decrin made no effort to conceal his oath this time. He blasphemed with great volume and fecundity.

  Denaven knew very well that the queen had removed N’lahr from the capital for two reasons: there had been fear his imprisonment would be discovered, and fear that more unexpected things might happen around the unstable nidus of his weird cage spurred on by the immense magical energy concentrated by the accumulation of hearthstones in Darassus. Belahn had worried that the accident which created N’lahr’s prison might grow unstable and destroy him if he’d managed to survive, just as Denaven had feared it might grow unstable and release him.

  He wished Belahn had been right. How that misfortune had been timed to Kyrkenall’s interference Denaven still couldn’t imagine. They’d had teams of weavers working to open the crystal for months, until the queen had called them back to study hearthstones, claiming it a higher priority. Why couldn’t it have happened then?

  “Commander, are you saying N’lahr was imprisoned here?” Lasren asked.

  “Not N’lahr.” Hadn’t he been clear about that? He’d best reinforce the narrative, so that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill the “imposter” on sight. He sent a little pulse through his connective spellthreads, one meant to enforce the weight of his words. “N’lahr is dead. We interred his corpse. This is some kind of evil perversion walking around in his shape.”

  “The queen did this?” Tretton’s voice was icy with disdain.

  Denaven nodded gravely, as if he regretted having to do so. “Only with the best of intentions, Tretton.” That should help mollify Ortala.

  “I don’t understand how Kyrkenall found out about any of this,” Decrin said.

  He was still being obstinate. Denaven turned up an empty hand. “With Kyrkenall everything comes down to pure dumb luck. I suspect Cargen revealed something of significance at N’lahr’s tomb. Cargen had helped me arrange the transport and guardians up here. Maybe Kyrkenall, in his own twisted way, thought he could make up for the loss of Asrahn if he brought N’lahr back to the corps. But he has to realize, by now, what he’s done. I don’t know how Kyrkenall is managing to control the thing, but we need to track these twin murderers of frightening skill before more people are injured or killed—or worse, before others can mistake that beast for the real N’lahr and lose faith in the institutions that guide our lives.”

  “Right,” Tretton said. And with his nod, tension eased, even if it didn’t entirely vanish. “What do you need from us?”

  “We’re just about done in. We need rest if we’re to keep this up.”

  Tretton nodded once more, although he looked more energetic than he had in days. And Denaven noticed that this time Decrin nodded as well.

  “While you get settled,” he continued, “I’m going to risk a hearthstone consultation. I want to see if I can gain more precise information about Kyrkenall’s whereabouts so we don’t waste any time in reaching them.”

  “What do you want us to tell the squires?” Decrin asked.

  “Warn them about the false N’lahr. Don’t bring the queen into it. She was acting to protect her people. And this well-intentioned error shouldn’t stain their faith in her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  That simple acknowledgment was another victory. Decrin had actually replied not as an equal, but a subordinate, something that would have been unthinkable even a few hours before. Denaven was likewise pleased that he was planting greater doubt in the queen’s competence even as he claimed to be doing the opposite. That might serve him well in the near future.

  He allowed no sign of his satisfaction to cross his face as he nodded, solemnly. “I’ll catch up with you shortly. I’m not to be disturbed.” He caught Ortala’s questioning look and firmly met her eyes for a brief moment. She seemed to infer from that what he’d hoped. They’d talk soon.

  Once the five of them filed out he sat down in one of the chairs, pulling the hearthstone from his satchel. He thought he had handled that well. At one time he’d been uncomfortable with such outright lies, seemingly banned by their oath, but was wise enough now to recognize when they were necessary to further greater truths. Leaders must conquer perils to clear a path.

  And this situation presented ample opportunity with its peril. It had been impossible to access the sword while it was trapped with N’lahr. But now it was available … once he got rid of N’lahr. The weapon originally crafted for Denaven, rather than that untutored farmhand, would finally rest with its intended owner. And the next time Naor even stepped a foot over the border, Denaven would lead a raid deep into their lands and wield the sword as it was fated. Mazakan’s head would be his, and the queen’s throne would be that much closer. He’d make sure, discreetly of course, that her insane beliefs came to light. She would be relieved of power or even brought up on charges, and he’d be a hero well positioned to step into the vacuum.

  He banished the smile that crept across his face in the emptied room. It was time to speak to the very woman he ultimately plotted against.

  He lifted the hearthstone in its travel pack and set it on the table. He sighed a little as he untied the pack’s cover, then sat forward in the hardwood chair and pulled it free. Let other mages manipulate from afar. He preferred tactile contact.

  With his mind fully focused upon the tool, there was the usual rush of energy, which set him frowning even as a tingle of pleasure set his arm hairs rising under his uniform sleeves. He tried not to stare hard into its depths.

  Denaven had never particularly liked hearthstones. Their power warped those who used them. Belahn was the most obvious mess, but the queen and nearly all the weavers who’d been studying the things were twisted in some way. He ignored the temptation to consider his surroundings in a magical haze of wonder and set straight to work.

  The commander sent his senses south. Normally any such projection was risky, liable to reveal one’s spirit to the hungry entities that lurked in the inner world and fed upon unprotected souls. But hearthstones shielded their users to some extent, especially when they were projecting their energies to other hearthstones, as he did now.

  At first he sensed nothing at the other end of the connection, and he wondered if he might be so lucky as to find the queen occupied. How simple it would be to later tell her he’d tried to contact her and she hadn’t been available.

  Hope passed. He felt a flare of energy, and then he regarded her image fragmented and distorted within the hearthstone.

  An ivory gown draped her slim frame, and a cascade of strawberry blond hair fell in curls to her shoulder. If not quite the beauty described by minstrels, she was striking. Years before, that winsome mouth had often shaped playful expressions and her eyes had glinted with amusement. The queen’s smiles were rarer now, and her green eyes see
med to stare with disquieting intensity.

  “The hour is late.” Leonara’s voice was clear but hard, like the tolling of a funeral bell.

  “Forgive me, Majesty.”

  “There’s much to forgive. You can report success? No. I see it in your eyes.” She frowned. “Where is he now?”

  “Across the border in The Fragments. And he’s freed N’lahr.”

  The queen’s head drew back. “Freed him? How?” Astonishment, and a hint of alarm, rang in her voice.

  “I don’t know how, but the giant warped crystal is gone, and Tretton found three sets of tracks leaving the area. That can only mean Kyrkenall, the squire, and N’lahr.”

  “What’s their destination?”

  “Presumably they’re seeking Aradel or Belahn. Kyrkenall will still count both as friends. I’ll contact Belahn and allies in Alantris. They can delay Kyrkenall until I arrive or, if possible, finish him and the others.”

  “You make it all sound very simple.” Something in her voice let him know her calm was poised upon a knife’s edge; he sensed danger without guessing its cause. “But then you always do, don’t you? It’s one of your gifts.”

  He bowed his head as if pleased by the compliment, but did not interject.

  “Tell me how it goes with the Altenerai,” she continued with patently false nonchalance. “Can you depend upon them to carry out your aims?”

  “Yes. They’re more focused than ever, despite setbacks.” He was readying to explain when she cut him off.

  “Are they really?” Menace rang in the undertones of that smooth voice. “Then perhaps you can explain why the two you left in Darassus broke into the hall this evening and stole a cache of hearthstones.”

  Denaven knew that his eyes widened in shock and he quickly deadened his expression. Why would Varama have betrayed him? She had nothing to gain from interfering with his plans, for she lacked interest of any kind in court machinations, not to mention an understanding of the subtleties of interpersonal interaction. And surely Rylin wouldn’t be so resentful at being left behind that he’d throw away all the privilege and acclaim he’d worked for?