For the Killing of Kings

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Once they’d reached Alantris, night had fallen and Varama had told him to rest and recuperate. He’d rather have stayed to talk with her, but he couldn’t get her alone. She and Cerai were deep in consultation with the Alantran Council about the realm’s defenses and sundry other matters, and he felt unnecessary. And besides, he’d been exhausted after all the exercise, both physical and magical.

  Rylin climbed out of bed, drew on fresh undergarments, pants, and socks and boots. He groaned as he pulled on his undershirt. The healers of Alantris had spent a little time with him, or he’d have been feeling more than twinges after his combat yesterday. Still, there were bruises blossoming across his chest from where his armor had blunted Naor blows.

  He threw on his overshirt and buttoned it closed, then stepped to the window.

  The clean breeze chilled him as he gazed out from high in a stone tower of the citadel. His eyes were drawn first to the far distance, well beyond the wall of black stone that surrounded the outer city, the first and highest of three concentric defensive rings. Four, he supposed, if you counted the wall surrounding the citadel itself.

  To the east, the sky was thick with dark clouds that were no storm. They hung in the clear sky, tethered to the earth by roiling pillars of smoke. A stream of refugees flooded toward the city’s eastern gate, many afoot, but a few on horses or guiding wagons overloaded with men, women, and children.

  The Naor had brought the red flame of war to this realm, and the citizens of The Fragments were retreating to their oft-tested but never-defeated capital. Rylin’s hands tightened on the sill. Where was the excitement he’d always expected when he craved action? Did he no longer thrill to it because he felt the toll on others more keenly? Or was he just getting older?

  He gazed down on the refugees threading through the streets and considered the city itself. Green and orderly farm fields and orchards heavy with blossoms took up much of the space between the outer wall and the first inner barrier. The complex system of canals that nourished them twinkled blue and white in the morning sun. The old aqueducts slanting between the walls were heavy with flowering greenery.

  The next rings, too, had occasional fields, but were mostly given over to buildings arranged in orderly rows. They rarely rose higher than two stories, and they were fashioned chiefly from wood, with green shingled roofs, a marked difference from Darassus. Fountains burbled and flowering gardens bloomed upon every well-ordered block, and among them were man-sized statues rather than the immense monuments he was used to seeing every day in Erymyr’s capital. Men, women, and the children who dashed around them were garbed in loose smocks and strapped sandals. The women and older girls additionally wore colorful scarves that hid all but that one lock of hair. Rylin recalled that the different scarf colors signified status or occupation or possibly both.

  In Darassus, a change in altitude was an excuse for winding roads, but the founders of Alantris had laid straight lines everywhere, even up the steep incline to the city’s second level, and on toward the citadel, hills and vales be damned.

  The citadel he’d slept in loomed over both the city and the hill it crowned, in the dead center of Alantris. As he looked to right and left to take in its slender black beauty once more he admired the graceful central keep from which multiple towers soared, linked to one another by slim bridges. It was even more lovely than the songs devoted to it. Though built of the same dark stone that walled the city, it was neither somber nor ponderous, but a work of art, its arches and balconies looking somehow delicate even though the structure was solid and dangerous to enemies. Like a wasp.

  His fingers finished with the shirt, and he tucked it into his trousers. How long had he slept? And where could he find breakfast? He was reaching for his khalat when he saw a familiar figure in the sky. Lelanc, riderless, was flying for the citadel.

  His stomach grumbled, but Rylin ignored it and stepped to the bowl to wash his face. He wanted to see how the ko’aye was faring.

  Someone rapped on his door.

  “Come.” Rylin shook droplets from his hands and turned.

  He expected Varama, but the woman who stood with hand on door latch was a stranger. She had a pert nose and long lashes over soft brown eyes. Her hair was wound up in her decorative blue scarf, but she had lovely cheekbones and a trim figure revealed by the hug of her robe and the belt that girdled her small waist.

  “Alten!” She brightened. “I thought you could be close to waking, but I was afraid you might still be asleep.”

  “I’m awake,” he said with a tentative smile. “Who are you?”

  “It’s me.” When that didn’t provoke any obvious sign of recognition, her expression fell. “Denalia.” She sounded hurt.

  “Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you without your gear.” He’d been right, she did clean up nicely, though, he had to admit, she was still no Cerai. But then Cerai had been magically altered, from what Varama said. He still wasn’t sure how he felt about that. “You’re a beautiful sight in the morning.”

  She smiled prettily at the compliment. “You’re very kind. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  He was famished. “Both. But I need to see Lelanc first.”

  She stepped closer, peering at his face from one angle, then the other.

  She raised her right hand and placed the first two fingers along his neck.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, slightly startled.

  “I’m feeling your heart rate.”

  Denalia smelled of wildflowers and, faintly, of honey, and her proximity stirred him.

  “The beating’s still rapid,” she said. “I’m not sure you should be out of bed. Alten Cerai told me you stretched yourself further than you should have.”

  Nonsense. “If my heart speeds, it’s for sight of you.”

  She actually blushed. No woman in Darassus would have done that. As Denalia looked at him through her lashes, he realized her shyness was genuine.

  “Where’s Varama?”

  “Somewhere on the walls, I think. With Alten Cerai.”

  “Any word on the Naor numbers?”

  “Not yet. But Lelanc has been scouting, so there should be more information soon. She’s not very good at counting troops but we’ll estimate the numbers from how long it takes them to pass through the Pine Bole Narrows. It’s already clear there’s a lot of them heading our way. They must be idiots, because no army can take Alantris. We’ve fruit trees within the city. We’ve deep wells, and storehouses crammed with grain.”

  “The Naor are stubborn and determined,” he reminded her.

  “And foolish.”

  He had an inkling that she was overlooking something. He stepped away to buckle his sword belt. He caught his reflection in a bronze mirror and ran his hands through his hair; shaving would have to wait.

  “Are you going straight out to find Lelanc? I’m not sure she’s back yet.”

  “I just saw her fly in.”

  “You won’t have a meal at least?”

  At the mention of food his stomach tightened to remind him he was empty. “I’ll grab something on the way out.”

  “Oh.”

  As he saw her crestfallen expression, he understood finally that the young woman fancied him. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed right off.

  He gave her his best smile. “I’m sorry, Denalia. I’d love to spend more time with you. But duty calls. I’ve overslept as it is. The other Altenerai have given me too much latitude.” Cerai had patently worked more magics than he, and he was a little embarrassed that she might think he required a longer recovery. He was even more ashamed because he knew she was right.

  He assuaged her disappointment by asking a favor. “Can you show me how to get there? I don’t know my way through the citadel very well.”

  She brightened. “Of course.”

  They fell in step as they left the room.

  “How did Aradel manage to stay friends with a ko’aye, anyway?” he asked. “I thought they were all mad at us.
”

  “They had a deep bond,” Denalia said, as if that were all the explanation needed. And perhaps it was.

  He asked her about her homeland, particularly what they usually served to break morning fast. Her description of smoked mountain trout, cool apple juice, mixed greens with apricot slices, and fresh poached eggs set his stomach to grumbling such that she laughed at him.

  He thanked her as he left her on the near side of a bridge stretching to the tower she’d identified as Lelanc’s, then headed across and up a steep flight of wooden stairs, encountering a soldier in the green livery of the Arappan signal corps on the way down. He was accompanied by a weathered man with spear-straight posture. This fellow wore neither sword nor armor but his manner was unmistakably soldierly.

  He stopped at the sight of Rylin and snapped off a salute. “Hail, Alten.” His voice was as gruff as his exterior. “I’m Captain Toln, head of the defense forces.”

  “Of course.” Rylin returned the salute. He remembered the name among notable veterans of the last war, but couldn’t recall any specifics.

  “Do you have a moment?” Toln asked.

  “A moment,” he said. “I’m heading to speak with Lelanc.”

  “It’s her I want to talk about.” At a look from the signalman, Toln nodded to him. “Go on. I’ll be along in a moment.”

  “Yes, sir.” The signalman hurried downstairs.

  Toln motioned Rylin to one side of the dark-paneled landing.

  His gaze was level and direct. “I’m told you rode with Lelanc yesterday.”

  “Briefly.”

  “And that you fought from her back.”

  “I did.”

  That seemed to make some kind of decision for Toln, for he nodded once, sharply. “She’s never let anyone but the governor do that.”

  He felt a flush of pride that Lelanc had already asked him to ride with her again.

  “Would you be interested in going aloft right now and scouting with her?”

  “I’d be honored to fly with her. But Officer Denalia tells me that Lelanc’s already been scouting. Why do you need a rider to go with her?” Rylin didn’t want to disappear on Lelanc until he’d had a chance to check in with Varama.

  “Lelanc has excellent eyes, but she doesn’t always get the right information because she’s no good at gauging large numbers, and she can’t decide what might be in the baggage trains. I’m looking for a count of siege engines, that sort of thing. I need military eyes.”

  “I see.”

  Either the mild joke didn’t register with Toln or he chose to ignore it, for he simply watched Rylin expectantly.

  “I’ll ask her,” Rylin said.

  “I’d be grateful. Then report to me on your return.”

  “Of course.” Though he’d preferred to break his fast and finally speak in private with Varama, it seemed he was locked in. “I’ll be back with details as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you, Alten,” Toln said gravely. He hesitated, then added: “We heard what you did, dropping in to fight off the Naor, and risking your own life for the governor. The council and I are grateful.”

  Rylin returned the old soldier’s slow head bow. “Thank you,” he answered. He didn’t deserve much praise. “I wish I could have saved her.”

  “You can’t save everyone, lad,” Toln said with weary authority. “Be careful out there.” He saluted, and Rylin returned the gesture before starting up the stairs.

  Almost certainly Toln had trained at the Altenerai academy, and he wondered idly if he’d gotten out at third rank and worked his way up through service, or if he’d come out as an officer around fourth or fifth rank.

  After two more flights of stairs he emerged on the square tower battlement to find Lelanc with head sunk into a large water vat. Green banners fluttered on flagpoles, and a pair of green-garbed men from the signal corps waited near a large swivel-mounted brass plate that was highly polished. They studied the south, where Rylin saw distant flashes, and the taller of the men scribbled with white chalk on a black slate.

  While one signalman deftly maneuvered the mirror to cast a response, the chalker looked up as Rylin stopped beside him.

  “What’s the message?” Rylin asked.

  “Bad news, Alten. The Naor vanguard’s only a few hours from the last refugees, and their signal tower’s going to have to be evacuated.”

  Rylin nodded. “Any idea on numbers yet?”

  “They’re moving in three columns, with five or six thousand in the closest.”

  Rylin restrained himself from showing any visible reaction to those huge numbers. He merely nodded and started to move past before the signalman stopped him.

  “Alten, we heard what you did for the governor and her niece.”

  He wished that people would stop complimenting him about that. He hadn’t managed to rescue the person who’d probably mattered most. “Just doing my job.”

  The second signalman stepped away from the bronze plate and saluted him. “You ready to take the fight to the Naor, Alten?”

  “I’m always ready for that.” Rylin spotted a waterskin at the man’s waist, then his eyes drifted to a small cache of jars on a little table beside the mirror. Of course. The signalmen might be up here for hours waiting on communication. They probably kept a supply of food on hand. “I wonder if I might prevail on your hospitality.”

  The first one noted the direction of his look. “Of course, Alten. We’d be honored. I’d best get this to the captain.” He started for the stairs.

  The tall one, a broad fellow with a mustache, shook his head at Rylin. “You don’t want our fare. It’s nothing but some cured meat and raisins and nuts, things we can snack on a bit. And some watered wine. We can have something better brought up—”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Rylin meant to say that he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, but at the way the signalman lit up at the idea of sharing food, he didn’t elaborate. The fellow was positively delighted to be passing over the pale wine and the dried food, and watched as Rylin brought up a handful of raisins and nuts.

  The explosion of flavor once he crunched down was a tremendous pleasure, and he closed his eyes as he chewed. The simple mix was immensely satisfying, an unfortunate reminder of just how famished he really was. A lot of spell work could do that to a person. It was all he could do to keep from wolfing the contents.

  Much as he wanted to stay and gorge himself, he kept to a few mouthfuls and a couple of drinks to wash it down, for he saw Lelanc staring at him. He thanked the signalman again, made his farewells, and joined the ko’aye.

  Lelanc took him in with those great amber eyes as he walked up, then bobbed her head as he stopped. “I greet you, Rylin.”

  Rylin bowed formally. “I greet you, Lelanc. How are you feeling today?”

  The creature regarded him with unblinking eyes. “I ache for my sister.”

  He thought about saying the corps and the people of Arappa would miss Aradel, too, but something about Lelanc’s dejectedly hanging head brought him up short. “Until yesterday I didn’t realize how close the two of you were.”

  “My nest mates ride the red wind, and her mate and her blood sisters had passed into the fire. We joked that we were war mates.”

  “I have sisters and a brother,” he said, wondering why he did so even as he continued. “We’re not as close as we ought to be. I should probably see them more often.”

  “Yes,” Lelanc said. “Because one day you will be able to look upon them only with the eye of your mind.”

  Rylin cleared his throat. “What did you see while you were flying today?”

  “Two long lines of Naor, but a third comes from farther off. Behind them were many who walked, or who drove wagons. Also there were herds of grass-eating animals behind.”

  “What was on those wagons?”

  “Many food things.”

  “Were there any signs of siege engines?” Rylin asked. “Ladders, catapults, battering rams?”

 
“I do not know what is battering rams. Ladders there were. I saw no fling machines.”

  “Were there any strange vehicles carried on wheels?”

  “Nothing aside from wagons.”

  Rylin now understood what Toln had meant about the ko’aye’s lack of understanding. He supposed this was as good a time as any to broach a delicate subject. “Would you mind if I tagged along on the next flight?”

  Lelanc’s narrow head lowered and pointed more directly at him. “Do you wish to ride with me?”

  “If you would have me.”

  Lelanc blinked once, slowly. “I have already said I would. Is it time to fight Naor?”

  “It may be. First I want to see their numbers.”

  “It is good to count the teeth of your enemy before you bring out your claws.” Lelanc extended her head toward him and her voice grew softer. “Rylin, I am told that they will take the meat of my ground sister and burn it, so her spirit will fly free. What do you think of that?”

  He attempted to puzzle out the creature’s meaning.

  She explained further. “Do you believe this is when the spirit goes?”

  “Ah. Not all of us believe the same thing. It depends upon where we’re from. People of The Fragments burn their dead. So do those in Ekhem. We from Erymyr inter them.”

  “I have heard this. Both are strange, I think. Ko’aye spirit goes when the heart stops and the light dies, and then there is nothing but meat. Why burn the meat you will not eat, or let it rot in the stone house?”

  “It’s the way things are done,” he answered.

  “But does this help the spirit of ground walkers?”

  “I think funerals are more about the living than the dead.” It was what his own brother had told him at their father’s wake. “It’s a ceremony for saying good-bye, so that those who loved the dead can remember together.”

  Lelanc’s head rose. “This has more sense,” she said. Then: “I think I like it. I had not wanted to watch the meat burn, but I think now I will see it.”

  The creature bobbed her head once as if in silent agreement with her decision, then regarded Rylin again. “Are you ready to fly?”