by Jenn Lyons
“Well, that shouldn’t be hard. Who do we have to torture?”
Darzin scowled. “A dead musician or a whorehouse madam. Unfortunately, Thaena wouldn’t Return the musician, and I can’t find Ola anywhere.”
She looked disappointed, giving no hint of her own culpability in Surdyeh’s death or Ola’s disappearance. “Someone could cast an enchantment on his mind, perhaps?”
“Not likely to work, even assuming you could locate an enchanter. Ironic and unfortunate if Ola turns out to be one—but that would explain a few things.” Darzin snaked an arm around the girl’s waist and drew her closer. “I’m surprised you’re even able to read Kihrin’s mind.”
She shrugged. “I don’t use magic for that. I can read anyone’s mind. It’s like reading a book over someone’s shoulder. Although it’s faster if I gobble down the whole book all at once.”
He pulled away from her. “Anyone’s mind?”
“Oh, anyone weak-willed. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve learned to shut me out.”* She pretended to chide him.
He settled back beside her. “Nothing personal.”
“Of course. I still have plans for the boy. Mentally, he’s quite a mess, you know. I’ll have fun with that.” She paused. “‘If I had my way’ and then ‘we,’ you said. Are you working with someone I don’t know about?”
“Just a group of like-minded men who share the same goals. Nothing to worry about.”
“The others want him alive, then?”
Darzin ran his hands along her shoulders while nodding. “At least until we’ve convinced him to give up the Stone of Shackles.” His eyes never left Talon’s body, heedless of the fact they were just inches from a fresh cadaver. “Afterward, I don’t think they’ll care what happens to him.” He stopped moving his hands. “This slave girl’s sister . . . what’s her name? I’ll send my men to buy her. She might be useful leverage.”
At that, Talon threw her arms up and sank back down on the table next to the dead man, pulling Darzin on top of her almost-naked body. She laughed at the delightful joke. With leisure, she unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unfastened the Lord Heir’s clothes, oblivious to the blood and gore around them.
“That’s the best part, darling,” she whispered. “You already own her.”
41: REFUSAL
(Kihrin’s story)
Words cannot express how much I loathe you.
Do you honestly expect this charade to continue?
Why should it, Talon? For your amusement? Do you think that after you have tormented me, betrayed me, haunted me at every turn, murdered my friends, orchestrated all of this, that I would want to play story time with you?
Take back your damn rock.
I’ve had enough.
42: THE YOUNGER SON
(Talon’s story)
My dear Kihrin, don’t be like that. We are having “story time,” as you put it, as a sign of my respect.
Your cooperation is unnecessary. You think I don’t realize the necklace around your throat holds your gaesh? I can force you to tell me. Or I can steal the information from your mind as easily as ordering a drink at the Culling Fields. You can’t stop me.
Do you think I do this only for my amusement?
Now look here. This rock we’ve been passing between us may look like a normal stone, worn smooth by the river, but your father Surdyeh was quite an enchanter. He taught me a few tricks. Any words spoken by the person holding this stone are stored inside to be heard again later.* Think of your story, told in your own words, being heard by Emperor Sandus or General Milligreest; a revenge that carries beyond the grave. I’ll turn this stone over to whoever you like. I will make sure this reaches them, and they’ll hear what it contains.
Your enemies believe you’re no longer a threat to them, but you could be their worst nightmare—a voice they can’t silence.
So. Whether you wish to continue is your choice.
Why don’t you think about it? We’ll skip your turn for now. I can continue easily enough. Let’s see . . .
Now I’m going to tell you about another young man, only a year younger than our poor, illfated hero, but worlds apart in every other respect . . .
Galen D’Mon was fourteen years old when Kihrin joined House D’Mon. And while Galen couldn’t remember every year of his existence, he also couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t afraid. Fear was his constant accessory, never unfashionable, never forgotten. He lived his life much as soldiers on the front do, always expecting the ambush, always fearing the next attack. No street urchin from the Lower Circle was as skittish as Galen D’Mon.
He was a handsome lad, but he didn’t know it. He was talented and intelligent, but didn’t know that either. Instead, he knew he was a failure. He knew his mother, Alshena, spoiled him, and therefore he was soft, weak, and womanly. He knew he would never be clever enough, strong enough, cruel enough, or brave enough to please his father. He knew he was not the sort of scion his father Darzin wanted, and he knew firsthand that his father met disappointments with violence. Being his son did not spare Galen. Far from it; being Darzin’s son meant he was subject to his father’s cruelty more than any other. The irony of being a D’Mon, after all, was that one was never far from a healer. There was no need for a man like Darzin to hold back.
Anything could set his father off. If Galen did not obey an instruction he would be beaten, but if he obeyed too timidly he would be struck for being meek. His father mocked him if Galen dressed too fashionably (never mind that his father always wore the latest trends), but slapped him and sent him back to change if he caught Galen “dressing like a commoner.” He was beaten for being impertinent and beaten for being shy. Galen always did well in his studies, but his father cared little for his scholastic achievements and forbade sending “his heir” away to the Royal Academy in Kirpis to study magic.* Galen excelled at horsemanship and fencing, but he could never do well enough to earn a single word of praise: only the admonishment that the heir to the D’Mon name should do better and Darzin himself had been much superior at the same age.
So, when Galen was informed he was no longer heir, that he had been replaced by a previously unknown son of Darzin’s, his reaction was not anger, bitterness, or despair at fate’s fickle cruelty.
Instead, he felt relief.
Finally, the duty and responsibility of living up to the D’Mon name might fall to someone else—anyone else. If Galen was a failure as an heir, surely, he was good enough to be a second son. No one expected much from second sons.
The next morning, Darzin invited him to breakfast in the Conservatory and disabused Galen of his naïveté.
“Try to become his friend. Earn his confidence,” Galen’s father said as he attacked a piece of fried pork belly with a knife and fork. “But you must never forget this boy is your enemy.”
“I thought he was my brother,” Galen said. He was sweating from the heat in the Conservatory. It was always blistering hot there. The association had become so intense over the years that Galen couldn’t step one foot into the room, not even during the cool of evening, without feeling nauseated.
“What does that have to do with anything?” his father snapped, and cuffed Galen’s head for emphasis. “He’s a whore’s son and a bastard, a thief and a murderer. Don’t for one minute think he’ll look at you with any sort of sibling affection. Do you see that stain right there?” He pointed to the floor with his knife.
Galen looked. A single dot of dark red marred the otherwise spotless floor. He didn’t think it was tomato sauce. “Yes, Father.”
“He killed a man right there,” Darzin told him. “Killed him clean. Didn’t hesitate.” Darzin made a succession of quick stabbing motions with the knife. “He’d have done the same to me if given a chance. He’d do the same to you.”
“You must be proud of him.” The words slipped from Galen’s mouth before he could stop them.
Darzin paused with a cup of coffee halfway to his lips. “Don’t give
me that tone, boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Galen said. He frowned and picked at his food: baked wheat cakes with imported apples cooked with cinnamon and fried strips of seasoned pork belly. The sight made his stomach turn. He didn’t think the cakes would be so bad normally, but the temperature in the room was so hot and the pork was so greasy. He would have rather had some nice bland sag bread with fresh fruit and mint, maybe a nice glass of yogurt and rice milk. He was pretty sure he could keep something like that down, but it was commoner’s fare and his father would not allow him to eat street food.
“He’s a wild one, I’ll give him that,” Darzin continued. “If he wasn’t—” Darzin paused as he speared a slice of apple. “A wild one, without a doubt. You’d think a boy raised in a velvet house would be more effeminate, but not that one, no. Killed that guard smooth as buttering a piece of bread. He’d make a hell of a killer with a little training.” Darzin looked thoughtful for a moment as he chewed. He gave Galen a hard stare. “My father never gave a damn about any of his children and he still doesn’t. I made myself a promise I would never be like that. You know that’s why I’m so hard on you, don’t you? Because I care. I want you to be the best.”
“Yes, Father.” With great effort, Galen didn’t sigh or act like he had heard this speech before. He would have preferred his grandfather’s indifference to his father’s loving attention.
“The boy’s in a murdering frame of mind right now. I understand why, but he needs to calm down. What happened with that blind old man was a mistake, nothing more. It wasn’t personal. You can help. Your sisters and your cousins are all too young. You’re the only person in the family close to his age. Put him at ease. Be nice to him. Show him some kindness. He could use a friendly face.”
“A friendly face that tells you everything he says?” Galen asked.
Darzin smiled. It was one of the first genuine smiles Galen ever remembered his father directing at him. “That’s my boy.”
43: THE DRAGON’S DEAL
(Kihrin’s story)
This rock? I won’t deny the tenyé pattern has been changed. Something’s been done to it.
Seems like a sucker’s bet though. First you threaten my parents and now you say you’ve been on my side the whole time? How stupid do you think I am?
Don’t answer that question.
All right, Talon. I’ll continue. But only because I’m gambling that the small part of you that’s Surdyeh is still on my side.
It may be a sucker’s bet, but it’s all I’ve got. Where did I leave off?
Have I talked about my deal with the Old Man? No? Okay.
We’ll pick it up there.
So, because I’ve never believed in being stupid in halves, I walked down to the beach to see the Old Man.
The new sub-island he had created formed a craggy mess of black rock and fresh flowing lava. The rock solidified and cracked open again and again as the Old Man repositioned himself or sank his talons into the ground for a good stretch. My mouth dried as I saw how large the island had grown. It was no longer a minor protuberance of rock, what one might dismiss as a simple outcropping pulled up by the waves only to be torn down again later. The Old Man was growing himself a new bed, sized to match his proportions.
On the edge of the island, the Old Man had built a bizarre rock garden of lava pillars, grouped together in odd clusters. I didn’t understand what purpose they might serve. They weren’t shelter or furniture, and their shapes seemed too irregular and uneven to be decorative.
As I walked forward, carrying the harp a helpful Black Brotherhood adept had brought me from Zherias, a dark shadow fell over the beach. I hadn’t needed to introduce myself: the Old Man must have heard me long before I was visible. The great dragon rose, eyes glowing with molten fire, head turned in my direction.
It occurred to me this might be the last stupid thing I ever did.
“Do you prefer to be called the Old Man?” I called out. I set the harp down next to me.
“I have worn many names,” the dragon responded with that voice that seemed far more fitting coming from his throat than it did when Khaemezra spoke. “Earth Terror and Ground Shaker, World Ripper and Night’s Fire. I am the Betrayal of Foundations, the Toppler of Cities. I was there when Kharolaen burned and its people choked on boiling ash, I laughed as Ynalra drowned in lava.” The dragon chuckled. “Yes, call me Old Man.”
I took a deep breath. “I’d like to make you a deal.”
The dragon shifted. His neck moved forward and his head pointed at me. “Do you want me to teach you magic? Destroy your enemies? Show you how to become a god?”
I paused in surprise. “You can do that?”
“Oh yes,” the dragon purred, “in the old days you little mortals would come by the score. You would ask for my favor, my knowledge, my genius to solve all your problems for you. You would beg and supplicate yourselves, seeking my counsel and wisdom. Is that what you want?” His eyes thinned down to slits while slow thick clouds of sulfurous smoke trickled down from his nostrils.
The worst cons are the ones so over-the-top, so desirable, that they are too good to be trusted. Being a god and destroying all my enemies did sound like the solution to many of my problems, but at what cost? I wasn’t so naïve as to think the Old Man would do such a thing for free, if he could do so at all.
“With all respect, what I’d like is for you to let me leave the island unharmed. So here’s my offer: I’ll play for you tonight. A special concert just for you. I’ll play anything you want. In the morning, you let me leave. What do you say?”
The dragon settled back on its haunches. “Play.”
Later, Teraeth’s hand fell on my shoulder. “Kihrin, what are you doing? You’re not supposed to be here right now.”
I looked up, blinking. The sound of morning seagulls hunting for breakfast echoed in the distance, playing a counterpoint to the crashing waves coming down on shore. The sky was a shroud of dull violet gray, tinged magenta to the west where the sun was rising. The air smelled of seawater, rotting kelp, and burning rock.
“I—” I cleared my throat. “What—?” The last thing I remembered, the Old Man had agreed to free me if I played him a few songs,* but that had been last night.
It was dawn.
“Play,” the Old Man’s voice ordered, and I felt my fingers jerk toward the strings. This differed from a gaesh command. The specter of unbearable agony and certain death enforced a gaesh’s orders, but I could refuse. Not this time though.
Teraeth cursed as the dragon spoke. I don’t think he’d realized that the mountainous pile of black rock offshore was the Old Man until the dragon moved.
Most people see something that enormous and assume it must be a hill. It’s too large for us to process as a living creature when it isn’t moving.
I bit back a scream as I touched the strings. There was blood on my fingertips, blood from playing so long and hard on the harp I’d torn skin and nails.
Yet still I played.
“Teraeth,” I said as I bit back on whimpering, “help me. I can’t stop.”
“He has you under his thrall,” Teraeth said. “I’m not strong enough to break it. Let me get Mother.”
“Run,” I said.
But as he did that, the sand of the beach rose, much as it had when Tyentso had been fighting off the Old Man. A wall of thick molten glass blocked Teraeth’s escape. We looked at each other, but I couldn’t stop playing, and Teraeth had no retreat. Teraeth cast his gaze around him for something, anything, but what weapon did he have against a monster such as that?
“Play,” the dragon crooned, “sing, and play for me. Sing me songs of ancient Kharolaen and sing of the ocean cities of Sillythia. Sing of Cinaval the Beautiful, and tell me the ballad of Tirrin Woodkeeper’s Ride.”
I felt a panic well up in me I fought back down. “I don’t know those songs. Can you hum a few bars for me first?”
“SING.”
I ground my teeth together. What
ever spell he was casting, he wasn’t a gaesh. I tried to find strength in that, strength enough to resist. “This wasn’t our deal!”
“Deal? DEAL?” The dragon rose on his haunches, spread his wings to blot out the sky. “You’re nothing but a pathetic mortal. An idiot soldier who follows orders, accepts the world around you without criticism or curiosity. An uneducated fool whose only worth is to keep me entertained. I don’t make deals with ants.”
I could only stare. As insults went, that was oddly specific. Also not true, given my lack of military service. I found myself reminded of Relos Var and the way he’d hated me so much, for someone I’d considered a stranger.
The dragon lunged.
His massive head snapped toward Teraeth, who dove to the side. The dragon’s mouth closed on air. The Old Man lifted his mouth up to the sky, shook his head, and gulped down . . .
Nothing?
I raised a hand to shield my eyes. Teraeth lay across the sand, his expression one of repressed pain as he cradled one arm. He was alive though. So was I. Hell, even the borrowed harp seemed undamaged, still resting against my knee.
What had the Old Man eaten?
A moment later, the Old Man finished his phantom meal and let out an angry roar. He flew off, circling around in a wide spiral before flying out to one of the other islands.
We watched him go, neither of us saying a word, barely daring to breathe lest he hear and circle back.
“I really shouldn’t have suggested you sing,” Teraeth finally said.
I started laughing, weakly, as I leaned forward and rested my head against the harp. My fingertips ached and I felt like I had been awake for the last twenty-four hours—which was probably true.
“Not one of your better ideas,” I agreed. “But then coming down here to play for him wasn’t one of mine.”
