The Ruin of Kings

by Jenn Lyons

  No one had told her that her sister was dead.

  Kihrin said to Thurvishar, “I know my money doesn’t mean much to you, but you’d be vexing Darzin if you let her go, and I bet that does.”

  Ola came back and uncorked the bottle in front of Thurvishar, then poured four tin goblets with the dark red wine. Thurvishar thanked her and did not drink.

  Kihrin rolled his eyes. “Aren’t you the paranoid one?” He drank deep from his own cup and motioned for Galen to do the same.

  “I have enemies who would gladly kill me just for my potential,” Thurvishar said. “But allow me to understand your meaning. You want me to free Talea and hand her over to you—for what? The possibility it might annoy Darzin?” He chuckled and took a drink of wine, wincing. “Talea, dear, don’t drink this. It’s not worth touching your lips to it.”

  The slave girl’s grimace suggested the warning had come too late.

  “I can pay metal. I know what you paid for her. You’d take no loss.” Kihrin ignored the ugly looks that Talea gave him. It didn’t matter if Talea liked him, but it mattered he freed her, if only for Morea’s sake.

  “As you said, metal means little.” Thurvishar paused. “What about the harp you played so well last night? One couldn’t fail to notice the aura of magic laced around it like silken thread.”

  Kihrin’s heart sank. “She was stolen last night.”

  Thurvishar shook his head as he drank more of the wine. “How inconvenient for both of us.” He studied Talea with those dark, all-black eyes before returning his attention to Kihrin. “I’ll take your necklace then.”

  Kihrin put his hand to his throat. “I can’t give you—”

  “You can.” Thurvishar reached into his robes and pulled out a pair of charms, enameled dragons wrought from silver. “These will protect you both from scrying.* Nothing so powerful as what you wear, but enough to keep your family from tracking you down. You can have Talea, these necklaces, and my silence—but you give me the tsali stone.”

  Kihrin’s expression hardened. “I can’t do that—and how did you know—?”

  Thurvishar smiled. “Perhaps you mistake my meaning. This has stopped being a deal from which you can walk away. You’re not planning on returning to the Blue Palace, sending the young lady on her way in life with a smile and a small stipend while you resume your noble, pampered life. You’re planning to run. To do so, you must buy my silence, because even if I cannot scry for you, I can scry for him.” He pointed to Galen, who turned red and looked like he was on the verge of tears.

  “You wouldn’t . . .” Kihrin said.

  Thurvishar raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

  Kihrin stared at him. “Why do you want it so badly?”

  “Because you have no idea what you wear around your neck,” Thurvishar said. His voice was sad.*

  Kihrin reached for the clasp at the back of his neck, a clasp that had never been unfastened in all his life. He didn’t know if it still functioned, and as he worked the latch, his fingers felt thick, clumsy, and heavy. It was all he could do to lift his hands behind his shoulders.

  Kihrin stood. “I can’t.” He listed.

  “You mean you won’t,” Thurvishar corrected.

  “No, I mean—”

  Galen collapsed at that moment, wine spilling as the young man’s tin cup fell from his hand and his head hit the wooden table. Kihrin fell to his knees. He gasped, looking over at Ola. “You—you—”

  “I’m so sorry, Bright-Eyes,” Ola murmured. “He’d have noticed if I hadn’t drugged everyone’s wine.” Her whispered confession was punctuated by the sound of Talea collapsing in an unconscious heap. “I’m so sorry.”

  As darkness overtook Kihrin, Thurvishar yelled, “Trickery!” Then came a loud cracking noise, blinding light, and ozone.*

  It was quiet.

  Talea’s eyes opened, although to be fair, it would be more correct to say Talon’s eyes opened. Part of the inn was on fire. People panicked, screaming, but all that mattered to Talon was the sickly sweet scent of burning flesh.

  Talon ran over to where Ola lay on the ground, electrocuted.

  Thurvishar hadn’t meant to hit Ola, but his blind random strike had done the job all the same. The wizard had held on for far longer than Talon had expected—the drug slower to act with him than any of the others.* Talon had to fight down the urge to murder him, the blood-borne desire to make him pay for killing Ola, but she knew she couldn’t.

  Instead, Talon wept over Ola’s body. “You won’t die,” she murmured to her former lover. “We’ll live together forever, you and I. Surdyeh has missed you. We’ll be together. You’ll see. I have one thing I need to do first. One little thing.”

  Talon returned to Kihrin’s side, changing as she went. Until when she stood above him, she looked like Kihrin’s old enemy Faris, hand missing and scowl attached. It would be better this way. Witnesses would remember Faris, and Faris was the sort it would be easy to claim had fought too hard to bring back alive—assuming he was ever found at all.

  He wouldn’t be.*

  Talon reached down to touch Kihrin’s face. “Ducky, your father Surdyeh and I have been talking,” she told him, although she knew he couldn’t hear her. “You know, he’s the one who started this all. Giving you to Ola. Making sure you learned certain skills. He wasn’t behind the job at Kazivar House where you first saw Darzin—if I had to put metal on it, I’d blame the Goddess of Luck for that. But he works for Emperor Sandus, and he’s brought me around to his way of thinking. We’ve decided that this is for the best. I know it won’t be pleasant, but sending one’s child away to school never is. Trust us: it will hurt us a lot more than it hurts you.” She paused. “Although to be fair, it’ll hurt you rather a lot.”

  She patted down Kihrin’s body until she came away with an intaglio ruby ring. Talon smiled at it. “The gryphon must fly,” she quoted in a fond tone, as she threaded the ring onto a chain and fastened the chain around her neck.*

  Then she tossed Kihrin over her shoulder and set out from the bar, heading for the docks, and the slave ships.

  77: GADRITH’S WAY

  (Kihrin’s story)

  I suppose it’s just my turn now, isn’t it, Talon?

  So be it. Let’s end this.

  A large iron padlock locked the door to my old room. A padlock to make a Key from the Lower Circle pale, mutter under his breath, and warn any and all to find an easier target. I probably would have needed twenty minutes or more to pick open the damn thing.

  Fortunately, I had the key.

  The room inside had changed little from what I remembered. It seemed odd to think we were both four years older. I crossed over to the bed on silent feet, not wanting to disturb the occupant, not sure if my magical stealth would be enough to hide me. I held a thin spike of metal in one hand, and my sword in the other.

  The bed was empty. Talon was gone. I reached down to touch the sheets and cursed. The fabric was still warm. I’d missed her by minutes.

  “Kihrin?”

  I turned back to see Galen standing in the doorway, mouth open in astonishment.

  I still had the Veil slipped from my eyes. I examined Galen. I hoped that mimics couldn’t hide their tenyé.* Under that assumption, I decided that Galen was himself and not a shape-changed Talon, tucked the spike into my belt, and put a finger to my lips. I walked back to the bronze door, closed it behind me, and replaced the lock.

  I clasped my hands on my brother’s—well, I suppose my nephew’s—shoulders. “Galen!”

  He looked older now, well past his majority. His hair showed some of his mother’s redness, but he also resembled his father a great deal. Galen dressed in what I assumed was the latest fashion—a blue misha dyed to fade to black at sleeves and hem, worn over dark kef that faded back to blue at the boots. He had a sword at his hips and the embroidered hawk and sunburst design of House D’Mon over his breast.

  He continued to look at me in stunned amazement, and then he hugged me b
ack. “Kihrin! It really is you . . . I thought you were a ghost for a minute there.”

  “I’ve thought the same more times than I care to count and have escaped by thinner margins than I care to remember. But still alive so far,” I said, laughing.

  The laughter didn’t quite echo in Galen’s eyes, and his arms fell back. “Sounds like you’ve had some wonderful adventures.” He didn’t hide the bitterness in his voice.

  “It’s not like that,” I told him.

  “Is it not?” Galen asked. “Isn’t it like you promised that we’d leave together and yet you abandoned me? Because that looks like how it is.”

  I inhaled, sharp and shallow, and it took everything in me to keep from raising my voice. “Would you like to hear how the slave masters whipped me raw? How I wore manacles on my ankles for so long they cut into my flesh? Abandoned you? You know that’s not what happened.”

  The Galen I knew would have flinched, backed up, backed down, but this Galen had grown harder. His nostrils flared and his blue eyes narrowed. “Should I feel sorry for you? Shall we compare injuries?”

  “It’s not a contest,” I snapped at him.

  “Everything is a contest,” he said. “I learned that lesson late, but I learned.”

  My chest felt heavy as I regarded him with a lifted chin. “I’m sorry, Galen. I didn’t mean to leave you.”

  “You say you’re sorry like it will fix something.”

  I sighed. “I’m not here to try to—”

  And I paused as a scream echoed down the hallway.

  We both paused.

  Screams weren’t out of place in the Blue Palace. Slaves were whipped and sometimes people were tortured, for either information or amusement. And even more mundanely, physickers often treated patients here—any of which might be a rational cause for screams.

  But another scream followed that first, and then another. Galen and I both rushed to one window at the far end of the corridor. We looked out on the Court of Princes to see several servants in the blue livery of the House being run down and ripped apart by soldiers. But these were House D’Mon’s own soldiers. The men-at-arms ambled, moving with an odd stuttering gait, but their sword swings hit true.

  “What—?” Galen’s reaction was one of shock.

  Hollow dread filled me. “No,” I said, “this is too soon. This is way too soon. How did he get here so soon?”

  It had only been a matter of minutes since I’d seen Darzin. I had thought—we’d all thought—we’d have more time. Gadrith had kept such a low profile the entire time I’d been in the Upper Circle before. He was patient and cautious and always, always kept to the shadows.

  I focused on the ruby ring.

  Nothing happened.

  I didn’t have time to debate if I was doing it wrong or if Emperor Sandus had somehow given me a ring that was defective. “Galen, you need to run. Run out of here, leave the palace, and go to the Citadel.” I shook my head. “I’m an idiot. I never thought he’d make his move this quickly.”

  “Who? What?” Galen’s eyes narrowed. “This is your fault?”

  “Galen.” I reached over and grabbed his arm. “Those guards are dead. Dead, do you understand? But they’re still moving. That’s Dead Man’s work. You do remember Dead Man?” I’d have used the name Gadrith, but it would have just confused matters.

  Galen blinked and nodded. “Thaena . . .”

  “If he’s moving in the open like this,” I told him, “then we don’t have time to argue.”

  Someone clapped, slowly, from the other end of the hallway. My blood chilled. As I turned, I reached up to clasp the Stone of Shackles around my neck: it was lukewarm, because the man I faced had no intention of killing me.

  Gadrith D’Lorus stood at the end of the hallway, black robes pooling on the marble floor around him. “Truly spoken, young man. You don’t have time to argue. Or time for anything.” His smile was terrible. “I don’t believe I’ve yet had the pleasure, Your Highness, but it’s long past due you and I met in the flesh.”

  “Run,” I told Galen as I pulled out my sword.

  Gadrith cocked his head and stared at me. The sword in my hand turned red hot. The coating of steel covering the drussian core melted and dripped off, making me glad I had my protections from fire. The sword itself was largely intact, because . . . well . . . I’d been expecting him to do this. That’s the whole reason I’d taken the time to acquire a sword that only looked like it was made from Quuros steel.

  “I—” Galen turned to flee.

  Galen’s legs froze together as if they were wrapped with rope and he was pulled hard off his feet. He hit the floor with a loud thud.

  I remember thinking, I suppose this settles whether he’s Talon, but the consolation was scant.

  “Stay,” Gadrith said. “I insist.”

  Fighting Gadrith alone hadn’t been part of my plans at any point. Seen close up, in person, Gadrith’s resemblance to his so-called “son” Thurvishar was the wispiest and most unconvincing of phantasms. His skin was pale and the hollows under his eyes made his face look skeletal. His black hair fell in stringy curls around his face, like dead, withered moss. He looked of the gallows, an impression that had not changed by the smallest degree since I had first laid eyes on him—over four years earlier.

  I stared at him and wondered if I could take him. But I was wearing enough talismans to be more witchhunter than mage at that moment, reducing my repertoire of spells to simple cantrips like returning my sword.

  Likely not.* It was kind of the whole reason we’d all insisted on giving Emperor Sandus the honor of being the one to take Gadrith down.

  Still, I didn’t have much choice. At least I was still wearing the Stone of Shackles: Gadrith didn’t dare kill me outright.

  But as I ran toward him, the ground under my feet melted and flowed, marble turning to liquid and then hardening only after I had sunk to my calves. The entire length of floor rose up, trapping my arms and sword, keeping me pinned. And since the magic hadn’t affected me directly, the talismans had been no help at all.

  Thurvishar stepped out into the hallway behind his adopted father.

  “Bring them both,” Gadrith told Thurvishar. “We have many things to discuss.”

  We were a somber party. Galen was unconscious or faking it, and Gadrith didn’t seem inclined to make conversation. Thurvishar pulled small pins out from his robes and began murmuring over them as we walked, then sticking the pins into my misha.

  Talismans, I realized. He was making talismans for me, far in excess of what my magical aptitude required, thus ensuring I could cast no spells of my own.

  “How did you get here so fast?” I asked him. I had to find a way to delay them. Teraeth was out there somewhere. Sandus was out there somewhere. “You can’t have had more than five minutes once Darzin found you.”

  He gave me a sympathetic glance, but didn’t answer.

  Thurvishar brought both of us to the main ballroom where the rest of the family was being gathered. Many of them had no idea I’d returned before I was dumped on the ground next to them. A piece of shaped rock bound my arms and legs. I couldn’t move, run, or fight. I could only struggle against shackles made of solid marble, molded to fit me perfectly.

  Undead soldiers, still wearing the livery of the house, stood watch along the walls and all their unliving attention focused on their prisoners. I saw my uncles Bavrin and Devyeh—I mean, my brothers Bavrin and Devyeh—plus my great-aunt Tishar. There were also all the cousins who were, I suppose, nieces and nephews. No one who looked like Teraeth though, which meant he was still at large. An unpleasant lump forced its way down my throat as I saw an unmoving Lady Miya, lying on the floor next to a comatose Therin D’Mon.

  “You bastards. If you—”

  “They’re asleep,” Gadrith said. “I’m not of a mind to deal with sorcerers.”

  Darzin walked into the ballroom, leading several young women. One of whom, I noted in a distracted way, was Sheloran D’T
alus, now dressed in blue.* She ran over to Galen and bent down next to him, her eyes widening as she saw me.

  “Is that everyone?” Gadrith asked.

  Darzin shrugged. “Pretty much. One groom in the stables is causing some trouble, but nothing that should interfere with what we’re doing.”

  “Darzin, you slime. This is your family!” I screamed at him.

  He looked over at me and smiled. “I’ll be the head of my own family when we’re done here.” He tilted his head at Gadrith. “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Not quite.” Gadrith snapped his fingers at two of the zombies. “Bring that table over here.”

  I watched as the undead did as ordered. I thought about my options. Teraeth was still out there somewhere. I had to think that if they’d already encountered him and killed him, gloating Darzin would have bragged about it. As soon as either Teraeth or Tyentso realized something was wrong, they’d bring in Emperor Sandus.

  Unfortunately, I didn’t know how much time that would take, and whatever was about to happen here, it was a sure guarantee I wouldn’t like it. The trick remained to discover what I could do about it. My skill with sorcery was currently hampered, and even if I wasn’t wearing all these talismans, I was unlikely to best two wizards of D’Lorus caliber. Then there was the fact my entire family was gathered into this room, with huge potential for collateral damage.

  I found myself grateful that at least Tyentso and Teraeth hadn’t been caught in this. Indeed, it seemed likely my enemies had no idea they existed.

  The idea was almost a comfort.

  “That one looks strong,” Gadrith said, pointing to my brother Bavrin. “Bring him.”

  Bavrin thrashed and fought as the walking corpses pulled him up and pushed him toward the table. He too had decided that whatever was about to happen was nothing he would like. Devyeh stood and rushed to his brother’s defense.

  Gadrith threw Devyeh an annoyed look and pointed a finger at him. I recognized the gesture and cried out, but it was too late.

  My brother’s skeleton fell to the ground and his flesh made a messy mound on the other side of the table.