Fallen King

by Olive Creed

  Torrin grimaced, staring at his reflection and tugging at the collar of his shirt.

  “Give the mirror a rest, King Torrin.” Roscoe huffed as his hair sprung up. “You’ve been staring at yourself like some vain princess.”

  So Roscoe was just as nervous about going to the celebration as he was.

  Torrin turned away, watching him in amusement as he once again tried to smooth his hair down. “Why don’t you try using some axle grease, if they have any.”

  “I wish I had a hat.” He dropped the comb, straightening his vest. “Oh well. Nobody’s going to pay me any attention.” He plucked at the collar of his shirt.

  Catnip ran circles around their feet, whistling sharply.

  Roscoe squatted down, holding out his hand. She crawled up his arm to let him stroke under her chin. “Go hang out with your little dragon friends, okay? You can’t come to a human party.”

  She hissed, swiping her claws at him before flying away with her nose in the air.

  He rolled his eyes. “One of these days, she’ll realize she’s not the queen she thinks she is.” He tugged at his shirt. “I wish I had my own.”

  The clothes they wore were borrowed. The Anathemans were taller than both of them and they’d had to do a fair bit of tucking to get them to fit.

  “Why do we even have to dress up?” Roscoe looked down at his sleeves and adjusted the cuffs.

  “Because it’s Raevyn’s eighteenth birthday and it’s an important celebration. You don’t just go to a dance dressed in buckskins.”

  “I don’t exactly plan on dancing,” he pointed out. “I’m just going ‘cause Raevyn asked us all to and honestly, I’m scared of what she’d do if I didn’t show up.”

  “I doubt she’d kill you,” Torrin said with a chuckle, causing him to snort in disbelief. He grabbed Roscoe’s sleeve, straightening and rolling the cuffs to the inside. “Stop fidgeting. You’re as bad as Ryan.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Who’s that?”

  Torrin bit the inside of his cheek, dropping his gaze to his scuffed boots as he remembered all the times he’d helped Ryan get ready to attend any occasion. “He was my best friend,” he said quietly, stepping back and fiddling with his own sleeve, smoothing out the cuff. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “He hated wearing nice clothes. Said they were stiff and uncomfortable.”

  “I don’t blame him.” There was an awkward pause. Roscoe rubbed the back of his neck and shifted. “We probably want to get going. The party will start soon.”

  Zeno met them outside. His borrowed shirt stretched tight over his shoulders. He glanced over both of them and grimaced, then looked away, as if he hadn’t meant for them to see it.

  “What?” Roscoe demanded self-consciously, reaching up to fiddle with his collar. Torrin glared at him and he dropped his hand.

  “Well... you can’t really help that you don’t have your own clothes,” he murmured, glancing at Torrin before ducking his head.

  Torrin clapped Zeno on the shoulder, wincing and pulling his hand away when he flinched. “No, we can’t. We must look a sight.” He forced a smile, trying to make him feel comfortable.

  “Kind of.” He rubbed the back of his neck, stepping away from them.

  Torrin let out a slow breath. So much for making him comfortable. He glanced at Roscoe, who rubbed his hands together. “Well, I don’t think anyone will pay much attention to what we’re wearing. Besides, I’m just going for the food.”

  Zeno eyed him sideways. “And to keep Raevyn off your back.”

  “That too.” Roscoe threw his arm around Zeno’s shoulders and faced Torrin. “So, we should probably get going, unless we want a certain princess coming at us with an axe.”

  Torrin hobbled along behind them, leaning heavily on his cane.

  Zeno was visibly more comfortable around Roscoe, which might have something to do with them both having come from the same situation. But something about the Achian healer’s behavior was unsettling.

  The summer night was warm, but not uncomfortably so. Torrin stared up at the sky, watching as a few dragons flew overhead. The center of the valley was lit up by the lanterns and cookfires. Off to one side, a few men and women prepared their fiddles. One even had a flute. A handful of children ran by, followed by two older girls who’d apparently been assigned to watch them. They gave Torrin and his companions a wide berth, sending them dirty looks and saying something in their native language.

  Torrin smiled and nodded at them, trying not to let their behavior get to him.

  Roscoe and Zeno quickly made their way to the tables loaded with refreshments. Alone, the sounds of all the people talking and laughing seemed to amplify. The crowd crushed against Torrin, cutting off his air. He realized with a start that he’d been hugging himself and forced his arm down, ducking his head and focusing on breathing. He would not have a panic attack. Not now.

  His hand tightened around the cane, knuckles turning white. The voices slowly grew louder, turning shrill. Pained. Screaming even. Every bump and jostle was another fellow countryman falling at his side. Another dragon hitting the ground with enough force to make the earth shake.

  His throat constricted until he couldn’t breathe, phantom pain lighting up his nerves. Torrin turned and practically fled the area, cane jamming into the ground and jarring his hand.

  Got to escape. Need to breathe. Get out. Get safe.

  His eyes burned and smoke filled his lungs, choking him. He started coughing, stumbling and falling to his knees and clutching the sides of his head.

  “Ka pilika?”

  The strange words, spoken in a kind, gentle tone, snapped Torrin out of it. He looked up, blinking back smoke-induced tears to see an old woman staring at him.

  She smiled softly, brushing back long hair that was pure silver. She pointed across the field to one of the barns, talking quietly. Torrin didn’t understand what she was saying, but he spied Briley and Raevyn.

  He smiled, using his cane as leverage to get to his feet and hobbling towards them. They were familiar. Pathetic? Probably. But maybe with them he wouldn’t feel so much like an outsider.

  “’old still, Raevyn. I svear, you’re as viggly as a vorm.” Lindy had her hands in Raevyn’s hair, braiding it and trying to twist it up on her head. Briley stood beside her, sticking pins in Raevyn’s frizzy hair.

  “I wouldn’t wiggle so much if—ow!” Raevyn reached up to her head, only for her mother to slap her hands away. “You’re scalping me, mema.”

  “I doubt that.” Lindy took a few pins from Briley and stabbed them into the mess on Raevyn’s head. “There. If that doesn’t ‘old, I don’t know vhat vill.”

  “I feel like a pin cushion.” Raevyn huffed, crossing her arms. “Is it necessary to ‘ave my ‘air up? What’s wrong with down?”

  “You’re a voman now, for vone.” Lindy turned her daughter around. “And two, it looks nice. Vearing you ‘air down and messy vouldn’t match the dress.”

  Raevyn spotted Torrin and waved him over. “Torrin! Mema and Briley are making me wear my ‘air like this. What do you think?”

  He eyed the braid and coils and the tuft of hair that stuck out that had probably been missed. “It doesn’t look bad,” he said quietly. “Just..." He glanced over her dress—a green floral corset over a blouse that came off her shoulders with a brown skirt. “Well..."

  “Well... what?” she pressed, her hands on her hips.

  He glanced at Lindy and Briley for help. Raevyn hated dressing up, so should he tell her she looked nice or what? He turned back to Raevyn. “I’m just not used to seeing you dressed up, that’s all.”

  She nodded carefully, reaching up to feel the pins. “Well, come on, there’s snacks and then there’s going to be dancing. Then a speech and more dancing and a feast and stories.” She wrapped her arm around his as she spoke, pulling him towards the tables and people.

  Halfway there, she glanced over her shoulder, then leaned close. “Okay. We’re safe, they can�
�t ‘ear us. ‘ow bad does it look, really? Be ‘onest.”

  “I was being honest. It’s different.” Torrin tilted his head, glancing over her. “It’s nice. Except you’ve got a pin trying to escape.” He poked it back into her hair, dislodging another one in the process. He huffed and stuck it back in.

  “Thanks. Feels like you jabbed it into my skull.”

  “Sorry.” He snatched his hand back.

  She smirked. “I’ll forgive you if you promise to dance with me at least once.”

  Torrin hesitated, glancing down at himself. “I don’t think it’s possible, at the moment.”

  “Oh, come on. We’ll be slow and you can lean on me instead of a cane.”

  “I suppose. In that case,” Torrin took her hand and bowed, “Kali’hine Raevyn, would you do me the honor of saving a dance for me?”

  She held her skirt out and curtsied. “Of course, kind sir. The ‘onor will be mine.” She giggled and bumped his shoulder with her elbow. “Come on, I want to introduce you to some friends.”

  “Are you sure that is a good idea? Your people aren’t exactly fond of outsiders.”

  “Then I’ll smack ‘em one good. It’s my party, they can be nice this once.”

  Torrin was right on both accounts. None of Raevyn’s friends wanted anything to do with Torrin. And he wasn’t a good dance partner. At all.

  Not that Raevyn was any better at dancing.

  He dropped down on a bench beside Briley, exhaling. “I’m fairly certain my feet are broken.”

  She giggled. “I was watching. I’m not sure who’s the worst dancer.”

  “Raevyn is just a clumsy dancer. I am both a clumsy dancer and cannot stand without a cane, so I would say I am the worst.” He sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you treat me as an equal, not a king.”

  “I would think it would be annoying,” she said quietly. “And that you would want to regain that power and recognition as soon as possible.” After a moment, she chuckled. “And I must admit, I often forget you are King Torrin Slater.”

  “I often forget I am—er, was—a king myself,” he whispered. He was nothing but a failed king. A crippled, weak man who couldn’t help his people by himself and had nobody to help him. “How am I supposed to save my people with no one to help me but a kid trying to escape the Shadows?”

  Briley shrugged, playing with her hair. She’d let it out of her braid for the celebration and the ends nearly touched the ground while she was sitting. “I don’t know. I don’t know how any of this works. My entire plan has just been... figure out how to get my grandparents out and then... leave, I suppose.” She glanced over at him. “My grandmother would ask if you’ve prayed.”

  His shoulders drooped. “... no. I have not. I haven’t really prayed since my family was killed two years ago.”

  She reached over to hug him. “I’d heard about that. The Shadows assassinating... well. I’m sorry.”

  He leaned against her, swallowing and trying to shove down the memories. Finding his tiav dead at his desk. Watching his mother and brother get cut down in front of him.

  Why did I survive?

  It was a question he asked every day. Why had he survived the assassination that took his family? The battle that took his men, his best friend?

  “Torrin, can I talk to you?”

  Torrin sat up, glancing over his shoulder to see Roscoe standing a few feet away. “Yes, of course.” He stood, leaning against his cane as he hobbled over. “What is it?”

  “I... wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I overheard you and Briley talking. And I may know of a man who can help you.”

  Torrin blinked, then grinned, a tiny bolt of surprise and excitement warming his chest. “Really? Who?”

  Roscoe rubbed the back of his neck. “Ace Pariah. He’s considered a traitor, lives in Achia. I’ve worked with him before, so I know he’s trustworthy.”

  “Tell me how to find him.”

  Fury landed in the streets of the settlement with a huff, scales flickering to a light orange. She trotted down the street, stopping at the butcher’s.

  Cyprian rolled his eyes, sliding out of the saddle and walking inside to purchase a ham.

  Fury gave a happy growl, grabbing the ham in her mouth and flying to perch on top of the building to eat. The roof creaked but held. It wouldn’t be long before the Elyndians started building their houses and shops strong enough to hold a dragon.

  Cyprian chuckled, turning and half-running down the sidewalk to push open the double doors of the bar. He needed to check on Zora, see if she had anything worth reporting to Torrin. A woman played lively music on the piano, doing a poor job of drowning out the chatter in the packed room. One of the windows was broken and boarded up and there was broken glass and dirt still scattered across the floor.

  All of Zora’s potted cacti were gone. If they’d been destroyed in the fight, Cyprian almost pitied whoever had been unlucky enough to do so.

  He paused halfway in, jaw tightening.

  Two Shadows, Dawsyn and Alec, and a trainee eager to make a name for himself leaned against the bar sipping beers. Cyprian rested a hand on his dagger and stalked past them. If only he had a gun. But he'd yet to earn enough for that.

  No sign of Zora. Considering Alec was Kyrnian—and they had a bit of a reputation—she was probably hiding out back.

  The bartender looked up and pasted on a friendly smile. “What can ah get ya?”

  Cyprian pointed at a plate of sandwiches and walked on, choosing a small table next to the wall and sitting so he could face the room. He made the mistake of locking eyes with the trainee, Zell, who sneered. Cyprian raised his chin and stared him down, daring Zell to make a move.

  Alec sauntered over, towering over everyone in the room. He stood just shy of seven feet and was as mean tempered as he was strong. He spun a chair around backwards and straddled it. “How’s it goin’, kid?” he asked in mock friendliness.

  Cyprian ignored Alec, leaning back when the bartender set two roast beef sandwiches and a cup of spicy hot chocolate in front of him. He picked one up and took a bite, pretending to be unconcerned when Dawsyn and Zell sat down on either side of the table, boxing him in.

  “He asked ya a question,” Zell growled. He was two years Cyprian’s elder and was lucky Alec and Dawsyn had taken him in, considering he was Elyndian like Cyprian. “Why ain’t ya answerin’?”

  Cyprian took another bite. His heart pounded against his chest. He could handle Zell any day. Dawsyn was tough, but he was getting old and slow. Cyprian knew he could outmaneuver him easily. It was Alec that had him worried. He was faster, but all the big man had to do was get in a lucky hit or catch him and he was down for the count.

  “Don’t seem like yer very talkative today, kid,” Alec said casually. “We could loosen yer tongue a bit.”

  Zell chuckled in anticipation.

  Cyprian spared them a brief glance, letting his hand fall to grip his dagger. The first one to move would get their hand skewered.

  “I’ll not have fightin’ in this tavern.” Zora marched over, gripping a skillet. She set a hand on her hip, thumping Alec in the chest with her weapon. “Go finish your beers elsewhere.”

  Alec stood, doffing his coonskin cap in an elaborate bow. “No harm done, darlin’. We’re just—”

  Zora clubbed him over the head, watching as his body slumped to the ground. “Don’t like anyone who calls me darling. Carry your friend out.”

  Dawsyn jumped up, reaching for her. “You—”

  Cyprian launched himself over the table, slamming him to the floor and shoving the blade of his dagger against his throat hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

  Zora grinned. “You’d best leave before he kills you, mister.”

  Zell cleared his throat, grabbing Alec’s arm. “C’mon, Dawsyn, let’s just go.”

  Cyprian stood, sheathing his dagger and watching as Dawsyn hurried up, dragging his large friend outside
.

  “Nasty characters, aren’t they.” Zora inspected her skillet before setting it down on the table.

  Cyprian stabbed his dagger into the table, glaring at his sandwiches. Why him? He’d done nothing wrong. He could understand Alec. Kyrnians and Elyndians had always been at it, according to Peter. An unspoken rule that the two races had to hate each other. But Dawsyn? Zell?

  Zora worked a hair free from her hoop earrings, tucking it back into her turban. “Ignore them. They’re just trying to get a reaction out of you. Now. You don’t normally come here, so what’s the reason?”

  He gave her a flat look. She knew why he came around.

  She grinned. “I do have something, actually. Sit down, ya look like you need something to eat.”

  Cyprian dropped into his chair, ripping his sandwich in half and taking a large bite.

  “I heard Ace Pariah is back in Gashir. You do know who he is, right?”

  Of course Cyprian knew who he was. Ace’s father had been a soldier who disobeyed King Corynth. After the king killed him, Ace turned traitor. Some argued he’d even become a bounty hunter, turning over soldiers and Shadows to enemy forces.

  Every Achian and Shadow knew who he was. And had orders to kill him. Why was Ace back in his hometown?

  Zora continued talking, but Cyprian only heard half of it, cramming in the last of his sandwiches as fast as he could. He had to get to Ace before the other Shadows heard of him. If there was anyone who could help King Torrin get King Corynth off the throne, it was Ace Pariah.

  ... He couldn’t just disappear again, though. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the scars from the whipping pull tight. Well, he’d just have to figure out a legitimate reason as to why he should go to Achia.

  Cyprian looked up from packing his clothes at the sound of footsteps. Too light to be Peter’s. Roscoe wasn’t here. Zora didn’t know where he lived.

  Who would be visiting him?

  He pulled out a dagger, silently moving to stand beside the door moments before whoever it was knocked.