The Ruin of Kings Read online

  He’d been impressed at first. Rather than the room where he’d originally woken, Lady Miya had taken him to the family’s private wing—the Hall of Princes where the High Lord, his sons, and direct heirs kept their quarters. Kihrin’s new suite of rooms was a palace in and of itself, an amazing confection of jeweled walls and plants that made the place resemble a garden as much as a living area. The centerpiece was a lavish bed crafted from the interlaced boughs of four living trees.

  Then Kihrin saw the trap.

  The ornate lattices covering the balcony openings were gilt-covered iron. The flowering vines hid nasty thorns. The main door locked from the outside as did the side door connecting his suite to whoever lived next door.

  Whoever had used these rooms before him had also been a prisoner.

  That’s when the enormity of Kihrin’s situation rolled down on him. Darzin could do anything. Darzin could kill him, maim him, sell him as a slave; all of it would be legal. Parents had absolute power over their children. Legally, Kihrin was Darzin’s child. Surdyeh couldn’t do anything about it because Surdyeh was dead. Ola? Ola was probably dead too.

  He couldn’t close his eyes without seeing Morea’s slashed throat, without hearing the sound of a demon’s laughter. He couldn’t sleep for the nightmares.

  A taste of pain to prepare him for the feast of suffering.

  Kihrin had jury-rigged a chair barricade and lain back on his bed to sulk. He had been there, still sulking, for several days.

  Yes, you were sulking. Don’t interrupt, Kihrin.

  As I was saying, when Lady Miya asked Kihrin to open the door for her, he refused, yelled at her, and assumed she would go away.

  A scraping noise made him look up. The chair unhooked itself from under the door handle and slid to the side, all without being touched. That same door then swung open, revealing Lady Miya, arms crossed over her chest, eyes full of fury. Kihrin sat up in bed, startled.

  “I should have realized when you healed me,” Kihrin said. “You’re a witch, aren’t you?”

  Lady Miya walked into the room and the door slammed shut behind her, again, without her touching it. “Do you know what a witch is?”

  Kihrin ground his teeth. “Of course I do. A witch is someone who isn’t licensed by one of the precious Royal Houses.”

  “And do you think I am not licensed by one of the Royal Houses?”

  Kihrin’s gaze hardened into something icy and unfriendly. He shrugged and laid his head back against a tree trunk, crossing an ankle over a knee. “I guess that makes you the one who taught him how to summon demons?”

  Lady Miya paused. “Excuse me? Taught who?”

  “Darzin.” Then Kihrin sniggered. “Humph. Darzin D’Mon dabbles with dastardly demons. There’s a dirty ditty in there somewhere.”

  The vané crossed over to him, her step angry. Miya frowned as she took in the dirty linens, the unchanged clothes. Kihrin hadn’t even bothered to replace the shirt that Darzin had ripped open to whip him over breakfast several days before.

  “Why do you believe he summoned a demon?”

  He tilted his head and stared at her. “Because I saw him do it. Well, okay, I didn’t see him do it, but I’m sure he did. He admitted as much. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t broken into the place where he’d summoned it.” Kihrin massaged his temples. “Taja! If I’d just gone away. It wasn’t any of my business anyway, and now . . .” He shook his head. “They’re dead. I can’t believe they’re dead.”

  Kihrin slid out of bed, angry and fast, launching himself away from her. “What do you care anyway? You don’t know me and you don’t give a damn about me. I’m just another D’Mon and you don’t serve this family by choice. Did my ‘father’ tell you to look in on me? My ‘grandfather’?”

  “No,” she said, her voice quiet. “Lyrilyn was my handmaiden.”

  Startled, Kihrin turned back.

  “Not originally,” Miya clarified. “Lyrilyn was one of the harem slaves of High Lord Pedron, a maniac who nearly destroyed this House. After Therin killed Pedron and became the new High Lord, he allowed me to pick whoever I wished to be my assistant. I chose Lyrilyn.”

  His throat felt like it was closing in on itself, but he choked out a question. “You knew my mother?”

  She sat down on the edge of the bed and motioned for him to join her. “There is so much . . .” She took a deep breath. “There is much I may not say. So much the gaesh will not allow me to communicate. I can tell you this: in all the time I knew Lyrilyn, she was never pregnant.”

  “What? Wait, but I thought—” Kihrin swallowed. He felt uneven, unsteady. It occurred to him it had been a long time since he’d eaten.

  “Darzin claims Lyrilyn was your mother, but you must not forget that Darzin will lie as suits his vast ambitions. He is not to be trusted.”

  “You don’t need to tell me.” Kihrin scowled. “You’re saying she wasn’t my mother? Then who was?”

  Miya started to say something and then shook her head. “I cannot say. And while I know such an answer is not one you wish to hear, it is also not a pressing worry. This demon-summoning matter is. Please, tell me of this fiend.”

  He wanted to shout. He wanted to demand answers. Instead he rubbed his arms and tried not to think about his rumbling stomach. That made him aware that he was wearing a shirt in rags. Fighting to keep from blushing, he walked over to the closet. “He said his name was Xaltorath.”

  “Ompher guide me,” Miya breathed. “That is no minor demon.”

  “It took Emperor Sandus to banish him,” Kihrin told her. He pulled out a shirt so ornately embroidered that it would have cost him all his profits from a year of burglaries. He put it back and pulled out another one, even worse. He suspected all the clothes would be the same, so he picked one at random and dressed himself. “But it was Darzin who summoned him. He was looking for something called the Stone of Shackles.”

  Silence.

  Kihrin turned back to face her. She sat there on the bed, staring at a wall, her expression unreadable.

  “Did I say something wrong?” he asked her.

  Miya looked at him with eyes the same blue as his, the same blue as Darzin’s, but she was vané and they were both human. Some magic must have made them that color, but he supposed that was true for the D’Mon family. God-touched eyes.

  “What is it?” Kihrin asked.

  “You wear the Stone of Shackles,” Miya said in a flat voice. “The gem you wear around your throat is the Stone of Shackles.”

  His hand went to the tsali stone around his neck. “What? How?”

  She looked down at her hands. “It’s my doing. I gave the necklace to Lyrilyn. She must have had enough presence of mind to give it to you.” She smiled sadly. “My sweet dove. Loyal to the end.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “If I’m wearing this stone that Darzin wants so badly, why didn’t he take it? I was stuck in bed for a week while Master Lorgrin healed my heart.”

  “The Stone of Shackles cannot be removed by anyone but its wearer. Darzin cannot steal it from you. By free will alone may it be given away. As I did to Lyrilyn, and, I must assume, Lyrilyn did to you. So she kept me that promise at least. She did protect you, even if she could not smuggle you to the Manol.” She closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment, as if expecting pain, then opened her eyes and exhaled.

  Kihrin felt like he was a child again, full of questions. “Why would she take me to the Manol Jungle? I’m not vané—” His voice died in his throat.

  Miya’s motherly attention wasn’t what gave her away, for Kihrin had grown up around Ola. He was used to that look from a woman who wasn’t his birth mother. Rather, it was Kihrin’s years spent in the Lower Circle, his years with the Shadowdancers, spent in the company of people who cared nothing for each other—unless there was profit in it for them. Even if Lyrilyn had been Miya’s closest friend, Kihrin didn’t believe the vané would give up so great a treasure on her handmaiden’s behalf. Butterbe
lly had offered fifteen thousand thrones for the necklace. Butterbelly, who wouldn’t have offered a fair price to Tavris himself if the god had wanted to fence a dragon’s hoard.

  No, he couldn’t believe Miya would do that for Lyrilyn’s newborn child.

  But for her own baby?

  She was so beautiful, so wild. So other from everything mundane and human. Yet if she were his mother, he would have inherited more than the blue eyes. That ombre blue hair seemed like a truer flag of allegiance. Blue eyes proved nothing. Everyone in House D’Mon had blue eyes, just like everyone in House D’Aramarin had green eyes.

  He couldn’t bring himself to ask: Are you my mother?

  Miya reached over and took his hand. “You are not full vané, but you have vané blood in your veins through your D’Mon lineage. You could claim sanctuary with our people.” She squeezed his hand. “Kihrin, what happened at the Shattered Veil Club was not your fault.”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued. “If Darzin summoned Xaltorath, it was but for one purpose: to divine your location. A demon of such power is strong enough to find someone hidden by magic, even someone hidden by a magic as strong as the Stone of Shackles. Whether you had stumbled upon Darzin by chance or fate, the result would have been the same; Xaltorath would track down what he was sent to hunt. I do not think Darzin would have had any desire or patience to keep your father alive so he might protest your removal. Darzin and Darzin alone shoulders this responsibility, not you.”

  “Darzin wasn’t looking for me though,” Kihrin said. “I surprised him. He hadn’t expected Xaltorath to attack me.”

  Miya smiled, a quirking at the corners of her mouth. “How refreshing. He is not yet omniscient. So the demon was ordered to find the stone itself. I wonder for what purpose Darzin could desire its possession.”

  “I don’t know. For nothing good.” So Darzin had been lying about everything. He hadn’t gone to the priests of Thaena to have Surdyeh Returned, he hadn’t given the Stone of Shackles to Lyrilyn, and Darzin probably hadn’t loved or even married Kihrin’s so-called “mother” at all.

  Miya leaned over and kissed him on top of his head. “Eat something, bathe, and come out of your room. The High Lord has assigned you tutors, and there are matters of etiquette you must learn.”

  Kihrin pulled his legs back under him. “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it—” He shuddered. “It would feel like letting that bastard win.”

  “Darzin?”

  “Yeah.” For a moment, he thought about telling Lady Miya about Dead Man too, but he decided it was best if he kept that secret a while longer. If he was right, and Dead Man was the High Lord, then he was her master anyway.

  “Listen,” Lady Miya told him. “Mourn for those you have lost. Hold them in your heart and never forget them. Trust none of us in this house of pain. But if you wish their deaths to have meaning, if you wish to one day have your revenge against Darzin, you must not sit here. You must take everything you have learned in the Lower Circle, in Velvet Town, and you must apply that skill to dealing with those around you and staying alive. Please. Believe me when I say neither your mother nor your father would wish you to throw your life away in grief.”

  “My father—” He looked away.

  “The musician who raised you. What other father matters?” She smiled. “What would he want you to do?”

  Kihrin scowled, but the scowl didn’t stay on his face. A moment later he wiped his eyes and smiled back at the vané woman. “You’re right, Lady Miya. I should do what Surdyeh would want.”

  “Shall I have the servants bring you dinner?” Lady Miya asked.

  “Absolutely,” he said, his expression determined.

  He would do what Surdyeh had wanted from the beginning: he would run and hide, the first chance he had.

  35: RED FLAGS

  (Kihrin’s story)

  Six months passed. The teacher Khaemezra had promised—

  What?

  Are you kidding? All the Black Brotherhood secrets I know and that’s what you pester me about?

  Fine. Yes, Kalindra and I became lovers. No, I won’t go into detail. You’re the one who’s absorbed a thousand minds, Talon. You should know how this works.

  As I was saying, after six months, the teacher Khaemezra had promised me still hadn’t materialized. I learned general weapons with Szzarus, and magic from Tyentso whenever she had free time. Her classes were short, not because she didn’t want to teach me but because I found myself incapable of learning. Despite my talent for invisibility or my ability to see past the First Veil, I proved inept at any other form of magic.* Tyentso blamed the Shadowdancers for leaving off my training after Mouse’s death, and cursed them enthusiastically at the end of every failed lesson.

  The molten mound of volcanic rock off the coast of Ynisthana became a cone-shaped island, growing a few feet every time the Old Man stopped by—which was often.

  I stayed away from the beach.

  Unable to excel at the magic I needed to escape, I threw myself into physical training. I worked myself to exhaustion during the day—and to a different sort of exhaustion with Kalindra during the night. Slowly, we unraveled the lingering effects of Xaltorath’s assault while the months chased after each other in rapid succession.

  Teraeth was right about one thing though: eventually, Kalindra left me.

  I remember the morning well. I was halfway up the side of Ynisthana’s volcano, a perfect cone of black basalt rising through the mists until it ended in a bowl-shaped caldera. We hadn’t yet left the tree line for the narrow trails up the side of the mount.

  There I was, sneaking up on Teraeth, feeling for the first time in months like I might get the drop on the man. He was good at stealth, but I was better. As I watched him prepare a trap for his fellow assassins using nothing but a few branches and jungle vines, I felt satisfied. I had a blackjack in one hand and I mentally chanted my spell of invisibility as I approached. He had no idea he was about to lose the contest.

  The Black Brotherhood often trained through contests and challenges, tasks set by Khaemezra or other leaders. Even though I never wasted an opportunity to remind them I wasn’t one of their initiates, they always invited me to take part. Our task that day was simplicity itself: reach the top of the volcano, steal the flag Kalindra had planted there, and bring it back to the temple.

  No other rules applied. If I liked, I could’ve waited for a student to reach the top first, ambushed them, and stolen the flag. Or, were I to reach the flag first, I might replace it with a duplicate. The intrigues were legion. Nearly anything was permitted.

  Thus, I snuck up on Teraeth, who I was sure would be my major competition. When I was so close to the man I smelled the scent of his skin, I swung up and around, letting the blackjack fall—

  Where it swung straight through the empty air of an illusion.

  “Hell.”

  But it was too late.

  While I had been ambushing Teraeth, he had been ambushing me.

  I turned my body to the side just as Teraeth’s foot swung through the space where my head had been a moment before. I felt indignant. Then the Stone of Shackles turned cold.

  Okay, so we weren’t playing.

  In theory, the Brotherhood wasn’t supposed to use lethal force on me. I wore the Stone of Shackles, which would cause unpleasant, if unclear, complications should anyone kill me. Easier said than done: Teraeth had a bad habit of forgetting to pull his punches.

  What can I say? I don’t think it was anything personal, just that Brotherhood members are trained to kill. Once you get that instinct into your system, it’s a hard thing to get back out again.

  I tried to grab his leg as it passed to throw him off balance, but he was too fast. He kept spinning and I barely understood what was happening before his other foot hit me across the face.

  I went down.

  I wasn’t out though. When he approached, I grabbed him by the shir
t, pulled him to the side, and punched his jaw.

  He tapped the side of my neck with the cold edge of his dagger.

  “Slow yourself,” he hissed, “and yield.”

  I looked down at the knife. It seemed sharp. I could take the poisoned edge as granted.

  I said, “If you’re going to slit my throat, get it over with.”

  Teraeth scoffed, but the way the stone’s temperature turned back to normal told me I’d reminded him that he was about to do something rash. He backed away from me, returning the knife to his belt. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.” He picked up a length of vine. “Would you rather be tied up or unconscious—”

  I was already running up the mountain trail.

  Behind me, I heard Teraeth’s laughter, then his footsteps, fast and close.

  The volcano itself was stark. I’d never learned its name, assuming it wasn’t called Ynisthana. There was a kind of beauty to that bleak rock, home to nothing but patches of moss and lichen, silhouetted against the teal sky. The scent of sulfur hung thick from wisps of smoke escaping the caldera. The rock underneath my feet shimmered with the suppressed heat of the fires below. The temperature grew warmer as I climbed until I was gasping for breath from more than exertion.

  I wished Tyentso had been able to teach me how to protect myself from fire.

  When I reached the summit, the red flag sat there in the open, pinned under a rock.

  Teraeth was right behind me. As soon as I reached the lip of the caldera, I jumped up onto the largest boulder in the area and slipped my invisibility back over me.

  “Damn it!” Teraeth’s hand slashed through the space where I had been a moment before. Then he stopped, casting his head to the side as he examined the ground.

  He was looking for any dislodged scree that would betray my position.

  I grinned. There was something so feral about Teraeth when he hunted. He reminded me of one of the island drakes, completely focused on his prey.

  Then I saw the ship.

  The volcano rose thousands of feet into the air, which meant that when standing on the summit it was possible to see a great distance on a clear day. That day was beautiful and balmy, making it easy to see the many islands that formed the chain of which Ynisthana was just one link.