Heart of the King (2 page)

So be it.

She turned abruptly and strode away, the gown flowing around her.

“So tell me, Therrador,” she said, her voice gone icy. “When will you be asking me to return your son?”

He didn’t answer at first and she looked back over her shoulder to see if he’d succumbed to the translucence of the gown, the curve of her buttocks. He hadn’t. Instead, he stared out the window at the courtyard beyond. She seethed at the slight but kept her anger buried within—it would serve her well on another occasion.

“I’ll ask for his return,” Therrador said, his voice quiet, his tone controlled, “when I’ve killed the bearer for you.”

Khirro splashed water on his face and cleansed the wounds left on his arm and leg by the jaws of the feral dogs. The cold water stung, but the bites weren’t deep, certainly not as bad as they might have been. The moment of the dogs’ attack had been the ideal time to work out how to control the fire contained within him.

Or did I?

He looked at the backs of his hands, at the water dripping from the tips of his fingers, before turning them over to trace the lines of his palms with his gaze. His eyes narrowed in concentration and he imagined flames engulfing his open hands. He thought of heat. He pictured fire burning and flickering.

Nothing happened.

How did I do it?

He thought of the times the flames had come and realized it only happened when danger threatened, and inconsistently then. Crouching by the edge of the stream with morning air drying the water on his skin, he felt no threat, no danger. Khirro sighed, put his hands on his knees and stood. The scabbard of the Mourning Sword banged against his leg and he put his hand on the hilt to steady it. Over the past months, there were times he’d been happy for taking the Shaman’s weapon but, at other times, it still felt awkward dangling at his side.

No matter how much time passes, no matter how many killings happen, I will never truly be a soldier.

He wiped his hands on his breeches and headed back through the brush to the lean-to he and Athryn built the night before to keep curious animals away and morning dew off themselves. As he walked, he thought of Shyn and, grudgingly, Ghaul.
They
were soldiers, real warriors, battle hardened and ready for a fight. Although Ghaul had turned out a traitor, the man knew the ways of steel. He’d have been a useful ally at a time like this. Too bad they were both gone, their bodies left rotting in the Necromancer’s underground hideaway.

Khirro shook his head at the thought and stepped over a fallen branch. His footstep crunched among drying leaves, the sound stirring him from his thoughts, and he halted straddling the limb. He listened. Had he heard another sound disguised by his own footstep?

A real soldier wouldn’t have made such a sound.

He pushed the admonition out of his mind and waited to see if the sound repeated or if he’d imagined it. Thirty seconds passed before he heard it again: the murmur of a man’s whispered voice.

Khirro’s hand returned to the hilt of the Mourning Sword, this time with neither thought of appreciation nor distaste. He loosened the blade in its scabbard and stepped the rest of the way over the limb, choosing his footing carefully among the scatter of leaves.

A second whispered voice added itself to the first. Khirro pulled his weapon free and increased his pace.

Athryn might be in danger.

If something happened to the magician, he didn’t know how he would complete the task given him when the Shaman died. Truthfully, without Athryn to prod him on, he wasn’t sure he’d bother continuing.

Khirro stopped at the edge of the clearing where they’d constructed the lean-to and peered through the wilted autumn foliage.

Athryn sat on the ground in front of the shelter, legs crossed and arms resting on his thighs, his face up-turned and eyes closed. Khirro scanned the area, straining to see through the brush, but saw no one else. He paused, breath held, as Athryn’s lips moved with a whispered rush of words Khirro didn’t understand. When he finished speaking, another voice answered.

Khirro shook his head, confused. His gaze flickered around the clearing until he saw a disturbance in the air a couple of yards from the magician, a shimmering he'd missed when he first looked.

Khirro squinted, trying to make out a shape, a form, but he saw no more substance to it than to that of a misty sigh breathed on winter’s chill. He stepped into the clearing, sword clenched in his tightened fist, though he didn’t know what good the weapon would do against vapor.

“Athryn?”

The magician jumped, startled by Khirro’s voice, and the disturbance in the air evaporated. Athryn looked at his companion, then back at the spot where the shimmering had been; his expression sagged with disappointment.

“Are you all right?”

The magician nodded and looked at the ground in front of him. Khirro stepped into the clearing, lowering his sword but not yet ready to put it away.

“What was that?”

Athryn looked up, met Khirro’s gaze. “Darestat.”

For a moment, Khirro thought he must have misheard. He’d seen Ghaul’s arrow pierce the Necromancer’s throat, watched the man turn to mist. Surely Athryn must have said something else and Khirro’s brain twisted it.

“The Necromancer?”

“Yes.”

“But how?”

Athryn had recovered from his disappointment and pushed himself up to stand. He brushed dirt and twigs off his breeches and straightened his tunic before answering.

“A magician as powerful as the Necromancer can never truly die, not unless he wishes it.”

“And he doesn’t wish it?”

Athryn shook his head. “Not yet. There is much for him to teach me.”

Khirro stared at his companion, watching him collect his gear. He moved as easily and gracefully as always, as though his words were no more unusual than if he’d wished his friend a good morning. With everything packed, Athryn pulled the silvered mask over his face.

“Teach you?”

The magician faced him and Khirro saw his face reflected in the mirrored mask. He hated the way its curved surface distorted his features when he looked at his friend, the way it lengthened and changed his face, transforming him into a silvered monster. After some of the things he’d done over the past months, he already felt enough like a monster, he didn’t want to look like one, too.

“A magician seeks knowledge wherever he can find it.”

“Even from a dead wizard?”

Athryn shrugged.

“Do you have to wear that mask?”

“Does it bother you?”

Khirro shifted from one foot to the other and, realizing he still held the Mourning Sword unnecessarily, he slid the weapon back into its scabbard. What did it say about him that he had found the ability to forget he held a sword in his hand?

“A little. Why do you still wear it?”

“Anonymity is a provocative habit.”

Khirro strode across the small clearing to where his backpack lay already packed and slung it over his shoulder.

“Who do you have to be anonymous from?”

“One never knows. We are in Kanos now.” Athryn took the mask off and stowed it under his cloak. “Better?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“Then we should be off.”

The magician grabbed a handful of boughs from their lean-to and distributed them around the area, tossing them on the ground and into the brush. Khirro helped, the two of them doing their best to hide evidence of their presence. When they finished, he surveyed the clearing; the lean-to was gone, but anyone with half an eye would see the beaten-down grass, the broken-off limbs. Even Khirro could tell they’d been there, but it would have to do.

He harbored no suspicion anyone followed them. The residents of Poltghasa likely wouldn’t bother with them, were probably happy to be rid of them after seeing the flaming tyger. The lack of pursuers was small consolation, however, considering they made their way through Kanos, the very country at war with Erechania.

Khirro swallowed hard and followed the magician out of the clearing. The day was cool and sunny, a good day for traveling. As they left the camp, Khirro peered back over his shoulder again. For a second, he thought he saw a shimmering in the air, a distortion as if something was at the edge of his vision but disappeared upon his notice. He blinked and checked again but saw nothing unusual.

“Magic,” he muttered and made his way into the brush and deeper into enemy territory.

Lehgan stared at Emeline sitting in the rocker. Her body ached to fidget under his gaze, but she didn’t let it; she didn’t even rock the chair to calm Iana wriggling in her arms.

“I don’t understand,” he said finally. “Winter is nearly upon us. This doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know it’s hard to understand, but we must do this.”

“Ridiculous.” He stood suddenly, his voice rising with the movement, and Emeline cowered against the back of the chair. Lehgan had never struck her, but she knew his temper could be fierce. “You want to risk our lives because of something you were told by a....a ghost?”

“She... it... I know it’s hard to understand but--”

“Hard to understand? Do you jest? You say a ghost visited our home, begged for your help. It’s not hard to understand, it’s unbelievable.”

“Lehgan, we have to--”

“We have to nothing,” he barked and clapped his hands together making Iana jump in Emeline’s arms. “We are staying here.”

Emeline rose from the rocking chair, her face set in a firm expression, her teeth clenched. She stared directly into her husband’s eyes without wavering.

“
I
am going to the Isthmus Fortress.
My
daughter is coming with me. Will you come and protect your family or stay here to keep the chickens fed and an empty house warm?”

Anger smoldered in his eyes and the muscles in his jaw flexed and released, flexed and released as he debated the issue with himself, but he must have recognized her determination because he kept his displeasure from passing his lips and perhaps saying words he’d later regret. A surge of love tingled her limbs but her expression remained firm.

“If you must go, I’ll go with you,” he said between clenched teeth. “But I don’t like it.”

Emeline crossed the floor to her husband, gazed up into his eyes and allowed her expression to show some of the appreciation and love she felt. It
was
a ridiculous request, it
didn’t
make any sense. She hardly believed she’d found the nerve to ask it of him, but as ridiculous as it seemed, she knew they had to go. She laid her free hand on his chest as she bounced their baby in the other arm.

“He’s your brother. He needs our help.”

“Hmph.”

Khirro and Lehgan had never been close, so perhaps it wasn’t the best way to convince him.

“We owe him, Lehgan, after what we did.”

“We did what we had to.”

“Yes, we did. But at his expense.”

He turned away and her hand fell back to her side. Lehgan went to the mantle, gazed into the fire. Even looking at his back, she saw the struggle going on inside him at her request.

“I don’t do this for him,” he said after a pause. “I do it for you.”

She wanted to go to him again, to show her gratitude with her touch, but stopped herself, knowing he would pull away. In a while he would return to himself, once his begrudging nature subsided. She would settle for words for the moment.

“Thank you, Lehgan. You are a good husband.”

He continued staring into the flames.

***

Iana looked up at her mother, the sling holding her against Emeline’s bosom covering all but her eyes and nose. Carrying the baby against her chest would help keep both of them warm during their ride to the fortress. Lehgan said it would take fourteen days’ ride, perhaps more, and they had spent a day and a half readying food and other necessary supplies, making arrangements on the farm. He led the way on the big bay he used for hunting, the pack mule tethered to his saddle; Emeline rode a few paces behind on the palomino she favored.

Bouncing gently in the saddle with Iana nestled against her, she looked back at their home. A curl of smoke snaked out of the chimney and her mother stood in the doorway watching them leave, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Against her better judgment and contrary to her husband’s wishes, Emeline’s mother had reluctantly agreed to tend the house in their absence, although her daughter failed to give a reason good enough to explain their leaving. Emeline raised a hand and waved good-bye. Her mother returned the gesture without smiling and disappeared into the house, shutting the door behind her before ten paces of earth passed beneath the horses’ hooves.

Emeline settled into the saddle for the long ride ahead while Iana cooed and blew bubbles, soothed by the gait of the horse. Emeline looked down at her and smiled, but the baby made her think of Khirro and the reason behind their trek to the Isthmus Fortress and her smile faded. All these past months, she’d given little thought to Khirro and what had come to pass. Justifying what they’d done had become easier once the conscriptors took him, and easier for her to argue to herself the importance of a child having both her parents, but what would she say when they stood face-to-face? Their actions resulted in Khirro being sent off to war and, according to the ghostly woman, much more. How could she explain that away and make things right?

The mare she rode snorted and shook its head. Emeline looked up from her thoughts at her husband’s back. She didn’t need to wonder how he felt about the whole affair; he and Khirro had never gotten along. In fact, she sometimes found herself wondering if Lehgan might have orchestrated everything—their  relationship, Iana, Khirro’s banishment—simply  to get his brother out of his life.

No, he’s not like that.

Lehgan had barely said a word since agreeing to her request, choosing instead to answer her
enquiries
with grunts and gestures. She understood why he acted this way, understood his reticence at undertaking a trip he didn’t understand, but hoped he’d come out of it soon. She needed him. The idea of facing this alone, admitting the truth she’d tried so hard to avoid, felt overwhelming. She role-played scenarios in her head, envisioning what Khirro’s face would look like when she told him what he may already suspect. She imagined how it would make him feel, how it would make her feel. She didn’t want to hurt him, had never really wanted to.