For the Killing of Kings Page 5

  But then neither was Commander Denaven, nor one or two other Altenerai she felt certain were still in the city.

  Her friend Elik, sitting saddle beside her, suddenly let out a low oath, his voice ringing with disbelief. “I think that’s Kyrkenall.”

  Elenai turned in her saddle to follow his gaze as another horseman rode out of the stables on a beautiful bay dun mare with white blaze and feet.

  So far as she knew, Alten Kyrkenall hadn’t visited Darassus for seven years. Yet there was no mistaking him, even from a distance—she’d glimpsed him in Vedessus, and studied a half-dozen statues and paintings that featured him, or showed the archer in a supporting role.

  Those artists had depicted him with incredible accuracy. If anything, they’d downplayed his appearance, for apart from those disturbing obsidian eyes Kyrkenall was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, with flawlessly smooth almond skin and wavy neck-length hair so lustrous and dark it looked liquid. As he passed Elenai and Elik, he must have felt their scrutiny, for his gaze briefly brushed their own. It didn’t linger, and Elenai sensed that he, too, was searching for someone.

  As the Altenerai glimpsed him, they erupted in glad cries of surprise.

  “That’s something you don’t see every day,” Elik observed.

  “I wonder how long he’s planning to stay?”

  “It’d be wonderful to meet him, wouldn’t it?” Elik asked. His broad face was lit in a boyish grin.

  Elenai nodded agreement. Kyrkenall had been N’lahr’s greatest friend. According to popular gossip, the general’s death had so shattered him he’d wandered into seclusion, popping up only occasionally to right some wrong in a remote land before vanishing once more. Some said he’d gone half-wild.

  Elik must have been thinking along the same lines. “He doesn’t look like a madman, does he?”

  “No. Do you see Asrahn anywhere?”

  Elik grunted and looked back down the line toward the lower ranked. “Now that you mention it, no. It’s not like him to be late.”

  “Probably inspecting someone’s horse back at the stable,” Squire Sansyra offered behind them.

  Elenai rose in her saddle, looking not to the low-slung stables behind, but up toward the imposing façade of the palace on their right. It dominated the surrounding buildings and gardens, a four-story expanse of white stone with casements and doors ringed by decorative carvings and a roofline ornamented with scrollwork. Could Asrahn be inside, in conversation with the queen? His devotion to the corps and long years of experience had long since made him the acknowledged expert on all matters of tradition and decorum related to the Altenerai. Was this delay connected to whatever duty kept him from checking on her last night?

  “Looking for something, Squire?”

  At the amused question, Elenai started and sank quickly back to her saddle as Alten Rylin came alongside upon his tall, coal-black horse. One of the newest ranked, he was dark haired and rakishly handsome. He casually returned Elenai’s salute, smiled, met her eyes as if they shared some tender secret, then continued on for the rest of the officers. She discovered herself blushing, though she wasn’t entirely certain why.

  Sansyra muttered something about him. Elenai didn’t quite catch it, but from the tone the words weren’t complimentary.

  “What’s wrong with Alten Rylin?” Elik asked. He turned in the saddle to address their fellow fifth ranker. Elenai knew that the young alten was one of Elik’s idols.

  The square-chinned brunette behind them frowned. “He’s never met a pair of breasts he didn’t love.”

  That hardly seemed fair. Rylin was the most kind of the young Altenerai, always patient when teaching the lower ranks. “He’s always been nice to me,” Elenai said.

  Sansyra scoffed. “That’s because he wants to sleep with you.”

  Elenai was about to counter when Elik snapped a warning. “Look steady.”

  She sat back in her saddle just in time. Denaven trotted past on his horse, hand to chest in acknowledgment of the salutes given by the squires. On any other day he might have had a sharp word for someone craning a neck like a sightseer, but he said nothing to Elenai. His attention was clearly focused inward, his expression serious. As soon as he joined, the Altenerai left with him, presumably to take their position before the queen’s carriage, parked by the grand front entrance around the corner of the palace.

  Only a short while later the column advanced into the public streets, so the queen and Asrahn must have taken their positions out of sight. From her previous parade and their long rehearsal yesterday, Elenai knew the order of the participants. After heralds and banner bearers, the veteran foot soldiers of the Second Battle of Kanesh would precede the mounted Altenerai—most of whom had served in some capacity during the battle, some as squires. Then came the queen’s carriage and attendant governors. Because the sixth rankers were all posted to border realms, the fine coaches were followed by Elenai and Elik and four other fifth rankers on horseback in uniform rows, then dozens from the fourth and third rank; the second ranked had been allotted sentry duty for all but the most important posts. After them came several score of the famed riders of Kanesh, the greatest cavalry unit in the realms, resplendent in their long gray coats, tasseled hats, and shining horse tack. Their nominal commander had long been Alten Enada, but she, like Kyrkenall, seldom traveled to Darassus. Certainly she didn’t seem to be in attendance today.

  A regiment of colorfully outfitted musicians brought up the rear. However, the noise of the crowds and clop of horse hooves masked almost every sound reaching Elenai beyond the rattle of drums and the occasional trumpet fanfare or shrill fife stab.

  This was Elenai’s third year riding in the parade, and it seemed the crowds had grown. Even if the directive to sit straight, eyes front, kept her from watching them, she could see that folk were piled four to eight deep along the boulevards, cheering and waving. Merchants moved among them hawking banners with the victorious Kaneshi regiment numbers, or Altenerai symbols, or artful drawings of N’lahr’s face. All of these were held up and shaken by their purchasers, or draped from second- and third-floor balconies alongside homemade works.

  The parade route passed first along the wide avenues of the central districts below the gilded domes of the marble temples to the four great Gods, then on across the old central bridge over the river Idris and into the city surround. If anything, the crowds here were larger, and Elenai’s nostrils gathered in the scent of roasting meats and spiced nuts and ales. The drumbeats and hoof clatter echoed off the closer press of buildings. From the glazed look of numerous citizens it was clear some celebrations had begun even before the parade.

  The veterans stood aside to salute the queen in ordered rows at the city outskirts. The musicians remained behind as well, so that the procession that rode into the hills to the western plateau was diminished by three-quarters. Climbing the packed earth switchback up Cemetery Ridge finally gave her a good view of the queen’s carriage, decked out in crimson flowers, before the whole procession stopped along the outskirts of the vast city of the dead, the most honored of whom were entombed closest to the plateau’s edge. Row upon row of small buildings fashioned of marble and stone stretched into the distance, many depicting their occupants in friezes as they had appeared in life, though by tradition no figures were shown carrying arms—they were at peace, now.

  Elenai saw the queen emerge from her carriage as a space opened up between the Altenerai. She was a slim figure in gray, her face hidden by a plumed sunbonnet. Last year the queen had personally carried the tray of fruits to set before N’lahr’s tomb; this time she merely looked on with a group of dignitaries, head bowed, while a servant performed the duty.

  Elenai recalled with an uncomfortable jolt that last year Asrahn had stood to one side of the tomb, nearest the grim image carved in stone who had first been his pupil, then friend and commander. He hadn’t said or done anything special, but Asrahn’s absence today was not unnoticed. Though the squires arou
nd her maintained their disciplined posture, the horses beneath them shifted more restlessly, sensing their riders’ unease. Aron actually tossed his head and snorted before Elenai could still him.

  This year Asrahn’s place was taken by Commander Denaven, who faced the assembled Altenerai. He was saying something in a low, sonorous voice. From the grand sweeping gestures it looked as though what he told them must be very important, although between the stiff wind rustling foliage and the snuffling of horses Elenai caught only an occasional word.

  A knot of Altenerai was completely ignoring him, she realized, speaking in hushed conversation on horseback. Elenai watched intently, guessing their serious break in etiquette was kin to her own unease, and she couldn’t shake the impression that lantern-jawed Alten Varama pointed specifically at her. Others turning with her gesture included hulking Decrin and Kyrkenall, who kept scanning her with his strange black eyes even after the others turned back.

  He’s not really looking at me, she convinced herself, and continued to think it even as Kyrkenall turned his mare away from his comrades and trotted through the scrubby grass toward her. Kyrkenall really was looking at her. What could he want? His expression was purposeful, almost menacing.

  As he drew up, she saw the hilt of a slim sword hung at his waist and knew that this was Lothrun, as famous in song as the black horn bow, Arzhun, holstered at his side. He halted and raised one light brown hand. “Squire.”

  “Hail, Alten.” She kept her voice low so as not to disrupt Denaven’s speech.

  Kyrkenall kept his voice soft as well. “Have you spoken with Asrahn this morning?”

  “No, Alten.” Did this mean that the Altenerai didn’t know where he was, either?

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday evening, sir. About six bells.”

  “Where?”

  “Just outside the Hall of Remembrance.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  She hesitated only a moment. Asrahn had wanted discretion, but Kyrkenall was asking her a direct question. “He told me to care for Irion.”

  On the verge of her vision she saw Elik’s eyes widen, but she didn’t look away from Kyrkenall.

  The archer studied her for a moment more. His eyes, like black cutouts, shifted to the squires nearest her. “Have any of the rest of you seen him since?”

  There was a chorus of low, respectful noes.

  Elik addressed him tentatively. “Alten, what’s happened?”

  “Nothing good,” Kyrkenall said curtly. “Squire Elenai, ride with me.”

  Elenai was sufficiently surprised by the order that she didn’t obey until Kyrkenall had ridden away from the group.

  Her prior orders were clear—she was one of the squires assigned to the parade. Yet Kyrkenall was her superior, and he had told her to leave formation. And he seemed worried about Alten Asrahn. In the end, that’s what set her after him rather than asking for clarification.

  She glanced back at Elik, who looked as confused as she felt, then looked farther back to the knot of Altenerai. She found Rylin and Varama returning her gaze. Worse, the queen herself had turned her head. Elenai was too far from her to read her expression, but she saw bright green eyes before the woman returned her attention to Denaven.

  Had the queen, too, been watching her? Or had she imagined that? She gulped, then self-consciously followed the legendary alten away from the parade route, hoping the sound of their exit didn’t detract from the ceremony she could faintly hear continuing behind them. Once they started down the road to the city, Kyrkenall urged his horse into a gallop, and she was hard-pressed to keep pace.

  Upon reaching Darassus, Kyrkenall’s voice was like a savage whip. He shouted for festivalgoers to clear the street, and they scrambled aside, some alarmed and some outraged, while he and Elenai thundered past. More than once he came within a handspan of injuring someone.

  Either Kyrkenall really was half mad, or he was sincerely worried about Alten Asrahn. Elenai wasn’t sure how he expected her to help, but she felt beyond foolish for not considering the Squire Master might be in some sort of trouble. She knew he was old, but he always seemed so … eternal.

  Kyrkenall sped past the startled second-ranked squires at the gate, who belatedly saluted, then led her around the stable and the training yards and on to the Altenerai wing of the palace. There he grabbed his bow, swung down from his mare, and trotted effortlessly up the dozen wide steps to the portico. Elenai was fairly certain Aron, damp and puffing, would stay if ordered, as Kyrkenall’s mount had done, though she would have liked to tether him properly.

  She ran to catch up to the archer. A single squire, his rank clear from his two shoulder brevets, stood sentry beside one of the fluted pillars holding up the portico. Elenai paused to exchange salutes with him before hurrying through the heavy wooden door through which Kyrkenall had already vanished.

  He moved fast. The alten was already beyond the lobby and the stairwell. Elenai finally reached him and matched him stride for stride but a step behind, noting she was half a head taller.

  Despite asking for her company, the archer seemed disinclined to speak, or even to acknowledge her presence. So she left off looking at the back of his head and considered instead the banners and paintings hung along the Great Hall between the closed doors to storage and meeting rooms. Kyrkenall ignored them, even a brilliant one of himself laughing and lifting his sword in a snowy forest clearing as he faced a trio of Naor in bronze helms and red capes. One of the famed ko’aye was lowering on leathery wings to plunge talons into a Naor. She supposed she could ask him, today, what she’d always wondered, and find out if that ko’aye was the one he’d ridden into battle.

  The click of their bootheels was magnified on the venerable granite floor.

  Just when she thought he’d all but forgotten her presence, Kyrkenall suddenly spread his arms and turned dramatically. “Look at all these vaunted weapons of the dedicated dead! There’s the broken spear of T’var. He was just as broken, after the battle. Maybe Lothrun and Arzhun will hang here someday soon, eh?”

  Elenai had no idea what the alten intended. She simply returned his look.

  Kyrkenall laughed mirthlessly, a chilling sound that echoed off the surrounding hard surfaces. “In fact, the only object that belongs to a living person on these walls is that shield there. It’s not even the one Decrin had riven at Kanesh. Did you know that? The real one was so smashed it would have looked like crap on display, so he took an axe to a new one. Looks pretty good, don’t you think?”

  There was a mad, manic quality to Kyrkenall’s delivery; Elenai could feel the rage swirling about him, as one feels a storm rising in the air. She didn’t even look toward the splintered round metal shield the archer had indicated, wondering if she herself might be in danger.

  He pivoted and walked to the glass display case where Irion hung vertically. N’lahr’s sword was a magnificent weapon, four feet long and gleaming. The sapphire set into the pommel sparkled, the new leathers so well-oiled and crisp they practically glistened.

  Kyrkenall halted before the case, and she wondered if he’d brought her here to ask about her work. No. That was preposterous. Shouldn’t they be looking for Alten Asrahn?

  “Now.” Kyrkenall’s voice was sharp. “Did Asrahn say anything more to you, yesterday, about Irion? Anything apart from care instructions?”

  Why was there so much attention being paid to the sword? It no longer made any sense that it was her actions that had brought that scrutiny. Something had to have been wrong when Asrahn handled it. “He didn’t say anything more about it, sir. But he looked troubled.”

  “What do you mean?”

  An image came to her, unbidden, of Asrahn working through the stances, smooth, precise, and more flowing than when demonstrating on the practice field. She had carefully watched his transitions through the middle stances. “He opened the case and then tried out the seventh form with Irion. Falling Water.”

  “I know
the name of the seventh form,” he snapped.

  “Yes, sir.” Kyrkenall’s tense manner had frayed her nerves. Normally she wouldn’t have prattled.

  “Did he say anything after?”

  “No, sir. I could tell something was troubling him, though.” Elenai remembered wondering if Asrahn’s leg were giving him more difficulty than he wanted to let on.

  “Did you ask him why?”

  “No, sir. It didn’t seem my place.” A squire simply didn’t question the actions or instructions of Alten Asrahn. Not out of fear, but respect, for the old warrior was the very soul of correctness.

  Kyrkenall rubbed his face and considered the case again. Elenai hunted for the courage to ask him what he thought was wrong.

  “I don’t suppose you have the key?” he asked.

  “No, Alten. Mistress Sareel has it. If you want, I can go get it.”

  “No. Hold this.”

  Without preamble she found herself gripping Arzhun. Despite her nervousness, despite her bewilderment, she had room yet to marvel. Yesterday she, Elenai, had held the most famous sword in Altenerai annals, and today she held the most famous bow! The weapon was different from Irion in every way. It wasn’t just that it was dark and curved rather than shining and straight. Instead of the sword’s striking simplicity, intricately detailed figures were incised into every visible inch of the black horn. They fought with sword and shield or hunted or rode mounts with streaming manes and proud tails. The lines were bold, sweeping: the weapon was an artistic masterpiece even more beautiful than described in song.

  Her examination was interrupted by the sound of smashing glass.

  She looked up to find Kyrkenall bashing Irion’s case with his knife hilt a second and third time as sharp-toothed triangles rained down amid glittering smaller shards. They struck the blue granite on the floor, splintering further, the sound disproportionately loud, as if the case indignantly cried out for retribution.

  Kyrkenall sheathed his knife and stuck his arm past one fang of glass still securely wedged to the frame. He grabbed Irion’s hilt.