For the Killing of Kings Page 6

  He must be deranged! Destroying the case was practically a desecration.

  Kyrkenall pulled the sword free, then crunched through the broken remnants as he moved to the north wall and the double doors that led to the Hall of Remembrance. For a moment she thought he meant to enter there, but he stopped several feet shy and lifted the weapon into a slanting sunbeam. His ring of office glittered as he shifted the blade to left and right, studying it.

  What was he seeing? Was there some obvious defect she’d missed while working on the weapon last night?

  Kyrkenall lowered the sword precisely and advanced into the seventh sword form. The very form that still gave her trouble.

  He moved with a careless speed that should have seemed sloppy. It wasn’t. Asrahn had promised there was a point with weapons forms when you moved beyond conscious consideration of the movements. And then he had lapsed into a brief, rare moment of reverie to describe Renik and N’lahr in action.

  But he hadn’t mentioned Kyrkenall, one of the finest swordsmen she’d ever seen. He spun, parried, sidestepped, advanced, blocked, dropped, thrust, with astonishing precision. Even the awkward middle stances seemed somehow natural when Kyrkenall swept through them. It looked less the practiced individual movements she saw in the steps of the younger Altenerai and more a spontaneous and violent dance of deadly purpose.

  Elenai had never seen sword work of the like. How was he doing it? She doubted he’d say. And she had a strong sense that he wouldn’t be around very long to ask, that he might depart Darassus again at any moment. She had to know how he managed it.

  Hesitating only a moment more, Elenai centered herself, closed her eyes, and linked her will to the interconnected threads of the world around her. When she opened them she no longer saw the usual visual details of Kyrkenall and the hall, she saw their outlines and their internal energy matrices. The structures of old weapons upon the wall radiated fading glamours. Brighter by far was Kyrkenall’s life force, shining even through his clothing, especially brilliant wherever there was exposed skin. He seemed a moving man-shape of intersecting lines fashioned of golden light.

  His ring shone, too, though with a blue tint, and whenever he turned she glimpsed a luster even through his sword sheath, where Lothrun rested. Irion radiated a similar glow, though surprisingly it didn’t seem as strong as that originating from the burning bow within her hands.

  If she wanted to learn anything from him she’d have to move fast. He was nearing the end of the martial form. Elenai shaped desire into thought. In the real world her sorcery would have been invisible. Through magical sight the thread of her desire slung out like a spiderweb in the wind until it linked to the edge of the man-shaped frame that was Kyrkenall.

  Temporarily linked, she reached for his mind. Reading surface thoughts required a deft touch. She didn’t mean to pry, but observe, and congratulated herself on achieving a careful peek without alerting him.

  As she considered the images floating at the height of his consciousness she expected to find some kind of mantra, or meditative exercise, or advanced state of focus. But he wasn’t thinking about his actions at all. He was awash in memory, and she saw and felt what he experienced. She realized with a start that the broad-shouldered man in the muddy uniform walking in the mist beside her was Asrahn. He looked so much younger! She heard herself (or was it Kyrkenall?) cry out a warning and Asrahn ducked the blow of a monstrous armored Naor clansman, charging from the fog, then delivered a swift and deadly undercut between his protective plates.

  Her weaving abruptly severed without her command. Startled, her attention returned to the real world, and to Kyrkenall, pointing that terrible sharp sword at her chest. His voice was disturbingly low and calm.

  “Are you bewitching me, Squire?”

  3

  The Tower in the Snow

  At her stunned silence, his lips twisted in a snarl that emphasized his large eyeteeth. “Are you trying to maze me?”

  “No, sir!”

  His voice was menacingly soft. “You were in my thoughts.”

  “I wasn’t trying to attack you. I swear, Alten.” She couldn’t take her eyes from the sword point. “I, I just … wanted to see how you worked that sword form.” Spoken aloud, her reasons sounded incredibly foolish. She almost didn’t believe them herself.

  Kyrkenall’s rages were a matter of record. He’d never attacked one of his own, as far as she knew, but maybe none of them had ever done something so idiotic.

  She met his eyes, determined to accept what she had brought upon herself.

  At last, scowling, Kyrkenall lowered Irion. Elenai was too mortified to feel much relief. How could she have been so stupid?

  Kyrkenall stared at her with those eerie, pupilless eyes. His voice was brittle with anger. “Asrahn singled you out, Squire. That meant he thought you had promise. That he felt you were honorable. Does an honorable person weave someone without their permission?” He spoke as if to a child.

  Of course they didn’t. “No. No, sir.”

  “I might have killed you,” he said slowly. His eyes were black embers. “Only an enemy steals thoughts.”

  “I’m sorry.” And she truly was. She fought the tears that threatened to further humiliate her.

  He sighed in disgust. “It’s a good thing you’re so inept.”

  She winced a little at that, for she’d been proud of her spell work mere moments before.

  “It makes me fairly sure you’re telling the truth,” he muttered. “No veteran weaver would get her identity muddled with her subject.”

  She felt a flush creep over her cheeks. Of course. He’d seen her thoughts while she focused on his.

  Kyrkenall strode away and thrust the sword roughly into the cabinet. There was a solid thunk as he slammed it against the wall above the support pegs—hardly the sort of behavior one should evidence toward a weapon so revered. Desperate to change the topic, she dared to mouth a question. “Is there something wrong with Irion, Alten?”

  His answer was sharp. “It’s a fine blade.” He extended a hand. “My bow, if you please.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry.” She hurried over to pass it on.

  Kyrkenall took back the magnificent weapon, frowning. “I hope this was instructive to you. In more than one way. Pass on my apologies to Sareel about the glass. Tell her … oh, I don’t care. She thinks I’m crazy anyway.”

  He turned halfway down the corridor. “If anyone wants to find me, tell them I’ll be at N’lahr’s.”

  “Sir?”

  He paused, speaking more slowly. “His tomb, Squire. I’ll be at his tomb. I didn’t make it back to raise a goblet on his birthday.”

  As he started down the hall, Elenai suddenly knew she’d never see him again. He’d wandered into her life like a storm and would blow out and away into the wilds.

  She remained beside the broken case, ashamed that she should conduct herself so poorly during the moment it mattered most. The tears that threatened earlier flowed freely now. She didn’t know what she should do. Shame rooted her to inaction.

  Probably parade participants were on their way back to the city by now. What would she tell the others about her wholly conspicuous departure from the ranks? What should she do about this mess?

  It took her longer than she’d have liked to compose herself and track down an exasperated Sareel to report that Irion’s case was broken. Judging by the caretaker’s outrage at viewing the damage, Elenai dully assumed ill consequences would follow before day’s end. She supposed she deserved whatever befell, as roundabout retribution. By the time she led Aron back to the stable and groomed him, she saw the rest of the Altenerai and squires returning with their mounts.

  She wasn’t in the mood to see any of them, not even Elik, so she quickly finished up, took the long way around the stables, and retreated up the back stairs to her quarters.

  When she opened the door to her room, she was startled to find two visitors already within. The stranger at her window was a slim blo
nd woman in a khalat with red piping—Mage Auxiliary. Alten Cargen sat in profile on her mattress rubbing the fringe of beard on his chin. He was another of the five newest Altenerai, promoted under Commander Denaven after the war. She didn’t remember seeing him in the parade.

  With all else that had happened, she had completely forgotten the commander was sending a magical tutor to speak with her. “Why now?” she groaned inwardly, but nonetheless saluted Cargen and the woman both, because she assumed a tutor worthy of such respect and she wasn’t certain of protocol. She hoped her eyes weren’t noticably red but resisted the urge to lower them.

  “Forgive us, Squire,” the woman said kindly. “We didn’t wish to wait in the hallway.” The woman had strong, even features, with a slim nose and bright blue eyes. Something about her was familiar. “I’m Exalt M’lahna,” she said. “I believe you know my sister, Alten Gyldara.”

  “Oh, yes. Of course. It’s an honor,” she managed, struggling a little with this soft-spoken woman’s resemblance to their blunt, open alten. The straight nose and full lips were somehow less striking upon M’lahna, as though the sculptor who’d shaped them both had stretched those features too far upon the mage. Elenai smiled to disguise her discomfort. “Would you like me to fetch you some water? I’m afraid mine isn’t that fresh.” She’d drawn it from the well yesterday evening.

  “How thoughtful,” Cargen said, though he didn’t sound as if he meant it. He sat stiffly, partly turned away from her. “This isn’t a social visit, though. We need to ask you some important questions. Please, close the door behind you.”

  “Forgive Cargen’s manner.” M’lahna’s voice was soothing. “He’s been in a foul mood since he looked the wrong way sparring yesterday evening.”

  He frowned. A fresh bruise discolored his right cheek.

  Disconcerted, Elenai reached behind her to shut the door. The space was awkwardly close.

  “I’m sorry to bother you on such short notice,” M’lahna continued, “and to intrude upon your room. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you before I start your tutoring, and then this sad matter turned up. One of the other squires told us he thought you were already back, so we waited.”

  Sad matter? “It’s fine.” Elenai hoped she didn’t sound as troubled as she felt. “Commander Denaven said you wished to speak with me. I’d thought it would be later this afternoon, or I’d be better prepared.”

  “We’ve had to accelerate our plans,” Cargen said sardonically. His companion gave him a dark look, and he fell silent.

  “We hope only to take a little of your time,” the exalt said. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

  There was no place to perch apart from the bunk and the chest at its foot, so she stood at the door. She tried to make a joke of it. “I’m afraid I don’t have much furniture.”

  “Your commander speaks well of you,” M’lahna said, ignoring the levity. “And he said that you were honored yesterday, by Asrahn.”

  “Yes.” Elenai was pretty sure at the moment that she was unworthy of Asrahn’s regard, or she wouldn’t have bungled things so humiliatingly with Kyrkenall.

  “He took you with him to see Irion,” Cargen broke in blandly. For a panicked heartbeat, Elenai thought the Master of Squires must have heard of her conduct and conveyed his disappointment, but that didn’t quite seem right. “Did he say anything to you yesterday that was particularly memorable?”

  Again with the questioning about her interaction with Asrahn and the sword. There was something important here that she didn’t really grasp. “No, not really. Alten Asrahn isn’t very talkative.”

  “Wasn’t,” Cargen corrected.

  Wait. Why was he speaking of Alten Asrahn in the past tense? “Your pardon?” Elenai asked.

  The alten looked at her as though she were stupid. “He’s dead.”

  “What?” The question leapt from her mouth, bereft of both decorum and wit.

  “He was found in the river right after the parade got under way. How could you not hear?” Cargen sounded personally affronted by her ignorance.

  Elenai felt the blood drain from her face. Kyrkenall’s odd behavior, the questions, the memory of Asrahn … Kyrkenall had known. How?

  “I’m sorry,” M’lahna said. “We thought you knew. I thought word had been sent to the ridge.”

  Elenai steadied herself against the wall. She and Kyrkenall must have left before the messenger arrived. “He’s dead? You mean he drowned?”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Cargen answered readily.

  The enormity of the news proved elusive, as though she were trying to clutch a fish in a dark stream. Alten Asrahn, dead! She’d worried about his absence, but realized she’d only imagined temporary troubles—secret state business, urgent personal burden, or at worst a temporary illness. Not gone forever. Asrahn was central to the primary purpose of her life, to the defense of the five realms. It was impossible to envision drills on the practice field without him there, in the sun, spear straight, calling instructions, setting them in motion, scrutinizing, correcting. Forming them into the finest warriors in all the realms, setting them well-prepared against kobalin and Naor and monstrosities dredged up from the Shifting Lands since before she was born. In a very real way he had built the Altenerai Corps, at least in its present form. He was the corps. How could it endure without him? “When? And how did it happen?”

  “We’re not certain,” M’lahna went on. “Right now we’re trying to talk to the people who last saw him alive.”

  “And you’re one of them,” Alten Cargen finished.

  “He was fine when I saw him.” Elenai found herself hoping this was some dreadful mistake, and knowing it wasn’t. “We weren’t anywhere near the river.” Her voice failed her. She reached up to brush her cheek, where she found new tears. “Forgive me.” Damn.

  “Your grief honors him,” the woman said. “I hope you don’t think it too obtrusive if I look at your memories about your last encounter with the alten?”

  That was a troubling thought. “Why do you need to do that?”

  “I want to see if there’s something you might have missed in your last interaction.”

  “I suppose so.” Elenai couldn’t think of what that might be, but she was ready to assist the investigation in any way possible. Maybe they’d find something that would make sense of all this.

  “I want you to relax, and I’ll ask questions. You just close your eyes and picture what happened as I talk to you.”

  Elenai did as she was bade, pretending that she felt no discomfort, and as M’lahna spoke with her about Asrahn and what he’d said the day before, she relived the moments in her mind.

  After a little while, as she was recalling Asrahn’s inspections of the sword, M’lahna interrupted.

  “Did I see a memory of someone else using Irion?”

  “That was probably Alten Kyrkenall.” Elenai opened her eyes. “He took out the sword himself today.”

  Cargen’s head lifted.

  M’lahna’s gaze was suddenly intent, and her magical focus came across as a kind of spiritual pressure. “What did he say?”

  Elenai hesitated, but at the exalt’s sympathetic look she relented. “I upset him. He was trying out the sword, like Alten Asrahn had done, and I wanted to see how he performed the weapon form so well. I tried to observe his thoughts,” she admitted, shamefaced. “And he noticed.”

  They didn’t seem at all troubled about her humiliating breach. “Go on,” M’lahna urged. “Close your eyes again and tell me what you saw.”

  “Mostly Kyrkenall fighting beside Asrahn, in the past.” She imagined M’lahna peering at the same images that rose to her as she spoke, but the sorceress was so skilled she didn’t detect any sense of her. “I didn’t learn anything at all about the sword form,” she finished.

  “What happened then?”

  Was that a note of irritation in M’lahna’s voice?

  “He schooled me in manners. I wouldn’t have weaved him wi
thout leave, normally; I was just curious.” Elenai instantly regretted adding the unnecessary justification.

  “But did he say anything else about the sword, or Asrahn?” Cargen sounded testy.

  “I asked him if there was something wrong with the sword, and he said no.”

  M’lahna tried a final time. “You’re sure Kyrkenall didn’t say anything else, about Asrahn and the sword?”

  “Well, he asked me what Alten Asrahn had said to me, yesterday. Like you.” Elenai opened her eyes.

  The exalt smiled encouragingly. “I think that’s enough, Elenai. Thank you.”

  “I hope it was helpful. Did you learn anything?”

  Neither answered that. “Do you know where Kyrkenall is, right now?” the man asked.

  “He said he was going to pay his respects at N’lahr’s tomb.”

  Cargen exchanged a swift look with M’lahna, who climbed to her feet. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. I’ll look forward to starting our training. Tomorrow afternoon at about this time?”

  “Yes,” Elenai answered hollowly. How could they be making plans? As though this were some kind of normal day. “That will be fine.”

  Cargen was feeling his cheek as he stood. “We’d best get moving.”

  The weaver nodded quickly. “Thank you for your assistance, Elenai.”

  “Of course.” She sidled out of the way as Cargen opened the door for M’lahna.

  “Farewell, Squire.” And with those words, Cargen departed. The door clicked shut behind them.

  It had been such an innocuous phrase, but the words rang forcefully in her head, for it was the last thing the Master of Squires had said to her when he’d left the sword in her care. The last words she would ever hear him speak.

  Her mind whirled. The tears kept flowing and she couldn’t leave off thinking about the troubled expression on Asrahn’s face when he studied the famous blade. His expression hadn’t been that different from Kyrkenall’s.

  Why had both been so interested in it? For that matter, why were Cargen and M’lahna? The investigators charged with looking into the causes of Asrahn’s death seemed more worried about his interaction with the blade than the circumstances of his demise.