Blood of the King kj-1 Page 20

  “She wanted nothing to do with me-never did, never will.” He made himself look into her green eyes. “She said I raped her.”

  Elyea’s face hardened, lines creasing the spot above her nose. “Did you?”

  Khirro suddenly wished he could take back telling her the story, take back the very fact it happened.

  “We drank too much ale,” he said slowly. “I don’t even remember seeing her unclothed.”

  They looked at each other a long time. Finally her face relaxed.

  “I think you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  He blinked, confused. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I’m not only a woman, but a woman who understands and knows men better than most. It’s not in you to do such a thing, ale or no.”

  She smiled again, a warm, understanding smile that made him believe her words. He tried to smile back, but met with little success.

  “There is much pain in this for you, isn’t there?”

  “Yes.” He glanced over her shoulder at Athryn. “I’m responsible for ruining Emeline’s life and my own. Sometimes I wish I could switch places with my brother, like Maes did.”

  “Your brother?”

  His eyes flickered back to hers as he nodded. “When the Conscriptors came, my parents told them they only had one son. He yet lives his life any way he chooses while I’m banished and cursed to die in a foreign land.”

  She touched his face again. “You’re a brave man. What you do here will save a kingdom. Can your brother say that, hiding behind your mother’s apron?”

  “I’m only here because the Shaman cursed me to be.”

  She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulled him close. He waited out her touch, keenly aware of her breast pressing against his chest as a tingling began in his groin. Khirro didn’t return her embrace for fear it might spread, grow. Emeline was the only woman he’d been with, if he’d even been with her. Elyea released her hold but, as she pulled away, her lips brushed his gingerly, lingering a moment as they touched. Surprised, Khirro pushed himself to his feet.

  “I should check on Ghaul.”

  “He’s fine, Khirro.” She looked up at him, hands folded on her knees. “Come sit with me.”

  He took a step away.

  “I’ll see if Shyn has come back. Or check our supplies.”

  He strode away, half hoping she’d call after him, ask him to come back. She didn’t. Women like Elyea didn’t have to call after men. As he walked away, he looked back over his shoulder and saw she’d returned to swabbing the magician’s forehead. She didn’t look up or beckon him to return. He shook his head and looked at his feet as he trudged the distance to Maes’ remains. He didn’t know what to think about her words or actions-he’d never needed to interpret the conduct of a harlot before.

  Can I even think of her as a harlot still? I don’t want to be thought of as a farmer.

  He crouched by the little man’s corpse, pulled the blanket away from his face. Khirro’s confusion of thoughts and emotions fled. Such things became petty when looking death in the eye.

  Maes’ skin was ashen, the color drained from it with the blood from his wrist; insects crawled across his slack face. Khirro brushed them away in disgust. He deserved better than to lay in wait under a tree, devoured by bugs tiny piece by tiny piece.

  The scars on the little man’s neck made Khirro think about the kind of life Maes led, of the blood he spilled in the name of magic, of the pain and frustration he must have felt at having no tongue. Such bravery from such an unlikely person. And in the end, he sacrificed everything so his brother might live.

  Did he know his words would work, or did he determine to give up his life only in the hope it would be enough to save Athryn?

  Guilt filled Khirro. Here he stood in the presence of true love and courage; seeing it made him realize he didn’t truly understand it. He thought he loved his family, and once thought he loved Emeline, but now saw he didn’t really know. A knot formed in his throat. The sad story of his life paled in comparison to those of his companions. One had been a concubine by eight years old, one a soldier by twelve. Society ostracized the third for an affliction he couldn’t control and the others spent their lives hiding, not allowed to be themselves. Why did he deserve sympathy? In comparison, his life had been good.

  More bugs crawled onto Maes’ face and Khirro brushed them away. Here lay a man he should strive to be more like in his life. A tear rolled down his cheek for the little man who couldn’t speak but still made such an impact on those who knew him.

  “Khirro!”

  The tone in Elyea’s voice pulled him immediately from his thoughts and brought him to his feet. He drew his arm across his face, wiping the tear away before she saw it.

  “Ghaul!”

  Khirro covered Maes’s face and hurried across the hot sand, skidding to a halt beside Ghaul at Elyea’s side. Both of them stared at the magician sitting up, blinking rapidly like a man emerged from a dark cave into bright sunlight, blinded and confused.

  “Athryn.”

  Water from Elyea’s cloth shone on the smooth surface of the magician’s face; he looked at Khirro as though he didn’t recognize him. The blank look didn’t escape Ghaul’s notice.

  “Do you not know us?” he asked looming over them.

  Athryn looked at him, then at Elyea, and finally at Khirro again. He turned with visible effort to scan the forest and beach.

  “Where is Maes?” A croak emerged from his parched throat. “Where is my brother?”

  “You were gravely injured.” Elyea moved the damp cloth to his lips, but he pushed it away. “Maes saved your life.”

  Athryn’s expression changed; his eyes darted desperately between his companions, searching for an answer.

  “But where is he?”

  Somewhere in the forest, a bird sang an unfamiliar song, sad and lonely to Khirro’s ear; the sound constricted his heart. How did you tell someone his brother gave his life to save him? He tried imagining what it would be like to wake and find the person you loved most in the world gone, but couldn’t. He shook his head dispelling the thought as Elyea spoke again.

  “… and he spoke, Athryn-he said the words to save you.” She spoke quickly, emotion laid bare on her face as tears rimmed her eyes. “Because of him, you live.”

  Recognition dawned in Athryn’s expression. He understood the cost of what his brother had done.

  “Where?” he asked again, voice loud and gravelly. He grabbed Khirro’s hand, pulled himself to stand on shaky legs.

  “There.” Ghaul pointed.

  Khirro watched Athryn stumble toward the copse of trees sheltering his brother’s body from the sun. He reeled across the swath of sand, stumbling, falling to his knees. Elyea gasped, jumped up and rushed to help him. He took her hand, using it to climb to his feet, then staggered away; she followed no farther. The magician reached the trees, tore aside the blanket and fell to his knees at his brother’s side.

  A howl of misery broke the still afternoon air as Athryn found his voice, his sorrow stopping the bird’s lonely song as though put to shame. Elyea’s shoulders trembled as she wept along with her friend, feeling his loss. Was she doing as Khirro had, imaging what it would be like to lose a loved one? Was she thinking how she’d feel if she lost Aryann, or Leigha, or Despina?

  Athryn cried out again, voice cracking with strain and dismay. Ghaul shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Khirro wondered what a warrior thought of such a display-likely that it was no way for a man to behave. Anger rose in Khirro’s gut, nearly overpowering his sadness. Did this man have no feelings? If being a soldier meant dispensing with compassion, then he was glad to be called farmer after all.

  Khirro shook his head realizing emotion tainted his opinion. How could he possibly know what Ghaul thought?

  They waited in silence, each lost in their thoughts as Athryn unleashed his grief and sorrow again and again, cries echoing across the ocean, to be lost amongst the w
aves. Finally, his wailing ceased. Minutes passed. The silence quickly became more uncomfortable than his sorrowful wails.

  “Should we go to him?” Khirro didn’t know if he would want comfort or solitude were it him.

  “No,” Elyea said. “Leave him be.”

  Ten more minutes passed; each of them found unimportant activities to occupy themselves. Ghaul sharpened his boot knife; Elyea rolled a piece of grass aimlessly between her fingers; Khirro rubbed absently at the scar on his shoulder left by Ghaul’s arrow. It was Ghaul who alerted the others with a grunt when Athryn rose from his dead brother’s side.

  The magician crossed the sand with slow, deliberate steps, the new pink scar on his belly gleaming in the sun. He carried Maes in his arms like a babe, the blanket which had covered him left behind. When he reached the brace of trees where his companions waited, he knelt and lay the body on a patch of yellow-brown grass as though setting down something infinitely delicate. Tears glistened on Athryn’s cheeks, but composure showed on his face. He stood, head bowed.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said, voice raspy but stronger. No one said anything. “Please.”

  Elyea sucked a breath through her teeth as though inhaling the strength to tell Athryn the story. She paused, holding the air in her lungs, then told him of the one-eyed thief who appeared from nowhere in the night and his attempt to stop the man. Khirro’s throat dried up as he listened, remembering how his thoughtless glance had given Athryn away. That made Maes’ death his fault. How many more deaths would he be responsible for?

  As Elyea told Athryn how the assassin’s stroke opened his abdomen, his hand went to his belly, fingers stroking the smooth scar. Her voice broke with emotion as she described how Maes uttered indistinct words and opened his vein to save his brother, not allowing them to stop or interfere. When she finished, they stared at each other in awkward silence. Athryn’s face remained slack, eyes gleaming, but he shed no more tears. Khirro shuffled his feet, disturbing the dry dirt beneath them.

  “Can you bring him back?” he asked breaking the silence, feeling stupid for having asked.

  “There is nothing I can do.” Athryn shook his head. “I am but the speaker of the words. It was my brother who had the power of magic.”

  Khirro’s brow wrinkled, unsure what Athryn meant. Does he mean Maes was the magician, not he? He opened his mouth to ask for clarification, but Ghaul put his thoughts to words first.

  “But what of your burns?” the warrior asked sounding more angered than surprised. “You told us you survived dragon’s breath.”

  Athryn sighed a breath heavy with memory.

  “Maes faced the fiery breath and lived when he should have died.” He closed his eyes, reliving those memories or trying to force them from his head. “The killing breath was meant for me, but Maes saved me. I was left burned, touched by the flame, but not enough to have killed me. To gain the power of the dragon, one must live when they should have died. Maes should have been roasted alive, yet escaped unscathed.”

  “You lied to us,” Ghaul said, his voice lowered to a growl.

  Khirro glanced at him, at the anger lined upon his face, but didn’t know what to think himself. Did Athryn tell them he was a magician, or did they assumed?

  “It happened when we were young; Maes kept it hidden as long as he could,” Athryn continued as though he hadn’t heard Ghaul’s accusation. “When it became clear the king would have Maes’ tongue out for the magic he called blasphemy, he taught me what words he could, wrote the others on my skin. When my brother could no longer speak, we became as one magician split between two bodies, one wielding the power, the other the words.” He paused as a wave of emotion contorted his face, shook his shoulders. “I believed neither of us complete without the other, until this. Until he made the ultimate sacrifice. Maes was complete.”

  Elyea reached out, her fingers brushing Athryn’s arm, but he pulled away, stepping from the shade on to the sandy beach. Ghaul opened his mouth to say something, but a gesture from Athryn stopped him.

  “He did not need me after all,” he said, his voice weak. “I could not have done the same for him.”

  He stumbled away down the beach to be alone with his anguish.

  The contempt in Ghaul’s voice was obvious, like he spoke to a child who’d asked a question beneath consideration.

  “No. It would be suicide to bring a decomposing corpse with us through the haunted land.” He held up his hand, ticking off reasons on his fingers as he spoke. “It will slow us. It will make us ill. It will attract animals I’d rather not encounter. We have a thief to catch-we must move swiftly.”

  “The one-eyed man moves quickly,” Shyn said.

  He’d rejoined them at nightfall, reporting on the one-eyed man’s progress as he dressed. Khirro told him what happened in his absence and soon after Athryn expressed his wish to take Maes with them.

  “I must take my brother to the Necromancer,” Athryn said, his voice flat. “I must bring him back from the dead, no matter the cost.”

  Ghaul sneered. “I’m happy to know you’d so readily sacrifice my life for the midget.”

  Athryn didn’t react to the warrior's words.

  “Could the Necromancer bring life back to a rotted corpse?” Elyea’s compassionate tone struck Khirro-her life would be in as much danger as Ghaul’s, yet she still held concern for her friends.

  “Darestat is the most powerful. I do not know he could, but I do not know he could not. When Maes put the blade to his wrist, he did not know if the magic would work, yet he drained his lifeblood to save me. I cannot do anything but try.”

  “You forget why we are here,” Shyn said, his tone a counter-balance between Ghaul’s anger and Elyea’s sympathy-the voice of reason. “We must recover the blood of the king. If we fail in that, all will be lost and we may all die.”

  “Shyn’s right,” Khirro said mimicking the border guard’s tone. “It’s the king who’s important. It’s why we’re here.” He glanced at Athryn, hoping he wouldn’t take his comments as belittling Maes’ sacrifice, but he felt the pressure of time. The longer they tarried, the longer the one-eyed man’s lead. “The Shaman said not to open the vial. If the blood dried up, the life would be gone. Maes emptied his blood into your wound, so a withered body will be equally useless to the Necromancer.”

  “If we made it,” Ghaul glowered. “The smell would attract predators and carrion eaters to us like flies to shit.”

  Athryn stared past them into the night and the sea beyond. Khirro followed his gaze out over the ocean to the stars glimmering in the dark sky. When he looked back, a crooked smile crinkled the unscarred corner of Athryn’s mouth.

  “You are right, Khirro. Thank you for showing me the error of my judgment.” He glanced to where his brother’s body lay nearby in the sand. “Let us purify his body with fire, set his soul free to the winds for the Gods to collect.”

  Athryn struck out to collect driftwood for his brother’s funeral pyre, leaving the others to do the same and wonder at his sudden change of heart. Khirro wandered down the beach, finding suitable pieces of wood as he followed the line of the forest, but he didn’t dare stray into it. None of them did. Any forest is dangerous after dark, one in the haunted land more so. As Khirro made his way back to the spot for the pyre, Athryn joined him.

  “Thank you, Khirro.”

  “For what?”

  “What you said made sense. In my grief, I had forgotten.” A tear glistened in his eye; Khirro bent to retrieve another chunk of driftwood.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I am Maes’ only chance now. I carry my brother’s blood, much like you will again carry the king’s.”

  Khirro’s brow creased. He felt as though Athryn spoke to him in some foreign tongue, like when he cast a spell. His companion must have seen his confusion because he leaned closer, lowering his voice like they shared a secret.

  “I have no vial of blood, Khirro. I am the vial. The blood of my brothe
r courses through my veins along with my own, kept alive until we reach the Necromancer. You reminded me of that.”

  Khirro tried to smile along with his friend, but a chill of dread crawled down his spine. Taking life from a glass container was one thing, but from a living person? Would Athryn survive, or were the brothers destined to spend the rest of their days trading life for life?

  They trudged silently up the beach, four of them when there had been six. In addition to his own pack, Shyn’s hung from Khirro’s shoulder while somewhere ahead, a falcon cut through the night sky, ranging north and east to pick up the one-eyed man’s trail. Behind them, the funeral pyre still burned, flames licking toward the night sky like the tongue of a snake-or a dragon, Khirro supposed.

  They’d watched the fire until Athryn was satisfied his brother’s soul had been released to the heavens on swirling gray smoke. As it burned, the magician who might no longer be called magician said nothing: no words of tribute, no words of mourning, no good-bye. Since telling Khirro his thoughts, he’d spoke not at tall. When Shyn talked of Maes’ bravery, he only smiled sadly. When Elyea offered heartfelt condolences, he nodded. When Ghaul suggested it time to leave, he followed without complaint. The others attributed it to grief that Athryn would get over with time, but Khirro knew differently. It was hope staying Athryn’s tongue. Khirro wondered how far he’d go to protect the blood he carried within. Could they count on him to do what was needed when the time came to raise the king?

  They followed the sand, staying clear of the forest. The thief had a day’s head start, but their future would hold enough nights spent in unknown forests, so they decided to stay out of it as long as possible. Shyn tracked their quarry from the air, so he’d guide them to the best place to finally enter the trees.

  Without the vial, Khirro’s wounds ached and itched. He flexed his shoulder and rubbed his thigh. Athryn strode beside him silently, the black cloth mask he wore at night covering his face, hiding his thoughts and feelings. Khirro’s own thoughts weighed on him, questions bouncing around in his head uncontrolled. Who was the one-eyed man? How did he know about the vial? How did he find them?