James West - The God King

Resolved to his purpose, he flexed his sword hand while he studied the scene before him. Guardsmen at the main gate stood over a blazing firepot, stomping their feet against the cold, their fingers splayed above the flames. He would have expected to see archers walking atop the wall, their eyes scanning the darkened sprawl of Ammathor, but the wall stood empty. Likely, the cold had driven most of them into the corner turrets. Only if an alarm were sounded, would they bother coming out.

Like a wraith clad in beggar’s rags, Kian left the shadows and strolled across the road. The wind’s icy bite gnawed past his inadequate garb, sank past flesh to assail his bones. The flames of the guards’ firepot leaned far over in the rising wind, the tops sheared off in wisps of orange amid swirls of sparks. The guardsmen, more concerned with keeping warm than guarding the palace, had propped their spears against the wall at their backs. They had swords, but Kian suspected that even if they drew them, they would not use them unless he forced them to it. They did not see him coming, staring as they were into the flames and grumbling loud enough to mask any sound of Kian’s approach.

One of the guards finally glanced up when Kian halted and loudly cleared his throat.

“Halt!” the man called needlessly, drawing his companion’s attention. The guardsman was tall for an Aradaner, his face gaunt from recent hunger. His eyes were shot through with red, as if he had found additional warmth from a skin of wine.

“I am expected,” Kian said calmly, the blustery night air whisking away his steaming breath.

The other guardsman, silent and unmoving, peered at him. Unlike his companion, his dark eyes were clear, though he looked every bit as hungry. “You should not have come here, Izutarian,” he said, in no way hostile. They might have been two fellow travelers pausing to discuss the condition of the road. The calmness of the meeting proved that Varis had told them to expect Kian.

“I had little choice,” Kian answered.

The sober guard considered that. “I suppose not. What choice all of us had was taken away with the arrival of the new king.”

“Are you loyal to Varis?” Kian asked bluntly.

The guardsman showed his teeth in a bitter smile. “Much the same as I am loyal to all vipers that can kill a man with a single bite. As I said, our choices on many matters have grown slim.”

“ Quiet , Vicr,” his companion hissed. “The king’s eyes and ears are everywhere!”

Vicr nodded toward his companion. “Na’eem, here, he fancies even the shadows are after him.” Though his tone was mocking, his darting gaze suggested he believed it as well.

Kian could have told them of the freed mahk’lar into the world of men, but he did not have time to spin that tale. Instead he said, “Dark days have fallen. Best to trust the likes of Na’eem’s fancies, just in case.”

Vicr shrugged. “Perhaps you are right, but there are not likely to be any watchers this night. Too damned cold. If there are, they are looking for you,” he finished, eyeing Kian.

“I saw few enough of the living in the city,” Kian said.

“Most have fled to the Chalice. And if not there, they have left Ammathor entirely.”

“As should you,” Kian responded.

“The king gives us bread and a warm bed,” Na’eem said. “And wine. The road, as we hear it, is beset by armies of brigands and Bashye.”

“When’s the last time you got bread or a bed?” Vicr snapped. “My belly has wanted for anything to eat for so long that I’m starting to think you might make a fine meal.”

Na’eem looked suspiciously at his companion, and took a subtle, careful step away.

Kian shook his head. “From here to the Qaharadin Marshes, the road is near as empty as the city, unless you count a few Madi’yin wandering about, and no more Bashye than normal.”

Vicr considered that, anger growing in his dark eyes. “So the kingslayer ,” he snarled derisively, “lied about that as well. No surprise, really.”

“You may perish,” Kian advised, “but were I you, I would leave Ammathor after you let me through the gates. Better to die fighting to live, than to be slaughtered when your usefulness ends.”

“You may have the right of it, Izutarian,” Vicr said with a considering expression.

Knowing that the conversation had more to do with avoiding his duty than offering advice, Kian said, “Whatever you decide is your decision to make, but I need to deal with your king.”

“You will die,” Vicr said, not unkindly.

Kian’s smile was broad but humorless. “So I have been told.”

“Better that you turn aside now, and make what peace you may in the world. Go away … and no one will hear it from us that you were ever here.”

“I can no more run than you can cease drawing breath.”

Vicr contemplated that. “So be it, Izutarian. Just do not forget we gave you this chance-not that it will matter, in the end.”

After the two outer guardsmen handed Kian off to a pair of their fellows within the palace gates, they led him without speaking along a path pebbled in quartz. Other guards were in attendance, but none spared him more than disinterested looks. By their gaunt features, hunger was the pressing concern.

Kian knew he had taken a grave risk openly coming to Varis, but one thing above all else convinced him that the new king would not bind or otherwise hinder him. Ellonlef had said more than once that Varis wanted to show that he was the more powerful of them. So far, Kian’s gamble had proven accurate.

While he had never stepped foot on the palace grounds, he had heard much of them-mostly that, at any time of day or night, highborn strutted about like perfumed peacocks, or took their ease around bubbling fountains, all the while waited on by slaves bearing delicacies and entertained by those playing soft music. Only the fountains remained, their light spray freezing in deep crystalline layers over the statuary, turning them from beautiful works into frosted grotesqueries. Of highborn, there was no sign. During normal times, he would have assumed they had taken shelter from the cold. Now he suspected that Varis had disposed of those who might think to usurp him, and the others had likely been sent back or fled to the their holdings.

Indoors, the palace was dismal and wintry. Under the glow of but a few firemoss lamps, Kian noted splendor on display in all directions, but it was not as magnificent as he had expected. Heavy dust coated items of gold and silver, onyx and ivory. Without question, a pall had settled over all the world since Varis stepped out of the doorway of that far-off temple.

A sudden turn took them out of the palace and onto a wide path paved in sandstone, which led to a pair of black obelisks covered with glyphs representing ancient gods, the faces of which were all upturned toward reliefs of the Three soaring above. Ahead, Kian knew from stories, waited the Path of Kings. The guards led him between the obelisks and the sandstone paving gave way to bone-white alabaster cobbles. High, black granite walls rose on either side, forcing the chill gusts into a steady wind that froze the sweat on his brow-sweat he had not known was there.

Elaborate sculptures of past Aradaner kings flanked the path, and though he was no Aradaner, he knew each: King Edaer, the First King, his marble face worn by centuries, rode a ferocious steed; King Thirod, who had delivered several crushing defeats to Tureecians throughout his short reign, held high a curved scimitar; King Uddhan had been a grossly fat sovereign, and was accurately depicted lounging on his side eating grapes, but also he had been a great builder of monuments to Aradan’s greatness. Though not all these rulers had been great men, or even competent, these three and a handful of others had proven worthy enough to be known in every kingdom that bordered Aradan.