Bruce Blake - Spirit of the King

She took his hand and dismounted. Only after her feet touched the ground did her men do the same. Pages and grooms ushered horses and men off in different directions; Therrador led the Archon up the stairs toward the group of generals. She peeked over her shoulder and noticed the crowd’s frowns remained, as did their fear and worry. She felt it, savored it.

Good. She looked back to Therrador who stared straight ahead, refusing to meet her gaze as they strode up the stairs. They will soon be mine.

The river rushed past on its way to the ocean, the deep, swift water separating them from their goal. To Khirro, the far bank looked a long way away.

“It is too dangerous,” Athryn said. “We will have to find somewhere else to cross.”

Khirro breathed a relieved sigh. His last foray into water, when he’d danced with a serpent, had left him hoping he’d never be any deeper in water than his knees. They headed west along the river toward the forest looming before them, but after their latest encounter with a giant, the thought of traipsing through the forest didn’t excite him any more than swimming.

“Why do you still wear the mask, Athryn?”

They’d spoken few words as they made their way up the beach away from the ruined boat and the giant’s carcass, aware it wouldn’t be long before the smell of blood and decomposing flesh drew the attention of predators. But Khirro knew it wasn’t the prospect of carnivores that stilled his companion’s tongue. The magician’s inability to cast a spell when needed and their proximity to where his brother gave his life to revive him were enough to make any man feel impotent. Athryn’s calm and strong demeanor sometimes made it difficult to remember he was but a man, just like Khirro.

The magician shrugged. “I,” he began, then paused. “I do not know exactly. Partly habit, partly in memory of Maes.”

Khirro nodded and reached for his belt, touching the dagger which had been Elyea’s. He understood the need to have a tangible connection to a lost loved one. The thought of Elyea taking the killing blow Ghaul had meant for him-much like Maes gave his life to save Athryn-squeezed his heart whenever he allowed his mind to wander there. With effort, he wrenched his thoughts away and peered up at the tall trees as they reached the first line of ancient pines.

At first, the forest resisted entry, blocking their way with brush and brambles knotted together like a palisade built to keep them out.

Or to keep something else in.

Neither of them drew their weapons to slice through the lattice of branches; they were both acutely aware they still walked the cursed earth of Lakesh, a place where things were seldom what they seemed. Eventually, they pushed their way through, thorns grasping at their breeches, twigs tugging at their sleeves. Moving through it was akin to walking in deep water against the waves.

After a short while, the tangle parted before them, seeming to invite them deeper into the forest rather than resisting. High above in the forest canopy, birds sang and twittered, the occasional raucous cry of a raven rang out. These sounds were unheard during their trek to the Necromancer’s keep; perhaps things were different here, near the border of Kanos. Or maybe the happenings at Darestat’s keep-like the death of the Necromancer himself-allowed the animals to return, or relieved their fear of showing themselves. The bird song faded behind them and for a while they heard only the rush of water and the scrape of boots on dirt. Athryn broke the silence.

“I am sorry I could not aid you when you needed it.”

“It’s all right.”

“No, it is not. A magician with no magic is useless. I may as well be a singer with no tongue, a warrior without arms.”

“I don’t think you’ve lost your power. I still feel the tyger inside me, but I don’t know how to release it. Maybe the same is true with you. Things have changed, Athryn. For both of us.”

Athryn sighed through the hole in his mask, his breath stirring the dirt-streaked white cloth.

“Maybe,” he said sounding unconvinced. “But if this is true, I must find out what to do to change it.”

Khirro kicked a rock from his path sending it skittering through the brush and into the river with a soft plop. “You’ll have to try different things until you find out.”

“Do you realize how many different ways exist to access the power?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted. “But if there’s a lot, we better get started.”

***

Khirro concentrated his thoughts and energy, focusing on the ember he prayed still glowed somewhere deep within. He hadn’t exactly lied to Athryn when he told him he felt the tyger within him, he just didn’t tell him how dim the feeling was. Maybe so dim, it was only a memory.

Eyes closed, Khirro pictured the tyger the way it appeared in his dreams, all snowy whiteness and coal black. Then he imagined how he must have looked when he became the flaming tyger in the Necromancer’s chamber. He called to mind the dragonfire swirling about him, remembered the way it felt painful yet comforting at the same time. Yellow and orange tongues of flame licked through his imagination, but when he opened his eyes, he was only Khirro with green forest around him and spongy ground soaking through the seat of his breeches. Disappointed, he sighed cool, cedar-scented air and moved to sit on a fallen tree where he might keep his backside dry.

How did I do it?

He picked absently through furry moss and pried a piece of rotted wood from the log, turned it in his fingers. This piece of wood he could easily ignite with the flint in his pouch, but how to set himself burning? In the time since he inexplicably transformed into the flaming tyger, he’d put much thought to the matter, pondered it and turned it over in his mind much the way he did the piece of wood with his fingers, but still didn’t know how or why it happened. Sometimes he found himself thinking of Shyn, who had complete control over his transformation into falcon-form, but Khirro never asked him about it, never had reason until now.

Thinking of Shyn brought a pang of sorrow and invariably invited Maes and Elyea into his thoughts. He missed his companions. They made the ultimate sacrifice so Khirro might complete his mission and he’d let them down. King Braymon remained dead, and good people were lost in the attempt. And now he wasn’t sure they’d find their way out of Lakesh, never mind back to Erechania to aid their kingdom at war.

Ultimate sacrifice. That’s the glorious way to put it. The truth is, they died because of my cowardice and incompetence.

Elyea’s face floated to mind but he pushed it aside. Instead, he thought of Ghaul and again felt regret, but of a different kind. He didn’t regret killing the soldier, even in such a horrendous manner. He’d deserved the death he received. But Khirro regretted not even suspecting the warrior’s treachery. If he hadn’t acted on blind faith in the man, Elyea and Shyn would still be alive. Maybe Maes, too.

And King Braymon would be properly raised instead of-

Instead of what?

His hand went unconsciously to the spot he’d carried the vial containing the king’s blood, but the glass lay shattered on the marble floor of the Necromancer’s chamber, the kingdom’s last hope splashed across its cold surface. He missed the comforting feel of the hard container against his chest and the warmth it spilled into him.

He’s inside me. Khirro sighed again. The king’s spirit lives in me, but what good will that do?

He rose and brushed shards of rotted tree off the seat of his breeches. Many times he’d strayed down this path, with these thoughts, and never came back with a conclusion or an answer. No reason to tread it again. Better to see how the magician fared.