Bruce Blake: Heart of the King

“Khirro.”

He hadn’t noticed the woman standing near his feet-perhaps she hadn’t been there a moment before. Khirro propped himself on his elbows to see her better.

Sunlight brightened her red hair to the color of fire; the smile on her face made her cheeks glow pink and her green eyes sparkle. The wind tugged at the hem of the thin white dress hanging to her ankles.

“Elyea,” he said. “So I am dead then, am I?”

She nodded and offered her hand. He took it and she helped him stand; he felt no aches and pains in his body, no evidence of the wound through his stomach and back that he remembered taking his life. They embraced.

“That is a sight I was not sure I would ever see,” a man’s voice said.

Khirro pulled away from Elyea and turned toward the voice.

“Athryn.”

The joy he felt at seeing Elyea again diminished with the sight of the magician. He should be happy to see his friend, but if both of them were here in the fields of the dead, surely it meant they failed to stop the Archon. Khirro went to Athryn, put his hand on his shoulder.

“I’d have hoped not to see you here,” he said.

Looking at the magician, Khirro saw changes in him and wondered if the same was true of himself. Athryn’s shoulder length hair was no longer blond, but ash; his skin glowed, his eyes glimmered, his smile was infectious. Despite Khirro’s distress that his friend, too, had been killed, he couldn’t prevent his lips from mimicking the magician’s expression.

“All is not what it seems to you.”

Khirro raised and eyebrow. “What happened?”

“We prevailed.”

Khirro hesitated an instant, then clasped Athryn’s other shoulder, gave his companion a friendly shake and laughed aloud.

“Yes,” he exclaimed. “But what of Graymon? And Emeline and the baby? Therrador?”

“The world of the living is no longer your concern, Khirro.”

“You can’t leave it like that for me.”

“I have already said too much.”

Khirro nodded. “But you fell, too, Athryn.”

“No, Khirro. I did not.” Athryn shook his head; his smile remained steady. “I now move freely between the living and the dead.”

It took a second for the magician’s words to sink in. When they did, Khirro’s eyes widened, his mouth dropped open.

“You…you are the Necromancer?”

Athryn didn’t reply, only looked into his friend’s eyes, and his look told Khirro everything.

Elyea placed her hand on his arm.

“Come. It’s time to go.”

Khirro nodded and embraced Athryn, slapped him on the back.

“Thank you for everything you did for me, my friend.”

Athryn nodded and Khirro let Elyea draw him away. They walked away through the grass and Khirro noticed dew on the green blades; it felt cool and pleasant on his bare feet. He looked back at his friend.

“Will I see you again, Athryn?”

“Do not be surprised if you do. And Khirro…” The magician hesitated, as though considering his words. “Your friends and family go on.”

Relief washed through Khirro as a white mist rose up out of the grass and swirled around the magician, obscuring him from Khirro’s view. The mist became a column, then it sprouted wings, a head, a tail. The mist dragon flapped its wings once and the mist became vapor and disappeared, leaving the emerald grass and azure sky. Khirro breathed deep of the clean, crisp air and smelled the sweet odor of magic.

Elyea tugged at his arm.

“Come, Khirro. There are people waiting to see you.”

Their bare feet whispered through the soft grass as they headed toward the tree reaching to embrace the Heavens. Khirro ached to climb to the top of it and touch the sky.

Iana shifted uncomfortably beneath the tight corset and adjusted her skirts as she waited for the pages to strap Graymon’s armor in place. When they finished, the barber stepped forward to adjust his hair, then the Master of Wardrobe threw a cape around his shoulders and fastened it in place with a jeweled brooch. Graymon smiled his appreciation at Iana for her patience-he knew she didn’t like the fancy dress her station required.

With his armor in place and hair adjusted, Emeline shooed his attendants away and stepped forward to brush a lock of hair off Graymon’s forehead and back to where it had been before the barber interfered. She stroked the thin, neat beard on his cheek.

“I am so proud of you, my son.”

“Thank you, mother. My queen.” Graymon smiled and embraced her

“Not for much longer,” she said and looked to Iana. “In a short while, your wife will be the queen.”

“You will always be my queen.”

Graymon released her and stepped away to look at the wheeled chair sitting empty beside the hearth, a blue blanket with a frayed edge hung over its arm. His smile faltered and he thought of the statue of King Therrador recently installed in the courtyard to commemorate his twenty-two years of rule. The kingdom’s greatest sculptor-the same man the king had commissioned twenty years before to create the statue of a farmer named Khirro also standing watch in the courtyard-had depicted Therrador with sword in hand, head held high and proud, the stern look of benevolent rule in his expression. No one could dispute that the talented artist had captured so much of Therrador’s essence, so much of his charisma, but there was one thing that always seemed wrong about it to Graymon: his father was standing .

Graymon could barely remember his father standing.

Because of this, it was the wheeled chair that had carried him about his business rather than the king’s marble likeness that would remind the family of him. Rarely in over two decades had Queen Emeline, Prince Graymon or Lady Iana allowed a servant to navigate the corridors of the castle with the king. Instead, they insisted on pushing the chair themselves.

“You miss him,” Emeline said.

Graymon nodded.

“Hold him in your mind and your thoughts today, Graymon. Know that this moment was what gave him reason to go on these last decades. It was the reason behind much he did in his life.”

“I know, mother. He was a great king and a better father.”

“It didn’t start off that way, but he tried very hard to make up for his transgressions.”

“He did that. And more.”

She nodded and a man clad in the armor of the Kingsblade standing near the door cleared his throat.

“It is time, your Highness.”

Emeline glanced over her shoulder at the knight and acknowledged him with a shallow nod and a sad smile. Though he’d been appreciated and awarded, the knight’s presence still reminded her of the day he’d helped them take the king from the battle field-the day the Archon stole Therrador’s body.

“Yes, Sir Rindel.” She turned back to Graymon and adjusted his cape. “Let us hope that fool Aurna hasn’t gotten too deep into his bottle already.”

Graymon nodded and Emeline looked into his eyes for a moment before moving to stand in front of Iana.

“And you, my love. So beautiful, so grown up.” She hugged her tight and felt her heart ache for the days she cuddled her against her chest wrapped in a blanket, cooing and laughing. “A coronation and a wedding all on the same day. You are truly blessed, Iana.”

“Yes, I am. To have a mother like you.” She looked at the prince. “And a husband like Graymon.”

Emeline leaned back and looked at her daughter’s face. As Iana had grown and matured, the line of her nose, the placement of her cheekbones, the shine in her eyes had come to remind Emeline so much of the girl’s father. The passing of years had faded the image of Khirro’s face from the queen’s memory, but she would always have his daughter to remind her, and for that, she was thankful.