I
The weapon whistled over Kirren’s head as
he ducked and took a swipe at his opponent’s ankles. This was one foe he had
yet to beat, and he was determined to do so while he had the chance. His sword
met no resistance, and his adversary’s hasty retreat swiftly shifted into a
counterattack. He laughed, exhilarated, as their blades clashed and Kirren
blocked yet another jab aimed at his chest. He wasn’t going to hold out long
and he knew it. But he had to try. I have
to win, just this once, he thought, executing a perfect slash that would
have beheaded a less-experienced swordsman. But rather than separating skull
from spine, his sword was blocked and then ripped from his grasp with a
well-practiced flick of the wrist. Defenseless, Kirren raised his hands in
submission.
“You lose again.” The sword tip hovered
just above Kirren’s collarbone. He stood perfectly still. Despite his
determination to win, he was wise enough to accept defeat. This swordsman had beaten
him more times than he could count. Swordswoman,
he corrected himself.
Wyn flicked her white-blonde hair out of
her face and regarded him with obvious amusement. She let the point of her
sword rest a moment at the base of Kirren’s throat before lowering her weapon
and taking a graceful step back.
“You’ve nearly surpassed me, Kirren.”
They both knew she was being generous, but
Kirren responded anyway. “Perhaps next time I will prevail,” he commented with light
sarcasm and a grin. The mirth slipped from his face as he remembered that there
wouldn’t be a next time. Wyn realized his error as well and glanced at her
feet. The silence swelled and Kirren opened his mouth, searching desperately
for something to say. But before he could relieve the tension, the door to the
practice room slammed open, causing them both to jump.
“Lady Branwyn!”
Wyn sighed in an all-suffering way at the interruption.
Kirren cringed at the implications of it. He withdrew from the center of the
ring and turned away to retrieve and tend to his sword as Wyn’s handmaiden, Kiah,
hastened towards her lady.
“My Lady, you are supposed to be dressed
and ready in a quarter-hour!”
“I am well aware, Kiah.”
“But, My Lady…” Kirren heard Kiah’s pause
and imagined Wyn’s withering glare. Despite her youth, the Duchess of Ceville
had a presence unmatched by many royals. The door to the training room opened
and closed once more. Kirren sheathed his sword with a sigh. He turned to go,
only to come face to face with Wyn. He looked into her clear green eyes, dark
with sorrow, and realized just how much he had dreaded this moment. Everything
was changing so fast, Kirren couldn’t keep up. His best friend was leaving, and
he could think of nothing to say.
“I may not have time to say goodbye after
the ceremony. I just wanted you to know that I will miss you, Kirren. So much.”
Wyn seemed close to tears, something Kirren had never seen. That, more than
anything, scared him into saying something. Anything.
“I know,” he sighed. He shook his head,
unable to come up with the words to convey just how much he would miss her. He
reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Kirren gazed at her
familiar features with a hopeless air, trying to memorize the planes of her
face, the shape of her eyes, the set of her mouth. He sighed again and wrapped
his arms around his oldest friend. Wyn accepted his embrace for a moment before
pulling away.
“I have to go,” she whispered. She closed
her eyes against her tears, turned away from him, and was gone.
* * *
Fifteen stories above the practice room, in
the eastern wing of the palace, the king sat in his study. Head bent over the
maps on his large oak desk, he studied the movements of the Illyrian troops
slowly advancing towards Cyro, the capital of Cyrene. It was not a comforting
sight.
“This will work, brother.”
The king glanced over at his
only sibling and younger brother, Trillian, lounging in a chair near the door. Barely
thirty years of age, the sandy-haired prince had not inherited his father’s
good looks or his brother’s thick build, but was arrogant in his plainness. It
was difficult to find a resemblance between the two brothers, except for the
pale grey eyes that ran true through Kenrik’s lineage. Trillian’s haughty face
was set, his voice reassuring. But the king was not convinced.
“This Illyrian is untrustworthy and
cunning. And worse yet, he is cruel. We have no proof that he will cease the
march on Cyrene simply because of a marriage.”
“Kynan. You know we have no
other options. The Duchess of Ceville is the only single, influential woman of
age. Gryphon promised that his marriage to Lady Branwyn would stop his army’s
advance.”
The king scoffed. “The word of an Illyrian
dictator carries no weight with me. And Wyn,” Kynan sighed. “Wyn has no say in
any of this. Married off to an evil man in a last desperate attempt to save a
kingdom.”
Trillian cocked a brow. “Branwyn
knows her duty to her country. She should be honored.”
The king gazed out at the
battlements, glorious in the late afternoon sun, smiling sadly. “She is only
fourteen,” he replied. “She will be bitter.” He turned away from the window to
meet the skeptical eye of his brother.
“The queen was not so bitter to
marry you, as I recall,” Trillian pointed out.
“Fiona and I were in love. It
was almost an afterthought that our union would be politically valuable. Wyn
has never met this Illyrian monster. No, we’ll be lucky if she ever thinks
kindly of her motherland, locked away in some Rhys-forsaken castle in Illyria.”
“Oh, be honest, brother. Your
main concern is for Kirren.”
The king merely shook his head
in reply as a terse knock at the door heralded the arrival of King Kynan’s
steward, Zar.
“Your Majesty, the Illyrian
convoy is at the gates.” The hawk-nosed man nodded at Trillian but centered his
attention on his king, hoping that military action may be in the immediate
future. But the king nodded wearily and gestured to Trillian.
As the prince took his leave,
Zar studied his liege. Despite the fact that the king was only thirty-six years
of age, Kynan’s black hair was streaked with silver at the temples. His grey
eyes appeared almost white in the failing afternoon light. His broad shoulders
were stooped with the burden of decisions that weighed upon his conscience, and
his brow was permanently etched with worry. His Majesty looked worn down. He
turned to Zar with a disheartened sigh.
“This alliance will be the death
of me, Zar.”
Zar balked at his words, but he
did not deny them. How could he? The kingdom of Cyrene had no other options. They
did not have the manpower to continue resisting. Thousands of young men and women
were dying every week, and the Illyrians just kept coming. The loss of life was
devastating, and there was truly no justification for it. And the Illyrians
were well aware of Cyrene’s desperate position. He met his king’s gaze with
sorrow. “It has been an honor, sire.”
Kynan favored him with a small
smile and a nod. “Please inform the Crown Prince that the Illyrians have
arrived. Try to make him understand the gravity of the situation, if you
please, Zar.” His steward bowed and turned to leave, but the king stopped him. “Wait.
Give this to my son. Let it be a reminder.” The king pulled one of many rings
from his fingers and dropped it into Zar’s hand. Kynan laid a hand on Zar’s
shoulder. “Thank you, Zar, for everything you have done for me, and for this
kingdom.”
II
Zar found Crown Prince Kirren
sitting alone on the floor of his chamber. He was fully dressed, resplendent in
a black suit, white gloves and knee-high boots. His sword, Gwirionedd, was
belted at his waist, his brow crowned with the silver circlet that marked him
as the next in line for the Cyrenian throne.
But as Kirren regarded him from
the floor, Zar was struck by how little the Crown Prince looked like a warrior.
He did not look regal. The listlessness in his bearing dulled the silver of his
eyes, making his gaze flat and unfocused. He did not appear to have any
strength left, even to stand. For all his studies and countless lessons, here
before Zar now was not a royal young man ready to soon take his father’s place
as king. Here sat a heartbroken, disillusioned fifteen-year-old boy. And Zar
felt wholly and truly sorry for him.
“Your Highness,” he began.
Kirren’s disinterested gaze stopped him. There was little he could say to
Kirren. Despite the king’s request to make his son understand, Zar knew full
well that Kirren understood perfectly. And it was this cruel, clear knowledge
that had him, quite literally, on his knees.
The Illyrians wanted to destroy
Viridia. But Illyria did not have the means to take on the Viridian giant on
its own. It needed the resources and the manpower that the much smaller Cyrene
had to offer. Cyrene could no longer hold off the Illyrians, there was no doubt
of this. King Gryphon had offered something in the way of a political alliance,
through marriage. King Kynan, having no other alternative, had accepted the
offer, in a last, desperate attempt to save the nation, sacrificing Kirren’s
best friend in the process.
Zar knelt down to look Kirren in
the eyes. “Kirren. You have to get up.” Zar saw something flicker behind the
prince’s mask. He reached out and grasped Kirren’s shoulder, shaking him from
his reverie. “You have to be strong for Wyn.”
Kirren’s eyes snapped into
focus, seeing Zar for the first time. When he spoke, his voice came out in a
rasp. “Zar, strength will not save her. Do you really think, even for a moment,
that Gryphon will be true to his word? That Illyria’s thirst for blood will be
stemmed by a new queen? That Wyn will have the respect she deserves and the
love of a good man?” His eyes sparked with anger, and with desperation.
“Wyn already has the love and
respect of a good man, Your Highness.” When Kirren didn’t respond, Zar
continued, “Right now you cannot be that man to her. She needs a friend,
Kirren. She needs you. The question
is: will you be there for her?” Zar reached out and grabbed Kirren’s hand,
setting the king’s ring on the prince’s palm. “From your father,” the steward
said before taking his leave.
Kirren
looked down at the object in his hand, surprised to see the silver band and black
obsidian of the Ring of Rhys. He peered at the ring, just making out the words
engraved on the inside of the ring, an excerpt from a long lost poem about
Cyrene. He knew it by heart.
Kirren
whispered the phrase to the empty room. “Beneath the starry obsidian sky, the
noble hawk keeps a watchful eye.” He had once asked his father what it meant,
to which the king would only reply that a monarch must look out for his
country, day and night, in peace or war, through good times and bad. “And
keeping a watchful eye is the best way to prevent bad things from sneaking up
on you,” Kynan would add with a wink.
Kirren
closed his fingers over the ring, feeling the curve of it cut into his palm. The
myths of Old Cyrene pushed their way into his mind.
According
to legend, the hero of Cyrene had forged the obsidian ring himself. Rhys had
been a god among men, gifted with cosmic powers that allowed him to shape the
world as it was today. Though many tried to wrest this power from him, only one
evil entity came close. Anochel, a demon born in the boiling depths of a
long-forgotten volcano in the far north, was determined to destroy Rhys and
take the god’s power, and lands, for himself.
Rhys
knew that Anochel had the ability to defeat him, and he could not take the
chance that he would die and the power vested in him be used to rain
destruction upon the people of Rhys’s lands. He traveled to the mountain from
which Anochel had risen and created the Ring of Rhys. He poured all of his
magic into this ring and gave it to his only child, a boy named Cyro. Rhys then
lured Anochel away from his people and his son, to give them the chance to
survive.
When
Anochel finally cornered Rhys, he discovered that the god had sacrificed his
powers to save his people. Angered by Rhys’s deception and enraged at the loss
of the power that he craved, Anochel attacked Rhys. But Rhys had known he could
not win and had prepared for this moment. With the last vestiges of his magic,
he shackled Anochel to the land north of the river, west of the mountains, so
that the demon could not hurt the people.
Anochel
went mad with rage. He killed Rhys, who could no longer defend himself. But
Rhys’s death did not release the demon. Unable to escape, he wrought havoc on
the land and any unfortunate souls who wandered into his domain. To this day,
this land is known as the Hell of Anochel.
There was no magic in the ring. Whether
it had been used up since Rhys had given it to his young son or whether it had never
held magic at all, no one knew. But its power was of no consequence. What
mattered was what the ring stood for.
The Ring of Rhys was considered the one
true symbol of the monarch of Cyrene. Kirren felt the responsibility of it
heavy in the weight of the ring. The fact that his father had given it to him,
today of all days, saddened him as much as it made him proud. Kirren knew, as
his father did and as Rhys had known centuries before, that sacrifices have to
be made for the good of a kingdom.
Kirren slipped the ring on his
finger, took a deep breath, and got to his feet.
He had a wedding to attend.
* * *
“His Royal Highness, Kirren, son
of Kynan, Crown Prince of Cyrene!”
Trillian watched as Kirren
strode into the throne room amidst the call of trumpets. The boy was tall for
his age; with his regal bearing and serious countenance, he looked much older
than his fifteen years. He surveyed the room with his glinting eyes, gloved
hand resting lightly on Gwirionedd’s hilt. Even to Trillian’s trained eye,
Kirren did not appear distressed in the least. He exuded a sense of quiet
dignity that said quite plainly that this occasion did not bother him in the
slightest.
Trillian frowned, but quickly
rearranged his features into a more pleasant expression. It would not do for
the court to see him grimacing in the direction of his beloved nephew. After
all, it was well known that Prince Trillian harbored no resentment toward the
young Crown Prince, despite the fact that Kirren had taken his place as next in
line to the throne.
“Her Royal Majesty, Fiona,
Daughter of Moira, Queen of Cyrene!”
The queen stepped into the room,
dressed conservatively but beautifully in a high-collared ivory dress trimmed
in gold thread. She smiled to the assembly but did not progress down the
carpet, instead waiting for her husband.
“His Royal Majesty, Kynan, Son
of Kenrik, King of Cyrene!”
Trillian turned his attention to
the entrance of his brother, the fanfare nearly deafening. Oh, Kynan. He truly
did seem to carry the entire weight of Cyrene on his shoulders. He looked weak.
Trillian suppressed a sneer of disgust. His brother was hardly worthy of the
crown. But that would soon be rectified. His gaze turned to Fiona, whose blue
eyes rested lovingly on Kynan’s face as he led her down the length of the room.
Her sleek golden hair was twisted up into an elegant knot and her easy smile
melted the hearts of all who beheld her. All except Trillian, whose heart had
long since hardened against any woman’s beauty.
“His Royal Majesty, King Gryphon,
Lord of Illyria!”
The last time Trillian had seen
the Illyrian king, terms had been reached regarding the fate of the Cyrenian
throne. Their meeting in the mountains on the border between Cyrene and Illyria
had been chance, or so Gryphon thought. But Trillian had orchestrated it
perfectly, giving the cruel Illyrian just enough information to entice him into
using the ill-favored second son to overthrow his hated brother.
Flanked by a dozen men in black
with a single red device on their breasts, the Illyrian king made his entrance
into the throne room. Gryphon was clad just as he had been on his scouting trip
in the mountains. His deep red mantle was striking over practical fawn-colored
tunic and trousers, which complemented his dark blonde hair and beard. Gryphon
wasn’t a large man, but he moved with the stalk of a predator, always ready to
strike. He had a brutal face, and more than a few scars crisscrossing his
cheeks and forehead. All told he looked just as his reputation portrayed him:
bloodthirsty and merciless.
Whispers hissed through the throne
room. Though Trillian couldn’t distinguish any individual voice, he could
imagine the gory rumors that were circulating at this moment. After all, he had
planted men in the crowd to spread them.
Gryphon strutted down the center
of the room as a conqueror might, casting an appraising glance over everyone
and everything, assessing value and determining worth. His gaze came to rest
for a moment upon Trillian himself, who returned the calculating stare with one
of his own. A silent understanding reached, Gryphon continued down the carpet
to the dais where the king and queen sat. Gryphon took a knee in deference to
the ruling monarchy, but his posture held no respect for the man he was sure to
overthrow.
“King Kynan,” Gryphon rumbled,
his voice gravelly and deep. “It is an honor to meet such a god among men, a
mighty ruler so like myself. Thank you for your hospitality… As well as your
gift. Will she be arriving soon?” Trillian smiled inwardly. He had scripted
this particular comment, designed to provoke an outburst. However, though
Kirren’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, he made no other movement and
remained silent. Trillian frowned. Had he been mistaken about his nephew’s
feelings for the young duchess? His plans depended on Kirren’s devotion to Wyn.
Queen Fiona sat forward, genuine
mirth in her eyes as she looked down on the Illyrian ruler. “Why, Kynan, I do
believe we have some explaining to do. Did you not correspond with King Gryphon
concerning the nature of his bride?”
The king merely chuckled in
reply.
Gryphon glanced up in confusion,
not understanding the joke. The king leaned down and said in a low voice that
nonetheless carried easily in the silence of the room, “Lady Branwyn, the
Duchess of Ceville, is no one’s possession. And she will thrash you thoroughly
if you try to treat her as such.” With a wink, he straightened again and
motioned to the trumpeters. They raised their instruments once more as the
doors swung open.
“Lady Branwyn, Daughter of Ifan,
Duchess of Ceville!”
The court rose to see the bride,
the monarchs in the room stood to honor her, and all were greeted by an empty
archway.
III
Panic shot through Kirren,
putting him on edge. Maintaining a dignified persona during the procession had drained
most of his composure. Now every nerve in his body was alive, each of his
senses magnified to an inhuman level.
The trumpets died away and the
assembly looked at each other in confusion. The silence pounded in Kirren’s
ears to the rhythm of his galloping heart. He glanced to his left, where his
father stood, his face dark with foreboding. Kirren swung his attention back
toward the archway, when it was caught by the Illyrian king’s look of
satisfaction, directed neither at his men nor the empty doorway but at
Trillian. This strange interaction distracted him for only a moment, however,
as a moan sounded from the corridor.
Kiah stumbled into the archway, clutching
her stomach. Kirren’s nervous system spurred him into action. He leapt from the
dais and sprinted the length of the throne room while the doormen caught the
poor handmaiden. They gently lowered her to the floor as Kirren dropped to his
knees next to her. He heard someone call for a physician. Pandemonium erupted
as everyone scrambled to see what had happened.
Kiah reached out to Kirren, her
hand covered in her own blood, searching desperately for a handhold in reality,
a grip on life. She clutched his sleeve and looked up at him with terrified
eyes. Kirren took her hand in his, glancing at the gaping wound in her abdomen.
There was no hope that she might live, and she knew it. But she was not going
to die silent.
“They… took her,” she gasped. She struggled to speak, knowing she had only
moments before death claimed her. “Th-three men… r-red insignia on b-black su-su-su…” Her voice failed her. Certainty
and hatred coursed through him, but Kirren held her hand until the light left
her eyes. He spared a moment to close her lids before surging up in a rage.
Kirren’s silver eyes burned
bright as he surveyed the room, taking in the chaos that surrounded him. The
dais was now empty save for a single unconscious guard. The heavy wooden door
behind the thrones stood ajar, the only clue as to the whereabouts of his
parents.
He glanced down at Kiah’s body,
faced with a choice. Beneath his gloves, two rings encircled his fingers. On
his left hand sat the gift from Wyn, a birthday present that she had given him
some time before. On his right lay the Ring of Rhys. Kirren felt his heart
break, but he clenched his fists against the pain, his decision made.
Gwirionedd slid from its
scabbard with a musical sound, like the peal of church bells, clear and cold
and ethereal. The sound rang out through the throne room, cutting through the
noise and confusion. Voices stopped and heads turned to see the Crown Prince
slowly advancing down the center of the room toward the dais, sword held at the
ready, face dark with wrath. Members of the panicking crowd would later recall
how he resembled an avenging angel, striking in his black raiment with silver
shining in his eyes and on his brow.
Kirren slipped into the dark
corridor, leaving the din behind. He crept down the hall, checking doors as he
went, ears alert to any sound. The second room on the left held a nasty
surprise. Bodies lay haphazardly around the room, each one dressed in black and
sporting the red device of Illyria on their chests. Blood spattered the walls
and floor, and Kirren had to fight himself not to close his eyes against the
massacre. He took a deep breath to steady himself, immediately regretting it as
the coppery stench of death filled his mouth and lungs. He forced himself into
the room, avoiding the pools of blood and systematically checking all eight men
for a heartbeat. He found none. Head spinning with questions, he left the
carnage behind and continued down the hall.
The passage ended at a spiral staircase
that led up to the aviary. With nowhere to go but up, Kirren ascended the worn
stone steps. As he climbed, he remembered the many times he had gone to the
aviary to lose himself, to wash away the stress of yet another lesson meant to
impress upon him the importance of justice, the responsibilities of a leader.
The birds drowned out all thought and made it easy to forget who he was.
But today those memories seemed
to belong to another person. Today, he was vividly aware of who he was and what
he had to do. Indistinct noise reached his ears. He quickened his pace, taking
the stairs two at a time, silently thanking his father’s insistence that he
attend his fitness lessons.
Soon the sounds above him became
discernible. The birds were screaming, rattling their cages and making general
commotion. But almost hidden amongst the avian cries of distress Kirren heard
voices. As he neared the top, a scream of despair erupted, a heartbreaking
sound that tore through his very soul. He slowed his steps until he was
tiptoeing closer to the top.
The entrance to the aviary was designed
with two doors. Any person entering or exiting must make sure that the first
door is shut before opening the other door. This prevents the escape of any
loose birds. He pressed his ear against the wood of the outer door, listening
for sounds in the immediate proximity that would indicate someone’s presence
between the safety doors. Hearing none, Kirren carefully opened the door, discovering
that the small chamber was empty. The inner door, however, had carelessly been
left open a crack. As he listened, Kirren’s mind churned in desperation. It
soon became clear what was happening amidst the rasps of parrots and the
screams of eagles.
A monarchy was being disposed
of.
* * *
Trillian watched with hidden
amusement as the court dissolved into chaos at the sight of the dying
handmaiden. He snickered inwardly as Kirren sprinted to Kiah. Her testimony
would quickly incriminate Illyria and send Kirren raging in the direction of Wyn’s
rooms, where he would most certainly meet the same team that had slit the
duchess’s throat a few minutes before. And as reputable as Kirren’s
swordsmanship might be, no man could take on five of Trillian’s best and
survive. Kirren had never even had occasion to use his skills to actually
defend himself.
Gryphon signaled to four of his men, who
quickly apprehended the king and queen and dragged them through the wooden door
at the back of the dais. Gryphon himself drew his sword and backed through the
door. The rest of his men spread out, keeping to the wings of the room so that
they could follow in pursuit once Trillian had taken up the chase. With his own
men on his heels, Trillian drew his sword, crying out in anger and pursuing the
treacherous Illyrians. His journey was hindered by the theatrical attack of Gryphon’s
remaining men, whom he pushed through valiantly to reach his captured brother.
All in all, a very good show. By
the time Trillian finally stepped into the corridor, Gryphon had already
disappeared up the staircase at the end of the hall. The king’s brother nodded
to Maddock, his loyal captain, and sauntered down the hallway towards the
stairs. He heard the rest of Gryphon’s men file through the door. Their shouts
of surprise echoed off the stone as Trillian’s men cornered them in one of the
rooms off the passageway and cut them down.
Trillian sheathed his sword and
made his way up the spiral stairs, his men close behind. With each step,
Trillian felt himself rising, ascending to the throne of Cyrene. It mattered
not how long he had planned, what alliances he’d had to make, the people he’d
had to eliminate. He spared a moment to remember the late Duke of Ceville. Ifan
had been a headstrong fool. Trillian had rather enjoyed breaking his neck. He’d
had to kill Ifan, of course, to make sure that Branwyn was available to
sacrifice to the Illyrians. But that didn’t make it any less enjoyable.
It
hadn’t been hard to make his death an accident. Ifan had always taken daily
rides into questionable parts of the forest. He’d liked to laugh in the face of
danger, much like his daughter. It would seem so tragic that, while his death
had been a deplorable accident, hers was a horrific byproduct of a political
takeover. Trillian was already forming his speech.
As he neared the top of the stairs,
Trillian squared his shoulders. Taking a deep breath, he arranged his features
into a pleasant expression and entered the aviary.
* * *
Kynan cried out in anger as the
Illyrian fiend struck Fiona in the face. Bound to the cage of a noble-looking
red-tailed hawk, the king could do nothing to help the love of his life and the
queen of his realm. Her blue eyes found his as he struggled desperately to free
himself. Her gaze stopped him. The resignation in her face brought tears to Kynan’s
eyes as he realized that they were going to die, and their blood would not be
the first spilt this day. He wondered if Trillian and Kirren would share their
fate.
Gryphon reached up to strike the
queen again when the door to the aviary swung open. Trillian strolled into the
room, past two of Gryphon’s men standing guard at the door. The prince looked for
all the world as though he had arrived just in time for tea. He surveyed the
scene with an amiable air, gaze coming to rest on his brother’s face.
Kynan’s confusion vanished
almost as quickly as it had come. He stared up at his younger brother. There
could be no mistaking the triumph in Trillian’s stance, the vindication in his
eyes. This had been a long time coming. “Hello, little brother,” Kynan said
tonelessly
Trillian did not respond, but
held his brother’s gaze as he addressed his ally. “Gryphon, I specifically told
you not to start without me. I wouldn’t want to miss the show.”
“I figured I’d rough them up a
bit, warm them up for you.” Gryphon stepped away from the queen, making way for
Trillian as he approached the royal couple.
The king’s younger brother
bypassed Kynan and dropped a knee to look into Fiona’s face. Her gaze held no
fear, only defiance. Trillian reached into his boot and pulled out a long, thin
dagger, turning it over in his fingers. The queen spared it a passing glance
before spitting in his face.
Trillian cursed and backhanded
her, relishing Kynan’s hiss of anger behind him. “You know, you really should treat your new king better.
You can survive this hostile takeover, if you behave.” He knew she would never acquiesce, but he liked
carelessly dangling her life in front of her.
“You are a fool if you think
killing us will gain you anything. The people will never support a king who
throws his lot in with that monster.” Fiona’s cold gaze rested on Gryphon for a
moment before returning full force to Trillian.
“Oh, I am well aware of that, my
lovely queen. Do you honestly believe that I did not prepare for this? That I
did not plan out every detail of this coup? I will be king, and I will be
loved.” He got to his feet and drew his sword. Trillian turned to look at Kynan
as he pointed the blade at Fiona. “First, I shall take your heart, big
brother,” he said.
Fiona held Kynan’s gaze and gave
him a small smile as Trillian drew back his sword. “Be strong, my love,” she
whispered. The king’s brother made a small noise of disgust before running her
through.
Kynan screamed as Fiona’s body
went limp against the cage of a turtledove. His cry threatened to rip his throat,
his despair to tear him apart. He threw himself against his bonds in vain,
unable to look away from the now empty face of his wife.
Trillian stepped towards him,
looking down on his agony. “You brought this on yourself, brother. All those
years, overlooked and undervalued, I waited. I plotted. Today, my work pays
off. Today, I beat you.” Kynan had stopped struggling and now looked up at his
younger brother, trying to find the little boy who had once worshipped him. All
he could see was hate and anger.
Trillian noticed Kynan’s sorrowful gaze and
exploded. “You thought you could have it all, didn’t you?” Trillian shouted at
him. “You thought you could have power, love, and family, and not pay for it!
Well, you lose all of it today. Your throne, the love of your life, and your family.”
The king froze, staring up at
his brother, realizing what he was saying. “No,” he whispered in horror.
Trillian smiled nastily. “Oh,
yes, brother. Your beloved son also met an untimely death today. His love for
the late Duchess of Ceville sent him sprinting into the trap I left for him.”
He chuckled in a surprisingly good-natured way. “Your line ended today, Your
Majesty.”
Shuffling and a slight moan behind him
caused Trillian to pause, slowly turning around to investigate the sounds. Kynan
could not see Trillian’s face contract in shock at the sight of the two guards
lying dead on the floor. But he could see his son standing in the doorway, very
much alive and with murder in his eyes.
IV
Kirren took stock of the room
before slipping in through the half-open door. From his viewpoint on the stairs
he could see his father tied to the cage of Cai, Kirren’s favorite hawk and
constant companion in his younger years. All he could see of Trillian was the
bloody tip of his sword, swinging around wildly while the embittered prince
shouted at his older brother.
Kirren could also see the backs
of the two Illyrian men standing guard on either side of the door. He quietly
sheathed Gwirionedd, careful to make no sound that would give him away. Pulling
a small dirk out of his right boot, Kirren rose to his feet and made a quick
decision.
Stepping into the aviary, he
came up behind one of the Illyrian men and slit his throat. Before the first
man fell to the ground, Kirren’s blade darted between the second man’s ribs, passing
through his lung and puncturing his heart. Both men crumpled to the ground as Trillian
smiled viciously down at Kynan, telling him his son was dead.
“Well, hello, Uncle.” Kirren’s
voice dripped with malice as he stepped further into the room. His eyes took in
Gryphon and his two remaining men standing near the far end of the room,
surprise quickly morphing into battle-ready stances. Ten more men, each bearing
the Cyrenian crest, stood scattered amongst the cages, swords at the ready.
Trillian stood center stage, towering over the king. Behind him, Kirren could
see the slumped form of his mother. His heart contracted, anguish rising in his
throat, but he did not let it overwhelm him. He locked it away and focused all
of his attention on his uncle.
Trillian’s shock rapidly
evaporated as he recognized that he would still win this day. “Kirren. What an
unpleasant surprise.” He looked his nephew up and down, lowering his sword and
adopting a conversational tone as he addressed the boy. “I’m sorry, my dear
nephew, but your mother is dead.” Trillian paused maliciously. Unrewarded with
a response, he continued, “Or perhaps you’ve come to avenge your beloved
duchess?”
Still Kirren did not react. He
had known that Wyn’s death would be on his hands when he had turned away from
Kiah to follow his parents up to the aviary. Every choice bears a consequence.
At least he would not have to live with the consequences of his choices for
much longer.
Trillian’s lip curled in
response to Kirren’s silence. “Lady Branwyn was dragged into the woods a few
moments before her handmaiden met such a tragic end on the floor of the throne
room. My men slit her throat and tossed her into the River Rhys. I doubt anyone
will ever find her body.” He observed Kirren’s expression, completely impassive
in the face of Trillian’s cruelty. Getting no satisfaction from goading the
Crown Prince, he sighed dramatically and turned to Gryphon. “Oh, just kill
him.”
Trillian’s men stayed where they
were. Kirren knew that Trillian was playing with him. Even if Kirren disposed
of Gryphon, he could never take on ten men and his uncle. Sitting outside the
aviary, he had known he wouldn’t win. Kirren wondered briefly what would have
become of him if he’d fled while he’d had the chance in the throne room, even
as he’d listened at the top of the stairs. It had never occurred to him. He
couldn’t have run away. It wasn’t in his nature. Kirren lifted his head high
and stared the Illyrian king down.
“The rest of your men are dead,
Gryphon,” Kirren said.
Gryphon’s face twitched
slightly.
“There are eight bodies
downstairs, each one of them bearing the Illyrian crest and none left alive. I
certainly didn’t kill them,” the prince continued. “Now, who on earth would do
such a thing?”
“Gryphon, kill the whelp and be
done with him,” Trillian said angrily.
“And then what?” Kirren asked.
“Take the Cyrenian throne together? Do you really think, after fifteen years of
plotting to take the throne, that Trillian will share it? No,” Kirren said
quietly. “No, he will kill you and use you as a scapegoat. He will be the hero,
the last surviving member of the royal family, valiantly taking the reins of a
kingdom he had never aspired to rule.”
Gryphon snarled and charged,
clearly unwilling to believe him. The Illyrian king advanced on Kirren, flanked
by two savage looking men, one large and muscled, the other thin and sinewy.
Before they had taken a few steps, however, Kirren hefted the dirk in his right
hand and hurled it at his attackers. It flipped end over end before finally
embedding in the lanky man’s eye. He collapsed with hardly a sound. The Crown
Prince might not leave this room alive, but by the Fiery One, he’d take Gryphon
down with him, Trillian if he could.
All emotion drained out of
Kirren, replaced by cold focus as he slid Gwirionedd out of its sheath and his
dagger from his belt to meet the onslaught. He ducked under Gryphon’s slice,
spinning a low kick at the beefy man’s ankles. Less agile than his leader,
Kirren’s heel collided with Meathead’s anklebone. A hideous crack sounded as
the muscular man cried out and dropped like a stone. Kirren’s left hand,
holding the dagger, shot up from his crouched position to block Gryphon’s
downward stroke.
Jabbing with Gwirionedd, Kirren
drove Gryphon backwards and launched himself towards Cai’s cage. Gwirionedd
quickly freed the king, who pulled his ceremonial sword from its place at his
left hip and stood beside his son. Side by side, the Cyrenian royals faced
their usurpers. Gryphon’s sword was leveled at Kirren, his face clearly stating
his intentions to make Kirren suffer. Trillian looked extremely annoyed by this
turn of events. He hadn’t sheathed his sword or wiped it clean of Fiona’s
blood, and now it dangled in his right hand, dripping red swirls on the stone
floor.
Kirren feinted to his right,
smiling inwardly as Gryphon charged his offside, trying to catch Kirren off
balance. Kirren quickly shifted his stance to accommodate the charge. Gryphon
did not notice his disadvantage until it was too late. Kirren swung downward
with the dagger, displacing the mistimed jab and finding himself, as he’d known
he would, in perfect position for the slash that had been blocked so cleanly by
his childhood friend. This is for you, Wyn.
Gwirionedd howled through the
air with so much force that when the blade connected with Gryphon’s neck it
severed his head completely. The grisly projectile landed in Meathead’s lap as he
lay moaning on the floor. He discarded it with a yelp as the rest of Gryphon’s
body collapsed near the door to the aviary. Kirren completed the swing until he
was facing Trillian, sword bloody and face murderous.
Trillian spared Gryphon’s body a
passing glance, reluctantly impressed with his nephew’s swordsmanship. He
looked at Kynan, who stood by Fiona’s body, sword in hand. Trillian had no time
for a battle to the death, so he signaled his men, who converged on king and
prince. The king was overwhelmed almost immediately, forced to his knees in his
wife’s blood. He had little will left to live and hardly put up a fight.
But before Trillian’s men could reach him,
Kirren had charged his treacherous uncle. Trillian’s sword barely met Gwirionedd
as Kirren attacked with all his skill and strength. The bad block was not
enough to buy Trillian time to correct his stance and Kirren easily broke
through his defenses. Gwirionedd sliced downward, cutting off Trillian’s ear
and then lodging in his shoulder.
Then Trillian’s men were upon him. Kirren did
not go down without a fight, managing to kill two of them and seriously injure
a third before Gwirionedd was finally ripped from his grasp.
“Take the Crown Prince into the
woods, slit his throat, and throw his body into the River Rhys to join the dead
duchess,” Trillian snarled at the four men holding Kirren down. He was
clutching his left shoulder, his head bleeding profusely. They moved to obey
the order when Trillian stopped them. “Wait just a moment,” he purred. “I want
Kirren to see this.” He turned to his brother, gritting his teeth against the
pain. “Your son made a valiant effort, Kynan. He’s smart, too smart. But in the
end, he’s just as weak as you are.”
Trillian raised his sword, still red with
the blood of the queen, and drove it into the heart of his older brother. He
heard Kirren’s scream, heard it muffled by a gag. The gurgling faded away as
the prince was dragged out of the room, but Trillian ignored it, relishing the
look in Kynan’s grey eyes, their spark of life quickly fading into darkness. He
felt the sword tip reach the metal cage, felt the weight of Kynan’s body slump
on the blade, saw his brother’s life extinguished, and was satisfied.
* * *
Kynan saw Trillian’s blade
descending upon him. He did not burden Kirren with the responsibility of his
father’s dying gaze. Instead, he turned the full power of his royal grey eyes
upon his murdering brother. He felt the tip of the sword pierce his mantle, destroy
the chain mail, and rip through the leather jerkin underneath before finally
rending his heart.
I will haunt you, brother. I will stalk your dreams and whisper doubts
in your ear and I will make you pay for the violence you have done to this
kingdom. And this family.
This promise cut silently through
the air as Kynan’s eyes lost focus. The last thing he saw was his little
brother’s triumphant gaze. The last thing he heard was his son’s scream of
anguish. But the last thing he felt was fiery certainty. Kynan’s last breath
slipped through his lips, his soul stole into the dim light of twilight, and
the King of Cyrene died with a vengeance.
* * *
Trillian stood at the balcony overlooking
the courtyard. Thousands of people had gathered below him. The occasional sob
rent the air as the people mourned the loss of their beloved monarchy. The
darkness was kept at bay by the torches ringing the square, as well as the moon
rising above the tops of the trees to illuminate Cyrene’s despair.
Maddock appeared at Trillian’s
side. “It is done, Your Majesty,” he said quietly.
Trillian did not look at him.
“Are you sure?”
Maddock handed Trillian a slim
silver object. “I did the deed myself. I did not want some new recruit
destroying your victory.”
“How very kind of you, Captain.
And rather heartless. I thought you liked the boy.” Trillian considered the
circlet in his hands, the symbol of the next in line for the Cyrenian throne.
“Appearances can be deceiving,
Your Majesty.”
“Indeed. Well, you have done
well, Maddock. Place this in the vault with the rest of the crown jewels.” He
handed him back the priceless object.
“May I see my daughter?”
“No, I think not. But it will
please you to know that she is safe until further notice.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Maddock
backed away with a bow, and left the last surviving member of Kenrik’s line on
the balcony.
Trillian stood back from the
railing, observing the grief that emanated from the masses, carefully arranging
his features into the pained expression the people would be expecting. My people, he thought gleefully. These are my people now, and I am their king.
Trillian suppressed his elation and stepped forward into the light of the
lanterns lining the rail.
A hush fell over the crowd below
as Cyrene looked up to its new ruler. Successfully summoning a tear or two,
Trillian made to speak, but stopped, emotion choking his voice and forcing him
to turn away. He regained his composure and once again wiped a smile from his
face as he turned to face his people.
“We will rise from these ashes.
We will overcome the tragedy. We will make my brother proud!” A teary cheer
rose at this last, causing a small explosion of hatred in Trillian’s heartless
chest. “We will put this bloodshed behind us and move forward!” A louder cheer
sounded from the people below.
Suddenly a voice called out from
below. “We will destroy the people responsible!”
The cheer that greeted this
statement was deafening and heartfelt. Trillian squinted against the glare of
the lantern to find the revenge-seeker, but could see only shadowy figures of
thousands of Cyrenians. Even as he recalled it in his mind, he found he could
not remember whether the voice had been male or female.
“My valiant nephew slew the
Illyrian monster before succumbing to his many wounds, which were too great to overcome.
May he rest in peace knowing that he protected his country with his dying
breaths. And may we all rest a little easier knowing that his bravery gave us
safety.” Trillian nodded to the crowd and raised his fist. The cheering
continued as he retreated back into the darkness.
* * *
In the morning, Trillian was crowned King
of Cyrene, the former monarch merely a ghost in the back of his mind, murmuring
doubts to his brother’s soul as he had sworn he would. The ceremony was
extravagant as well as teary. Many of the same attendees of Wyn’s would-be
wedding quietly lined the long red carpet, jumping at any loud noises. A few of
them, as they looked morosely at the scene around them, could see only the
image of their beloved prince striding toward his death with determination.
The sun streamed in through the high stained-glass
windows, painting the scene with brilliant swaths of blue, green, red and gold.
In the years to come, the citizens of Cyrene would wonder what had become of
this bright morning, what should have been the dawning of a new era of justice
and peace.
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