That boy had seen and suffered so much, I owed him that much, to keep that promise.
I made quick work of dunking my head—the icy water clearing the dregs of dead sleep from my brains—and splashing water over my face and chest, then donning the clean garb Kara’s squire brought me. No time to shave, but my grizzled appearance would likely go a long way toward hammering home the message I must to deliver to the people of Keiost. At least no one expected a king of slaves to be pretty.
Slicking back my wet hair, I tied it into a queue with a strip of leather, then snagged my “crown” and donned it. Finally I slung my cloak over my shoulders. I looked like no king of old, by any stretch. But then, I wasn’t one. I’d lost Oriel, lost the land of my father, forever, both of us cut adrift.
“Let’s go,” I said, my voice gruff from sleep and not speaking, throat sore from pushing out shouts of command. Even at my best, though, I sounded like a dog chained so long that its manacled collar had strangled its voice into a hoarse parody. “You did well yesterday,” I added, to sound less curt, though the words snagged, burning, and I couldn’t suppress a cough. The boy’s grin widened, happy to be so honored, unperturbed at being unnamed. A good lesson there, that what I considered important didn’t always matter to everyone else.
Or often, to anyone else.
Soldiers sprang to their feet and saluted as we passed, the tang of vurgsten hanging still thick in the air, and my lungs tightened with familiar pain. Surely this would be enough. With possession of Keiost—and its famed tower—no matter what the wizard Ambrose did or didn’t find, this victory should at least give us the forces, and more important the ships, to get me to Anure. The emperor sat fat and greasy on his stolen throne beyond that sea, and so that’s where I would go.
Take the Tower of the Sun,
Claim the hand that wears the Abiding Ring,
And the empire falls.
Ambrose’s words—albeit obscure and poetic—had become my mantra these many months. Another irony, as I distrusted magic and disliked poetry. My father, King Tuur of Oriel, like so many kings and queens that fell before Anure’s might, had believed in and followed the advice of his wizards.
It hadn’t saved us or Oriel. That’s the problem with prophecy—too much is left open to semantics. The court wizard of Oriel had seen death in the cards, but not how or when. And my father … maybe he simply couldn’t envision the fall of his kingdom. Certainly not to the upstart would-be emperor. King Tuur had been convinced that the “death” the wizard saw represented transformation.
Instead it had meant our utter destruction. I’d been only a boy then, not privy to political discussions, particularly ones that dire. But my father had spoken of it often enough in the mines, hashing and rehashing every wrong turn and least decision that led to that terrible day we lost everything. My father had no throne to leave me, but he did have his stories still.
So I never—almost never—argued with Ambrose. The wizard had attached himself to me, begging physical protection in a world where wizards no longer existed, in return for his advice and guidance. No one but Ambrose had predicted I’d see this day. Keiost of all places. And yet here I was, guided by poetry and magic. How my father would laugh at his recalcitrant son.
How I wished I could hear him laugh—or remember my sister’s face smiling instead of contorted in those last screaming moments of horror and pain—just once more.
I shook off the dark thoughts. No one would be laughing if the “Tower of the Sun” turned out not to be the one here at Keiost. Once Ambrose had spoken those words, I’d been sure of it—at least in that moment—and the memory had come back to me, the poetry read in my tutor’s voice during that childhood when I’d been privileged enough to be soft and bored. Built entirely with marble as golden as the sun.
Like most memories of that brief and shining boyhood, however, I’d taken them out and pored over them so many times that they’d become worn, tattered, and full of holes. They’d also taken on a sheen I didn’t trust. Surely I hadn’t been that happy and carefree.
Sometimes it was easier to tell myself I’d made all of that up. Otherwise remembering what I’d lost became more than I could bear. And I had promises to keep before I crumbled.
Spotting us, Sondra strode up. Her hair streamed, defiantly unbound, pale gold in the sunlight. Like so many of us, she’d relished letting it grow, so I hardly blamed her the indulgence. But it made for an incongruous effect, the rippling hair of a young maid around her ravaged face.
The sight never failed to stab at me, though I’d never tell her so. The mines had left their stamp on all of us, leaving us dark and pockmarked like a permanent burn corroded into our skin. Sondra had been a lovely girl. Older than me by five years, the daughter of one of our nobles and my sister’s best friend, Sondra had ruled all the hearts at court with her sweet face and sweeter voice. She’d lived through that terrible day, surviving when so many, including my sister, died from their injuries.
Sondra had knelt beside me to have her glorious hair shorn, her delicate limbs placed in manacles, to work in the mines with us. Now those elegant bones, which had once portended that she would become one of the great beauties of Oriel, had sharpened into blades threatening to pierce her leathery complexion. Even her eyes had toughened somehow. No longer softly full of laughter, they’d hardened like the rest of her. As we all had.
Harden or die was the lesson of Vurgmun.
“Conrí. My king.” She bowed, stiff in her armor, helm tucked beneath her arm. I bit down on the reflex to tell her not to call me that. She wouldn’t listen. She returned my scowl with her fierce, flesh-eating grin and paced alongside. “Take the Tower of the Sun. Who’d have thought we’d make it this far?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She was the one whose faith had never flagged. Instead she gave me a piercing look. “Did you sleep? You don’t look like it.”
I nodded, not planning to waste breath on convincing her. “Casualties?” I asked.
She lifted a shoulder, rotating her sword arm in a half shrug, half reiteration of the pitched battle. “Ten percent or so. Mostly imperial soldiers and fat slugs of the governor’s staff. No great loss.”
For whatever reason, her voice had survived better than most, though the nightingale soprano she’d been famed for was forever lost. She spoke with a whiskey burr that might give a sultry sound to the old songs, but the world would never know. Sondra refused to sing ever again, saying that girl had died. I understood that. Our younger selves had all died in the mines, and we’d emerged as hard-shelled but empty versions of those children.
I didn’t care for her cavalier attitude, however. Sondra’s black humor had helped her survive, but killing innocents was no joke. I didn’t have much in the way of morals, but I didn’t kill without offering the choice. We always gave them the opportunity to change loyalties. The accountants and secretaries that served the imperial governors wore chains the same as any of us, just invisible ones that imprisoned them at desks. Insane that this war of ours required so many to suffer and perish, while the man who caused it all dined on delicacies.
“We killed staff?” I asked, growling the question I’d hoped to keep neutral.