No pain.
The blow to his shoulder came swift but light, the flat of the blade striking against his epaulet. Turesti had done his job well. To the throng crowding the hall, it appeared Therrador survived a deadly blow. Lord Emon Turesti raised the Chooser of Kings above his head again, the shake in his arms more pronounced this time.
Only a few more moments.
The blade cut the air a second time. Therrador tensed. The flat of the blade struck his armor, harder this time, and the edge slipped under the corner of his epaulet. Years of combat and training kept Therrador from reacting, but Turesti must have realized what happened. He pulled the sword away quickly and examined the blade. After a few seconds, he nodded, signaling it free of blood.
“Rise, Therrador Montmarr,” he said, some of the shake in his arms transferring to his voice. “Rise and accept your crown.”
Therrador did as bidden, hoping the warm blood trickling down his chest would remain contained beneath his plate. He reached up with both hands to remove his helm and managed to keep his face free from expression despite the pain in his shoulder. His hair dripped with water and sweat as he tucked his helm into the crook of his elbow and cocked his arm so blood wouldn’t flow from the tips of his fingers. He waited while Hanh Perdaro, the Voice of the People, took Lord Turesti’s place in front of him.
“The gods have given their blessings,” Perdaro said speaking with less effort than the others had. “The Chooser of Kings has seen you worthy.”
He extended his arms above his head, displaying the heavy golden crown to all. Not so long ago, this crown had rested upon Braymon’s head and, being his closest friend and advisor, Therrador knew it wasn’t merely the diadem’s bulk which weighed on him at times. Now that responsibility fell to Therrador and he felt a pang of regret his one time friend was gone.
“And, in the name of the people, I declare you King Therrador.”
The room erupted with cheers and applause, the clamor bouncing from walls to ceiling, the room doubling and trebling the volume. Therrador raised his right hand, waved to the crowd as he faced them, and put on a smile he didn’t feel like wearing. He drank in the adulation for a minute, then turned to Lord Turesti standing to his right. With the crowd still hollering and whistling, he raised his voice for the chancellor to hear with no danger he’d be overhead in the uproar.
“Get me out of here before I bleed to death.”
Chapter Fifty-One
The tunnel changed from rough-hewn gray stone to polished white marble as they neared the arched doorway. No seam showed where one stopped and the other began, like one faded into the other. Ancient runes and depictions adorned the walls, carved into the marble, including one series which Khirro recognized as the story of Monos, the first necromancer. It seemed an eternity since Athryn had told him the story of the necromancer and the Mourning Sword.
So much has happened.
They stopped in the doorway and peered into the chamber beyond. The same iridescent glow lit the chamber as had the previous one, but here the color shifted and changed. As Khirro’s eyes registered one color, recognizing it, it would change to another. Under different circumstances, he’d have considered it beautiful, awe-inspiring, but here it was eerie and unsettling.
“This is it,” Athryn whispered pointing to the far corner of the chamber.
A marble throne carved from the wall and stretching from floor to ceiling fifteen feet above sat empty. Pools of light ebbed and flowed about its base. Khirro blinked, unable to tell if the floor near the seat was solid.
“There’s no one here,” Elyea whispered.
Featureless except for the carven throne, no corner of the room was hidden from their view. One by one they stepped across the threshold. Mist swirled about their ankles like a living creature investigating their presence. Khirro looked around but saw no cracks or openings in the smooth walls, no place where the mist might enter the room. The floor, visible in spots through the moving fog, was the same polished marble as the walls. Nature had no hand in the design or building of such a chamber.
Khirro entered the room last and halted behind his companions. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as though the room sucked the air from his lungs before he had the chance to let it out. The Mourning Sword’s glow brightened to a rich golden light as the mist twisted through Khirro’s legs and up his body leaving the floor in the room laid bare as it swirled about him. His head felt light and the blade glowed brighter still. Athryn turned to him, asked if he was all right and the radiance from the sword washed over him. Khirro’s breath caught in his throat.
Maes stood at his brother’s side.
Khirro knew it for a vision immediately. The figure of the little man shimmered, flickering in and out of view before steadying. Khirro watched, mesmerized, as a younger version of Athryn joined him. A bandage covered half the magician’s face, hiding what Khirro knew to be a fresh burn, cracked and oozing, healing itself into the scar Athryn tried so hard to disguise.
The two figures knelt together at the real Athryn’s side, but he didn’t notice. Maes’ mouth moved forming words, teaching his brother an ancient language intended for only one use: magic. Khirro watched, agape, as he saw the little man speak.
A knife appeared in Athryn’s hand and the brothers looked the same direction, reacting to someone outside Khirro’s view. Athryn dropped the knife and held his hands up in protest before something knocked Maes violently to the floor, bloodying his nose. Begrudgingly, Athryn retrieved the knife, moving awkwardly as though forced by an unseen hand. Maes sat upright.
Khirro tried to look away when Athryn removed the tip of his brothers tongue, but he couldn’t. Tears flowed from Athryn’s unbandaged eye.
The scene shifted to Maes teaching Athryn again, a red froth of words and blood bubbling from his lips. The blade appeared in Athryn’s hand again. More blood. More tears. More tongue left Maes’ head. Khirro stumbled back a step, blinking, and the vision disappeared.
“What’s wrong, Khirro?” Elyea caught him under one arm as Ghaul grabbed the other.
“I… I saw Maes.” He looked up at Athryn staring at him, eyes wide beneath his mask. “I saw you take his tongue from his head.”
“You could not know. No one knows.” The mask on his face hid the sorrow evident in his voice. “But that is what happened.”
“But how could I-?”
“The light of truth shines from the Mourning Sword. Secrets are revealed in its glow.”
Khirro stared at the blade in his hand, then looked at Elyea standing beside him. At her feet, a girl of perhaps five years lay on a bed of straw; tears flowed down her cheeks but no sound gave away her lament. A man appeared beside her, huge and threatening, and Khirro knew the man as her father.
The man moved toward her, pulled his shirt over his head. There was a familiarity to the act, like this wasn’t his first visit like this. He knelt beside the young girl, grabbed her shoulder and flipped her onto her back. The dagger she had hidden beneath her slashed out, opened his throat. Warm blood rained down on the girl, absolving her of her sins, of his sins. The man grasped at the wound in his throat, curses gurgling at his lips as he toppled to the dirt floor. The young girl stood and ran from Khirro’s sight but, as she did, Khirro saw the dagger in her hand, its hilt adorned with jewels. The same dagger Elyea still carried.
Khirro gagged. The urge to throw the Mourning Sword from his hand nearly overwhelmed him, but one more truth still needed to be uncovered, one more secret revealed.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Graymon stared at the tent flap expecting someone or something to pull it aside but dreading who or what might come through. The lady had treated him nice so far-animals and sunshine graced the pictures on her fingernails again-but he didn’t like being in a strange place. He missed his Da, he even missed nanny. Men who smelled like dead things and had no faces haunted his dreams each night. Every time he woke, he woke scared and shivering, wanting to call out for comfort but knowing no one would give it to him.