“Rouse my grandfather and his councilors,” Varis abruptly commanded. “I have word of the advancing army.”
Igindu blinked, as if trying to understand why Varis had not said as much straight away. “You mean there is such an army? Where is it … who leads?”
Varis’s teeth ground together, glaring at the blubbering fool.”As you can see, I come alone, and without horse. My journey, of late, has been exhausting and fraught with peril. I will reveal all, once those who need to hear are assembled. I will await that assemblage in the Golden Hall.”
Without another word, he brushed by a blustering Igindu and entered the palace grounds.
Though the scale was less than the king’s city, the grandeur of the palace was nearly overwhelming, even to Varis, who had grown up in its shadow. Marble and alabaster had been used in all the stonework, from the simplest fountain to the highest domed spire. The pathways, wide as streets, were lighted by firemoss lamps and paved in pebbled quartz of rose, white, and amber. Flowers and shrubs of every hue and scent, brought from the far-flung corners of the world, grew in proliferation. Even now, with the city in a shambles beyond the curtain wall, the usual highborn took their ease, clad in bright clothing. As always, Varis thought they looked like a strange breed of peacocks set to wander as they would. Most were taking their ease around fountains, or lounging on benches. The difference now, he saw, was the concern etched on every face. Even on highborn, the cataclysms and subsequent uncertainties had taken a toll. Slaves, wearing only white tunics despite the cool air, scurried under the burden of golden platters filled with food, their copper slave anklets tinkling. Not a few played harp or flute, making delicate music for the cultured ears of their indifferent masters.
Varis’s hood shadowed his grin. By dawn, these highborn wastrels would bow and scrape for him. His inner pleasure had nothing to do with a sense of mercy for the slaves, or granting retribution for them. Rather, his harsh joy came at the idea of seeing Aradan’s nobility made impotent and brought to a place lower than any had ever conceived for themselves. He would show them the vanity of their plotting and maneuvering. He would laugh as they choked on tears of outrage and shock. And when his laughter died, so too would the most useless of them.
He made his way through the palace, his now dusty robes and concealing hood earned only looks of curiosity mingled with disgust. Most people did not seem to recognize him, and those who did obviously disbelieved their eyes. At any other time, in his current condition, Varis would have been halted and questioned, but the world had changed, and uncertainty had a way of freezing the hearts of men.
He made his way to a pair of guards outside a set of doors as wide and tall as any found on a stable. These doors, however, carried more wealth in jewels, gold, and ivory than a small kingdom had in its coffers. Beyond the entrance to the Golden Hall waited the Ivory Throne, the seat of Kilvar kings for a thousand years.
“You Highness,” one of the guards said with a low bow. “We received a runner telling of your safe return.”
Varis gave the barest nod of greeting, and waited while the other guard hastened to push open the golden doors. Heavy as they were, the doors swung easily on silent hinges. Scores of nobles and the realm’s highest ranking officers waited within. While it was somewhat surprising that so many had been summoned so quickly, it pleased him that they had. The more eyes that witnessed what was about to happen in this vaunted chamber, the beating heart of Aradan, the faster word would be spread of his accession.
He allowed himself a moment to study his prize. At the farthest point from the doors, a stepped pyramidal dais rose from a broad base to a narrow pinnacle, upon which sat the Ivory Throne. The great chair, presently vacant, waited massive and ornate. It was built of immense and intricately joined curving ivory tusks, every inch of their length swirled with silver and gold inlay, and studded with sapphires, opals, and diamonds. Legend claimed that a score of men had struggled to set the throne in place. Varis did not know if such was true, but he did know that if the doors to the golden hall could buy a small kingdom, the worth of the Ivory Throne could buy ten.
At the base of the dais, a double row of white-kilted advisors and ministers sat on cushioned stools, speaking excitedly amongst each other. Varis knew these appointed men were not traitorous to Aradan, but they were self-serving nearly to a traitorous degree. Thus far, no one within the Golden Hall had noticed the opening doors and the figure waiting to enter. The herald’s booming voice changed that.
“Prince Varis Kilvar, heir to the Ivory Throne of Aradan, Keeper of the Kaliayth in the West, and Holder of the Golden Plain in the East!”
All heads turned toward him, and a collective gasp went through the assemblage followed by low, uneasy muttering. Only the officers in the galleries above the floor of the hall responded with proper decorum, each drawing his sword, pressing hilt to heart, the tip pointed toward a vaulted ceiling covered with colorful mosaics.
At that moment, King Simiis strode into the Golden Hall through a doorway reserved for the king alone. The mutters cut off at once, and all knees bent and heads were bowed in reverence. Simiis, always a hard man, glanced toward his grandson with unreadable eyes black as onyx. Varis, unbowed, waited in silence as the king slowly stalked toward him over alternating tiles of blue and white marble.
Simiis, past sixty years, was still as straight and strong as a man thirty years his junior. Varis was of a height with the king, but Simiis was broader across the shoulders and deeper of chest. His top-lock hung thick and white as snow. Clad in a long crimson kilt slashed with white, he was the figure of unbending will and potency that had guided Aradan over two score years. His reign would end this night.
“Master of Spears Igindu informed me that you had word of an advancing army,” Simiis said without a word of greeting, his voice deep and rough. If not for Simiis’ unconditional love for his children, an adoration that had spoiled the get of his loins, Varis had no doubt that Aradan would still be the kingdom it had become soon after King Edaer Kilvar took up the scepter. Instead, the kingdom was debauched and perverse, a land overrun by human leeches, and treacherous highborn all too willing to present their flesh to the bloodsuckers in order to ensure they retained power and wealth.
When Simiis halted before Varis, the prince nodded. “The advancing army is me.”
The king scowled. “What-”
He never finished the question, for Varis slapped his palm against the king’s naked breast. From beneath the ends of his suddenly glowing fingers, filaments of black invaded the king’s dark skin and spread in an ever-widening web. Simiis’s eyes bulged in horror, and his teeth clamped down on his bottom lip. His jaw worked furiously, teeth gnawing a ragged gash into the tender flesh. Scarlet began to course over his square chin. Gathering all that remained of his strength, Simiis flung himself back with a strangled, disgusted cry, eyes swimming with fear. “W-what are you?”
Varis did not answer.
He raised his hands and slowly pushed back his hood, revealing eyes of burning pearl and a face the hue of burnished bronze. His inner light swelled until that radiance filled the Golden Hall. Highborn, lords marshal, and advisors all howled in fright at the sight of his visage. Some recognized that death had come into their midst, and as fright became unrestrained panic, they bolted for the doors, dragging and pummeling at their fellows in order to be the first to escape.
Before any could flee the throne room, Varis raised his arms, releasing gouts of liquid ice to splash over the doors and windows. In a blink, that unnatural ice crystallized into a foot-thick skin stronger than any iron ever forged. One councilor reached the king’s door, his hands sticking fast when they touched that frozen barrier. In moments, delicate feathers of hoarfrost had spread up his forearms to the elbows. Others slammed into him, burying him under a seething mass of fearful men and women. All screamed and howled their terror.