“You may perish,” Kian advised, “but were I you, I would leave Ammathor after you let me through the gates. Better to die fighting to live, than to be slaughtered when your usefulness ends.”
“You may have the right of it, Izutarian,” Vicr said with a considering expression.
Knowing that the conversation had more to do with avoiding his duty than offering advice, Kian said, “Whatever you decide is your decision to make, but I need to deal with your king.”
“You will die,” Vicr said, not unkindly.
Kian’s smile was broad but humorless. “So I have been told.”
“Better that you turn aside now, and make what peace you may in the world. Go away … and no one will hear it from us that you were ever here.”
“I can no more run than you can cease drawing breath.”
Vicr contemplated that. “So be it, Izutarian. Just do not forget we gave you this chance-not that it will matter, in the end.”
Chapter 37
After the two outer guardsmen handed Kian off to a pair of their fellows within the palace gates, they led him without speaking along a path pebbled in quartz. Other guards were in attendance, but none spared him more than disinterested looks. By their gaunt features, hunger was the pressing concern.
Kian knew he had taken a grave risk openly coming to Varis, but one thing above all else convinced him that the new king would not bind or otherwise hinder him. Ellonlef had said more than once that Varis wanted to show that he was the more powerful of them. So far, Kian’s gamble had proven accurate.
While he had never stepped foot on the palace grounds, he had heard much of them-mostly that, at any time of day or night, highborn strutted about like perfumed peacocks, or took their ease around bubbling fountains, all the while waited on by slaves bearing delicacies and entertained by those playing soft music. Only the fountains remained, their light spray freezing in deep crystalline layers over the statuary, turning them from beautiful works into frosted grotesqueries. Of highborn, there was no sign. During normal times, he would have assumed they had taken shelter from the cold. Now he suspected that Varis had disposed of those who might think to usurp him, and the others had likely been sent back or fled to the their holdings.
Indoors, the palace was dismal and wintry. Under the glow of but a few firemoss lamps, Kian noted splendor on display in all directions, but it was not as magnificent as he had expected. Heavy dust coated items of gold and silver, onyx and ivory. Without question, a pall had settled over all the world since Varis stepped out of the doorway of that far-off temple.
A sudden turn took them out of the palace and onto a wide path paved in sandstone, which led to a pair of black obelisks covered with glyphs representing ancient gods, the faces of which were all upturned toward reliefs of the Three soaring above. Ahead, Kian knew from stories, waited the Path of Kings. The guards led him between the obelisks and the sandstone paving gave way to bone-white alabaster cobbles. High, black granite walls rose on either side, forcing the chill gusts into a steady wind that froze the sweat on his brow-sweat he had not known was there.
Elaborate sculptures of past Aradaner kings flanked the path, and though he was no Aradaner, he knew each: King Edaer, the First King, his marble face worn by centuries, rode a ferocious steed; King Thirod, who had delivered several crushing defeats to Tureecians throughout his short reign, held high a curved scimitar; King Uddhan had been a grossly fat sovereign, and was accurately depicted lounging on his side eating grapes, but also he had been a great builder of monuments to Aradan’s greatness. Though not all these rulers had been great men, or even competent, these three and a handful of others had proven worthy enough to be known in every kingdom that bordered Aradan.
After passing the last stone king, they came to another pair of obelisks, and the guards halted. “The king awaits you in the Garden of Dawn,” one guardsman said.
The other guardsman glanced at Kian’s sword. “Our orders are to let you keep your weapons, but trust that should you draw steel before the king, a score of arrows will pierce you in less than a heartbeat.”
So Varis does fear me, at least some, Kian thought, taking what little satisfaction he could that Varis had posted unseen archers. He strode forward, leaving the two guardsmen.
Beyond the Path of Kings, the Garden of Dawn was alight with dozens of blazing firepots, whose brightness showed a sprawl of pebbled paths winding through fruit trees brought from as far away as Izutar and Jinan, sculpted shrubbery from Kelren, and overgrown arbors laden with grapevines brought a thousand years before from Kula-Tak, on the northern shores of Geldain. The unprecedented cold, however, was taking a toll on the greenery, leaving it wilted and darkening toward black. Pillowed sandstone benches sat around as-yet unfrozen ponds filled with brightly colored fish. Kian could only imagine what the place must look like during a bright summer day, when full of lounging highborn.
“I did not expect to see you so soon,” Varis said, coming around a bower laden with withered grapes. He halted near a firepot. Only his smirk was as Kian remembered. Neither the middling boy-prince he had watched stride into the temple in the Qaharadin, nor the abomination that had come out, remained. Varis could easily be taken for a man ten years older than he was. His black top-lock was long and oiled, and held in place with a ruby-crusted gold band. His ankle-length kilt was of the purest white trimmed in blue, the hem brushing the finest sandals a king could desire. On each upper arm he wore golden armlets fashioned after cobras with ruby eyes. If he noticed the chill air, he did not show it.
“You would not have seen me at all,” Kian answered tauntingly, “had you not fled before delivering the remainder of the gold owed me for my services, and that of my men.”
Varis’s smirk vanished. “I fled nothing, and certainly not you, Izutarian.”
“Be that as is it may,” Kian said, the familiar ruthless chill settling into his heart, “I’ve come to collect my due.”
“Your due?” Varis chuckled, striking without warning.
A wall of flame washed over Kian, knocking him flat. As he curled into a defensive ball, Ellonlef’s voice filled his mind anew. Varis has grown more powerful by far! And yet, the flames did not touch Kian. Through squinted eyes, he saw and heard the roaring of unnatural fires, a swirling mass of gold and azure, raging all around him. No heat touched his skin, his clothing, nor even the alabaster cobbles he lay upon. If only I knew how to wield the power inside me! But he had no control. Something in him resisted Varis’s attack, but did so of its own accord, not of his will. Which left but one option, a means with which he was far more familiar.
Kian rolled to his feet and drew his sword. No arrows fell, but then he was all but invisible within a cocoon of flame. Varis was just a wavery blur before him, a creature of pearlescent eyes and skin glowing like burnished bronze. Indistinct or no, it was enough.
Kian pushed forward, as if driving against a strong wind. One step, then another. The closer he came to Varis, the stronger the force of the roaring flames pushed back against him. Around his feet, white stone began to blister and blacken, then melt like wax.
When he stood within an arm’s length of his foe, Kian was able to see the uncertainty on Varis’s godlike face. Kian bared his teeth in a wolfish grin. He could almost taste the fear coming off Varis. With a shout, Kian lashed out with his sword. At the last possible instant, Varis lurched backward, lost his footing, and fell to his backside. The fires died with a blustery, swirling gust, leaving Kian standing unhindered over the king. And still no arrows fell, no guardsmen showed themselves, suggesting that Varis’s followers might not be so loyal after all.