“You’ve goaded the wrong man,” Kian said coldly, the tip of his sword pricking the hollow of Varis’s neck, producing a tiny droplet of ebon blood. This was what Kian had hoped for, that although Varis could wield the power of gods, his flesh was as weak as any man’s. And because of that weakness-the same that rested within Kian’s own flesh-he would be able to destroy Varis.
Kian tensed to thrust the sword through the new king’s neck … but hesitated. In that moment, Varis again had the aspect of a youth, a boy afraid for his life, wretched in his weakness. In the icy vault of Kian’s mind, he remembered Varis slaughtering the Asra a’Shah outside the temple, and all the dead in Krevar, those Varis had destroyed and turned into demons, and all the piled corpses in Aradan-men and women and children that a good king would have aided.
“This night, you die,” Kian growled, burying any sense of pity he held in his heart.
Varis’s fear dissolved into a merciless grin. “Truly?”
Varis bellowed something, even as Kian fell into a crouch. A soldier was coming at him with a spear held low. As Kian twisted to meet this new enemy, he heard a whooshing sound. He barely registered the attack before the butt of a spear, wielded by an unseen attacker, slammed into the base of his neck. A flash of lightning seemed to crawl across his vision before a wall of solid darkness fell over him. His cheek met the scorched cobbles, but he felt no heat. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, and shoved his hands under his chest, fighting to regain his feet. All the world was dark and ringing. Muted voices seemed to come from afar. Kian instinctively knew the situation was dire, but he focused only on standing. That was all he could think about. He had to stand and defend himself. He would not die like a whimpering puppy. He had to-
The spear fell again, crashing into the side of his head, and he knew no more.
Chapter 38
When Kian came awake, he groaned at the splitting ache deep inside his skull. It took a moment to understand that his arms were stretched high overhead, and that he dangled some distance off the ground. It took a moment more to realize that he was no longer outdoors. He glanced up, slowly, the movement sending thudding waves through his head, making his stomach clench in revolt. Without question, he had been beaten while unconscious. The numerous pains all along his stretched body, and the taste of blood on his tongue, told him that much. One of his eyes did not seem to be working, and for a moment he feared Varis had gouged it out … but no, he could see, just. He forced his swollen eyes as wide as possible.
In a circle around him, backlit by guttering rush torches, five men clad in hooded crimson robes muttered and tossed herbs on top of smoldering braziers. Sweetly fragrant smoke hung heavy in the dark hall. The priests, Kian saw at once, were of the Order of Attandaeus, the Watcher Who Judges. He surmised that he was in the infamous Gray Hall, where the kings of Aradan harshly judged the worst enemies and criminals of the realm.
The high priest, marked out by the golden threadwork trimming the hem and cuffs of his robe, approached Kian, his face hidden in the shadow of his hood. Where his features were cloaked, his smoldering eyes reflected the hall’s thin light. In a deep voice, he asked, “Do you wish to beg atonement for your sins against King Varis Kilvar, the realm, and the gods?”
“Aradan is lost and the Three dead,” Kian countered, voice thick with blood. “And your precious king is a murdering usurper.”
The priest’s stare went white around the edges. “Your pain will be exquisite, dog, and your blood will sanctify this, the most blessed of places in Aradan, and will mark the dawning of a new age of righteousness.”
Kian began to laugh, though he found nothing humorous in the priest’s words. Quite the contrary. “Varis destroys life wherever he finds it. Do you think you and your fellows will fare any better, should you misstep?”
The priest backed away, features twisted with rage, but absent of any doubts Kian had hoped to instill. “Let the Watcher Who Judges reveal this man’s sins, and let the Life Giver’s judgment be fulfilled!”
“Life Giver?” A hundred agonies rippled through Kian, as bitter laughter bubbled from his chest. The priests just stared. Apparently, he alone found humor in the bleak irony of the priest’s last words.
“In a moment,” Varis said, moving before Kian, clad now in crimson robes.
Kian’s laughter dried up as he took in the face hovering a little below him. “You have donned the mantle of king and priest? It seems you cannot make up your mind about what role you play.”
“This is no game, Izutarian,” Varis said tightly. “Rather, as a god among men, I am everything to all people.”
“You are nothing to me,” Kian said.
“Oh, but I am. I will be you tormentor, your judge, your executioner … after a fashion.”
Kian closed his eyes, striving for calm. He would die, just as Ellonlef and the others had said, and all for nothing. “You are a charlatan,” he said flatly, hoping that Azuri and Hazad had sense enough to take Ellonlef far from Aradan. It was a feeble hope, but all that he had.
“We shall see.”
Varis motioned to his servant priests, and four of them moved into a pool of deeper shadows. After a moment, the clank of iron and the rattle of chains filled the small hall, followed by the ponderous racket of heavy wheels slowly grinding dust and grit into the floor tiles. He watched with growing alarm as a brutal device lumbered out of the gloom under the straining muscles of the four priests. At first he was not sure what he was looking at, but in time he recognized the machine as a kind of chair. Stubby spikes jutted from every inch of the bracing that made up the headrest, back, and seat. Wheels, pulleys, levers, and coarse leather straps with studded buckles were affixed to each piece of framework. Holes had been bored into each arm, and steel spikes rested in a few of the holes, the heads rounded from pounding.
“Do you like it?” Varis asked lightly from behind Kian, as if he wanted to see the appalling implement emerge from the darkness from Kian’s point of view. “It was last used over five hundred years gone. One of my forefathers deemed it too cruel, and his progeny agreed with him. In time, it was forgotten. Until now. This night, it will taste blood again.”
“Are you too weak to face me with your own strength?” Kian taunted.
Varis glided in front of Kian, his stare smoldering. He leaned in close, voice pitched so only Kian could hear. “You flatter yourself, Izutarian, if you think I would lower myself to the position of battling you, as would common men. You are an insect before me, albeit one that has proven it can unwittingly resist my power. Despite this undeserved blessing, the blood seeping from your wounds proves that your flesh is as weak as any man’s.”
“Even your own?” Kian growled, wishing he could get his hands free, if only for a moment. That was all he would need to end this, here and now. It was a moment, he understood all too well, that he would never be granted … and one, in his mercy, that he had already squandered.
“I am a man no longer,” Varis announced.
“I’d forgotten, you are a god,” Kian muttered sardonically. “Well, if you want me dead, then why not the headsman?”
Varis’s eyes blazed. “I will bring you pain because I hate you,” he hissed. “I have hated you since I came out from the temple. You are an aberration. More, the world must know that I alone am indomitable among all men. Your inability to resist the suffering that I bring upon you will serve as the testament to that truth.”
“A handful of godless priests represent the world?” Kian asked in mock astonishment, looking around the near empty hall. “I believe you need to convince yourself, more than world, that you are the stronger of us. I name you weak and petty, unworthy of a crown, or even a croft.”