But that was a lie. The real reason, which was hard to admit, was that he feared the disturbing sensations gripping his heart, and the very real threat and remembered pains of what Varis had recently ordered done to him. Looking back over the last season, he realized something had always been just out of sight, waiting, marking the perfect time to attack. Strangely, he did not feel that Varis was the source of that particular threat.
Even as this thought passed through his consciousness, a door opened and closed, and a muffled greeting filled the hall. Then the newly arrived messenger began speaking. Kian pushed all other considerations aside and listened.
“Lord Marshal Yagaal,” came Varis’s voice, “what word of my father’s attack?” There was more than a hint of annoyed boredom in the young king’s tone, as if the idea that his own father would seek to launch a strike against Ammathor, and by extension his own son, was but a trifling thing, a buzzing fly that needed shooing.
Yagaal moved into view at the head of the great table. He swept back his flowing cloak of green and gold, knelt, and bowed his head. Varis seemed to materialize from nowhere, clad in scarlet robes, as he had been in the Gray Hall. “Enough groveling, Yagaal,” Varis snapped. “What word do you bring?”
Yagaal stood, the planes of his face made stern by shadow. When he spoke, his tone was clipped, as if delivering a message that left a foul taste on his tongue. “The Chalice is burning, from one end to the other. The rabble have gone mad, razing and looting at will. Sometimes they attack our forces, other times Prince Sharaal’s, and more often than not, each other. So far, this chaos has stalled Sharaal’s advance. But, Sire, the Crimson Scorpions under his command are the finest legion ever fielded. It is only a matter of time before they put down the Chalice hordes and your forces, and begin driving against Ammathor and the palace. Those you command cannot hope to do more than delay your father’s march by perishing slowly.” This last seemed more a question than a statement, as if Yagaal wondered what, if anything, Varis had in mind for defense or counterattack. The king’s answer appeared not to please Yagaal.
“So be it,” Varis said dismissively. “Let my rebellious father and his traitorous army come. What else have you?”
Yagaal’s nostrils flared in anger, his whole body rigid. What he said next suggested a discontented anger had been building in him for some time. “Pardon, Sire, what else would you have of me? My men, who have been starving for weeks, despite your promise of bread, are being slaughtered by their brothers-in-arms as we speak-men I have trained, men I have fought beside against the kingdom’s enemies, men who believed and feared you … and here you sit, safe in the palace, commanding the hunt for a particular Izutarian, even as Ammathor falls down around your feet. I, and my men, were fools to trust your lies … kingslayer.”
The last word hung in the air. Whispered though it had been, it served as a final, defiant cry to the rest. While Kian had never served Aradan or any other kingdom in the capacity of a sworn soldier, he understood all too well that men of such rank as lord marshal did not rise so far without a strong sense of discretion. The absence of such prudence in Yagaal surely meant that those under the lord marshal’s command had reached a point that they would no longer fight for their usurping king.
Silence held, even as wrath twisted Varis’s features into a mask of contemptuous hatred so deep as to be felt. His eyes changed from dark to glowing white, and too his skin grew luminescent. Yagaal shifted his weight, made to back away, then went still. He looked determined, if trembling in fear, and his hand fell to his sword hilt. His was the face of a man who knew he was about to die, but who knew as well that his would be a righteous death.
A sensation of power unleashed filled Kian, mingled with the icy calm that always overcame him in the face of coming battle. He could not know if he would survive the following moments, but that was insignificant in a mind bent on destroying his foe, the enemy of all the world.
Without conscious thought, with no plan of action, he drew his sword, moved to the narrow door, and threw it open with a crash. He strode into the Golden Hall with Hazad, Azuri, and Ellonlef at his back-an ineffectual army to stand against a god made flesh.
Chapter 50
When Varis turned his fiery gaze toward Kian, the golden radiance of his face contorted with astonishment. “You!” he barked, his resonant voice thundering through the hall. In the same instant, a blast of indigo fire blossomed from thin air and streaked across the distance.
Kian had no time to react. The growing mass struck him square, forcing him back a faltering step … then burst apart and dissipated into crackling streamers. Even as he recognized Varis’s failure, the sensation of power grew in Kian, seeking escape. By instinct alone, he held back that flood, letting it grow, become more vital, more potent. He would release it soon, but not yet.
Yagaal had drawn his sword and spun at Kian’s unexpected entrance into the Golden Hall. Gaping now in confusion at what he had just seen, his sword clattered against the marble tiles. For a moment, he stood frozen. Then, without warning, he fell face down before Kian.
“I give myself and my sword into your hand!” he cried. He inched forward on his belly, fingers grasping for Kian’s feet.
Varis stared on the scene with his unnatural eyes. He made no move to punish his treacherous servant, or to attack Kian and his band. Neither did he seem to fear the approaching conflict. If anything, Kian sensed that he was restraining his power as well.
With the tip of his sword, Azuri stopped the lord marshal short of touching Kian. “If you wish to live,” he said, “take word to those who will stand with the rightful king, Sharaal, and rid the palace of any who think to curry favor with this deceiver-” he shot a hard glance toward Varis “-this false god.”
Dismissing Azuri and Yagaal, Kian locked gazes with Varis, his heart beating fast. The desire for justice rose up in him. Varis had had a direct hand in killing thousands, and his freeing of the mahk’lar had surely condemned many times more. That last, Kian knew, would trouble the world of men for generations, if not for eternity.
Kian started forward, a stalking beast. He would not make the mistake of sparing Varis again. It nearly sickened him to imagine what he wanted to do to Varis, and at the same time, those lethal desires filled his heart with a sinister joy-
Then Ellonlef was before him, her beauty and concern cracking his shell of mounting hatred. She said nothing, but mutely urged him to be vigilant. Despite the storm of vehemence rising from the hollows of his mind, another part of Kian wanted to caress her face, kiss her, to flee this vile place and seek a life of peace far, far away.
A sudden clatter broke the spell between them, as Yagaal abruptly leapt to his feet. Before Azuri or Hazad could restrain the lord marshal, he charged Varis, sword raised high. Varis, who had been observing Kian and Ellonlef, turned his godly countenance upon Yagaal, teeth bared in a hideous grin.
“He must die!” Yagaal cried, his sword descending toward Varis’s unshielded neck.
The moment stretched out before Kian. He seemed frozen to the spot, a forced observer, yet all else was in motion.