No one responded to this, and most studied their feet.
Of a sudden, Sharaal’s features took on a greedy aspect. “Of this substance, Izutarian, this Nectar of Judgment, I do not suppose there is any left or, perhaps, the means to make it?”
Kian’s mind swam backward, recalling Hya’s words, “… imagine if you will, an ambitious and cruel man gaining this knowledge and using it for war. There would be no stopping him. ‘Tis better the secret of its making dies with me, than to sell it and swim in gold tainted by the blood of innocents-or ashes, as it were.” While Kian had never doubted Hya’s wisdom, he had not expected so soon to come across another man as ambitious as Varis. As for Sharaal’s possible cruelty, he could only assume that the potential was there, until he knew otherwise. Either way, to reveal where the substance had really come from would destroy his story and jeopardize Hya. Besides that, his false tale needed to become accepted truth.
Still looking on Sharaal, he also considered Peropis’s words to him. “A new age has dawned, an age of power, of darkness and light,” she had warned. A small, quiet voice in the deepest reaches of his mind warned that a darkness unlike mankind had ever known was falling, and all that had happened since Varis stole the powers of deceased gods and released the inhabitants of the Thousand Hells was but the beginning of an age of trouble….
Kian held his hands apart and shrugged. “Alas, I have no idea where Varis gained that dreadful substance, nor the means to create it. I was but a humble servant in his employ, and not given to questioning His Highness.”
Sharaal gusted a weary breath. “It is of no matter,” he said in a regretful tone that suggested otherwise, and turned on his heel. With all the regality of one bred to rule, he climbed the dais and sat upon the Ivory Throne, not reverently, as might have been expected, but as one who has long since grown impatient for the day of his rule to begin.
The soldiers of the Crimson Scorpion legion bent their knees and bowed their heads. Kian and the others were slower to show honor, but a sense of self-preservation swept over them, and they knelt as well.
“Rise and receive your just rewards, Izutarian,” Sharaal intoned, sounding bored. That he had freed his city of his disloyal son’s rule, or that his father was dead, or that Ammathor was still besieged by despair and lawlessness, seemed to have no place in his heart.
Kian rose and stood straight and tall, unsure what the Aradan’s newest king might offer. Sharaal held his fingers near his face, idly studying the nails. “Rewards for loyalty to the crown often involve titles and holdings … but the world has changed, grown darker and, of course, you are a northern barbarian. However, gold is desirable to both highborn and to rabble, and so you will have it in good measure. Enough, I dare say, to buy a kingdom of your own in Izutar.”
Kian bowed his head in acceptance, noting that the suggestion of buying a kingdom sounded more like a command that he leave Aradan with all haste. That, he concluded, was fine by him. His opinion of the kingdom had not grown higher over the last grueling season.
Sharaal proved Kian’s assumption correct when he looked up from his fingernails. “You may enjoy the palace this night, and refit on the morrow. Your immediate needs will, of course, be seen too. After that, I expect you and your companions to depart.” With that, the king of Aradan waved the small company out of his presence.
All too happy to oblige, Kian gathered his companions and departed the Golden Hall. He fully intended to depart Ammathor sooner rather than later, with or without the king’s promises. His intentions proved futile.
Epilogue
The snowstorm that heralded King Sharaal’s abrupt rise to the Ivory Throne and the death of his son became known as the White Death-a term hitherto used only by northerners of Izutar and Falseth, and perhaps by the Whitehold savages, in their guttural tongue. The deadly blizzard raged for ten days. Snow piled high throughout Ammathor, burying an already suffering city. During that bleak time, soldiers scoured both Ammathor and the Chalice in hopes of finding food, warm clothing, and anything that might burn. People by the hundreds froze to death by day, and more during the dark watches of long brutal nights, never knowing the gradual and unexpected warmth in their limbs, the resting peacefulness that closed their eyes, was death stealing near.
During the first days of the new king’s rule, even as the storm raged, Sharaal gladly earned a title never before given a Kilvar king-the Cruel-after he gave a command of such brutality that men would whisper of it around Aradaner hearth fires for years to come. Those tales would survive far beyond the king’s death, after bitter winters became commonplace to Aradaners, whose fading memories of southern warmth eventually became legend. Yet, the grim stories of Sharaal the Cruel were not the darkest tales men would tell, far from it, only the most palatable….
“When do you think it will end?” Ellonlef asked, her dark eyes turned up to a sky so void of color that even the falling snowflakes looked like dark, swirling spots.
They had departed the palace two days before, but were only now just reaching the frozen banks of the River Malistor, what usually amounted to an afternoon ride. Thankfully, the snow was less deep down from the Pass of Trebuldar, but still deeper than any snow that had ever fallen at the edge of the Kaliayth Desert.
All around, a flat blanket of white covered the land. To the south and west, the depthless sky brooded, growing darker by the hour. Another storm was coming. Warily, Kian had watched it building throughout the day. They would need to seek shelter soon. The road north would be long and hazardous, but none of his company wanted to stay in Aradan, even had King Sharaal allowed it. As it was, the king ordered all peoples not of Aradaner birth to depart his realm before springtime, or choose between the headsman’s ax or a life in chains. In the face of catastrophe, he had given his subjects enemies upon which to focus and blame, and when those enemies were gone, he would find others.
“Winter, I mean,” Ellonlef added, a thick woolen scarf muffling her voice. Small cold flakes lighted on her brow and nose, and melted slowly.
When will it end? Kian tried to mull Ellonlef’s question, but found it difficult. Though he had been absent from his homelands many years, he was a child of the north, and he had readily adopted the garb of his homelands. Like the rest of his companions, he wore many layers of clothing: thick leather leggings lined with soft wool, a similar tunic with two more underneath, a thick fur-and-wool cloak with a deep fur-lined hood, and sturdy boots, stockings, and gloves-all gifts from Hya’s ample stockpile of once nearly useless items.
She had given away much to those in need in the Chalice, and from the rest she had earned a king’s ransom by selling her stockpile to, naturally, King Sharaal. After that, she left for the eastern border of Aradan, to the shores that people had already named the Lost Coast. Recalling the story of Rida’s fate, of the burning mountain that had fallen out of the sky to smash into those eastern shores, shattering the lands, and allowing the flow of molten rock to flow over shore and sea, Kian and the others had tried to talk her out of such a treacherous journey, but she would have none of it.
“There will be those in need” she had said, “perhaps even a few Sisters of Najihar. At the least, people will need a healer.” To Ellonlef, she had explained, “If Pa’amadin favors me, I will begin rebuilding our order. As well, you should embark on such an endeavor to the north. We have never had an Izutarian sister, and I should hope to see one before my spirit leaves this flesh.”
The old woman had departed them in the company of O’naal, of all people, and a few of his followers. After seeing the manner of King Sharaal’s rule, O’naal wisely decided he should earn his way in friendlier realms. Kian guessed that too few would follow O’naal’s path, to their grief.