A Dance of Dragons: Series Starter Bundle (25 page)

The commoners stopped as he rolled by,
careful not to move, not to breathe, and especially not to dare
look into the window. Their clothes were loose, without shape,
aside from the occasional metal belt around the waist. Homes were
rectangular—small boxes piled atop one another. The bridges were
firm. Even as Rhen looked below at the far fall down steep cliffs,
he was not worried—the Ourthuri were known for their craftsmanship,
for their unbelievable skill, which unfortunately put the
blacksmiths of Whylkin to shame.

No, the more Rhen watched, the more he
marveled at the sight.

As they continued to climb, houses gained
more shape. Copper window frames, dome-like silver roofs. But no
glass, he realized. All of the houses were open, welcoming in the
wind, blocking it only with thin gauzy curtains that seemed more
for privacy than anything else.

Jewelry clanked around people's ankles,
their necks, draped from their earlobes—both sexes alike. As they
entered the silver district, headdresses of woven metal dripped
down women's foreheads, covering their faces like veils. The one
consistency, whether rich or poor, was the open sleeves. Every
person was bare from shoulder to fingertip, his or her tattoo the
only decoration of need. And the higher Rhen climbed, the more
intricate, deluxe, and lengthy those tattoos became.

Suddenly, gold surged into Rhen's view,
tickling his irises from the brightness. After a moment, he
realized they had crossed a golden bridge, carrying them higher
into the topmost platform of the city—the palace.

As they rolled through a towering golden
archway, the spindles of the great pulleys took up Rhen's entire
view. Giant golden wheels stretching at least one hundred feet
across were circling slowly. The steps of a thousand men stomping
in unison thundered in Rhen's ears, deafening in their roar as the
unmarked moved to bring the platforms higher and higher up, pushing
golden spires in circles all day and night.

This was King Razzaq's show of power. His
mode of intimidation.

And damn it if Rhen couldn’t hold back a
gulp, his throat suddenly dry and his palms increasingly
sweaty.

At a time like this, it was hard to believe
that his people outnumbered the Ourthuri ten to one. That his army
was greater, his ships stronger, his land heartier.

The carriage stopped.

The servant scurried down from beside the
driver to open the door, and Rhen emerged into the bright sun of
the palace courtyard, fighting the urge to put a hand over his
eyes.

The scene did not disappoint. Brilliant
golden spires, domes, and pillars sunk in and out of the earth to
create the palace. It was not as tall as the castle at Rayfort,
built from gleaming white stone slabs, but it was just as grand.
Stretching wider and longer, far more open in its corridors, as
though the king had nothing to fear, was not worried about
protection.

There were no walls. No slits for arrows. No
fortified enclosures.

This was a king secure in his power.

And Rhen wished for nothing more than to run
through the front corridor and plunge his golden sword right
through King Razzaq's chest—just to prove him wrong—but he held
steady, muscles hard as the rock beneath his feet.

Wordlessly, Rhen followed the servant,
regaining his hold on the prisoners as they walked across the
courtyard, through several rows of thick columns and into a grand
atrium.

Not one door, Rhen shook his head, amazed at
the hubris on display here.

Halfway through the giant room, the servant
fell to his knees, arms plastered flat against the floor. Behind
him, Rhen felt his prisoners struggle to do the same.

For his part, Rhen inclined his head in
greeting at the man sitting yards away in his golden throne. A
headdress almost as large as King Razzaq's face sat atop his brow,
dripping in jewels and golden chain links. But more than anything,
Rhen took in the black tattoos curving and swirling all the way up
his arms, ringing the base of his wrists up through his shoulders.
Floral designs, island mountains, faces, animals, stones—everything
Rhen could imagine was painted with intricate detail on the king's
arms. A permanent display of his place above his people.

To each side, a series of guards stood, arms
decorated with varying levels of lines and dots. Over their flowing
robes were metal plates of armor. In each hand, a metal weapon.

Rhen looked at the iron chain in his hand,
feeling how out of place it was. Even chains were made of gold
here.

"Prince Whylrhen, welcome to Da'astiku. What
brings you to Ourthuro?"

Rhen tugged the men behind him forward,
watching the king's reaction. His black-brown eyes remained
impassive. His larger build didn’t jerk or bend. His darkened olive
skin didn't pale.

Someone must have sent word, Rhen concluded,
but no matter. He would press forward.

"King Razzaq," he inclined his head, "My
king thanks you for your kindness in welcoming his son to your
grand home. I am overwhelmed by the bountiful city I have seen thus
far. A true masterpiece."

"We thank you," the king nodded ever so
slightly, the muscles on his thick neck coiling.

"I have traveled far to return these four
men to your person. We found a ship floating aimlessly through our
waters, adorned with the flag of your great kingdom, and took it
upon ourselves to search for survivors. Locked below deck, we found
these four men alone in the dark. In a show of no bad will between
our two kingdoms, peaceful now for over a hundred years, I, a Son
of Whyl, came to deliver them unharmed."

"Step forward," the king commanded, eyes
narrowing on the four men. His pupils shifted to their wrists,
checking each for a station, pausing on the unmarked man the
longest.

Raising his hand, the king flicked two
fingers toward the group.

Before Rhen could move, four spears soared
through the air, followed by the thud of four bodies falling to the
ground.

He gasped, fighting the jerk of his limbs,
trying not to show any weakness.

It didn't matter.

A cry echoed through the hall, piercing his
ears, surprising everyone—everyone aside from the unaffected King
Razzaq. Even the guards jumped slightly.

Rhen furrowed his brows, searching for the
source of the noise through the walls of thick columns, but there
were too many places for someone to hide.

Blood pooled by his feet, brilliant red and
glistening from the reflections of the sun. Unable to stop himself,
Rhen looked down, into the eyes of the unmarked man. They held no
shock. No surprise. Almost as if he knew this would be his
fate.

But why not mention it? Why not fight to
survive?

Rhen's gaze returned to the king, who
studied him with a slight smile on his lips. What did the man know?
What plan was circling in that calculated gaze?

"We thank you, Son of Whyl, for returning
these men, but as you can see it was unnecessary. Traitors have no
place in Da'astiku."

"Had I known their fate, I would not have
dishonored this palace with their presence."

King Razzaq waved his hand aimlessly through
the air, shaking his head. "It is no matter." He paused, leaning
forward ever so slightly. "Tell me, Prince Whylrhen, how is your
king? We hear Whylkin has a new son to welcome."

"The kingdom rejoices, and with it, its
king." Rhen held his hands behind his back, widening his stance and
gaining a more relaxed pose despite the tightness in his lungs. The
air felt heavy, electric somehow. His eyes flicked around, looking
at the spaces between the columns, trying to find a stone out of
place. But each curve blended into the next, deeper and deeper,
until his mind hurt from the illusion.

Something within Rhen did not feel
right.

An unease burrowed between his shoulders,
coiling into a painful knot.

"Our own son is not old enough to birth
children, but we can only imagine the joy of solidifying the future
of the kingdom with another strong heir. We are surprised you were
able to leave such celebrations. Did you not miss it?"

"King Razzaq," Rhen said, forcing his voice
to carry louder as his nerves grew. Why had he come alone? He was a
prince, not a spy. A prince, no matter what he wanted. That
position demanded protection. "You have touched my heart with your
concern. I did in fact miss it, but I did what any good son would
and followed my father's commands. The prisoners were delivered
unharmed." Rhen looked at the blood seeping under his shoe, his
chest burning with injustice. "And now I must bid farewell and
return to my kingdom."

"Will you not stay for one meal? Surely the
longs days of travel were tiresome."

Rhen raked the room with his eyes, noticing
that a few more guards had moved around the columns, holding their
curved swords before their faces, alert.

His own fingers itched for the smooth hilt
of his weapon.

"I am afraid, great King, that I
cannot."

Rhen swallowed his spit, wetting his
scratchy throat. Steps drummed in his ear, loud in the silence of
the hall. A guard walked past him, bowing on bended knee at the
base of the throne before handing the king a golden box.

Rhen stepped back, creating red footprints
on the tiles below his feet.

Something was very wrong here.

"We are very surprised by your urgency, dear
Prince."

"My captain waits for me."

He took another step back, making no
pretense to hide the hand reaching for his sword.

The king smiled wider, fully opening the
golden box in his lap. His arm muscles flexed, rippling along his
tattoo, as he clutched at an item out of Rhen's view.

Slowly, he lifted.

White strings circled his fingers.

White curls.

Moving quickly, King Razzaq jerked. His arm
pulsed fully aloft, throwing the object at Rhen.

It rolled, over and over, with a red river
flowing in its wake.

Only when it stopped at his feet, did Rhen
see the blue eyes looking up at him—the eyes of the father he
always wished he had.

"Your captain waits for nothing."

The words like knives pierced Rhen, sinking
under his skin and cutting him apart. His hands shook. His eyes
widened, water pooling at their bases. But his pupils were like
iron, nailing King Razzaq to his throne.

In one swift movement, Rhen pulled his sword
from its scabbard, charging. A furious yell spilled from his lips,
echoing through the hall, bouncing from column to column with no
wall to stop it.

He bounded the steps, eyes on the throat of
his enemy—a throat gyrating from laughter. A throat that would look
much better cut in half.

Hands gripped his ankles, and Rhen fell,
forehead slamming against the step in front of him. Drops of blood
slipped from his brow, blocking his vision. Black dots invaded his
sight.

But it would not stop him.

Swinging blindly, his sword dug into
something. A cry hit his ear. Rhen rolled to the side, narrowly
missing the blade that clanged to the ground next to him. Wiping
the blood from his eyes, he kicked out, slamming his foot into a
guard. His sword followed, partially severing the man's arm.

Rhen jumped to his feet.

There were too many of them. Everywhere Rhen
looked, gold plated men were running toward him, eyeing him,
pausing just out of reach.

Circling.

Like an animal, Rhen was trapped.

"My father will destroy you," Rhen seethed,
sword still held up for protection.

"We don't believe so," King Razzaq chuckled.
Then deeper, "Disarm him."

As one, the ten men surrounding Rhen jumped
forward, careful not to scrape his body. Five swords crashed down
on his blade. Rhen lost his grip, letting his weapon clang
uselessly against the floor. It reverberated throughout the atrium
in an echo that faded along with Rhen's hopes. Along with his
dreams. Until his heart felt empty.

There was no fight left.

A boot shoved into his back. Hands gripped
his arms, pushing him to the ground, securing him.

Rhen couldn't move. He could hardly breathe
against the pain searing his joints as the guards continued tugging
his limbs. Try as he might to squirm away, there was no
freedom.

A hand gripped his hair, forcing his face
up, forcing his eyes to the king, who dismounted the throne and
stepped down off his dais.

Leaning in close, so that Rhen could smell
the fish on his breath, King Razzaq whispered, "See, dear boy,
unlike your father, I have friends outside of my palace—friends who
informed me that the youngest Son of Whyl had run away from the
castle again, without a word to anyone. Your father has no idea
where you are. But I know just what you've been up to."

"Your friends have been misinformed," Rhen
spat, louder so the guards could hear. Sweat dripped from his lip
as his body strained. "Before I set sail, I left a note for my
father, sealed with my personal royal emblem. My king knows exactly
where I am."

King Razzaq stood, eyes widening slightly as
he clasped his hands behind his back, trying to read Rhen's
expression.

Time to push it further, praying Cal had
indeed sent the note.

"If I am not home for the Naming, my father
will know exactly what happened to me. And he will come. No amount
of gold in the world would stop him."

The king's eyes narrowed. After a moment, he
flicked his gaze to one of the guards behind Rhen and nodded to the
right.

Louder, so the room could hear, King Razzaq
pronounced Rhen's fate. "You will die, Prince Whylrhen, just like
the others you came with. And I will return your lifeless, drowned
body to the king myself—a sign of no bad will between two peaceful
kingdoms, of course."

He winked.