The Crown of the Conqueror (27 page)

  "Please, king, please! I'm just delivering the letter. It's from Anglhan, not me!"

  Ullsaard grabbed a handful of Furlthia's hair and dragged him up to his knees. With his other hand, the king thrust the letter into Furlthia's face.

  "Can you read, you little shit?"

  "Yes, king, yes."

  "Then read it! Look what message Anglhan has sent me."

  Through tears, Furlthia tried to make sense of the scrawled marks. It was written in Askhan, and used some words that he did not understand. Forcing the fear from his mind, he concentrated, trying to understand what had provoked such a reaction.

  The start of the letter laid out what Furlthia had already explained: Anglhan's secession from Greater Askhor. It went into some detail on this, which Furlthia skipped over on the second reading. The letter went on to make various demands for the withdrawal of the Askhan legions across the border into Ersua, and insisted that Ullsaard agree to take no military action or other reprimand against the city of Magilnada or its territory.

  It was not until the end that Furlthia realised what Anglhan had done. The letter ended pleasantly enough, assuring Ullsaard that as a free city Magilnada would uphold its previous trade agreements with Askh. The last line was the guarantee that made Anglhan so confident. On the face of it, the words were innocuous enough. Furlthia read them several times, realising how much weight could be put into a single sentence, and why Ullsaard was so enraged.

  The parting comment simply read:
Also rest assured that I will continue to protect your family and friends for the remainder of their stay in my city.

  Furlthia turned wide, disbelieving eyes to the king. Ullsaard let go of Furlthia's hair, stepped back, took the letter from his weak fingers and folded it crisply before tucking the parchment into his belt.

  "I had no idea…" said Furlthia.

  "That just makes you an idiot, not an accomplice," replied the king.

  Ullsaard turned away and Furlthia let out an explosive breath of relief. He looked up at the cloudless sky and let his hands drop to the dirt, feeling it between his fingers, the grass rubbing against his palms.

  Almost quicker than Furlthia could follow, Ullsaard span back, sword sliding from sheath. In one motion, the king struck, plunging the tip of the blade into the flesh between neck and shoulder, driving it down into Furlthia's chest.

  Furlthia felt only a moment of pain before he died; his last vision was of the Askhan king's hate-filled eyes boring into him, blood spattered across his bearded, weathered face.

 

The wreckage of clay pots, plates, tables and chairs littered the pavilion. Ullsaard's campaign throne lay upended against a roof pole. The ornately carved and painted panels were stained with splashes of wine, running down the vistas of Askhor like blood.

  The king lay in a stupor, surrounded by crushed goblets and shattered jugs, his shirt wet with sweat and wine. His breastplate lay where it had been flung, his helmet at the other end of the room. Ullsaard murmured in his sleep, grunting and growling; his gnarled hands clenched and unclenched in torment, as the king was gripped by wine-fuelled nightmares.

  Askhos walked out of the flames that engulfed Ullsaard's dreams, clad in the finest robes of state. A red cloak trailed behind him, edged with white fur. Upon his breastplate snarled the etched face of an ailur and his hair hung in oiled curls about his shoulders.

  Naked and shivering, Ullsaard looked up from a bed of hot ash.

  "Not now," he snarled.

  "Neither of us seems to have a choice," replied the dead king. "I would rather leave you to your unpleasant fantasies."

  Ullsaard rolled away, eyes screwed shut.

  "I do not think it works like that," said Askhos.

  With a deep-throated growl, Ullsaard sat up, bringing his knees to his chest, arms clasped around his legs. Smoke from the all-encompassing fire swirled into a column and formed a stool for Askhos to sit.

  "How do you do that?" asked Ullsaard.

  "Practice," said Askhos. "I have a lot of time on my hands at the moment. It gives me plenty of opportunity to explore every dark corner of your mind. I would have thought you had more control over it, but apparently not."

  The fires burned white as a wave of irritation swept through Ullsaard. He flinched at their sudden ferocity. As the king's mood settled, the flames quietened.

  "So, what are you going to tell me now" he asked, resting his chin on his knees.

  "I think you already know."

  "I am not going to attack Magilnada."

  "It seems my purpose has become that of bearer of bad news, Ullsaard." Askhos ran the fingers of one hand through his beard, tugging at the tight loops of hair. "Maybe that is why we keep getting brought together."

  "You're my conscience?"

  "The opposite. I have been cast in the role of the truth-teller. You cannot let Anglhan hold hostages against you. It is a neverending negotiation from which you cannot escape. Call his bluff. Attack the city."

  "And he will kill Allenya, and Noran, and Meliu. Anglhan is sly, but he never lets go an advantage without a fight. I can't do it."

  "You think Allenya is special? She is not. How many wives have I had over two hundred years? Save for the first, my darling Ausieta, I have chosen none of them. And I have outlived them all. It is a sad thing to lose one you love, but you must be stronger than that."

  "Jutaar is dead. Allenya probably doesn't even know yet. This isn't her fault. I can't have her death on my hands as well."

  "Fault? What has fault go to do with anything? Was it that messenger's fault that he happened to carry Anglhan's letter?"

  "I acted in anger. I'll not repeat the mistake with my wife's life."

  "And so we come back to where all of these conversations seem to end. You did so much to take my Crown, but now that you have it you have become weak. Perhaps we are seeing the lie of your ambition. You did not kill Lutaar because the empire was growing soft. You stole the Crown for yourself. The first small hurdle, the first obstacle Anglhan throws in your path, and you cringe from what you have to do."

  "I will find another way," said Ullsaard. He stood up and faced Askhos, fists balled at his sides. "Anglhan will pay for what he has done."

  "Words, words, words! Do what you have to do, Ullsaard. Destroy Magilnada; kill this traitor that makes a mockery of you. I felt the shame you felt, when you had to order your army to stand down. It sickened me more than you can imagine. I heard those Salphor bastards laughing, heard the discontent amongst our men. And you explain nothing to them. You cannot. You know they will tell you the same thing I am telling you know. Destroy Anglhan. Pay the price you have to pay."

  "I will not!"

  "And you will fail. Piece by piece, Greater Askhor will crumble without strength, without the respect for the Blood that held it together. The governors will see your weakness and they will take your power. They will fight like dogs over the scraps of the empire's carcass. If you are lucky, you will not live long enough to see it."

  "And you? When I die, what happens to the almighty, immortal Askhos? Perhaps it is that fear that drives you? When I am gone, will you be gone as well?"

  Askhos sagged, the point of his gaze moving into the flames.

  "I do not know. Perhaps the end of Ullsaard will be the end of Askhos." He turned his attention back to the king. "It will certainly be the end of Greater Askhor."

  "Then we both have good reason to keep me alive," Ullsaard said. He smiled grimly and folded his arms across his scarred chest. He wondered briefly why his dream-body was still marred by the marks of his worldly injuries while Askhos seemed untouched. The thought fluttered away as it soon as it appeared. "Maybe now you realise you should be doing everything you can to help me, rather than arguing against every course I choose?"

  Askhos laughed and shrugged.

  "Maybe I will have to accept that. It is such a shame that you did not kill Kalmud and Ersuan as well as Aalun. With my mind and your body, I could have done great things."

  "There's no reason we can't do great things as we are."

  The dead king studied Ullsaard shrewdly for some time. He gave a slight nod and smiled.

  "No reason at all."

 

The words meant nothing, yet the incessant chants reverberating from the stone echoed within Erlaan's bones and skittered along his nerves. He lost himself in the monotony. There were no days and no nights, no mealtimes and no need to sleep. Time did not pass, yet his heart beat, his lungs filled and emptied, the invocation changed in pitch and tempo. This place was timeless, yet it was eternal.

  He watched over his father, from a stool set beside Kalmud's bed. Like all else, Erlaan's father did not move, his condition neither worsening nor improving. In the Temple, he felt closer to his father than ever before, an almost physical link between them. When he laid his hand upon Kalmud's chest or brow, Erlaan's flesh tingled at the touch. He felt the flickers of fevered dreams that raged in his father's mind.

  "It is the power of the Blood."

  Erlaan looked to the doorway and saw the withered high priest Lakhyri, standing motionless in the square arch as if he were a statue that had always been there. When he spoke, only his lips moved, the barest twitch of muscle beneath the taut skin of his face, every other part of him frozen.

  "The same energy that fuels the Blood is the source of the Temple's power," Lakhyri continued. "That is why you feel its presence, why you feel that you belong in this place."

  "The chanting, it draws in the energy of the world," Erlaan said. "I sense the ebb and flow of its tides. I feel something else, though, a tugging at my spirit, like a hole that opens up beneath us."

  "The power of the Temple is weakening," Lakhyri said with a single, slow nod. "It took much of the remaining energy to bring you and your father to this place."

  "Why did you? Why are we so important that you would do that?"

  "You are the true heirs to the Blood. It is imperative that you survive. The Blood must rule the empire. You will be restored to your rightful place and the course of the empire shall be corrected, returning to the path that has been laid down."

  "What of Ullsaard? He is king now. Why is he so wrong for Askhor?"

  The tiniest flicker of agitation passed across Lakhyri's face, so fleeting that Erlaan wondered if he had imagined it.

  "He is a usurper," said the high priest. "He does not belong. He is not part of the plan. Your father is the true heir to the empire, and you after him."

  "That's why you're keeping him alive?"

  Lakhyri's lips twisted fractionally at the corners, distorting the runes carved into his cheeks. Erlaan realised it was a smile, more grotesque and frightening than anything he had seen. What could amuse such a creature?

  "It is not I who sustains your father, nor the powers of the Temple. It is from you that he draws sustenance. You give over to him your own life. Every moment that you feed him with your spirit is a moment taken from your mortal span."

  Erlaan instinctively drew back his hand from Kalmud's chest, and felt a sudden pang of guilt that his natural reaction was so selfish. Even so, he did not put back his hand.

  "Why did you not tell me sooner?" the prince asked.

  "So that you would know what it feels like to make such a decision."

  "Decision? What decision?"

  "Whether your father lives or dies."

  As horrifying as the idea was, Erlaan felt no shock at the thought of his father's life being in his hands. This was a place that teetered on the line between life and death, existence and oblivion. The idea of responsibility, of becoming king, had terrified Erlaan, but in the Temple there was nothing that felt more natural.

  "The choice you face is harsher than you think," said Lakhyri, breaking Erlaan's train of thought.

  "Harsher? What could be harsher than life or death?"

  "A quick or slow death. I see from your eyes that you already are considering whether it is worth the expenditure of your life to perpetuate this half-existence of your father. There is another option. That flutter of life that still beats in your father's breast, it is weak, but it exists. It is in your power to take it for yourself."

  "Steal his life force?" It was a genuine inquiry, not an admonishment. Erlaan wondered why the suggestion did not fill him with disgust. Why did he spend even a moment contemplating such a thing?

  "Your father's opportunity has passed, Erlaan." It was the first time Lakhyri had addressed him by name. The high priest stepped into the room. His words were delivered in the same flat manner as before, without pity or distaste, but his eyes betrayed just a shred of lingering humanity as he continued. "Your chance is now. To let your father dwindle away would be doubly disrespectful. End his suffering now, and use the last of his strength for yourself, to reclaim that which belongs to you."

  Erlaan said nothing, but his mind was awhirl with the implications. His father's life hung by a narrow thread, all that remained between Erlaan and becoming the heir to Askhos. Was it selfishness to cut that thread, or was it a mercy? He turned back to Kalmud and placed the tips of his fingers on his cold brow.

  "The empire has already taken his life," said Erlaan. "It would be a waste to let what remains slip away without purpose. What do I do?"

  "You already know."

  Taking a breath, Erlaan stared at his stricken father. He could feel the tremor of a pulse, not in his fingers, but somewhere deeper, in his veins. It took no effort, Blood calling to Blood, drawing to its own. Erlaan felt the slightest shift within, a momentary change of current between him and Kalmud.