Chapter 100
100
W RYTH STOOD ONCE again in the shadows of the castle’s tourney yard, as yet another celebration was underway for Prince Mikaen. Only, on this night of the winter solstice, the prince carried a new title: Highking Mikaen ry Massif, the Crown’d Lord of Hálendii, rightful ruler of all the kingdom and its territories.
Mikaen had been coronated earlier in the day, but the night’s festivities had drawn him to the royal balcony overlooking the bonfires, the waving banners, the milling celebrants. He was expected to give a speech, his first as the crowned ruler.
Finally, a trumpet sounded, and Mikaen crossed to the balcony rail. He waited for the cheering and horns to fall silent. He was dressed resplendently in velvet and fur. The jewels of his crown sparked in the firelight—as did his silver mask, now adorned with a single tear inscribed there in honor of his murdered father.
When Mikaen reached the balcony rail, he shrugged back his velvet cape to reveal his children, one under each arm. He smiled broadly and for once sincerely. The love he had for his son and daughter was as authentic as that silver tear was false. He hiked the two babes higher to renewed cheers. His name was chanted for a quarter-bell.
Mikaen waited for it to end, then spoke in a booming voice. “See my shining daughter and bright son! They were born on the morning after my father died! As if the Father Above knew Hálendii had been unjustly aggrieved and blessed our lands with new life.”
Wryth scowled, but he still appreciated the sham drama of it all.
He suspected it was Mikaen’s love for his children that had ultimately spurred the murder of his father. After the Hyperium had returned, Toranth had raged at those in charge, but his animus had fallen heavily upon his son, especially upon learning what had befallen Prince Kanthe. In a fit of rage, the king had blustered that he might yet seek a new queen to bear him a new son, one more deserving of the throne. Those last words, spoken out of anger, likely drove that sword down his throat.
Up on the balcony, Mikaen passed his daughter back to Myella, the new queen consort. He faced the crowd and lifted his son high. The babe squalled loudly. Mikaen gazed up with fatherly pride.
“Hear his cry, my legions! Hear him herald the dawn to come. With the light of the new day, a new era will be born as surely as my son.” His voice boomed louder. “It will be a New Dawn! And I will be the New Sun, to bring Hálendii to greater glory!”
The crowd roared again.
Wryth could stand it no longer and turned into the shadows. He knew the coming daybreak wouldn’t herald a New Dawn —but a Dark Age.
And it was already starting.
Before leaving, Wryth had spied the captain of the Silvergard sharing the royal balcony, ever at Mikaen’s side. Only now Thoryn wore the laurels of a liege general on his breastplate. His predecessor, Reddak, currently hung outside the Legionary, unidentifiable now, ravaged by crows and flies.
Many others had met similar ends as Mikaen systematically cleared the palace. Toranth’s chamberlain, Mallock, was found drowned in his own chamber pot. Provost Balyn had been trampled by horses. The mayor of Azantiia had been skewered from arse to mouth and found floating in a sewage bilge. Treasurer Hesst had been spared the purge, likely because the man knew where all the gold was hidden. And in times of war, such men were worth their weight in the same coinage.
Wryth had also survived, strangely enough due to Prince Kanthe. Wryth had heard what had happened aboard the Hyperium. Mikaen was convinced his brother had somehow bewitched one of his crimson-faced Silvergard into aiding his escape. It sounded outlandish, but Wryth knew better than to discourage this belief. As with Treasurer Hesst, Wryth only lived because Mikaen believed he and his fellow Iflelen could be useful, especially when it came to thwarting daemonic witchery.
Still, Wryth remained intrigued by what had happened aboard the Hyperium, wondering what had truly transpired. But it had been a long night, and such mysteries could wait until the morning.
As he headed down into the Shrivenkeep, he pondered ways to turn this to his advantage. Distracted by such thoughts—and still dwelling on the catastrophe from a month ago—Wryth found himself standing before the sanctum of the Iflelen. He touched the sigil inscribed on its ebonwood door: the horn’d snaken of Lord ? reyk. He could not shake the sense of defeat, both above his head and down here.
As he stood there, he heard a mumbling voice from inside, sounding worried and frustrated.
Now what?
With a tired grimace, Wryth pushed inside to find the young acolyte Phenic fussing over a bloodbaerne again. At least this time the child was not struggling to wake. The opposite was true. The boy in front of Phenic lay dead in his cradle, his small features sunken and drained.
“Why haven’t you already replaced this one?” Wryth scolded, irritated at yet another problem.
“I… I did… I mean…” Phenic stammered to explain. “This boy… I consecrated him into his cradle about midday.”
“Preposterous. One this young should have lasted three days, maybe four. You must have done something wrong.”
“I swear I didn’t. And it’s not just this boy.” He pointed to the far side. “Another girl was consecrated yesterday, and she is already empty. And I didn’t perform her rite.”
Wryth waved him back. “Stay here and get this boy removed. I’ll go check on the girl.”
He headed across the obsidian chamber, intending to pass through the great instrument to reach the far side. As he neared its heart, a pain stabbed into his right eye, a reminder of the crystal globe’s blast—and his failure.
He stopped to adjust his eye patch.
This was the first time he had returned to this spot, having little reason to do so before now. He glanced around. The debris had been cleared out and the blood scrubbed away. Even the globe’s pedestal had been carted off.
He stared where it had been, unsure if they could ever re-create the globe again. The design had been Skerren’s, and from his frantic last message and the explosion, the man was assuredly dead. Especially as Wryth could still hear that distant scream of fury that had seemed to shatter the crystal. He frowned, remembering Skerren’s last message.
He whispered it to the quiet room. “She is the Vyk dyre Rha ! She has risen.”
As he finished those words, he noticed the room had gone too quiet. All the bloodbaernes had stopped their thumping, not just the two that Phenic had noted.
In the silence, a whisper reached him. “She must be stopped.”
Wryth cringed and stumbled back, striking his shoulder against a corner of the great instrument. Before him, the bronze bust glowed brightly, stirring with energy. He remembered it doing so a month ago, too—after the globe had shattered, as if the blast had transferred power to it.
Only now it shone even more brilliantly.
The bust’s mouth moved faintly. “Must be stopped…”
Wryth took a step closer, balancing between horror and wonder. “Who… who are you?”
Bronze lips formed a name. “Kryst Eligor.”
Wryth leaned closer—then those bronze eyelids snapped open, shining forth with a brilliant azure fire, like two brilliant suns blazing with infernal energies.
The intensity of that gaze drove him to his knees.
“I will guide you!” the voice boomed, forcing Wryth’s brow to the floor.
“To what end?” Wryth asked.
Even with his face lowered, Wryth felt the burn of that gaze.
“To rebuild me.”