Kingsbane (Empirium 2)

Simon’s hand cupped the back of her head, and when his fingers grazed her neck, gently stroking in small circles, she shivered and nuzzled her cheek against his chest without quite realizing what she was doing.

“Now,” he replied, his voice as weary as her own, “the real work begins.”

11

Rielle

“My father’s illness is not abating. He speaks of things I do not understand, his words jumbled and angry. Sometimes he knows my face. Sometimes he shrinks from me, screaming in terror, as if I am some nightmarish monster come to claim him for death. I beg you to visit Styrdalleen and assess his condition for yourself. We are fast losing what hope we had left.”

—A letter from Ilmaire Lysleva, prince of Borsvall, to the headmaster of the School of the Healing Arts in the Mazabatian city of Damezi

Upon returning to Styrdalleen, their party was met at the lower yards of the castle Tarkstorm by a pale man in a plain gray tunic and coat, flanked by four wide-eyed attendants.

“My lord prince,” the man said, breathlessly, “your father has asked to see you at once.”

“Is he dying?” Ingrid’s words fell flat as stones.

“No, Commander. But…” The man glanced at Rielle, uncertain. “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in private, en route to His Majesty’s rooms.”

“Our friends deserve to know the true health of their ally,” Ilmaire said, his voice heavy with a new weariness. “Take us to him, Arvo.”

The man looked helplessly at Rielle, then Audric, then tightened the line of his mouth and turned sharply on his heel.

They followed him up the terraced yards of Tarkstorm, their pace swift with some barely contained panic Rielle did not understand.

“Ilmaire,” Audric said quietly, “if you must attend to a family affair, we’ll happily wait in our rooms.”

“It’s as I said,” Ilmaire replied, his worried gaze trained on the ground before his feet. “You deserve to understand the true desperation of our plight here in Borsvall.”

What does that mean? Rielle asked Ludivine, all thoughts of the Gate and Ludivine’s scarred arm and Atheria’s whereabouts flown from her mind. The air buzzed with a fear she could not name, as if gray clouds had fallen over their group, though the sky was bright blue, the sunlight crisp and cold.

He’s lying, Ludivine answered, her voice thoughtful but unafraid. He wants our help, our insight, but he doesn’t want to say that aloud. He knows I’m reading his thoughts. He is confused and afraid, but he has a theory. He…

She paused, and then her presence in Rielle’s mind sharpened, as if newly awake.

Be on your guard, she instructed, with an icy edge to her thoughts that sent fear skipping down Rielle’s arms. I can’t pinpoint it. Something is preventing me from doing so. But I know this: we are not alone.

• • •

The king’s apartments were quiet and dark, drapes pulled shut against the afternoon sunlight.

The king’s healer, Arvo, insisted that the light hurt His Majesty’s eyes, that the sight of the mountainous vista outside his rooms distressed him, for it reminded him of all that he could no longer enjoy—his city, his people, his morning rides with Runa.

Ilmaire, apparently, did not care.

Rielle watched as he strode across the room and opened the drapes. Sunlight poured in, bright and pale, tinged with snow.

From his bed, the king cried out softly. Ingrid, watching from the bedroom’s threshold, flinched at the sound. She seemed smaller in these rooms, shrunken by the stale, sick-smelling air, as if the presence of her ailing father had reduced her to the girl she had once been.

Why are we here for this? Rielle asked, tense at Audric’s side. She fought the childish urge to hide behind him. Something about this room—its shadows, the smell of it, the sight of the king’s body beneath his blankets—crawled inside her like disease.

He wants us to see something, Ludivine said. Be ready to run if I tell you to. Take Audric and run. Fight, if you must.

“Hello, Father,” Ilmaire said, a forced brightness in his voice. “How are you feeling today?”

Rielle’s father had described Hallvard Lysleva as a mighty man, tall and proud. But now the king of Borsvall lay shriveled beneath a pile of blankets—muscles atrophied, skin hanging off his bones. He squinted against the sunlight, gesturing feebly to shield his eyes.

“Too bright,” he croaked, his chapped mouth twisting. “No more!”

Ilmaire wedged open one of the terrace windows. A thin slice of frigid air punched its way inside.

“Sorry, Father,” he said cheerfully. “You need fresh air, and you need sunlight. It isn’t healthy to lie here in the dark day and night.”

“How dare you.” Hallvard glared at Ilmaire as he approached. “I am the king. You are no one.”

Ilmaire sat in a chair beside the bed. “Now, Father,” he said mildly, “you know that’s not right. I am the prince. I am your heir.”

“You? Danzdyrka?” Hallvard laughed, long and wheezing, letting loose a trail of discolored spittle.

“Danzdyrka?” Rielle whispered.

“A title given to junior dancers at the royal theater,” Audric muttered in reply.

But, in this case, Ludivine said, not a title of honor. A title of scorn. He has long been scorned by his father. His heart aches from it.

“Runa,” the king continued, his voice a thin rasp. “Runa is my heir.”

Near the door, Ingrid turned away, fingers clenched at her sides.

Ilmaire touched his father’s hand. The man’s skin looked cracked, brittle. Rielle had the wild thought that if Ilmaire pinched two fingers together, he could pull off an entire piece of the king’s flesh, like a hunk of stale bread.

“Father, Runa is dead,” Ilmaire said gently. “You know this.”

“Lies! You lie to me!” And then, abruptly, the king began to weep—thin, keening sobs that reminded Rielle of the sounds a wounded animal might make before its pain pulled it under.

She felt pressed flat beneath the weight of a rising panic. Audric’s hand found hers, and squeezed.

We shouldn’t be here, she told Ludivine. We should leave now.

“Father, if you’ll indulge me.” Ilmaire cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like to hear about my trip to the Sunderlands with Prince Audric of Celdaria.”

The king’s wailing came to a shuddering halt. “What?” He struggled to position himself against the pillows piled along his headboard. “You did what?” ’s hand cupped the back of her head, and when his fingers grazed her neck, gently stroking in small circles, she shivered and nuzzled her cheek against his chest without quite realizing what she was doing.

“Now,” he replied, his voice as weary as her own, “the real work begins.”

11

Rielle

“My father’s illness is not abating. He speaks of things I do not understand, his words jumbled and angry. Sometimes he knows my face. Sometimes he shrinks from me, screaming in terror, as if I am some nightmarish monster come to claim him for death. I beg you to visit Styrdalleen and assess his condition for yourself. We are fast losing what hope we had left.”

—A letter from Ilmaire Lysleva, prince of Borsvall, to the headmaster of the School of the Healing Arts in the Mazabatian city of Damezi

Upon returning to Styrdalleen, their party was met at the lower yards of the castle Tarkstorm by a pale man in a plain gray tunic and coat, flanked by four wide-eyed attendants.

“My lord prince,” the man said, breathlessly, “your father has asked to see you at once.”

“Is he dying?” Ingrid’s words fell flat as stones.

“No, Commander. But…” The man glanced at Rielle, uncertain. “Perhaps it would be best if we spoke in private, en route to His Majesty’s rooms.”

“Our friends deserve to know the true health of their ally,” Ilmaire said, his voice heavy with a new weariness. “Take us to him, Arvo.”

The man looked helplessly at Rielle, then Audric, then tightened the line of his mouth and turned sharply on his heel.

They followed him up the terraced yards of Tarkstorm, their pace swift with some barely contained panic Rielle did not understand.

“Ilmaire,” Audric said quietly, “if you must attend to a family affair, we’ll happily wait in our rooms.”

“It’s as I said,” Ilmaire replied, his worried gaze trained on the ground before his feet. “You deserve to understand the true desperation of our plight here in Borsvall.”

What does that mean? Rielle asked Ludivine, all thoughts of the Gate and Ludivine’s scarred arm and Atheria’s whereabouts flown from her mind. The air buzzed with a fear she could not name, as if gray clouds had fallen over their group, though the sky was bright blue, the sunlight crisp and cold.

He’s lying, Ludivine answered, her voice thoughtful but unafraid. He wants our help, our insight, but he doesn’t want to say that aloud. He knows I’m reading his thoughts. He is confused and afraid, but he has a theory. He…

She paused, and then her presence in Rielle’s mind sharpened, as if newly awake.

Be on your guard, she instructed, with an icy edge to her thoughts that sent fear skipping down Rielle’s arms. I can’t pinpoint it. Something is preventing me from doing so. But I know this: we are not alone.

• • •

The king’s apartments were quiet and dark, drapes pulled shut against the afternoon sunlight.

The king’s healer, Arvo, insisted that the light hurt His Majesty’s eyes, that the sight of the mountainous vista outside his rooms distressed him, for it reminded him of all that he could no longer enjoy—his city, his people, his morning rides with Runa.

Ilmaire, apparently, did not care.

Rielle watched as he strode across the room and opened the drapes. Sunlight poured in, bright and pale, tinged with snow.

From his bed, the king cried out softly. Ingrid, watching from the bedroom’s threshold, flinched at the sound. She seemed smaller in these rooms, shrunken by the stale, sick-smelling air, as if the presence of her ailing father had reduced her to the girl she had once been.

Why are we here for this? Rielle asked, tense at Audric’s side. She fought the childish urge to hide behind him. Something about this room—its shadows, the smell of it, the sight of the king’s body beneath his blankets—crawled inside her like disease.

He wants us to see something, Ludivine said. Be ready to run if I tell you to. Take Audric and run. Fight, if you must.

“Hello, Father,” Ilmaire said, a forced brightness in his voice. “How are you feeling today?”

Rielle’s father had described Hallvard Lysleva as a mighty man, tall and proud. But now the king of Borsvall lay shriveled beneath a pile of blankets—muscles atrophied, skin hanging off his bones. He squinted against the sunlight, gesturing feebly to shield his eyes.

“Too bright,” he croaked, his chapped mouth twisting. “No more!”

Ilmaire wedged open one of the terrace windows. A thin slice of frigid air punched its way inside.

“Sorry, Father,” he said cheerfully. “You need fresh air, and you need sunlight. It isn’t healthy to lie here in the dark day and night.”

“How dare you.” Hallvard glared at Ilmaire as he approached. “I am the king. You are no one.”

Ilmaire sat in a chair beside the bed. “Now, Father,” he said mildly, “you know that’s not right. I am the prince. I am your heir.”

“You? Danzdyrka?” Hallvard laughed, long and wheezing, letting loose a trail of discolored spittle.

“Danzdyrka?” Rielle whispered.

“A title given to junior dancers at the royal theater,” Audric muttered in reply.

But, in this case, Ludivine said, not a title of honor. A title of scorn. He has long been scorned by his father. His heart aches from it.

“Runa,” the king continued, his voice a thin rasp. “Runa is my heir.”

Near the door, Ingrid turned away, fingers clenched at her sides.

Ilmaire touched his father’s hand. The man’s skin looked cracked, brittle. Rielle had the wild thought that if Ilmaire pinched two fingers together, he could pull off an entire piece of the king’s flesh, like a hunk of stale bread.

“Father, Runa is dead,” Ilmaire said gently. “You know this.”

“Lies! You lie to me!” And then, abruptly, the king began to weep—thin, keening sobs that reminded Rielle of the sounds a wounded animal might make before its pain pulled it under.

She felt pressed flat beneath the weight of a rising panic. Audric’s hand found hers, and squeezed.

We shouldn’t be here, she told Ludivine. We should leave now.

“Father, if you’ll indulge me.” Ilmaire cleared his throat. “Perhaps you’d like to hear about my trip to the Sunderlands with Prince Audric of Celdaria.”

The king’s wailing came to a shuddering halt. “What?” He struggled to position himself against the pillows piled along his headboard. “You did what?”