Durzo had said it, and more, but Kylar had never really believed him. Momma K had already stabbed Durzo in the back with her lies; Kylar couldn’t do it with his hands.
The moment took on a startling clarity. It froze like a diamond and rotated before his eyes, every facet gleaming, futures shearing off and sparkling. Kylar looked from Elene on his right hand to Durzo on his left, from Durzo to Elene, Elene to Durzo. There was his choice, and their futures. He could kill Elene, the woman he loved, or he could kill Durzo, who had raised him as his son. In every facet, this truth glared pitilessly: If one lived, the other must die.
“No,” Kylar said. “Master, do it. Kill me.”
Durzo looked at him as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“She’s only seen me. She won’t be a threat to anyone if I’m dead. You can take the ka’kari and save your daughter.”
Blint’s eyes filled with a look Kylar had never seen before. The hard, jagged cast of his master’s face seemed to ease and it made him seem a different man, not old and tired and worn, but younger, a man more like Kylar than Kylar had ever imagined Blint could look. Durzo blinked as bottomless wells of grief threatened to spill over in tears. He shook his head. “Just go, son.”
Kylar wanted to go. He wanted to run away, but he was right. It was the only way. He stood there, frozen, but not with indecision. He was just praying that Durzo would act before he lost his courage. What am I saying? I don’t want to die. I want to live. I want to take Elene out of here. I want to—
The door to the duke’s chambers opened and the blood-spattered duchess stumbled out, screaming, “Assassin! Assassin! He’s killed the prince!”
Durzo acted instantly. He slammed into Kylar, driving them both into Elene’s room. It took all of Kylar’s presence of mind to not trample Elene, but Durzo was still moving. He had a hold of Kylar’s cloak and was swinging him with the surprising speed and force of his Talent. Kylar exploded through the window and out into the night.
By the grace of the God, or His cruelty, or sheer dumb luck, or Durzo’s preternatural skills, Kylar landed squarely in the center of a hedge. He crashed through it, rolling out of control, and popped out onto the ground. It was ridiculous; nothing was broken, nothing was sprained, he didn’t even get scratched. He looked up and saw guests craning their heads on the balcony where so recently he’d kissed Serah, but they were on the other side of lamps and couldn’t make him out.
Then the screaming from inside was taken up by others, women’s voices and men’s. Orders were being shouted and armed men were running, clanking and ringing in their chain mail. Kylar looked up at the second story with his heart in his throat. He didn’t know whether to curse or laugh. The decision was out of his hands for now. He was alive, and it felt good.
There was nothing else to do. Kylar jogged to the estate’s garden gate, broke the lock, and disappeared into the night.
42
The Godking Garoth Ursuul was awake before the functionary knocked on his bedchamber door. No one could approach this room without waking him. It meant less sleep than he might like, but he was an old man now; he didn’t need much sleep. Besides, it kept the slaves on their toes.
The room wasn’t what one might expect of a God- king. It was open, light and airy, filled with beautiful Plangan stained glass and ivory mirrors and Sethi lace on the bed and dire bear rugs from the Freeze on the floors and freshly cut flowers on the desk and the mantel, all chosen and arranged by a slave with aesthetic sensibilities. Garoth cared for none of it but the paintings. Portraits of his wives lined the walls. His wives had come from almost every nation in Midcyru, and with few exceptions, all were beautiful. Petite or willowy, buxom or boyish, pale or dark, the images all pleased Garoth Ursuul. He was a connoisseur of feminine beauty, and he spared no expense in indulging this vice. It was, after all, a service to his family and the world that he breed the best sons possible. That was where the unattractive women came in. He’d experimented with kidnapping women from royal families in hopes that they might produce more acceptable sons. Two of his current nine aethelings had been born of such women, so Garoth supposed that nobles might produce acceptable sons at a slightly better rate than the rabble, but it was ever so much more tedious to breed with an ugly woman.
Partly for his sons’ sake and partly for his own amusement, he’d even indulged in making some of the women love him. It had been surprisingly easy; he hadn’t had to lie as much as he’d expected. Women were so willing to do that to themselves. He’d heard that love made the sex better, but he wasn’t impressed. With magic, he could make a woman’s body respond to him however he pleased, and there was a joy in watching a woman try to hold her fury and hatred while his magic pleased her in ways she’d never felt before. Unfortunately, such pleasures did have their price: those wives had to be watched closely; he’d lost two to suicide.
The functionary’s hand banged on the door and Garoth gestured it open. The functionary came in on his knees, scooting forward, crossing his arms on his chest. “My god, my majestic king—”
Garoth sat up. “Out with it. You have a message from the Jadwin slut.”
“She reports that she has killed the prince, but has lost possession of the ka’kari. So sorry, Your Holiness.”
“Doubtless it’s another counterfeit,” Garoth said, addressing himself, not the functionary. “Have the ships arrived for the Modaini invasion?”
Cenaria he could deal with whenever he pleased, but a straight march south would tie up his armies for weeks or months. That damned Duke Gyre had turned the defenses at Screaming Winds into a serious obstacle. He could take it, of course. He could probably defeat any army in the world now except the Alitaerans’, but a Godking didn’t waste men or meisters on frontal assaults. Not when he had other options.
Besides, what conqueror would really want a hive like Cenaria, anyway? He’d almost do better to exterminate everyone there and send his own subjects to colonize the city.
Garoth Ursuul’s interest wasn’t in temporal power. The bid for Cenaria was just an amusement. He had far more reliable intelligence that the red ka’kari was in Modai. Once there, he would have Cenaria surrounded. He could probably take the country without even fighting for it. Then, Ceura, and a strike right into the mages’ heart, Sho’cendi. He wouldn’t have to face Alitaera until he was sure of victory.
“Two ships are still passing through Cenarian waters.”
“Good, then—”
“Your Holiness—” the man squeaked as he realized whom he had just interrupted.
“Hopper?”
“Yes, Your Holiness?” Hopper’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Don’t ever interrupt me again.”
Hopper nodded, wide-eyed.
“Now what did you have to say?”
“Lady Jadwin claims to have seen someone bond the ka’kari in the hallway outside her room. Her description was . . . accurate.”
“By Khali’s blood.” Garoth breathed. A ka’kari, after all this time. A ka’kari someone had bonded. That almost made it easier. A ka’kari alone was small enough it could be hidden or lost anywhere, but a ka’kari that was bonded would be kept close by whomever bonded it.