I shook my head. “I never thought I’d hear someone apologize for why they’re not taking my life.”
“I do not make the rules, sadly. I never have. Long before I was born, people have died, gone to the other side, and eventually been reborn. It is the cycle. I am simply one of the soldiers standing watch at the walls, and nothing more.” Thaena reached over and tapped the necklace of star tears around my neck. “And the prince of swords shall keep his soul in the stars.” She shrugged. “I have no idea if this is what the prophecies meant, but it’s just as easy not to take the chance.”
Thaena waved a hand toward the exit. “Now go. I have much to do, as do you.”
64: THE D’LORUS FETE
(Talon’s story)
Darzin tightened his grip on Kihrin’s arm as they exited the carriage into the guest court of the D’Lorus palace. “Do not embarrass me,” he whispered.
Kihrin tried to jerk his arm away, but failed. “If you think I’m going to embarrass you, why bring me?”
Darzin’s lip curled, but he didn’t respond.
The guards fell in behind them both, but the blue-garbed men of House D’Mon seemed out of place against the grandeur of the Dark Hall.
Kihrin was surprised to see the D’Lorus palace was not a single color (that color being black). Black was present, from the dark marble steps in front of the great hall to the ebony trim on the windows. However, someone had decided that if black were the only color available, madness would be the sure and certain result—so virtually every available surface of the Dark Hall was decorated with artwork. Sketches and murals and intricate paintings, of virtually every subject and mood, covered the walls to the point of concealing their base color entirely.
As Darzin tugged him along, he reminded himself of his lessons. House D’Lorus controlled the Binders, whose color was black and whose symbol was a flower. D’Lorus, a House with few members, whose Lord was Cedric and Lord Heir was his grandson, Thurvishar. D’Lorus, who controlled the magic Academy at Alavel, and to whom all wizards owed at least some scholastic fealty. D’Lorus, small and fading, but dismissed only by fools.
Inside the Dark Hall, a swirl of color from paintings, lights, and the rainbow hues of other guests pulled the eye in a hundred directions. Kihrin might have lost himself gaping in wonder if a violent yank on his arm had not brought him back to the task at hand.
“What did I just say?” Darzin snapped.
An unfortunate response was curtailed as a cultured, resonant baritone voice greeted them. “Lord Heir D’Mon, I presume? I’m so glad you could make it to my gathering.”
Kihrin recognized the voice: it was the third man. The one who had been with Dead Man and Pretty Boy in the crypts, the one who had caught Galen and him spying but let them go. Kihrin fought the desire to swallow, to look nervous, to shuffle his feet.
The same man he had seen at the Octagon.
Thurvishar D’Lorus walked down the shallow steps leading from the second floor to the great hall where guests mingled. He dressed much as he had been when Kihrin had spied upon him, while having tea with his aunt Tishar. This time the Lord Heir of D’Lorus was wiping his hands on a white rag, as if he’d just come from the privacy or a meal. He finished and tossed the cloth to a servant as he closed the gap between himself and Darzin.
The rag was stained with blood.
“Problems?” Darzin asked. He hadn’t missed the blood on the man’s hands either.
“No, no problems,” Thurvishar replied. He stopped and looked at his hands. “Oh, yes.” The wizard shrugged. “One of my grandfather’s men tried to steal something that belongs to me. I’ll have his body strung up later as an example, after the party dies down.”* He gave the pair a self-deprecating smile. “You’ll pardon me, of course, if I don’t offer to shake hands.”
Darzin’s expression held a look of grudging respect. “Not at all. I always appreciate the need for an appropriate level of discipline, especially in the form of object lessons. May I introduce you to my firstborn son? This is Kihrin D’Mon. Kihrin, I’d like you to meet Thurvishar, Lord Heir of House D’Lorus. He’s just returned from the Academy.”
Kihrin bowed as he’d been taught. “I’m honored, Lord Heir.”
“Tall, aren’t you?” Thurvishar said in lieu of more formal greeting. “Call me Thurvishar. Lord Heir’s my father’s name.” He smiled as if daring either of the D’Mons to commit the faux pas of mentioning his treasonous father, Gadrith the Twisted.
Except Kihrin knew it was a lie. Gadrith wasn’t Thurvishar’s father at all.
So, he smiled back. “Don’t you mean ‘was your father’s name’?”
Darzin coughed to cover his laugh, although the way his hand tightened on Kihrin’s arm suggested mixed signals and a warning not to do that again.
The Lord Heir D’Lorus only smiled. “Yes, exactly so. Well, I hope you enjoy yourselves. I believe my grandfather is wandering the crowds, fielding the curious questions of our peers as they attempt to discern just how evil I really am.” He waggled his eyebrows at Kihrin. “Now, with your pardon … ah, High Lord Kallin. So glad you could make it…” He disappeared in a swirl of black velvet as he left to meet the red-cloaked leader of House D’Talus.
Darzin squeezed Kihrin’s arm again. “Don’t get into any trouble.”
“You’re leaving me?” The young man didn’t hide his surprise.
“I have people to meet,” Darzin said. “The wine table is over there.” He pointed to a crowded area where young men and women in elegant black robes poured wine into fluted crystal glasses. With that invitation given, the Lord Heir of D’Mon turned and walked into the crowd, smiling as he greeted a favorite.
Kihrin wasn’t heartbroken to see him go. Enough interesting activity swirled around the Dark Hall to keep the young man occupied. The young women were captivating, which was unsurprising. The Royal Houses were rich and powerful enough that he imagined no ugliness was allowed to show its head amongst their carefully manicured gardens.
Still, it was one thing to think of such things objectively, and quite another to see a shapely brunette walk by—wearing clothing that would have made a Shattered Veil Club velvet girl blush. She caught his gaze, smiled, and gave him a frank appraisal.
Maybe being royalty wasn’t so bad.
“Kihrin? Kihrin, is that you?” He heard a familiar voice and turned.
Jarith Milligreest stood in front of him, holding a glass of wine. He wasn’t dressed in formal military attire that evening, but wore a white misha with a red embroidered vest over black kef tucked into boots. He might have passed as a noble himself, if he’d stayed with a single color.