“But that would mean—” Galen’s eyes widened. “That would mean Pedron was actually Therin’s father … Kihrin, Therin killed Pedron.”
“And Therin was actually telling me the truth when he said he despised his father. Apparently hating your dad really is a family tradition around here. I get it. I’m one of the club.” Kihrin began picking up trinkets, thumbing through neglected, forgotten books. There were boxes and chests, wardrobes and bookcases, jars of esoteric ingredients and statuary of a decidedly lewder nature than the goddess in the center of the room. “There’s a part of me that wants to feel all sorry for myself, but honestly I’m just glad I didn’t grow up here. I don’t think I would have liked it much.”
Kihrin picked up a small leather book from a desk and Galen’s tongue froze in his mouth. He couldn’t say anything without showing Kihrin it was important. Galen knew better than to make that mistake.
Kihrin flipped through the pages with increasing eagerness, reading while Galen struggled to breathe.
“Huh,” Kihrin said.
“What is it?” Galen said, trying not to sound nervous.
Kihrin held up the book. “More poems. Guess Pedron really was a fan of the art.” He tucked the book under his arm.
“You can’t take that!”
“Why? Grampa Pedron’s not going to miss it,” Kihrin replied. “I could use a good set of poems like this. A few of these will make great song lyrics.”
Galen stared. “Song lyrics? You really think so?”
“Absolutely. Whoever penned these knew what they were doing, and this is a handwritten journal, so I bet it’s unpublished material. This is a great find and—” Kihrin stopped.
“What?” Galen asked. He was at once pleased and uneasy.
Galen watched his brother open the book again. Kihrin pursed his lips. “The paper is new. The ink isn’t faded.”
“Maybe Uncle Bavrin left the book here?” The lie sounded weak even to Galen’s ears.
Kihrin stared at him. “You wrote these, didn’t you?”
“No! Uh—” Galen stammered.
“Sure,” Kihrin said. “Daddy doesn’t approve of poetry?”
“Not writing it, no. D’Jorax are the entertainers, and he thinks they’re gauche. You won’t tell him, will you?” Galen cursed himself for a fool. Now Kihrin had something to use against Galen, and he wasn’t so na?ve as to think his brother wouldn’t seize that advantage.
“Tell Darzin D’Mon? I wouldn’t tell him to wipe shit off his face. He can rot and die for all I care.” Kihrin handed the book to him. “Have you shown these to anybody?”
Galen shook his head.
“You should have them published. Under an assumed name, of course. Wouldn’t want to embarrass the old man with how talented his kid is.”
“Oh, I’m not that good.”
Kihrin raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you are. Hell of a lot better than I could ever do, that’s for sure. Surdyeh always said—” He stopped and looked away, grimacing.
Galen stepped forward. “Surdyeh?”
Kihrin shook his head, as if trying to throw off whatever gloom had seized him. “My father. The man who raised me. He was a musician. You know: gauche. Always told me there was no sense in trying my hand at poetry because I hadn’t seen anything worth writing about.”
“What happened to him?” Galen asked.
“‘Daddy’ didn’t tell you?”
Galen shook his head.
“Darzin had him murdered. One of your father’s assassins slit his throat.” Kihrin’s voice was harsh, angry, dagger-sharp in its accusation.
“Do you know that?” Galen asked. “Or are you just—”
“Darzin doesn’t even deny it. He killed Surdyeh and Morea and Butterbelly—and if someone were to make me a wager, I’d lay more than even odds he killed Lyrilyn too, no matter what he says really happened.”
Galen looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Kihrin said.
“I’m still sorry.” Galen paused. “You know, if you want to use some of my poems for songs, I think I’d like that. You’re a musician, right? Like your father?”
His brother nodded. Kihrin’s face looked wet in the lantern-light. Galen realized his brother was crying, silent tears running down his cheeks. Like earlier when Galen watched Kihrin spit, he found it shocking.
“Don’t let Father see you cry,” Galen said in a rush. “He hates it. He says it makes you weak.”
Kihrin scoffed and rubbed his eyes, and wiped at his mouth where the wound from fencing class was bleeding again. “Darzin’s a real asshole, you know that? Somebody should tell him beating up his children and sending assassins to kill old men and girls—that makes him weak.” He walked over to the statue of Thaena and traced the edge of a stiletto with a bloody fingertip. “If I ever have the chance, I swear by all that’s holy I’ll put a sword through him—ow!” Kihrin quickly drew his finger back. A thin line of fresh blood marked the cut. “Shit, those are still sharp!”
Galen said: “Oh gods, are you okay?”
“Yeah, unless embarrassment counts. It’s only a nick.”
Galen chewed on his lip. He’d never grown up with much in the way of religion, not of any kind, but it seemed a dire omen. The room was darker and more frightening than before.
Kihrin leaned in to examine the blades. “I don’t see anything that looks like a poison. I think I’ll stop by Lady Miya’s anyway, just to be on the safe side.” He laughed. “And here I thought the biggest danger was going to be you sticking a knife in me.”
“Me? But I’d never do that!”
“Yeah, I know that now. I just didn’t know then. You invite me to go to some secret location alone, just the two of us? Maybe you’re looking for the chance to be number-one son again, you know?” Kihrin shrugged. “I couldn’t be sure.”
“Oh bother,” Galen said, feeling ill. It hadn’t occurred to him his actions might have been interpreted that way. And if Kihrin had decided to preemptively defend himself, who was there to say otherwise, or even witness what had happened? He felt monumentally stupid. He hoped his father never found out about this.
“Don’t worry about it,” Kihrin said. “I think you’re okay, even for a D’Mon. Anybody who can write poems like that can’t be all bad.”
“I didn’t … I mean … thank you.”
Kihrin grinned. “Let’s go find Lady Miya before I drop dead of ancient poison, okay?”
Galen found himself returning the smile. “Okay.”
47: THE MOTHER OF TREES
(Kihrin’s story)
“Your Majesty?”
I blinked awake from where I’d dozed off. Then I blinked again and looked around with growing dismay.
I wasn’t in the practice room where Doc had drugged my tea.
Doc wasn’t around for me to kick either. Instead, the man who addressed me was a Kirpis vané, with milk-white skin that managed to look elegant rather than sickly. His soft pink cloud-curled hair was almost hidden by a glimmering battle helm. His eyes were pink too. He would have reminded me of a rabbit if not for the fact most rabbits aren’t so heavily armed—or have a look in their eyes that suggests they’d be happiest drenched in the blood of their enemies.