Prince, Spy, Priest

The revelry had lasted for hours already. First the rituals: divinings, petitions, and the re-inking of the Royal Pyramid. Those were always exhausting. Then the feast, an excess of exotic food and careful conversation. Now, as the sun hung low in the sky and the population of Curijan drained their cups again and again, Kianto’s real work had begun.

He slid back his stool and began his circuit of the pillared, ornate hall, pausing briefly to exchange a few words of conversation with various nobility. But mostly, he kept his eyes and ears open, and waited. The hall was long and narrow, with a raised dais at the end where the royal family dined. Two low tables down the middle seated the rest of the major nobility — all the Tritaries and many of the Lords and Ladies. They lounged on cushions and drank, jewels and headdresses glinting against their skin. As he walked, Kianto picked up dozens of snippets of conversation, conversations that he would pay attention to later. For now…

There. Cualli, a young priestess of the lowest rank, had just poured a powder into a cup and offered it to Lady Atlyn.

The Lady took the wine and drank it down, turning back to her husband and laughing merrily.

Good. The girl had done well for her first poisoning. Kianto doubted whether anyone who wasn’t sober and watching carefully would have seen the maneuver.

Then Cualli looked up and saw him. She slid off the bench abruptly and wound through the tables toward him, carefully stowing the vial back in her ceremonial priests’ wrap. Kianto, as the high priest, wore a similar garment, so elaborately dyed with Etan triangles that it practically hummed with power. He frowned as she approached.

“How did I do?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“You did fine,” he said curtly. “But your exits need some work. Don’t think they didn’t notice you leaving so quickly. Did you offer even an excuse?”

Shamed, the girl shook her head.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It was your first time, and there’s no harm done. Lady Atlyn is known for her weak stomach. I doubt anyone will question it when she falls ill tonight. Now go on home to your family.”

She nodded and slipped away.

Kianto watched her go with a half-smile on his lips. Truly, she had done well. The Lady would fall ill for three days, nothing more, and that would delay her return to Haitli long enough for him to finish his investigation into the Forsaken sympathizers in her retinue. He was certain she knew nothing about them, but if he was lucky he could perhaps gain access to the Forsaken. To finally meet one of their members would be… enlightening.

Another round of the room. Kianto glanced up to the high table and saw his father, King Etli, pouring himself another glass of wine. The King had a great tolerance for it, but Prince Kianto felt it would still be wise to make his report sooner rather than later. At least his mother, Queen Tlali, was sensible about the stuff.

He made his way up the table, but found his parents deep in conversation with Tritaro Loquixan. From the way his father’s brow was furrowed and his mother wore her least genuine smile, Kianto guessed it was about the Breyian trade routes again. Old Loquixan, as valuable as his insights were, could be rather stubborn at times.

Still, it would be rude to interrupt, so he stood a few feet away until a flowery scent announced the arrival of his elder sister Itota.

Only two years apart, he had no better friend than her, even after her marriage and children. His other siblings, all rather older, were also seated at the table with their spouses. Rurijan, the firstborn and king-in-waiting. Nygia, the diplomat. Engi, the general. And then, several years later, Itota and Kianto. As fourthborn, she was the scholar. As fifthborn, Kianto had given himself to the priesthood — and, though few knew it, to the life of a spy.

He turned to greet Itota. She was beautiful as always. Tonight, she had chosen a cream-colored wrap to complement her short black hair and earthen skin. Curvy and a little short, she smiled up at Kianto.

“It looks like I’ve found the oasis of sanity in the room.”

“Tired of the celebrations already?” Kianto asked.

“I have no desire to watch an otherwise respectable court make fools of themselves through drink, even if it is Mid-dry.” She sighed. “Besides, I promised Leta I’d tell him a story tonight.”

“Well, you mustn’t keep Leta waiting,” Kianto said with a smile.

“I had hoped to talk with you more,” she said. “But you’ve been pacing around the room half the evening. At work as always?”

Kianto nodded. “There’s something afoot, Itota, I know there is. I don’t like the rumors I’ve been hearing about the Forsaken.”

She put her hand on his forearm. “Kianto, you know my distaste for Mid-day excess, but surely Curijan will not fall because you took the night off. Relax. This is a night to forget about politics.”

Kianto shrugged off her words. What else would he do with his time? Besides, he had an investigation ongoing, and it would itch at him until he satisfied his curiosity.

Abruptly, Loquixan rose from the table. “Very well,” he said to the King and Queen. “I suppose, in the future, I’ll think twice before making such ‘wild suppositions’ to you.”

He stalked off, and the king looked up at Kianto, passing a hand over his eyes. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll come around. What do you need, son?”

Kianto felt the brush of air as his sister turned away. She had little interest in his work. He began his report. “People are complaining about Breyia again. Not many, but some of high rank. They don’t like paying import prices for goods grown on what they consider their own soil. It’s nothing more than the rambles of drink, I believe, but it could grow more serious.”

Merely a decade ago, Curijan had made peace with Breyia after a five-year war, but it had come at the cost of some of their land. It was mostly jungle, and to the day Kianto wasn’t sure why Breyia had fought such a bloody war over it. But so it was, and many, he knew, still smarted from that defeat. That sting had been aggravated with the recent boost in trade between their two countries; prominent among the Breyian goods were barto vines, which only grew in the deep jungle.

“We’ll have to appease them somehow,” said his mother, twisting her handkerchief in her hand.

“My love, it will be fine,” his father said. “Is there anything else?”

“Yes. Lady Atlyn will fall ill tonight. She and her retinue will need accommodations for three more days.” He turned to go, but his mother stopped him.

“Kianto. There’s more — tell me.”

She always knew. “It’s nothing, Mother. Merely suspicions. I’ll come to you and Father when I have evidence.”

He rounded the table and stepped down from the dais, intending to circle the room again, but before he’d walked more than a few feet, Zaolin caught his attention and drew him over to the edge of the room, behind a pillar.

Zaolin was a tall, heavyset man with a crooked nose and short black hair. He too wore the ceremonial preist’s garb. Only one rank lower than Kianto, he was his right-hand man.

“We got her, sir. Half an hour ago, listening beside the door to the citadel. She’s already talking. Didn’t even have to hurt her. The threat was enough. Poor girl. Can’t be more than seventeen, by the looks of it.”

“Not well-trained then… you know who she works for?”

Zaolin looked around and lowered his voice. “The Tritaries Lilaryn, sir.”

Kianto cursed under his breath. Curijan was divided into nine districts, two of which bordered Breyia. One of the districts was Hatli, the other Yuyri. Each district was ruled by a Tritary, usually a husband and wife, but sometimes they went unmarried and ruled alone. It was unbalanced, not ideal, but life rarely was — old Loquixan, for example, ruled Hatli alone. But the Lilaryns ruled Yuyri, and Tritara Lilaryn had been one of the most fervent denouncers of Breyian trade that evening.

“Such an obvious spy… they dare to send them against their king and queen?” The nobles spied on each other, part of their endless rivalry, but never against their monarchs. His parents were well-liked as rulers. There was no reason to.

“We need to send them a message,” said Kianto firmly. “How much does she know?”

Zaolin hesitated.

“Zaolin…”

“Too much,” he admitted. “I didn’t think — the feast — I’m sorry. I forgot to ward the door.”

Kianto sighed. It made the decision easier. “Learn what you can from her, then dispose of her. But there’s no need to be cruel. A cauthis leaf should do the trick. Let her simply fall asleep.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and withdrew.

Kianto rounded the pillar and pulled up short. Itota stood there waiting for him.

“I thought you were going to your quarters,” he said roughly.

“I was,” she said, a twinkle in her eye. “Lakren accosted me in the hallway. He pressed this into my hand and insisted I bring it to you right away, then danced off raving about ink flow and viscosity.”

“He must have finished it,” Kianto said. Lakren, Kianto’s old mentor and uncle, had retired when Kianto was twenty, leaving him in charge of the priesthood. Despite the old man’s failing health, he’d refused to “sit around and do nothing all smudging day,” instead devoting himself to various magical experiments. “He’s been holed up for weeks, working on some quill that stores ink inside the shaft instead of an inkwell.”

He took the object and examined it. It was a thick, round cylinder of polished wood, with a metal tip that narrowed to a sharp point, even sharper than a quill. The workmanship of the metal piece was extremely delicate — it must have required the services of a master jeweler.

“How does it work?” Itota asked.

Kianto pulled a piece of parchment from the pouch around his waist and crouched on the floor. Itota kneeled beside him, so close even her short hair threatened to whip him if she turned her head too fast. Firmly, Kianto pressed the new quill to the parchment and drew. It took a moment, but then the ink flowed smoothly down the metal tip and he managed to form the organic triangle with enough accuracy that it would have lasted at least ten minutes.

He looked up at Itota, and her face held a smile only matched by his own grin. Below him, the parchment began to glow, but he ignored the uncompleted spell.

“It worked!” Itota said.

Kianto nodded. “It’s not perfectly precise, but the fact that it works at is a miracle. This was only his seventh design. The project could have taken him years. Imagine — no more carrying around those clunky old — “

He broke off and spun, hastily stowing the newfangled quill in his pouch, readying his battle quill in its place, and sliding his dagger from his sleeve to his left hand.

The doors to the hall had burst open.

Kianto allowed himself five precious seconds to absorb the situation. At least two dozen figures, clad fully in black despite the heat, were spreading rapidly through the room. At the door, the ceremonial guards lay dead. People were screaming, shouting for guards, cowering under tables. Those still sober drew swords, but Kianto had a better weapon — Scritricy.

Time to act. He seized Itota by the arm, ignoring her yelp, and began to draw. He started with the triangle, as all Scritrite runes did. To affect the living, a right triangle, one angle 30 degrees, the other sixty. The rich, purple ink sunk into his sister’s skin and began to glow. Then more lines, drawn rapidly inside the original triangle, layering over each other until the final, finishing stroke. He’d drawn the rune well - it would hold for at least half an hour. Kianto only hoped that would be enough.

Itota melted away before Kianto’s eyes, completely invisible. “Get out,” he told her. “Just get out, but be careful. Don’t bump into anyone and you should be safe. Get help if you can.”

Kianto turned away to meet his first enemy. He had no doubt as to who these assassins were or why they were here. The Forsaken had come, and they’d come for his family. And it was his job to stop them.

The first held a spear and was rushing up the length of one of the long tables. Kianto leapt at him from the side, slamming into him bodily and ramming his knife into the man’s throat. The man spluttered and died, his spear useless at such short range.

A broad-chested man at least half a foot taller than Kinato gave a guttural growl at the sight of his dead companion and rushed forward. Kianto dropped to the floor, scratching rapidly with his quill. Enchanted with a delicate series of runes painted on the shaft, the quill drew ink from an inkwell hidden in his pouch. He drew another triangle, this one equilateral, to affect the never-living stone of the floor. With the final line, he sprang up and stumbled back. As soon as the man’s foot landed near the rune, he stumbled and fell, foot stuck firmly to the floor. A dodge of his sword and a knife to his back ended him. It was one of Kianto’s favorite tactics.

He heard a sound behind him and spun just in time to seize the wrist of a woman holding a knife that would have landed in his throat. But she caught him off balance and Kianto fell bodily across a wooden bench and onto the table. She pressed her advantage, trying to force her knife down as Kianto struggled to hook a leg around hers. He had dropped his quill as he fell, but he still clutched his own knife, and he brought it up and drove it deeply into her shoulder. She cried out, and Kianto managed to push her off of him. He didn’t have time for this — he had to get up to the dais and protect his king and queen.

He snatched up his quill and ran, dodging terrified nobles and spilled food. He strained to see — up above swords flashed, and he saw his father and mother fighting alongside one of his brothers, but they were outnumbered. Most of the assassins had congregated there. Desperation strained his father’s face, and blood streamed from a cut on his mother’s cheek.

Kianto was almost to the dais when he heard Itota’s shriek. He looked and there she was, fully visible, backing slowly against a wall as an assassin advanced on her. She had picked up a sword from somewhere and vainly tried to defend herself, but the man laughed as he batted away her sword.

Kianto changed direction instantly, instinctively, and hurled his knife as he went. It took the brute in the back, and as he collapsed in pain Kianto reached his sister’s side, seized her attacker’s arm, ripped away the cloth, and scribbled the death rune on it, the triangle with a terrible slash directly through. He was lucky — it was accurate enough to flash blindingly and fade, and the man gave one final breath and died.

Kianto pushed himself to his feet, breathing hard, fury and triumph swirling inside him. He didn’t usually use that rune in battle. It was more suited for assassinations, too hard to get right so quickly, but it was a heady feeling when it worked. No one would take Itota.

A sword clattered to the floor, and there was the woman, the one whose shoulder he had stabbed earlier, standing there with her knife to Itota’s throat.

He had failed. How had he not heard her? Of course — as he looked, he saw she wore soft slippers and her clothes were tight-fitting, with no extra cloth to rustle. A true assassin indeed.

He swallowed. “What are you waiting for? You’ve won. If you slit her throat, rest assured you will not leave this room alive. I will kill you even if it is my final act. But I doubt that means much to a member of the Forsaken.”

“Kianto,” Itota said. Her voice was icy and calm. “Walk away. Help Mother and Father. They need you — go.”

The assassin spoke, and her voice was surprisingly soft. “You are correct. We are the Forsaken, here to take back what is ours. But this time…”

He saw it, saw her grip loosen on the knife’s handle as she faltered, and he acted, slapping her hand away with as much force as he could muster. Itota seized the opportunity and dodged away, out of reach. The assassin struggled to push Kianto away, managing to drive her knife into his shoulder. Pain blossomed down his arm, but he ignored it. They staggered apart, each waiting for the other to make the next move. He met her vibrant green eyes, trying to read her, and saw something — shock? Regret?

A sword sprouted from the assassin’s side, and she fell, limp to the ground. Itota stood behind her, shaking, and pulled the sword free.

Kianto nodded his approval and was about to re-ink her when a chorus of cries echoed from the dais. He looked up just in time to see his father fall, a sword through his chest. Moments later, he saw the queen, his mother, join her husband.

Fury and purpose clouded Kianto’s vision. He reached the dais in seconds, slaying any black-garbed figure in reach, and still it was not enough. He stumbled over Rurijan’s body. Beside it, the man’s wife’s and Engi’s, still bleeding from their wounds but with the unmistakable glazed eyes of the dead. For a few moments, Nygia fought beside him, quick and competent, and then she too fell. There were simply too many. Kianto fought on, taking a cut to the side, then another to the face, but he hardly felt them. He was numb, thinking of nothing but ending the sea of black robes. His footwork was clumsy and he was allowing himself to be backed into a corner, and for a moment Kianto knew he would die a few feet from the throne he had worked so hard to guard.

And then help came, guards flooding into the room from every entrance. Almost as one, the remaining assassins — less than a dozen now — turned and fled. But they were surrounded. Perhaps one or two escaped, leaving their comrades behind, but the rest were cut down or forced to surrender. At last, Kianto was able to sheath his knife and sink to the floor beside his parents’ bodies.

Well into the early hours of the morning, Kianto stood in his parent’s chambers, overlooking the city as Zaolin gave his report. His parents dead, his brothers and sisters and their spouses, the entire immediate royal family wiped out. The rest of the nobility took few casualties. The assassins had known exactly their targets. He listened as Zaolin told him how the captured assassins had poisoned themselves to avoid interrogation, how their bodies had been unceremoniously burned. Kianto didn’t have to ask — he already knew the woman with those shocking green eyes had not been among them.

“Sir. This means Princess Itota will be Queen.”

“Yes, I know,” said Kianto. Eta help her.

Itota was crowned that evening. The riots started the next morning.