15: A FOUNDATION OF LIES

(Khaeriel’s story) Fourteen days earlier …

Khaeriel looked up from writing as Therin knocked at the open door. It seemed like the last few days had been filled with nothing but letters and codes and carefully worded messages as she tried to organize what allies she still might possess without alerting her brother.

She welcomed an interruption.

Therin stood there, grinning at her. She marveled at what a difference a few weeks had made. He seemed at least a decade younger, the years melting from him along with his stressful burdens.

She set down the quill and turned toward him. “How long were you watching me?”

“Not long,” Therin admitted. “Actually, you have a visitor. He showed up out of nowhere—literally out of nowhere—and asked for you by your real name.”

Khaeriel blinked. “What?” She suppressed a flutter of panic. Her safe house had been well hidden, and few vané knew it existed. Fewer still would have any reason to suspect her presence there. She could count the possible candidates on one hand. Would an enemy have given Therin a polite introduction and request to speak with her?

“What does he look like?” She crossed over to him.

“Quuros, medium height. Average.” Therin raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”

“Relos Var,” she exhaled. “Finally.” Khaeriel put a hand to Therin’s cheek. “There is no problem. He is an old friend. But it might be best if you wait here. Relos can be reticent around people he does not know well.”

Therin frowned. “I’ve heard Relos Var’s name before. Not in a good way.”

“He has become infamous in certain circles,” Khaeriel said, “but we shall need his assistance if our plans are to succeed.”

Therin’s expression turned wry. “I suppose it wouldn’t do to spurn his help just because he has a reputation for being a provocateur against the Quuros Empire, would it?” He kissed her cheek. “Good luck.”

Khaeriel grabbed Therin, turned the chaste kiss into something a little more memorable, and then walked outside.

Relos Var waited in the small clearing near the root shelter. He looked the same as she remembered—an average-looking Quuros man who might have been anything from a merchant to a cobbler. He had a penchant for well-crafted boots, but otherwise wore functional, practical clothing that leaned more toward drab than fashionable.

But no, looking closer, something seemed different. Relos Var looked haggard. His appearance hadn’t changed; this was something more ephemeral.

“Your Majesty.” Relos Var bowed as soon as she entered the clearing.

“Oh, stop,” Khaeriel said, but his dramatics always made her smile. “I would ask where you have been, but from the look on your face, I will take it as granted you have been busy.”

“More than I can say,” Relos Var agreed. “I came as soon as possible.” He paused and gestured toward the root shelter. “But if I may, Your Majesty—what friend would I be if I didn’t point out your present course is extraordinarily ill-advised.”¹

“The safe house? It should serve for a few more days—”

“Therin D’Mon, Your Majesty.” Relos Var shook his head. “Really? Therin?”

Khaeriel’s cheeks flushed. “He is a direct descendant of Terindel. Why shouldn’t I use him?”

“Teraeth is a direct descendant of Terindel too. A much closer descendant. Yet we both know why you’re not using him.”²

She dismissed the idea with a flick of her fingers. “Teraeth is a direct descendant of Mithraill. I know how the Stone of Shackles works. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t need Therin. And I can handle the politics, thank you.”

Relos Var sighed. “Khaeriel—this isn’t about politics. This is about you. This is about you making a tragic mistake. He can’t possibly be here of his own free will. I saw the mess you left behind in the Capital. Therin D’Mon would never overlook that under normal circumstances.”

“I’ve enchanted him.”

Relos Var stared at her.

Khaeriel swallowed and looked away. “He has free will, he’s just madly in love with me. And he doesn’t remember the last several hours after the Hellmarch started.”

“You repressed memories too?” Relos Var seemed even less thrilled.

“Yes.”

“That won’t last. Souls never lose memories. Not permanently. Once his memories return, the shock will break any enchantment you’ve placed on him. An enchantment cannot overcome trauma forever.”

“I want his cooperation, Relos. I will have it.”

“That’s not what’s going on here. You can lie to yourself but not to me.” The wizard shook his head. “Damn it, Khaeriel. You picked a hell of a time to fall in love.”

Khaeriel’s mouth fell open. “Me? You seriously think I’m in love with—” She looked around to make sure Therin hadn’t picked a particularly poor time to eavesdrop. Khaeriel lowered her voice. “You honestly think I am in love with the man who kept me a slave for a quarter century? Do you have any idea the indignities I have suffered at his hands? And you are hardly one to judge. What was that Marakori witch’s name? The one you were so taken with a few decades ago? Did she have any choice in the matter?”³

Relos Var didn’t seem inclined to rise to the bait. “I am not saying you can’t have him; I am saying if you think you can have him like this without consequences, you are playing the fool. The truth will tell. The truth always tells. I am saying this to you, not as a coconspirator or an ally but as a friend; remove the enchantment and tell him the truth. Tell Therin you weren’t in your right mind. Perhaps he’ll believe you. Perhaps he’ll even forgive you.”

“I will not—”

“By my word, Khaeriel, if you don’t, I promise you’ll regret it. As you said, he has free will. An enchantment isn’t a gaesh. If someone comes along and tells him the truth, this charade is done. Do you think our enemies don’t know what happened? Do you think Thaena doesn’t know? Even as we speak, she is Returning the House D’Mon members you murdered. And while you enjoy your pleasurable idylls in this picturesque bower, Vol Karoth has been released. I don’t need to tell you what that means.”

“No.” Khaeriel felt panic well up in her. “I thought we would have more time.”

“I can only assume certain forces had reason to hurry the schedule,” Relos Var said blandly.⁴ “So we don’t have more time, and you’re going to need to move now to stop your brother from doing something we will all regret—enacting the Ritual of Night.”

Khaeriel closed her eyes and exhaled. “You have truly brought me a bouquet of sorrows today, do you realize that?”

“Then let me give you two gifts to lighten your heavy heart.” Relos Var snapped his fingers, and a triangular package appeared on the ground next to him.⁵

Khaeriel recognized it: the harp Valathea.

Queen Valathea.

“As per our agreement. I assume you’ll know what to do with her.”

Khaeriel ran a reverent hand over the harp, feeling the tuning pegs even through the cover. “Yes, yes, I most certainly do.” She raised her eyes to look into Relos Var’s. “Two gifts?”

“The second gift is knowledge,” Relos Var said. “Your son, Kihrin, is alive.”

She stared at him. The air in the clearing seemed to vanish, and she couldn’t draw a breath. The daggerlike pain in her heart was paralyzing. Relos Var had a faint smile on his face, a twinkle in his eyes, the look a man thoroughly enjoying the response his pronouncement had elicited.

“That is not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Relos Var reassured her. “I’ve spoken with him. He’s alive.”

“Darzin and Gadrith sacrificed him to Xaltorath. I saw the body. No one comes back from that.”

“No one before Kihrin, you mean,” Relos Var said. “For reasons I don’t understand and honestly would love to, Xaltorath didn’t eat Kihrin’s soul or turn him into a demon. Instead”—he brought his fingers to his mouth and made a puffing motion—“they let him go. Your son found Urthaenriel. He shattered the Stone of Shackles. He killed Darzin, then slew Gadrith with that same sword, while Gadrith possessed the body of my…” Only on the last word did Relos Var stumble. “—of the emperor. I told you years ago your son would fulfill the prophecies. He is doing so, and honestly, without much help from me at all.”

“Then he’s going to come here.” It wasn’t a question. She simultaneously felt elation and pure terror. Her son was alive …

… which meant her sins became even less forgivable. Excuses evaporated. And now he was on a collision course with her—and with his father.

“He’s already here. Of course, King Kelanis is unlikely to drop everything to see him, even with the Ritual of Night involved.”⁶ Relos Var tilted his head.

Khaeriel fought to keep from hyperventilating. “Does he know? About me? About … what happened?”

“I’m sure someone must have told him by now.”

She inhaled.

“So now I must ask this question: Does this change anything? I’d be surprised indeed if you hadn’t been plotting vengeance against those responsible for Kihrin’s death. Now that you know Gadrith and Darzin are dead, does this change your plans to retake your throne?”

Khaeriel’s eyes widened, and then she laughed out loud. “No. Gods, no. My brother still betrayed me, had me assassinated, sentenced me to the Traitor’s Walk. He will pay for that. And Quur—Quur still has a great deal to answer for.”

“True.” Relos Var started to walk away, raised his hands as though to call upon the energies to open a gate, then paused and turned back to Khaeriel. “Do you know what the real problem with immortality is?”

Khaeriel blinked. “I am not certain I understand your point.”

Relos Var walked back to her. “Immortality. You’re a few hundred years old, so I’m sure you think you’ve seen it all, that you know all the answers. You haven’t, and you don’t.”

She flushed again. “I am almost five hundred years—”

Relos Var waved a hand. “And I’m over fourteen thousand years old. I am older than humanity’s presence on this world.”

She closed her mouth. She forgot sometimes. Forgot Relos Var matched the vané’s race for age.

“Fourteen thousand years old,” Relos Var repeated. “And let me spell this out—the problem with immortality isn’t that you forget things. It isn’t that you grow bored—there is always something new to learn. It isn’t even watching the people you love who aren’t immortal die—that’s tragic, but loss is part of life. No. None of that. It is watching the people you care about make the same stupid fucking mistakes again and again and again.”

Khaeriel scowled. “I am in control of this, Relos.”

“Are you, though? I just watched a good friend throw his life away because he too thought he was in control. He very much wasn’t.⁷ Don’t follow in his wake, Khaeriel. Nothing about your situation will end in anything but tears if you ignore my advice. If nothing else, lies make a poor foundation for love.”⁸ He pointed to the root shelter and presumably to Therin, just to make sure she caught his point.

Khaeriel pulled herself up. “I’m a grown woman. I can make my own decisions.”

A resigned look came over the wizard’s face. “As you say, Your Majesty. But please at least consider my words. I vastly prefer it when my friends die of something other than the fickle whims of tragic farce.”

“You may go, Relos.”

He opened up a gate and left.

After he’d departed, Khaeriel stood there for a moment in the clearing, thinking, hands resting on the curve of Valathea’s neck. She exhaled slowly.

“I got to admit, ducky, that’s a tough call. Personally? I think the old man has a point.”

Khaeriel spun around. A woman Khaeriel hadn’t seen in twenty years stood at the end of the clearing. Not since she was Khaeriel’s handmaiden—the same handmaiden Khaeriel had sent off with the Stone of Shackles and a mission to deliver her infant son to friendly allies. She looked the same too, a beautiful young Quuros woman with honey-colored skin and doe-brown eyes. Impossible after twenty years, but Khaeriel knew better than to think her mortal.

By all the stars, she even wore the same dress.

“Lyrilyn? But it’s not Lyrilyn anymore, is it?”

Talon grinned. “Yes and no. Can we talk?”

Khaeriel didn’t hesitate. “Talk? Of course.”

The vané queen attacked.