6. ALL HAIL THE KING

Janel’s story

The Mother of Trees, the Manol

The day of Vol Karoth’s escape, morning

Janel trapped Teraeth’s arm as he reached for his knives. She sympathized with his reaction, but she also knew more than he did about current events.

“Calm, my love,” Janel whispered. “Trust me.”

“Close the door,” King “Teraeth” ordered as he stood from the throne.

“A little warning would have been polite, Janel,” Xivan whispered.

“I wasn’t precisely sure who would be in charge,” Janel responded without looking away from the approaching figure.

The image of the king wavered like a sea-born mirage in the distance, breaking up into hazy strips that rearranged themselves as a very different-looking figure. Not Teraeth at all, but someone far more petite and feminine, a violet flower given life as a woman.

Chainbreaker sparkled green and glittering against Valathea’s bosom as she smiled warmly.1 “My apologies, Teraeth. A small but necessary deception. The first days of power are always so uncertain, and I knew you were in no condition to take the reins for this transition.” She floated down from the dais and kissed her stepson on the cheeks. She barely had to lean up to do it, a reminder that for all Valathea’s flowerlike delicacy, she was as tall as most vané.

“I admit, I hadn’t thought—” Teraeth blinked.

“It’s good to see you again, Valathea,” Xivan said.

“When you say uncertain,” “Kihrin” said, “you’re referring to my mother, aren’t you? You were afraid she’d try to take the throne back if no one was here to defend it.”

Talon meant Kihrin’s mother, Khaeriel, not Talon’s own mother (whoever that had been). Janel forced herself to smile at the mimic, to pretend this was one of the men she loved.

Fields. How was she possibly going to maintain this ruse? It was like wearing a coat made of broken glass. She couldn’t even look at the damn mimic without flinching now that she knew the truth.

A mighty bang echoed in the throne room as someone pushed open the double doors at the end of the room and stormed in.

Kihrin’s mother, Khaeriel.

Janel glanced over at Talon. “Nice job on that summoning.”

“Your Majesty,” Khaeriel snapped, “why was I only just now told that you—” She paused as she saw who was in the room, her expression softening in response to Kihrin before focusing on the important presence: Teraeth. He was standing in the wrong place, dressed in the wrong clothing. Khaeriel’s gaze slipped from him to the woman standing before the throne.

It wasn’t difficult to leap to the correct conclusion.

Khaeriel had apparently been enjoying her return to the vané capital, even if she was no doubt disappointed not to be returning as its queen. Still, she dressed to make it clear she should have been. Her gold hair was capped with a fret studded with emeralds, and she wore a dress of green silk and gold mail that sparkled in the reflected mage-light. Her skin was dark enough to make her Manol ancestry clear, but her eyes were gold.

Not a stitch of blue. Janel suspected that Khaeriel would never wear the color blue again.

Khaeriel’s shock transformed into sly pleasure as she took in Valathea’s presence. “I am sure you are aware of just how many laws you have broken, Valathea. Impersonating the sovereign? That will not be easily forgiven.”

“You’ll have to save the treason charges for another day,” Teraeth said dismissively. “She was acting under my orders.”

Which Janel knew for a fact wasn’t true.

Khaeriel’s narrowed eyes suggested she also knew it wasn’t true. But short of dragging Teraeth to the Parliament of Flowers for questioning under a truth spell, calling his bluff was problematic. “Was she? And what possible reason could you have had to be absent from the Manol after the catastrophes we’ve suffered?”²

“The best reason,” Teraeth answered. “Vol Karoth’s escaped.”

The derision dropped entirely from Khaeriel’s face, leaving behind a flash of stunned horror, quickly concealed. Her ability to cover her emotions was to be commended. It had no doubt served her well when she had been House D’Mon’s seneschal.

Janel realized that somewhere along the way, she’d decided she didn’t like Kihrin’s mother. Quite possibly she harbored a bias stemming from the opinions of her friends: Doc and Valathea, for example, or Galen and Sheloran.

“This must have happened recently,” Khaeriel said, “as word had not reached us of such a calamity. And yet Your Majesty has been gone for much longer than that, if my guess is correct.” She was just this side of civil to Teraeth, but her glare toward Valathea was not.

Khaeriel hadn’t made a secret of wanting the throne and, not so long ago, had thought she would get it—or half of it. But Teraeth’s father, Terindel, had betrayed her to grab it all.³ No matter how noble his reasons or, for that matter, that it had likely saved Khaeriel’s life, she seemed to have transferred her resentment to Terindel’s wife, Valathea.

“Was there a question in that?” Teraeth stared at Khaeriel with narrowed eyes.

Talon/Kihrin stepped forward before Khaeriel could respond. “Is my father here with you?” he asked Khaeriel.

The vané woman exhaled. “Kihrin…” It wasn’t clear exactly what she’d intended to say. Possibly she hadn’t known herself.

“I need to talk to him,” Kihrin said. “It’s important.” His entire posture was tightly coiled, his fists clenched by his sides. He was playing up the Vol Karoth angle for all it was worth. Given that Kihrin’s mother knew he was inextricably linked to the newly escaped dark god, he played to an audience primed to believe him.

There was no overwhelming plan that required Therin’s involvement, no pressing business. They weren’t there for Therin D’Mon.

Honestly, Janel almost admired Talon’s skill. Almost. The mimic had neatly tripped up Khaeriel’s momentum and any trouble she might otherwise have stirred up. Not to say Khaeriel wouldn’t still be a problem, but she’d have to be a problem after she’d dealt with her own family dramas.

Khaeriel deflated. “Yes, well. I suppose I should take you to him. He will be well pleased to see you returned safe.”

Janel didn’t flinch in response to the suggestion that Kihrin was “safe.” She hoped she hadn’t, although the concerned way Valathea stared at her suggested otherwise. Hopefully, that was a general concern and not a more specific “why wouldn’t you think Kihrin’s safe?” concern.

Oh, how Janel loathed the idea that at some point in the future—if they survived all this, if there was anything left worth surviving—someone would have to explain to Khaeriel that her son Kihrin was dead. Had been dead for well over a week.⁴

And if this all went as planned, also not dead by certain definitions. Because the world was strange like that.

Kihrin moved expectantly toward the door and then turned back to Khaeriel. “Thanks.” He made it very clear that he meant to leave now and not after Khaeriel was finished with her business.

Khaeriel’s departure left a thin, stilted silence in her wake.

After a pause, Teraeth said, “I admit to being surprised.”

Valathea smiled. “Oh?”

“We all know I didn’t ask you to cover for me, and I wouldn’t have thought you’d be so determined to see me stay on the throne. Not knowing what you do.”

Valathea seemed genuinely confused for a moment. “Why wouldn’t I want my stepson to—” Her expression cleared. “Oh, you’re referring to the delightful irony of who you used to be in your past life?” She grinned then, without the slightest trace of malice to her expression. “Making the reincarnation of Atrin Kandor sit on the vané throne strikes me as an appropriate punishment for past sins. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Teraeth didn’t look amused—which proved Valathea’s point.⁵

The former vané queen examined each member of the group in turn with mild interest. Then she said to Teraeth, “I also assume your purpose in returning here wasn’t to reclaim your throne, so how may I be of assistance?”

“Who can hear us right now?” Teraeth asked.

Valathea stopped, concentrated. “No one,” she said.

Janel’s focus sharpened. “Are you using Chainbreaker to do that?”

A vaguely embarrassed look flickered across Valathea’s face. “Yes, although I admit that using Chainbreaker on all three of you at once stands right at the limits of my skill.”

“You used Chainbreaker on Thaena,” Teraeth reminded her.

Valathea waved a hand. “Using Chainbreaker on a single person is easy, even if that person is a Guardian. Using Chainbreaker on large numbers has proved … more challenging.” She lifted her chin. “And don’t tell me how Terindel could sow illusions into the minds of hundreds of people simultaneously. I’m aware. But he had centuries to master this. I’ve had weeks.”

Janel and Teraeth glanced at each other. There was an excellent chance that they would need just that: someone who could use Chainbreaker on hundreds simultaneously. Maybe they’d get lucky and just have to deal with a few people. Maybe they wouldn’t. There was no way to know in advance.

Teraeth turned back to his stepmother. “Not a problem,” he said. “As it happens, we wanted to talk to you about resurrecting Doc.”⁶

That placid expression, normally so composed, cracked. The longing on her face was almost startling in its intensity, before she carefully put it away, hidden under elegant concern.

“Oh,” Valathea said. “Why didn’t you say—” She paused.

There was a shiver across the universe that was probably Valathea releasing her control using Chainbreaker. With the illusion banished, suddenly an alarm rang out in the room, a bright, sharp warning klaxon.

“The wards have detected a mimic,” Valathea explained, frowning.

Janel, Teraeth, and Xivan all simultaneously shared a panicked look.

Janel fought the temptation to curse. When last they’d checked, the palace wards couldn’t detect Talon. So either another, entirely different mimic was loose in the palace … or someone had updated the magical security to include Talon.

In either case, they had a problem.