Pirate and King

  1

  Plans or not, determined or nay, Karellon wasn’t an easy place to get shed of. Not when the throne’s fading magic had sunk in its hooks. There were only two direct heirs left in that whole ravaged City. One was Alexion, former exile and outlaw. The other was grey-eyed Valerian, who would rather have been anywhere else (except back in that vile, ever-churning machine).

  Only, the Dragon Throne defended itself and clung tight to both heirs, making desertion impossible… at first. But then a wild card arrived, in the form of a sleek, dark airship. Just about featureless, her masts lowered, and her manna tanks hidden, the vessel cut high over Five Points, piercing the smoke and dark clouds like a blade.

  Activity below halted at once, as terrified people craned their heads to point out the hurtling newcomer. Val had seen it before, of course; up north at Lord Arvendahl’s hunting lodge. So had his wife, the Quetzali princess Alfea.

  “The Flying Cloud,” she murmured to Val, drawing part of her cloak over their baby girl. Bean was asleep and covered in softly glimmering fey-lights, but mothers worried. He knew that.

  Heedless of the gaping crowd below, the airship heeled into a sharp, hissing curve. Then, with a great rattle and clanking of chains, the Cloud dropped its anchors. Three huge, spiked iron skulls crashed to the plaza with a rumbling BOOM! Each heavy anchor blasted a crater right through ornamental tile, sputtering fountains and shrieking, scurrying people. Striking deep, they gouged long, ragged gashes that slowed and finally stopped the black ship. Dust whirled. The plaza shook like a horse's flank. Broken stones pattered down all around them like hail.

  Sawyer the griffin came darting back to Valerian’s side. He’d been off with Vernax, trading whatever monstrous insights a griffin and dragon might share. Now, the russet-feathered creature was back; cawing and rasping, wings extended and tail lashing.

  ‘Right. Me, too,’ thought Valerian, caressing Sawyer’s sleek auburn head.

  “Defend,” he said aloud, jerking a thumb at Alfea and Bean. Sawyer screeched wildly, not liking that order any more than Fee probably did… but he listened. Plunked himself down on those shattered tiles beside the disguised Quetzali. (Her brother Rodrick dropped out of the sky moments later, settling in feathery coils at Alfea’s other hand, just in case.)

  His wife did not look pleased, and he’d no doubt regret it all later… but maybe they could take turns minding the baby, while the other half got into trouble. Anyhow, Val kissed the bridge of her nose and then turned to face that swaying and creaking black airship.

  “I’m never careful,” he said to his small family, “but I’ll try very hard to be smart.”

  …And that was the most he could promise. The Cloud’s anchor chains slackened and stretched as the airship wallowed overhead. Prince Alexion had left his father’s half-built funeral pyre. Grim-faced, armed with a short sword, the former exile strode across the plaza. She-once-a-goddess glided along at his side, while a scruffy gnome and a weathered half-elven bard brought up the rear.

  Meanwhile, two odd figures had sprung from the anchored pirate ship. One was a glass woman who shone like a torch in the sun’s occasional rays. She slid down the nearest anchor chain with practiced ease; very bold for one who looked as if she’d smash like a vase on impact. Tess Nomercy, captain of the Flying Cloud.

  The other was an albino drow; about as welcome as poisoned fish at a banquet. Very tall, the hybrid dark-elf had long white hair, deep-red eyes and a lot of unfortunate history. Kaazin Kylarion, whom Valerian knew and despised. Unlike his transparent shipmate, the drow wore a combination of frosty dark chainmail and plate armor, topped with a blood-red cloak. His expression was fierce. Angry, where Tess merely looked impatient.

  Kaazin’s hand was at the hilt of his sword. Not a good sign, especially as his burning-coal stare was riveted to Alexion. Val hurried his pace, meaning to intercept the pirates. Then something hissed past his left shoulder to bury itself in the ground, point-downward and vibrating. A very ornate, silver spear it was; shining with heavenly magic.

  Val glanced back at his wife, who nodded. The weapon was hers; a Quetzali lance. Lifting a hand, he signed: I love you. Then Val seized the filigree lance, which buzzed and crackled with power. Something else happened, too. Something he hadn’t expected at all. The fated sword’s shadow returned, forming itself in his right hand, which convulsively closed on that black-and-white-hilt. And…

  Right. He’d sort it out, later. Now, Valerian stepped into the dark-elf’s path, just as Kaazin slouched down to the plaza like a harpy’s vile, reeking feather. Val could have said any number of things, but what burst forth was,

  “Get out. Back to your haunted tub and away. We’ve got trouble enough without…”

  A relative. Blood family, which he could sense, now that Alexion’s exile was lifted. As the oncoming heir was his great-grandfather, so this fetid dropping was somehow… his uncle.

  More, he could feel the pirate ship scratching away at the edge of his thoughts, as though trying to speak to him. Too much to grasp all at once. He would have been an easy target, maybe, except that Kaazin was just as surprised and repulsed.

  “I have business with you, Day-walker,” snarled the albino, “But it can wait till I’ve slain the main course. Out of my way.”

  Uh-huh.

  “Make me,” dared Val, armed with a heavenly spear, a very cursed sword and his own short temper.

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  By that time, his great-grandfather had arrived, looking… not as ferocious as one might have hoped. Alexion’s expression was a curious mixture of pain and deep gladness. Now, glancing briefly at Val, he said,

  “Stand down, northerner. He has every right to be here.”

  Next, turning his green-eyed gaze back to the drow, the prince managed to speak. In a slow, painful voice, he said,

  “Kaazin… you’re no longer a child. You’ve grown up in vengeance and blood… but I’d know you anywhere.”

  The albino scowled at Alexion, half-drawing his sword. Trouble. Only, Valerian hadn’t stood down at all. He was honor- and mage- bound to defend the Imperial heir. Extending Alfea’s lance, Val drew a sparkling line through the scorched, bloodied pavement with its tip, dividing Alexion from Kaazin. Using divine force and a muttered spell, the young blond elf erected a nearly impassible barrier. Until he or Alfea willed it, the two could not come any closer. Not to fight, embrace or hurl weapons. They could see each other and speak. That was all. More, the line would shift its position whenever they did. Always between them, till Val declared otherwise.

  The pair scarcely noticed. Instead, as Tess stomped over to join her partner, Kaazin growled,

  “Your voice is not as I imagined it would be, old traitor. I had expected a serpent’s rasp, not this day-walker lisp.”

  Alexion shook his head, sending unkempt brown hair sliding into his face.

  “I was exiled and cursed, son. I could not speak with my own voice. Only yours. I… that night, I followed our plan. Met with Daazra, wore her out, then tried sending her into a long sleep, but the potion wasn’t strong enough. She awoke too soon and discovered the plot. All I could do then was to shield you… keep her from learning of your involvement. After that I was beaten and sold to the arena. Later… for a much lower price… to the mines. But I never stopped fighting to escape. I never stopped wondering what happened to you.”

  Nice. Val had developed a thundering headache. Possibly the strain of exhaustion and magic… maybe just a reaction to Kaazin. He could have skewered the worthless corpse-fly right then and there. Pop. Just like bow-fishing back at the lake. Only…

  Blood. They were related, and that deep, binding spell stayed his hand. All that Valerian did was watch, keeping the two of them apart as their words circled and growled like cats.

  “I came to hear your excuse and then drown it in hearts’ blood, Bone-Setter,” growled the drow, never shifting his gaze; pushing hard at that shimmering barrier. “But you seem to have gained some allies as well as your tongue.”

  “And I’m still waiting for twenty million in platinum,” Tess cut in, having come over to stand beside Kaazin. “All I’ve gotten so far is promises. Maybe Prince Nalderick’s not in power anymore, but someone still owes me!”

  Alexion blinked.

  “Twenty million platinum?” he repeated. “For what?”

  “For delivering Arvendahl’s head. We didn’t kill him, but his ugly topper landed smart as you please on the drow’s blade, so we were the ones who gave it to His Nibbs. We got a reward coming, Your Highness, and I mean to claim it right the drek now.”

  Her words and voice sounded younger than that fully grown crystalline body, but Tess’s determination was quite real. Val hated to back the wench up, but…

  “I was there, Sir,” he admitted. “My father Keldaran… your grandson… hewed off Arvendahl’s head. It did accidentally wind up riding this dung-fly’s sword, and Prince Nalderick promised to honor the bargain… but he’s not here.”

  The former prince-attendant was gone. Departed, along with his minions Solara and Scander, and half of the Majesty’s crew. Not dead, though. As they were related, Val would have sensed it.

  “You could buy your own kingdom and fleet for that much platinum,” groused Alexion. “We’d have to sell one of the lesser territories. Anyhow, not my problem. I don’t intend to stay in Karellon or become the emperor. I’m leaving, with my surviving people and Her, if she’ll have me.”

  (Which was grim news for Val, who did not itch for cushions or glittering fetters, either.)

  Anything might have happened, but then a very fragile and short-lived gate opened up in the air alongside them. Tearing apart like a gash in reality, edged in miracle rainbow light, the portal spilled Lord Galadin, Lady Alyanara, his father Keldaran and Uncle Reston. Barely. That rift in the air broke up into shimmering motes and drifted away before the next in line could step through, stranding Lerendar and the rest back home. Magic was fading; big spells and enchantments fastest of all.

  …But now there were two more heirs in Karellon. Dad and Grandmother had come, and they were both closer in blood to Alexion than unwilling, watered-down Val. He could sense the throne shift its attention, releasing him. Score.

  To his credit, Valerian didn’t whoop aloud or cut capers. He’d never been happier to see his father and grandmother, though. Not in this timeline. Could have kissed them both. Settled for bowing.

  “My lords and lady,” he said, straightening with a bright, relieved countenance. “Please allow me to present His Imperial Majesty, Prince Ascendant Alexion.”

  (“Cor… all that, innit!” muttered the battle-scarred gnome at Alexion’s side. “Our Chatter, an imperial prince!”

  “We’ve come up in the world,” agreed the old bard, cocking an eyebrow.)

  “No,” objected Alexion, glaring at Val. “Once, maybe, but not anymore. I’m no more a prince than I was a miner, and I won’t be slave to the throne or anything else. I’m leaving.”

  She-once-a-goddess took her life-mate’s rough hand and drew him over to Grandmother.

  “Lex,” she said. “This is Alyanara, our daughter. I behold her for the first time with mortal eyes and a living heart. You, for the first time since she was just an infant.”

  Alexion stared at his child, whose red-golden hair and violet eyes glowed with demigod light. She seemed about to cry. To give her time, Lord Galadin stood forth and bowed.

  “Highness,” he said, before Alexion could react. “I am wed to your daughter and heir. I… have not always been the ideal partner, and if you wish to replace me with another, I will go.”

  Complicated family dealings, and clearly too much for Alexion.

  “I need a drink,” he muttered.

  Galadin laughed, converting the sound to a cough at the last moment. He stretched out a gauntleted hand, accepting a flask from his oldest son, Reston.

  “Highness,” he said, smiling. “Illyrian produces a very good spirit. Subtle, rather than strong, but I think it will serve.”

  It was hard to believe and not at all comfortable, but they were a family. There were stories and explanations to trade. Plans to be made for the realm and the throne. For now, a leather-and-mithral flask passed around the small group. Everyone drank. Even Kaazin. Even Alfea and little Bean (but only a drop on her mother’s finger).

  After that? Well, that’s when everything started to happen. When all of the realm turned upside down and the story began in earnest.