Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (14 page)

Tagen’s fury from moments past redoubled as he watched the open delight on the faces of those below. “Olen,” he said as he reached out and seized the dwarf’s shoulder roughly. “I don’t be knowin’ exactly what’s happened with the king, but I intend ta find out.” He drew the other dwarf close and dropped his voice. “Send Ignatius ta me. It be time for him ta begin earnin’ his way back home.”
And time for me to find out what has changed.

Sweat boiled from Kinsey’s brow as his writhing body strained against the restraints.

The vaulted ceiling soared above him into blackness and absorbed the sounds of his grunting, panting exertion. Pain lanced through his body in fiery bolts fed by a pulsing inferno in his chest. The fire inside thrived on insults, indignities, and injustices he had witnessed, and not just those that he had endured himself, but also those that he saw others suffering.

An image of Bale, the captain of the Pelosian guard, surfaced in his mind. The captain was looking at Kinsey’s adopted father, and his sneering lips formed the words “Your kind,” implying that Erik was less than an animal because of his elven heritage. Into the fire the image went, and the flames licked out into his limbs even hotter.

Kinsey stared at his hands, wrists bound in the heavy manacles. The inlaid silver runes that covered the restraints had begun to glow with an inner light, but their beauty did little to soothe the deep and feral instinct that recoiled every time he saw them. The rattling slither of iron on smoothly dressed stone drowned out his moaning as a spasm twisted his limbs and he fell to the floor of the Ointa Dagdarhem.

Kinsey blinked against the fresh pain of his contorting body, and the stone pressing on his cheek came into focus. Parallel grooves in the floor radiated away from his face where, most assuredly, some distant past Dakayga had torn the dense stone while being taught how to control the god’s “blessing.” One trembling hand reached forward to trace the jagged marks in the stone almost of its own accord. The hand was his but no longer recognizably so.

The nails of his fingers had split open, and blackened claws like that of a dog had pushed through. The flesh around his hand and arm was pulled taut, so much so that it had torn in several places to reveal bloody muscle and fur underneath. The whorls of his fingerprints were lost as the skin stretched and cracked open.

Kinsey staggered once more to his feet. The chains that had pulled heavily at his wrists when Sargon had first secured him now dangled from his arms like streamers from a maypole. The glowing silver runes cast ribbons of light into the dimness as they swung wildly. Kinsey threw back his head and howled into the darkness above, giving voice to his frustration, anger, and pain. He howled for what seemed hours as he wrestled to control the change. To shape it. To force it to his will.

The rage surged within him like a thing alive. It wanted to tear the stone hall down on the bloody corpses of those who sought to confine and control it. Kinsey’s mind burned as he lost the struggle to tame the wildfire inside of him, and he screamed a final time before the rage consumed him.

He awoke some time later, shivering and naked. The only sound in the Dagdarhem was Kinsey’s own labored breath. He felt as though he had been dredging the harbor of Stone Mountain with a bucket.

Realization crashed down on Kinsey. In his many attempts to master the change, only two outcomes had yet come to pass. Either he could not force the transformation to manifest, or he would lose control when it did. “I failed,” he said wearily.

“Aye,” said the king.

The voice of his grandfather surprised Kinsey, and he jerked his head around to find Thorn standing just outside the gem-encrusted circle that was intended to define the limits of a raging Dakayga. Thorn’s visits had been infrequent in the past weeks, not only because his time was not his own but also because the level of scrutiny upon him and his activities was high. The king had his arms crossed below his chest, and his eyes were soft with empathy.

The king continued as Kinsey stared at him. “But did ya think this would be easy?” Thorn let a wry snort puff through his gray beard. “It never be easy. Nothin’ o’ worth ever be.” The king’s boots scuffed on the stone as he approached with a roughly spun towel in his hands. He laid the cloth over Kinsey’s broad shoulders with tender grace.

“I’ve done hard before,” Kinsey said as he sat back on his heels and dragged the towel from his shoulders to mop his face. “Most of my life has been hard, but this seems on the verge of impossible.” The itchy cloth felt oddly comforting to him. The tough weave scrubbed away at the layers of dead skin, and soon enough he felt invigorated.

“Again,” Kinsey said, heaving himself to his feet.

“Nay, lad.” Thorn said, gently shaking his head. “Enough fer now.” The king stepped away and spoke a word, “
Dyhien-nok.
” It was the same strange, cryptic word Sargon would read from the book to unlock the manacles around Kinsey’s wrists. A whispered click saw the restraints spring open smoothly. The last traces of light fled the runes as the chains rattled to the floor.

It was difficult to regret not being allowed to try again. The bouts of agony and bone-deep weariness made Kinsey want to find a cool hole to crawl into and sleep for weeks. But he knew there was no choice if he was to control this “gift.”

“Where are the others?” Kinsey asked, peering about.

The king turned away before answering, stepping to retrieve a thick velvet robe. “I asked them ta leave us be fer a bit. True enough, those that have been keepin’ ya company these past weeks be getting a touch mad fer fresh air and freedom. I sent ’em back up ta the tops.” His head and one hand inclined in the direction of the peaks from which Kinsey and the others had descended to this chamber that first night.

“I believe I can empathize with that sentiment,” Kinsey said.

From what he had been able to put together from the conversations of his companions, Sargon, Gideon, and Jocelyn had been able to mix with the general populace upon their return, primarily because they could be trusted with the secret of the king’s new heir. Even with that trust, though, they had spent virtually all their time here in the cavern with Kinsey. This allowed them to shepherd him on this last, most crucial step of his journey as well as avoid the curious who wished to know where they had been and why. Horus, Neal, Sanderlin, Mansh, Baeld, and Jorin had been his constant companions. They were not too badly missed in the society at large, and Neal, at least, couldn’t be trusted not to slip or declare what must be held close for now.

When Thorn returned, he also bore an engraved cup brimming with water.

Kinsey was vigorously buffing the skin of his legs and ankles with the rough towel. The iron shackles had left no marks on his flesh, which Kinsey still found amazing. He knew that he had strained against the manacles, and he could remember vividly the blood that flowed from the cuts that the metal had made in his skin. Many of the dark stains that had seeped into the pores of the ancient stone were not ancient blood. Despite the daily damage, he had yet to retain a single injury that had been inflicted at any point when the change was upon him. Even the minor cuts and abrasions of daily life closed more quickly than he could ever remember, regardless of his state of change. A shiver ran through him, and his abdomen itched from the phantom scars of Kesh’s knife.

Thorn held the robe for Kinsey as he slipped his hands into the loose arms. The cold air of the cavern was shut away from his naked flesh as he belted the cloth rope around his waist.

“How many sets of clothing did our ancestors go through, you think, before they realized it was better to just start with none?” Kinsey asked.

Thorn smiled at the jest. “Hard ta say.”

Kinsey had railed against Sargon’s requirement that he disrobe that first night, but now he could see that it made no sense to attempt to change form while fully clothed. As yet, no clothes had been found for him that were not too short in leg or torso. The secret of Kinsey’s presence made it impossible to just have more outfits made. The inaccessibility of new clothes made it particularly important to keep the ones he had as close to whole as possible.

Thorn presented Kinsey with the cup of water. “I been thinkin’, lad,” he said.

The cool water soaked into Kinsey’s parched tongue and throat as he drank. Much of the time, the practice that he endured was nothing like farm work or learning weapon skills, but it unfailingly left him spent and thirsty.

“It be time ta start introducin’ ya ta the people.”

Kinsey choked and slapped one hand over his mouth to avoid spraying the king. Drops fell from his fingers as he looked incredulously at Thorn. When he got his breath back, he set the cup down carefully and said, “You must be joking.”

“Nay, ma boy. Nay,” Thorn said with a shake of his head that set his gray beard swaying.

“I think that’s a bad idea,” Kinsey said. It had only been a little more than two months since he, Sargon, and the others had come to Mozil. Since that time, he had had no contact with anyone other than the members of the party he had initially met in the jungle. According to Sargon, there were powerful forces in play, and most of them were arrayed against his grandfather.

Thorn chuckled. “I thought ya might. Ya needn’t worry yerself.”

“I’m not much on politics,” Kinsey continued. “But even I can tell from what you and the others have told me that bringing a potential heir to the table might serve to throw the dwarves into chaos.” Kinsey paused to gauge Thorn’s reactions before piling onward.

The king remained silent and contemplative.

“If you bring in an heir that’s only
half
a dwarf, well…” Kinsey let the meaning of the unspoken words settle between them.

“It be a problem, the matter o’ yer mixed heritage, but it can be dealt with,” Thorn said stubbornly. The king had not expressed any particular distaste for humans as a rule, but he stopped well short of saying that it was time to open a human colony within dwarven-held lands.

“Can it?” Kinsey asked, pursuing the point. He had no desire to let the old dwarf down, but his first goal in Mozil had become understanding and mastering the changes in himself. Sargon had tempted him with the idea that there were roots to discover as well, but he was not interested in continuing some dynasty that had not even existed for him mere months ago. As preposterous a notion as kingship might seem to Kinsey, the others had no doubt that it was not only a matter of blood and right but a matter of destiny. “Do you think the heads of the families that are circling your throne like carrion birds will be willing to ‘deal’ with it?”

“They may,” Thorn said with a distasteful grimace and a half shrug. “But ya
be
Dakayga, lad. That cannot be gainsaid once ya have mastered the change.” The king shook his head. “And the power that ya wield, that ya be gifted with, is amazin’ indeed. Even ma own son—” Sudden pain washed over Thorn’s features as he invoked the memory of Kinsey’s mysterious father.

Kinsey seized on this opportunity to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable notion that Thorn, Sargon, and the others were apparently looking at him to assume the throne. Every time they alluded to his birthright or spoke of it outright, Kinsey felt his dreams of fishing with Erik on the Tanglevine slip further away.

“Tell me about him,” Kinsey said. “I’ve never known a father other than Erik. I think I’d like to know who he was.”

Thorn’s gray beard twitched up in a smile, and a small glimmer entered his eye. “Come, I would share something with ya.”

Thorn turned before receiving an answer and began striding quickly to the sheltered alcove that housed the exit from this most singular of rooms. Silvery, delicate runes around the entry began to glow as the king approached.

Curious, Kinsey padded after his grandfather quickly enough that his robes fluttered around his legs.

The Ointa Dagdarhem was connected to the rest of Mozil in a way that Kinsey didn’t rightly understand. The glowing portal was always connected to a hallway. The hallway itself was radically different each time Kinsey had been allowed to travel its length.

The night of Kinsey’s arrival, more than two months ago, had marked his first time to set foot in the mysterious passage as well as the mountain kingdom of Mozil itself. He and most of the group that had quested to find him had traveled a tortuous and circuitous route from the Lowlands into the peaks of the Dales after leaving Dak and the ponies with a sparsely populated village.