Book of Kinsey: Dark Fate (The Dark Fate Chronicles 2) (19 page)

Kinsey shifted his feet as he stood near the entrance to the war room. He could hear many voices on the other side of the two giant doors, but they were muffled to the point of incoherence.
Gods, I hate this,
he thought. Politics and the grandstanding that came with it had never been something he felt comfortable with. Now, however, he found himself roped into them by a heritage he had barely come to accept, much less fully grasp.

Sargon glanced over at him. “Ya be doin’ fine, lad. If they be givin’ ya any smart talk, just growl.”

Kinsey chuckled despite his restless nerves. He caught a glimpse of his coat sleeve as he wiped the sweat from his brow. If Kinsey had to use two words to describe his newly attained outfit, they would be “silver” and “gold.” Actually, they might be “mad” and “ridiculous,” but silver and gold were easier concepts to define. Dark, rusty wool provided the backdrop to the many bands of woven silver and gold that wrapped around his sleeves, shoulders, and torso. The shimmering lines depicted the forms of Dakayga long past. Maroon leather straps closed tightly around his forearms and calves, with small silver chains dangling from each shiny buckle. Pants of ruby cotton billowed out from boots as black as coal. Inlaid metals ran wild along the surface of the knee-high boots with intricate swirls and symbols. Kinsey shook his head at the absurdity of it all.

Sargon patted him on the back and nodded toward the door. “He be needin’ this. We all do. Even you, lad.”

“I’m not so sure,” Kinsey said. “About me, that is. I just want to get this
thing
”—he gestured to himself with both hands—“under control.”

“Aye.” Sargon nodded. “But ya come a long way from where ya started. And ya can’t be blind ta the life ya be givin’ back ta yer grandfather.”

Kinsey frowned, thinking back to the first night he had met the king. He had watched as Thorn’s features transformed from those of a worn and desperate old man to those of someone filled with hope. His time with the king after that first meeting had been limited, but the others had described to him how Thorn’s long-existent melancholy slowly bled away, day by day, until the well-intentioned man they had so admired was once again revealed. Even if Kinsey had not personally witnessed the change in Thorn’s attitude, he trusted the word of Sargon and his friends. They were amazed and overjoyed by the complete renovation of Thorn’s spirit. A stirring desire to know this man who had proclaimed himself Kinsey’s grandfather and to not rob him of his newfound life held Kinsey here almost as much as his desire to learn to control the beast within him.

“No,” he finally said. “No, I’m not.”

Despite his feelings toward Thorn and his newly forged friendships with the dwarves, Kinsey was not prepared to take on a role of leadership for a people he really knew nothing about.

Sargon seemed to pick up on Kinsey’s unspoken concerns. “Ya not be alone in this. I’ll help ya.” A leathery hand thumped his shoulder. “
We’ll
help ya, any way we can.”

Kinsey smiled at the old priest in spite of himself. Sargon’s confidence was catching. “I have no doubts about you.”

Sargon beamed. “We’ll get through these rough times, ta be sure.”

Doubts regarding Sargon and the companions who had come with him from Basinia aside, Kinsey had plenty that he felt unsure about. Even with the breakthrough he’d made with Jocelyn’s help, the monster within was a far cry from tame. He needed more time to understand how the little success had been accomplished, but with the announcement of imminent war, it was apparent that that time would not be granted.

The heavy oak doors groaned as they were pulled open from the inside. Gideon appeared in the widening gap. Kinsey knew that the blond dwarf served as general for the Borjorin house, but this was the first time Gideon had looked the part. Prior to today, Kinsey had only seen the scarred, rough-cut warrior in chain armor or traveled leathers. Gideon’s demeanor had been the epitome of the rough but relaxed jocularity of the dwarven culture. Now the only hint of the merry mayhem was in his eyes, which sparkled with bronze fire in the flickering torches and lamps. His hair and beard had been tamed from the chaotic bush to a formal braid and bound tails that had been finished with black and gray lacquered metal bands. The worn armor had been replaced with an immaculately tailored red vest and a flowing black shirt and pants that were highlighted with the same steel gray of his hairbands. The clothes were functional, but touches of gold at the collar, shoulders, and wrists whispered of his status.

Gideon smiled his gap-toothed smile. “They be ready fer ya.”

Kinsey took a deep breath and gave one quick nod to the general. “Lead on.”

As with the other formal spaces in the kingdom that Kinsey had been able to visit, the council chamber Gideon led them into had been carved from the mountain. The rough walls were then covered with columns of granite and paneling of polished wood. Two hearths blazed with warmth to the left and right. They, along with many lanterns hung from wrought iron hooks, illuminated a centrally located table of immense proportions. Surrounding the table were perhaps thirty dwarves, all of whom were likely the leaders of the powerful houses that led the kingdom of Mozil. Every eye had turned to the doors when they had opened to admit Kinsey, Sargon, and Gideon. Now those same eyes regarded the trio as they advanced through parting nobility to approach the war table where Thorn waited. Kinsey could see curiosity, confusion, and, in more than one pair of eyes, anger.

Thorn straightened, taking his hands from the table. His voice was full of pride and strength as he swept up an arm toward Kinsey and declared, “Ma grandson, Prince Kinsey Brunahlen. He be and shall ferever remain heir ta the throne!”

The silence deepened until the crackling flames were the only sounds beyond breathing, and Kinsey felt a drop of sweat roll between his shoulders as he stared back at those his grandfather wanted him to lead. In the pit of his stomach, the rage twitched and began to stir in response to the stress.

“That be no dwarf,” one of the leaders said with disdain. His words rang in the silence of the room and sparked a murmur through the crowd of bystanders. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and the frown buried within his thick facial hair turned into a snarl. “What trickery be this?!” His broad fist slammed on the table, displacing several of the miniatures.

“This be no trickery, Ronil,” Thorn said. The king’s voice was low and calm and solid as a billet of hardened steel. “Ya’d be wise ta hold yer tongue till yer mind is clear.”

Kinsey’s skin tingled as the rage within him sought to grow. He took a breath and tried to focus on calm things—
Fishing, it would be good to go fishing.

“His statements be justified, ma king. That man be no dwarf,” said a ginger-haired noble from around the table.

“He be half human,” Thorn replied. “But he be Duhann’s son, sure as the gold streams runnin’ through the quarry mines.” A rising murmur of assent susurrated through the room. Duhann’s face was well remembered, it seemed.

Several of the leaders shook their heads, anger distorting their features, but the one standing beside Kinsey’s grandfather barked a laugh and echoed Kinsey’s thoughts. “He do be the spittin’ image o’ Duhann. Yer full o’ surprises, ma king.”

“This be no laughin’ matter, Gurney!” the one called Ronil yelled. A few others nodded, and a low chorus of “Aye” rumbled across the table.

Gurney was quiet for a moment before more laughter rolled from his lungs like thunder. “Yer a fool, Ronil. Every one o’ us sees Duhann’s visage on that boy’s face.” His thick finger pointed at Kinsey. “There be no doubt o’ his heritage. Even so, no half-breed would sit on Hannaul, no way. There be somethin’ more ta this.”

Ronil narrowed his eyes at Gurney then at Thorn. His lips parted to speak, but he was cut off by the sound of something slamming on the table. Startled, everyone turned to look at the source of the interruption.

The burly, red-headed dwarf who had sided with Ronil just moments before was leaning forward upon clenched fists that were set down in a jumble of disrupted figurines. He stared across the table at Kinsey, a sneer distorting his face. “No, that be impossible!”

This time Ronil looked back and forth between Kinsey and the ginger-haired dwarf, as did several others. “What do ya mean?” Consternation had replaced the anger of moments before. “I don’t understand.”

“Dakayga,” an old, withered dwarf said as he stepped away from one of the blazing hearths where he had been virtually unnoticeable. His gnarled cane scraped the floor as he walked. “He be Dakayga, ya numbskull.” The old dwarf jabbed an age-twisted digit at Ronil. “Fer the love o’ Dagda, how a man like yer father had such a dim-witted child I’ll never know.”

Ronil’s impressive chest bowed up and he lifted his chin. “I’ll not be takin’ that kind a talk from ya, Petron. I be deservin’ more respect—”

“Shaddup,” Petron interrupted. “We ain’t got time fer yer whinin’.”

Kinsey was having trouble focusing on the conversation thanks to his internal struggle, but the old dwarf’s voice cut right through his distraction. He almost laughed out loud as the pompous Ronil stared at Petron in slack-jawed shock. The growing rage dissipated as if it had been a bubble pricked by a pin.

“You there, Sarshon”—Petron’s cane poked into Sargon’s shoulder—“the boy here be havin’ the gift?”

“Aye, Petron, he be Dakayga,” Sargon answered, ignoring Petron’s fouling of his name.

“Prove it,” said the ginger-haired dwarf. His steely gaze had not left Kinsey.

“Are ya mad, Tagen?!” Gurney blurted. “He could tear us all ta shreds!”

Inwardly, Kinsey heartily agreed. His brown eyes locked with the emerald chips of Tagen’s. “It’s too dangerous for me to show you here, now. I don’t have enough control.”

Tagen pushed away from the table with a “Hrumph” and looked around at the others assembled. “This be a farce”—he pointed at Thorn—“a pathetic attempt by a tired old bagger ta hold on ta a birthright that no longer be his!” The angry words uncorked the emotions that had been bottled at Thorn’s announcement, and at once, the room was filled with angry, shouting, jostling dwarves.

Sargon stepped forward, raising his hands in an attempt to bring peace, but no one paid him any mind. Red faces continued to yell at one another in fury.

The insult to Thorn gave the rage within Kinsey a new foothold, and it pulsed even more strongly than before. His eyes darted from argument to argument, but he could see no end to the building conflict. Eventually, his jumping gaze found its way to Thorn.

The king looked across the table at Kinsey, and amazingly, his old face was utterly calm. He stood out like a stationary pillar amongst crumbling rubble. One brow twitched slightly as if suggesting that he was waiting for something—waiting for Kinsey to do something.

Kinsey reeled away from the thought, though his feet remained planted in his polished boots.
Madness,
he thought.
I could kill every one here in seconds.

Thorn remained unmoving. The start of a smile touched the corners of his mouth and, as if he could read Kinsey’s mind, his mouth moved to form a single word. The king’s voice could not be heard over the bellowing dignitaries, but Kinsey knew the word his grandfather had spoken.
Faith.

Absurd. Have faith in a god that Kinsey knew as little about as the people who worshipped him? The whole situation was absurd. He looked around the table, seeing men lost to their own confusion, fear, and hatred. Kinsey wondered if they had considered the possible consequences for the many families loyal to their banners, or if it were only their pride that drove them.

Sargon was moving from lord to lord, trying in vain to calm the angry dwarves. The poor old priest’s fears of civil war were coming to life right in front of him.

The more Kinsey watched the chaos unfolding around him, the more he realized he had no choice but to show them what he was, regardless of the potential calamity. If this meeting could end in bloodshed one way or another, it would be better for Kinsey to try than to stand idly by knowing he could have done something.

With a heavy sigh, Kinsey surrendered himself to the rage. There was an edge of savage joy to that maelstrom as it surged up and claimed him, a gleeful, horrible potential.