The King of Forever (Scarlet and the White Wolf, #4)

THE KING OF FOREVER

Book 4 of Scarlet and the White Wolf

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Scarlet and the White Wolf, Book 4: The King of Forever

© 2015 by Kirby Crow

Bonecamp Books

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License Notes

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All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or part in any form.

Digital Edition

Cover Art by Kirby Crow

Editor: Reya Starck

Prologue

1: Secrets and Silver

2: Ritual and Light

3: The Grove

4: Less Talking

5: Fire and Burning

6: Fading Dreams

7: Bread and Roses

8: Forever

About the Author

T
he floor of the cave angled steeply down into the heart of the frozen mountain. Milky blue stalactites, brittle as flint, clung perilously to the ceiling as the king entered, wind howling at his back.

The barrier was broken, its hinges snapped and the great iron gates flung wide. He hesitated, torn with doubt. There was so much to risk, but so much more to gain. The risk troubled him less than he feared it would. His lands and castles were gone, passed on to lesser heirs without the wit to manage them, his sons long dead, himself exiled without comfort or aid. Now the Kinslayer had returned to claim what he did not deserve.

Deva. Om-Ret. Senkhara.

No, he had little luxury now to fret over
risk.

Ramung entered the Kingsdal and looked upon the frozen faces of the great kings and queens entombed inside the ice; their noble features, their white hair and staring blue eyes. They looked nearly alive, paused in the midst of speaking. He wondered if they would have wished him well on his quest, or if they would have cursed him.

“Pail’aa sest Nauhin,”
he said.
For the Shining Ones.
The invocation was as old as the cavern itself, perhaps. Who knew how many thousands of years ago the Shining Ones had arrived on this world with hope in their hearts, only to find a land locked in ice and all life ravenous to devour them. Their magic had sustained them for many seasons, but so had the vessel.

The vessel. He must not forget her. When the magic of the Shining Ones waned, the benevolent vessel shattered her consciousness into three fragments. She sent two of these shards to explore the world, to find the keys to survival and return with the knowledge. The Shining Ones began their long wait with only their little companions, the Anlyribeth, to bolster their dying powers. After many years, even that connection began to wither, and still the fragments did not return.

Whatever Deva’s other minds found in the vast reaches of the world, it was too potent to allow them to return to the mountain. The shards became gods in their new lands, as all great magic-wielders do.

Deva. Om-Ret. Senkhara.

The Anlyribeth, so secretive and clever, used their magic to adapt seamlessly to the world. Even with her consciousness broken and dispersed, Deva continued to aid them and ensure their survival after their masters turned cruel. When the Anlyribeth threw off their chains and fled, she went with them, leaving the Shining Ones powerless and undefended, at the mercy of the elements.

Deva was not only a traitor, she was heartless.

Abandoned, the Shining Ones required a new source of life. They could either merge with the world or be destroyed by it. They chose the merging, and the Ancients were the result. From the Ancients sprang the Rshani, leaving only the Anlyribeth unchanged by the passage of time, or nearly so.

Ramung traced his hand over a pane of blue ice, so clear it appeared like a wall of topaz. Columns of cone-shaped stalagmites jutted up from the floor like teeth, a maw to swallow up his past. He smelled strange scents in the cave: a whiff of burning tar, the sour tang of rusted metal, and one odor so foreign that he had no name for it. Other impressions came to him: salt and heated glass, the musty stink of old garments. Tiny lights winked in the darkness, a deep thrum like a heartbeat vibrated against the walls, and he heard faint, rhythmic sounds as if small birds were chirping in unison. There was a pattern to it...

Deep in the gloom of the mountain, Ramung saw a pair of great yellow eyes glowing in the darkness, and he gave himself to them.

T
he pile of bloody bear skins was growing larger.

“There are more today than yesterday,” Liall remarked.

Alexyin’s thick braid was a banner of white on the breast of his brilliant sapphire virca. He kept pace with the king by staying a scant step behind on his left.

“They seek to honor your name day, my lord, and to show their hope for the future.” He pinched his hooked nose, nostrils drawn in fastidiously against the tangy smell of both fresh and rotting hides.

“Hope and blood seldom go well together. I need soldiers, not pelts.” The king turned his head, and although he was a tall man, he had to look up a little to meet Alexyin’s eyes.

Nazheradei, known as Liall the Wolf in Kalaslyn and as Kinslayer among his own people, was lean and broad-shouldered, with jutting cheekbones and amber skin. His pale blue eyes were fringed with thick silver lashes, his white hair bound at the nape of his neck. He cut a royal figure, clad in a rich virca sparkling with precious jewels, but he wore it uncomfortably.

They were the only two in the hall. The palace corridors were empty, all the visiting jackals tucked away in their lavish rooms, waiting.

Waiting is what scavengers do best,
Liall thought bitterly.
After the ceremony, a war council, and after that...

He shook his head. Leave tomorrow for tomorrow. He hadn’t even gotten through the damned morning yet.

“If you’d let them have a day of celebration, there might be no pelts,” Alexyin hinted. Since Cestimir’s murder, Alexyin had served as Chamberlain, while Nenos was House Marus, the keeper of the king’s household. Bhakamir, the handsome and capable courtier who had served Liall’s mother, had returned to the Setna.

“Now is not the time for frivolous celebrations. The day of my birth is just another day. They may celebrate Scarlet’s name day, if they wish.”

Alexyin’s dour mouth turned down even further. His face was graven with deep lines, not all from age. “And when is that?”

“You know, I’m not entirely sure. I believe he was born in winter, though Hilurin count years by summers they’ve seen, and not by exact dates.”

“It must be because they can’t read.”

“They can count, I assure you. Scarlet can.”

“Like all merchants. But it’s a rare talent for a peasant, I’ll grant.”

Liall clenched his teeth at the dismissive tone. “I remind you, my old friend, that ser Keriss is a noble of my court, with a rank higher than any baron you’d give deference to without hesitation. You will esteem his position, at the least, and not force me to defend him to you again.” He glanced sideways at Alexyin and his voice grew softer. “Even Jochi has said he has never met a finer young man than Scarlet. It grieves me that you can’t find it in you to care for him just a little. He is worthy of your friendship.”

Alexyin turned his face away. “Yes, my lord.”

He still blames Scarlet for Cestimir’s death,
Liall thought. He would have to deal with that at some point.

But not today.

A wide corridor led away from the royal tier, its stone walls covered in the blue banners of Camira-Druz. Their steps turned toward it, pacing over star-patterned tiles gleaming with polish. Scarlet would have called the halls chilly, even with the daylight fires roaring in every hearth, but Liall found them quite warm. Winter ended today. There would be a Greentide feast, and soon, the gods willing, a good harvest.

“With so many bears taken, the roads will be safer this spring, at least,” Alexyin pointed out.

“So some good will come of courtly gestures, other than a lady’s smile.” Liall wrinkled his nose. “Don’t forget to have someone collect those skins. They’re beginning to smell.”

“And ser Keriss is not overly fond of looking at them.”

“He hates the sight and I don’t blame him. I’ve never been bowled over by a snow bear, but I can sympathize with how it must have felt. Get rid of them. Have them cured. Burn them with ceremony. I care not.”

“I will attend to the matter, sire.”

Liall slowed his steps as they neared the great armored doors to the outer courtyard. “I’m not looking forward to the war council.”

“Then don’t hold one.”

“Is that your advice? I didn’t elevate you to chamberlain only to hear
yes
from your lips. You’ve been damnably silent on the subject.”

Alexyin shrugged eloquently. “You ceased to crave my approval when you were still a boy, my lord. At any rate, I am a chamberlain, not a soldier, and the emissaries of the barons are already here.”

“Which is neither an answer nor an opinion. Don’t be cagey with me. If I’d wanted coy responses, I’d have sent for Jochi.”

“And where is my kinsman today?”

Another change of subject.
“With Tesk. I’ve set them to a task.” Because it was Alexyin, Liall did not explain that the task was to begin forming a company of men to wear Scarlet’s badge and be his formal guard. Like Alexyin, Jochi was also a Setna, and because Setna were excellent spies, Alexyin would know soon enough what the task was.

Setna, the old order of the wise, the brotherhood dedicated to preserving the knowledge of the Ancients and protecting the royal line through counsel. Some were also assassins, agents, and informers, but their training was rigorous. After they were released from apprenticeship at the Blackmoat and allowed to serve the crown, their loyalty was unquestionable. A Setna
served
, as Alexyin had served Prince Cestimir and Jochi had served the queen. Cestimir was dead, murdered by Vladei, which had opened the way for Liall to be crowned king. It was a thing he had neither sought nor desired, but now that it had come to him, he had no intention of giving it up.

“Tesk’s silver tongue is legendary. He could winkle out a monk’s secrets.”

“Silver,” Liall murmured. “If only the Ava Thule could be bought with silver. Alas, you can’t eat metal. Coin means nothing in the far north. I’ll wager you couldn’t trade ten silver bars for a haunch of rabbit in Whitehell.”

Alexyin cleared his throat. “Speaking of rabbits, my lord... I’m running out of game to set loose on the palace grounds.”

“Send for more. Discreetly. If ser Keriss discovers his hunts are salted, he will not be amused.”

“I had a thought,” Alexyin ventured. “In the hunting lands you granted him, there is a small grove where I
could
set loose some larger game.”

“Not reindeer, I trust.”

“Deer? No. Too large to be brought down with a bow his size. I thought perhaps an ice fox or a snowy grouse.”

Slightly bigger game, and harder to hunt. There were trees and bracken within the grove for the game to hide, and enough foliage and ruins to interest Scarlet’s exploring nature. Liall nodded in agreement. “Nothing dangerous. Accidents can happen on any hunt. Jochi can go, too. Scarlet will want to know the names of the trees and such.”

“The Hilurin is a born forester,” Alexyin said in uncommon praise. “He never forgets a tree or a flower, and yet the Sinha language escapes him.”