The Last Canticle: Summoner's Dirge (22 page)

Zephyr turned from Cessna. “We have clearance to enter. We’ll be docked in a few short moments.”

“Will you be staying in Eyrie?” Balin asked.

“For a while.” Zephyr shrugged. “Might as well see what there is here before we take off again.”

Cessna clicked a few controls behind Zephyr and began to tilt the ship to its side, slowly turning toward the air stadium. Israel and Ramiro approached them.

“What will you do from here?” Israel asked.

“I’ll seek an audience with Emperor Folken,” Balin said.

Zephyr raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“It is the only way,” Balin replied. His expression was impassive, but there was a gravity to his words that left Damir wondering.

Zephyr seemed to weigh Balin’s response for a moment. “Well, you have fun with that.”

Ramiro smacked Zephyr upside the head. Israel quickly added, “If you need anything, come find us.”

Damir stifled a smile. Zephyr rubbed the back of his head. “What’d I say?”

“Thank you for your hospitality. I truly appreciate it,” Damir said.

“You’re welcome,” Israel assured him.

“Come on.” Balin tugged at Damir’s arm. They returned to their room and collected their bags. Damir slid his quiver of arrows over his chest and picked up his bow. It was all he had left now, a sack of clothes and a weapon.

“How will you get an audience with Emperor Folken?” Damir asked as he turned to Balin.

“There’s something I should tell you before we land,” Balin said as he checked his dagger and slid it into his scabbard.

“Yes?”

“Emperor Folken, he is…” Balin paused.
Bahamut
shuddered and came to a stop.

“He is what?” Damir asked.

“My brother.”

Chapter Seventeen

Bloodlines

A wind blew in through the crack in the porthole. The stale air held the faint notes of an exotic perfume. Just as Damir had begun to make sense of the few facts Balin had given him, he found himself thrown out into the wild once more. He stood frozen in front of Balin, mouth open, his heart lodged in his throat somewhere with his uvula.

Damir snapped his mouth closed and took a slow step back. “How many more secrets are there?”

“None,” Balin assured.

They had just begun to find their standing again, and then Balin decided to pitch him over another cliff.

“What does that make you? A prince? A king?” Damir shook his head. “What do you want me to say, Balin? Can I even trust you?”

“I was removed from the family when I chose this path. There’s nothing to say. I wanted you to know before we saw Emperor Folken. I didn’t want you to be blindsided by this.”

Damir studied Balin, took in the slope of his nose and the indifferent glare of his amber eyes. There was fear lurking behind his golden orbs. Damir tried to hold on to the tendrils of betrayal and anger he felt, but they slid through his fingers like smoke.

He closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. “Okay, fine. What does that mean for us? Will he see us, then?”

When Balin didn’t respond immediately, Damir cracked his eyes open and glared up at him. “Balin?”

“I hope so. The last time I left here, it wasn’t on good terms.” Damir raised a brow. Balin looked away. “The job I was heading to, the one before I met you?”

“Yes?”

“My brother sent me on it. I was going to be given immunity if I assassinated King Vasilis.”

“What? Dear Lar! Why haven’t you ever told me this? You said there were no more secrets!” Damir couldn’t keep his voice from rising. The smoke of anger solidified once more inside him.

“It wasn’t another lie!” Balin shouted. He sucked in a sharp breath and said in a move even tone, “Damn it, I have not lied once. I kept those things from you because it was a life I was trying to fucking leave behind. If I had known things would go to shit, I would have given you a heads-up.”

Damir recoiled. Balin’s frustration, his anger radiated from his body like heat waves. A knock at the door snapped them from their death lock. The door slid open, and Israel stepped inside.

“Are you two coming… Is everything all right?”

Damir jerked his gaze away and said in a rushed whisper, “Yes, everything is fine. We’re leaving.”

He stepped past Israel and walked to the elevators without a backward glance. As the doors were about to close, Balin caught them and pushed them open. “So now you’re going to be pissed at me again?”

“Well, I don’t know; are you going to continue to withhold pivotal information from me? It may not be lying, Balin, but you might as well be,” Damir snapped. “Let’s just get through this.”

BALIN STEPPED INTO the elevator. He clenched his jaw but remained silent, his eyes trained on a corner of the cramped compartment. Israel entered as well. The elevator rose up and carried them to the second level.

Zephyr waited for them at the hangar. Balin clapped his hand on the pirate captain’s shoulder. “It was good to see you again. Thank you for everything.”

“I wish it had been on better terms; I truly do.” Zephyr grasped Balin’s hand firmly. Ramiro shook hands with Balin as Israel joined them, standing between the two men silently.

“Good luck,” Israel called out to them, his arm raised high as he waved.

The stifling heat was the first thing Balin noticed as he stepped off the bridge. The dry air circulated around the air stadium and settled over his skin like a great coat. The temperature dredged up memories that he would rather have left buried.

Damir unwound his scarf and stuffed it into his bag. He pulled up his hood, casting shadows over his face.

“You’ll be hot with your hood up. This isn’t like Canaan,” Balin warned.

“Do I have much choice?” Damir asked with a grumble. “I can’t risk being noticed.”

Balin shrugged, deciding not to point out that all of Damir’s layers of clothes were enough to get him noticed.

“Come on,” Balin said and gestured down the plank. They moved into the bustling crowd and elbowed their way through the stadium. It was like transcending a new world. Damir stood out like a ghost among the sun-kissed natives of Eyrie. Bare-chested men passed them, and Balin became increasingly aware of how overdressed Damir was.

“We’ll take a rickshaw to the palace,” Balin said as they walked into the city. The glaring sun blinded him. His lungs filled with the familiar scent of spices that floated on the stale winds. He hailed a passing rickshaw and gestured for Damir to climb on. He suspected Damir could use a break from the sweltering heat and wasn’t adverse to some rest himself.

“Is it always this hot?” Damir asked as he waved his hand in front of his face like a fan.

Bain took his seat. “Yes, sometimes worse.” To the driver he said, “The palace.”

Without a word the man picked up the heavy rickshaw and began to pull. The muscles in his arms bunched and glistened with beads of sweat. The breeze cooled mercifully as they wove through the labyrinth of streets, making their way up to the palace. Balin watched with a private smile as Damir looked at the buildings, which grew taller and more elegant, with their cupolas and gleaming gilded roofs, the closer they got to the royal home. Arabesque patterns decorated buildings in bright teals and ceruleans, and glass mosaic designs covered entire walls.

As they moved closer to their destination, bare chests of the men were replaced with shirts made of fine light fabric. Women were dressed in layers of twinkling gold and silver, gossamer gowns fluttering around their legs in stylish skirts.

They passed a gushing fountains and tall palm trees with waxy leaves that provided bits of shade. At their bases, flowers were artistically planted, providing a burst of vibrant colors and flora. The plants grew more exotic the closer they drew to the palace. Lush fauna spilled over every terrace, in the thick bushes and ferns that were artfully arranged. Lilies striped like tigers with wide orange petals, rosebushes with buds that changed color with the wind—the sun reflecting off them as if made of diamonds—and birdlike fluorescent pink flowers feathered out and stood on willowy stocks.

“Everything is so beautiful,” Damir murmured. “It’s like paradise.”

I don’t know if I would call it that
. Balin’s memories of Eyrie were far from fond, but he kept the morose thoughts to himself.

Damir grabbed Balin’s arm and squeezed as the tall gates of the palace approached. Balin smiled to himself, savoring for a moment Damir’s unrestrained excitement. The rickshaw passed under a series of horseshoe arches and then drew to a stop.

“Stay beside me,” Balin said as he paid the puller. He jumped down and helped Damir dismount.

The puller quickly turned and began to haul the rickshaw back down the road. Balin approached the gates where two sentinels stood, spears clasped in their hands.

He stopped in front of the guards, a few paces ahead of Damir, and announced brazenly, “I am Balin Lionborne, and I’ve come for an audience with Emperor Folken.”

The guards exchanged a long look. Balin had an endless supply of aliases he went by. Upon the start of his new life as an assassin, he had chosen to drop his family name Leo de Cor and had taken the name Lionborne instead.

Damir shifted closer to Balin. Silence stretched over the heat, as suffocating as the air. Balin didn’t know what the guards would do. He braced himself to be rushed and slammed to the ground. Finally the guard on the left broke away and slipped inside the gates.

Damir asked under his breath, “What’s happening?”

Balin glanced at him, his jaw set in a hard line. To Balin’s surprise, Damir slid his hand down Balin’s arm and tangled their fingers together. Balin’s gaze met Damir’s, hope blossoming in his chest.

“They are sending word to the emperor.”
No doubt to get permission for my arrest
. Balin didn’t voice his concerns, though. Damir had enough on his plate to deal with, let alone Balin’s own trepidations.

For several agonizing minutes, they waited for the guard to return. When he did, Balin was shocked to see him alone and the gates opened to them. He hazarded another look in Damir’s direction before leading Damir inside. Just beyond the gates an adviser waited, dressed in light red-and-white robes. His long jet hair was slicked back by oil and glistened beneath the sun like polished stone.

“Follow me,” the adviser said and turned sharply on his heel. They followed the adviser up a large flight of stairs. The set of doors at the top was opened by another pair of guards wielding spears.

Balin’s mind swirled as they marched down the halls, which were paved with gold-and-white marble. They made their way past a courtyard with a large water fountain, and up some more stairs. How often had he walked these halls? How many times had he passed the gilt-framed portraits hung on the walls? The palace had always made him think of a jungle, with all the potted plants and flowers that were shoved into every corner.

The adviser brought them to two large mahogany doors. Guards opened them. The throne room was less ostentatious, just an open room with marble floors and fluted columns. The left wall was a balcony that overlooked the city. Guards stood beside a great throne, which was carved of crystal and opals. Sitting between the guards was Emperor Folken.

More streaks of gray had appeared in his brother’s short black hair since the last time Balin had seen him. The wrinkles around his yellow eyes had grown deeper. Time was ravaging Balin’s brother, leaving behind a hard shell. There was nothing left of the boy Balin had grown up with.

Balin stopped when the adviser turned to him and held his hand up. The adviser then turned around and announced, “Your Majesty, I present Balin Lionborne.”

Emperor Folken narrowed his eyes at Balin. He rose, the red cape behind him rustling with the movement. Coldness passed over his citrine eyes. Emperor Folken was a man of icy severity, a man Balin had made the mistake of crossing.

“Tell me,
Brother
, why I should not have you sent to the guillotine this very moment,” Emperor Folken demanded. He spoke
brother
as if it were a poisonous word, the very sound infecting him with irreversible venom.

FEAR RACED UP Damir’s spine. He hadn’t processed the possible outcomes of confronting Balin’s brother. He moved forward to stand beside Balin, his body tense with worry.

Balin wore the stony mask Damir was far too familiar with. Damir opened his mouth but quickly closed it. It wasn’t his place to speak. As much as he wanted to step in, Balin had to be the one.

Emperor Folken didn’t wait for Balin to answer. He took an intimidating step forward, the sound reverberating in the silent room.

“I gave you the chance to absolve your sins, a chance to right yourself. A chance to drag yourself up from the wretched hell from which you were born. You threw my compassion back in my face, turned your back on your country, and now you dare to show yourself?”

Emperor Folken’s voice never rose, yet Damir could feel each word as if it were a blade that penetrated his soul. The desire to defend, to protect built up in him, and it took all his restraint not to come to Balin’s rescue.

“I failed, and for that I am sorry,” Balin stated.

“Sorry? You’re sorry for dooming the world? For letting such a vile man live? You, a man who makes his living killing others, couldn’t do this one task?” Emperor Folken narrowed his eyes.

Damir clenched his teeth. Whatever difference lay between him and Balin didn’t matter. He did not wish to stand there and watch Balin be torn down.

Balin continued as if he had never been interrupted. “I failed, that is all I can say. What explanations I have, what reasons I could offer cannot change what is, nor can it make up for it. I’ve come here, though, to set things right and plead for your help.”

Balin lowered his head subserviently. Damir’s palms sweated. He could feel perspiration building on his back, and he was sure it had nothing to do with the sultry heat.

“Set things right? Do you believe I would trust you to do a job again? I should have known the first time what a mistake it was, hiring the bad seed of the family. You have shamed your family, your king, and your country. I will not give you a second chance, nor will I show any more mercy. Guards, seize him.”