Death of the Immortal King Read online

  Death of the Immortal King

  Sarah McCarthy

  Contents

  Also by Sarah McCarthy

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Acknowledgments

  More

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2019 Sarah McCarthy

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design by James T. Egan, www.bookflydesign.com

  Map illustration by Francesca Baerald.

  Also by Sarah McCarthy

  Shadows of Magic

  The Eidolons of Myrefall

  Prologue

  In the beginning, there was nothing.

  The nothing tore itself in half, becoming Numenos, Goddess of Life, and Yqtos, God of Death.

  They loved each other deeply, and from their love came their eleven children, the lesser gods and goddesses, who in turn made men.

  Every moment that Life and Death spent as separate beings was painful. The God of Death begged the Goddess of Life to end their suffering, to be one with him again, but Numenos knew that if she and Yqtos were reunited, the world would return to nothingness. And so Numenos left.

  She left the world in the hands of the God of Death and their children, so that it might continue.

  One day, Numenos will return, and all will be right again, and the world will be whole, and the world will end.

  1

  Lilianna

  Year Nine Hundred of the Reign of the Mandrevecchian.

  The old king who had once been called Lilianna ran a finger down the ancient cheekbone. So dry and smooth. Strange to think how long it had been. Nine hundred years.

  Torchlight played over the stone shelves in front of him, illuminating row after row of carefully arranged skeletons. He remembered each of them. Remembered how they had moved.

  A throat cleared politely behind him.

  The monk was slight and somewhat lost in her blue-grey linen robes, which were knotted over her left shoulder, leaving her arm bare. Her head was shaved, and if it weren’t for her slim face and high cheekbones, it would have been hard to tell she was a woman. What was her name again? She looked young, but her jet-black eyes told him she was at least as old as he was. Was it his imagination or was she not quite meeting his eye?

  “It is time now. Are you ready?”

  The familiar jolt of fear shot through his stomach. Even if he was ready to die, his body wasn’t. He glanced at the remaining open space on the shelf, smoothed his robes, and pulled the silver ring off his finger. He paused, watching the torchlight reflect off its surface, then handed it reluctantly to the monk.

  “Be very careful with this.”

  “Of course.” She bowed and turned, pulling the torch from its wall bracket and starting down the stone passage. He followed, and darkness collected about the bones behind them.

  They ascended the narrow steps and emerged from the cave into the gardens of the monastery. Their breath rose in frozen clouds, and overhead the sky was clear and bright with stars. This high in the mountains the ground had yet to thaw for spring, and the peaks around them were bright with snow, lit by the full moon.

  He took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of trees and snow. He envied the monks, in some ways.

  They ascended a series of grassy stone steps, skirted the large dining hall, and turned down a narrow path that slanted across the side of the mountain. The ground sloped away steeply to their right, and the old man took care with his footing.

  He didn’t blame the monks for keeping this particular building so far from their own living quarters. Despite the profusion of lavender and flowering trees planted around it, the place had a terrible smell, and his stomach tightened.

  Halfway across the slope, the monk stopped short. He waited for her to continue, or explain, but she didn’t. Her fingers tugged nervously at her robe. He was about to speak when a figure stepped out of the darkness and approached: a black-eyed man in a cheap wool travelling wrap.

  The king’s eyes widened, and he took a stumbling step back.

  “Coralie. What are you doing here?” He already knew, though. The monk’s turned back said it all.

  “I need to talk to you,” Coralie said, his voice hoarse.

  “There is nothing left for us to discuss.”

  “Please, just give me a few moments, Lilianna.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Coralie took a deep breath, his dark eyes heavy. “Please.”

  “How did you get in here?” The old king saw the monk’s hand lift and run over her shaved head, but she didn’t turn to face him. He addressed the back of her head. “Get him out of here and I’ll quadruple my payment. I’ll send the extra to you. Discreetly.” She didn’t move. He turned back to Coralie. “You didn’t come all this way to talk. You have your answer from me already.” He was stalling, thinking. He needed to die. Before Coralie could do what he’d come to do.

  “If you made me a promise, I’d believe it,” Coralie said. “You know I would. Things have to change.”

  The rocky slope to their right might be steep enough.

  “I am the one who built Mimros. Without me they’d s
till be a bunch of squabbling children burning each other’s boats down.”

  “You’re right. But now you’re destroying what we—what you created.”

  “I’m the only one keeping it together. And Mimros thrives. It rivals even Volaria now.”

  “Mimros burns. It burns with plagues and poverty. Not to mention suspicion and paranoia.”

  “If it does, that is your fault, not mine.”

  “We want the same thing, Lilianna. We’ve always wanted the same thing.”

  “And yet you fight against me.”

  Without waiting for Coralie’s reply, the old king flung himself down the rocky side of the mountain. The hill did its work: he tumbled, picking up speed, fighting his reflexes and forcing his arms away from his head. He struck a rock, then another, losing all sense of control and direction. He only hoped it would be enough.

  2

  Coralie

  Coralie tried to catch the old king, but the robe slipped through his fingers and he watched in horror as the old man tumbled down the slope, bouncing off rocks as he went. A hundred feet down he crashed into a tree and lay in a broken heap at its base.

  Coralie swore and launched himself down the hillside after the old king. He was younger, his boots were sturdy leather, and he kept his footing as he descended the slope. The monk followed behind more slowly in her loose sandals.

  Coralie bent his ear to the king’s lips and felt the faint whisper of breath. He lives. Relief washed over him. Lifetimes of planning. Almost wasted. He paused, lifted a hand; the desire to stroke the man’s cheek, to close his eyes and cry for all the years they’d lost, to beg for forgiveness, almost overwhelmed him. But he had come for a purpose not his own. There were more important things than what he loved. There was what was right.

  The king struggled and cried out in pain as Coralie lifted him gently.

  “This way,” the monk said, continuing down the slope at an angle.

  Coralie held the king tightly, trying not to jostle him as he stumbled across the rocks. They entered a scrubby pine forest, black and lightless except for the glow of the monk’s torch.

  They walked for over an hour, and Coralie had to stop several times to rest. Each time he checked the king’s breathing, relieved to find it still there. They stopped before a stone wall, thirty feet high and stretching off in either direction, slicing through the forest. Ivy trailed across the stones, and the monk began to pull the vines away, revealing a moldering door. Together, they tugged it open.

  The monk shied away from the door, rubbing her bare arm.

  “I’ll be back,” Coralie said. He carried the king through the pitch-blackness of the damp stone tunnel, emerging in a small clearing. The forest here looked just the same as it had on the other side of the wall. Was this really far enough? He carried the king a few hundred feet more.

  At last he stopped and laid him on the ground.

  The shovel was where he’d left it, leaning against the upraised roots of a fallen tree. He tested the ground in a few places and then began to dig.

  When the hole was large enough, he leaned the shovel back against the log, brushed the dirt from his clothes, and sat. His arms and back ached, but he took the king’s hand and waited. He’d brought a knife, but he wasn’t going to use it if he didn’t have to. He sat listening to the king’s breathing for a long time. He was beginning to fear that he’d have to kill him after all when the king’s chest hitched. Then he let out a sigh and was still.

  Coralie pressed a hand to the side of the king’s neck. Nothing. He pulled back the eyelids, squinting at the black irises in the darkness. No movement. He waited a while longer, just to be sure. Finally, tears welling in his eyes, he picked up the body and returned to the wall, passing quickly through the tunnel.

  The monk was waiting for him, picking nervously at her robe.

  “Thank you,” Coralie said.

  “I shouldn’t have done this. Are you sure he died on that side?” She ran a hand over her bare head again.

  “Yes. I’m sure. Don’t worry. No one will know you helped me.” He paused. “Do you need my help carrying him back up?”

  “No.”

  Coralie dreaded what came next.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Yes. Hurry. They’ll be expecting him.” She glanced over her shoulder.

  “And you’re sure the wall is in the right place?”

  “Many of us were lost forever determining exactly where the wall should go.”

  Just to be safe, Coralie walked a hundred feet further into the trees, away from the wall and towards the monastery. There, he took the vial from his pocket. He uncorked it and drank it down in one swift motion. The herbalist had assured him it would be painless, and he hoped she was right. Her eyes had been dark brown, so she might have known.

  Death took him quickly. Painlessly. He felt himself leave his body, saw the broken gate approaching, and his soul smiled.

  The monk came and, after making sure he was dead, carried his body through the tunnel—trembling as she found herself outside the wall. She tipped his body into the hole, filled it back in quickly, and hurried back, breathing a sigh of relief once she was inside. She shut the door, arranging the ivy over it again. Gathering up the king’s body, she started back towards the monastery.

  3

  Coralie

  One Year before the Reign of the Mandrevecchian.

  Coralie had stripped down to her cotton shift but sweat still poured off her flushed skin. The red glow of the forge sent out thick waves of dry heat that battered everything in the dim room. Wood smoke hung thick in the air, despite the breeze that trickled in through the single open window.

  Her grandmother snored softly in the corner, a piece of leather slipping out of her hands. The iron hinge that Coralie was supposed to be filing smooth sat untouched at the end of her workbench. Instead, she focused on a delicate silver ring.

  Her light brown hair was tied back up out of her face, but little tendrils escaped, sticking to the sweat running down the back of her neck. Her skin was pale, her small nose dusted with freckles. She was short, and the muscles of her back stood out through the thin shift.

  She scraped the fine chisel across its warm surface and little metal shavings curled up and fell away. A bead of sweat tickled as it ran past her ear and dripped onto the dark wood of the workbench. Coralie wiped the back of her hand across her forehead and began scraping the next curve in the design. It had looked much better in her head. She’d imagined delicate leaves and blossoms unfurling among braided vines, and the thing in front of her was more a series of wavy lines on a piece of metal she’d pounded flat and bent into a circle. The rough edges were still sharp enough to draw blood. Not something anyone would want to wear.

  She replaced the chisel in the tool rack and grabbed the polishing cloth again, doubling down on the piece. How did her grandmother get things so smooth?

  Her grandmother snorted, the leather falling out of her hands onto the ground, and Coralie tensed, darting a glance over her shoulder. The old woman mumbled something in her sleep that sounded like “darling wing fish” and then her breathing settled back into its deep, slow rhythm. Coralie smiled and resumed her polishing.

  Slowly, the sharp bits of metal became smooth, and the pointed slivers broke off, and the ring became something wearable, if not exactly as beautiful as she had imagined. Coralie inspected it in the light from the window. It wasn’t…terrible. In some places it was even pretty. Definitely her best yet. Its eleven predecessors had all been hidden away. This one might be good enough.

  “Psst!” The sound came from outside, just below the edge of the window frame. Coralie’s fist clenched around the ring, her heart skittering. A grinning face popped up in the open window.

  “Yqtos’ balls, Lilianna,” Coralie hissed at her. “What are you doing?”

  Lilianna grinned wider and glanced over Coralie’s shoulder.

  “She looks like she’ll be out for a wh
ile. Come on.”

  Coralie looked at the hinge, then at her grandmother. Just last night her grandmother had mentioned that soon it would be time for Coralie to take over for her. Nineteen. She should be more responsible. She glanced back at Lilianna’s grinning face.

  She could work more later tonight. She grabbed her dress off the back of her chair and pulled it over her head, tucking the still-warm ring into her pocket, then climbed up onto the bench, gripping the edges of the frame.

  Lilianna stumbled out of her way, laughing as Coralie popped out through the window and landed on the ground in front of her.

  “What, is your grandmother locking you in now?” Lilianna asked. Her hand was on her hip, her lips curled in an amused smile. She was a few inches taller than Coralie, thin, with bare feet and long legs. Her features were sharp, tense, and her green eyes darted away and back again as she scanned the area behind Coralie. Her thin dress and long brown hair blew back in the wind. They’d been best friends for almost all their nineteen years. They lived only a few streets apart in the tiny village of Harfoss, and Lilianna had been born just a few months after Coralie. Their mothers had been friends. Coralie’s mother had died first, so early that she barely remembered her. They were both old enough to remember Lilianna’s mother, but they never talked about how she had died.