Once a King

by Erin Summerill

  “Let me go!”

  Their ears are garbage. My shouts don’t work. I yank to free myself, and the man on my left sinks his fingers into my shoulder, immobilizing me with pain.

  “That’ll do, Lirra.” Judge Soma’s boots click on the cobblestones. His fingers shoot out and take my chin like an angry parent might force their child’s attention. With the moon and castle lanterns behind him, he’s cast in shadow. His brown hair is an inkblot attached to a stick figure. Fury kindles in my belly. I squirm and consider biting him. He has no right to handle me.

  I want to sink my teeth into his hand, but I resist the temptation. He has two guards helping him. Three against one aren’t good odds. Best I’d get is blood in my mouth and a backhand to the face.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask, but his grip on my chin is too tight, so it comes out as “Waddyawanfrome?”

  Judge Soma releases his hold and smooths the sleeves of his shirt over each wrist, then runs his hands down his velvet vest. “I saw you in the castle entry. You heard the Kolontian king. You were involved this evening. Until it’s sorted out, you will be detained.”

  Vines made of ice twist around my lungs. “But I had nothing to do with it!”

  “You were seen at the fountain.”

  “I was helping two boys. They were caught. If I hadn’t run in, they might’ve been seriously hurt.”

  His gaze shifts to my knees and then to the dirt on my tunic and trousers. Does he think I was fighting too?

  “I didn’t hit anyone, I promise. Look at my hands.”

  The guards’ grip on my arms doesn’t loosen, so at best all I can do is wiggle my fingers.

  Judge Soma shakes his head. “The command has been given. By a king, no less. I’m sorry, Lirra. I have to follow orders, and you were there.”

  * * *

  Inside the lower levels of the keep, beneath the kitchen and far below the armory, there is a room with no windows, barely breathable air, and temperatures that make me think they’ve imported the gray sky from Kolontia. Bars separate a dozen cells in this cave, touched by the flickering light of a single lantern.

  This is where they take me, tossing me in one of the cells without a second look. The lock clicks as it latches, and the guards walk away. The second they’re out of sight, my heart turns frantic and tries to punch free of my chest.

  I can handle darkness. I can manage the cold. But the cells are tight, barely room to lie down. The bars are closing in on me, and I can’t breathe. The feeling of suffocating has me leaping off the bench and tugging at the bars.

  “They’ll be back soon,” a woman says, and I stumble over her legs. Moving a step to my left allows the solitary lantern’s light to fill the tight space in our cell. The woman who spoke is the Channeler from the fountain. Discomfort has dammed my throat, so I nod and turn to pace the few pitiful steps that the cell will allow.

  Across a walkway, in the cells opposite mine, I spy the shapes of several men. One lies on the bench; another takes the floor. A few sit along the back wall, deep enough in the darkness to prevent me from being able to see them well. I keep staring, though, because eventually my eyes will adjust.

  Even here, Da’s training kicks in. I’m looking for details, searching the scene for information that might come in handy someday in the future. After a minute or so, I can make out the two kinsmen who came to the fountain.

  “Baz,” I whisper. “Is that you?”

  His head jerks up so more of the yellowish lantern light shines on his rakish features. The uneven cast adds a kink to his already-crooked nose. It’d be ugly on some men, but it’s charming on him.

  “Of all the places to run into you, Lirra.” I think a smile lifts his cheeks.

  His jest eases some of my anxiety. I tell myself to be grateful that I’m trapped with Baz, someone I know, because it makes the confinement almost bearable. At the very least, it helps me to stop focusing on the crush of the bars.

  “They’re bringing in everyone involved in the fight,” I say.

  His brows stretch upward, and his mouth pops open. In the shadows, he could be mistaken for a ghoul. “You were out there too?”

  “I wasn’t throwing punches, but yes.”

  He rubs his forehead. “How did I not notice you?”

  I’m wondering that too. Anytime I get within a stone’s throw of the docks, Baz appears at my side, slinging out ridiculously flirtatious comments and trying to convince me to go dancing with him. I’ve declined his offer at least a dozen times, knowing he chases a dozen other girls. His persistence was flattering, then it was annoying. Now it’s incriminating. I’m not so full of myself to think I turn every man’s head, but Baz always seems to know when I’m around.

  “I’m not surprised. You were so . . . angry. Beyond angry,” I say, straight to the point. “It didn’t seem like you.”

  He scrubs his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  Brawls are rare on the docks, but the few times one has broken out, Baz was never involved. He’s not the violent type. “Baz. You broke a man’s face. With your knee.”

  He murmurs something to the fellow beside him. It’s too quiet to distinguish, but the man sits up straighter. They share another whisper, and then both Baz and his friend face me, attention unwavering and taut with agitation. His change in demeanor confuses me.

  Earlier, I thought their rage was spurred by other events that might’ve happened before they entered the fray. Now I’m left to wonder . . .

  “I haven’t seen that side of you, is all.” I conclude with a shrug, as if their reaction isn’t suspect.

  Our conversation has garnered interest from the adjacent cell of Malamians. From what I can see in the dim light, the foreigners’ faces are mottled and bloody. One man’s profile is disfigured from swelling. He’s the one whose face Baz broke.

  That’s when I realize Baz and his friend are barely bruised. In comparison to the foreigners, they’re practically as fresh and flawless as spring daisies. There’s something very wrong here. Who knew Baz was such a skilled fighter?

  “Baz.” I consider my words, looking for the right ones to go digging for whatever he’s hiding without putting the two men even more on edge. “Is everything all right?”

  “Keep yer nose outta his business,” says Baz’s friend.

  All right. So I’m not a master at this yet. They’re hiding something, and not the too embarrassing to share kind of something. From Baz’s hunch and the other man’s threatening posture, it’s a secret they’ll fight to keep. Probably more dangerous than anything I should scout, but I’m too angry to tuck the blunt side of my personality into hiding.

  Squaring my stance, I meet the other man’s hard stare. “You made it everyone’s business when you started a fight in a public square. It could’ve been settled with words. People could’ve walked away. Not everyone did. And now we’re all stuck down here. I want to know why.”

  Chapter

  6

  Aodren

  LEIF’S BODY IS LIFELESS. HAD KU TOA NOT reached for me, her frail grip spreading unexpected warmth through my sleeve, I would’ve left, unable to swallow the death of yet another friend. At least an hour has passed while the Ku has remained steadfast, stoically determined to see Leif rise. My eyes refuse to focus on Leif’s slackened features and his pale skin. As if the refusal will push life into my friend. I clutch my stomach, but the pain of his loss is everywhere. It strips my strength. It knots my throat and stings my eyes.

  “We should go.” The words are dry as ashes.

  She squeezes my hand. “Where is your hope?”

  “Hope failed me a quarter-hour past when the healer came to mop the floor.” My gaze sinks to the stones, clean now. How many times has she scrubbed blood off these floors for them to gleam so smooth, the stones’ texture gone?

  A gasp slices the silence.

  My gaze flies to Ku Toa. She smiles and looks at Leif.

  He couldn’t have made that sound. His eyes are still
closed. His face slack. Body fluid no longer oozes from the bloodstained stitches. Not even when his ribs expand. With a start, I realize he’s breathing. He lives!

  Relief crash over me, and a mountain-size weight slides off my chest. Leif is alive.

  “He’ll make it?” Judge Auberdeen’s voice comes from behind me.

  Too focused on Leif to say anything, I simply nod. Leif’s chest rises and falls, subtly, slowly, filling me with gratitude to see him breathing.

  “Sanguine takes time to fully spread through the body,” the Ku whispers. “Tomorrow, he may wake.”

  She could’ve mentioned this before. Staying true to her enigmatic manner, she says no more, and leaves as quickly and mysteriously as she came. There’s so much I don’t know about Sanguine, and even more I don’t know about Ku Toa. But what’s certain is my people have it wrong about the oil. Until they’re better educated about Channeler magic, there will be a division in my kingdom.

  * * *

  In the morning, the castle bustles with activity. I skirt around the crisscrossing paths of servants, some with arms full of linens and others with baskets of food, and sneak into the healer’s room. With an hour before the first summit meeting begins, I visit Leif to find he is still asleep.

  He doesn’t respond when his name is called or his arm is jostled. I have to remind myself that Sanguine requires time.

  Time we do not have.

  Lord Segrande walks through the doorway. He bows before moving to the foot of Leif’s bed. “Still sleeping, I see.”

  “He hasn’t stirred since my arrival.”

  A worried noise rumbles in Segrande’s throat. “Didn’t you say he got some Sanguine oil?”

  “It’s not instantaneous. Ku Toa said it takes time.”

  “Hours or days?”

  “I wish I knew.” Pressure increases between my temples at his subtle reminder of tonight’s event, the March of Champions.

  Feeling worried over the event is ridiculous, considering how close Leif came to death last night. But I haven’t forgotten my goals for the summit and the tournament. Now that Leif is going to make it, my focus must return to Malam. Tonight, the men and women representing each kingdom’s leader in the Tournament of Champions will be announced. Tomorrow, youth will show off their combat skills, and Friday, the competitors take the field for the first event, the melee.

  “Having only one champion could impair Malam,” Segrande says, as if I’ve not already considered the impact.

  I rake a hand through my hair. “If we don’t score well in the melee, we may as well be out of the competition.” It’s callous to consider the ramifications of Leif’s injury in this way, but that is my duty to Malam. I’m grateful my captain, my friend, is alive. And yet I’m frustrated that all my plans for uniting Malam behind its champions are coming unraveled.

  In the last year, Leif has become legendary among Channelers and the giftless. Stories have circulated, tales of how he pled for the Purge’s abolishment and convinced the Channelers Guild to fight at my side during the coup. How he fought heroically to restore order to the kingdom and avenge those who lost their lives in a senseless bid for power that benefited only a few. People believe in Leif. They call him Channeler Defender and Defender of Malam alike. They idolize him for his large stature and undefeated fight record. He is the only one who can unite all Malamians behind his banner. His role as champion is crucial to bridging the divide.

  “I’m sure Baltroit will manage. He’s well trained in all areas of combat, and he already fights like two men. We’ll still have a chance to take the cup.” Segrande’s pride in his son downplays the problem. It’s not just about fighting and winning. It’s about giving people hope.

  Segrande’s comment also reminds me of something my own father once said. He wasn’t a good king or even a good man, but his words ring true.

  Pride unites.

  My country has forgotten that kind of pride. Pride to be Malamian, Channeler or giftless, common or noble. I need Leif and Baltroit to win an event flag, or—dare I dream?—the All Kingdoms’ Cup. Then we will start to regain our pride. Differences aside, we might remember how to be a people united.

  The melee calls for all competitors to take the field in a mock war. With only one competitor, we’ll have no chance of winning the melee flag, let alone the tournament cup.

  Regardless of Segrande’s faith in his son, Baltroit needs Leif as much as Malam does.

  I just don’t know what to do about it.

  * * *

  Shouts and cheers echo from every corner of the field as the royal carriages roll to a stop. An announcer declares the name of a kingdom, and the corresponding leader emerges, followed by two dignitaries—or in my case, only Segrande. A bold trumpet plays as we walk on a path of carpet to an elevated platform. For the March of Champions, all the leaders will be seated together. During the subsequent nights of the tournament, four other platforms constructed around the field will accommodate each kingdom’s visiting nobility.

  Once we’ve all been introduced and the crowd has quieted, the announcer launches into a speech about past tournaments. Applause thunders across the field as the man recognizes the kingdoms that earned banners in years past.

  I clap with the others, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice Segrande is not cheering. He’s nervous for his son. On the ride to the tournament field, he talked of nothing else. His attention is set on the eastern gate, where the champions wait in a house-size tent. It’s been erected as a place where the fighters may prepare for their bouts and where healers will see to the competitors’ injuries.

  Eventually, the time comes for the announcer to introduce the champions. Yelling through a cone to project his voice, he reveals the first fighter, Hemmet, a champion from Kolontia. He rides a snowy stallion covered in ribbons of black and silver onto the field. Some people hold up the Kolontian banner with a wolf’s head in the center of a rose. Hemmet pauses in the center and waves. The man’s hair is pulled back and separated into a dozen raven braids that bounce as his horse circles the field, bringing Hemmet closer to the spectators. The crowd’s approval soars to screams.

  “He’ll destroy your men.” The comment slithers over my shoulder.

  I turn to find King Gorenza behind me, lip curled into a smug sneer partially hidden behind his facial hair. “Battle is in my son’s blood. His great-grandfather was the last royal competitor to win the tournament cup.”

  “It was your grandfather who killed the king of Plovia?”

  “Indeed, it was.” He looks at the Akarian warriors who have just taken the field. I feel a chill wash over me at the pride in his admission.

  Flags of red and yellow are hoisted into the sky and the mark of the desert serpent coils around the colors. The crowd’s approval rattles the stand for the two female fighters. “In this tournament, fortune doesn’t favor the weak or less-skilled warrior, even if he is a king.” Gorenza smiles.

  “Luck matters not. It will be skill, stamina, and heart.”

  His laugh is condescending. “Your men have heart. Mine have undefeated records. Hemmet has won every bout in Kolontia.”

  Two competitors ride onto the field with the green and brown Plovian flag held high.

  I clamp my teeth together and calm myself before responding. “And outside of Kolontia?”

  Gorenza’s nostrils flare. “Are you insinuating he’ll not do well?”

  “Not at all. I’m merely eager to see how he’ll fare.” Hemmet was Kolontia’s champion at the last tournament and Kolontia won no banners, but I don’t mention this because neither did Malam.

  His gruff chuckle grates against my back. “Soon, boy king. You will see soon enough.”

  The crowd cheers for Shaerdan’s men. Blue and gold flags are hoisted into the air.

  My fingers grip the platform’s rail, knuckles going colorless. I pray for Gorenza to suffer a sudden infliction of vocal paralysis. Unfortunately, the gods aren’t listening, and for each person wh
o walks onto the field, Gorenza issues an endless catalog of weaknesses and ways in which his champion son will conquer.

  Peace in Malam means peace between kingdoms, I remind myself, repeating the words like a mantra.

  The announcer cries, “Baltroit Bromier and Leif O’Floinn of Malam.”

  Baltroit rides out alone on a black horse, a contrast to his pale-wheat-colored hair and trimmed beard. He has Malam’s maroon-and-gray flag, marked with the royal stag affixed to his shoulders. Both of his hands are extended, as if to receive the crowd’s praise. Some applause rolls through the crowd, though heavily littered with jeers and a collective disapproving groan.

  “Poor Leif, fell to the Channelers before he could compete,” shouts someone with a distinctly Malamian accent.

  Rumors have already spread? I lean toward the side of the royal booth and listen to the conversation below.

  “It’s a sign. He got hurt because he’s a Channeler lover.”

  I feel like I’ve been hit on the head with a poleax. Word has spread faster than I anticipated, but what’s worse is that people, Malamians, have connected Leif’s injuries to Channelers. I’m on my feet, angry and ready to correct them, when a hand lands on my forearm.

  “You have only one champion?” Gorenza’s question rolls into a growling chuckle.

  I stare over his head, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of my answer. “They announced Leif. He will be our other competitor.”

  “If he can walk.”

  I don’t entertain his response with one of my own.

  Gorenza’s smile slowly grows, showing too many teeth. “My men will devour your champion in one minute instead of two.” He opens his mouth and bites together in a hard clack. The snap ignites rage inside me, fierce and fiery in a way that goads me to be reckless. In the wake of Leif’s injury, decorum would dictate that he would extend his sympathies. But Gorenza cares nothing for propriety, and that lack of respect fuels me more to prove him wrong. To show him how mighty Malam can be.