Once a King

by Erin Summerill

  We reach Malam’s corridor, and Aodren leads me into Leif’s room. Baltroit is sitting beside the captain. He swings his untied sandy hair over his shoulder and turns to face us.

  “How’d it go?” Leif’s voice croaks. It’s good to see him more alert than he was earlier. Whatever the healer has given him has worked well.

  “Sneaking around? Or the tournament?” Aodren approaches Leif’s side, and Baltroit stands. The champion wears an oddly sheepish expression as he bows to the king and then steps to the side so Aodren can use the vacated chair.

  “Yes,” Leif says.

  Aodren drops into the seat. “Yes to both questions? I’d say it went fairly well on both accounts.”

  “Fairly well?” I cry, sidling up to Aodren and nudging him in the shoulder. “Hardly. He was impressive on both accounts, but his skill with the sword was unparalleled.”

  Baltroit crosses his arms.

  “Of course, both Malamian champions fought well,” I add, and the guard’s eyes flick to mine, his chest lifting a fraction. “Baltroit started with a poleax, cutting a path right across the field.”

  “Truly? I would’ve liked to see that.” Leif switches his attention between Aodren and Baltroit. “Of course, there would’ve been no contest if I was there.” Leif’s grin is laced with pain, but it’s nice to see his gentle, lighthearted side returning.

  “Now, that would’ve made the night more interesting.” A soft chuckle floats from Aodren. “I’m sorry you couldn’t compete.” The comment rings true. Aodren’s respect for his captain runs deeper than I thought. I’m slowly learning that everything I thought I knew about the king of Malam is wrong. “Do you think you’ll be ready in two days for the second night of melee?”

  “Hope so.” Leif winces. “I don’t want to miss it.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t either. Tonight worked well because no one was prepared for my appearance,” Aodren says. His eyes darken, and I wonder if he’s thinking of the crowd’s reaction after the tournament. “It would be best if you could return.”

  Leif scratches his chest around the wound. “I’ll do my best.”

  Aodren provides a humble version of the first melee night. I don’t hesitate to add details to spruce up the story, and even Baltroit jumps in to explain how he pretended to be Aodren so the king could escape out the back to avoid the crush of the crowd.

  “Your Highness,” Baltroit says, dropping his chin to his chest, as Aodren stands to leave some time later, “if I had known that was you in the tent . . . I wouldn’t have spoken so harshly to you. Please forgive my foolishness.”

  Aodren considers his comment for a moment. I don’t know exactly what happened, it seems like Baltroit said something inappropriate to the king before the match. “I accept your apology. However, I caution you to keep the same standards no matter who you may be around. A man should be consistent and true to himself.”

  Baltroit bows as Aodren exits the room. I follow him to his private chamber.

  “Thank you for your help today,” he says once the door is closed.

  I shrug, deciding not to point out that I wouldn’t be here if he’d given me Da’s information when first requested. But now that the night is nearly over, I appreciate the new perspective I’ve gained of the king of Malam. I’m glad I decided to help him.

  A yawn stretches my mouth. “It’s been a long day. I should go. Can I see Da’s letter?”

  “Right, it’s late.” He walks to the desk and pulls out a stack of missives. “I must, um, explain something first.”

  Confused, I walk to where he sits, figuring Da must’ve written about something truly strange. “I would really rather you just let me read it. I know my father and his subtle context.”

  “I—I don’t have the letter.”

  “What are those?”

  A frown carves a canyon between his golden brows. “These are correspondences from noblemen in my kingdom.” He taps the folded parchments into a neat pile and lays them flat, his fingers resting on top. “I burned your father’s note.”

  He what?

  “You. Lit. It. On. Fire?” I punch out each word.

  He nods, and my jaw comes unhinged. I didn’t take Aodren for the type to renege on a deal. But then I realize, as all our conversations flash through my mind, he hasn’t reneged at all. Never did he specify handing over the actual letter.

  Seeds, did he play me for a fool?

  This oversight would never have happened with anyone else. I’m usually dagger-sharp in negotiations. In Da’s underground trading world, I cannot be anything less. And yet I’ve allowed Aodren’s presence to dull my wits. That ship of realization sinks to the bottom of my gut.

  “Well done, King Aodren.” I want to blast him with an icy breeze that knocks him flat on his arse. “I hadn’t realized your gift for trickery.”

  He looks gutted by my words, as if he’s truly sorry for not being honest with me. “That was not my intention, Lirra.”

  I scoop up the sides of my dress, lifting the hem off the floor, and stride to the door. Any response is swallowed by my embarrassment at how easily I’ve succumbed to his charm.

  “Don’t you want to know what he wrote?” Aodren asks. There’s a hint of desperation in his voice. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  He does sound sincere, but do I trust him to share the truth?

  “Lirra.” His tone is pleading, softening my rigid back. “I meant no deception. This misunderstanding is my fault.”

  No, it’s mine. I know better.

  “Your father’s last line directed me to immediately destroy the note. I followed his order.”

  Sounds like something Da would say. Would Aodren know that?

  I’m frustrated with the entire miscommunication, knowing Aodren must think me mercurial. In my defense, a small line of missed information can change the course of an entire deal. Can I blame him for not being upfront with me? I never would have helped had I known the letter was burned.

  “I should’ve pushed until all the details of our agreement were clarified,” I concede. Anyone in my business knows that. “Is it too late to accept your offer?”

  “It’s not too late,” he says softly, picking up the stack of letters. “A few months ago, I received word of a new item being traded in Malam, a healing oil called Sanguine. I hadn’t heard about it before. I thought it would be a boon to Malam, something the giftless would benefit from. And in turn, it would be a catalyst in changing people’s opinions about Channelers.” There is pain and need in his voice. I can hear it as clearly as I can see his desire to bring change to Malam. It makes sense now, why he stepped up to fill Leif’s position in the tournament. He will do anything to unite Malam and move his people past the anger and hatred of the Purge.

  Aodren tosses the missives on the desk. “I thought it would be best to find out more. If the rumors proved true, what better staple for healers throughout Malam than this Channeler oil? I commissioned your father to find the creator. I hoped to bring her to Malam, or meet her before the summit.”

  Da’s urgency to deliver the letter makes sense now. He’s never one to miss a deadline.

  Aodren’s eyes linger on the desk. “But more recently, rumors have spread that the oil is harmful. That it causes illness.”

  I walk to the edge of the plush rug, where chairs are situated around an unlit fireplace. There is a hazy memory in the back of my mind that tells me I’ve heard of Sanguine before, but it’s not solid enough that I can place it. “Do you think the oil is dangerous?”

  “No.” His long legs carry him from the desk to the fireplace. Aodren stands with his back to me, his palms scraping the growth of stubble on his jaw. “There were a couple of deaths that had some ties to Sanguine. So then people in my country started rumors.” He turns around, expression grim. “People who are resistant to accepting Channelers and their remedies. The night Leif was brought in, he should’ve died. I pleaded with the healer to find someone to help him. She sent Ku Toa.
”

  “Truly?” I move to the tall chair and rest my arms on its velvet back. Ku Toa is a mystery, even to Da and his unlimited web of informants. “Rumor has it she’s rarely seen in public. She almost never speaks and is the most powerful Channeler in the kingdoms, though I don’t know what her gift is. You say she healed Leif? Is she a Spiriter?”

  “That much I don’t know. She compared Sanguine to a Spiriter’s healing and then had me use it to heal Leif.”

  “Stars, the oil must be powerful.” More so than Beannach water, which reinvigorates an exhausted person or helps ease aches and pains after a fight. If Sanguine heals like a Spiriter, it can bring a man from the brink of death.

  “I have a foggy memory of something Astoria once told me,” I admit. “Something about the Akarian Channelers and how they collectively pull their power together to create a healing remedy. The Channelers of Akaria are not taught and governed under the Channelers Guild. In Shaerdan, Channeler magic is like a religious club, and Channelers are part-time priestesses. We are revered for our gifts and celebrated during holidays and festivals, like the upcoming jubilee. During the rest of the year, our magic remains mostly unseen except by Elementiary owners and the girls they’re teaching.

  “In the southern kingdom, Channeler women serve Ku Toa like soldiers to a king. Their abilities are tools, used daily by the kingdom. Is Sanguine made by the Akarians?”

  “Yes. The Ku didn’t give me details, but she admitted ownership.”

  I move around the chair and flop down in the seat, giving way to my exhaustion.

  Aodren turns his back on the fireplace and kneads his thumb into the other hand’s palm. “I’d like to eliminate any more misunderstandings between us. I know we don’t know each other well, but I want you to trust me, so you have no reason to disbelieve what I say next.”

  I’m here. The moment in the tunnel when Aodren was not the king of Malam, but a friend. I want that again.

  He switches hands, massaging the other palm. I think he’s nervous.

  “Go on,” I say.

  He takes a seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “I already mentioned that your father was going to track down the maker of Sanguine for me. In his letter, his findings were the same as Ku Toa’s information—the oil comes from the south and is used for healing. But he also wrote that he’d met a few traders selling the oil by claiming it gives Channeler magic to the giftless. He was going to figure out who was supplying the oil so we might stop the spread of the false information.”

  It’s impossible for giftless to develop Channeler powers. No magic-laced oil will change that. I snort. “If people have purchased Sanguine thinking they’re going to have Channeler magic, they’ll probably be angry when they realize it’s false. Seems like a good enough reason to spread rumors.”

  “My thoughts as well. Your father mentioned that his inquiries about traders had drawn unwanted attention.”

  “Unwanted attention? From who?” I lurch up, shifting to the edge of my chair. Da didn’t tell me he was in danger. Why would he keep this from me?

  “Your father didn’t say; however, he did urge me to find another informant because he no longer felt Sanguine was in his realm of business.”

  Sounds like Da. Meddling in the treatment of Channelers in Malam already cost him a wife and a home, so I understand why he wouldn’t want to risk Eugenia and the littleuns by continuing down this path. But hiding out and suggesting Aodren find another informant are red flags, hinting at a greater threat than dishonest traders.

  “That’s all?”

  He nods. “That’s all.”

  Considering the treachery in Aodren’s kingdom, he has reason to distrust others. But if he trusted Da with this, then he should have known he could trust me. “I know we don’t know each other well,” I say using his words. “But was I not trustworthy enough for you to tell me this before?”

  An apology flashes in his eyes. “Your father forbade it.”

  I cross my arms. “He wouldn’t—”

  “He wrote, Don’t tell Lirra. She cannot stop herself from getting involved.”

  My hands fly into the air with an outraged groan. I’ve heard that line from Da too many times to accuse Aodren of lying. Out of spite and worry, I want to go this very moment, retrace my father’s steps, and get so involved in this business of Sanguine, I’m rolling in it. My head feels as if I’ve gorged on a holiday feast of information. As I digest what he’s said, the silence between us stretches so long, it’s a wonder Aodren doesn’t ask me to leave.

  Da’s spent a lifetime risking himself for others and escaping perilous situations. But luck doesn’t last forever. If there are hazards, I’m the one who must be there for him, just as he’s done for me. Our business of trading and dealing secrets is run by the two of us. No one else will come to his aid. If there is a way to help him and stop rumors from spreading and harming Channelers, then Da’s right: I cannot stop myself.

  Chapter

  15

  Aodren

  LIRRA KEEPS HER ATTENTION ON THE FIREPLACE while her teeth rake against her bottom lip, making the blood rise up so her mouth looks like a summer rose.

  I force my gaze away. “You’re thinking about finding him.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Not always.” Not enough.

  She yawns behind her hand and then smiles. “You say the oil has no negative effects?”

  “That’s what I’ve gathered. But there are many who do think it’s harmful.”

  “I don’t understand why Da thinks he’s in danger. But maybe the person Da angered is a territorial trader, and they suspect Da is trying to steal their business.” Lirra yawns again and stands to leave, smoothing out her skirts. “I guess, thank you?” A hollow laugh. “I’m not sure that’s the right thing to say, so maybe I’ll just part with Good luck in the tournament and the summit.” Her hands flit around, gesturing to the silent castle. Everyone is asleep. The only sound is her dress swish-swishing on the floor. It feels like we’re alone in the world.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  The moon beyond my window shines down on a countryside filled with a city of tents, a tournament field, and the makeshift shops for the Kingdoms’ Market. She cannot be close to home. The idea of her alone in the night coils uncomfortably through me. I cannot forget the fight at the fountain.

  “Stay,” I say suddenly.

  Lirra turns around, her brilliant blue eyes unable to disguise how my request has startled her.

  “We do not know each other well, but we’re not enemies,” I quickly say. It’s improper for her to sleep here in this room, but it’s been a tiring evening and she has a long way to travel.

  She nods slowly. “Friends?”

  “Yes, friends.” I blow out a breath. “I don’t want to tarnish your reputation. But offering you a place to sleep is the least I can do after all you’ve done.”

  “Reputation,” she mouths, and then smiles to herself.

  “I wouldn’t do anything to—”

  “I know,” she says, her smile turning shy.

  “And it’s late and you’re tired. I would offer a ride. However, opening the stable would draw more attention than either one of us wants right now. There are no homes anywhere within an hour’s walk. Unless you’re staying in the camp. Are you?”

  Her head shakes a negative, and my feeling that she should remain here grows stronger.

  “You know, I’m capable of caring for myself,” she says. “I’ve faced dangers far worse than walking home alone at night.”

  “I’m aware. You saved my life, remember?”

  A real smile bursts onto her face. It infuses me with a second wind of energy I shouldn’t have after an eternally long and taxing day.

  Lirra is fully capable of wielding the dagger hidden in her dress. I tell her as much. What goes unsaid is how crippled I am by the thought of her needing it on her way home. It shouldn’t matter to me. But when I consider, too, that she wou
ld have to face the tunnel once more, I repeat my request. “Stay, Lirra. It’s been a long day.”

  I cross the room to the wardrobe to withdraw nightclothes, and hold up one set. My offer for her to stay rattles through my head. I’m a king throwing propriety to the wind. And I don’t really care. My hands shake, so I grip the fabric tighter. “Yours to use. That is, if you don’t have a change tucked into your functional pockets.”

  She chuckles softly. “I’m fresh out.”

  Lirra takes the offering and moves to the far side of the room, where a partition separates a small washbasin and the entry to the garderobe from view. When she’s done, my shirt hangs off her narrow shoulders and swallows her arms. It’s impossible to stop cataloging how the garment falls loosely on her . . . and where it doesn’t.

  I break my gaze and look away.

  By the time I’ve shucked off all my formal layers, pulled on trousers and a shirt, and returned to the open area of the room, my blood is running a few degrees hotter. I tug the collar from my neck, cursing the sweltering Shaerdanian weather.

  The bed, an island in the middle of the chamber, is untouched. There’s no sign of Lirra. Did she change her mind? I stalk the room from end to end, my tired steps more like stomps.

  “Tooooloud.” The slurred groan comes from the opposite side of the bed.

  Lirra lies curled on her side, nestled on a pouf of green material. Amused, I note her dress has yet another function.

  “You don’t have to sleep on the floor. Take the bed.”

  Her breath flows between her parted lips, a soft, slow scrape. She’s fast asleep.

  The urge to move her somewhere more comfortable tenses through my hands. Only, I don’t act on it. Lirra probably wouldn’t appreciate being touched while she sleeps. I settle for sliding a pillow under her head and covering her with a blanket.

  * * *

  She’s gone in the morning.

  Instead of wondering when she left, if she had to sneak past servants and guards, or how long it took her to trek home, I focus on the leaders, who would rather discuss the tournament than trade. Judge Auberdeen announces the ranking for each kingdom based on the first night’s point tally. “In last place, Plovia. Then Shaerdan. Malam is tied for second alongside Kolontia. Akaria leads.”