Once a King

by Erin Summerill

  Malam is in second place? We fared better than I imagined. We likely won’t win the melee banner, but second-place points will give us a solid start. If we do well in the following events, we could still win the cup.

  “Is that the tally, including the young king’s points?” Gorenza asks. Since the meeting started, this is the third time he’s insinuated that I should not have been able to compete.

  Queen Isadora rests her hands on the sides of her chair, a long braid of ebony hair snaking over her shoulder. “And why wouldn’t King Aodren’s points be included? He’s done nothing to merit disqualification. Or are you raising opposition to him merely because you dislike competition for your boy?”

  Gorenza’s lip twitches into a sneer. “Nothing wrong? The man was deceptive. Why was it none of us knew of his intentions until the moment the tournament began?”

  A few dignitaries add their murmurs. It worries me that we are starting the meeting discussing the tournament, instead of getting right to the meat of trade discussion. I don’t want this conversation to affect opinions or willingness to trade. But then, I should’ve considered my participation in the melee would garner interest and opinions.

  “How did you get from the castle to the tournament unseen?” Judge Soma asks. “None of the guards noticed you leave.”

  “I think the guards might’ve been too busy betting on champions to notice King Aodren’s exit. Clearly, the man walked right out of the castle.” Segrande catches my eye. He wasn’t pleased to find out my plan after the tournament, but he’ll be nothing but loyal and supportive in public.

  It wouldn’t bode well for Lirra if Auberdeen and Soma were to discover her involvement. They wouldn’t like to know she has a secret way in and out of the castle. Segrande and Baltroit are the only two privy to that information, but I have sworn them to secrecy under the threat of losing their titles. I would’ve told all this to Lirra, but she left before I had a chance.

  “That’s an interesting maneuver you pulled.” Gorenza stares at me from across the massive mahogany table. “I didn’t think you were capable.”

  “Are we discussing my sword skill? Or my ability to make undisclosed choices?” I ask, my voice unintentionally sharp. Between Gorenza’s comments and my thoughts of Lirra, it’s a struggle to keep a lid on my irritation.

  He flicks his mustache. “The fight was passable. I meant your deception.”

  “Now, there wasn’t deception, per se,” Segrande pipes up beside me. “King Aodren exercised his right to fight in his own name, and he did so by the rules of the tournament. He is under no obligation to reveal his plans to you before he is ready to do so.”

  Gorenza chuckles. “So you agree, he hid the truth?”

  “What is the point of this query, Gorenza?” the Plovian queen asks.

  “The point, Isadora, is that all champions must be announced before the melee. He didn’t make it known beforehand that he would be fighting in his own name.”

  She leans back in her chair, appearing bored. “Is that a rule? Or a custom?”

  Gorenza repeats her questions to Judge Auberdeen, who sits at the end of the table, head tipped toward Judge Soma in a whispered conversation.

  Judge Auberdeen straightens in his seat. He props his elbows on the table and steeples his hands under the curtain of his brown beard. “It is a rule that proxies are announced before the tournament begins. There is nothing specific to rulers who choose to join the fray at the last moment.” His spectacled gaze shifts to me, displeasure writ across his face.

  “My choice was one made in haste due to the unexpected affliction suffered by my captain.” How can they dispute that?

  Gorenza slides his chair away from the table. He brings his hands up behind his head, as if he’s sunning himself on a rock while sneering at the sky. “If a man is declared a king’s proxy, do the rules state that the king himself may come back and steal the man’s place?”

  Steal? I flatten my hands on the table, drawing resolve from thin air.

  “Your wording is harsh, no?” says Fa Olema.

  “Perhaps,” concedes Gorenza. “But this situation is unprecedented. It wouldn’t be right for us to allow rules to be broken simply because we’re not able to have a direct and, yes, harshly honest conversation.”

  “Privacy isn’t against the rules,” Judge Soma says in my defense, surprising me. Even Judge Auberdeen, who sits beside him, appears shocked. “Technically, in a mere matter of moments, King Aodren declared himself as a participant, and his name was clearly announced as a competitor in the melee.”

  Gorenza’s palm lands on the table with a resounding thud. His mouth curls into the curtain of his mustache. He looks to me and then to Soma. Fury under a placid expression, like a calm ocean, hiding churning, deadly waters beneath.

  “Shall we move on to matters of trade?” Segrande attempts to guide the conversation.

  Nobody responds.

  “Not ready to turn that rock over?” Segrande forces a chuckle. “All right, what else did you think of the tournament? We’ve said enough about King Aodren. Let’s discuss the other competitors.”

  “I found your warriors impressive. I am not surprised they’ve earned the most points,” Judge Soma tells Ku Toa. Since learning that he imprisoned those involved in the fountain fight, I’ve judged him harshly. His engagement with the Ku shows the side of the judge that I was expecting to meet at the summit.

  “It is a lifelong discipline for them—their mothers and fathers before them were warriors,” says Fa Olema. “But they were no more impressive than King Aodren.” He tips his head in a small bow to me. “You show unique training.”

  “Thank you. Though if we’re discussing work ethic, Baltroit Bromier must be mentioned. Mastering the poleax demands extensive training that can last years.”

  Segrande’s chest expands a notch in pride.

  Queen Isadora pushes her braid over her shoulder. “Yes, he was a sight to behold. But might I add, your sword skill far exceeds anything I’ve seen from Kolontia in decades.”

  Her castigating snub draws King Gorenza’s anger. “A good thing,” he drawls, “that you’ll have another chance to watch King Aodren.”

  “No, I’m afraid she won’t,” I say, thinking my comment will be all that’s needed to release the tension in the room concerning my participation. “Leif isn’t here right now because I encouraged him to rest. But he’s on the mend, and”—I glance at Ku Toa—“thanks to the healer and the remedies he’s been given, he’ll be ready to step back into the champion role tomorrow night.”

  Gorenza looks to Auberdeen, expecting something.

  Judge Auberdeen adjusts his spectacles on his nose. He drags out the tome that he’d placed on the table the first night we met as leaders. “Yes, well, the rules state that King Aodren can fight in his own name, but there is no rule that allows competitors to change places with one another once the event has begun.”

  “What does that mean?” Isadora looks back and forth between Gorenza and Auberdeen.

  “It means,” Gorenza says with relish, “that our little boy king must finish the tournament.”

  “No.” Segrande’s response comes out as a bark. “There is no time for him to do both. How will we be able to continue the summit?”

  “Perhaps he should have considered that before.”

  The room erupts in a clash of opinions.

  For a moment, I sit frozen in shock. I thought Gorenza wanted me out of the competition and would do all he could to make that so. I didn’t think for one moment that he would argue for me to stay in. If what he’s proposed is declared the rule by Judge Auberdeen, many of my plans for the summit will be thwarted. I trust Segrande, but not so much that I’d turn over executive power to make decisions on all trade. Malam has been at odds with the other kingdoms since my father’s reign. We need to make the most advantageous deals possible if we’re to have a hope of turning around Malam’s fortune. How will that happen if I cannot be a part of all sum
mit meetings?

  Soon everyone in the room is expressing an opinion except for Ku Toa and her quiet, watchful dignitaries. Most of the other men and women around the table reject Gorenza’s suggestion because they can see that kingdom agreements and policy meetings benefitting them would also be thwarted. Chief Judge Auberdeen stands and calls the room to order, his rough voice rolling over the arguments until everyone falls silent.

  He places the large volume on the mahogany table. His fingers rest on the open pages. “It says here that champions must finish an event or withdraw, but once an event begins, substitutions cannot be made.” He turns to me. “Only you and Baltroit may compete in the second night of melee. After that, your captain may fight in your name in the remaining events.”

  Gorenza crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, clearly displeased.

  “Now that it’s settled,” Judge Soma interrupts, “let’s save talk of the melee for after the final round. Then our time won’t be wasted on the losers.”

  We return to trade discussion. The leaders vote to close a mountain route, opting for trade to continue through the seaports, with the only opposition coming from Gorenza. He claims pirates make the ocean too dangerous for trade. When Isadora contradicts him, Gorenza accuses her of protecting her family’s livelihood. A family relation he outlandishly claims to be Song the Red, a young ruthless pirate.

  Their argument eventually runs its course, and we adjourn for a midday meal.

  Once seats are taken and plates are dished, talk returns to the melee. Segrande nudges me. “One more night. Then your focus can shift entirely to the summit.”

  Gorenza spears a piece of cabbage with his knife. “That is, if he makes it. Anything can happen in the melee.”

  Chapter

  16

  Aodren

  LEIF SITS IN A CHAIR NEAR HIS BED, STIRRING pottage the kitchen servants must’ve brought up. No longer ashen, his skin has ruddy color beside that unkempt, fiery beard.

  “You’re looking good,” I say.

  He rolls his neck and flexes his arms. “Good enough to spar. I need to work out some kinks before tomorrow.” I see the way his face gets more animated as he talks, and I know he won’t take my news well.

  “King Gorenza brought up my involvement in the tournament during the summit meeting,” I say.

  “Oh?” He stirs the pottage.

  “He was not pleased with my last-minute appearance.”

  Leif grins over a mouth half full of food. “Bet not. I haven’t been around him much because of the stabbing and all, but Baltroit stopped by today. He had some things to say about King Gorenza. Sounds like the man has it out for Malam.”

  “Yes, it seems that way.” Segrande must be filling his son in on the summit. I wonder if he’s already told Baltroit about the melee.

  “Might be trouble for setting up trade over the northern pass.”

  I murmur my agreement.

  Leif digs out another scoop and shoves it into his mouth. He chews and then looks at me with a tilted, sheepish smile. “I’m more excited to get back on the field tomorrow than I am to start attending the summit meetings.”

  I do not want to deliver this news. “About the melee . . . you will not be competing tomorrow night.”

  His hand pauses midlift. “What’s that?” Pottage slips off the edge of the silver spoon and plops into his bowl.

  It doesn’t matter that the decision wasn’t mine. Sitting here before Leif, seeing how his face loses all animation, stabs me with guilt. “King Gorenza insisted the rules be enforced,” I say. “Once a champion has begun an event, that same champion must finish the event. This means you cannot compete. Only I may return for the second night, or choose to forfeit my position and allow Baltroit to finish alone.”

  Leif grunts and takes another bite, jaw grinding as he slowly chews. “Yer—yer not going to do that, bow out, are ya?” His speech is tight, frustrated.

  There are risks associated with the melee, which is the reason leaders stopped participating in the event so many years ago. King Gorenza made sure to remind me of that. But even if he hadn’t, I’m already aware of how vulnerable a position it is to be on that field. It doesn’t matter that we’re using blunted weapons; a hit to the neck, or the head, could be permanently damaging.

  On the one hand, I feel like it would be irresponsible of me to compete. But then, if I don’t, Malam will fall to fourth or last position. We wouldn’t have a chance at the cup.

  Segrande would caution me to forfeit my position for my own safety. I’m grateful Leif hasn’t done that. He understands why I would feel compelled to compete.

  “I will fight,” I say to Leif, making the choice in spite of the hazards. I have fought for my life and my kingdom in real battle. I can fight a mock battle, if it means the possibility of uniting my kingdom in pride and hope.

  Leif’s forehead wrinkles, his auburn brows pulling together as he stares down at his pottage. He curses under his breath and mutters something about training six months. I let him stew, because this decision must be difficult to hear. After a beat he says, “Keep your eye on Hemmet. He’s formidable, and guaranteed, his father will make sure he’s got a trick or two saved for you.”

  “Good advice,” I say. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “This is good. It’ll give me more time to recover,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself.

  Missing the tournament is more galling than he wants to admit, and I suspect missing the melee will bother him more once he regains his strength. Six months of anticipation and training cannot be abandoned lightly.

  “It should’ve been you on the field,” I tell him.

  He stares hard at the bowl in his hands. “You’re the better swordsman, and the king. That makes you the rightful competitor.”

  That’s debatable. Perhaps this is why he doesn’t look up to meet my eye.

  Chapter

  17

  Lirra

  I YANK THE ELEMENTIARY DOOR OPEN AND STEP inside where it’s slightly cooler. Despite the cloudless sky, it’s unusually muggy today. Pools of perspiration have gathered in every valley on my body. Taming my hair was for naught. Before reaching the port of Celize, my head was kinked and frizzed.

  Using a touch of Channeler energy, I draw air toward me, stirring it with my fan until a gentle wind tunnel blows around me. Hair whips my face. The breeze cools my skin.

  “Unnnngggg.” It feels nice. So nice.

  Pinpricks dance from my fingertips to my elbows—a sign of energy depletion. Usually it doesn’t happen this fast, but I spent the morning lashing the wings of my glider and influencing the wind to give them lift. A short nap and a few steamed buns from the baker weren’t enough for full replenishment. With an unsatisfied grunt, I stop toying around. My hair flops. The air falls stagnant.

  “Where did the breeze go?” Astoria’s voice comes from somewhere in the Elementiary.

  Her distinctive shuffle scuff thumps nearby. I glance around the shelves and nearly jump out of my skin when I spot a warped view of her face. She’s standing on the other side of the closest shelf, peering through a jar of talons in petrification juice. Last time I saw her, she was enraged over Aodren’s presence. I feel bad about that. To answer her question, I vigorously shake my tingling hand.

  “Ah, what have I told you about wasting your Channeler energy on frivolous matters?” she scolds, and moves out of sight.

  Frivolous is this fan. I sigh and wave the fancy, frilly piece harder. It’s a whisper compared to a Channeler-coaxed breeze, but then, I don’t normally use the fan for actual fanning. It’s a prop for obscurity.

  Ever since I woke on the king’s floor, his pillow under my head, his blanket over my shoulders, and a hint of dawn on the horizon, my mind has been buzzing. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about last night’s conversation about Da and Sanguine. Everything Aodren said made sense, except for the reason Da would go into hiding. Why would an oil as beneficia
l as Beannach draw that kind of danger?

  Then I remembered all of the odd things I’d seen over the last few days—the scene at the fountain, the struggle between Baz and his friend in the cell, the dropped bottle, the champions’ conversation—and the strangest notion occurred to me. What if they’re all pieces of the same tapestry? What if the connecting thread is Sanguine?

  Of course, I have nothing substantial to back up the idea. This is why I’ve come to visit Astoria. Few people have as much Channeler knowledge as she does. If anyone knows about Sanguine, it’ll be her.

  “First, I came to apologize for yesterday,” I say, throwing my arms around her though her hands are full, and squeezing.

  “You’re a lovely girl, my dear. Thank you, but no apology necessary.”

  I step back and trail her toward her worktable. “Second, I was hoping for information.”

  “Oh, Lirra.” Astoria sets a book down between a few dozen small bottles of liquid and three mounds of dried herbs. Her sympathy-filled eyes gaze at me. I glance around, confused.

  “I still haven’t heard from your father,” she says, misunderstanding. “Though Duff Baron is in town, and he mentioned he’d seen your father recently.”

  I tuck that information away, relieved to hear Da’s been in contact with someone, which means he’s not in as much danger as I’d thought.

  “Actually,” I say, “I came to ask something else.”

  “My goodness. I jumped ahead, didn’t I?” A chuckle shakes her shoulders. She ambles around the table and sits down. “Go on, then.”

  I watch as her aged hands gather herbs from different piles and deftly bind them together with twine. Long before Astoria ran the Elementiary, she grew up on an herb farm in Malam.

  “Have you heard anything about Sanguine oil?” I ask.