Glitch Kingdom

by Sheena Boekweg

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  Copyright Page

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  This book is dedicated to my husband and my kids, and to all the video games they played while I wrote it.

  1

  RYO

  The rules of the game were simple.

  The goal was four shovels and a song. I fanned my hand of cards. Three boats and two birds. Blast. I inhaled and fought to keep my breathing shallow; hold my shoulders still, and keep my face free of the thousands of tells I’d learned to hide.

  There would be no winning this round.

  At least not if I played the cards.

  I peered over my hand and studied my opponents around the table instead. A haze of smoke coming from Lady Maramour’s pipe blocked her expression, but the tapestries I’d crisscrossed over the arched windows of my rooms sent a sliver of sunlight that cut through the smoke and highlighted the creases at the edge of her eyes. She was sharp as the knife at her waist. She held her cards close to her chest, a hint of a smile hiding inside the folds in her cheek. Lady M had the mind of a general when it came to stealing my coins, and with that smile I’d best fold now, count my losses as education.

  Unfortunately, a pretty girl was watching. The chair usually occupied by my best friend, Grigfen, had been filled by Lady M’s eldest granddaughter, here from the country. The girl seemed more interested in making eyes at me over the top of her cards than paying any semblance of attention to the game. No clue what her cards held, although what she wanted was clear, and it wasn’t a kiss—it was my crown.

  I slid a pile of coins to the center of the table.

  My guards, Davi and Fio, folded immediately, although Davi seemed reluctant to let go. I wished he would have stayed in—he could use the money; his girl was in the family way, and the married barracks were barely comfortable for two. But my guards always allowed me the win when we gambled real coin. Probably on my mother’s orders.

  Where was Sir Grigfen? He should be here by now. I glanced about my chambers. Three tables full of players in pale silk dresses or sharp suits seemed content enough with their cards. When my gaze settled on Lady M’s granddaughter she flushed pink and then folded her hand, her smile a thrown game I didn’t have to do anything to win.

  Lady M matched my pile of coins and picked up a card. I grinned at her, but inwardly I fought a panic. Last time we played she took my coat.

  “Guess it’s just you and me now, my lady.”

  Someone entered my rooms. I turned, hoping it was Grigfen. He’d been known to get caught in tables less savory than mine.

  Close, but no dice. A boulder of a man blocked my doorway. Tall and thick, with corded arms and a bushy blond beard, Sir Tomlinson seemed completely devoid of his son Grigfen’s good humor. As the head of agriculture, the man was more farmer than noble, despite his fine coat, and from the dark angle of his eyebrows, he wasn’t pleased to find my rooms set up as a gambling den on a Thirdday afternoon.

  I pulled at my vest. “Sir Tomlinson,” I said. The room’s chatter quieted at the presence of a member of my father’s council. “What brings you to my den of iniquity?”

  Sir Tomlinson was not amused. “News. A Savak Wingship landed not twenty minutes ago.”

  A chill ran up my neck. This was news for my parents, not idle gossip to throw at my friends. Every man in the room, except me, stood. Several people spoke at once, but I ignored them. If a member of my father’s council believed the news urgent enough to speak freely, then another game had started.

  “Military?” I asked from my chair.

  “Religious,” Sir Tomlinson answered.

  Lady M twisted her fingers. “Not much better. How many?”

  “One. A lone cleric in her red robes. She surrendered her wings without a fight.”

  Fio lowered his voice and leaned near me. “I didn’t know they had female heathens.”

  I hid a smile, but Sir Tomlinson caught it. “Watch your tone, sir. They may believe in a different god, but we don’t want to war with their bloodthirsty queen. It’s best we avoid the notice of the seers, and calling them such a word—”

  “And why does this involve me?” I asked, leaning forward.

  “She’s requested to meet with the council of six, and your father wishes you to observe.”

  My cheeks flooded with warmth. “When?”

  Tomlinson didn’t answer. He simply turned his heel and left my rooms.

  Now, I gathered.

  I followed him out with my guards at each flank.

  My father wanted me to observe a council meeting.

  Do not skip, Ryo. My father’s council was meeting with a Savak cleric. Now was not the time to skip.

  A slight bounce to my step, however, was acceptable.

  Tomlinson scowled when I caught up with him. “I do apologize for taking you away from such noble pursuits,” he said with a sneer.

  I rolled my eyes. “I’ll have you know that card game was well within my mother’s code of conduct.”

  He clearly had more opinions, but he ducked his head in a bow. “How Your Highness behaves is none of my concern.”

  We turned a corner from my hallway. My collar felt hot all of a sudden. “It isn’t. Especially since Sir Grigfen didn’t show, and Lady Dagney wasn’t invited—”

  “That is Lady Tomlinson to you. If you speak to my daughter at all. Which you should not, unless you are in a crowd of witnesses and I am observing with my grip on my sword.”

  I chuckled. “Honestly, Sir Tomlinson, you have no reason to fear. It’s very unlikely that Lady Dagney would break my heart. Though I am touched for your concern for me.”

  Davi broke in, “You see, Sir Tomlinson. Girls, for the prince, are like coins. Easy to win, easy to lose.”

  “Better in piles,” Fio supplied.

  I snorted. In truth the only similarity between girls and coins was that I had to make a full accounting of each to my mother. “Unless, of course, you weren’t worried for your own crown prince’s heart?”

  Davi gave a false gasp. “The disloyalty to the Crown!”

  I placed my hand on my heart and mock fainted.

  Sir Tomlinson stopped his quick assault down my halls and raised a finger. “My daughter would rip you to pieces.”

  I bowed. “I thank you heartily for your warning. I shall endeavor to leave your daughter far from my attention.”

  “Good.”

  I grinned and made my way through the polished stone hallways, through arches of sunlight that warmed the floors. Now he was following me. “Though now that I’ve thought on it, Lady Dagney is interesting, in her own way. I believe she bested me in an archery tournament once, and there was something so fascinating about the crease between her eyebrows. Most other noble young women of my acquaintance view me as a path to becoming queen, so they store their patience in large vials. She, however, seems to not understand that I am constantly joking. A serious girl, your Dagney.”

  “Some things are not jokes, Your Highness,” Sir Tomlinson said.
<
br />   I’d worked my way under his collar. My cheek lifted, despite my attempt to keep a smile off my face. “Of course that does make her more fun to tease. I wonder if she plays cards.”

  Sir Tomlinson turned a shade of pink I’d not yet seen, so I decided to lay off him about his daughter. Truth was I sometimes forgot Grigfen even had a little sister. She was always so content to stay home with her books. Besides, I wouldn’t risk Grig’s friendship over a pretty set of shoulders. There were plenty of other options out there. I loved women—their intelligence, their kindness, their stubborn bravery, not to mention the softness of their skin—but once I met the right girl there would be room in my heart for only one. I wanted a love like my parents had. A love of equals, that could last forever, long past legends.

  But I’d yet to meet a girl who could see past my crown.

  Sir Tomlinson fumed down two flights of granite stairs and across the wood-paneled entrance hall, each slammed heel a punch line that tickled me no end.

  We crossed into my father’s council room and I lost my grin.

  Perhaps it was the length of the ancient table, the carved map that covered the length of a wall, or the shadows on the council members’ faces, but the mood seemed sober and ominous. Sucked dry, as it were. A chorus of Historians in raven-feather robes and silver masks surrounded the edge of the room. At the center, my father’s council and the Savak cleric sat around a long table.

  Sir Tomlinson took his seat at my father’s left, and my father dismissed my guards.

  The lone empty seat was reserved for my uncle, so I stood among the Historians.

  “Seen anything naughty lately?” I asked the closest Historian.

  They did not respond. Not even a chuckle.

  I could never read the Historians, not with their expressions hidden behind their carved masks. They were tasked to record everything of note for posterity, refusing to influence history, only to observe it. Truth was I barely noticed them anymore. They were simply always there—watching me eat breakfast, studying me sword fighting with Grigfen in the armory; one always observed me as I slept, in case I were to die while dreaming and my last gasping sounds were worth recording.

  Prince Ryo ne Vinton’s last words: gurgle gurgle.

  Who would want to lose that?

  The cleric wasn’t speaking.

  Her red hood rested at the crown of her pale hair. Silver wings—the emblem of the Savak—painted across her brow, her dark red robe puddling around her chair, and a silver and glass sphere necklace tucked between her collarbones. Her face was flat, devoid of emotion, but I could not say that of the rest of the council. Sir Tomlinson crossed his arms, the general’s jaw pulsed tight, and Lord Reginal’s tongue peeked from the side of his false smile. A sign of his greed as well as his suspicion.

  My mother watched me, not the cleric. And my father? My father sat like a spring wound tight, pinching the bridge of his nose, his foot tapping against the marble floor, his twisting mouth rebelling at the silence.

  “What is your business here?” my father expelled, his voice rough and serious, like he only was to our enemies.

  She stayed silent.

  My father, the most powerful king in the world, asked her a direct question, and she sat in silence and the king did nothing but huff in impatience.

  Mother waved her hand. “Perhaps you’d like something to drink?”

  The cleric pressed her lips together. “Not until every chair is filled.”

  Well, at least we knew she had the ability to make sounds.

  The last chair stayed empty. By rights of the council it belonged to my uncle Edvarg, but as emissary for the Abbey of the Undergod, he wasn’t likely to show his face in order to appease the Savak. No matter how many times the king sent a messenger to the Abbey, he would not come to hear a heathen’s words.

  It would be a council of five.

  “Son.” The king gestured toward Uncle’s seat.

  “Me?” I touched my chest. Tomlinson sighed, but the rest of the council seemed to soften with affection, looking at me much the way they did Mother’s pet cat, Chompsens. I cleared my throat. “Yes, Father?”

  “Take your uncle’s seat, please.”

  I bowed to the council, and I fought back a grin as I touched my forehead in a salute to the Historians. This I wanted them to record. I looked back at the king and in that moment, I saw my father. The man who always welcomed me to sit by him no matter how busy he was, who cheered at my tournaments even when I was bested, the man who told me that there was nothing I could do that would make him not love me.

  And then in an instant something behind his eyes went blank, and he shifted from the man who was my father to the man who was my king. But I could handle this opportunity. All that I wanted, more than any win or tournament, was to see my father look at me with pride, the way I remembered.

  I slid into the chair at Mother’s right.

  “You must give me your kingdom,” the cleric said.

  The council shared looks. Ridiculous. I laughed, and General Franciv gave a snort. Sir Tomlinson’s giant hands batted at poor Lord Reginal, but the scrawny little man was giggling so hard he didn’t notice. Mother pressed her fingers over her lips, trying to remain polite in case it wasn’t a joke.

  It had to be, although the Savak were not known for their humor.

  Their cunning, their betrayal, their strange religion? Yes, of course.

  Humor? Not famously reported.

  The cleric tipped her head to one side as if she did not understand our reaction. Her golden eyes seemed sharp in the light coming from the arched windows.

  Father did not smile. “Is there a threat in your words?”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “Not in my words.” She pressed her lips in a tight grimace and reached into her long sleeves.

  My father’s guards drew their weapons.

  There, hidden behind swaths of red silk, was a bag, brown leather, tucked tight next to her body.

  “In the future.”

  My breath caught.

  Out came a clay vase, sealed with wax. It thudded as she placed it on the table in front of her. She withdrew five small clay cups.

  The guards did not put away their weapons.

  We all eyed the vase … or pitcher, most likely. Filled with the only thing the Savak possessed that made this cleric welcome to the court.

  The clear water of the Seer Spring. One sip and the future no longer remained a mystery.

  I cocked my head to the side as the cleric filled the cups.

  It would be considered blasphemy to drink of the spring water, but anyone who did could see the future. Imagine knowing what enemy might attack, or what the clouds would bring—drought or famine, richness or surplus. We could prepare for war or for illness. Blasphemy seemed a small price to pay for such a vision, yet there were rumors the seer water was also a judgment. If their goddess didn’t consider the partaker worthy, the water would kill.

  I leaned forward.

  Oh light. I seemed eager. My reputation would never live that down.

  “Generations ago,” the cleric said as she placed a cup in front of my mother, “we were allies. I ask you to remember the time before the Seer Spring was discovered. Back before the first seer drowned in his vision of the future.”

  “Before the walls,” Mother said, her voice measured.

  Sir Tomlinson’s voice was not. “Before the hibisi.” Sir Tomlinson’s anger was well placed. He’d lost his wife due to the lack of those flowers.

  When they discovered the Seer Spring, the Savak built walls around their island, and they stopped sending aid or emissaries to any other kingdom. The Savak closed their gates by the edge of the sword, only allowing certain traders to come, and only if they brought the seeds of the hibisi flower. A century later, they owned every hibisi flower on this side of our world, and they dotted their island like little white specks of light.

  The cleric placed the small cups in front of my fat
her, Sir Tomlinson, General Franciv, and Lord Reginal. She did not place one in front of me, which was wise, because I might’ve thrown it in her face. She lowered her gaze. “We, like you, regret the lives lost to the gray illness.”

  Lord Reginal clasped his heart. “The Undergod was well fed.”

  “By our greed,” the cleric said.

  I agreed with the cleric, which felt fundamentally wrong. Six years ago, an illness spread throughout my kingdom. Thousands of lives were lost. Harsh ugly deaths. Nothing we tried could stop it, not until the Savak revealed the cure.

  Brewed from the bloom of the hibisi.

  They knew the hibisi held healing properties, unlike anything we’d ever found. They’d seen it in their visions. Centuries before the disease first spread, the Savak knew the lives it would take, and yet they hoarded the truth. The clerics came to our shores with the cure, which they offered for a price, and only if the recipients would praise the Savak goddess for her goodness. The Savak watched, holding the cure, as people—our people—who could not afford to pay, or who were too pious to blaspheme, died gasping in front of them. And the Savak never shed a tear for us.

  And now she wanted us to trust her? There was not enough fortune in the world.

  Father leaned away and clasped his hands under his chin. “You wish to ally yourself with us?”

  The cleric’s expression was still as a bluff. “Not as such. We need to be united to save as many lives as we can from what is coming.”

  I glanced at their seer water, despite myself.

  Mother tapped her fingers on the table. With her black hair cascading over her shoulders, and a thin golden band tracing the line of her brow, she was the picture of a queen. “You come alone. Do you have your queen’s blessing?”

  “Our queen does not know,” she whispered. Her shoulders hunched. “She must never know.”

  “What is coming?” Father asked.

  “War,” the cleric said. “Our young queen has assembled an army. She will make herself empress. We have seen it. We have seen the loss of life, the destruction she will reap in her rise to power. She will not govern well. She will not take prisoners. But there is a path to survival. You must drink to see it.”