The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy)

by Grefer, Victoria

  “Just moved to Yangerton. Refused my help to get there. He always does; he’s proud that way. He wanted to live in the city. Has a small apartment on the western outskirts; plans to walk to the Central Plaza each day to write. Wants to try his hand at poetry.” Lottie sighed. “He’ll return to painting soon enough, I imagine. He’ll love that plaza, though. It’ll furnish him quite a few scenes to recreate.”

  The Plaza? HANG that useless fool of a boy!

  Linstrom gave no outward sign of his shock or his hatred for the adolescent. Lottie chattered on, oblivious to the fact that her lover had been planning for weeks to raze her nephew’s latest haunt. “He’s not a bad youth. Just lacks guidance. He’s no real plans for the future. Has no concept what he should make of himself. If my brother and his wife hadn’t died in that carriage accident outside the capital….” Lottie shook her head. “It breaks my heart to think he hardly knew his parents. The same as you, Evant. Well, you didn’t know your father.”

  “Knew my mother well enough,” he agreed. “Chore of a woman, and a pitiful seamstress. It’s no surprise my father spent only a night with her. In fact, I assumed he’d lied to her about his name, his taking refuge in the Hall of Sorcery during Zalski’s regime. He hadn’t, it turned out. I found ample evidence of his lodging there when I first trekked to the place. He was the sorcerer he claimed to be—the Petroc who died to reinstate the king—though for all the king’s favor that sacrifice has heaped on me….”

  Miserable tyrant. Deceitful, thankless….

  “I know quite well what you think of the king, Evant. I feel the same way. To snub your father’s son as he did, when you plainly wrote him of whose line you came….”

  Linstrom kissed her, with clear intentions for that kiss to lead somewhere. Distract her from Terrance, from prattling on about her nephew…. Linstrom would deal with the nephew problem later. The plans to assault Yangerton were in his desk, secure. Only he and Terrance had seen them. He could alter the operation easily enough, if he must. For now, keep her content. He couldn’t have her questioning, making protests.

  Lottie took his advances as a pleasant surprise. When she gave no sign of rejecting him, Kora broke her connection. She had never invaded Zalski’s romantic life, and felt queasy at the thought of invading Linstrom’s.

  Immediately, Kora sent Walten to fetch Vane. Kansten headed to the Palace for the king. Wilhem could have gone, and faster, but Kora wanted to speak with Vane before Rexson joined them. So many years had passed since she last had worked with Rexson, and Vane knew him so much better than she did….

  Vane appeared within five minutes, washed and in fresh clothes with his hair still wet. When Kora’s sons refused to leave, she had to speak before them. She and Vane sat on the edge of the bed, while Walt and Wilhem stood nearby.

  “What do you know of that Lottie? The woman who spoke up for Francie?”

  “I assumed she was Linstrom’s lover,” said the duke.

  “She is,” Kora affirmed. “And I think she’s the key to his destruction. She resents what Terrance did to a fellow woman. She knows Linstrom’s plot will harm innocents, but she hasn’t come to terms with the idea. It unsettles her, even now. She’s not convinced the king wasn’t behind that fire Terrance started, so she’s uneasy about that too. Self-preservation’s a powerful instinct.”

  Vane nodded, respectfully, but he said, “I’m not sure, Kora.”

  The sorceress said, “I was with the Crimson League for a year. I’ve experience with this kind of thing. We can turn her. Play upon her fear, her conscience. I know we can make her feel betrayed by Linstrom.”

  That increased the duke’s interest. “How?” he demanded.

  “She’s a nephew in Yangerton. She’s practically his mother, from what I gathered, and he spends much time at the Central Plaza with quills and paints. We just have to reveal Linstrom’s true intent. She won’t be happy he plans to attack Yangerton and didn’t trust her enough to confide in her. Then she’ll have to confront that he’d risk her nephew’s welfare. Linstrom’s willing to change his assault plans for her, but she doesn’t need to know that, does she?” Kora paused. “I know where she can find documents to prove our claims about Linstrom and the plaza.”

  Vane said, “My claims, you mean.”

  “If I can figure out where she lives, would you speak with her? Offer her amnesty to betray Linstrom, assuming the crown agrees?”

  “The crown will,” said Vane. His voice was much dryer than his dripping hair. “The crown will, and I’ll do it.”

  Kora gave his arm a motherly tap. “I had similar ventures myself. Well, similar enough: your mother sent me to turn Zalski’s general. Let’s hope your success proves more timely than mine. I imagine it will; I had absolutely no leverage. You’ve the weight of the throne behind you, Vane. Use it.”

  “I shall,” he assured her.

  * * *

  When Francie came to, her swollen eyes stung from the bakery’s smoke. Her vision was blurred, so she couldn’t make out the face of the man beside her. At first, she could only tell he was neither Terrance nor Vane, because his hair was too dark. The thought reached her, in a haze, that Linstrom had black hair like that, and a dull panic threatened to make her faint again, until the man took her hand, his touch gentle, and a familiar voice assured her, “You’re at Oakdowns. Vane brought you here. Both you and he made it out, and the man who attacked you’s dead.”

  No, that wasn’t Linstrom. Linstrom’s hair was longer, and he had more bulk to him. Zacry Porteg was with her.

  Zacry’s words calmed Francie, but also set her aching head to pound with a greater intensity. Vane must have killed that bastard. She owed her life to Vane again, as though once hadn’t been too much…. And then, there was Zacry. She would have been mortified Zacry was seeing her as she must look, but she was too tired, too weak, and in too much pain to feel anything other than dizzy. Her colleague told her to rest, and she consented to shut her eyes, but she asked him, “How long was I out?”

  “A good three hours.”

  “It was because of the council, his first attack on me. He and his cohorts, they hate us. All of us. It’s good he picked me, though, over another councilor. Everyone else has kids. The Giver only knows what he’d have done to….”

  Zacry told her, “You’ll be all right, Francie.”

  She had just been starting to recover before Terrance reappeared. Her pain had dulled, or she had grown accustomed to its constant presence. Her vertigo had lessened. She could move her arms with less of an effort, which meant her strength was waxing. Now with the fire, and her shock, and another loss of consciousness that had, from the feel of things, brought her head to fall forward and slam her knee, all that progress had been eliminated. Choosing not to focus on the shame of being seen in her condition—her shut eyes made that easier—she rasped to Zacry, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Do you need something? Water?”

  Francie made an attempt to shake her head. She was parched, without doubt, but her throat seared so much from the fumes she’d inhaled that she doubted she could swallow even liquid. Instead she croaked, “You taught Vane well. I’m lucky.”

  “You and he both,” said Zacry. There was a note of tension in his voice, and Francie pressed, “You’re sure he’s alive?”

  “Alive and unharmed, I promise. Howar didn’t make it, though.”

  “The Giver rest him. He took good care of me.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

  Francie took a series of shallow breaths. Then she said, “You can help me get settled in Traigland, when I’m well enough.”

  The statement was impulsive, but Francie knew as soon as she spoke that leaving Herezoth was her best option. She needed distance from her horrid family, from Vane, from the council that would prove too tempting not to abandon should she remain in the kingdom of her birth.

  Despite how she longed to see Zacry’s reaction, Francie didn’t open h
er eyes. He told her, his tone reassuring, “I’d be honored to do that, if you want to move there.”

  “I need to move. Need to leave the council. I….”

  “Save your energy,” Zacry told her, cutting off her explanations. “You don’t need to excuse your decision. You’ve served on that council since its founding, and you’ve every right to move on.”

  “I’ll be the first to leave,” she noted.

  “After ten years, Francie. Ten years of exhaustion, opposition, and triumph in the face of it. You don’t owe the likes of me justification. My wife and I will be happy to help you find a job, a place to live.” He paused. “Think I’ll suggest Rexson replace you with two people, though. We’ll need two people to fill the void.”

  That validation meant more to Francie than Zacry could have realized. Her lips stretched in a painful smile. It should never hurt to smile…. The thought sobered her, as did her next wondering, which she voiced. She looked to her colleague, despite how blurry his face appeared. “Does the rest of the council know what happened to me? What the king’s facing?”

  Zacry assured her, “Only Vane and I. We’re the only ones he’s confided in.”

  “His go-to sorcerers.” Francie tried to give her voice a steely edge, and failed. The effort cost too much. “His only sorcerers. If he’d more, I’d never have suffered this.”

  Zacry’s voice was kind, but diplomatic. “This isn’t Rexson’s fault.”

  “No, it’s his queen’s. His bloody wife’s. Vane told me what she did, because I deserved the truth. He said she feels awful, but that doesn’t change what that man….”

  She fell quiet when Zacry moved a steadying hand to her shoulder. “You’ve a right to loathe Gracia. I won’t deny you that, but don’t get worked up about the woman, not now. You’ll only prolong your healing if you fill yourself with anger. Don’t think on the queen until you’re walking about and eating.” He paused. “She meant you no harm, you know. Her Highness respects you. She always has.”

  Francie shot, “And that’s made a fat lot of difference, hasn’t it?” Then she winced, as every muscle in her face seared in protest at her animation. More sedately, she observed, “Wish the woman thought I was dead like everyone else.”

  Zacry must have judged it best to change the subject. If he hoped to comfort Francie by that, he chose his words poorly. “I can go to your mother, if you’d like. Tell her you’ll live.”

  “Don’t,” said Francie. “The bitch is probably celebrating. Wouldn’t want to ruin her joy.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “I’m not trying to save you a trip,” Francie said. “The woman and I…. We don’t get along. Not since she separated me and Vane as kids. I had to join the council just to find him again. No, let her think me dead. I’ve been dead to her for years anyway.”

  Some people would have blamed Francie for speaking so bluntly, but not Zacry. He would deem the situation none of his concern, and sure enough, he said, “It’s your call. I won’t bring it up again, so if you change your mind, tell me.” Francie said she would, and Zacry let go of her shoulder to fluff her pillow.

  “Sleep,” he directed. “You’re safe here. Vane would have brought you here at the start, but you were in no state to transport that distance. The fire left him no choice. We fixed you up as best we could, and you’ll recover in time, as long as you take it easy. So sleep.”

  “Too much pain,” she protested.

  “I know a spell to help you sleep, if you’ll let me cast it.”

  “Dreamless sleep?” She dared not describe the nightmares that had plagued her every time she’d drowsed since her abduction.

  “Dreamless,” he specified. “I’ll cast it as soon as you meet the woman who’s to care for you.”

  Francie sighed. One of Vane’s servants. The thought of a nurse humiliated her, but she couldn’t deny she needed one. She let Zacry step out, and shut her eyes while her mind wandered.

  How much had her mother aged in ten years? That was the last time they’d spoken: ten years ago. The woman’s hair had been starting to gray, and her chin to sag. She was vigorous, but her face belied her fifty years, especially around the eyes. She’d slammed a door in Francie’s face when Francie refused to step down from the Magic Council, even after a group of teenagers, to convince her to do just that, had tried to burn her aunt’s store.

  Francie had last seen her mother in that store, after closing, while Francie’s guards waited outside for her. The only light came from a lantern above the threshold, so the women stood near the entrance.

  Francie said, “If I resign, the lunatics who tried to burn us out get what they want.”

  “What does that matter?” her mother demanded. “How does that matter in the slightest? Have you any idea what you’re putting your family through with your insanity? Or do you just not care?”

  It had taken all Francie’s strength not to strike the woman. “You think I’m doing this for glory? I’m far from the people’s hero. Good Giver, you’ve seen the threats. You honestly think I can shrug off arson like it never happened? You don’t know me at all!”

  “Oh, I know you. Do I know you, Francie Ilea Rafe. You’re as stubborn and self-centered as your runaway father. Not a thought in your head for the rest of us. I’ve begged you for years not to use your magic.”

  “And I’ve told you, for years, I can’t control it. I can’t stop it.”

  “Makes all of us damn uneasy.”

  “I didn’t choose to have this power, Mother!”

  “You chose to make friends with that sorcerer boy, didn’t you? Chose to hate me when I did the only decent thing and made sure the village and you—YOU, Little Miss—would be protected from him. You chose to read and read, study and study some more about magic, when I forbade you. You applied for that council without even the decency to tell me until you got appointed, God knows how! Mad, the king’s gone. Bloody mad.”

  “That man saved Herezoth. If you can even say what you suggested with a straight face, you’re the mad one.”

  “Well, Missie, if that’s the way you feel, your choice will come easy. It’s your beloved, mad monarch or me. If you walk out that door without telling me you’re going home to write a letter of resignation, don’t you dare come back here. Take your Palace, and your acclaim, and your title of councilor until they kill you over it. I’m done with you.”

  “I thought you were leaving the choice to me?”

  “What’s it to be, then?”

  Francie eased the door open and prayed she kept her rage from showing in her gait as she ambled through, then turned to stare at her mother with the smuggest expression she could manage. That was the last time she’d set eyes on the woman. Francie didn’t jolt when her mother slammed the door in her face, then drew the bolts.

  The councilor’s eyes flew open when she heard Zacry return to her room in Oakdowns. Francie’s brief rest had cleared her vision, though her eyes still itched, and she watched as a short, plump woman, light on her feet, followed him in. Her bright red hair was speckled with much gray, but her full face was barely wrinkled despite her sixty years. She rushed as though on wings to start a full examination of the invalid, starting with her blotchy, damaged face.

  It hurt daggers to smile, but Francie couldn’t help it. She had to smile. She knew this woman’s airy step, her full frame. She had always known her: Vane’s aunt, Fontferry’s most popular innkeeper in years past and caretaker of the chickens of solemn oath.

  “Teena,” Francie rasped. She placed a hand on the old woman’s, and Teena’s resolve broke. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Zacry said, “I went for her before you came to. Vane’s request.”

  Bless Vane. Francie had told him she needed a mother; Teena was the closest thing to that either of them had known.

  “You poor dear! You poor, brave….”

  “I’ll live, Teena.”

  “So you will, and be stronger for it. I’ve seen this bef
ore, great loss of blood. You’re no weaker than Vane was when that madman stabbed him, and Vane made a full recovery. He had no smoke in his system, now….”

  Zacry assured the nurse, “We’ve done all anyone can for that. I don’t think any complications from the fire will prove permanent. We’ll have to wait and see.”

  “You should drink,” Teena insisted.

  Francie said, “My throat’s in tatters from the fumes.”

  “It won’t be pleasant, dear, but you must have water. You must. A moment of pain, and after, it’ll do you a world of good. It must be hours since you’ve drunk a thing.”

  “It has,” Francie admitted.

  Teena poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the second bedside table; the first had a bowl filled with black liquid and soiled towels. Francie hadn’t noticed that before: someone had cleaned her before she’d come to, and braided her hair, she realized. To keep her cool. Zacry explained, “My niece. She wanted to do you a kindness. A great admirer of yours.”

  “Admirer?”

  “For your work on the council. All you’ve done for Herezoth. She’s always looked up to you, Francie. You should meet her at some point when you’re conscious.”

  “Thank her for me.”

  Zacry said, “You can thank her by drinking some water.”

  Francie gave in, and let Teena raise the glass to her lips. She tilted her head back, so the water would slide down her searing throat without too strong a swallow. She drank the whole glass that way, then settled down to rest. Teena said she would have some cooled porridge for her when she woke up. Zacry cast his sleeping spell, and Francie slipped into sweet, painless, thoughtless oblivion.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  First Kiss

  After a successful meeting with his brothers, the Foreign Affairs Council, and the Traiglanders, Valkin was working in his father’s office. He hadn’t been there ten minutes when the Count of Fontferry barged in, barely allowing Rexson’s secretary to announce his arrival. He demanded to speak with the king. Valkin told the count his father was indisposed, but had given him authority to speak for the crown. That appeased the noble, who had traveled days on horseback from his county farther north, at the foot of the Pearl Mountains.