Maelstrom

by Jill Williamson

  Those dark brown eyes stared into his. “I want to believe. I’m just afraid.”

  “Afraid of what?”

  She looked away, wincing. “That Arman is not all you believe him to be.”

  Trevn smiled, knowing exactly how she felt. “I thought that over and over as I was transcribing the book. Do you know what changed my mind? Besides the arrival of Miss Onika and her prophecies?”

  She shook her head.

  “That truth is truth. No matter what you believe. My father made laws to defend his lifestyle. Sacrificed people in the name of his truth. Until Wilek killed a cheyvah beast and proved that Barthos was nothing more than an animal.”

  “But what if Arman is nothing more than a sunbird?”

  Trevn laughed, but her question had merit. “For years I have studied the prophecies of four different religions. Only in the Armanite faith did I find the hand of He Who Made the World. Prophecies that had been fulfilled and those that were fulfilling before my very eyes. He has shown himself to those willing to set down their pride and seek him. Will you look, Mielle?”

  Her brief nod was enough. He kissed her, and for a few moments nothing else mattered in the Northsea but their two souls, entwined.

  He finally forced himself to break away. “I must speak with Janek,” he said, standing.

  Mielle scrambled to her feet beside him. “Oh, Trevn, don’t!”

  “Do not dissuade me, Mielle. It is my duty to defend your honor. Besides, it is time someone put Janek in his place. Wilek is far too busy to be bothered, so I will do it. Go to dinner in the dining room. I’ll meet you there.”

  Trevn found Janek’s cabin door unguarded, which likely meant he was elsewhere. He hoped he hadn’t sent Mielle straight to him in the dining room. Entering, he discovered Lady Pia sitting in a chair by the window, watching the sea. She stood and curtsied. She appeared to be alone.

  “Where is Janek?” Trevn asked, perusing the room for any clue.

  “I know not, Your Highness. He was on the foredeck this midday with his Order.”

  “Yes, I heard.” As Trevn walked toward her, his gaze fixed upon the sideboard under the window and the array of pots upon it. Only one held any sign of life. A small sandvine. He changed direction and picked it up. “This will do.”

  “You mustn’t take that! He will blame me.”

  The look of horror on Lady Pia’s face confirmed his assumption. Janek cared more for his plants than anything. Trevn shifted the pot into the crook of one arm. “You give him this message, lady. Tell him that I have his plant, and if he wants it, he can come and get it.”

  Trevn took the sandvine to his cabin and tucked it into his hanging cot, then made his way to the captain’s dining room. There he found every member of the royal family except Rosârah Valena, who was ill, and Janek. Also present were Rystan, Miss Mielle, and her sister, Amala. Father was asleep in his rollchair.

  “Good evening, Miss Mielle,” Trevn said, taking his seat beside her.

  “Any signs of land?” Wilek asked.

  “None, I’m afraid, though Master Granlee believes that the lack of fish might be due to a change in the ocean’s temperature. It has grown cooler. Much more so than the waters around Brixmead.”

  “Might we be headed toward a polar desert?” Wilek asked.

  “That is Master Granlee’s theory, yes. If we find land too cold to live on, we could still harvest ice and snow for water, then sail south along the coast until we reach a warmer climate.”

  Father grunted awake, his eyes sleepy and roving over those at the table. “Where is the prophet?” Father asked. “She must interpret a dream I had.”

  “She is not feeling well,” Wilek said.

  “I hope it’s not the fever,” Father said. “Are any of you ill?”

  All shook their heads.

  “If you are, I want to know at once. We must not let any affliction go untreated for even a day.”

  “Tell us of your dream, Father,” Wilek said.

  “Yes, well, I was a great fish, swimming in the sea. Above me a flock of birds circled. One at a time they dove down and pecked at my eyes. What do you think it means?”

  Trevn frowned, thinking the dream rather ominous.

  “Perhaps it means that land is near, since birds are a sign of land,” Hrettah said.

  “Have you seen any birds flying in the sky?” Zeroah’s brother asked.

  “I have not,” Father said, “but perhaps I will soon.”

  The outer door burst in, and Janek tore into the dining room like a starving sand cat. His left eye was red and the cheek below it marred by a puffy red scratch that Trevn gave Mielle credit for. Janek surveyed those around the table until his enraged gaze fell upon Trevn. He stalked around the table, glaring. “Where is my sandvine?”

  Trevn stood to meet him, took a deep breath. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because it’s mine!”

  “You think your claim is enough to keep me from taking whatever I want?”

  “What’s mine is mine,” Janek said.

  “Interesting,” Trevn said. “But, brother, I am only doing what you’ve taught me by your own actions. You take from me without regard for my feelings. Why should I treat you any differently?”

  “This is about her?” Janek gestured rudely to Mielle. “I didn’t take her, you fool. I barely touched her. Do you even know the difference?”

  “You have no right to touch the woman Father permitted me to court.”

  “You have no right to take my sandvine. Where is it?”

  Trevn shook his head. “Not until you swear before our father never to touch Miss Mielle again. Or her sister.”

  Miss Amala gasped, a look of outrage on her face.

  “Janek and Trevn,” Wilek said. “This is not the time for such a discussion.”

  Janek’s face broke into a smile and he chuckled. “He holds my sandvine hostage, Wil. Can you believe it?” Then to Trevn, “Will you charge a ransom?”

  “I took it to get your attention,” Trevn said. “Your selfish antics have gone too far. You nearly destroyed Sârah Zeroah’s reputation and fully meant to. You have turned your Order of the Sandvine into a team of demoralizing brutes. Our people have been through enough. We all have. I await your oath.”

  Janek grabbed Trevn’s throat and shoved him back against the bulkhead. “No one threatens me. Now, where is it?”

  Trevn’s head tingled as Janek cut off his air. Everyone stood, all talking at once, but Trevn focused his attention solely on Janek and recalled Nietz’s fighting lessons. He wedged his fingers under one of Janek’s and bent it back until it popped, ducking to the side as he did. Janek screamed, curled over his hand. Trevn stepped into an open space and crouched into position, ready for Janek’s next attack.

  “Enough!” Wilek yelled.

  Janek rushed Trevn, fisted his hair, and knocked his head against the bulkhead. Pain spiked through Trevn’s skull and blurred his vision. He flung an elbow at Janek’s face and made contact, but Janek kept his grip on Trevn’s hair, so Trevn kicked his brother’s injured hand. Janek howled, swinging a left-handed punch at Trevn’s face that missed completely. Trevn, invigorated by the idea that he might be winning, grabbed the neckline of Janek’s tunic, pulled him close, and punched him.

  His hand lit with fire, and Janek’s tunic tore at the neckline. Trevn was about to hit him again when someone grabbed his arm. Novan Heln. Two more King’s Guards descended upon Janek.

  “This is shameful!” Father yelled. “Sârs fighting like combatants in a Rurekan arena.”

  “That sandvine is my only living plant from Armania,” Janek said, gasping. “I must have it back.”

  “You will have it when I have your oath!” Trevn yelled.

  “It seems a fair compromise to me, Janek,” Wilek said.

  Janek glared at Wilek, then licked his bloody lip and spat on the floor at Trevn’s feet. “You have your oath. I won’t touch your precious commoner again.”
>
  “Or her sister,” Trevn amended.

  “Or her sister,” Janek sneered.

  “Your plant is in my cabin,” Trevn said. “In my hanging cot.”

  Janek jerked away from the guards and made for the door. He pulled it open and scowled back at Trevn. “You and I are through being brothers.” And he left.

  Trevn glanced around the table at the many faces watching him in silent horror. His gaze stopped on Mielle’s and he grinned. “Well, lady, I don’t think Sâr Janek will bother you again.”

  Wilek

  Wilek slept poorly that night, tossed along with the rest of the ship in a surprise gale. He met the morning groggy but at least comforted that they’d replenished a small amount of freshwater in the storm. The first news of the day, however, erased that bit of relief. Rosârah Valena had died of fever during the night. Wilek was still processing this when a sailor brought word that they’d come upon nine survivors of a pirated ship. Wilek ran out onto the quarterdeck, surprised to find the day sunny and bright after the previous evening’s rain. He spotted Captain Bussie and Trevn talking to a shirtless, bearded man. Behind him eight other bedraggled men sat on the deck, drinking from stone mugs.

  “Captain,” Wilek said upon reaching their circle. “Is this one of the survivors?”

  Captain Bussie bowed to Wilek. “Yes, Your Highness. This is Master Ardall. He was the second mate on the Armanian ship Capaspie out of Tal.”

  “The name of the ship that pirated you?” Wilek asked.

  “Malbraid, Your Highness,” Ardall said. “It was a small merchant cog. Came upon us during last night’s rainstorm.”

  The name hit hard. Rand’s ship. “How is that possible?” Wilek asked. “Can these pirates sail on a cloudy night as well?”

  The old man shrugged.

  “Tell the sâr-regent how your dinghy came to be in our path,” Trevn said.

  “They towed us here,” the man said.

  “Through the rainstorm,” Trevn added.

  Wilek drew Trevn by the arm away from the others. “What is Rand up to?” he asked.

  “Clearly he wanted us to find these men,” Trevn said. “But how he traveled through the rain while we waited out the storm . . . My only guess is a mantic. The pirates have at least a dozen ships now.”

  But Rand’s mother was dead, and when Wilek had seen him at Bakurah Island, his son’s face had been disfigured still. If Rand had a mantic at his disposal, wouldn’t he have healed his son? Wilek rubbed his temples. His headache refused to leave. The physician said it was common when dehydrated. “We lost ten to fever yesterday,” he told Trevn. “Another two this morning.”

  “Anyone we knew?” his brother asked.

  “The fourth queen.”

  “No.” Trevn looked away, exhaled a shaky breath. “The girls must be devastated.”

  “We all are. The Seffynaw left only fifty-two behind on Bakurah Island, but we’ve already lost one hundred thirty-nine to illness, infections, and fever.”

  “The quarantine should keep the fever from spreading,” Trevn said.

  “Uhley thinks he is infected. He has begun communicating to me by messenger for fear of contaminating me. I don’t know what we’ll do without a physician.”

  “He must have an assistant,” Trevn said.

  “Died last week.”

  “Oh.”

  “Trevn, question the survivors to see if you can learn anything about which direction the pirates came from. How they attacked. If there were signs of mantics aboard. Look for any clues we might use to capture them. Then see that these people find a quiet place to sleep. They have been through a harrowing ordeal, and I would feel better knowing they have a place to rest.”

  “Certainly, brother,” Trevn said. “Consider it done.”

  Wilek started back to his cabin, accompanied by Novan and Rystan. One step at a time, he reminded himself, though he wished he could get one step ahead of his enemies. He’d kept an ever-present surveillance on the actions of the traitors who sought to sink the Seffynaw, but according to Lady Pia and Hinckdan, so far no plan had been hatched.

  He reached his cabin and found Dendrick waiting outside his door with several guards and a woman. He ignored them and asked his onesent, “Do you have an answer from my mother as to the best time for Rosârah Valena’s last rites and shipping?”

  “She suggests two days from now,” Dendrick said. “Also, Your Highness, Sârah Zeroah is waiting inside to see you.”

  Wilek stifled a sigh. He had no time for a pleasure visit but would not refuse his wife. He nodded to Novan, who entered the room first to ensure it was safe. Wilek followed with Rystan. Inside, Zeroah was sitting before Wilek’s desk, her guardsmen standing by the window, talking softly to each other. She stood and curtsied. “Lord husband. And Rystan too. Hello.”

  “Good midday, sister,” Rystan said.

  “Give us a moment,” Wilek said, and the guards, Novan, and Rystan left.

  Wilek approached Zeroah and greeted her with a kiss. “How is my bride this day?”

  “Grieved, I’m afraid,” she said, taking his hands. “It’s Sâr Janek.”

  Not again. “If this is about his behavior to Miss Mielle, we all saw that Trevn has dealt with it already.” He shuddered at the memory of Janek’s finger breaking. That horrible sound.

  “This is a different matter altogether, lord. May I present the situation?”

  Wilek released her hands and leaned against the front edge of his desk. “Please.” And get on with it, dearest. His young wife had a tendency toward the dramatic at times, as if dragging out explanations would make them appear all the more severe.

  Zeroah opened the cabin door and waved someone inside. “You may enter,” she said.

  In came the woman from the corridor. Now that Wilek got a good look at her, he found that he knew her. It was Shemme. Cook Hara’s daughter. Very well into a pregnancy. When had this happened? Wilek could have sworn he’d seen the girl carrying a tray through a crossway a few weeks back with no sign of such distension. Why did Zeroah feel this required his attention? He hazarded a guess. “Sâr Janek is the father?”

  Shemme’s eyes flashed. “He is, lord.”

  “When Miss Shemme told him, he cast her out,” Zeroah said.

  That much, at least, was unsurprising. Wilek walked around to his chair and sat. “You cannot expect Janek to rejoice. He has several stray children already that he cares nothing for. That is the risk you take when agreeing to become the man’s mistress.”

  This earned him a dirty look from his wife. He couldn’t help that. She would learn the ways of Janek and his ilk soon enough.

  “Miss Shemme, tell the sâr what your mother told you,” Zeroah prompted. “Go on, now. Have courage. I will see you protected in all this.”

  Wilek’s neck prickled. He wasn’t certain he wanted to hear whatever this was.

  “When Sâr Janek took an interest in me,” Shemme said softly, agonizingly slow, “Mother urged me to try to conceive a child by taking evenroot.”

  The words chilled Wilek. Not evenroot again. “Where did Hara get the root?”

  “She always keeps some in her pantry,” Shemme said.

  “Does Janek know this? Did you give him any?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Wilek would have to destroy this evenroot supply at once. “Why would Hara do this?”

  “Mother was born in Magonia. She believes evenroot has magical properties. She said if I took it before he summoned me, I was sure to conceive. She hoped that I might have a child as revered as Kamran DanSâr.”

  There were so many things wrong with all she said. That his father’s cook was Magonian, that the woman had a store of evenroot when Wilek had thought it gone from the ship, that Kamran DanSâr was at all revered.

  “Tell him the worst part,” Zeroah said.

  There was more? “Are you unwell?” If she had the fever, he wanted her away from Zeroah at once.

  The girl looked
at the floor. “I do not feel unwell, Your Highness. At least not any different than my mother tells me is normal for pregnancy, except that . . .” She shifted as if her skin were too tight and she wanted to shed it. “It’s the time, Your Highness. Things are off. I . . .” Her eyes welled with tears as a flush spread over her cheeks. “What you see . . .” She set her hand on the shelf of her bulging belly. “This is but eight weeks’ growth.” She exhaled a pent-up breath.

  “The midwives have examined Miss Shemme,” Zeroah added. “They’ve determined that she is six months along. The child is growing alarmingly fast.”

  “It’s not normal,” Shemme said weepily. “I feel it moving always. It never rests. What if it’s a demon?” She began to sob.

  Wilek had no idea what to say. He needed to call upon someone who knew about such things. His first instinct was Harton, but even though he’d kept Harton close for his mantic expertise, he was hesitant to invite him into his confidence again. “Send Novan for Master Jhorn,” he told Zeroah.

  His wife ran to obey as if the room were on fire. Wilek felt awkward to be facing the wailing maid alone. “Do sit, Miss Shemme,” he said, motioning to the chair before his desk.

  She did, and thankfully Zeroah returned moments later. She poured Shemme a mug of water from the sideboard, hugged the girl with one arm, and helped her drink. To see her apply such ministrations to Shemme made Wilek smile. His wife was a woman of great compassion.

  When Novan did not immediately return, Wilek made a suggestion. “My dear, take Miss Shemme to my mother. Make her comfortable there. I will speak with Master Jhorn when he arrives and call for you once I determine how to proceed.”

  Zeroah curtsied. “As you like, lord.”

  After the women left, Wilek immediately felt more at ease. For some reason, being in the presence of the pregnant woman unnerved him.

  A short wait, and Novan brought Jhorn. Wilek repeated the entire conversation for both their benefits.

  Jhorn frowned and tugged at his coiled beard. “This bodes ill, Your Highness,” he said. “Though it does not seem that the cook has any concept of the dangers of conceiving a root child.”