A Deliverer Comes

by Jill Williamson

  “I heard that Dendron spoke to King Barthel about it, and it sounds amazing. If magic comes through a shadir that has taken Dominion over a bird, think what it might do inside someone as powerful as you.”

  “I have magic already,” Shanek said. “And Mother says I must never let a shadir inside.”

  Amala stroked his arm. “I fear she is keeping the truth from you, just like she did about Sir Kalenek killing your father. Just like she did about the baby.”

  Shanek’s ridged brow sank low over his eyes.

  “Why does she want another son, do you think?” Amala asked.

  Shanek shaved a deep swath of wood off the block, frowning. Gozan was impressed. The girl knew how to manipulate the boy better than Charlon did.

  “Because she knows you will leave her and go to Armanguard to be king,” Amala said. “She wants someone to stay here and rule Magosia. She’s going to talk you out of taking your place in Armanguard. That’s what King Barthel said, and I think he’s right.”

  When had the girl spoken with King Barthel? And why would she think Shanek of all people could benefit from Dominion?

  “Fine,” Shanek said. “If it will stop you from talking about it.” His eyes shifted toward the half-dozen shadir in a heap at his feet. He reached for Roov, a leafy green slight, and to Gozan’s shock, the boy was able to take it by the throat.

  Roov squealed like a trod-upon piglet. His eyes bulged and his leafy body trembled. He tried to pull away from Shanek’s grip, to no avail.

  “Come into me, slight,” Shanek said, “so I can do this magic Mother is hiding from me.”

  Roov’s eyes swelled even more. Take Dominion over you? he asked.

  “Yes and hurry up,” Shanek said, giving the creature a shake.

  Gozan couldn’t believe it. For years he had all but begged Jazlyn for Dominion, and here Roov had received an invitation without even having to ask. He forced himself to remain calm, curious what the slight would do with his new power.

  Roov wrapped his leafy vines around Shanek’s arm and slowly sank through the boy’s dappled-gray skin. Amala and the swarm watched, wide-eyed.

  When Roov had vanished, Shanek studied his fingers, made a fist, and flexed his arm. “I feel stronger,” he said, “though I don’t see how this will allow me to make a new kind of magic.”

  Amala’s eyes sparkled with reverence and admiration. “Tell it to make you fly,” she said.

  Shanek put down his whittling. “Make me fly, shadir. Right now.”

  Roov was only a slight. He hadn’t the power for such magic. But perhaps Dominion would change all that.

  Yet Shanek didn’t budge off the ground. He scowled. “What do you mean you can’t?”

  Gozan considered coming forward, explaining the process more fully, and presenting himself as a substitute for Roov, the lowly slight. Would Shanek listen? Or would Gozan’s eagerness make him look desperate?

  “Get out, then!” Shanek yelled, and the tangle of green vines that was Roov flew from the boy’s chest and drifted across the tent.

  Gozan stared. Shocked. Dominion was supposed to be permanent, unless the shadir left, was ordered out by a greater shadir, or the human died. Was Roov really so weak? Or was Shanek’s power stronger than any had realized? The boy had touched a shadir—grabbed the creature by the throat. It was something no human had ever done, that Gozan knew of, anyway. The realization kindled fear in his chest.

  Roov was now hovering near the ground in the corner of the tent, looking as pathetic as a real vine that had wilted in the sun. A crowd of shadir circled him, all talking at once.

  What did it feel like?

  Why did you leave?

  Can you go back in?

  Another group of shadir had gathered around Shanek, pushing and shoving and begging for a chance to do better than Roov had done.

  Let me try, master.

  I can make you fly if you take ahvenrood.

  Me, me! Take me!

  “Get out, all of you!” Shanek yelled. “I don’t want to try that again.”

  The majority of the shadir departed. Only a few commons remained, watching the boy from a distance, as Gozan did.

  “Why didn’t you like it?” Amala asked.

  “He didn’t make me fly,” Shanek said. “I wanted to fly.”

  “Maybe I should try it,” Amala said.

  “You can’t!” Shanek fixed her with an angry stare. “It would hurt you.”

  Amala tilted her head and smirked. “How do you know?”

  “Because you aren’t like me. You couldn’t live with one inside you, not without ahvenrood. The old kind.”

  “I have ahvenrood in me still,” Amala said, “from when the Chieftess fed it to me. That’s why I can hear them and see them.”

  “I can get you more root if you want,” Shanek said. “I know where Mother hid it. But you have to promise not to let a shadir inside you. It’s not safe. Promise?”

  Amala pouted, as if considering two poor options. “Oh, very well.”

  “Mother will be angry if she knows I gave root to you, so don’t tell her.”

  “I won’t, Shanek.”

  “Good.” Shanek went back to whittling.

  Gozan would have to keep an eye on Amala. If Shanek supplied her with ahvenrood, she might quickly become the most powerful mantic in Magosia. Perhaps he should bond with her, though she was so erratic and moody, he wasn’t sure he could put up with it.

  A whimper pulled his attention back to Roov, and Gozan shot over to where the shadir were clustered around the slight. He took the form of Rurek, grabbed Roov around the throat, and shook him. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, great one,” Roov said, trembling. “It was unlike the legends say. I had no power. I was at his mercy. Entirely.”

  The words mingled with the dread that had been pulsing in Gozan’s chest.

  Shanek DanSâr, a human, had Dominion over shadir.

  Hinck

  Hinck arrived in Sarikar late in the evening. He and the four guards Trevn had given him rode through a city ravaged by war. Every structure had been patched up in some way, including the castle itself. Even at this late hour a mob of people rushed them, begging for food or coins. Hinck gave out everything he had, but still people grabbed at his cloak and saddlebags until his guards drew their swords and forced them back.

  Hinck was ushered to a bedchamber on the third floor. He slept well past morning bells, which embarrassed him. What kind of impression did such lethargy cast upon one sent to give aid? He ordered a bath and dressed in a green tunic to honor Sarikar and show his support.

  He then went looking for Saria. In all honesty, he was a little nervous about seeing her. Despite years of childhood teasing and their short-lived adolescent romance, he had always held her in high regard. She was smart, confident, and exceedingly clever. He hoped there was some way he could help that she would accept.

  He and his guards stumbled onto a sitting room in which Princess Nolia sat with her nieces and a dozen or so maids and honor maidens, all knitting or doing needlepoint or some such feminine activity. They were dressed in black, as all had lost a husband or father or brother in the Battle of Sarikar.

  A shadir circled a cat lying on a cushion by the window. A pale shade of yellow, the creature was fat like a toad and had three large black eyes that were fixed upon the cat, who kept hissing each time the shadir drew near. Only Hinck and the cat seemed aware of the shadir’s existence.

  The women hassled Hinck about how much he’d grown since he’d lived in Pixford and begged him to tell all he knew of Queen Mielle’s beauty and the gowns she wore. Hinck asked where he might find Saria, and two honor maidens were dispatched to help. Hinck and his guards followed them down a narrow hallway and up a flight of stairs.

  “Through there,” a maiden said, pointing to a partially opened door.

  One of the guards pushed in the door and Hinck followed. They stood in a room walled in shelves that held nothing b
ut scrolls. Sure enough, Saria was inside, dressed in a black gown and standing on a chair, her back to the door. She was reaching for a scroll on a high shelf.

  Hinck cleared his throat. “Hello, Saria.”

  A gasp. The chair wobbled. Saria grabbed for the shelf and knocked a pile of scrolls onto her head. She shrieked, lost her balance, and fell.

  Hinck lunged toward her, one pace too late. He grabbed her arms with the intention of helping her stand. This induced a second shriek, and he let go, dropping her.

  “Sorry,” he said, wincing as he looked down upon the heap of scrolls, tangled braids, and black fabric. “Are you hurt?”

  Saria crawled toward the wall at top speed. She pushed to her feet and spun to face him, knife gripped tightly in one fist, a scroll in her other.

  The guards drew their swords. Hinck lifted both hands. “Peace, lady. It’s only me, Hinckdan Faluk, at your service.” He told his men, “Put away your weapons,” took a large step back out of her reach, then swept into a courtly bow. When he straightened, he found her smiling.

  “What?” Hinck asked.

  “I’ve never heard you say anything so utterly ridiculous. ‘Peace, lady. It’s only me,’” she said in a deep voice, then laughed. “Oh, you are droll, Hinck.”

  Droll? “You’d drawn a knife! Where are your guards, anyway?” Hinck glanced around the room. “Does the queen of New Sarikar inspire such fear with her knife wielding that no one dares threaten her life?”

  “My guards are busy with General Norcott at the moment, and I don’t trust the other soldiers. Too many are loyal to Finnel. As I told Trevn, I’m not yet queen. The men here have been against me from the start and most of their wives support them. Only Father Wolbair’s prophecies have kept anyone from deposing me outright. They have gall enough to stand against me, but not against Arman.”

  “That’s something, at least.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You fear Arman, Hinck? Since when?”

  “Since he saved my life when Rogedoth tried to take it.”

  “Well then.” Her eyes flitted over his face, lingering a moment on his burn scars. “I’m glad to see Trevn has some sense. When he told me he was sending Stink Dan to help me, I admit I was more than a little concerned.”

  Hinck frowned. “I’m not the one calling childhood names.”

  She motioned to a chair near the window. “Take a seat while I clean this up.”

  “Wait outside,” Hinck told his guards. When the last man closed the door behind him, Hinck set the chair upright. “I insist on helping. I’ll climb, and you hand these up.”

  “No need, I must read them all, anyway. Hold this.” She handed him the scroll, then placed one booted foot squarely in the center of the chair and pulled up her skirt, revealing a sheath strapped to her thigh. “Put that scroll in your pocket. I need to keep it safe.”

  Hinck obeyed, eyeing Saria’s exposed leg while she resheathed her knife. He wondered if she ever thought about their time at the king’s wedding to Lady Ojeda. He’d always gotten the impression that Saria had regretted the kisses they’d shared during and after the celebration.

  Knife sheathed, her dress fell back into place as she scooped up two armfuls of scrolls and carried them to her desk.

  Hinck helped her move the rest of the scrolls. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

  “Finnel Wallington has claimed a distant connection to the Sarikarian throne. He says because no male heirs of my father or grandfather remain, and since I am unmarried, that he and my aunt should be declared king and queen,” Saria said, grabbing another armful of scrolls. “I’m looking for genealogies of Sarikarian and Armanian nobility to find someone—anyone—who could help me stop this.”

  So Finnel did want the throne of Sarikar. “He cannot mind-speak, so his claim would be weak at best,” Hinck said. “In fact, I have more of a claim on the throne of Sarikar than someone from the Nafni family. My great-grandmother was a Sarikarian princess.”

  Saria dropped the scrolls on her desk and fixed her golden eyes on his. “You?”

  He shrugged. “My father used to threaten me with relocating to Sarikar whenever he got angry with Rosâr Echad, which was quite often. I’m ranked third or fourth in line behind the royal family.”

  “Behind the royal males, you mean?”

  “I believe so, yes,”

  “All of whom are dead now,” Saria said. “This is exactly what I hope to prove.”

  A chill ran up Hinck’s arms. “That I’m the heir to Sarikar?”

  “No,” she said, as if he were a fool for suggesting it. “I simply want to list as many males as I can who would fall between Finnel and me. That should stop him from stealing my throne.” She dragged the chair to the desk and sat down. “Help me look. I really don’t have time for this.”

  Hinck sat in the chair on the other side of the desk and reached for a scroll. “Trevn mentioned you had problems with food.”

  “I have problems with everything. Giants have been raiding our villages, stealing food and people for their mines. And now those other giants who take people for sacrifice. Many Sarikarians fled to Armanguard. Dozens more have camped outside the castle gates, wailing for food.”

  “I met them. Do you truly have so little?”

  “Our farmland has been taken over by giants. Trevn sent carts of food, but they were taken by my own people before they reached the castle stronghold.”

  “Better that Sarikarians have them than giants,” Hinck said.

  “I suppose, though it does not bode well for the future of Sarikar when my own people steal from me.”

  “Because they are desperate, lady, not because they dislike you.”

  “If I cannot rule, I cannot help them.”

  “You’ll rule,” Hinck said. “You just have to be patient.”

  “I have been! While I was loved as princess, my nobles hate me for regent. They’ve grown superstitious in their trek across the sea. I’m bad luck. They want a man. Any man. They’d love for me to marry that man, which would happily negate Finnel as an option, if I could find someone.”

  That Saria fully intended to claim rule of Sarikar as a woman impressed Hinck, but overturning hundreds of years of tradition would not be easy. He’d hate to see her wed some ancient lord just to please her council. “There’s a shadir in your sitting room.” He told her about the one teasing the cat and how Oli Agoros had made him a seer.

  “You think there’s a mantic in the castle?”

  “There could be.”

  “Father Wolbair will know what do to. He’s the only one I trust fully.”

  “What did he prophesy?”

  “My father always knew my sickly brother could not rule, but he’d been dragging his feet about naming his heir. Uncle Rosbert was pressuring him to name Kanzer, but Father didn’t think Kanzer could handle the job.”

  “I’m sure he was right about that,” Hinck said.

  “Shortly after leaving Bakurah Island, Father Wolbair told my father that to find his heir he should look no further than his own daughter.”

  Confirmation from the God’s prophet. “Arman wants you to rule New Sarikar.”

  Saria shrugged and looked at another scroll. “That’s what my father believed.”

  “I bet Rosbert didn’t like that.”

  “Threw a dozen fits the first week alone. Of course my father had no intention of dying for many years, so he wasn’t as worried about the prospect as Uncle Rosbert was. Anyway . . .” She dropped the scroll and folded her arms. “Why’d you come here, Hinck? Trevn said you volunteered.” Her golden eyes fixed on his, demanding an honest answer.

  He would not refuse her. “Trevn has so many people around him. I didn’t feel all that useful there. And when I heard you were in trouble, I . . . well . . . I wanted to help.”

  She leaned forward, elbows buried deep in the pile of scrolls, and propped her chin on her fists. “It was the truth, then? Trevn didn’t make you come?”

&
nbsp; “I told you as much already. It’s common knowledge that you and Trevn are both bossy, controlling, selfish, and somewhat heartless . . . but I can stand up to you both, believe it or not.”

  “Oh, Hinck. Now you seek to flatter me. I suspect it’s the blood ancestors Trevn and I share that make us so special.”

  “And now blood voices too.” Hinck hoped Saria and Trevn wouldn’t talk to each other about him.

  “Blood voices,” Saria said. “I like that. Well, we’ve work to do.” She held out her hand. “Let’s see what that scroll says, shall we?”

  Hinck removed it from his pocket and passed it over. She unrolled it and her brows sank.

  Hinck came around the desk and looked over her shoulder. “Finnel’s father was Lady Oriyd’s son,” he read.

  “She was the youngest of Lord Lorek Nafni of Armania and Princess Riddah of Sarikar’s three children. We now know her brother Ander had no true children, having secretly adopted Laviel and Darlis. Still, he had no male heir and entailed his title to his sister’s son, Finnel’s father.”

  “I never realized that. I should have, though.”

  “Too much time chasing Trevn over the roofs, perhaps?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  She released the scroll and it rolled up. “Well, his claim is legitimate. So I’m back to marrying an exotic prince or finding an heir ranked higher.”

  An idea struck Hinck. It was quite rash—foolhardy, Trevn would say. He swallowed, suddenly nervous, and studied Saria, fully aware that she might laugh in his face. But he’d always liked her. And it would solve her problems.

  “Would you marry me, lady?”

  She flinched. “Hinckdan Faluk, are you mad?”

  Very likely, but the idea had merit. “Unless you prefer an exotic prince?”

  Her eyes pierced his. “You’re serious?”

  “Perfectly,” he said, liking the idea more and more. “Call a council meeting and—”

  “They will not assemble for me.”

  “Will you let me finish?” Hinck asked. “Call a meeting and lead everyone to believe that you’re going to abdicate the throne. This will raise enough curiosity to quickly fill the room.”