A Deliverer Comes

by Jill Williamson

  Charlon

  Emperor Ulrik had regained his strength. He was obnoxious. Demanding. Prideful. Flirted with the maidens. Hosted endless revelries in his tent. He was everything. Everything Charlon hated about men. She could not harm him, though. Could not afford to offend Empress Inolah or Rosârah Thallah. So she kept her distance.

  “If you won’t put a stop to it, I will,” Roya said, standing before Charlon’s throne.

  Fool woman. “And just how will you do that?” Charlon asked.

  “If you would teach me your new magic . . .”

  Figured. Charlon’s maidens were growing desperate. “I asked you to find out what Amala and my son have been doing. In their visits to New Rurekau. Do you have answers?”

  Roya’s eyes flashed. “They dine with King Barthel. Shanek takes sword lessons from the king’s captain and sits on a throne in the king’s tent.”

  Heat rushed through Charlon. “He means to steal my son from me.”

  “Was that ever a doubt?”

  “Of course not.” But now Charlon had proof. Why had Shanek gone in the first place? She suspected Amala’s influence. Did not trust the girl. “Leave me.”

  Roya gave one last nasty glare. Turned and stalked away. Charlon would not be surprised if she left. Left to join King Barthel. Good riddance, her heart said. Charlon had never liked her.

  She missed Sir Kalenek desperately. Had despaired the day he’d ridden away. Rurek had said he would return. For a while, those words had given hope. Until Masi told her Sir Kalenek had gone to Rurekau. Not to help Shanek, as he had claimed. But to rescue his beloved prophetess. The thought made Charlon queasy. Without the compulsions, he must have remembered. His love for that woman.

  Why did despair hurt so? When Torol had died, the pain had been severe. No choice but to grieve and heal. And heal she had. Because of Sir Kalenek’s kindness and care.

  But Sir Kalenek had not died. He lived. Out there in the world. Apart from her. Choosing to love another. The pain was too great. Charlon could not cope. She screamed, keening anguish that rivaled that of any widow.

  Goddess, why?

  There had never been any goddess to pray to. Magon had been a shadir. A creature of the Lowerworld that Charlon had sent back. Now she had Rurek. But he was loyal to himself alone.

  So must Charlon be. As always.

  The tribe was restless. Those who had not flocked to Emperor Ulrik’s revels stewed in anger. Bored without magic. It left Charlon on edge. She longed for the days when she had been naïve and powerful. When she had eagerly worshiped Magon. Obeyed Mreegan’s every word. As Chieftess, she had failed to inspire the same fervor within the people.

  “Masi!” Charlon called. “Recite the prophecy.”

  The slight’s voice came inside her head. In those days the root of Arman will be destroyed and usher in the end of all things. There will be mourning and great weeping heard throughout the land. Brother will turn against brother, and their swords will dash each other to pieces. And Armania, the glory of realms, the beauty of the goddess’s eye, will no longer be the head of all things.

  “All of it,” Charlon said.

  I will bring peace between Mother and Father, and the two will be reconciled. From the line of Arman and Magon will come a Deliverer who will be ruler over all. He will crush the foreheads of our enemies, the skulls of all who come against us.

  “Those are the words that Chieftess Mreegan so lauded?”

  Yes, Chieftess.

  Charlon did not understand. The destruction of the Five Woes had humbled Armania. But Mother and Father had not been united. Nor did that last part fit. If Mother and Father were reconciled, what need was there for a Deliverer to crush the enemy?

  Kateen entered and bowed low before the throne. “Dinner is ready, Chieftess,” she said. “Will you join us tonight? Or do you prefer to eat here?”

  Charlon had no desire for company. But she couldn’t stomach another meal. Alone in this tent. “I will come,” she said, rising from her throne.

  Kateen helped her into her furs. Once dressed, Charlon strode from the red tent and into the cold night. Rone and Nuel followed. Carried her throne. Down the snowy hill to the altar. An altar dedicated to no god but the magic Charlon had discovered. There a bonfire blazed, lighting the twilight in a fiery glow. Dozens danced on the altar, worshiping . . . what? They once worshiped Magon. Did they believe in her still? Did they believe in anything?

  Charlon felt small. She should have called forth all her men. To carry her on her throne, as Mreegan used to do. She often forgot. Forgot to demand the royal treatment she deserved.

  She reached the revelers. Saw Emperor Ulrik in their midst. Dancing wildly, surrounded by a cluster of maidens. Breath clouding in steady puffs around his face. Charlon suddenly wished she had not come. She had no desire to spend her meal watching the emperor carouse.

  She bade the men set her throne on the opposite side of the altar. Where the bonfire would block her view of Ulrik Orsona.

  Her men were quick to serve. Brought food and drink. Extra furs. She huddled beneath them. Munched on roasted fowl. Being with child made her hungry always. By the time she had eaten half her meal, the revelry had circled into her view. The emperor ran out of the mob. Dragged a young woman with him. Both were laughing. Stopped to catch their breath.

  “I told you, Your Eminence . . .” It was Amala, Charlon realized with a start. “I do not wish to dance.”

  “But you excel at it. You even know the Rurekan steps, though I can’t imagine how.”

  “I learned to dance with the Armanian princesses under the tutelage of Rosârah Brelenah,” she said.

  “My grandmother,” he said. “I’ve never met her.”

  “Well, she is a stunning woman,” Amala said.

  “So are you,” he said, walking closer.

  Charlon rolled her eyes.

  Ulrik reached for the girl. Took her hand in his and drew his other around her waist. “Dance with me, Miss Amala. I won’t be here much longer. Who knows when we might have the chance again?”

  Green sparks flashed between them. Amala shrieked. Lunged away from the emperor.

  Shanek stood where the pair once had. “Stop it.” He shoved Ulrik with both hands.

  Charlon straightened, startled by the sudden conflict.

  “I beg your pardon,” Ulrik said, hands on his hips. “Stop what?”

  “How you talk to Amala,” Shanek said. “And dance with her. I don’t like it.”

  “I have been nothing but kind,” Ulrik said. “Ask her yourself.”

  “He has been kind, Shanek,” Amala said. “There is nothing to worry about.”

  “Stop being kind or I’ll make you,” Shanek said.

  Ulrik chuckled. “And just how are you going to do that?”

  Shanek stood nose to nose with Ulrik, glaring. “Say you’ll leave Amala be.”

  Ulrik grinned, devilishly handsome. Despite his shorn scalp and arrogance. “Are we but ten years old, Your Highness? Must we play such games?”

  Shanek grabbed Ulrik and they disappeared.

  Amala screamed. Several in the crowd yelped or gasped.

  Charlon gripped the sides of her throne. Fool! What was he doing?

  “Shanek!” Amala yelled, spinning in a circle.

  Did the girl honestly think he was within earshot?

  Amala ran to Charlon’s throne. Fell to her knees in the snow. “Where have they gone?”

  How could anyone know? “We will find out when he returns,” Charlon said, taking another bite of her fowl. Pretending she didn’t care. But if Shanek harmed the emperor—he would regret it. They all would.

  “If anything happens to the Rurekan emperor, it will mean war,” Roya said.

  “I am well aware of that,” Charlon snapped.

  She continued eating. Watched the revelers. Many didn’t realize the emperor was missing. Charlon finished her meal and returned to the red tent.

  Free from ahvenrood, she saw
clearly now. The prophecy was madness. Why make Shanek king of Armania? The boy was a fool. Knew nothing about running a nation. His method of solving conflicts was to demand his way. Zap someone with a green spark. Carry them off. He, thankfully, had not killed again. But Charlon had no doubt. If he was crowned ruler, he would destroy any who dared defy him. Why had Mreegan ever thought this a good idea? Shanek would be a tyrant king. If someone didn’t kill him first.

  Shanek appeared before her. “You were looking for me?” he asked.

  So much indifference. It wounded her. “Where is Emperor Ulrik?”

  He grinned. “Where the giants make people hunt beetles.”

  Charlon fell back in her throne. “Oh, Shanek, you didn’t!”

  “I took him to a mine filled with angry Puru. You should have heard him yell when they told him to work.”

  Charlon could well imagine it. “This is not the behavior of a man ready to rule a nation, Shanek.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “A grown man would have ignored such taunts. At worst, you could have had him imprisoned. To do the act yourself . . . You behaved like a child.”

  Shanek’s eyes narrowed.

  “Your short temper makes you weak. You don’t think before you act. Because of that you are continually making a fool of yourself.”

  “I am not a child or a fool!”

  “I made a bargain with Rurekau. To protect that man’s life. Yet that means nothing to Sâr Shanek. You have no respect. For anything but your own whims. Bring him back here. Now.”

  “No.”

  Rage filled Charlon. “You would disobey me?”

  “I am to be king of Armania. King is higher than Chieftess. Besides, Empress Jazlyn already knows the emperor was here. Better we hide him in the mines.”

  Could that be true? It didn’t matter. Charlon must not let him change the subject. “You are not king yet, Shanek. In fact, I have decided that you will not be. I have studied the prophecy. It is vague. I believe Chieftess Mreegan misinterpreted it.”

  “She didn’t! I am meant to be king of Armania.”

  “If you don’t learn to control your temper, you will be nothing but a disgrace.”

  “Take it back!”

  Charlon pushed off her chair. Straightened to her full height. Unfortunately, she was still shorter than Shanek. “Will you kill your mother? Is that what you will do?”

  “I will be king of Armania,” he spat. “I have more power than anyone. I will take my supporters with me. And you will sit on your throne of sticks and boss whoever is left.”

  He raised his hands, and a wall of green light flew toward her, knocking her off her feet. She hit the floor and rolled over the furs, stopping against the tent wall. When she looked up, Shanek had gone.

  Betrayal, her heart said. Tears flooded her eyes. But she was not sorry. She had spoken truth. Said what she must. It wasn’t her fault. If Shanek couldn’t understand. Charlon had made her choice. She would abandon the prophecy. Continue to practice her new magic. Focus on building Magosia’s strengths. That way, should Barthel Rogedoth or Empress Jazlyn attack, she would be ready.

  But first she must inform Rosârah Thallah. Of Shanek’s betrayal. She would not take the blame. And if Shanek had truly abandoned Charlon—at least she had the child within. To be her heir. To love her.

  Trevn

  Trevn sat alone in the antechamber of the council room, clutching one of Wilek’s journals. This had become his favorite place to sit and think without fear of being interrupted. People came to his office constantly, but now that all the secret passageways were complete, he could move about with ease.

  So much was happening at once. Trevn had been unable to question Captain Korvoh about abducting the Armanian children. Tace Edekk and his soldiers had blocked off the Nawhar Forest, and Trevn didn’t dare waste soldiers forcing the issue—not with Shanek DanSâr now wreaking havoc in the city. Trevn had been so worried about Rogedoth, he had forgotten Janek’s son. Speaking with Sir Kalenek only raised his fears. The root child had unstoppable power.

  Now Oli had gone and broken the law. Again. Trevn had read in his brother’s journal about the day Oli had taken root to save Wilek from the mutiny aboard the Seffynaw. Wilek had pardoned him. Trevn wanted to punish him, but he needed his First Arm. And Oli—misguided as usual—had only meant to help. If only Trevn could get rid of all the evenroot in this land.

  The secret door opened and Cadoc peeked inside. “Lord Blackpool to see you.”

  One of the traitorous nobles? Here in the castle? “Whatever for?”

  “He didn’t say, though he looks distraught.”

  Trevn sighed. “He has likely come to berate me for flogging his son.”

  “I asked him that, sir,” Cadoc said. “He said it was about something else.”

  “A declaration of war, perhaps? I suppose I must see him.” Trevn made his way through the secret passage to his office, wondering what tricks his noble enemies were plotting. Once he had shelved Wilek’s journal and was seated behind his desk, he bade Cadoc let the man in.

  Gunrik Koll, Earl of Blackpool, entered. His clothing was wrinkled, as if he’d been wearing it for days, and his haggard expression matched the worry pouring off him in waves.

  “Lord,” Trevn said. “You wish to speak with me?”

  The man bowed deeply. His throat bobbed. Reddened eyes rose to meet Trevn’s. “Your Highness . . .” His voice came shakily. “I come to beg use of your physician.” Again he paused for a trembling breath. “My wife and daughter-in-law have fallen ill. My—” He swallowed. “My own physician is at a loss. It’s a fever. And a rash. . . . I fear for their lives. And the baby.”

  Lady Dendrelle, Tace Edekk’s daughter and Sir Jarmyn’s wife. Her child was due soon, if Trevn recalled hearing Mielle correctly. “What says Duke Raine’s physician?”

  “I’ve sent a bird but have received no reply as yet. I imagine he is . . . preoccupied.”

  “Hunting, I suppose?” Trevn smirked. “Or plotting an attack against me?”

  Gunrik hung his head. “The latter is most likely the case.”

  Well, this was an interesting development. “Of course you may have use of my physician, lord. I insist he accompany you back to your manor at once. Nietz, go with them.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Gunrik said, bowing again. “You are most generous.”

  “I know what it must have cost you to come here,” Trevn said. “I would like us to have peace, sir. Is that at all possible?”

  The man was no longer trembling. He raised his chin and spoke with conviction. “My son was wrong to disobey you, Your Highness. He thinks too highly of himself. I’m afraid he—”

  “Ulrik Orsona.”

  Ulrik? What could he want? The interruption had caused Trevn to miss the last of Gunrik’s words about Sir Jarmyn.

  “I am not asking to make peace with your son, lord,” Trevn said. “I speak to you. Please think on it. For now, you must hurry back to your manor with my physician. Your wife and—”

  “Ulrik Orsona.”

  “—daughter-in-law need you there.”

  Gunrik jerked his head in a quick bow. “You have my thanks, Your Highness.” And he departed. Nietz followed him out.

  Trevn leaned back in his chair, pondering this turn of events.

  “Could it be a trap?” Cadoc asked.

  Trevn met his shield’s gaze. “To steal my physician? Why?”

  “If you were to be poisoned and your physician was away . . .”

  Trevn grimaced. “I’ve never known Gunrik Koll to be a good actor. I think he was sincere. I hope this might be an opportunity to strengthen the army.”

  “Ulrik Orsona.”

  “My nephew is voicing me, Cadoc.” Trevn opened the connection. “Yes?”

  “Prince Shanek carried me to the giant mines where I have been attacked by swarms of disgusting beetles.”

  “He took you to the mines? Why?”

>   “Because he is a barbaric recreant. Mother said you could send Master Grayson to transport me out of here.”

  Trevn supposed he could, though he didn’t appreciate Ulrik’s rude demands. “What happened?”

  “I was having a pleasant conversation with Miss Amala Allard and he went mad with jealousy.”

  Trevn doubted the truth was so simple. “Sir Kalenek said Prince Shanek dotes on Miss Amala.”

  “That doesn’t give him any right to act like a child. He is dimwitted and unstable. You will send Master Grayson? It’s time I returned to Rurekau, anyway. I was weary of Magosia. Plus my wife has recently returned, and it’s time she and I had a reunion.”

  Speaking of unstable . . . Trevn rubbed his face. “I will speak with Master Grayson.”

  “Do hurry. Those giant fiends promised to make me eat beetles if I didn’t work hard enough. I’m currently hiding in a small cave, but I cannot stay here forever.”

  “I will speak with you soon.” Trevn closed off Ulrik and reached for his sister. “Your son is in trouble,” he said.

  “Yes, I told him to contact you,” Inolah said. “I didn’t know what else to do. He’s supposed to be in hiding. If Shanek knows he is alive, I have no doubt Rogedoth does too.”

  “Ulrik doesn’t seem to care about that. He said he’s looking forward to seeing his wife.”

  “I know. What a mess. He could very well upset everything I’ve been working toward. Ferro will be overjoyed, though, both to see his brother and to lose the responsibilities of regent.”

  “And you?”

  “I love my son, but he is too much like his father. It makes things . . . difficult. It worries me that he wants to see Jazlyn. I hope he isn’t planning to cause trouble.”

  Trevn didn’t doubt that was exactly Ulrik’s plan. “Is Rogedoth still with you?”

  “He is, though the camp is much smaller. He is sending out his army in pieces.”

  Sneaking away? “Perhaps Grayson can locate them.” Though it wouldn’t be easy without someone in each group to travel to. “I must go, Inolah. I do not envy you the task of keeping Ulrik out of mischief.” Trevn closed the connection and reached for Grayson. “I need your help.”