Yeshton brought his horse up short and glanced back at the little girl seated behind him, her thin arms wrapped around his waist.
“I’m a soldier, my lady. Not a knight.” He kept his voice a murmur.
“Hush, Sir Knight. Watch.”
The road lay beyond the trees. Where possible, he kept within the forest to avoid running into peddlers or the stray armed forces of KryTeer. Though he’d traveled hard at his young mistress’s urging, he never spied a single banner to suggest an invading force marched on Kavacos. Eerie silence was all that marked something amiss in Amantier. Few travelers braved the roads at all these days. Yet when Yeshton had dared enter a tavern to secure a warm meal for his mistress, who waited bravely in the woods, no word of KryTeer or even the sad fate of Sage Province wagged on any tongues, though the tavern was full to bursting.
Now, as he looked on, a caravan rolled and bounced on the highway: coaches lit by bobbing lanterns and flanked by knights bearing the heraldry of Aspen Province.
“It is not as it appears,” whispered Rille.
The coaches headed for Kavacos, no doubt of that. Yeshton had brought the little girl within a few miles of the city. Night had settled in, and at last the roads were filling up with people, from the gentry down to common waifs. Yet something still felt wrong.
“What is it?” asked Yeshton
Rille said nothing. Yeshton urged the horse onward but kept to the trees as long as he could.
It was near midnight when the trees gave way before the high walls of Kavacos. Pointless walls, for the looming gates were open wide, lit by brilliant torches, to welcome all and sundry into its arms.
“Foolish…stupid…” muttered Yeshton. Had no one heeded the warning from Sage Province?
“I agree,” whispered Rille. “We should enter by the main gate. Blend in with the next caravan.”
“We’re a mess.”
“The guards won’t notice.”
“What will we do after that?”
“Head for the palace. The queen is holding a ball. We should make straight for the dungeons.”
Yeshton scowled. Balls at such a time? Was there no end to Queen Bareene’s stupidity? “And once we’re there?”
Rille offered what she might have thought was a smile. It looked more like a grimace to him. “We will free Jinji Wanderlust from his prison.”
Prince Jetekesh stood upon the dais near Mother’s throne, a goblet of wine in one hand. His third drink this evening, but the night was still young. He had plenty of time to intoxicate himself.
Father’s condition was worse. When Jetekesh had entered the king’s chamber this morning, he’d found Father tossing in his coverlets, raving like a madman. The court healer pronounced that the illness was nearing its end. Soon King Jetekesh would lose his mind, and the last vestiges of strength would bleed away until he was a mindless, shriveled husk. Then death would claim him.
Yet here Mother sat, gowned and jeweled: radiant before the nobleborn and gentry. Before the knights and their ladies. Before the liveried servants. Before the hunting dogs gorging on bones.
I want to throw up. But that would spoil his looks. Instead, he drank. And drank.
He snatched a fourth goblet from a passing servant and discarded his empty cup. The warmth of the wine cradled his mind and unknotted his nerves. Much better.
Father’s condition wasn’t his only worry. There had been reports of Sage Province toppling beneath a siege. Mother had assuaged the court’s fears on that point. Yet last night, she executed the soldier who had ridden from Keep Lunorr with the news. In secret. Why?
Whispers filled the palace. Had Keep Lunorr fallen? Was Sage Province conquered? No one knew. But all day the queen looked so pleased, several chambermaids swore Duke Lunorr was dead. Hadn’t Queen Bareene been out for his blood for years?
Jetekesh took another swallow of wine. His vision wavered. Finally.
The gaiety of the ball grew. The music and wine and pageantry of colors wove and glittered before Jetekesh like a menagerie of birds on parade. He smiled to himself and downed his fifth goblet of wine. There now. I’m so drunk Mother will be furious. He hardly cared. Was drunk enough, he could not care. At last.
He stepped behind the velvet swaths of drapery and slipped through the eastside passage as Mother turned to whisper something to a sycophantic nobleman. Out in a main corridor Jetekesh started for Father’s chambers but stopped. Not there. He couldn’t see Father now, not tonight. Where could he flee instead? How could he escape the palace and its giggling, flippant, boisterous revelers?
Where can I go?
He turned and trotted north, toward the rear of the palace, where a moldering stairwell took him down into a dank passageway and deep into the ill-kept dungeons of Kavacos, torch in hand.
He had no idea where Jinji Wanderlust wasted away in this foul-smelling cesspit, but he plunged deeper, emboldened by the wine coursing through him. Wouldn’t Mother hate him being here? She’d banish him to his chambers for a month. But he was the heir, and soon Father would be dead and Jetekesh would become king.
He laughed. It’s not funny. I don’t want Father to die.
Why can’t Mother die instead?
His step faltered. Blood rushed in his ears and his heart quickened. He glanced behind him where guttering torches cast shadows up and down the walls. Mother was nowhere in sight. She couldn’t hear his thoughts. What a terrible thing to wish. He loved her, didn’t he? Of course he did. She wanted the best for him. Wanted to teach him how to be a proper king.
A ragged cough shattered the silence of the dungeon corridor. Jetekesh nearly sprang out of his skin as his heart clattered against his ribs. “Who’s there?”
Come to think of it, where were the dungeon guards? Why was everything so silent?
A weak voice drifted from ahead. “Your Highness?”
He gasped. “Storyteller!” He inhaled to slow his heart, tossed his head, and strutted on until he reached what he guessed was the right door. “Jinji Wanderlust?”
“I am here, Your Highness.”
Jetekesh held his torch higher to peer beyond the barred window in the wooden door. Within the cramped chamber the storyteller lay across a bed of reeking straw. A fit of rasping coughs broke in the man’s chest. When it passed, Jinji rose on one elbow.
“What brings you down here, Your Highness? This is not a fitting place for royalty.”
Jetekesh wasn’t sure it was a fitting place for anyone. Two weeks had passed since he’d sent the storyteller here. Hadn’t Jinji been ill already?
“Are you dying?” Jetekesh’s voice quavered. His ears burned, and he turned away from the window. Why was everyone around him dying? First his fencing instructor, executed for tutoring him, then a soldier doing his duty. Now Father.
And Jinji Wanderlust.
“I’m only a little ill, Your Highness. Please don’t fret on my account.”
Jetekesh scowled. His ears burned hotter. “I’m not fretting. If you died tomorrow, I’d not care a whit.”
There was a smile in Jinji’s voice as he asked, “And if I died tonight?”
Jetekesh jerked the torch away from the window. “I only came to request another story before your execution. Tell me something about Prince Sharo. Quickly now. I can’t abide this filth for long.”
Another cough. “Of course, Your Highness. Shall I tell you of the time Prince Sharo tamed a dragon? Or shall I speak of the wandering knights who long sought their prince, but lost their way again and again? Shall I tell you of Sharo’s quest to seek the rightful prince of Shinac, who was stolen as a young child from that realm of magic by a man darker than all others?”
“I hardly care,” said Jetekesh. “Just anything. How about Prince Sharo’s quest; tell me that. Why would he seek after someone else with a claim to the throne? Why not keep it for himself? It sounds to me like the child heir is long dead.”
“Oh, indeed not,” said Jinji. “The seers of Shinac have foretold of h
is return to claim what is his and bring Shinac back to our world, to return magic to all the countries of Nakania.”
Jetekesh laughed. “Oh yes, magic. You really believe in it.”
“Yes, Your Highness, I do. Magic is as real as all the other senses we possess. It’s just a little more particular about who inherits it.”
“Magic gets to choose?”
“Certainly, Your Highness. It’s rather like a sword who chooses its master. To feel that grip and know that it’s right, isn’t that proof that the sword has chosen you?”
“Ridiculous. How would you know? You said yourself you’ve never held a sword.”
“So I did. Perhaps it is more like stories, who choose their tellers rather than the other way around. I did not choose to speak the tales of Shinac, but rather, Shinac called me to share its stories with those around me. So it is with all storytellers: we don’t choose, we are chosen.”
“Is that why Prince Sharo went looking for the rightful heir of Shinac? He was chosen? Would that be by magic, or by the child heir?”
“I can understand why you mock,” said Jinji. He pulled himself up to lean against the damp wall of his prison. His eyes snared Jetekesh. “We’re not alone.”
Something sharp bit into Jetekesh’s back. He gasped and dropped his torch.
“It is good to see you again, Yeshton. You look well, despite the dust of travel.” Jinji used the wall to push to his feet. “But do you think it wise to threaten your crown prince?”
The knife retreated. “Surely you jest. No prince would enter this dank place.”
Jetekesh whirled, jerking his chin up. Yeshton, was it? A man in his twenties. A rugged face and sharp eyes. “How dare you threaten your future king.” Where was Tifen? His protector should be here somewhere. He was always close. Surely Jetekesh hadn’t given him the slip.
The faint crunch of a shoe against grit drew Jetekesh’s eye.
Hands lifted in surrender, Tifen stepped into the light of the guttering torch lying on the ground. His face contorted in the light, but the scowl was evident.
“We must hurry.” From around Tifen poked the head of a little girl, slight with cat-like features. She slid her eyes from the armored man with the knife and turned her gaze on Jetekesh. “Greetings, cousin.”
Jetekesh shrank back. “What is this? Who are all of you and what do you want?”
“I too am curious what brings so many people to my dungeon home,” said Jinji.
“Sir Knight,” said the girl, “we have mere moments. Bring my cousin as well. His life will be spared if we do.”
“Yes, my lady. As you wish.”
Jetekesh stamped his foot. “By the Driodere, someone tell me what is going on!” He whirled on Jinji still locked inside his prison. “Is this your doing?”
A faint breeze tickled the prince’s arm, and he looked down to find the girl mere inches away, peering up at him. He glanced toward Tifen, but the soldier now pointed his sword at Jetekesh’s protector.
“This is my doing,” said the girl. “We must hurry, cousin, as I’ve said once before. KryTeer is here. Now. In the palace. Your lady mother has sold out Amantier for her own gain. She plans to wed Emperor Gyath upon your father’s death. Already she has murdered my own father.”
Jetekesh’s limbs were leaden. His head spun. “Your father?”
“Duke Lunorr. Your lord uncle. I am Rille, your cousin.” She offered a frigid smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you at long last.” She turned. “The keys, Yeshton?” She padded over to her soldier’s side. Raising a dagger she’d concealed in the folds of her soiled nightgown, she moved behind Tifen. Yeshton lowered his sword and strode to the dungeon door.
“Excuse me, Your Highness,” murmured the soldier. He bowed his head, shouldered past the prince, and lifted a ring of rattling keys.
“You can’t do this,” said Jetekesh. None of this was right. It couldn’t be real. This was a dream. “Jinji Wanderlust is a prisoner.”
“Yes,” said Yeshton. “My prisoner now.” The door shrieked open. “Come out here.”
Jinji stepped into the passageway. “Shall I go in shackles this time?”
“No. That would just slow us down.” Yeshton turned to the little girl. “Which way, Lady Rille?”
Jetekesh stared at the child. Was she the one in charge?
Rille frowned. “There is no safe path from this place. We will have to risk the stables and steal horses for each of us.”
“Understood.” Yeshton took Jinji by the arm and turned to Jetekesh. “I would suggest coming quietly, Your Highness. Don’t make a scene.”
“I’m coming too?”
“Yes, cousin,” said Rille with that quiet smile. “We’re kidnapping you. Call it leverage to escape your lady mother’s grip.”
This was all Tifen’s fault. The blasted man was supposed to keep Jetekesh safe, wasn’t he? Yet this evening had gone from bad to far worse.
“You can’t do this to me! Unhand the royal person!” The stairs appeared ahead in the gloom. “Listen to me!”
Yeshton pushed Jetekesh against the wall. Dank cold seeped inside Jetekesh’s clothes. “Hush, Your Highness, or I’ll have to silence you.”
Jetekesh’s eyes widened. “You won’t kill me, surely.”
“Gag him,” said Rille as she swept past. Glancing back, she beckoned, “Come, storyteller. Stay near me.”
Jinji took her slender fingers in his frail grasp. “I’ve a cough, my lady. It may hinder our stealth somewhat.”
The little girl shrugged. “A risk we must take, it seems.”
Yeshton pawed through Jetekesh’s surcoat and pulled forth a handkerchief. “Here we are.”
Jetekesh pressed hard against the stone wall. “I won’t—”
The soldier jammed the cloth into Jetekesh’s mouth, then produced a leather cord and wrapped it around the prince’s face to keep the gag in place.
Yeshton leaned close. “Don’t make me bind your wrists and ankles, Prince.”
Heat flooded Jetekesh’s cheeks, but his string of oaths was a muffled sea of noise. Yeshton grabbed his arm and yanked him toward the stairs. A dagger in his free hand caught Jetekesh’s notice. He stared up at Yeshton’s face.
How would this end?
The soldier offered him a grim smile and wiggled the knife. “Just in case your friend harbors any foolish notions.”
Rille glanced back as the group climbed the steps. “Follow my lead. Do nothing on your own, any of you. And for saints’ sake, keep quiet.”
6
The Holy Empire of KryTeer
Queen Bareene surveyed the great hall like a preening cat. As the gentry danced the night away, she perched on her throne and waited. Midnight crept near.
Soon she must deliver a terrible shock to the people of Amantier. Terrible and necessary. It was time to accept that alone they stood no chance against the ever-changing tides of the world. KryTeer had tolerated this tiny country only because it could afford to take its time. And Bareene, seeing that, had moved to avoid a great slaughter. Her people should be grateful.
Her move also ensured her son would rule, if not a kingdom, then a province under the grand banners of KryTeer. And perhaps much more.
Bareene glanced toward her son and froze. Where was Jetekesh? Where had he gone?
Tifen was gone too.
The queen leaned back and tapped her fingers against the arm of her throne. Jetekesh had indulged too much in his wine. Perhaps he’d made himself sick. Stupid little boy. Hadn’t she scolded him for such behavior in the past?
Bareene stood.
Jetekesh had probably gone to his father’s bedside. Why did he always do that? Hadn’t she always been there for the boy? Hadn’t she been the one to comfort and rear him, while the king was too busy with affairs of state? Ungrateful fool. Well, it wouldn’t last.
Soon Bareene would be free! Free to wed a more elevated man. Stories of Emperor Gyath painted the image of a grossly self-indulgent, fat, gr
eedy man, but that worked well for Bareene. She wasn’t Gyath’s first, or second, or even twelfth wife. But she would be his favorite before he died of his indulgences. She’d make certain of that. And then she would arrange an accident to end the life of Blood Prince Aredel. He was too cunning to woo and win, that much Bareene knew already. But even smart men were mortal, and then her own son would rise up as emperor; and through him, Bareene would rule the entire civilized world.
Would midnight never come?
Bareene glided from the dais to the flock of sycophants waiting below, a smile plastered to her face. A laugh here, a light touch there. Floating and dancing across the hall, basking in this last celebration as a mere queen.
Time crawled by. Finally, Bareene returned to her dais to perch on the edge of her throne. And she waited.
The hour struck. She rose with a whisper of silks. The music faded away and every eye turned to her. Rumors had spread across the city that she would make an announcement at midnight. Guessing, guessing. But they would never guess the truth. Never.
“Gentle lords and ladies, loyal subjects, all. On this most auspicious night, as summer reaches its zenith, I announce with immense pleasure an alliance which shall end this fearful time of dread, when war seems so inevitable. Behold, my people!”
The doors across the great hall boomed open even as Bareene raised her arms in welcome.
“Greetings, High Prince Aredel elvar Gilioth d’ara KessRa, first prince of the blood of High Emperor Gyath elvar Kenn d’ara KessRa of the Holy Empire of KryTeer, Spear of the World and High Heaven’s holy portal. Our new liege lord!”
The Blood Prince swept into the chamber, dressed in the strange curved, bloodred armor of his northwestern country.
Jewels flashed and glittered as he strode across the hall, while the nobles and gentry shied back before this demon in the flesh. In procession behind Prince Aredel streamed a dozen fierce warriors, all in the same bloodred armor, though not as grand as the prince’s own. Curving tips extended from their shoulders, and their armored shoes pointed and curved upward as well. Arcing blades hung in strange sheaths from their waists. Fearsome helms masked their heads, like grotesque painted faces.
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