8
Traveria
Darkness covered the hut like a shroud. Deep breaths drifted up from the bedrolls scattered across the dirt floor. Jetekesh tiptoed around the slumbering bodies and scaled the rickety ladder to the loft where Jinji Wanderlust slept.
He knelt on the straw beside Jinji’s makeshift bed and studied the storyteller’s wan face. He could feel Tifen haunting the ladder steps.
“I don’t understand you, storyteller,” Jetekesh murmured. He plucked up a bit of straw and peeled it strip by strip. “You must be a madman. Only a madman could act as you do. Smiling and pleasant with people like…like everyone.” He tossed the straw aside. “Everything is a mess. All of this is…” He scowled. “This is stupid. You’re not even listening. You’re practically a corpse.”
“Apologies, Highness. I feel very weak. But I am listening.”
Heat crept up Jetekesh’s neck and face. “H-how dare you not acknowledge the royal presence before now!”
“My deepest apologies.” Jinji’s smile broadened. “But I am listening if you wish to unburden your troubled heart, my prince.”
Heat scalded the prince’s cheeks. “Unburden myself? To you? I’m not so troubled that I would confide in a wayfaring peasant.”
Jinji chuckled. “Indeed not. But what of a friend? Would you confide in one who held that title of affection?”
Jetekesh snorted. “A prince has no friends. Only subjects.”
“Not so,” said Jinji. “Prince Sharo has made many a friend in his travels.”
“Stop that. Using mythical princes to argue a point is ridiculous!”
Silence. Had he fallen asleep again? Jetekesh glanced toward Jinji.
The storyteller watched him, brow furrowed. “Your Highness, forgive me, but I must ask, I think, a hard question of you.”
Jetekesh tossed his head. “What?”
“Why do you treat others with such meanness? What causes you to think that hard-working people deserve your derision and disgust? Are we not people, too, walking the same path of life, learning and growing and shaping into what, in the end, defines who we are? Am I not a man like you?”
Jetekesh recoiled. “Are you a simpleton? I have every right to treat you however I please. I’m a prince. You’re a peasant and a foreigner.”
“No. That is how you see me. It is not who I am. Think a moment: consider that you are stuck within that royal head of yours. What you see is limited to what lies within your sphere. But I have traveled from Shing, where you would be the foreigner just by stepping over a boundary drawn by men. You would be the stranger in a strange land. You are also wrong to call me a peasant. I was a shepherd in Shing, not a beggar. I lived on the side of a hill overlooking a beautiful valley filled with growing things.”
Jetekesh folded his arms. “Aren’t you a peasant now?”
“No, I am a storyteller. I travel for my trade. I have money enough to get by, and boundaries do not cage me. This doesn’t make me a peasant nor a criminal. From where I stand inside my own sphere, I am wealthy beyond measure. Perhaps, Your Highness, I am even wealthier than you.”
“Ha! Ridiculous.”
“It depends upon your point of view.” Jinji struggled to sit up. Jetekesh didn’t move to help. The storyteller took several deep breaths before he turned to the prince again. “Your Highness, I am a plain man, without title or rank in this world. I cannot read or write. But I do understand one thing: that which we prize most becomes our wealth. Why is gold precious? Because men covet it. Why are jewels of such value? Because men deem them so. Why are kings revered? Because men choose to bow the knee to a sovereign force. Perspective, my prince, determines the worth of what we crave. For myself, I place little stock in worldly riches but am instead content to view the nesting birds, the gushing waters, the depths of sky, the wet of rain, the cold of snow, the cry of an infant, the bleating of sheep—for these are my treasures. I am a wealthy man indeed.”
Jetekesh stared at the meek and ragged man before him. “You’re well and truly mad, tale-weaver. I’ve never seen the like.”
Jinji’s smile was patient. “If this is madness, my prince, I never wish to be well.” He reached out a hand and brushed Jetekesh’s arm. “You are worried for your father, aren’t you?”
Jetekesh flinched. “Of course I am. He’s dying. Don’t be daft.”
“Of course. My apologies once again. What ails him?”
The prince’s shoulders slumped. He shook his head. “His physicians don’t know. It’s like nothing they’ve seen. He began at first to be weak over a year ago. Headaches plagued his nights. He couldn’t sleep. His appetite diminished. The illness subsided for a time, but then returned worse than before. Nightmares struck in the day sometimes, and he saw things, things that weren’t there. Now he’s nothing but a corpse, too weak to move, and…mad. He raves like a lunatic, haunted by phantoms none can see.” Jetekesh faltered. What was he saying? What had possessed him to admit all this to a lowly beggar?
“Traveria.” Jinji’s unexpected voice struck Jetekesh like thunder.
“What?”
The storyteller looked down at his hands. “It is a plant originating in Shinac. A poison. You merely brought to mind its effects. It is said to harm those without magic if ingested.”
A fire flared within Jetekesh, and he snatched Jinji’s threadbare shirt. “How dare you compare my father’s condition to one of your fairy stories! Do not make light of my pain!”
Jinji’s blue-green eyes filled with compassion. He caught Jetekesh’s fist with his hand and gently pried the prince’s fingers free. “I do not make light, Your Highness. I do not mock or compare. I am suggesting, my prince, that your father does not suffer from a disease, but from a poison. Traveria originated in Shinac, but it exists here, in Amantier, in Shing, and in other countries. It is rare but not impossible to find. Costly, though. Quite costly unless one knows where to look in the deep woods.” His eyes focused on a point in the dark, until a harsh cough doubled him over.
Jetekesh squared his shoulders. “You’re wrong, Wanderlust. No one would want to poison my lord father. No one.” He climbed to his feet. “I’m sorry I’ve wasted any time with you. You’re a mad, babbling fool.”
He stalked to the ladder and clambered down to the main floor. He turned to find every soul in the house awake and staring at him.
Cousin Rille stood closest, her pale hair a tumble down her shoulder. “Who is the fool, cousin?”
Jetekesh pushed past her to take the hut’s single bed, earlier forfeited by the simpering farmer. He climbed under the coverlets and hid his face.
The knight’s voice drifted in from the front room. “Traveria, huh? I’ve heard of it. Nasty and effective. But who would want to poison the king?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” said Rille. “Who stood in the way of my queen aunt’s ambition more than her king and husband? My lord father spoke often of their unhappy marriage alliance. He once said Queen Bareene lost her mind years ago when she miscarried her daughter. She’s treated my lord cousin like a pet ever since, an ever-faithful lap dog. It’s revolting.”
Jetekesh buried his head under his pillows. How dare they? What did they know about anything? What did any of it matter now?
Poisons. Magic. Madness. None of it mended the simple fact: Father was dying.
9
Death
A stampede of flapping chickens brought Yeshton’s head up from polishing his armor. His hand fell to his sword. He smiled and relinquished his grip as he spotted Kyella trotting across the yard. Gasping, she stopped before the front step where he sat.
“Any news?” Two days confined to the farm made him feel blind and helpless.
Kyella bobbed her head. “News…of the king…”
“King Jetekesh?”
She nodded again and leaned forward to whisper. “He’s dead, Yesh. It was announced publicly this morning.”
Yeshton lowered his fauld and polishing cloth. “You’re cert
ain? It’s not a wild tale?”
Kyella rolled her eyes. “I’m not a simpleton. It’s published news. See here.” She shoved a parchment at him. “Stole it from the notices myself.” She peeked down at it. “What does it say?”
Yeshton sighed. “I can’t read any more than you can.” He set aside the fauld and threw a wool blanket over his armor. “Stay here and keep watch.”
He stepped inside and found Rille at the butter churn. She leaned against the stick protruding from the barrel and frowned. “No use, Sir Knight. This cream will spoil before I ever finish.” Her eyes strayed to the parchment in his hand and she perked up. “What did you bring?”
“I’m hoping you can tell me, my lady.”
He bowed and proffered the parchment. She slid it from his hand, and her eyes darted down the column of words. “No, no!” She lowered the parchment. “Oh, Yeshton. He’s gone.”
Yeshton’s heart sank. “So, it’s true. Kyella heard the taverners speaking about the king.”
Rille’s chin trembled. “It’s true. King Jetekesh is dead. May his spirit find rest with the saints. My lord father spoke often of him. He said my uncle the king was a good soul, too good to rule a kingdom, for it was slowly breaking his spirit. No wonder, if he was also being poisoned.” She sighed. “Where is my lord cousin this morning?”
“Gone with Tifen to the barn. I think they chose to groom the horses over other less savory chores.”
The corners of Rille’s mouth curved. “They may repent their choice once they discover what mucking out a stable means.” Her smile fell. “We had best let the prince know, though I’m loath to worsen his dread mood.” The girl unfolded herself from the chair. “To the barn, Sir Knight.”
“My lady. I’m not a knight.”
“Keep up, Sir Knight.”
Yeshton followed her from the hut. They picked their way across the yard and Kyella trailed after them. Inside the barn, Tifen had taken it upon himself to handle the chores, while Prince Jetekesh sat on a pile of hay and fiddled with a rope he’d found somewhere.
“Good to see you keeping busy, cousin,” said Rille.
The prince lifted his eyes. “What do you want?”
Rille hesitated, then marched forward and thrust the parchment into her cousin’s face. “We have no reason to believe it’s false information. He was very sick.”
Jetekesh tore the parchment from her fingers. He looked down and his eyes widened. “No…no… It’s not true.”
“As I said—” began Rille.
“Don’t!” His hands trembled. “Don’t talk to me.”
The prince didn’t look up to see Rille bite her lip and turn away, eyes wet. He read the notice again. And again.
The little girl whirled and hurried from the barn, Yeshton on her heels. In the open air, she swallowed a deep breath.
“Stupid boy. He acts as though he’s the only one who lost a father.” She let out a little scream. “Those bloody, horrible KryTeer monsters!” She stamped her foot and stalked back to the hut. “Come, Yeshton. We’ve butter to churn.”
It couldn’t be true. Not yet. Not when Jetekesh was miles away, exiled from Kavacos, barred from the palace by KryTeer warriors on every street of the royal city.
His vision swam.
Father.
“Your Highness?”
He looked up. The farm maid stood a few feet away, wringing her hands. What was wrong with her? What could be so important that some peasant would speak to him in his shattered world?
The parchment was wet in his grip. Why was it wet?
“Your Highness,” the girl said again. “I’m so deeply sorry. It’s so hard to lose a beloved parent. I know. I lost my mama two winters ago from the fever…and it still aches so. Sometimes I can’t even breathe.”
What was she babbling about? Why didn’t she go away?
Tifen appeared before him to shoo the girl out with gentle words. Why gentle? She was a bother. A leech, trying to curry favor with the prince, trying to worm her way into his good graces… Carve out her tongue and let that be a lesson for speaking to the Crown Prince of Amantier.
Amantier. It had fallen. Father was dead. Mother was a prisoner of the KryTeer Empire.
Jetekesh fell backward. Sank into the hay. It smelled like sweet grass and dirt.
Someone wailed. Wouldn’t they be silent? Couldn’t they tell his pain was greater? Deeper.
He needed a drink. Needed to numb this pain. It burned him, burned him up inside. Soon there would be nothing left of Jetekesh at all. Soon he would be a husk like his mad father. Dead. Decaying.
Wouldn’t that be better?
10
The Vices of Men
He drank. And drank.
Jetekesh sat in the loft, empty bottles beside him, another half-full bottle in his hand. The storyteller slumbered nearby.
No one bothered the prince. They stayed below, except to bring broth to Jinji once that evening. Kyella; was that her name? She pressed the clay bowl to Jinji’s lips, and the sick man sipped with an effort.
“Is he dying?” asked Jetekesh, surprised by the slur in his voice. He couldn’t be drunk yet. It still hurt.
The young woman bowed her head. “No, my lord. I think he’s getting better.”
Jetekesh laughed. A short, barking sound. “But of course. Let the peasant live and take the king’s life instead. Why would the saints want a peasant in heaven anyway?”
The girl stared at the floor. “Please, Your Highness. Forgive me, but should you keep drinking? You might harm yourself—”
“It’s sire.” He took another swig. “I’m king now. My lord father is dead. That makes me your king.”
“Yes, sire. Forgive me.”
A cry sounded below, and someone clattered up the ladder. Rille’s head appeared above the rungs. “Come down, Kyella. Leave your drunken liege to drown his sorrows.” She turned sharp eyes on him. “Coward. Disgraceful, slovenly. You look more the beggar than the king. Wouldn’t your father be proud?”
“Shut up! You know nothing!”
“Don’t I? You’re not the only one who lost a loved one, cousin. But never mind my pain. Never mind anyone but yourself! Isn’t that what selfish brutes do? I hate you. You’re just like your mother: a self-indulgent, scheming, cowardly sluggard!”
“Hush, my lady.” Jinji sat up. “I think His Highness can be allowed a moment’s grief without reproach.”
Rille’s mouth snapped shut as her eyes flashed. She inhaled. “You’re right, storyteller. I doubt I was any less a sight after my father was drawn and quartered. I just didn’t choose to drink myself to death.”
“To each his own vice,” said Jinji.
Jetekesh snorted. “Pray tell, what is your vice, O saintly teller of tales? Let me guess. Lies! You sell lies to simple folk who don’t know better than to believe your hogwash.”
Rille let out another outraged cry, but Jinji raised his hand. “This is my battle to wage, my lady. Please return to Yeshton and remain below tonight. Thank you, Kyella, for the broth. It was very good.”
Both girls retreated down the ladder. Jinji extracted himself from his bedding and crawled to Jetekesh’s side. He rolled aside two empty bottles and sat.
Jetekesh finished the bottle in his hand. “Will you chide me now for drinking too much?”
“You asked what my vice is,” said Jinji. “Shall I tell you?”
“Must I care?”
“No. But perhaps you do, nevertheless. I…am a coward.”
Jetekesh frowned. “A coward?”
“I have run a very long time from my demons. I have not wished to face them. Pain is difficult to conquer, most especially grief. I feel yours keenly, my prince. I know its kin.”
Jetekesh groped for another bottle of wine. Jinji knew nothing. Nothing.
The storyteller’s eyes followed his hand. “There is no more wine, Your Highness.”
“Stop it!” Jetekesh flung his hands over his face. “I don’t need your
comfort. I don’t need empty gestures. You don’t know me.”
“But I do,” whispered Jinji. “It is my blessing and my curse to know.”
The emotion in his voice brought Jetekesh up short. He lowered his trembling hands and turned to Jinji. Why? Why was he afraid?
Jinji’s clear eyes met his stare. “I see a small child raised by parents in conflict. A good father whom you respect and admire. A fragile mother, arrogant and possessive, whom you try so dearly to please in the hope that you will heal her broken heart. But you cannot replace her lost child. Nor can you allow yourself to be swallowed by her crafty machinations. She wishes to smother her son, leaving only a living doll to obey her every wish. Where once there might have been motherly love and affection, now there is a monster dwelling within her frame, consuming all that she touches. You fear her. Dreadfully. You want to love her, but how can you love a creature no longer human? No longer that sacred being called Mother?”
“Stop it. Stop it!” Jetekesh grabbed an empty bottle and hurled it against the floor. Glass exploded everywhere. A shard bit his cheek. He threw his hand to his face. “Oh, no! No. She’ll be furious. She’ll kill me. She’ll kill me!” He lurched to his feet. Staggered and slammed his knees against the floor. His vision swam. Hot tears splashed his knuckles as he hunched forward and retched. Bile burned in his throat. He’d ruined his face. He’d made himself sick. She would kill him!
Gentle hands caught his shoulders. “Be calm, my prince. Breathe.”
“She’ll kill me!” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. No! He’d soiled his clothes. She’d be so furious.
“Hush, Your Highness. She’s not here. She can’t hurt you. Just breathe.”
Jetekesh choked. “She’ll know. She always knows.”
“Shh. Be calm. I’ll help you to clean up. Kyella will patch your face. It will heal soon; it’s not deep. Come along, Your Highness.”
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