King of the Rising

by Kacen Callender

  “My kraft, you mean.”

  “Your kraft, but your power as well. The others look to you for leadership. Guidance. Is that a role you’re ready for?”

  “You don’t think that I am.”

  “No, I don’t,” Malthe agrees. “You lead with your heart.”

  The comment surprises me. I don’t consider myself someone ruled by emotion.

  “You want to show mercy to everyone around, including our enemies. That isn’t how one wins a war. Mercy is the downfall of revolutions.”

  “I won’t show mercy to the Fjern. The real problem is that you believe Sigourney Rose is the enemy, and I’m not convinced that she is.”

  “But how could she not be the enemy, Løren?” he asks, frustration cracking through.

  “You’re unable to see because of your own biases.”

  “My own biases,” he echoes.

  “You hate her.”

  “Yes, of course I do. I hate all of the kongelig.”

  “You hate her especially.”

  “And don’t you?” Malthe asks. He stops and turns to me. A window behind him is shattered, filling the hall with the white heat of the island. “She was a traitor. She left all of us enslaved, and had she been granted the throne, she would’ve kept the islands as they were, wearing her crown and dresses of white.”

  “I believe she can change.”

  “You’re a fool,” he tells me. “You’ll be the end of us.”

  “How can we claim to be different from Sigourney Rose? How can we claim to be different from the kongelig, or any of the Fjern, if we torture and kill without mercy, just as they’ve done to us?”

  “We aren’t claiming to be different,” Malthe tells me. “We’re only claiming our freedom.”

  He leaves me there as I stand in the direct light filtering in through the window, my skin prickling with sweat. From where I stand in the silence of the halls, I can hear the evening songs and prayers beginning to rise around the island. The people speak to the ancestors. It was something the Fjern had forbidden us to do. Anyone caught murmuring their prayers to the spirits of our ancestors had their tongue cut from their mouth. Our people had become skilled at practicing our faith in secret, on the bays and in the groves at night where the Fjern could not see or hear us. The songs were taught to most of us as children. I still remember the older woman, whose name I’d never learned, teaching me our prayers of gratitude. She told me this was something that separated us from the Fjern. We prayed to our ancestors to show our thanks, while the Fjern prayed to their gods so that they could beg for more.

  I walk out of the manor and into the courtyard where I’d stood so many times, watching the kongelig with their glittering parties of white and where I’d saved Sigourney just the night before. I can see the white manors that had belonged to the kongelig families, scattered across the island as I walk down the sloping path that leads to the groves. Most of the trees were burned down in the battle. The ashes and blackened carcasses of palms and trunks remain. Women sing their prayer songs as they work to clear the debris, their skirts tied into knots around their knees. Some bend over the dirt, replanting seeds. If we don’t survive this war, our people believe that after we’ve lost our bodies, we’ll live on in the islands alongside our ancestors. The trees, the sea, the hills of green: This is what we must respect more than our flesh and bone. One woman named Ulrike sees me. She stands, dusting the dirt from her legs, and she comes to me as she always does, taking my hands and gripping them in hers. She squeezes her eyes closed as she murmurs a prayer.

  “Please watch over him,” she asks. “Please bless him with strength and wisdom to lead our people to freedom.”

  Ulrike had seen me hung by my neck. She witnessed the branch breaking, and was among one of the first to say that I’d been blessed by the spirits. Ulrike believes that I was sent by our ancestors to save our people. She isn’t the only one who thinks so on this island.

  “Thank you,” I say to her, but she only kisses my palms before she returns to her work. I can feel the women’s stares as I walk from the groves to the line of slaves’ quarters. Everyone has heard about my kraft. It scares me that so many people know, when it was something I’d desperately hidden for so many years. The women whisper to themselves. He was blessed by the spirits with kraft. He has the power to take the kraft of the kongelig—take their power, and use it as his own. They see this as a sign that I am meant to destroy the Fjern and lead our people to freedom.

  The quarters are ten shacks along a dirt path, some of which were claimed by the guards as barracks, though no one else will sleep in them. Next to the barracks is the valley’s field, where the guards train. Malthe oversees the guards of the island, as well as anyone who had not been a guard but is able to carry a blade. He works his guards harder than when we had been under the rule of the kongelig. I work alongside him to teach formations and techniques for hours beneath the burning sun, to the point where some have fallen unconscious. Malthe risks them dying of heatstroke, but it’s a risk he thinks must be taken. The Fjern have already attacked Hans Lollik Helle twice since we took the island, but we have the advantage of the mangroves as a natural fort, and the manor on the hill allows us to see the ships coming. We work hard to keep our lives and our freedom.

  The exercises are over for the day. Only a few men linger at the edges of the field, sharpening machetes and crafting arrows. When I check on them, a guard named Steef tells me they’re worried they won’t have enough materials.

  “We’re running low especially on flint stones,” he says.

  “Check with everyone who is clearing the groves,” I tell him. “They might be able to find more resources under the remains.”

  The others nod their agreement, and Steef thanks me. There are plenty of guards who follow Malthe with unwavering loyalty, but it makes me uneasy that I can also sense a particular level of respect for me in some guards, Steef included. I can feel that he wishes I was in command of the guard. I’ve shown more mercy than Malthe. I’ve been more patient in teaching and running the drills. I can only hope that these are thoughts Steef and the others will keep to themselves.

  In the field, some children play with sticks they pretend are machete blades, chasing each other with high-pitched screams. One girl named Anke runs at me with a stick clutched in both hands, ready to strike. I step around her and pick her up so that she squeals. Anke has a kraft that she hides. She’s able to heal wounds, by putting a hand to an injury and watching the cut heal and disappear. It’s still a young ability, but there’s potential for it to become strong. Had the kongelig learned of this power, the girl would’ve been hung from her neck. She’s still afraid to tell anyone. I don’t see any need to expose her secret.

  Helga, the woman who watches over Anke and all the children, frowns from the firepit, where she and others chop cassava and ready a pot of stew. There aren’t many children on the island—only seven, all orphans who were brought to the royal island for safety when their parents were killed in the fighting. I carry Anke back to Helga. She scolds the girl, telling her she needs to learn to sit still.

  This field is where I’d want to have a village built. We would have our own homes, not quarters where there’d only be enough space for all of us to sleep, cramped on the ground. We would have our own gardens. The groves, once replanted, would be for everyone’s use. The Fjern came here and put a price on fruit and fish and water, but these would be provided without any cost once we’re free from the kongelig’s reign. We don’t stop anyone from eating food if they’re hungry.

  Marieke argues that the food still has to be more carefully rationed. Yes, we’re no longer slaves, but this doesn’t mean we can eat like our former masters. There are about seventy islanders on Hans Lollik Helle. Nearly fifty are guards under Malthe. The islanders who don’t fight came to us in the aftermath of the uprising, and with the Fjern patrolling the seas, very few have been able to leave. There were only enough goats to last the kongelig the storm
season, and they’ve all been slaughtered. We’ve overfished the bays, which had never been plentiful, and half of the groves were burned down in the battles. The trees that remain aren’t growing fruit quickly enough. If we continue this way, we won’t last another month.

  The prayer songs slow until the only sounds are the birds and crickets. The sun is setting quickly, the sky turning pink and then a deep red. I can hear laughter throughout the groves. I walk without purpose, accepting prayers and blessings and giving what little advice I can offer to those who need it. Maybe Malthe is right. What have I done since the night of the first revolt? I’ve attended the meetings and given my opinions. I’ve walked the island, observing those who pick fruit from the trees. I’ve helped to teach the newer guards how to hold their machetes and fix the position of their feet and their arms for a swifter kill. But is it enough?

  Marieke has followed me from the manor, through the groves and to the field. She approaches me without speaking. She wonders if what the others say is true—if I really have taken Sigourney’s kraft. If I have, she worries that this would be used as an excuse to execute the former Elskerinde. Sigourney Rose’s power contributes to the debate of whether she should be alive or dead, and she wouldn’t be needed anymore if I have her kraft as well.

  “It isn’t as strong,” I tell her. She isn’t surprised that I’ve noticed her. Marieke has witnessed too many things in this lifetime to startle easily. “It’s a shadow in comparison to hers. She could look at a person and see all of their past, their wants, become that person entirely. I feel and hear only snippets. I can’t control their bodies.”

  “It’s still astounding,” she says as she walks to join me. “Your kraft inspires people, Løren. I hear them whisper about your power.”

  I understand what she implies. Whereas Malthe doesn’t want me to lead this insurrection, Marieke does.

  We walk as the sky darkens, toward the mangroves and the bay. She seems to realize what I’m thinking, even without a kraft of her own.

  “The others look to you for guidance,” she tells me. “They feel comfortable with you and trust in your judgment.” When I don’t speak, she continues. “I see the way everyone looks at you. They have hope. You have the spirit of a leader, Løren.”

  But being a leader is not a position I want. It’s strange to have anyone’s confidence when I’d once been the boy on the floor of the slaves’ quarters, listening to the others whisper that I couldn’t be trusted because I was the slave master’s son. I’d been hated. The other islanders saw me and only saw the blood of the Fjern that was in my veins.

  It didn’t matter that they knew how I’d been treated. I’d learned to try to avoid my brother and my father and especially the Elskerinde Jannik whenever I could, but when any of them were in the mood for torture, I was their entertainment. My father would beat me, sometimes because he was angry and other times because he was bored. He would find ways to use me against Aksel. To humiliate my brother and make him feel lesser than me, a slave. Aksel would then find his ways to punish me for it, chasing me through the groves with a rope so that he could attempt to hang me from my neck. He’d wanted me dead, though he was too afraid to take my life himself.

  Elskerinde Jannik was the worse of them. She would call me to the sitting room to wait on her, whether I was in the middle of training or other duties. Her torture was caused by her biting tongue and the quick slap across my mouth if I ever displeased her. And after surviving the masters, I would return to the slaves’ quarters, to the burning gazes of my people. The boys my age would give me their angry stares. In our training for the guard, they would do what they could to beat me into the ground. I wouldn’t fight back. If I did, they would use it as proof against me, that I hated my own people. There was nothing I could do to show the love I had for us. We had survived the massacre and attacks of the Fjern. We still lived with love and passion as full humans, despite the Fjern’s attempts to make us feel that we were nothing but animals. I love that we hold power in our veins. Even without kraft, there is a silent resolve and determination in us all, sustained by our ancestors who still watch over us.

  It’d hurt me then. It hurt that the others would see I was treated as they were, but that they would still refuse to claim me as one of their own. It’s ironic. In this way, I understand Sigourney Rose. I understand what it feels like to not be accepted.

  Marieke and I cross through the mangrove trees that weave through the dirt and turn to the bay. On this side of the island, the wall of mangroves that fan out into the shallows are a natural fort against the sea. The waves are ripples against the white sand. Marieke has a favor to ask of me, but she’s hesitant to say the words. Instead, she says, “No one wants to follow the rations. And can I blame them? Now, we feel the freedom of eating like kings, not waiting on scraps from our masters.”

  “The problem is that we’re not free,” I tell Marieke. “Free from the work and chains and whips, yes—we’re free from that. But until we’ve won this rebellion, and the Fjern concede and leave these islands, we don’t have our freedom.”

  We’ll still have the pain that racks our memories. The scars that carve our backs. The mourning that fills us as we think of those we’ve lost. The pain is so deep that I can feel it burrow its way through my skin and flesh and bone and into my spirit. I often think of the time I will no longer be a part of this world. It sometimes feels like I’ve already left this life and that only my spirit remains.

  “I wanted to thank you,” Marieke says, more quietly. “The others—they don’t understand. They don’t try to understand. They see her as the enemy, but it was her circumstance. Is it so wrong to love her? I cared for her like she was my own. I’d made a promise to her mother, to keep her children safe if any harm had befallen her. I’d agreed to Sigourney’s death, initially, because I didn’t think there was any choice but for her to die. I agreed to sacrifice her, for the sake of the rebellion. If it was between her and the lives of thousands… But there are other ways. I see that now. Elskerinde Rose doesn’t have to die.”

  “There’s a chance we won’t be able to save her,” I say. She nods. “And there’s so much else we have to be concerned about.”

  “I’d half hoped that Malthe would just agree to let her live as the list of tasks grew.”

  “He thinks that the others need to see her die. A symbol of the uprising.” And Malthe has to prove to both himself and me that he holds the true control.

  “Have you been to see her?”

  I’ve seen Sigourney two times. The first, when I’d gone with a knife with orders to complete the job Malthe had given me. The second was the night before in the courtyard as the guards planned to cut her neck. I don’t want to tell Marieke about the men who had tried to kill Sigourney. It would only worry her, and Marieke has enough to worry about.

  “I have,” I say without elaborating.

  “It’s too painful for me to see her that way.” This is what Marieke tells me, but I feel a glimmer of satisfaction in her. She shouldn’t want to see Sigourney Rose in chains, and yet she can’t help but think that this is what the woman deserves after keeping islanders as slaves of her own. Though Marieke tells herself that she loves Sigourney Rose, she sees that this is a painful lesson that the former kongelig must learn.

  “Do you want me to visit her?”

  “It would ease my mind,” Marieke admits. “I bring her food, water, fresh clothes—but if I ever stay longer than a few moments, or if I ever speak to her, I can sense the judgment from others. If you go, you can speak to her—see that she has everything that she needs. The others—they won’t mind if it’s you.”

  She’s wrong about this, and I don’t think she believes it herself. I realize that the other islanders will judge me just as they’ve judged her. They already have. But I can see the hope shine in Marieke’s eye. I feel guilty. When I go to Sigourney Rose, I’ll only be looking for reasons to see her die.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Sigourney
is silent when I open the door to her room. She sits on the edge of her cot, her back facing me. She pretends that she wasn’t expecting me, but she could feel me coming several corridors away and could hear my footsteps echoing on the stairs. She also sees what had happened in the hall as I was leaving the meeting room earlier today. Sigourney is aware that, for one blinding moment, I was connected to her here in this room. I feel the curiosity in her. This is the second time this has happened: that suddenly I could see through her eyes like I had become her, and she could see through my eyes like she’d become me. The fact that we have the same kraft becomes a hall of mirrors, with us reflected in each other infinitely, creating a connection between us like nothing she’s ever experienced before.

  She doesn’t look any better than she did last night. Her hair is still tangled. Her dress is still torn and stained. A faint smell of salt and dirt and sweat emanates from her. This is what humiliates her most of all. She can attempt to control her appearance. She can force her expression into one of serenity. But she can’t control something this base. It’s a symbol of all the power and freedom she’s lost. She doesn’t swallow this humiliation well. Sigourney’s been humiliated many times in her life. People have found joy in watching her suffer. It makes me ashamed for a moment that I enjoy the same. There have been too many people who’ve delighted in her pain. The Fjern, the islanders. She has no allies. Is it so wrong that I would feel sympathy for her?

  With the sympathy is another emotion. I’m hesitant. Cautious. Sigourney doesn’t immediately speak on the kraft that seems to connect us. This is what I want to speak to her about, so she purposefully ignores the topic.

  “Did you come to laugh at me?” she asks.

  It isn’t a question worth answering. She already knows that I haven’t. She only hopes for my pity. She wants me to console her.

  She tries again. “I thought you’d be too busy to visit me. You have an entire insurgency to run, an island to rule.”