The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Or so Rudol had been told, time and time again.

  Bards sang songs about the courtyard’s beauty, about the gardens and streams and crystal pools that rose in nine tiers from the entryway at the bottom to the Throne of Air at the top. The white marble stairway that led to the throne was said to be one of the greatest works of art in the Nine Peaks, every step carved with tableaus from the Word of the Wind, surrounded on both sides by elaborate sculptures of the nine Windwalkers in their moments of glory. There was Berial the Tamer, beasts of the Great Plains prostrating themselves at her feet; across from her stood Elica Braveheart, fighting alone at the gates of the City of Glass. Flowing seamlessly out of the stone archway at the top of the stairs, Aryllia herself soared on invisible wings between two enormous true eagles. Even Dalleon the Golden was there in pure white stone on the lowest tier of the courtyard, locked forever in combat with the earthen titan that was the King in the Deep. Men and women lived their whole lives praying for a reason to come before the king, just so that they could say they’d seen the Windsmouth and the Windwalkers preserved there.

  Rudol hated it.

  He hated the artificiality of the overly groomed shrubs and flowerbeds and tiny waterfalls, hated the much-vaunted staircase and its ostentatious statues, hated the towering Godspire that made him feel so small when he looked up. And most of all, he hated the noise. That constant, deafening moan was no divine voice; it was just wind, and the sound of it made Rudol’s teeth clench. And it never stopped. There was nearly always wind in the Peaks, but only in the Windsmouth was it so constantly deafening. Every moment of every day, the damned wind howled through the courtyard like a wounded beast, and it never stopped.

  More than once, he’d seen his father go purple trying to shout over the wind when it was at its strongest. Rudol was as pious as any man in the Peaks, but he didn’t see how such sheer impracticality served the Sky God. Why hold court in a place where the king can hardly be heard? It’s absurd. Romanticism winning out over function. He hadn’t thought his mood could be any darker than it already was, but a few short steps into the Windsmouth had already proven him wrong.

  “You know what to say, I trust?” Castar leaned in close as they climbed the stairs, and spoke so low that Rudol could barely hear him over the wind.

  “I remember.”

  “I’m sorry to put you in this position, Rudol, but I have no choice. Without a witness, it would be very easy to call me a traitor to preserve Josen’s name. Your father could have me stand the cliff, or worse. And more than that, it will cause unrest where there is no reason for it. This is no time for the people to lose faith in their leaders.”

  “I said I remember. I’ll tell him exactly what I said I would.” Rudol didn’t want to lie to his father; all other concerns aside, the king was not easily fooled. But he’d promised. It had seemed right, at the time. Duke Castar didn’t deserve to suffer for Josen’s mistakes, and it was only a minor falsehood. What had happened didn’t change just because Rudol claimed to have witnessed it.

  Josen had done what he’d done. Nothing could change that.

  Still, Shona’s last question was bothersome. Rudol believed Duke Castar, believed that Josen was capable of that kind of stupid, short-sighted treachery, but to have actually turned his blade on Castar… He could almost hear Josen’s voice: When did I ever fancy myself a warrior, little brother? I always ran when things turned violent.

  And even though he knew it was pointless, Rudol found himself arguing back. Who knows what went on in your head? You saw an opportunity for one of your little rescues and decided to take the risk. He clenched his fists. Spirit of All, you’re not even here. What am I doing? This was exactly why he’d tried to avoid Shona—if anyone could make him question himself, it was her. And she’d always been blinded by Josen.

  But even so, he hated lying to her.

  He felt like he was being judged as he climbed the stairs. The Windwalkers watched his every step, and somehow they knew the truth. Knew what had really happened to Josen. Carris of the Fields ceased tending his crops to watch Rudol pass; Dasson the Pious scribed his sins into the Word of the Wind with a steady stone hand. I did nothing wrong! He wanted to shout the words aloud, convince them of his innocence. Josen is the traitor, not me! But the statues didn’t care. Even his own ancestors took Josen’s side. Now he was the subject of Terene’s eternal vigil; now he was the cause of the old sorrow in Aryllia’s eyes, looking down on him as he passed beneath her archway.

  And beyond the arch, beneath the sky-piercing rise of the Godspire, came the worst judgement of all. A half-dozen men of the Royal Swords stood guard along the sides of the dais, and at the far side his father’s council stood waiting. Chastor Ren stood to the right of the throne with grey-haired Humbrod Polt, the chancellor; Cer Byron Ephred, Commander of the Royal Swords, stood to the king’s left beside young Yance Corwin, the strange, brilliant royal treasurer. All men Rudol had known for years, some since he was a child, and yet he found himself unable to meet their eyes. And at their center, his face as still and stern as the statues that had come before, King Gerod Aryllia waited upon his throne of blue glass.

  Just as with the Windsmouth itself, Rudol had been told the story of the Throne of Air more times than he could count. After the Rising, with what remained of her Highcraft, Aryllia had crafted her crown and throne in memory of the crystal spires of the lost City of Glass—and to remind herself and the rulers who came after her that their power was fragile. Her reign, she’d claimed, was a gift granted by the people and the Sky God; a gift that had to be handled with great care lest it be broken. And the throne looked fragile indeed. Slender tendrils of sky-blue glass flowed in and around each other like currents of wind to form the seat and arms and back, inlaid with wisps of silver that gleamed white as clouds in the sunlight. A brilliant sunburst of pure gold with an eagle’s eye at its center perched at the apex of the throne, held in a whorl of fine blue strands. If not for whatever miracle of the Windwalkers’ Highcraft had gone into its shaping, Rudol was certain that a child’s weight would have shattered the entire thing.

  But even seated atop that delicate construct of glass and silver, King Gerod did not look like a man whose rule was at all fragile. He towered over the others—the Throne of Air sat atop a stone pedestal raised above the rest of the dais, so that no man stood higher than the king. Age and illness had left him gaunt, but he was still an impressive figure, nearly Rudol’s height, tall and regal in Aryllian blue and gold. The spun glass of Aryllia’s Crown fit him so perfectly that the First Queen might have crafted it for him alone: threads of pure, perfect blue wove themselves about his bald head like he was crowned with the sky itself, and a golden sun shone from his brow. The stone peak that broke the sky behind him should have made him look small, but it didn’t; it was only another piece of his throne, a place to rest his back. He belonged there, some unyielding god-king whose reign would end only when the winds ceased and the skies fell.

  Gerod’s face betrayed no feeling as he watched Rudol and Duke Castar cross the dais, and he made no movement but to drum a single finger against the arm of his throne, each tap ringing like crystal even over the noise of the wind.

  “Your Majesty.” Duke Castar lowered his head and knelt before the king.

  Gerod ceased his tapping to crook a finger upward. “Stand.” He hardly looked at Castar; his eyes were fixed on Rudol. “Tell me how my son died.” There was a starkness to his voice that cut through the wind with ease.

  Duke Castar rose to his feet. “Majesty, Prince Rudol is blameless. I was in command. If you’ll let me explain—”

  Gerod held up one hand. “I have not forgotten who was in command, Lenoden. Be silent.” He gestured at Rudol. “How did it happen?”

  Rudol swallowed and clenched his fists. There under his father’s gaze, the words that he’d promised he would say felt suddenly wrong. And there were so many eyes on him—if he lied, someone was sure to see it. Part of him knew that Gerod
had intended to unnerve him by putting him before an audience, but being aware of it didn’t help. Made it worse, if anything.

  Just start with the truth. “Josen… he betrayed us, Father.”

  Gerod coughed once in the silence and tapped out the seconds with a long finger.

  Rudol ran a hand over his head and stammered on. “The duke… he and his men were attacked by swamplings, and Deeplings soon after that. Duke Castar kept Josen safe. They fled, but one of the swamplings followed, and… she came upon them while they were trying to reach us at the front.”

  “As I understand it, you were in command at the front.” Gerod punctuated the sentence with a particularly sharp tap of his finger against the throne, and Rudol ground his teeth at the high-pitched ring. “How did these swamplings make it so far to begin with? Was it not your duty to stop them?”

  “Yes,” said Rudol. “I… I don’t know how—”

  “Prince Rudol’s leadership was exemplary, Your Majesty,” Castar interrupted, and a surge of gratitude welled in Rudol’s chest. “His men held the line admirably. But the swamplings are quiet and clever, and they know the Swamp better than we do. No man could have stopped all of them, not with every knight in the Peaks. Some always slip by.”

  Gerod narrowed his eyes, just slightly. “I did not ask you, Duke Castar. Enough interruptions. Rudol, continue.”

  “Yes, Father.” Rudol inclined his head. “The battle was all but over when we heard the alarm sounded by Duke Castar’s adjutant. I led my knights to investigate. Most of the men were dead or scattered, but we found Ryon Ormond, and he pointed us in the direction Josen and the duke had gone. We divided into several parties to search the area. Mine found them first.”

  And that was where the truth ended, if he was going to do what he’d said he would.

  It’s necessary, he told himself. Duke Castar is right—this is about more than protecting him from punishment. It does the kingdom no good to invite more scandal. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists tighter. “I heard voices, and ran ahead of the others. I saw Josen turn his sword on Duke Castar to protect the swampling woman. She drew a knife and stabbed him while his back was turned. The wound…” For an instant, he could clearly see Josen bleeding on the ground, begging him to stay. Shaking his head, he pushed the image aside. “It was fatal. He was dead by the time I reached him.”

  “And you took it upon yourself to give him a traitor’s burial.” It was rare for King Gerod to betray emotion, but there was no mistaking the irritation in his voice. “Lord of Eagles, what am I to do with this? One son dead and the other a fool. I sent Josen into the Swamp so that the people would see him serving the Peaks, and you return calling him a traitor.”

  Fear churned in Rudol’s stomach. He knows. But he kept his head up and didn’t let himself flinch under his father’s eyes. “He was a traitor. He turned on Duke Castar for a swampling.” I warned you not to send him. This is his fault, not mine.

  “Are you that naïve, Rudol?” The king leaned forward, not bothering to hide the contempt on his face. “I knew my son. I am hardly surprised he did this; no more than you are, I’m sure. But he was my heir. Whatever else he was is unimportant.”

  It took Rudol a moment to understand that he hadn’t been caught in his lie, but any relief he felt washed away when he realized what his father was saying. “You would have hidden what he did.”

  “The people loved him, do you understand that? His little adventures entertained them. They will not easily accept that he was a traitor. Some will accuse you of killing him to claim the throne. If you had just brought him back…” Gerod rubbed at his temple, and muffled a cough with his free hand. “A suitably impressive funeral pyre, some words about nobility and sacrifice, and he could have been a hero. And we, his grieving family, we would have been as loved as he was. Instead, people will whisper about treachery and murder and that damned curse they’ve dreamed up. The price for executing Deoma Luthas and her ilk. Three decades gone and still that woman haunts me.” He cast his gaze over his councillors. “Tell me, what am I to do now?”

  Ren Mulley was the first to speak, his soft voice nearly swallowed by the wind. “We might have a ceremony still, Your Majesty. Let the Word of the Wind give comfort to those who loved Prince Josen.”

  Gerod snorted. “Without a body? Every knight in the Peaks already knows he was left to rot in the earth. If it had been handled better… but we cannot keep that secret now.”

  “We can make him a victim, if not a hero, Your Majesty,” said Humbrod Polt, thoughtfully running a finger over his grey mustache. “Make war on the swamplings, as you did after the rebellion. Vengeance against the monsters that killed your son. Give the people an enemy to distract them. It worked then, why not now?”

  “What about the cost?” Yance Corvin wrung his hands anxiously, and avoided the king’s eyes. The man was Tower-educated and exceptionally intelligent, but whenever he spoke he seemed terrified to be doing so. “It may have worked thirty years ago, but it emptied coffers throughout the Nine Peaks, and they have only just begun to recover. Skysreach and Whitelake still cannot afford to keep their Stormhalls manned without aid from the crown, and Wolfshead and the Seastair would need the same assistance if we put the slightest strain on their resources. Another huge expenditure now would not be wise.”

  Cer Byron flushed all the way to the roots of his thinning black hair. “Pinching coins won’t stop the swamplings.” His response to anything involving swamplings was always the same—he was a Knight of the Storm still, even if his duty to the Swords took precedence. “They can’t be allowed to kill your son without consequence, traitor or no. If we don’t retaliate, they’ll have Deeplings at our gates soon enough.”

  The argument went on, but Rudol was hardly listening anymore. He hung his head, trying to ignore the sound of Josen’s voice in his ears. Looks like I’m going to get away with it again, doesn’t it, little brother? When he’d left Josen in the Swamp, he’d felt… free, for a while. Not happy, but free. He’d seen his brother for what he really was, and whatever last vestiges of power Josen could still claim over him had dissolved. It had been almost peaceful.

  He didn’t feel that way anymore.

  He’d dreamed of his brother the last few nights, dreamed of turning away and leaving him there in the Swamp, ignoring his pleas for mercy. And now he heard Josen’s voice even when he was awake. It wasn’t guilt, he was sure of that much. Leaving Josen alive had been more mercy than he’d deserved; if he lived, he would have the freedom he’d always wanted so badly. But still, Rudol couldn’t get the voice out of his head. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, now he had to listen while Gerod and his councillors plotted to erase Josen’s transgression entirely. Just like all the other things he’s done. Why am I surprised?

  Duke Castar’s voice broke Rudol from his thoughts. “There is only one thing you can do, Your Majesty. Or am I still forbidden from speaking?”

  King Gerod gestured impatiently. “Don’t try to be clever, Lenoden. What do you mean?”

  Rudol waited for Duke Castar’s answer with a curiosity that bordered on dread. He saw what Josen did. He can’t help them make it disappear. He wouldn’t. But still, his breath lodged in his throat.

  So it came as a relief when Castar said, “You must tell the people the truth.”

  “That my son was a fool and a traitor? Have you not been listening? They will not accept it. You and Rudol will be accused of every manner of conspiracy.”

  Castar spread his hands. “What of it? That will be true no matter what choice you make. The story is out now. If you appear to be trying to silence it, you will only make things worse. But if you frame yourself as a father betrayed by his son, just as shocked and disappointed as anyone—the lowborn can relate to that. You can use it.”

  “And look like a blind old man who couldn’t see the truth until it was too late.” Gerod frowned. “The people must have faith in the Aryllian line. This will make me look weak.”
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br />   “Only if you let it,” said Duke Castar. “Rudol must be crowned as your heir apparent either way—make the coronation soon, and make it public. You’ll both share your sorrow with the people, earn their sympathy, but you’ll also show them that your line has a strong future. I’d suggest offering baskets and caravans for a number of lowborn from each duchy, the sort who will return home after and spread word of what they saw. Aryll’s Rest is only a turn away; you couldn’t ask for a better time. Summon the high chastor from Skysreach—”

  Gerod shook his head sharply. “No. Not Benedern. Mulley will perform the anointment.”

  The royal chastor bowed solemnly. “It would be my honor, Your Majesty.”

  Renold Mulley had anointed Josen when he came of age as well—the heir apparent was always crowned as young as possible, to prevent squabbles over succession. The high chastor traditionally oversaw the ceremony, but King Gerod had some feud with Ulman Benedern that Rudol didn’t fully understand. There were rumors, of course, a hundred different secret crimes and betrayals that one or the other of them might have committed, but Rudol had never put much stock in rumors, and whatever the truth was, his father didn’t care to share it.

  “Any chastor will do,” Duke Castar said with a casual flick of his hand. “The important thing is to put Rudol in front of the lowborn. Remind them that he is a knight, a true servant of the Nine Peaks. Look at him—he’s as solid as a mountain. You want your family to appear strong? He is the very image of strength. Send him to represent you wherever you can in the coming turns and cycles. Keep him in front of the people’s eyes, and they’ll believe he has nothing to hide.” He glanced at Rudol with a small grin. “It may mean competing in some of those tournaments you’ve been avoiding, but it won’t hurt to show off your skill. The more impressive you are, the better.”