The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “You speak some truth,” said Grandfather Tarv, a thoughtful look on his face. “We grow weaker, not stronger. But to trust a highlander… It is hard to know. What says the Kinmeet?”

  And now the Abandoned moved; dozens surged forward all at once. One at a time, they were given the sign of permission, and they voiced their support or denial. It was hard to tell if her words had swayed enough minds—Zerill wanted to believe that the objections came mostly from the Shadowfeet, but more than a few Heartspears spoke against her too. She tried to steer Tarv and Nevris toward acknowledging Lighteyes first, hoping that their support would convince the others, but even her own kin had fears. Some worried that Josen would betray them, while others suspected that the highlanders wouldn’t believe his story; many simply could not put aside their hatred of those who lived above the mist. And with every voice, the dread in Zerill’s gut grew colder, heavier.

  They haven’t heard me at all. She’d dared to hope for a moment, when Ralk and the others had spoken for her, but the Abandoned were not ready to ally themselves with a highlander. We only need to use him, not embrace him. Why can’t they see that this is the only way?

  She wished more than ever that she and Azlin had been closer—not just because it was too late now, but because her sister had known how to sway a Kinmeet. How to lead a Kinmeet. I should have learned from you when I had the chance. I know the loudspeech better than anyone, but I don’t know what to say with it. A thought and a prayer and an apology all at once, though she didn’t know if her sister was listening any more than the Kinmeet was. Azlin was with the ancestors now, and if the ancestors ever heard the prayers of the living, they did not—or could not—answer.

  Nearly all those who wished to speak had been heard when Korv approached the knoll. Around the circle, many of those waiting to be acknowledged stepped back, cedeing their positions to Grandfather Tarv’s son. He was as tall and broad-shouldered as his father, but it wasn’t size or blood that made others defer to him—he’d earned that respect. In battle he was as quick and strong as a beetleback, but in Kinmeet he stayed quiet, watching and listening until he finally decided he had something to say. And when he spoke, the Abandoned listened.

  His father gave him the sign of permission at once, and Nevris was not far behind. Zerill examined Korv’s face for a moment before she did the same, trying to discern his purpose. He’d always been slow to make up his mind, adamant once he had—his decision now could change the course of the Kinmeet. Trust me, Korv, she willed silently as she extended her fist to him and opened it flat.

  “Zerill asks for much change,” Korv said. “Is it one woman asking, or a kin’s voice? If she is grandmother we listen; if not, her words are mist. I say the Lighteyes must choose first.” He was no master of the loudspeech, but his message was plain and persuasive. He met her eyes for a moment, and gave her a small nod.

  Zerill was not blind to what Korv was offering her: not his full support, but the opportunity to convince him. It wasn’t what she’d hoped for, but it was enough. Even if she was challenged, there would be another day or more of debate before the Lighteyes chose their leader—time she would not have if the Kinmeet judged her now. The Lighteyes would be more open to using Josen than the other kins, and if they chose her as grandmother it would force the Heartspears and Shadowfeet to listen.

  If they chose her.

  “Korv is right,” she said. She returned his nod as he stepped back into the circle, hoped he could see the appreciation in her eyes. “I stand as grandmother only because Azlin is gone, and I have no wish to speak for a kin that has not chosen me. I believe the highlander prince offers a path to survival, and I wish to walk it. It is for the Lighteyes to decide if they will follow.”

  Tarv exchanged a long look with Nevris, then nodded and said, “Let it be. Will any challenge Zerill?”

  No one volunteered immediately, but Zerill took little encouragement from that. It was not unusual—grandmothers and grandfathers often went unchallenged for decades. Few among the Abandoned coveted the responsibilities and hard decisions that came with leadership, and fewer still were comfortable enough with the loudspeech to lead a Kinmeet. There was a flurry of signs among the gathered Lighteyes, though Zerill could make out little of the discussion from her spot on the knoll. She wasn’t surprised when a woman finally stepped forward, nor by who it was.

  “Your sister led well,” Jeva said. “She died to end the purge, to drive highlanders away. You insult her by bringing one here. He tricks you to learn secrets. His kind must bleed for a grandmother’s death, but you shelter him. If none challenge, I will.”

  Fury filled Zerill’s chest; for a moment, she couldn’t speak. She was my sister—do you think you mourn for her more than I do? But she held her tongue. She saw too many signs of agreement among her kin at the older woman’s words, and she understood why. Jeva was an experienced trail-mother, well known among the Lighteyes, and she had longstanding tradition on her side; Zerill had only a distant, improbable hope and the highlander who had killed her sister. Beneath all her anger, a part of her even wanted to agree with Jeva—to make Josen answer for Azlin’s death. But this was the chance she had been given; there was no other way.

  “You’re right. Azlin gave her life to end this purge. I want to end them all. To protect our people, just as she did. I believe that would honor her memory, not insult it.” Zerill extended her hand, beckoned Jeva to join her. “But I welcome your challenge. Let the Lighteyes choose as they will.”

  It was the proper acknowledgement, and she had no choice but to give it. But as Jeva approached the knoll, Zerill heard a low rasp from behind, and she was struck by the sudden unpleasant feeling that she’d already lost.

  “Yes,” said Grandmother Nevris, her ancient voice hoarse from disuse. “Time to choose.”

  19. Playing the Game

  Shona

  Shona couldn’t help but wonder how much of her family’s manor would fit inside the Aryllian Keep’s banquet hall. Maybe not all of it, but she thought it would be close. The ceiling of the cavernous chamber—carved into the very base of the Godspire—looked higher than the manor’s roof.

  She sat at the king’s side with the most notable guests, on a tiered dais at the head of the room. Row upon row of long tables and benches filled the rest of the hall, arranged in a square around a wide open space for dancing and performances. And just then, there was no room to spare. No wind meant no flights during the rest itself, and so baskets had been arriving for Rudol’s coronation all through the turn leading up to it. The final guests had arrived mere hours ago, just in time to attend the banquet.

  The ceremony would begin at sunrise, and Rudol was to spend the night before in prayer and isolation—but until midnight, he and all those who would bear witness to his anointment ate and danced in celebration. Rudol didn’t look to be in a very celebratory mood in his seat by the king’s side, though. He nodded his head on occasion as Carissa nattered beside him, but his eyes were vacant. He’d probably rather be praying alone than making nice with guests.

  There were highborn nobles and knights in attendance, but most of the guests were lowborn, near a hundred from each duchy, flown in from all around the Nine Peaks to witness the ceremony. Most had likely never travelled outside the duchy of their birth—the baskets were expensive, and few lowborn besides gas-trappers and guardsmen-for-hire were willing to brave the Swamp. Tonight, though, they were in the king’s company, enjoying food and drink far beyond their means, and they were making the most of it. They sang and danced and chattered to one another about the highborn; it sounded to Shona like they must have been chosen for a predilection toward loud, uninhibited gossip. Music echoed from the hall’s high ceiling, and though the musicians favored the fast-paced round-dances popular in taverns and dance halls over more formal fare, a few of the drunker highborn even joined in now and again.

  It was, on the whole, one of the few royal banquets that Josen might have enjoyed. And he only had t
o die to make it happen, Shona thought bitterly, poking at the food on her plate. She didn’t have much appetite. He’s gone and we’re practically celebrating it.

  She glanced along the length of the dais. The Eagles sat at the center, raised above the rest: King Gerod in the middle with Rudol and Carissa at his right hand; Edmon Dasson of Skysreach to his left, watching the lowborn dance with pious distaste; Ines Terene and her daughter opposite Dasson, solemn as twin statues. After the Eagles and lower still were the inner duchy highborn, Shona on Dasson’s left and Lenoden Castar to the right of the Terenes. Eian Gryston sat beside Shona on the same tier, an honor granted by virtue of his position and status. The remaining outer duchy highborn took up the lowest tier on either side—Felbard Theo of the Wolfshead, old Iman Harthey of Seastair, and the younger dukes, Anden Perce of Orimscourt and Yurrel Finegrove of Sunhome. And surprisingly enough, in humble position at the far right of the dais, the high chastor himself. The most powerful people in the Nine Peaks. Is that why Castar arranged this? Does he need us all here?

  “I’m telling you Eian, something isn’t right.” She leaned in close and spoke quietly, relying on the noise of the banquet to mask her voice from prying ears. “I don’t know where all the pieces of the puzzle fit, but I’m certain they’ll show Lenoden Castar when I put them together. Why is he so involved in Rudol’s coronation? What does he have to gain?” She had no doubt that the rushed ceremony had been Castar’s idea—after the purge, he’d kept counsel with the king for hours. And bringing in witnesses by basket smacked of Castar’s influence as well. King Gerod was an intelligent man, but manipulating his people’s affections didn’t come as naturally to him as it did to the duke of Goldstone.

  “Not here, Shona,” Eian said.

  “Where else? I’m not going to learn anything hiding in my chambers.” She was grateful for Eian’s company in the absence of her parents—she’d insisted they retire early, to spare her father the strain of the feast—but he would never talk about what had happened if he had his way. Shona had never seen anything take the wind out of him the way this had. He’d all but sequestered himself in the Stormhall since the news came. This was the first she’d seen him in two turns, and even saying Josen’s name was still hard for him.

  “It’s dangerous. Someone might hear.” He glanced down the table toward Duke Castar.

  “Castar? He’d have to be sitting in my lap to eavesdrop. I can hardly hear you over the noise. If he lied about Josen, don’t you want to know?”

  Eian clasped her forearm. “It won’t… we can’t bring him back.” His voice shook, and he looked down at the table. “I loved him too, Shona. I promised his mother once that I would look after him, and instead I… I will never forgive myself for my part sending him down there.”

  Shona laid her hand over his. “It wasn’t your fault, Eian. Castar is to blame, I’m sure of it. He’s hiding something.”

  Eian cut off a bite of roasted goat and chewed it slowly, taking the time to master himself before he answered. “I would like nothing more than to believe that Castar lied. That Jos—” His voice caught, and he swallowed hard. “—that the lad didn’t… didn’t die a traitor. But advising Gerod on the coronation seems to me like a simple attempt to curry favor. It isn’t as if Rudol wouldn’t have been crowned otherwise. There is no one else.”

  Shona shook her head. “No. Lenoden Castar doesn’t offer advice out of the good in his heart, or for a smile and a pat from the king. He is after something here. I just don’t know what. I need your help, Eian.”

  “You never relent, do you? You are certainly Grantley’s daughter.” Eian sighed, but gave her a rueful smile. “I suppose you would know best; Castar outdoes me politically at every turn. If you say he is scheming something, he probably is. But what can we do?”

  “Keep our eyes and ears open,” Shona said. “Note who he talks to, who he dances with, who he smiles at. Honestly, Eian, I don’t know what I’m looking for. It could be anything.”

  She stole another glance at the high chastor, seated at the far right of the table past the outer duchy dukes. Shona was surprised he’d come at all, given the insult Gerod had dealt him by insisting Mulley perform the anointment. But he’d made the trip, and under curious circumstances: he’d arrived late that evening from Skysreach, sharing a basket with Duke Castar. That must mean something.

  “What do you think Benedern is doing here?” she asked. “Gerod certainly didn’t invite him.”

  “That is a surprise.” Eian’s eyes shifted toward the high chastor, then back. “Maybe he hopes for a better relationship with Rudol than he has with Gerod. It would only benefit the Peaks to see that rift mended.”

  “Maybe, but what business does he have with Castar?” Shona said. “Either of them is devious enough alone—I hate to imagine them working together.”

  The music changed as she spoke; she recognized the opening notes of Elica and Luthas at once, played slow and soaring on harpstring. A woman’s voice followed a moment later, pure tones ringing across the hall.

  Two spirits by the Eagle blessed,

  His healing hand, her dauntless sword.

  A single heart shared in two breasts,

  E’en through the stars beyond the world.

  Until now the musicians had strongly favored faster songs—Shona assumed they’d been instructed to keep the guests happy—but this one was old, slow, and deeply traditional. A love ballad popular among highborn and low alike, and certain to bring couples to the dance floor.

  Sure enough, a number of the lesser highborn—counts and countesses, lowborn families risen high for service to the Peaks rather than heritage—left their tables at the foot of the dais to join the dancing. Chancellor Polt let himself be dragged from his chair by his plump, laughing granddaughter; even Count Berric Goodwyn led his wife onto the floor, both still dressed in mourning whites for the son they’d lost in the purge. Shona suspected that most had been eager to join the festivities, but too concerned with appearances to join the lowborn in their breathless round-dances. Josen would have laughed. And he’d probably have pulled me onto the floor ages ago. God Above, I hated when he did that.

  Still, it did give her an idea.

  “Keep watch on Castar,” she whispered to Eian as she stood from her chair. Then, more loudly, “I think I’d like to dance.” She smoothed her dress—a simple garment of Falloway green, perhaps a bit less formal than was entirely appropriate—then extended a hand toward Edmon Dasson on her right, interrupting his singleminded focus on the plate in front of him. “Duke Dasson, would you accompany me?”

  Dasson looked up at her, shocked. “Oh, I… I don’t know if it would be proper…”

  “What could be improper about it? The song is about the Windwalkers, after all.” She gripped his hand and all but pulled him to his feet. “I know you wouldn’t want to disappoint a lady.”

  “Of… of course not, but…” He continued to stammer, but Shona was already dragging him down the steps. She didn’t relish the idea of speaking with Dasson, let alone dancing with him—he was not the most interesting man even when he wasn’t citing memorized passages from the Word of the Wind—but if anyone would know why Benedern and Castar had met, it was the duke of Skysreach. The man was practically obsessed with the Convocation, and there was little to do in his duchy but mind the comings and goings of the high chastor.

  Dasson held her gingerly at an arm’s length, and did little more than shuffle his feet and mutter apologies. He had to look up to talk to her; she was almost half a foot taller than he was. “I’m sorry, I… It has been some time since I’ve done this.”

  How the duke of Skysreach could still be so flustered by a woman after decades of marriage, Shona didn’t know, but she intended to turn his nervous babbling to her advantage. “Nonsense,” she said. “You dance wonderfully.” He didn’t, but she wasn’t much better; nearly every move she made perfectly opposed his lead. She held her smile, though, even when he trod heavily on her foo
t. “I should thank you, Duke Dasson. I couldn’t have asked anyone else. What would people think if they saw an unmarried woman twirling about among the lowborn with some man? But everyone knows Edmon Dasson is above reproach.”

  Dasson’s chest puffed up visibly. “Ah, yes. Well, one does try to be godly, you know. As the Word of the Wind says, the sacred trust between man and woman…”

  Shona let the scripture quotations flow past her ears without really hearing them. Instead, she focused on the music.

  Her art was war and so he feared,

  In battle she might fall alone.

  She promised him and held it dear,

  “Your light will always guide me home.”

  She’d liked the song as a girl, dreamed of finding a soul meant for hers and pledging her love just as Elica had to Luthas. It seemed silly now. Things didn’t happen that way, outside of stories and songs—a lesson she’d learned too painfully to soon forget.

  As he blathered on, Dasson moved her in a small circle to no particular rhythm. The two of them must have looked more than a little bit foolish, swaying listlessly amidst all the activity around them: counts and countesses swept across the floor in graceful steps and turns, lowborn laughed and spun one another about, children ducked between the legs of the dancers in some game only they understood. A small girl bumped against Shona’s leg, and Shona smiled down at her as she hurried to keep up with the older children.

  Glancing over the dance floor, she couldn’t help but note that the substantial age difference between her and Dasson wasn’t even the greatest there. Most of the men on the floor had much younger wives—likely the second or third marriage for many of them, and some very probably still childless even so. Shona’s own mother was her father’s second wife, after his first had died with their child. Not an uncommon story at all, due to the difficulty of conception and birth in the Peaks, and just as common were marriages dissolved and wives cast aside when they produced no heirs. It had been different in the Age of Queens, before the King’s War; now, difficulty conceiving was nearly always blamed on the wife.