The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “I’ll… ready a defense,” Rudol said. “Better to have it and not need it than the reverse. But that’s all. Going to war, committing to a truce… those are Father’s decisions to make.”

  “They’re decisions that need to be made,” Shona protested. “Your father is—”

  “Don’t.” Rudol held up his hands, and Josen realized for the first time how tired his brother looked, how deep the hollows under his eyes were. “Just… don’t. While he still lives, he is still the king. I’m giving you as much as I can. Take it.”

  Shona didn’t look very satisfied, but she nodded. “I can live with that, for now.” She glanced at Benedern. “But I hope you’ll at least put him under guard, after everything we’ve told you.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” said Rudol. With one hand, he directed two Swords toward the high chastor. “I hope you find your quarters comfortable, Your Eminence—you’ll be staying with us a little bit longer. I have… more questions for you.”

  Benedern made no effort to resist. “I will answer as best I can, Your Highness,” he said. The emptiness behind his eyes made Josen shiver.

  Rudol took Carissa by the arm. “Come. We’re leaving.”

  Josen took a half-step forward. “Rudol, wait.” It’s not everything we were hoping for, but he didn’t dismiss us out of hand, and he hasn’t tried to throw me in the dungeon yet. That’s… a start. “Thank you,” he said. “For listening. I didn’t know if you would.”

  “How could I not?” Rudol asked bitterly. “Even when you were dead, I couldn’t ignore you.” Then, quietly, his voice nearly breaking, “I wish to the God Above that you hadn’t come back.”

  40. Confession

  Rudol

  From atop the wall of the Aryllian Keep, Rudol watched the dissidents gather.

  They weren’t many. Two dozen, perhaps less. It was early yet, and even in mid-Berian, on the edge of summer, the early mornings were still brisk enough to keep most indoors. As the day wore on and the sun rose higher, they would grow in number, until Rudol sent the Swords out to disperse them. But they always came back. Every day, they gathered outside the wall, chanting their dissatisfaction with every decision he’d made since Aryll’s Rest, and no matter how many times his men frightened them away, they always came back.

  What do you think they would do if they knew I’d returned? Their little prophecy come true. They’d tear the crown from your head to put it on mine. Josen’s voice, but not the same one he’d spoken with earlier that morning. In his head, Rudol still heard Josen as he had been, once. Before their mother had died, before he’d started sneaking away from the Keep and out of Rudol’s life. In person, he’d sounded different. Older. There was a rasp to his voice that hadn’t been there before—like he’d been ill, and never quite recovered.

  When Rudol had first seen his brother in the Stormhall, he’d frozen. Hadn’t been able to do anything but stare. In truth, he’d been afraid, as afraid as he’d ever been. Afraid to open his mouth, for fear that he’d be talking to a ghost. Afraid that he’d gone completely mad, and worse, that if he said anything, everyone would know. It wasn’t until Carissa had spoken first that he’d been able to believe his eyes.

  Josen was alive.

  Alive, but not the same. It wasn’t just his voice that had changed—there was white in his hair now, and he’d moved uncomfortably, favoring one side. On both hands, his fingernails were only halfway grown back after being shed, the sure sign of a man who had survived the black fever. Josen had tried not to call attention to his wounded left arm, but Rudol had noticed the way it hung limp at his side. Somehow he’d lived when he’d had no right to, but whatever had saved him had done damage of its own.

  But he was alive. Rudol didn’t quite believe it yet. On an intellectual level he knew that it was true, but it still felt like the madness he’d first feared it was.

  It didn’t help that he hadn’t slept yet. Carissa had fallen asleep shortly after they’d returned to the Keep, but Rudol couldn’t.

  Instead, he’d tried to question Benedern. It hadn’t gone well. The high chastor vacantly repeated the same useless answers over and over, almost to the word; it was bizarre, and frustrating, and eventually Rudol had tired of trying. He could always resort to more severe methods of questioning, if hunger and thirst hadn’t loosened the man’s tongue by the next evening.

  After that, he’d just wandered the Keep for several hours, trying to make sense of everything he’d seen, everything he’d been told. Finally, on the cusp of dawn, he’d found himself atop the wall, looking down at a growing crowd of men and women who hated him—and wondering if they might be right.

  Have I been played for a fool all this time? There was still a part of him that wanted to believe Duke Castar could explain everything, but that was becoming less and less likely. The last Windwalker was a swampling. That was undeniable, as was the fact that Castar had lied about it. Maybe even tried to kill Josen to hide it. As much as Rudol wished it wasn’t true, he feared that it was. He asked me to be his witness, and I told the story just as he wanted me to. All the reasons had sounded right at the time, but now… Did I leave my brother in the Swamp for a lie?

  “Traitor!” A voice from below, as if in answer to his question. An instant later something splattered against the wall, barely halfway up—some two dozen feet below Rudol, but even if the throw fell short, the intent was clear. He’d been seen. Another voice, a woman’s, cried, “Josen lives!” Rudol flinched. They can’t know. Just the same empty words they’ve been shouting for turns. But that didn’t make it any easier to hear. He stepped away from the edge of the wall and out of sight. The shouting didn’t stop.

  Pursued by their voices, Rudol retreated back into the Keep and slammed the door behind him. Blood pounded in his ears, and his brow was slick with sweat despite the morning chill. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes. Lord of Eagles, what am I going to do? I should never have let things get this bad. For a long time, he stayed there with his back against the cold stone, breathing deep until his heartbeat slowed.

  “There you are, dear.”

  Rudol opened his eyes at the sound of Carissa’s voice.

  She read his face, and her brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?” In no time at all, she was at his side, holding his arm. “You were watching them again, weren’t you? That rabble outside.”

  “Josen lives,” Rudol mimicked with a grimace. “They don’t know yet how right they are. But they’ll learn soon enough, and when they do…”

  “When they do, you will still be your father’s heir.”

  “Will I? He collapsed before the ceremony was done. In the eyes of the Sky God, maybe Josen is still heir to the throne.” Rudol shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. When word spreads that he’s really come back… that I…” He swallowed; it was still difficult to admit what he’d done aloud, even to someone who already knew. “That I left him in the Swamp… Dozens of men and women outside the walls will become hundreds. Thousands. The Royal Swords won’t be enough to stop them. Claims and ceremonies won’t matter. If they want to crown Josen, they’ll do it.”

  Carissa’s fingers tightened on his arm. “Then they can’t know he’s alive.”

  “He’s here. People have seen him. It’s going to get out. And maybe… maybe it should. I don’t know. They’re telling the truth about the boy, at least as far as where he comes from—that’s plain by looking at his skin. If the rest of what they say is true…”

  “Listen to me, Rudol.” There was a steel in Carissa’s eyes and in her voice that Rudol hardly recognized. “You have a responsibility to your people. You are the king they need. Josen is… nothing. A child dreaming of adventure. By his own admission, he doesn’t want the crown, and he wouldn’t know what to do with it if he had it. All he wants is to play with his new friends in the Swamp. Give him what he’s asking for, and let him disappear. Whatever rumors he leaves behind will sound the same as the ones that were here before he came. No one will
know the difference.”

  “But what he’s asking for disrespects every man who has ever given his life fighting in the Swamp,” Rudol said. “He wants me to just… ignore the swamplings, as if stopping the purges will solve everything. Even if I believed they weren’t responsible for the Deeplings, they still attack our caravans and barges, still murder innocent men and women who don’t even wear the grey. If we give them the chance to gather their strength, we will suffer for it. How can I call myself a Knight of the Storm and agree to that?”

  “It doesn’t have to be forever,” said Carissa. “Just for the moment. You can’t worry about swamplings right now, not if Lenoden Castar means to lay siege to the Plateaus. Tell Josen what he needs to hear, and then tell him to go. You don’t need him. You only need the last Windwalker. We’ll make it a condition that the boy stays. When this is over, you will be the king he is meant for, as far as anyone knows. The man who saved the Plateaus. Josen won’t matter. You’ll be able to do whatever you think is right.”

  Rudol hung his head. “And what if I don’t know what that is anymore?”

  Carissa looked up at him for a moment, and all at once the intensity in her gaze melted into softness. Instead of giving him an answer, she reached her hand behind his neck, and drew his lips down to hers. Rudol’s hands found her hips by instinct. The fingers on his arm loosened their grip, moved up to his shoulder and over his chest. Finally she broke the kiss, but she didn’t pull away; her eyes were only inches from his.

  “You do know,” she said. “You’ve always known what’s right. That’s why I love you.”

  And as it always did, her closeness chased the words out of his head. “Carissa… I—”

  “I know, dear. You have so much to think about right now. But you’ll make the right choice in the end, I know you will. I think you just need to… take your mind off of everything for a while.” She smiled, and arched one eyebrow. “Why don’t you come back to bed?”

  He wanted her to be right, wanted to believe that everything would become clear if he just gave himself time. He wanted her. It was easy to let her lead him away, so he did, his hand clasped in her delicate fingers.

  They never made it back to their chambers. When they turned the corner, Renold Mulley was already there outside their door, poised to knock.

  Without thinking, Rudol tightened his grip on Carissa’s hand until she pulled away with a squeak of pain.

  “Chastor Ren. What’s wrong?” He already knew, but he had to hear it.

  When Mulley turned, the look on his face answered the question before his words did. “It’s your father, Prince Rudol.”

  “Take me to him.”

  Mulley explained as they walked. “He is… speaking. I don’t know if awake is the word. He hasn’t been coughing since he… since he fell into this sleep, but it’s started again. Violent enough to rouse him. I tried to speak with him, but he hardly seems to know where he is.”

  “You’ve sent for his physicians?” Carissa asked.

  Mulley bobbed his head. “Of course, before anything else. They… don’t think it will be long now. A day, perhaps less. He can hardly breathe. Master Jovert says he has seen it before, patients regaining consciousness before the end. A last gift from the Sky God, a chance to say farewell.”

  Rudol’s fists clenched. How many times had he told himself his father would wake to take the throne again, to put the Peaks back together? And now it only meant the end was near.

  It looks like you’re going to be on your own for good, little brother. Rudol dug his fingernails into his palms and tried to ignore Josen’s voice. That’s gone well so far, hasn’t it?

  In the king’s outer chambers, Master Jovert’s apprentices—both wearing the red skullcaps that marked students of medicine at Orim’s Tower—discussed Gerod’s treatment in low tones. Rudol strode past them and into the next room without a word, leaving Mulley and Carissa behind.

  Tomal Jovert sat by the bed, a thin man wearing a red skullcap atop his shaven scalp and a matching red stole—the mark of a master physician—draped over his neck. He looked up when Rudol entered.

  “Highness,” said Jovert. “I’ve given him something to ease the pain, but there is little else I can—”

  Gerod interrupted with a fit of deep, hacking coughs, and Jovert hastily covered the king’s mouth with a handkerchief that was already heavily flecked with blood.

  “I don’t expect a miracle, Master Jovert,” said Rudol. “I’m sure it was quite a feat to keep him alive as long as you have. If there’s nothing else you can do, you and your apprentices may go.” Jovert didn’t argue, just stood, bowed, and left the room.

  Even now that he was alone, Rudol didn’t move closer. He just stared at his father, trying to reconcile this wasted remnant of a man with the one he remembered. A little more than a cycle before, sitting on the Throne of Air, Gerod had seemed eternal. Now, he looked like a corpse that had forgotten to lay still. His skin hung loosely against his bones, as if all the flesh beneath had melted away; Rudol could have counted his ribs, if he’d wanted to. The king’s mouth gaped silently beneath cloudy, unfocused eyes. He breathed only infrequently, with long gaps between—so long that Rudol was convinced more than once that he had stopped entirely before he finally sucked in another rattling gasp. And whenever he did breathe, he was wracked by a fit of violent coughing.

  Carissa touched Rudol’s shoulder. He’d hardly noticed her approach behind him. “Go to him, dear.”

  Rudol did. He knelt beside the bed, and after a moment’s hesitation, took his father’s hand. It was cold; not quite the cold of death yet, but close enough to it. “Father?”

  Gerod looked at him, and Rudol could see his eyes struggling to focus. His jaw moved as if he was trying to speak, but no words came; instead, he drew another breath, and it sounded as if stones were rattling against one another in his lungs. He started to cough.

  Rudol grabbed the bloody cloth that Jovert had left on the bedside table and held it to his father’s lips. Gerod tried to sit up, but his frail arms buckled under his own slight weight. Rudol put an arm beneath his father’s shoulders and lifted him to a sitting position, held him as he quaked and spasmed and spat bloody phlegm into the handkerchief.

  When it was over, Rudol felt those cold fingers tighten around his hand, just slightly.

  “What can I do, Father? Tell me what you need, and I’ll see it done.”

  King Gerod parted his cracked lips, and whispered one word: “Josen.”

  Josen

  It was not long past dawn, and Josen hadn’t slept near enough before a gentle knock at his door woke him. The sound immediately roused Azra and Verik from their chairs by the fire—if they’d been sleeping at all, it had been a light sleep.

  Eroh, though, was asleep in the bed beside Josen’s, tangled in the covers. He’d clearly been tossing and turning. At the second knock, he made a small, frightened sound in his throat and sat up abruptly, like he was waking from a bad dream.

  “Eroh? What’s wrong?” Josen wiped the sleep from his eyes and swung his legs down, getting unsteadily to his feet. He was already dressed—he hadn’t taken off his clothes before going to sleep. Shona had already seen his body, and he couldn’t take that back, but no one else had to.

  Verik crossed the room and took Josen’s right arm to help steady him; Azra moved to his other side almost protectively. He hadn’t expected that. She’d done the same the last time someone had come knocking, but she’d had Eroh with her then. He’d assumed she’d pick the boy, if she had to choose which of them she cared about more.

  “Only a dream,” Eroh said, but he didn’t look at Josen as he said it. Instead, he faced east, and there was a glint in his eye like he could see something there, even through the shuttered window. Something very far away.

  “Are you sure? You can tell me if something’s wrong.”

  The boy didn’t react immediately, but after a moment he looked at Josen, and solemnly shook his head. “It�
��s nothing.”

  A third knock at the door, much louder, and this time Shona’s voice called his name. “Josen, wake up.”

  “I’m awake,” he called back, reluctantly shifting his eyes from Eroh to the door. “What is it?”

  “I have Chastor Renold with me,” Shona said. “A message from the Keep. I think you’ll want to hear it firsthand. Are you… can I bring him in?”

  “You haven’t caught me in the middle of some flagrant indecency, if that’s what you mean.” He glanced at Azra and Verik. “But I…. I’m not sure if he’ll mind our other guests?”

  “Rudol warned him already.” Shona pushed the door open.

  Just as she’d said, Renold Mulley was with her—they made a strange contrast, her lanky frame towering over his stout one. Falyn Morne and an escort of several knights followed the two of them into the room. Apparently Shona wasn’t comfortable leaving an emissary from the Keep unguarded. Not even Chastor Ren, a man Josen had known all his life. A man who would have spent a turn praying for forgiveness if he’d accidentally jostled a stranger on the street.

  Mulley’s gaze went instantly to the swamplings as he entered the room; it was hard to ignore the whiteness of their faces, or the darkness of their eyes. When he saw Eroh—or Eroh’s eyes, glinting gold in the firelight—he stopped short, and murmured something in the Highspeech that Josen didn’t understand. But he’d come for a purpose, clearly; he swallowed, and made himself focus on Josen.

  “Prince Josen,” Mulley said, and there was genuine sorrow in his voice. “I’m so sorry.”

  Josen didn’t like the sound of that. “For what?”

  “Your father has… He is awake, but his physicians say that he will rise to the Above very soon. He wants to see you.”

  “He asked for me?” Josen shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. He couldn’t decide whether this was a dream or not. “How does he even know I’m here?”