The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  “Your faith in me is really quite inspiring.” Josen didn’t look her in the eye, just pulled his arm away. The carriage doors were opened from the outside by two men in Storm Knight grey, and he swung his legs around to step down. “I told you, I’ll do what I have to. Let’s not keep them waiting.”

  The crowd cheered and screamed as he climbed out of the carriage. A refrain of “Josen lives!” rolled over the rest of the noise. An encouraging sign, Shona supposed, but she didn’t feel very encouraged. He hadn’t given her an answer, not really. Not one that meant anything.

  The cheering had lessened by the time Shona got out. Josen wasn’t the dashing prince he’d once been; the white in his hair and the hollows under his eyes aged him considerably. She heard one woman shout “Impostor!” but it came from farther away, and few took up the cry. Those nearest to the fence seemed to at least recognize their prince, even if they were taken aback by his appearance.

  The confusion only grew when the swamplings exited the carriage. There was no Windwalker’s mark to awe the lowborn into silence, not yet; Eroh kept his head down and the hood of his acolyte’s robe pulled low over his face, and Goldeyes hopped from his shoulder to perch atop the roof of the carriage. All that the crowd could see were pale faces and dark eyes, and they didn’t understand. Between cries of Josen’s name, some started to scream less encouraging things: “Dark-eye scum!” and “Kill the boggard lovers!” and “The Eagles have fallen! Castar for the crown!” But even so, “Josen lives!” rose over the rest. The people of the Plateaus had always loved their storybook prince. Shona had been counting on that, and apparently she’d been right to.

  Two men in the blue and gold of the Royal Swords led Josen and the swamplings to the standing ground; two more escorted Shona through the gate to the judges’ pavilion, where Rudol and Chastor Renold waited. She went with them, but her eyes followed Josen as he started down the steps.

  Rudol nodded when he saw her. “Shona,” he said, and nothing more.

  Aryllia’s Crown sat too high on his forehead, an ill-fitting ring of blue glass with a golden sunburst at the brow. He couldn’t have been comfortable wearing it, but as far as the people of the Plateaus knew Gerod’s passing made him the Aryllian king, and no one else could judge a man accused of treason. To see Josen put to the test in front of so many, it seemed he was willing to let stand the lie of his birth—if it was a lie—for at least a little while.

  Shona took the seat on Rudol’s left. At her request, he’d granted her the third chair on the dais—customarily the queen’s, in trials of treason—but it was an empty gesture. Someone of sufficient rank had to fill the seat, if only for appearances, and Carissa had refused any part in this. Rudol had made it very clear to Shona that she wasn’t there to advise, only to watch. Cer Byron Ephred of the Royal Swords stood at attention at the back of the dais, and she felt his eyes on her, a constant reminder that her place there was tenuous at best.

  On the ledge below, Josen faced the crowd with Eroh at his right hand and Azra and Verik just behind on either side. Farther back, over the edge of the precipice, the world was split into halves: the deep grey of the mist below and the bright blue of the afternoon sky above. From where Shona sat, it looked as if Josen was standing between two worlds, divided in the middle by the firm line of the horizon.

  Save for one man in blue and gold standing guard at the bottom of the steps, the Royal Swords remained outside the gate to the standing ground alongside Falyn Morne and her Storm Knights. This was no normal trial—Josen was an Eagle, descended from Aryllia herself, and he’d volunteered to stand. There would be no half-circle of armed men forcing him to the cliff’s edge. At any time, he could step away, though to do so would be the same as admitting his guilt in front of the gathered witnesses. And if he did surrender, or fall, the swamplings would be next. Eroh might be spared for the mark he bore, but without Josen’s protection, Verik and Azra would stand, and the only way out for them was over the edge. The option to step away didn’t exist for their kind.

  Rudol stood and signalled his herald, but the horns only quieted the crowd to a slightly lesser roar. Some voices even shouted louder, jeering at him and hurling insults. Rudol’s hands closed into fists at his sides, but his eyes never wavered from Josen. After a moment, when it was clear that he’d get no better, he simply bellowed over top of the noise.

  “Josen Aryllia. You stand accused of treason against the crown and your people. Of conspiring with swamplings against the Peaks. Under the eyes of the Lord of Eagles, you may speak in your own defense.” Directly to the point—Rudol had never been much for unnecessary words.

  Now Josen raised a hand for silence, and even without fanfare, a hush spread, starting with those closest to the standing ground and rippling back. Shona glanced at Rudol; his fists were clenched so tight that the blood had fled from his knuckles. She knew exactly what he was thinking, but there was more to this quiet than just Josen’s enduring popularity. That was easier than it should have been, even for him. These people wanted answers. They wanted to know what had really happened in the Swamp.

  “I am no traitor,” said Josen. “Only a man whose eyes have been opened. I have walked in places no man of the Peaks ever has, and I am here to tell you what I saw.”

  There was a roughness to his voice, but also a depth that hadn’t been there before; the sound of it silenced the last vestiges of conversation among the audience. He’d always had his charm, that easy influence over whoever he turned it toward, but this was different. The rasp of his voice, the white in his hair, the lines on his face—they aged him, lent him a gravitas that Shona hardly recognized. Standing there before his people, he didn’t look like the callow young prince they’d loved.

  He looked like a man who could be king.

  Shona didn’t much believe in fate, or some greater plan put in motion by the Sky God, but looking at Josen then, she almost could have. She wanted to, at least. To believe that the terrible wounds he’d showed her were something more than pointless suffering. That he’d needed to pass through that forge, to be shaped and tempered for this moment.

  She could almost have believed, if she hadn’t seen that look in his eyes before. The look that said he was barely holding himself together—that the next piece he lost might be the one that finally shattered him. But even so, Josen’s performance was near flawless. By their rapt faces, he had his audience fooled; if Shona hadn’t known better, she might have been convinced too.

  “You’ve been told that I turned against Lenoden Castar for the sake of a swampling,” he said, starting low and growing louder as he spoke. “You’ve been lied to. The betrayal was his! He put his knife in my side, and left me to die!” He reached down, curled his fingers around the hem of Eroh’s hood. “But it was over a swampling.” With a dramatic snap of his wrist, Josen pulled the boy’s hood down.

  The crowd didn’t react like the one at the High Eyrie had to seeing Eroh for the first time. He’d been presented as a boy of the Peaks, then, brown-skinned and dark-haired. Now, those golden eyes looked out of a swampling’s face, pale as milk. Some knelt, or shouted praises to the Sky God, but not near enough; too many raised their voices in fear and anger. Every cry of “Praise the Lord of Eagles” was answered by a “He has forsaken us for them”, or something like it. Most, though, were simply quiet, too shocked or uncertain to raise their voices at all. If they spoke, it was no more than tense, uncertain mutterings shared with those nearby. Farther back from the edge, men and women jostled for position, trying to shove their way to a spot where they could see what was causing the confusion.

  God Above, what a mess. Shona had known that it wouldn’t be clean and easy, but actually seeing it was different than knowing. Her palms were suddenly moist against the arms of her chair. Do something, Josen. We need this to work.

  Josen laughed.

  It wasn’t loud or long or bitter, just gentle amusement, but somehow it stole back all the attention he’d lost. “I didn’t thin
k he was as scary as all that.” With one hand, Josen reached down and ruffled Eroh’s hair. “You didn’t mean to frighten anyone, did you, Eroh?”

  Eroh looked up at the crowd with solemn golden eyes, and said, “No. I’m sorry if I did.” As if on cue, Goldeyes glided down to perch on his shoulder like an emissary from the Lord of Eagles, and Eroh reached up to stroke the little eagle’s feathers.

  Shona could see the tension go out of the crowd. Not all of it, but enough. Shoulders relaxed and hands unclenched; a few people even chuckled sheepishly. Josen’s amiable laughter, the simple innocence of Eroh’s apology and his affection for Goldeyes—none of it spoke of danger. It was easy to fear the idea of a swampling, a pale dark-eyed savage from beneath the mist. But Eroh was right in front of them, and he was only a boy.

  “This is what Lenoden Castar didn’t want anyone to see,” said Josen. “This is why he tried to kill me. Because swamplings are supposed to be monsters, not children. Because they aren’t supposed to speak, or to care whether or not we’re afraid of them. They aren’t supposed to have a Windwalker’s eyes. Eroh is living proof that the swamplings aren’t just the stuff of our nightmares. They are more like us than we ever believed possible.

  “When Eroh first showed me his eyes, that is what I saw. Common ground. A chance to end a war that has hurt both sides terribly. Castar saw a chance to steal the power he’s always coveted. He stabbed me because I wanted to tell you—to tell everyone—what he didn’t want you to know. A Windwalker born in the Peaks was a safer story, easier for him to use, so that’s what he showed you. All it took was a little bit of dye. But you deserve to know the truth. And this”—Josen gestured at Eroh’s face—“is the truth.

  “I know it is hard to believe. You’ve been taught to fear the swamplings all your life. But there is no denying this sign. The last Windwalker is a swampling, and his people are not what we think they are. I would have died beneath the mist if a swampling hadn’t saved me; I would never have reached the Plateaus alive without the help of the man and woman standing behind me. I have seen them outside of the purges, and I can tell you that they are not monsters. They have mothers and fathers and children and friends, and those bonds matter just as much to them as they do to us. They mourn their lost just as we do, and that means they have the same reason to wish for an end to this war. They do not have to be our enemy.

  “The enemy we should fear doesn’t come from beneath the mist at all. Lenoden Castar is a threat to anyone who wants peace, in the Swamp or out of it. He will do whatever he must to get what he wants. He has already committed treason, already tried to lie and kill to win the throne. He will come to take Eroh back. And we must stand united against him.

  “I understand that this is a great deal to accept based on only my word.” The corner of Josen’s mouth turned up, just slightly. “After all, I have been known to embellish a story from time to time.” Again, laughter answered him, uncertain but surprisingly wide-spread. “That is why I am here today. To prove my innocence, and the truth of what I’ve told you. I won’t ask for trust I haven’t earned.” He drew his sword—a strange weapon of wood and stone, clearly swampling-made but shaped like a knight’s saber—and held it hilt first toward the judge’s dais. Toward Rudol. “Of my own will, I surrender to the judgement of the Lord of Eagles. Let me stand the cliff.”

  All eyes turned to Rudol; he simply nodded his head, his fists still clenched tightly at his side. “Take his sword. And bring the swamplings out.”

  Josen surrendered his sword without protest. The Royal Sword waiting within the standing ground took the weapon, and then led the swamplings up the stairs and through the gate. Cer Falyn’s knights took the swamplings into their custody; the guardsman continued on to the dais, knelt before Rudol, and presented Josen’s saber.

  Rudol took the weapon and looked it over, frowning. His eyes traced the blade and narrowed, trying and failing to find a seam between wood and stone. Finally, with a small shake of his head, he jabbed the tip of the blade toward Josen. “Know that only a sign from the Sky God can prove your innocence. You may step away from the edge at any time, but in the absence of such a sign it will be seen as a confession of guilt. Do you understand these terms?”

  Josen looked up at Rudol, and even from the dais Shona could see the desperate hope and the heartbreak warring in his eyes. “I do,” he said.

  Shona didn’t know if it was because Rudol saw the same thing she did on his brother’s face, but for whatever reason, he hesitated. For a moment he said nothing, and in the space of that silence, Shona almost let herself think that Josen had been right after all—that Rudol wouldn’t let him fall. That this was still the man she’d known, not the sullen stranger who had abandoned Josen in the Swamp.

  But when he finally spoke, it was with the stranger’s voice.

  “Step forward, then,” said Rudol, “and stand the cliff.”

  Josen

  Looking down into the grey shroud that covered the world below, a single thought kept running through Josen’s head: Would it be better if I fell? And the longer he stood, the harder it was to ignore.

  How long it had actually been, he wasn’t quite certain. Standing there with his toes over the edge of the cliff, he didn’t feel like he was moving through time properly. It might have been a few moments, or a few hours. By the ache in his side and the weight in his limbs it felt like the latter, but he couldn’t rely on pain or weariness to tell him anything. Those things never stopped anymore; they didn’t mean much.

  He didn’t know how long it had been, but it had been long enough.

  He was tired, and he hurt, and he wanted it to be over. He’d told Shona that he would stand as long as he had to, and he’d made the speech he’d had to make; he’d tried to be the man he’d promised so many people he could be. It wasn’t really him, but he’d tried. At the height of it, carried away by his own words and the sound of the lowborn calling his name, he’d even believed that he could do it this time. When it mattered. Or at least fake it well enough. But then, he’d also believed that it would make a difference when his brother saw him face the cliff without flinching.

  He was beginning to realize that he’d been wrong. About a great many things.

  The wind was blowing strong at his back, and he swayed forward, overbalanced. Without thinking, he shifted his weight back on his heels, caught himself.

  And regretted it.

  Would it be better if I fell?

  It wasn’t that he wanted to fall—if it had been that simple, he would have just stepped over the edge. No, he’d had plenty of chances to die, and he’d been afraid every time. His mother had faced the end on her own terms, but whether that was courage or madness, she hadn’t passed it on to him. He just wanted a way out. An escape from the expectations that he couldn’t live up to, and the pain that would never go away, and a body that would never be whole again.

  He looked over his shoulder, then. Hoping for… something. Maybe just for a reason to hope. A thousand eyes watched him, but he hardly noticed; Josen only saw one face. His brother’s face.

  If Rudol had seen Josen falter, he gave no sign of it; he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow.

  Would he even care?

  “I wish to God Above that you hadn’t come back.” That was what he’d said, in a broken whisper that Josen couldn’t forget. No feigned niceties, no evasion, no space for doubt. Why did I think this would change anything? He knows it’s all just empty promises. He knew before I ever opened my mouth. What other kind do I make?

  Since Josen had awoken in the Swamp, people had been telling him that it was time to take his place as his father’s rightful heir. Telling him that Eroh wasn’t enough; that there was only one way to help everyone he’d promised to help, save everyone he’d promised to save. Zerill, and Shona, and Eian—they’d all known what had to happen, and they’d made no secret of it. And Josen had nodded his head, and said the words they wanted to hear, and done as he was told.

&nbs
p; But he hadn’t believed it.

  All this time, and he’d never believed it. He’d convinced himself that he could make his brother listen, somehow, and then just… disappear. Live the life he’d always wanted, and leave Rudol to rule. Even after he’d learned that he was Gerod’s only son, that Rudol had no claim to the throne. Even after seeing the bitterness and betrayal on his brother’s face. Even then, long after the truth should have been obvious, Josen had clung to the naïve hope that had taken him this far. It was only now, standing at the edge of a cliff over a sea of grey mist, that he understood just how thoroughly he’d lied to himself.

  Rudol wasn’t going to save him. There were only two ways this could end: over the cliff, or under the crown.

  And he couldn’t wear his father’s crown.

  Would it be better if I fell?

  Maybe it wasn’t worth fighting that voice anymore. He’d tried to hide from it, but it had always been there in the back of his head. Telling him to run away, to find a way out. How could he deny it to himself when Shona had seen it? He remembered that night with her, and he had thought about stepping over. The same way he was thinking about it now.

  His eyes went to her, then, and she must have seen the same thing in them again, because her lips drew tight, and she shook her head.

  She knew.

  She would be disappointed in him, but he’d disappointed her before—she was accustomed to it. Probably already planned for it. These people had seen Eroh’s true face now, heard what Castar had done; she could use that. She would find a way to keep the promises he’d made to Zerill. With or without him. She’d probably be better off. What kind of king would I be? I’d just make a worse mess for her to clean up.

  He turned back toward the horizon, where blue met grey. Sunlight played across the mist, coaxing glints of rainbow sheen to surface out of the dark. Far away to the northwest, the peak of the Wolfshead rose out of the fog, howling at the cloudless sky. Josen didn’t have it in him to jump, but it wouldn’t be so hard to wait, looking at that view. His body was weak, and his legs were weary—they wouldn’t hold forever. He could wait, and the next time he felt his balance shift… Would it be so bad to just let it happen? Spirit of All, I shouldn’t even be thinking that, but… it would be so easy.